Return-Path: Phoenix348@aol.com
From: Phoenix348 <Phoenix348@aol.com>
Date: Wed, 24 Dec 1997 00:36:29 EST
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
Subject: Corrections to "And To All A Good Knight"
Organization: AOL (http://www.aol.com)

Mel,

Well, here it is.  I hope that it comes out well in the transfer!  (Providing
that AOL behaves itself  :-)

Thanks again for your help and patience!  It must take a great deal of time to
keep up with all of this stuff.

Have a great Christmas!

Stephen
Subj:	And To All A Good Knight (Part 1/?)
Date:	97-07-30 15:11:15 EDT
From:	Phoenix348@AOL.COM (Stephen Lansing)
Sender:	FKFIC-L@psuvm.psu.edu (Forever Knight TV show stories)
Reply-to:	Phoenix348@AOL.COM
To:	FKFIC-L@psuvm.psu.edu

This is the first FK story that I have written.  I hope that you enjoy it.
 All comments and/or criticisms are welcome.  Please send such to
Phoenix348@aol.com.  This is a Christmas story...born of an idea that I had
back in the winter time and have not gotten around to writing until just now.
 So, that's the reason for the Christmas story in July.  It is finished, by
the way, I don't know how many parts it will take to complete it because I am
retyping it to a strictly text format.

A world of thanks to my beta readers:  Cindy Brewer (who first introduced me
to the Forkni-L and FKFIC lists, convincing me that, yes, there actually are
other people out there who like that late-night show; and who has given many
generous compliments and encouragement); also Jayne Leitch (who has given
much life-saving grammatical advice).  Also, I would like to thank Marg
Yamanaka (who has patiently answered questions about Toronto and the
vicinity...I hope that I didn't screw the geography up too badly)!  Also, I would 
like to thank my wife, Betty, for giving her husband up to the computer on more 
than one night!  She was very patient and supportive!

Disclaimer:  This story is based on the second season cast of Forever Knight
characters created by James Parriott and owned by Sony.  No infringement is
intended.  All other characters belong to me.  Please ask permission before
archiving or using this story for any other reason.

Timeline:  This story takes place after the episode "Close Call," and before
"Be My Valentine."

And To All A Good Knight (Part 1/?)
By:  Stephen Lansing


       "Ah, gentle listeners, the holiday season is once again upon us.  The
cold winter's air is filled with the sounds of merriment...of 'peace on
Earth, good will toward men.'  There are sleigh bells ringing and visions of
sugar plumbs to dance in the heads of myriads of children, all starry-eyed at
the prospect of finding Santa's rewards for their good behavior beneath the
Christmas tree in the morning.
       "But I am the Nightcrawler, and I know that not all who hear the sound
of my voice have drunk of the milk of human kindness this festive season.
 Some have tasted of a most bitter vintage.  They have drunk from the grapes
of wrath..."
        It would be at any moment now.  Peter's knuckles whitened as he
tightened his grip on the steering wheel of the Dodge van; anticipation
mounting as his pulse quickened from the driving force of his pounding heart.
 The bitter cold of December's wintry siege easily pierced the thin sides of
the old van, but Peter had begun to sweat.
        "I know your anger, my friends," the radio voice continued.  "I hear
your cries.  As families gather together in grand celebrations, you are
virtually alone.  Virtually...for fear, rejection and hate will most
certainly find their way to your door again this holiday season.  Oh, but
they are nothing if not faithful companions."
        There was already some activity at the back dock.  Peter adjusted his
"Press" badge that he wore on his left lapel.  That badge, and some recently
procured false I.D., had easily gotten him past the checkpoint at the main
gate.  Then again, it probably had more to do with the guard wanting to get
back inside the warmth of his booth and out of the winter cold.  He had
merely glanced at the I.D. before waiving Peter through.  Once inside, Peter
had deviated from the designated parking area and it would most likely not
take long for someone to arrive and question his unauthorized presence.  Nor
would it take very long for those press boys at the cafe to notice that they
no longer had a van parked outside.  It had been the finishing touch on
Peter's act.
        But grand theft auto and impersonation were only minor considerations
when compared with his true objective.  Peter took several deep breaths in an
attempt to calm his shaking nerves.  He would do what he had come to do.
        "The cold outside cannot compare to the cold that you feel within,
can it?  Indeed, it is the very joy around you that eventually warms the cold
and kindles the fires of resentment within.  You suffer, and society
celebrates!"
        Despite his attempts to hold them steady, Peter's hands trembled as
he peeled away the duct tape that had secured the .45 to the underside of the
driver's seat.  He had hidden it there in case the guards decided to search
the van before letting him pass.  Thankfully, a bitter wind chill factor had
taken care of that.  Peter held the weapon in his shaking hands.  The cold
steel was indifferent to his emotional state.  It was merely a tool to be
used by whomever might have a use for it.  Peter certainly had a use for it.
        Peter tucked the gun into his jeans and buttoned up his heavy coat.
 It was time.  Reaching into his right coat pocket, Peter removed a single
wallet-sized photograph.  The face in the picture bore a smile that once
brought nothing but joy to the heart of Peter Gardner.  Now there was only
pain in that beautiful smile.  The pain of loss.  In all the long months
since his daughter's murder, the pain of loss had never been far from her
father.  Gerald Raimer had stolen the one thing in Peter Gardner's life that
could never be replaced.  Now Peter would steal the very life of Gerald
Raimer.
        "You can tell me your pain, dear friend.  Confide in the
Nightcrawler.  Or, if you dare, avenge yourself upon those who are the cause
of your pain.  What will it be?  'Good will toward men,' or 'Justice for
all?'"
        The back doors opened.  Peter lovingly laid the picture of his
daughter on the dash of the van and switched the vehicle's engine off.
 Taking a final deep breath, he picked up a small camera that had been
included in the press van's store of equipment and stepped out into the cold.
 He began to make his way to the dock.
        The prisoner was not brought out immediately.  Two officers waited at
the dock doors with shotguns in hand.  Peter caught a glimpse of Raimer
through the barred, frost-covered windows behind the guards.  Another officer
proceeded to unlock the rear doors of the waiting prisoner transport van.
 Raimer had indeed been convicted of the murder of Jessica Gardner, as well
as the murders of three other teenage girls, and had been sentenced to life
in prison.  He was a suspect in many other cases involving missing teenage
girls but prosecutors had been forced to drop the additional cases as they
had only sparse, circumstantial evidence.  Society in general had been
repulsed by Gerald Raimer and Peter could barely keep the revulsion from his
face as he approached the dock.  They had doubled the guard for Raimer.
 Peter managed a slight wave at the two guards who stood at the dock doors.
 He pointed to his press badge.
        "I thought that there weren't supposed to be any press here when we
moved Raimer," one of the security guards growled to the other.  "Why else am
I out here on Christmas Eve instead of being home with my family!"
        The other guard nodded.  "Yeah, I thought that it was supposed to be
hush-hush too, but you know those press guys...they always find out somehow."
        The guards' conversation was interrupted as two additional guards
pushed Gerald Raimer through the open dock doors and toward the waiting van.
 From the corner of his eye, Peter noticed that a camera crew had arrived and
was setting up only a few feet away.  One of the camera men nudged Peter and
said, "Just in time for the show, eh?"
        Peter did not turn but raised his camera and snapped a picture as the
guards began to escort Raimer across the dock.  Only a few more feet.  Out on
the dock, the guards were trying to shield their eyes from the driving wind.
 Peter reached into his coat and gripped the .45.  His acute nervousness of
only moments ago had been replaced by a numbness that embraced his entire
body.  His mind reeled.
        <"What will it be?  'Good will toward men,' or 'Justice for all?'">
        <It's time,> Peter thought.  He felt no remorse.
        Raimer moved ever closer.  Peter could see his face clearly now; the
cruel twisted face that had been the last face that Jessica Gardner had ever
seen.  Rage welled up inside of Peter.  With his left hand, he removed his
hat and made eye contact with Raimer.  <I want you to know who it is,> he
nearly spat at Raimer.  The two had met in the courtroom.  Raimer indeed
recognized Gardner.  The prisoner's mouth dropped open as Peter pulled the
.45 from his coat and leveled it at Raimer's chest.
        Raimer jerked wildly to tear himself away from the guards as they
struggled to hold onto their prisoner and bring their weapons to bear on the
gunman.  The nearest guard brought his shotgun to bear first, both he and
Gardner firing simultaneously.  Raimer dove behind a guard to his right,
Peter's slug only an instant too late as it slammed into the chest of the
burly guard that had been escorting Raimer from the right rear.  Only the two
guards assigned to transport Raimer in the van wore flack jackets.  As the
remaining three guards opened fire on Peter, Raimer threw himself backward
and onto the fallen fourth guard, pulling another down with him in the
progress.  He seized the fallen guard's sidearm.
        Subsequent shotgun blasts proved unnecessary as the first guard's aim
had been true.  Peter Gardner was lifted off of the ground and hurled
backwards by the force of the shot that struck him directly in the head; the
.45 falling harmlessly to the snow-covered pavement.  He would feel nothing
else.
        Raimer rolled, bringing his handcuffs up and over the guard that had
fallen with him.  He pulled upward with all of his strength, catching the
guard in the throat and forcing him to drop his weapon.  Raimer managed to
hold onto the stolen sidearm with both hands as he choked the guard.  A blast
from the sidearm caught the guard that had shot Peter Gardner, the bullet
going through his neck.  He fell, clawing at the wound.  The fourth guard
hesitated as Raimer had a human shield in the other remaining officer.
 Raimer cocked his new weapon.  "Throw the gun down and get on the ground,"
he shouted at the guard.  Raimer fired over the guard's head at a group of
officers that had burst from the dock doors at the sound of shots, sending
the entire group diving for cover.
        The remaining officer from the fallen quartet threw his shotgun off
of the dock and slowly eased himself down onto his knees.  The officer that
had unlocked the transport van doors had also hesitated when the shooting had
broken out.  He had only a sidearm and there had always been someone in the
way before Raimer had shot one of his comrades.  Raimer now turned toward him
and shouted, "Get out of there, now!  On the ground beside him!  Throw away
your gun!"  At a slight hint of struggle from his captive, Raimer jerked
viciously on the cuffs, gagging the man into submission.
        Raimer ordered the two kneeling officers onto their faces and shouted
at the van.  "Driver!  Get out here!"  When no response came, Raimer added:
 "You get out here or I'll do these two right now!"  The hidden officer
emerged, his hands raised above his head.  He was ordered to assume a
position next to the others.  Raimer nudged his captive toward the van.  The
officers assembled just inside of the dock doors kept their weapons trained
on Raimer, but none felt that they had a clear enough shot.  Raimer backed up
into the driver's seat of the transport van, careful to keep his human shield
in place.  The prison escape siren blared.
        "We're gonna ease out of here now," Raimer yelled toward the dock.
 "Don't try to stop us and your man won't get hurt!"  He backed into the
driver's seat, pulling the guard along and forcing him down into the seat.
 Quickly, Raimer jerked back on the cuffs to choke the guard again, and then,
as the man grasped for his throat, Raimer slid the handcuffs off of the
guard's head.  He pointed his captured weapon at the man.  "Let's go!"
        Still choking, but happily free of his noose, the officer put the van
in gear.  Slowly, he pulled away from the dock.  Raimer slid in close to the
guard.  "I think that you know where I was thinking of going," he hissed.
 "Don't do anything stupid and you just might live through this."
        They accelerated rapidly toward the main gates.

***Disclaimers found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 2/?)

By: Stephen Lansing


         Metro Homicide Detective Nicholas Knight arrived for work early at
the ninety-sixth precinct to find the beginnings of the department Christmas
party well under way.  Due to the holidays, the precinct was undermanned, but
those who remained managed to generate enough noise and sheer celebration to
more than make up for their absent comrades.  Having no family, or at least
in the conventional sense of the word, Nick had the dubious honor of
remaining on duty through the holidays while others vacationed.
        At least he had Natalie, who was at that very moment occupied with
turning her friend's "high-tech dungeon of doom" into a merry winter
wonderland.  Natalie had arrived at the loft approximately half an hour
before Nick had left for the precinct, and she had spent that half hour
bringing a seemingly endless stream of cardboard boxes up from her car.  Each
one was filled with a variety of blinking, chiming, sparkling, colorful
decorations and Nick had begun to wonder if he had enough spare footage to
accommodate them all.  "I really get into this Christmas thing," Natalie had
told him as she opened the first box.  Nick had left to the sounds of Perry
Como playing on the hi-fi and the sight of Natalie waving from the floor
where she sat sorting out a veritable sea of tinsel and garland.
        Nick sighed as he looked around at all of the precinct's decorations.
 There was a good chance that he would not recognize his home when he
returned.  Over all though, Nick had to admit that he deeply enjoyed all of
the festivities and good spirits that came with the holiday season.  And,
although he certainly never would have confessed the thought to anyone, the
loft could use a...temporary...new look.
        "Merry Christmas, Nick!"  Parker boomed as Nick entered the squad
room.
        "Same to you, Frank."  Nick returned the big man's smile but turned
down the offer of egg-nog with a, "No, thanks.  Maybe later."
        Making his way through the crowd of holiday well-wishers, Nick
finally arrived at his desk.  Schanke was there, in Nick's chair, on the
phone, stopping his animated conversation only long enough to grab a
glittering Christmas cookie from his nearly empty party plate.  Knowing that
Schanke was not the type to indulge in self-depravation, especially where
sweets were concerned, Nick guessed that the virtual emptiness of Schanke's
plate indicated that a great many other cookies had already met with the same
fate.  Nick folded his arms and waited to be noticed.
        "Myra, Honey, I told you that I'll meet you at the airport.  Just
have everything ready,"  Schanke blurted out between chews.  Nick raised an
eyebrow at the sight of crumbs scattered across his desktop.  Schanke turned,
finally noticing his partner.  He nearly choked on the last swallow of
cookie.
        "Nick!"  Schanke hurriedly began brushing crumbs from his partner's
desk.  "Sorry to take over your desk, man, but I spilled egg-nog all over my
chair and I had to use the phone to call Myra..."
        Nick nodded patiently.  "It's all right, Schank."
        "You sure?"
        "I'm sure.  Take your time."
        "What a pal."  Schanke gulped down the remaining egg-nog.  "Yeah,
Myra, I'm still here."  He cocked his head to one side and looked up at Nick,
making rapid mouth-like motions with his left hand.  "I'll be there as soon
as I can, okay?  I'll take a cab."  He shot Nick an exasperated look.
 "Yesssss, we will make the plane on time, but not if you don't let me go!"
  Nick laughed at the typical domestic scene.
        "Yeah, okay...bye."  Schanke clapped the handset back into place.
 "Women!"
        Nick laughed again.  "Oh, you know you love her, Schank."
        "You're right, you know."  Schanke snapped up the last of his cookies
and leaned back in the chair, chewing thoughtfully.  Nick cleared his throat.
        "You say something?"  Schanke looked up from his repose
questioningly.  Nick waved at the chair.
        "Oh!"  Schanke bolted from the chair, cookie plate in hand.  Nick
conducted a thorough search for spilled egg-nog before he sat down.  He then
began brushing away stray cookie crumbs.  Nick's desktop was not normally
worthy of even "honorable mention" in the neatness contest, starkly
contrasting to his almost antiseptically clean home, but he had recently
managed to clear away most of the clutter.  He could see his desk calendar
again for the first time in weeks and Schanke's crumbs were spoiling the
view.
        "Check it out, man!"  Schanke grinned as he pulled a legal-sized
plain white envelope from the left inside pocket of his sport coat.
        "Christmas bonuses," Nick observed.  He quickly scanned his desktop.
 "Where's mine?"
        "Vacation spending money, Baby!"  Schanke planted a quick kiss on the
envelope before returning it to his pocket.
        "That's great, Schank."  Nick waived at his desk.  "Where's mine?"
 Nick's partner gave him a quizzical look.  It quickly changed to wide-eyed
realization.
        "Oh!  Sorry."  Schanke reached into his right inside coat pocket and
pulled out another envelope, this one was inscribed:  N. Knight--Homicide.
 He handed the envelope to Nick.  "I took it off of your desk to keep from
getting egg-nog on it."
        Nick smiled as he tore open the envelope.  "Thoughtful," he said as
he took out the check.  He frowned.  Despite their department's unusually
high success rate with solving a variety of cases, no one seemed to be able
to solve the mystery of the shrinking bonus checks.  Janette would most
likely shake her head and laugh at him if she could see the situation.  "How
quaint, Nichola," she would no doubt say.  "A little something extra for the
dedicated public servant, hmmm?  It's not like you need it."  Still, it
couldn't hurt.  As for Janette, Nick briefly wondered what might be going on
at the Raven.  <A non-traditional celebration for certain,> he thought.
        Schanke had gone off in search of paper towels.
        He returned, out of breath, a few moments later with a handful of
Brawny ultra-absorbents and began frantically wiping up spilled egg-nog from
his chair.  "I gotta get outta here soon," he huffed with a quick glance at
Nick.
        Nick had taken out his file on the recent Murphy case and was
flipping through the various documents in order to determine what still
needed to be included in his report to Cohen.  He looked up at the
frantically cleaning Don Schanke.  "Schank," he said teasingly, "how many
times have you been docked for damaging officer furniture with spilled
drinks?"
        "One time too many, I'll tell you that," Schanke mumbled, still
busily cleaning.  Finally, he stood up, collecting paper towels, and waived
at his chair with a flourish.  "Voila!  Good as new!"  He dropped the towels
into an already overflowing trash can and checked his watch.  Thrusting the
Timex into the thin air between Nick's nose and the Murphy report, Schanke
tapped the quartz and exclaimed, "Time to go!"
        Nick extended his hand.  "Merry Christmas, Schank.  Enjoy the
vacation."
        Schanke seized the outstretched hand and pumped it vigorously.  "And
a 'Merry Christmas' to you too, partner!"  He suddenly dropped in close and
grabbed Nick by the shoulders.  Nick closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself
not to grimace at his friend's egg-nog breath.  <At least be thankful that it
wasn't another garlic pizza,> he thought.
        "Try to get along without me for a few days," Schanke whispered
before whacking Nick on the back.
        Nick managed a small smile as Schanke moved away and the air began to
clear.  "I promise, I'll try."
        "Good man!  Later, Nick!"  Schanke hurriedly turned to exit the squad
room.
        He did not quite make it.

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 3/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        "Detective Schanke!"  Precinct Captain Amanda Cohen's authoritative
tone stopped the fleeing Schanke in mid-stride.  "I need to see you and
Knight in my office right now."  Schanke turned to face his captain, a look
of utter incredulity quickly replacing his former jubilation.
        "Captain, I gotta get outta here!  I'll miss my plane!"
        "Right now, Schanke!"  Cohen retreated into her office after issuing
the command.
        Nick stood.  "I think we'd better go, Schank," he said with a nod at
Cohen's door.  "She looks pretty serious."
        Schanke rolled his eyes Heavenward.  "This had better be good," he
growled, moving to follow Nick.  The two men entered Cohen's office to find
the captain pacing thoughtfully behind her large desk.  She turned as Nick
and Schanke entered, preparing to speak before being interrupted by the irate
Schanke.
        "Captain, what's this all about?  I've got a plane to catch, a
vacation to start,"  Schanke wailed, bobbing up and down on his heels with
impatience.
        Cohen waived him into silence and moved to stand directly in front of
the two homicide detectives.  "I'm sorry, Schanke, but I can't let you go
just yet."  Nick tensed at the announcement, waiting for the storm to break.
 His partner delivered promptly.
        "What do you mean you *can't* let me go just yet!"  He produced his
Timex once more, and one dabbed one finger furiously at the digital display.
 "It's 7:25 already!  My ticket outta here is leaving from gate five at
precisely 8:22 PM..."
        Cohen took a deep breath as the tirade continued.
        "...and I ain't gonna make it unless I leave now, pronto!"  Cohen
retrieved a black and white composite from her in-tray and held it out in
front of Schanke, dabbing a finger at the depiction in imitation of Schanke's
irate gesture.
        "Two words, Detective, 'Gerald Raimer.'"
        Schanke snatched the composite.  "One word, Captain..." he said
sarcastically.  "'...incarcerated.'"  He shook the composite in both hands.
 "Now I'll have this thing framed for you if you want, but *please* let me
go!"
        Nick laid a hand on Schanke's shoulder in an effort to calm his
partner.  "We put Raimer away months ago, Captain.  He's already been tried
and convicted.  What's going on?"
        Cohen turned to answer Knight, casting a wary glance at Don Schanke.
 Schanke often tested the outer limits of his captain's temper, but Cohen
meant to go easy on him this particular night.  The detective had been
looking very much forward to his vacation time and Cohen was genuinely sorry
at the turn that recent events had taken...a turn that would not allow for
Schanke's planned escape from Toronto. "Raimer was scheduled to be moved to
Millhaven tonight to keep things out of the media eye," she explained to
Nick.
        Schanke threw his hands up.  "Yeah, well, 'Good Riddance' is what I
say!  What's that got to do with us?"
        "The father of one of Raimer's victims, a Mr. Peter Gardner," Cohen
continued, double-checking her fax, "decided that life imprisonment wasn't
good enough for his daughter's killer.  He got onto the prison grounds and
tried to shoot Raimer while he was being prepared for transfer, only about
twenty minutes ago."
        "You said that he *tried* to shoot Raimer," Nick pointed out.
        The captain nodded.  "Exactly.  He tried to hit Raimer, but he hit a
guard instead.  Raimer managed to grab that guard's sidearm and used another
guard as a human shield against the other officers on the scene.  He escaped
in the prison transport van while still holding a guard as a captive."  Cohen
sat back on the corner of her desk, arms folded.  "There's a city-wide
manhunt starting right now."
        Schanke sighed impatiently.  "So, let the uniforms handle it,
Captain.  I still don't see what this has to do with us, *me* in particular!"
        Cohen paused to collect her thoughts before answering.  "Raimer is
high profile.  You both know that.  He's the sickest to come on the scene
since Jeffrey Dahlmer and he chose Ontario, Toronto in particular, to torture
and murder at least four teenage girls.  Two cops went down in that firefight
at the prison tonight.  The Mayor is very upset about this breakout and
rightfully so.  He wants every available officer out looking for Raimer as
soon as possible, and..." she cut Schanke off with a look, "he wants the two
of you out there in particular."  She paused.
        Schanke charged in.  "Us," he stammered.  "Why us?  We did our part.
 We're the ones that nailed Raimer to start with!"
        "And," Nick began with a glance at Cohen, "that fact makes us the
ones on the force who know Raimer the best and therefore, the logical choice
to go after him again."
        "They can't do this to me!"  Schanke threw his hands outward.
 "Captain, it's Christmas!  I belong with my family...far away from here!"
        Cohen nodded sympathetically.  "I understand, Schanke, I really do,
but there's nothing that I can do about it."
        "Captain," Nick said, with a gesture toward the frost-covered windows
of Cohen's office.  "With the whole force out there looking for Raimer, is it
really necessary for both of us to be there too?  I could cover for..."
        Cohen was shaking her head.  "The Mayor was very specific.  He wants
both of you on the street."
        Schanke was pacing like a caged tiger.  "That's just great," he
roared.  "What am I supposed to do now!"
        "I can arrange to have you reimbursed for the cost of delaying your
flight, Schanke," Cohen said calmly.  "It would also be a very simple matter
to rearrange your vacation days."
        Schanke laughed, a short mocking sound.  "Can you arrange to have
Christmas delayed too, Captain?"  Those who worked the graveyard shift like
Knight and Schanke regularly faced the problem of conflicting duty and family
responsibilities.  Schanke often came in to work late simply because he tried
to spend a little extra time with his wife and daughter.  Cohen well knew
this and took every effort to bear it in mind as she stood again and
approached the angry detective.  Her look was one of sympathy and yet one of
resolve.
        "We all have our orders, Detective.  I don't like it any more than
you do, but let's just do our jobs and not make things any worse than they
already are."
        Schanke ran one hand quickly over his receding hairline and murmured,
"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."  He was staring at the floor.
        Cohen sighed at the futility of trying to make the situation any more
acceptable to Schanke.  She turned to Nick instead.  "That's all for now.
 I've got to get everyone else going on this thing."  That said, the captain
glanced one last time at the brooding Schanke before heading toward the squad
room to reign in the party.
        Schanke glared after her.  "That's it?  'Sorry, Schanke, but you
gotta miss the holiday of holidays that you could've spent with your family?
 Again!'"
        Nick stood still for a moment, hands deep in his coat pockets as he
thought the situation through.  After a moment, an idea occurred to him.
 "Schank, why don't you try sending Myra and Jenny on to Orlando and just
plan on joining up with them in a day or two?  You guys have family there
anyway, right?  And Cohen did mention reimbursement."
        Schanke had resumed his rapid pacing, but he stopped and pondered
Nick's suggestion.
        "I guess that I don't have much choice, do I," Schanke mumbled,
throwing up his hands again.  "I really can't believe this," he shouted.  "It
would only happen to me, Knight!"  You know that!"
        Nick nodded and then voiced another thought that had suddenly come to
him.  "It probably won't help any," he began, "but think about those two cops
that died tonight, Schank."
        Don Schanke raised his eyes to meet his partner's.  Nick was usually
either very matter of fact or very detached regarding the circumstances
around him.  Tonight though, his eyes were unusually soft.
        "There'll be no homecomings at all for them," Nick concluded.
        Schanke's shoulders slumped as he reluctantly nodded assent.  "I
guess you're right about that," he said.
        Nick visibly brightened.  He placed a firm hand on Schanke's shoulder
before leaving the office for the squad room.  "Come on, Schank.  Let's go
get this guy before he hurts someone else."
        "Yeah," Schanke said, shuffling along behind Knight.  "But I'll tell
you something, Nick.  There's gonna be at least one more dead cop in Toronto
tonight when Myra finds out about this!"


***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 4/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        The right cuff clicked securely into place around it's captive's
wrist.  Raimer moved back into the passenger's seat of the prison transport
van, satisfied that his unwilling chauffeur was securely fastened to the
vehicle's steering column and could not impede his escape.
        Scratching thoughtfully at the red stubble on his chin, Raimer
surveyed the darkened alley in which they were parked.  It would not offer
him protection for much longer.  He had successfully evaded pursuit for the
moment by firing directly into the windshield of a station wagon as the
prison van had sped through a busy intersection against the light.  The wagon
had spun out of control and collided with several others that were
desperately attempting to miss the prison van.  The resulting havoc had
blocked the intersection off in their wake, and for the moment, delayed the
pursuing squad cars.  There would soon be others though, attempting to seal
off the entire area for blocks around in the hope of cutting off the
fugitive's possible escape routes.  Raimer turned back to his captive, a cold
smile on his ruddy face.
        The officer was clearly afraid of Raimer and was desperately trying
to not display that fear.  He had watched Raimer gun down two police officers
and then turn his wrath on an innocent who had been merely driving through an
intersection at the wrong moment.  He returned Raimer's smile with a look of
indifference; and he hoped that Raimer was buying the act.  Still, he nearly
flinched when Raimer suddenly darted toward him, hands going for his back
pocket.
        Raimer laughed; a low, threatening sound, as he found the man's
wallet.  "Sorry for the intrusion, old man," he said, opening up the wallet
and thumbing through the bills that he found.  "We haven't even been properly
introduced yet."  Raimer reached out with one hand and lifted the officer's
name tag to reflect the dim light that filtered in from the alley entrance.
        "Sergeant Perkins, is it?"  Raimer chuckled.  "Glad to know you,
Perkins.  I don't think that I need an introduction, do I?"  Perkins said
nothing, staring straight ahead.  Raimer counted the money from Perkins'
wallet and quickly stuffed the bills into his shoe.
        "Thanks for the loan, Perkins!"  Raimer ran one hand through his
unruly thatch of curly red hair.  Again, Perkins refused to acknowledge him.
 Raimer hefted his captured .38 revolver, pressed the barrel against the
sergeant's chin and used it to rotate the man's head to face him.  The
officer's blue eyes met the cold, criminal gray.  "I like for people to look
at me when I talk to them, " Raimer said menacingly.
         Perkins met Raimer's gaze with defiance, but inside, his stomach had
knotted.  A small smirk tugged at the corners of Raimer's thin lips.  He
began to say something and was cut short by the sound of an approaching
siren.  Quickly moving to his window, Raimer waited until the sound had
passed.  He turned back to Perkins.
        "Where are you going to go," the sergeant questioned, breaking his
silence.  "They're going to shut down this whole city to find you.  You're
not just going to walk out."
        Raimer smiled.  "Thanks for the encouragement, Perkins."  He opened
the officer's black leather wallet once more, this time examining the
pictures within and then holding them up for Perkins to see.
        "Wife and kids, eh?"  Raimer motioned toward the pictures with his
revolver.  Perkins nodded slowly.  <Better to play along with him,> he
thought.
        Raimer imitated the sergeant's slow nod.  "I'll bet they miss you
while you're away,"  he said, his voice nearly a whisper.  He tossed Perkins'
wallet onto the vehicle's dash with a sharp flick of his wrist.  Raimer then
raised the .38, bringing the barrel to within mere inches of Officer Perkins'
face.
        Perkins shrank back at the mechanical sound of the weapon's hammer
slowly clicking back.
        Raimer's eyes narrowed.
        "Let's hope they're used to it by now."

************

        "You can graduate from Med School," Natalie Lambert huffed.  "You can
handle a full-time job *and* play nursemaid to an 800 year old vampire all at
the same time, but...you can't decorate a Christmas tree to save your life!"
 Her third attempt to place the blinking star atop her uncooperative tree had
ended in like manner as the previous attempts; a loss of balance and near
nose-dive into the blue spruce.  "This is what I get for buying too big a
tree."  Natalie placed her hands on her hips and reconsidered her method of
attack.
        The chair that she had appropriated from Nick's kitchen table to use
as a platform was not at all inadequate for the height required, it was
simply that the tree was too wide and Natalie was unable to get in close
enough.  Or her arms were not long enough.  Instead, she was forced to lean
way out to grasp the top of the tree with one hand and then try to place the
star onto it with the other hand, all the while trying to remain on a
friendly basis with gravity.
        An idea suddenly occurred to her.  Natalie stepped down from the
chair and, taking hold of some tree limbs, she began to slowly back up,
lowering the tree to waist level.  Fortunately, it was not all that heavy.  A
moment later, the tree was upright again, the star glowing brightly from its
high perch.  Natalie brushed pine needles from her sweater, wiping the sappy
feel off on the legs of her jeans, and looked up admiringly at her handiwork.
        "Conquered at last!" she announced.  And it had only taken about
forty-five minutes.  Natalie took a slow look around the loft and then at her
various decorations lying about on the floor.  She clapped her hands
together.  "Well, now, let's see what other damage we can cause while Nick is
away."
         The phone rang.   Natalie was unwrapping strands of garland when
Nick's answering machine clicked on.
         "Nat, it's Nick, are you there?"  Nick had that certain sound in his
voice that Natalie had come to recognize as a sure sign of trouble.  She was
not far away and got to the phone quickly.
          Nick filled her in on the new developments.
          "Raimer."  Natalie grimaced as though the name had left a bad taste
in her mouth.  "Of all the times for that...creep to be out on the loose."
 She shook her head with disbelief as the news sank in.  "I thought that we
were rid of him."
          "We all thought so, Nat," Nick said into his cell phone.  "Anyway,
every cop in Toronto is going to be out looking for him within the next hour
or so.  Maybe we'll be in time to stop Raimer before he can leave the city."
          "Somebody had better stop him."  Natalie struggled to keep the
images of those dead girls from returning to her mind.  It had taken her long
enough to drive them from her dreams.  Nick nodded understandingly at the
tone of his friend's voice.  More than even the detectives that had tracked
him, Natalie Lambert had experienced the effects of Gerald Raimer's
derangement.  Each of his victims that had been found, that had been brought
to the morgue, told the tale of a madman that found the utmost pleasure in
human suffering.  Even Nick's experience with nearly every form of human
decadence over the past eight centuries had not prepared him for the
monstrous combination of cunning and perversity manifested in Gerald Raimer's
urban siege.  Natalie had steadfastly refused to have any part other than was
absolutely necessary in the court proceedings against Raimer.  She merely
asked to be informed as to the outcome.  She had not felt such hatred for
another human being since Gault had brutally murdered her goddaughter.  A
moment of uneasy silence followed as Nick and Nat dealt with their memories
of Raimer's carnage.
        Nick took a stab at breaking it.
        "We'll be on the hunt ourselves in a few minutes."  Nick had pulled
his Caddy around to the precinct entrance to wait for his partner.  There was
no sign of him as of yet.  "Providing that Schanke shows up sometime soon,
that is."
        Natalie was puzzled.  "Schanke?  Isn't he on vacation," she asked.
 Nick explained the happenings in Cohen's office.  Natalie laughed out loud.
 Nick smiled at the sound.
        "He can't win!  And on Christmas Eve of all times, can you believe
that?"
        "Actually, I can," Nick chuckled.  "He's breaking the news to Myra
right now."  Natalie put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter,
instantly feeling bad that she should find the poor detective's newest
predicament so amusing...so very typical!
        "She is going to be so ticked with him!"
        Nick nodded.  "That's just about guaranteed, but I suggested that he
send Myra and Jenny on to Florida while we track down Raimer," Nick
explained, "that way the holiday isn't entirely spoiled for everyone...maybe
soften the blow a bit."
        "But what about poor Schank," Natalie asked.  "He'll end up alone on
Christmas Day!"
        Nick had to admit that he hadn't thought of it that way.  He'd been
too preoccupied with what Myra would do.
        Silence.
        "Well," Natalie asked impatiently.
        Nick shrugged at the phone.  "Yes, uh...well.  Well what, Nat?"
        Natalie clapped one exasperated hand on her left leg.  "Well...why
not invite him to spend Christmas Day with us," she paused.  "If you don't
mind, that is."  Nick's response was slow in coming.  He and Nat had never
declared anything official between the two of them, but he had been hoping to
have the time alone with her.  So much had happened as of late that Nick had
actually considered approaching Nat on the matter, perhaps suggesting that
something more be at least considered.  The courage to do so had been a long
time in building.  Now, it appeared as though his plans might be foiled by
yet another outside intrusion.
        Still, Nick knew that no one should have to spend the holidays alone
if possible.  And Schanke was his friend, after all.  Nick smiled slightly.,
 "No, I don't mind." he told Natalie.  She was not quite convinced by his
tone.
        "You're really sure that it's all right?  I mean, I don't just want
to go inviting people over to your place."
        "Yes, I'm sure," he added.  "It'll be fun."  Nick looked back at the
precinct entrance.  Still no sign of Schanke.  "I'll mention it to him once
he tells me what's going on."
        "You see," Nat teased, "from somewhere beneath that cold, dark
exterior, I can actually hear the beating of a genuine human heart."
        Nick laughed.  "You really think so?"  He turned his head in time to
see Schanke burst from the precinct, spot the caddy, and come jogging down
the steps, clearly already shivering and muttering furiously to himself.
 "Here he comes now."
        "Great," Natalie grinned.  "Now I can get back to wrecking your
place."


***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 5/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        Raimer viciously kicked the gun from the fallen security guard's
hand.  He watched as it skittered harmlessly across the linoleum floor and
struck the opposite wall with a thud.  He smiled and took a deep, filling
breath, allowing himself to savor his most recent victory.  It felt good to
be in action again, pitting himself against the skills and reflexes of the
unsuspecting persons that he drew into his deadly games.  The security guard
had been old and slow and, although Raimer had taken him by surprise and
could have effortlessly put him down, he had instead actually allowed the man
to pull his sidearm before firing.
        <Can't make it too easy, after all,> Raimer thought.  He did enjoy
his little games.  They made him feel powerful and there was certainly no
greater power than that held by those who exercised control over life and
death.  The hatred that he felt from society in general and the wild
cat-and-mouse chases that he engaged in with local authorities served only to
make Gerald Raimer's already inflated views of his own personal power grow
all the larger.  In Raimer's mind, society was forced to acknowledge
him...indeed, it hated him, but only because it saw him as one far more
powerful than itself.
        Powerful and unafraid to demonstrate that power against any who dared
to challenge his strength.
        All met the same fate eventually.  Raimer knelt down and relieved the
fallen guard of his ammunition belt and wallet, gratified to discover
plentiful rounds for his gun as well as a healthy sum of cash.  He pocketed
the shells and added the money to the bills that had so recently belonged to
the late Sergeant Perkins.  He quickly made his way out of the stockroom and
headed toward the main floor of the store.  Raimer could not have cared less
about the holiday itself, but Christmas did have one redeeming
characteristic...the stores always closed early on Christmas Eve.  Most of
them were easy targets.  This one just happened to be a rather fashionable
clothing store.  Raimer had found the back door surprisingly easy to force
open and had done so with only the slightest of sounds.  Once inside, Raimer
had spotted the security guard's light and had hidden in the shadows until
the man entered the room and turned on the overhead light.  The security
guard's nonchalant manner of checking on the noise had indicated that he had
probably thought that the sound had been made by a falling box or some such
item.  The stunned look on the guard's face revealed that he knew that he was
faced with more than the common place thief.  Raimer was sure that the man
had recognized him.  Most people in Toronto would have recognized him though.
        Raimer smiled again at that thought.  He liked to be recognized.  It
was another way that others showed their recognition of his importance.
        Running through the aisles of clothes, as he was uncertain as to
whether the store had types of security other than a simple guard, Raimer
located suitable clothing.  Stripping off his prison garb, Raimer began to
put on his new acquisitions; heavy jeans, a dark blue pullover shirt and a
gray turtleneck sweater.  As he changed, Raimer began to consider his next
moves.
        It would of course be necessary to leave Toronto as soon as possible.
 The police would doubtless be trying every method of trapping him within the
city limits.  Heavy holiday traffic might be a useful tool in evading those
traps, and he would come up with a plan for dealing with that police issue
first.  In Raimer's esteem, most of the officers that had come up against him
had been nowhere near his caliber.  The notable exception to that otherwise
steadfast rule had been the two cops that had finally brought him in, if only
for a short time.
         Detectives Knight and Schanke.  "Toronto's Dynamic Duo" as they had
been christened by the local papers after bringing in Canada's most wanted
serial killer.
        "A couple of real heroes," Raimer snarled as he tugged on the
pullover shirt.  His mind wandered back to that night in the warehouse.
 Knight and Schanke had managed to corner Raimer there after receiving some
new information from a turncoat informant.  Raimer stiffened as he recalled
his wild flight through the shadowy warehouse, stumbling through one corridor
after another, turning back only to fire blindly at his pursuers.  He had
stopped to rest for a moment when one of the detectives, Schanke, the fat
one, had wandered too close.  Raimer had opened fire, pinning Schanke between
a staircase and a forklift, and wounding him in the process.  A rapid fire
exchange had begun between the two opponents.
        He never heard Knight slip up behind him.  Raimer had been preparing
to fire another shot when his hand was seized in a cold, vice-like grip.
 Knight was suddenly there, forced Raimer to drop his gun and then hurled him
into a wall with stunning force.
        Having donned the sweater, Raimer set out in search of better shoes
and a winter coat.  His memories of what had happened next were blurred,
recalled only through dreams, and as though visible only through a dense fog
at a great distance.  He had dreamed of images where Knight had lifted him
from the warehouse floor, his eyes glowing gold and his mouth twisted into a
snarl which had revealed two razor sharp fangs...something other than a man.
 The image was never clear.  Raimer had dismissed it as a figment of his own
imagination caused by the trauma of the moment and his hatred of the
detective.  The stuff of nightmares.
        But there was one thing from that encounter that stood out to Raimer
with crystal clarity.  Knight's words.  "You filth!  I could tear you to
pieces with my bare hands!"
        Somehow, Raimer didn't doubt that.  The detective had been possessed
of enormous physical strength, but Schanke had caught up to his partner
before Knight could do anything more than cuff his prisoner.  Raimer grinned
wickedly as he slid into the most comfortable pair of shoes that he could
find.  "Let's see you do it again, Knight!"  he yelled into the deserted
building, his challenge echoing in the near complete darkness.
        Raimer grabbed a heavy black trench coat as he made his way once
again to the rear of the store.  He could feel the adrenaline surging through
his veins as he anticipated the daring of his next moves.  Once again, he was
feeling powerful.  His defeat in the warehouse was displaced from his mind by
a fresh rising tide of arrogant hostility.  The beginnings of a plan were
emerging, and tonight, Gerald Raimer fully intended that society should see
true justice done...in the triumph of the strong.

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 6/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        "Geez, Nick!  It's as cold in here as it is out there," Schanke
grumbled as he slammed Nick's passenger door against the wintry outside
world, once again managing to catch the belt of his trench coat in the door.
 He threw an irritated glance at Nick who merely smiled antagonistically and
started the Caddy's engine.  Despite the cold, she came to life instantly.
 Nick pulled slowly away from the curb and eased his vehicle into the hectic
holiday traffic.
        "I can't believe you," Schanke went on.  "Sitting there in the middle
of a new ice age with no heat, engine off, coat not even buttoned up..."
        "The heater doesn't work, remember?"
        "You wouldn't use it if it did!"  Schanke was not to be appeased
easily tonight.  He rubbed his clammy hands together quickly in the hope of
producing the smallest amount of comforting warmth.  "Freakin' polar bear
with a badge," he said between frosty breaths.
        After they had been originally assigned, Nick had sincerely believed
that "Donut" Don Schanke would surely drive him insane within a matter of
days.  As it happened, Nick had actually gotten used to his partner's
outbursts after their first few weeks together and had now come to regard
them as more amusing than irksome.
        Schanke caught sight of the amused gleam in Knight's eye.  "We could
always go back and get my car...you know, the one with the working heater?"
        "Myra has your car, Schank."
        "Oh, yeah...what about Natalie?"
        "She's at my place...her car too."
        "Just my luck!"  Schanke folded his arms across his chest as tightly
as possible and resigned himself to riding in the "big green meatfreezer" for
yet another chilly night on the job.  He turned to Nick, disgusted that his
partner looked as loose and comfortable in the cold as most people would look
wearing Bermuda shorts on sunny Miami Beach.  "And just what is Miss
Lambert's excuse for playing hooky while the rest of us get stuck doing the
'dedicated public servant' thing again?"
        Nick never took his eyes off of the road.  "She's had the flu.  You
know that, Schank."
        "So, she just decided that it'd be nicer to have it at your place,
huh," Schanke mocked.
        "No."  Nick did divert his gaze for a moment to throw his partner a
matter-of-fact look.  "She's feeling better but not good enough to go back in
yet, so I encouraged her to take a few extra days to rest."
        Schanke nodded knowingly, all the while forming a broad smile.
 "Oh...rest.  I see.  At your place, huh?"
        Nick felt his partner's gaze as surely as his customary punch to the
arm...which Schanke was simply too cold to bestow at that particular moment.
 "She's decorating for Christmas," he said flatly.
        Schanke's look of amusement instantly collapsed into wide-eyed
disbelief. "Your place?  Christmas decorations!"  Nick nodded.  "Your place!"
 Schanke shook his head.  "Christmas in the crypt, huh?  This I gotta see!"
        Nick had been looking for a way to invite his partner over for the
Christmas party and he took advantage of the opening.  "Do you really want to
come over," he asked.  "I mean if things don't work out for going on vacation
with Myra, uh, Nat and I thought that..."  Nick paused, looking for some
reaction.  Schanke had resumed his brooding posture at the mention of his
wife and vacation predicament.  "We haven't talked about what Myra said
though..."
        "Let's not," Schanke growled into his coat.
        "Sorry, Schank."  Nick looked away again.  "I didn't mean to pry."
        Schanke started to mumble, a low, guttural sound which slowly built
in intensity.  Nick understood that particular sound to be a signal that Mt.
Schanke was on the brink of eruption.
        "Man, oh, man!  She took it just like a real champ!"  Nick started at
the sudden outburst, even though he had fully expected it.  "She didn't
threaten to throttle me or break my bowling trophies or kick me out of the
house...oh, no!  It was worse than that!"
        "Worse?"  Nick was genuinely puzzled.
        His partner instantly obliged him with a technicolor explanation.
 "She started to cry...of all things!"
        "Oh, not that!"  Nick empathized.  He knew that the heat must really
be building.  Schanke had begun to unbutton his coat.
        "Yes, that!  'Oh, Donny, why can't you tell them you can't do it?
 Why does your family always have to suffer?  We never spend any time
together!  Jenny hardly knows her own daddy!'  And on, and on, and on!  She
wouldn't stop, Nick!  She went right for the jugular!  Like it's all my
fault!  Like I planned it this way!"
        Nick listened, waiting for a calm to develop, or for his partner to
run out breath.  As it turned out, it was the latter.  "Did you make any
plans?"
        Schanke's head was resting in both hands.  He groaned.  "Well,
through the tears and bloodletting, yes, we did finally make plans."  Schanke
heaved himself up into a sitting position again.  "We're doing it like you
said.  Myra and Jenny are flying to Orlando and they'll wait until I get
there....*if* I ever do!"
        Nick tried to sound reassuring, at the same time knowing that
fugitive situations were among the most unpredictable situations of their
routinely unpredictable profession.  "I'm sure you'll be joining them before
long, Schank.  I bet they'll bring Raimer in before Monday."  It was Friday
night.
        Schanke was unconvinced.  "Not with my luck, pal.  We'll have to
chase that guy to the ends of the earth before I get a break."  He shifted
uneasily in the passenger seat, looking out the windows now instead of just
staring at the dashboard.  "Speaking of chasing, where exactly are we going?"
        "Well," Nick began, "I thought we'd go pay a visit to our old friend,
Mr. Colson."
        "Jack Colson," Schanke queried.  "The pusher?"
        "He gave us the right information last time.  Took us to Raimer fast
enough."
        Schanke thought for a moment.  "Yeah, he might be useful.  If Raimer
hasn't already put a hole in him."
         "He is a definite target," Nick agreed.  "I'm counting on getting to
him in time."
         Traffic around them was as hectic as either of the detectives had
ever seen it.  Families attempting to leave the city at the last minute for
holiday traveling had turned the roads into raceways.
          "We might get to him if we don't get ourselves killed in this
traffic," Schanke observed.  "Everyone's all high-strung and tense.  Can't
say that I don't know how they feel," he said, clenching his fists for
emphasis.
         "Ah, I've got just the thing for stress relief."  Nick reached out
with his free hand and opened his glove box, rummaged around for a moment and
produced a small cube, which he promptly tossed to his partner.  "Try that,"
he said, smiling.
         Schanke caught the object and turned it over in his hands.  He
turned toward Nick, eyes narrowing.  "You call this thing a 'stress
reliever?'"
        Nick shrugged, trying to look as innocent as possible.  "It's worth a
try, isn't it?"
        Schanke held the cube up to the light, eyeing the confused colors.
 "Rubick's Cube, Nick?  Are you serious?  Do you know how long it's been
since I've seen one of these!  You just keep one in your glove box for
laughs?"
        "Remember the Murphy twins," Nick asked.
        Schanke shot both arms out into the air in a repelling motion.
 "Please don't remind me of those two!"
        "One of them left it in the car," Nick explained.  "They're in
witness protection now, so I didn't exactly know how to return it."
         A snort was heard from the passenger seat.  "Yeah, well however you
came by it, this is definitely *not* a stress reliever!  If anything, it's a
stress *enhancer*...I never could solve the dumb thing!"
         Nick reached for the cube.  "You don't have to, Schank."
        Schanke held the cube out of reach.  "Yeah, well maybe I like a
challenge."  Schanke turned his detective's eye to examining the puzzle from
every possible angle.  Nick smiled as his partner lapsed into silence,
slowly, experimentally, turning sections of the Rubicks' Cube and mumbling to
himself once again.
        <That ought to buy me about five minutes of silence,> Nick thought.
 He then turned his attention back to the immediate task of reaching Jack
Colson...hoping that the informant was still alive.


***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 7/?)

By: Stephen Lansing


        Jack Colson was indeed still alive...just how long he would remain
that way; however, was in serious doubt.
        At the moment that Knight and Schanke left the precinct, Colson lay
prostrate on the hard wood floor of his apartment; bruised and bleeding from
an ugly gash to his forehead.  Gerald Raimer, who had inflicted that wound as
Colson had entered his darkened apartment, regarded his humbled betrayer with
a mixture of scorn and amusement.  He had long awaited this moment.
        Colson moaned, straining to see clearly through the sea of colors
that moved and twisted sickeningly before his eyes.  He tried to rise.
        Raimer rewarded the effort with a savage kick to Colson's ribs.
        Colson writhed at the sudden explosion of searing pain in his side.
 He opened his eyes again, hoping that his vision would clear, and turned his
head in the direction of his attacker.  Raimer laughed at Colson's wide-eyed
stare.
        "Nice to see you again, Jack."
        Colson's breath came in ragged gasps, a new jolt of stabbing pain
coming with each intake of air.  A nauseating, sinking feeling gnawed at the
pit of his stomach as Gerald Raimer's rough-hewn features came into focus.
 It was a face that he had sincerely hoped that he had hallucinated seeing.
 "H-how did you..."  Each word that came was a struggle.  "How did you get
out...of there?"
        Raimer knelt down beside Colson, a proud smirk on his lips.  "To tell
you the truth, Jack...at the moment, I'm not so much interested in talking
about how I got out of prison as how I got in."  Raimer emphasized the word
"in" by pressing the barrel of his pistol into Colson's side; evoking a
tortured cry from the injured man.  "But you wouldn't know anything about
that," he said, his smirk growing larger.  "Would you, Jack?"
         Raimer grasped Colson firmly by the shoulders.  "That floor must be
hard.  Let's get you on the couch where we can talk."
        It was no use to struggle.  Colson knew that Raimer would probably
either kill him outright or just continue to torture him if he tried to
resist.  He gnashed his teeth together as Raimer pulled him to his feet, the
pain of one or more broken ribs digging into his side like razors.  The room
seemed to spin around Colson as Raimer dragged him the length of the mid-size
apartment and finally flung him onto the couch, deliberately causing Colson's
injured side to bear the weight of his fall.
        Colson collapsed on the couch with a shriek of agony.  The pain from
his side was nearly blinding.  Raimer stood still, observing him for a moment
before sitting down on one of the corners of the coffee table, directly
opposite from where Colson lay.
        "I really ought to kill you now, Jack."
        Shifting his weight onto his uninjured side, Colson faced Raimer.  He
struggled unsuccessfully to keep the pain from showing on his face.
 "They...had me," he began.  "They made me...talk."  Colson gasped for air.
 Speech was sheer torture.
        The pain in Colson's voice bolstered Raimer.  He shook his head in
mock sympathy.  "I'll bet they really roughed you up, Jack."  He made a show
of holding his own side in imitation of Colson's posture and laughed harshly
at the blaze of hatred that burned in Colson's eyes.
        Up until this moment, Raimer had been carrying his captured pistol at
his side.  Now he brought the weapon to Colson's eye level and waved it back
and forth before slipping it into his coat pocket.  "Good news, Jack."  He
moved closer and came to a stop within mere inches of Colson's face.  "I'm
not gonna kill you after all."
        Colson knew better than to be relieved.  He had seen Raimer in action
in the past and knew that he would slaughter anyone and needed no reason
other than the mere enjoyment of doing it.  To kill a man against whom he had
a serious grudge would be a simple chore.
        Raimer backed away and continued.  "It's like this, Jack...I need
you."  Colson was genuinely puzzled by that last statement and could only
reconcile it to Raimer's sadistic sense of humor.  The pain in his side now
throbbed steadily and Jack began to feel a tingling sensation in his
forehead.  He reached up with one hand to lightly message his forehead and
withdrew the hand to find his fingers sticky with blood.
        <You can only hope it doesn't get any worse,> he thought.
        Raimer reached out and took Colson by the throat.  He applied only
light pressure; enough to communicate his meaning sufficiently.  "You hear
me, Jack?  You got another chance, man."
         He patted the coat pocket that contained the pistol.  "Not that you
have to help me if you don't want to."
        Colson drew a deep breath and winced at the accompanying pain.
        "I...I'll help you."  <I have a choice?>
         Raimer smiled and removed his hand from Colson's throat.
        "That's nice to know, Jack."

*************

        Knight and Schanke were only three blocks from Jack Colson's
apartment building when Cohen called to give them an update on the situation
and to determine their status.  She filled them in on the discovery of
Sergeant Perkins' body and that of the security guard from Sarringer's Fine
Clothing.  Raimer's involvement in the security guard's death was confirmed
when police found discarded prison clothes on the main sales floor of the
department store.  Units were on their way to notify the families of the two
victims.
        Raimer's whereabouts were still unknown.
        "I just can't believe this guy," Schanke exclaimed after Cohen had
signed off.
        "He's a real one man crime wave," Nick agreed, gritting his teeth at
the thought of what else might be in store for Toronto unless Raimer was
brought in quickly.  The thought that he could have easily killed Raimer in
the warehouse weighed heavily in his mind.  There had been precious seconds
where Schanke had been hiding behind the forklift, reloading his weapon.
 Nick could easily have broken Raimer's neck in those seconds.  It was highly
unlikely that Internal Affairs would have even bothered to do more than pay
lip-service to an investigation into the matter.  Nick grimaced as he thought
of how simple it would have been to make the entire thing look like an
accident.
        <I surprised him, we struggled, he fell and broke his neck...end of
story.>  Sergeant Perkins and the others that Raimer had killed since his
escape would all still be alive and with their families on Christmas Day.
 But even as the idea occurred to him, Nick could already hear Natalie
telling him that it made no sense to blur the lines of right and wrong for
the sake of maintaining those lines, and LaCroix would no doubt torment him
for living by a double-standard.  The worse part was that they would both be
right.
        <Still...>
        Schanke nervously shifted the Rubick's Cube back and forth between
his hands.  "I knew Sergeant Perkins."
        Nick quickly shifted from his own train of thought.  How much further
could his partner's day spiral downward?
        "I'm sorry to hear that, Schank.  Were you good friends?"
        Schanke shrugged.  "Not really.  He used to bowl with us on some
nights...back in the glory days when I actually worked *days.*  He seemed
like a good guy.  I took him home one night."  Schanke chuckled slightly.
 "He had some cute kids."
       Nick spotted the street sign where they would be turning.  He slowed
the Caddy and directed it onto the snow-covered sidestreet.  Colson's
apartment building was only a couple hundred yards away on the left side of
the road.  Nick listened to the sound of the snow crunching beneath his tires
as he scanned both sides of the road for any sign of Gerald Raimer.
        Schanke was trying to shake off another bout of depression, suddenly
brought on by the news of Perkins' death.  This holiday would certainly live
in infamy in the Schanke household.  "It really makes you think, Nick," he
said, his voice almost a whisper.
        They had arrived.  Nick parked the Caddy directly across from
Colson's ten story brick apartment building...the Broward Apartment Complex.
 Schanke began to button his coat in anticipation of the brutal wind chill
that he would be exposed to once they were outside again.  He continued with
his thoughts.
        "As many nights as I stay out here putting my life on the line...just
to know that I've got a wife and daughter at home that probably don't even
remember what 'dear ole dad' even looks like anymore."  Nick was mildly
alarmed by the hollow sound in his friend's voice.
        "You really shouldn't be alone on Christmas, Schank.  Will you at
least have dinner with Nat and me?"
        "I'll think about it," Schanke answered.  "Not that I don't
appreciate the offer or anything."  He raised one eyebrow in his partner's
direction.  "And it would sure be different to see you actually eating
something for a change!"
        Nick tried to change the subject quickly, his mind going back to that
time not-so-very-long-ago when Schanke had very nearly come to the truth
concerning Nick Knight's secret.  "I'm sure that Myra and Jenny know that you
would rather be with them than on the street, Schank."
        Schanke shoved the Rubick's Cube into his right coat pocket.   "It's
not enough to 'rather' be with your family, Nick.  You've got to *be*
there...in person!"  Schanke pulled his sidearm and quickly checked to be
certain that he had a full load.  "No matter what, you always try to do your
best for your family," he continued.  "Even if you get beat up for it!  And
something will always be there to keep you apart.  I mean, look at me, just
because some guy decides to go and pull a 'Jack Ruby,' I get stuck holding
the bag again!  At Christmas of all times!"
        The street seemed quiet in comparison to the hustle and bustle of the
rest of the city that they had crossed to reach Colson's apartment.  The
building itself was brightly decorated in all of the holiday colors and
families could be seen coming and going through the large glass entrance.
 Schanke replaced his sidearm in its holster and reached for the door handle,
preparing himself to enter the winter world once again.
        "Everybody out," he announced.  "Women and underpaid detectives
first."  When Nick did not immediately respond, Schanke turned.  His partner
was staring through the windshield with that familiar glazed expression that
meant that although his body might be present, *he* was actually somewhere
else entirely.
         Schanke groaned.
        "Nick?"

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 8/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


Winter of 1943
Rouen, France
Hitler's 'Fortress Europe'


        The heavy sound of soldiers' feet echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet city streets.  Nicholas and Michel took care to remain hidden in the protection of a darkened alley, neither one moving or even whispering until the sound of boots had faded completely.  There were very few who dared to violate the dusk-to-dawn curfew that the Germans had imposed, and the city of Rouen, not especially desirous of any further conflict with the occupying army, had been especially compliant.  The soldiers  had soon grown bored looking into more darkened windows and had moved on to another street.
        The two men moved stealthily from their hiding place and, once convinced that the soldiers had indeed moved on, quickly resumed their search.
        "How far, Nicholas," Michel whispered furtively, his brown eyes warily watching the direction in which the Nazi soldiers had gone.  Nicholas pointed, much to Michel's relief, in the opposite direction from the departed soldiers.
        "A few more minutes and we will be safe."  So saying, Nicholas resumed his rapid, silent pace.  Michel had difficulty keeping up with his energetic companion and he was breathing heavily by the time that Nicholas slowed and, with a nervous glance over his shoulder, bade Michel to follow him into yet another cramped alleyway.
        The darkness seemed to be of little consequence to Nicholas as he soon found what he had come for behind a stack of boards that was set against a wall.
        A heavy, wooden door set deep into an alcove.
        Michel rattled the doorknob and then gave the door a firm shove, finding it stubbornly unwilling to open even a crack.  "You have a key, Nicholas?"
        "No key," Nicholas whispered, shaking his head.  He motioned to the alley entrance.  "Go and watch for soldiers.  I will give the door another try.  Perhaps all it needs is some more persuasion."  Michel nodded quickly and made his way to the alley entrance.  Nicholas watched him go and made certain that the man's attention was diverted before returning to the problem of the locked door.  Ordinarily, Nicholas would have made quick work of such a small obstacle as the door; however, it would not do to demonstrate such remarkable physical strength before the eyes of his mortal friend.  Placing his shoulder against the door, Nicholas slowly began to exert pressure.
        The sounds of splintering wood were painfully loud in the relative silence of the sleeping city and Nicholas gave great care to minimizing the audible effects of his assault on the doorway.  It was a matter of mere seconds before the steel bolt of the lock slipped away from its cracked moorings in the door frame and the door swung open.  Michel had turned from his vigil at the ally entrance.  Nicholas answered his questioning glance with a wave of his left hand, bidding the Frenchman to rejoin him.
        The duo made their way through the now open entrance, stopping only to glance once more at the street entrance.  Nicholas's own inner sensitivities to the human presence informed him that his traveling companion was the only mortal close enough to be of any consequence.  Satisfied that they would not be followed, Nicholas carefully set the boards back into place as best as he could to cover the entrance and closed the door behind them.  The semi-darkness of the masonry corridor in which they had found themselves suddenly became complete.

*******

        *"Nick!"*
        Schanke's roar brought Nick back into the present day with a start.
        "Sorry Schank."  Nick quickly searched for an explanation.  "I was just lost in thought."  The oft-used excuse bounced ineffectively off of his partner's glare.
        "That really freaks me out when you do that, Nick."  Schanke reached for his door handle once again.  "You ready for a little expedition on *this* planet, partner?"
        Nick smiled weakly, his freshly-stirred memories of the past still vivid.  "Let's go."


************

        The Wilkes family was one of the groups that were not desperately seeking flight from the city on Christmas Eve.  Instead, they were desperately attempting to reach their church in time to make the beginning of practice for the Christmas play.  Their three children, two boys, ages seven and eight, and a girl, age five, had ensured that the family left home in its customary late rush.
        They had arrived at the church with barely five minutes to spare and the security of knowing that their status of "the last ones to arrive for any church function" was in no danger of being lost.
        "See, I told you kids that we're always the last ones to get here."  Mrs Wilkes had to shout to be heard above the din emanating from the back seat of their gray Taurus.  It seemed that seven year old Sam had discovered that the crook of his shepherd's staff fit rather nicely around his sister's neck.  Little Amy's response to her brother's research had been somewhat less than congenial.
        "MOMMMYYY!!!"
        "I asked you to put those staff's in the trunk until we got to the church, Bill!"  Sarah Wilkes threw her husband a blunt look of disapproval.  He shrugged, offered his wife a slight "forgive me?" smile and concentrated on attempting to find a parking place in the crowded church lot.  Much to his relief, he was actually able to find a space rather quickly.
        Unloading the feuding siblings, Mrs. Wilkes shooed them toward the church and then turned back to rap on the frosty windshield of the Taurus.  Her husband reluctantly rolled his window down, quietly lamenting the continued loss of the precious little heat that had built up in the vehicle during the fifteen minute drive to their church.
        "You do have your list, don't you," Sarah asked.  
        Bill Wilkes nodded patiently.  "For the fifth time, yes, I do."  
        Sarah quickly rummaged through her purse to ensure that she had given the list to her husband after all.  Satisfied, she turned to go in to the church, turning one last time to admonish:  "Don't take too long, Bill.  They must have the refreshments served by 9:30."  
        Bill waved to his wife.  "I know.  They'll be there on time.  Have fun at the rehearsal."  He moved to roll up his window, thankful to be shutting out the cold once again.  He was stopped by an unknown voice.
        "Family life sure looks fun!"  Bill turned to see a tall, red-haired man in a black trench coat standing where his wife had been only seconds before.  The man had a large grin on his face as he pointed at the retreating Mrs. Wilkes.
        "It'll keep you on your toes all right,"  Bill admitted.
        "Sure does look that way," the stranger said with a nod.  Despite his smile, there was something vaguely menacing about the man, something familiar as well, although Bill could not immediately recall where he might have seen the stranger before, nor had he heard any of the evening news bulletins.  He turned his head for a moment to glance at the green digital glow of the clock on the dashboard.  "Well, gotta go."
        He turned back to find himself staring into the barrel of a pistol.
        "Good idea," the stranger said coldly.  "Mind if I tag along?"

************

        "Third floor," Nick announced cheerfully.
        Schanke threw his partner a look of disgust as he arrived, huffing and puffing, on the third floor landing.  "The next time you suggest that we take the stairs, remind me to shoot you."  He leaned heavily on the railing, trying to catch his breath.
        Knight shook his head sadly.  "Looks like 'Joe Joe's Pizza Palace' is wearing you down, Schank," he teased.  
        Schanke pushed himself free of the railing.  "Not 'Joe Joe's.'"  Hands outstretched, as though holding a large sign, Schanke bellowed: " 'Grandma Loma's Fine Italian Restaurante!' "  
        Nick feigned a look of disbelief.  "Better than 'Joe Joe's?" C'mon..."  
         Schanke laughed as he moved to follow his partner into the dimly lit third floor hallway.  "Ho! Ho! 'Grandma Loma's'...I fall down and worship!"  Schanke made a rapid, mock bow.  
        Nick laughed at the mental image.  "I'd pay good money to see that!"
        "I bet you would!"  Schanke surveyed the apartment numbers.  "Colson's in 312, isn't he?"
        "Right.  Down the hallway and about five doors on the left."
        Both detectives instinctively reached for their sidearms as they approached the door, each taking a separate side.  Nick raised his hand to knock.
       The apartment door was flung open before he could complete the action.

************

        In the mind of Gerald Raimer, there was nothing that could compare to simply being free again.
        Raimer gave his legs a good long stretch as he waited for the traffic light to change.  The joy of freedom was only enhanced by the feel of being behind the wheel once again.  He ran his right hand lightly across the dashboard of the Taurus and smiled.  "Nice car you got here, Bill."
        The comment was directed at the vehicle's trunk where Bill Wilkes had taken up temporary residence.  After highjacking him, Raimer had forced Wilkes to drive some two blocks from the church before he had assumed the wheel and "suggested" that Wilkes ride in the trunk.  The man had needed no more persuasion that the sight of Raimer's pistol and the idea that his family might be placed in jeopardy.  The familiar look of fright in Wilkes's eyes had been immensely satisfying.
         The light changed.
        Raimer slowly accelerated, warily watching the vehicles around him for any sign that someone had recognized him.  He had every intention of revealing himself in time...but his next public appearance would be directed only to a special audience.  
        He began to search for that audience.


***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 9/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        Jack Colson dropped his gym bag at the sight of the two detectives
standing at his door, weapons drawn and trained on him.  He slowly lifted his
hands, palms outward, to show that he was unarmed.
        Schanke lowered his gun and grinned.  "Hiya, Jack."
        Colson grimaced.  "What do you two want?  You got a warrant?"
        Nick carefully holstered his weapon.  "We just have a few questions
that we'd like to ask you."  Nick and Schanke shared a look.  Colson had a
large bandage on his forehead and he leaned a bit to his right side, as
though he were in pain.
        Colson's already contorted features twisted even more when he
answered.  "You already did that."
        "Aw, c'mon, Jack."  Schanke stepped forward, pushing his way into the
apartment.  "That was then; this is now."
        Colson took a step backward and reached down for his gym bag,
suddenly wincing and gripping his right side.  He slowly bent his knees and
lowered himself to retrieve the bag.  Nick and Schanke shared another look.
        "Are you all right, Mr. Colson?"
        Colson carefully stood again and answered Nick's question with a
growl.  "I'm fine."  He looked from Knight to Schanke.  "Now, if you aint'
got a warrant, I aint' gotta talk to you, so you'll just have to excuse me."
 Colson started for the door.
        Nick blocked his way.  "You *are* still on probation, Mr. Colson," he
reminded the man.
        Schanke stepped forward again.  "That means that you can't leave the
city without permission."
        "I *know* what it means," Colson said with a glare.
        Nick pointed at the gym bag.  "Then you won't mind telling us where
you're going."  Colson started to answer but was cut off by Schanke, who
moved in still closer.
        "And if you refuse, we'll just have to assume that you intend to
violate your parole."
        "Which would give us justifiable suspicion," Nick chimed in.  "We
could take you downtown for questioning...maybe even search your apartment."
        "Or the bag..."  This time it was Schanke who pointed at the gym bag
that Colson carried.
         Colson was rapidly looking from one detective to the other; both
were only a few feet away, clearly attempting to turn up the heat.  "You
can't do that!"  He grasped at his side again as he said the words.
         Schanke stepped closer still, bringing his face to within inches of
Colson's.  "Look *pal*...this is turning out to be one lousy holiday for me
and if you don't start cooperating, *real* fast, you're gonna be eating
Christmas dinner in a cell and sharing a toilet with some guy named Rosie!"
 Colson backed away, still holding his side.
        Nick closed the apartment door.  "Like I said, we just want to ask
you a few questions.  How difficult that process is depends entirely upon
you."
        Colson stared at Nick a moment before growling, "I aint' got nothin'
to say to cops."  Painstakingly, he turned and shuffled slowly toward a black
leather easy chair, where he lowered his gym bag to the floor and placed his
left hand against the back of the chair, leaning heavily on it.  The simple
act seemed to have nearly exhausted him.
          Schanke eyed Colson suspiciously.  "It's really too bad to hear you
say that, Jack.  What after all of those nice, long talks that we had last
time?"  He elbowed his partner significantly.  "Kinda makes you wonder what
could make a man have such a change of heart, eh, Nick?"
         "Like maybe someone stopping by to show their appreciation for being
turned in, oh, say...about a year ago?"  Colson stared at the floor, ignoring
Nick.  He was breathing heavily; the pain in his side nearly intolerable.  If
only he had been able to leave just a few moments sooner; he might have
avoided this confrontation.  Jack had faced brutal death this evening because
of what he had once told the police...now they were back, asking him to make
the same mistake all over again.
          Nick pitied Colson's obvious predicament but he was determined that
the man would tell what he knew.  "Raimer roughed you up, didn't he," Nick
asked, coming to stand only a few feet away, Schanke close behind.
          "I told you already...I'm fine!"  Colson would still not look at
the detectives.  "I slipped in the kitchen, that's all."
          Schanke laughed sharply.  "Did you hear that, Nick?  He slipped in
the kitchen!  The man gives cops info that puts away Canada's most wanted
serial killer.  That killer escapes and the cops find their informant all
banged up an hour or so later, but its because he just *happened* to slip in
the kitchen...hmmmm...what do you say, Knight?"
        Nick shoved both hands into his coat pockets.  "Overall, I'd say,
'bad acting coupled with shallow plot development.'"
        Schanke nodded thoughtfully.  "True.  Also, 'fails to hold the
audience's attention, high unbelievability.'  Knight and Schanke give it 'two
thumbs down.'"  He dropped to one knee, attempting to look Colson in the eye.
 "Care to try again, Jack?"
         "I *told* you," Colson snapped.  "I aint' got nothin' to say to
you!"
         Nick stepped forward quickly, locking his gaze with Colson's.
         The change was almost immediate.
         The hostility in Colson's features slowly began to ebb, replaced at
first by confusion and then surrender.  The apartment seemed to fade around
Colson, his field of vision now entirely trapped in the twin blue vortices
that were Detective Knight's eyes.  They threatened to engulf him...and yet,
he felt no fear, no panic.  Instead, a warm feeling of peace and total
contentment filled Colson, drowning out even the excruciating pain in his
side.
          Nick could feel Colson's heart rate slow, his mind begin to open.
 "When was Raimer here," he asked slowly.  Colson heard the voice as though
it came from a great distance and echoed repeatedly in the fog that had
encompassed his mind.  The words came effortlessly.
        "Half an hour ago," he whispered.
        Schanke watched the scene in stunned silence.  What was it about his
partner that he could still get answers in spite of the most determined
resistance?!  Knight bore in.  "Why didn't he kill you," he asked the
expressionless face before him.
        "He said he needed me."
        "What did he want," Schanke asked, attempting to get Colson's
attention.  The man continued to stare fixedly, blankly at his partner.
        "What did he want from you," Nick asked quickly.  He wouldn't be able
to keep this up for long with Schanke observing matters so closely.
       "He wanted...money...and..." Schanke interposed himself between his
partner and Colson.
        "Yeah, okay, he wanted money...aaand?"  Nick groaned inwardly.  His
link with Colson severed by Schanke's well-intentioned intrusion.
        Colson suddenly blinked as though startled.  He began to rub his
eyes, suddenly feeling light-headed and somewhat nauseated.  The pain in his
side returned with full force.
        Schanke stomped his left foot impatiently.  "He wanted money and
*what* else?"
        The harsh glare returned to Colson's features as he reached to hold
his right side again.  "How
 many times do I have to tell you!  I aint' got nothin' to say to you!"
 Colson had no idea what had possessed him to reveal that Raimer had been to
"visit."
        Schanke whirled on his partner, pulling him aside to keep Colson from
overhearing.  "What is it with you!  You talk to him; he sings like a canary!
 I talk to him; he shuts up like a clam!"
        Nick reached into his left pocket to retrieve his cell phone,
returning his partner's accusatory tone with his most innocent shrug.  He
then left the inquisitive Schanke and returned to Colson.  "Mr. Colson," Nick
began firmly.  "You have admitted that Gerald Raimer came to see you only a
half an hour ago.  I'm sure that it will come as no surprise to you that Mr.
Raimer is a fugitive."  Colson had resumed his steadfast staring at the floor
of the apartment.  Nick continued.  "If you like, we can take your refusal as
a sign that you are actively aiding and abetting a fugitive wanted for
several counts of homicide."
         Schanke reappeared at his partner's side.  "Boy, one phone call to
Santa and someone's going to be getting a lot of coal in his stocking this
year."
        "What do you expect me to do,"  Colson asked Nick, his voice filled
with exasperation.  "Get myself killed?  'Cause that's what's gonna happen if
I go shootin' off my mouth again!"
        "We can take you into protective custody," Nick responded.
        Colson laughed as hard as his injured ribs would allow.  "I've heard
about that.  There's a whole lot of guys in the local graveyard that never
made it out of 'witness protection.'"
        Schanke drove the point home.  "Then you can take your chances in a
cell and pray that Raimer doesn't pay someone to bump you off, which I'm sure
they'd be glad to do for a nominal fee."
        "Or," Nick joined in,  "you can take your chances with a bunch of
cops looking out for you twenty-four hours a day."
         Schanke smile broadly.  "And the food's a lot better than it is in
the joint."
        Colson messaged his aching head, sorely regretting the day that he
had met Knight and Schanke.
        Nick prodded him.  "What's it going to be, Colson?"
        Jack Colson slowly reached for his gym bag, for the second time that
evening he found himself with little in the way of acceptable choices.  He
winced at a sudden burst of pain from his broken ribs and looked to the two
detectives.  He pointed to his head and his side.  "Fix these up and maybe
I'll think of something to tell you."
        Colson watched as Knight made a cellular call to request an
ambulance.
        He suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.
        But there was no way  that he was going to cross Raimer again and
risk getting killed for it...no matter how the detectives tried to reassure
him.  He might tell them some things but, in the interests of
self-preservation, he was definitely not going to reveal all that he knew.
        No matter what it might cost them.


***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 10/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        Lt. Carl Woods, 42nd precinct, like most of his colleagues, had
little love for holiday duty.  Had it not been for the Raimer affair, he
might very well have been home convincing the kids to go to bed early so that
Santa would come and visit them.  As in years past, "Santa" would actually
stay up late with mom, wrap presents, drink hot cocoa and watch Christmas
specials.  Instead, he found himself back on the street with his rookie
partner in the middle of a city-wide manhunt that had nearly every cop in
Toronto enlisted.
        At least he could still have his cocoa.  A convenient doughnut shop
had seen to that.  Woods backed through the glass doors of the shop, each
hand occupied with holding onto a steaming cup of hot cocoa.  His partner was
close behind with the bag of eclairs.
        Jan Stuart was twenty-six, single, and the makings of one of the best
cops that Woods had ever had a hand in training.  She had good instincts and
really only needed some experience to go with them.  Carl was confident that
Stuart would not be long in becoming a first-rate officer.
        Had she known her partner's thoughts on the matter, Jan Stuart would
no doubt have turned a deep red with embarrassment.  Stuart had heard much
about Woods before being assigned to ride with him, and she had come to think
the world of her partner during their time on the street.  Woods was also the
only one who had never felt it necessary to bestow any of the customary
departmental "initiations" on her.  That simple fact by itself had earned him
a world of respect in her eyes.
        Jan moved off to one side while her partner stood against the door
and allowed two customers to enter.  After they passed, Woods motioned her on
through.  It had grown cold early this year and the smell of the hot cocoa
her partner was holding wafted through the night air and brought a smile to
her youthful face.  Searching the streets for a fugitive on Christmas Eve was
far from the ideal evening, but at least she had someone to talk to.
        And that lonely single bedroom apartment would still be there after
her shift ended.  That thought took her smile away.  Providing that she
didn't have to work during the time that her parents had scheduled for
Christmas dinner, she would be announcing her intention to move back home.
 It was not that she could not take living alone...she just preferred the
company of having family right down the hall.  Now that they had accepted her
choice of profession, the family fights had ended and her parents were ever
on the phone trying to persuade her to move back in.
        Together, they walked to the squad car.  Woods moved behind Stuart,
motioning her toward the driver's side.  "Your turn," he said, trying to
balance the cocoas without slipping on the ice-covered sidewalk.
        "Where to this time," she inquired.  Her partner turned to answer,
when he suddenly stopped in mid-stride, staring.  Stuart turned in time to
see a car pulling directly behind their parked squad car.  The driver rolled
his window down quickly as he came to a stop.  His red hair and ruddy
features came into view plainly then in the light of the store front.
        "Merry Christmas, officers!"  The strident voice dripped with
mockery.  Stuart dropped her bag as she recognized the unlikely well-wisher.
        "Raimer!"  Woods scarcely had time to shout the name before Raimer's
pistol appeared in the window.  There was a flash as the weapon barked once,
emitting a slug that struck Stuart in the chest.  She dropped; a startled
look briefly crossing her face before unconsciousness claimed her.
        Raimer fired again.  Woods dropped the cocoa cups and dove forward to
his partner's aid, fumbling for his sidearm.  He could hear the sound of
shattering glass in the background as he reached the unconscious Stuart.
 That sound was immediately followed by the squeal of tires as the gray
Taurus sped off.  Woods was on his feet again almost immediately, firing at
the retreating automobile.  He succeeded in putting two bullets into the
passenger side of the Taurus, but had no way of knowing if either one had
managed to hit Raimer.
        Turning quickly, Woods fell to his knees, reaching his hand into the
neck of Stuart's jacket.  A vein throbbed slowly under his fingers; so very
slowly.  The hole in her black jacket indicated that the bullet had entered
very near Stuart's heart.
        His actions to this point had been instinctive, the result of
excellent training, but now rage began to build in Woods as he hurriedly
snapped up his radio to call for help.
        The Taurus was out of sight.

************

         There was only one more precious tissue at the bottom of the box.
 Natalie had circled it like a vulture for at least five minutes, eyeing it,
sniffling steadily, forcing herself not to use the last of the 'gentle touch'
tissues.  Once that was gone, there were only the wretched generic brand
tissues.
        "Might as well sandblast your nose," Natalie mumbled.
        She had been feeling fine all night...until the last half hour.  It
was then that her eyes had begun to water and the inevitable runny nose
followed soon behind.  Natalie had dived into the box of tissues that she had
brought, just in case, and did not realize until it was too late just how few
were left.  She had tried to use the last few sparingly, but her draining
sinuses had challenged that notion.
        Of course, Nick had no tissues, not even any toilet paper.  He didn't
need those things.  Nick didn't get sick.
        "Lucky Buck."  Then again...Nick had his own unique problems.
        Natalie snatched the last tissue...but she tore off only a small
piece and used it to dab lightly at her nose.  At least she could not be
accused of *totally* yielding to temptation.  Her situation thus momentarily
alleviated, she took an appraising look around the loft.
        "Not bad, Lambert, even if you are tired and overworked."  It could
be reasonably said that Nick's loft had never looked like this before.  From
the blinking Christmas tree in the corner by the stairs, to the garland
draped across the fireplace mantel, the elevator door, around the kitchen
table and up the staircase, to the multicolored lights around the windows,
and the fake snow sprayed on the window panes, the loft had been transformed.
 It was not exactly the most extensive decorating job that she had ever done
but it was satisfactory to say the least.
        Natalie smiled broadly as she anticipated the look on Nick's face
when he walked through the elevator door into his transmogrified home.  It
was still a little too dark though, even with all of the lights and
decorations.  Then again, what had Nick once said?
        "I like dark."  Only that night, that he had said those words in
reference to something other than his own living quarters.  *Someone* else,
to be precise.  Natalie smiled again as she thought of how those words had
made her feel.  Nick was a card-carrying member of the "indirect and
infrequent compliment society," and Natalie rarely heard him express anything
about his true feelings...other than guilt.  She frowned at that thought.
        The frown turned to near panic as she caught a glimpse of the face of
Nick's kitchen clock.  Her ham would burn to a crisp if not taken out of the
oven in ten more minutes.  Experience was a wonderful if not somewhat cruel
teacher, and culinary lessons were particularly unforgiving.  She had not
expected to take so long with the decorations and had completely forgotten
about her Christmas dinner.  She began to wish that she had decided to cook
the meal at Nick's place instead of starting it early at her apartment.
        Natalie hurriedly located her purse and car keys.  She made a flyby
of the entertainment center, switching off the television just as the Grinch
was about to set off to loot Whoville.  She then made the rounds of the loft,
unplugging the decorations, remembering the fire hazard...also from past
experience, and gritting her teeth at the loss of precious moments and edible
meat.
        Finally, almost forgetting to flip off the main lights, Natalie made
it into the elevator and started off in the hope of saving at least some of
her Christmas cuisine.

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 11/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        "And you, dear listener, as you hang your stockings by the chimney
with care...what sugarplum dreams dance through your head this Yuletide
season?  Oh, now we're all far too old to believe in flying reindeer and
jolly old men with toy shops at the North Pole...aren't we?  Instead, we
believe in the almighty dollar...we worship at the shrine of perpetual
slavery in a world that cares not whether we live or die, so long as we don't
forget to send out the Christmas cards on time..."
        Schanke turned off the radio with a grimace.  "For crying out loud,
Nick...it's Christmas Eve and all you can find to listen to is some lunatic
who makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like the Good Humor man."  His memories of
encountering "Mr. Nightcrawler" were somewhat blurry, but Schanke would
definitely not have picked him out of a crowd to read bedtime stories to
children.
        Nick smiled sympathetically.  Most people that he knew had the same
thing to say about LaCroix’s radio ramblings, including Natalie.  Nick
himself knew better than to listen to his master's monologues for any
extended period of time.
        He changed the subject for the second time that evening.  "What did
you think about Colson," he asked his partner.
        Schanke rolled his eyes.  "The man's a few fries short of a happy
meal, Nick.  I mean, what does he take us for?  'I slipped in the kitchen!'"
        "We didn't get much out of him, that's for sure."  <Not that we
weren't getting somewhere until we were interrupted...>  Nick gritted his
teeth.  He had come *so* close!
         Schanke shook his head at the memory of what Colson had told them
before the ambulance had taken him away.  "Money and drugs!  Why?  Sure,
money, I can see...but drugs?"
         Nick agreed.  "I never heard of Raimer using drugs.  I thought he
was clean in that aspect."
        "Ditto," Schanke replied.  "Colson has absolutely no idea where
Raimer might be *and,* he didn't even give Raimer any drugs because he just
didn't seem to have any on him at the time.  What an opportunity lost!"
        Traffic grew heavier as Nick drove deeper into downtown Toronto.  The
twin beams of the Caddy's headlights revealed glistening snow flurries.
        "I know of someone who just might know where he is," Nick said
absent-mindedly, pulling up next to a curbside.
        Schanke groaned when he saw the Raven sign.
        "Nick, is this trip really necessary?"
        Nick grinned.  "You want to come in, Schank?"  He would not have
asked if he had not been reasonably certain of the answer.
        Schanke shot Nick his patented "you gotta be crazy" look.  "That's
a-okay, Nick.  If it's all right with you, I'm gonna sit right here and
listen to some *Christmas* music.  After all, it is *Christmas Eve.*  I'd
rather not have to listen to that 'music to sever limbs by' or whatever it is
that you call the stuff they play in that place."
        Nick laughed as his partner reached for the radio.  "Just one favor,
okay, Schank?"
        "If I can afford it."  Schanke protectively covered his wallet.
        "Tune in whatever you like...just not 'Polka Christmas,' okay?"  Nick
closed the driver's door of the Caddy.  Schanke called after him.
        "You uncultured heathen!"

************

        Even before he entered Toronto's most unusual club, Nick's sensitive
hearing was nearly overwhelmed by a virtual deluge of music and the combined
voices of a capacity crowd.  The Raven's boisterous holiday patrons milled
about the congested dance floor, each pursuing their own private means of
celebration as Nick entered and began to make his way toward Janette's table.
  As he had done many times before, Nick observed the interactions of the
crowd, wondering what reaction the club's many human customers would have if
it were suddenly revealed to them that they brushed shoulders nightly with
nearly a dozen vampires.  He smiled slightly.
        Some of them would probably never even bat an eye.
        Miklos had spotted Nick the instant that the detective entered the
club.  By the time that Knight reached the bar, there was a drink already
mixed and waiting.  Nick raised one eyebrow and lifted the glass, analyzing
its color.
        Miklos raised an eyebrow of his own.  "Your first drink is on the
house tonight," he said in the evenest of tones.
        Nick took a suspicious sniff.  "I'll just bet it is."
        "Don't worry, Knight."  There was laughter in the bartender's quiet
voice.  "It's what you like.  The Lady's orders."  He pointed with one thin
finger.
        Nick turned and caught sight of Janette, who was making her way
gracefully through the crowd.  The moving sea of patrons automatically parted
to make way for her, and then closed again in her red and black satin wake.
 She glided silently past Nick, motioning for him to follow with the same
bewitching smile that had first captured the attention of a certain young
Crusader so completely almost eight hundred years before.
        Nick fell in behind her with ease, taking the chair he was offered at
Janette's table.  He sipped lightly from his glass while Janette leaned over
the hard wood table, resting her chin on her steepled fingers.  "So,
Nichola," she purred, "drinking on duty?  Or do we have the night off?"
        Nick returned her playful smile.  "Somehow, I don't think that *this*
particular beverage is covered by department regulations."
        Janette slowly righted herself into a sitting position, resting her
hands in the many folds of her silk dress.  "No, I would imagine that it is
not."
        The two shared a long look across the table top.  Nick watched as the
reflections of the club's lights danced in her eyes.  In the same manner, as
LaCroix, Janette had always been able to make Nick feel as though she were
capable of staring straight into his innermost being (she, also like LaCroix,
would not use the word "soul").  Nick returned her steadfast gaze, searching
her eyes, straining to find something there, wondering what she found in his.
        Janette continued the analysis for a moment longer before she broke
the silence between them.  "So," she began, "to what do I owe the pleasure of
this visit?"
        Nick set his glass on the table.  "I thought that you might be able
to help me find someone."
        Janette blinked, immediately rebuking herself for being so naive.
 She should have known that it just *had* to be another of Nichola's little
'cops and robbers' games.  He never just came in to see *her* anymore.
        "I run a club, Nichola..."  Janette waved at the crowd.  "...not an
information service."
        Nick ignored the dig.  He had expected that she would be upset that
he had come on police business once again.  "Raimer is out," he said
significantly.
        Janette placed one hand to her chest and took a deep breath, her
facial expression one of sheer sarcasm.  "Oh, my.  Whatever shall we do?"
        "He used to come in here.  I thought that he might have come back or
that someone might have mentioned seeing him."  Nick took a long sip from his
glass.
        Janette threw her hands into the air in much the same fashion as
Schanke had done several times already that evening; although it would have
mortified her to know it.  "We are not accustomed to doing surveys here for
the local police department, Nichola.  I do not ask my customers who they
associate with, nor do I care, so long as they pay."
         Nick fought back the impulse to give in to frustration.  Janette had
joined LaCroix in finding room for mockery in virtually everything that Nick
had chosen to do over the last few centuries.  There was rarely a time that
she did *not* try to make him feel foolish.  The single object of that
mockery had always been Nick's attempt to turn from his darkness and rejoin
the ranks of humankind.  When he had first made that fateful decision, Nick
had known that the path that he had chosen to walk would be fraught with
pain.  He had expected that LaCroix would never accept that choice and he had
been only too correct in that assumption.  However, he had also believed that
Janette would eventually respect his quest if for no other reason than for
the love and closeness that they had once shared.  He had been woefully
mistaken in that regard.
         "Do not ever think that I am like you!"  The words returned.  And
with them came the pain that had so deeply wounded Nick on what he had once
thought to be the eve of his ultimate triumph. Janette had often helped Nick
in times of desperation and he knew that she still cared for him, but he also
knew that she had never come to respect his search.  She had redrawn the line
of separation between them the day that she had uttered those piercing words.
 He could only hope that she would one day change.  Her support and respect
would mean so much.
        But he also knew that he could never return to the life that he had
once lived.  If Janette chose not to respect his decision, then he must learn
to deal with that pain as well.
        Nick reigned in his frustration and answered Janette with another
playful smile.  "Janette, I'm only doing what I can to bring in a fugitive."
 He sighed.  "Why do you always have to be *so* difficult?"
        Janette raised both of her eyebrows so slightly that Nick was not
quite certain that he had seen her do it.  "You enjoy your little games,
Nichola...and I enjoy mine."
        "Nick!"
        Nick and Janette both turned at the shout in time to see Schanke
burst from the dance floor, somewhat disheveled after the battle to force his
way across the club to where he suspected that he would find his partner.
 Janette remained seated, warily eyeing Nick's partner as he approached.  She
remembered only too well the day that she had found Don Schanke rummaging
through her personal items in search of Nick Knight's identity.
        Nick stood.  "What is it, Schank?"
        "We just got a call over the radio.  Raimer shot a cop on Richmond
Avenue about ten minutes ago."
         Nick turned quickly to Janette.
         "Duty calls, Officer."  The unmistakable gleam of humor was still in
her eyes.
        Nick took her by the hand.  "Will you let me know if you hear
anything?"
        Janette stood and gently laid her free hand over Nick's.  She sighed.
 "Dearest Nichola...don't I always?"
        Nick quickly kissed her hand and turned to go.  Schanke directed a
timid nod of recognition at Janette before joining his partner.  She nodded
curtly in return, smiling slightly...and then more broadly as she realized
just how uncomfortable the detective was in her presence.
         The men made their way quickly through the crowd and Janette watched
them until they were gone.  She then returned to her own particular set of
duties, somewhat more thoughtfully than before.

************

        Raimer turned the corner rapidly, the Taurus nearly skidding on the
layer of new fallen snow that covered the streets.  The light flurries had
been replaced by a heavier snow fall and low temperatures would certainly
allow for rapid accumulation.  Raimer accelerated toward the Raven, arriving
in time to claim a parking space that was being quickly vacated by a large
green Cadillac.  The car looked familiar somehow but Raimer had other things
on his mind at the moment and gave it only passing consideration.
        For the second time that evening, Raimer quickly found what he was
looking for.
        All large cities have their own population of youths who, for one
reason or another, have taken to the streets to find excitement and to make
their way in whatever manner available.  Girls, the attractive ones, are
usually able to find "work" readily available in one or more businesses that
specialize in rather personalized "services".  On the other hand, drugs and
gangs claim most of the young men who crave fast money and action.  Raimer
had come in search of the second group.
        As expected, he found some of them, sheltered somewhat from the
bitterly cold wind, gathered in a small group in front of the Raven.  Most
were too young to be allowed in; however, they often took turns sneaking in.
 Inevitably, the Raven's bartender/bouncer would escort one or more under-age
infiltrators to the door, and others would then make their way in once he was
gone.  Raimer had frequented the Raven before his arrest and had gotten to
know a number of the street teens.  He knew that it was a risk to return to
the Raven, but Raimer had decided that the police would be well occupied in
the wake of his latest atrocity.  Nevertheless, he knew that he must act
quickly.
        And it was such a good plan.
        Raimer immediately recognized two of the teens.  The first that he
identified was a seventeen year old pusher who called himself "Ricky".  Ricky
involved himself in making deliveries for various street bosses and had done
reasonably well until he had been jailed some two months before Raimer's
capture.
        Standing next to Ricky, close but at a respectable distance, was a
dark haired sixteen year old named Jake.  Jake was soft-spoken; a born
follower, and usually did everything that Ricky asked of him.  At the moment,
he was lighting a joint for Ricky.
        Raimer parked at the curbside and rolled down the car's passenger
side window.  He shouted at the group. The boys seemed amazed to see Raimer
but they instantly approached at the fugitive's beckoning wave.  Raimer
stepped out of the car to meet them.
        "Man, I thought they had you locked up."
        "Things change, " Raimer told Ricky.
        He noticed that Jake was staring at him.  "Aint' the cops gonna be
lookin' for you, man?"
         Raimer suppressed a laugh.  He had chosen well.  For Jake's benefit,
he nervously looked up and down the street.  "Already are,"  he replied.
 "And I gotta lay low for awhile."  Raimer opened the rear driver's side door
of the Taurus and removed a large brown shopping bag.  He motioned for the
teens to move in closer.  "That's why I wanted to see if you guys were
interested in handling a little business for me."
        Raimer opened the bag to reveal dozens of small, plastic bags filled
with a white powdery substance.  He smiled as the boys' eyes grew large.
 They normally handled only small amounts of such things and he knew that
they had likely not seen that much of it in one place in a long time.  Jack
Colson had been remarkably cooperative in turning over his entire stash at
Raimer's request.
        Ricky dropped his joint to the pavement and crushed it with the heel
of his shoe.  He whistled.  "You got a whole lot of cash in there, man."
        Raimer quickly folded the shopping bag and threw it back into the
car.  Time was wasting.  "You help me out and I'll cut you in for some of
this," Raimer pointed at the bag.  "It's the good stuff.  You can smoke it,
sell it...I really don't care what you do with it.  That'll be your payoff."
 The teens looked at one another for a moment.  Ricky pulled another joint
from the pocket of his faded jeans.  Jake lit it for him.
        He smiled at Raimer.  "You got our attention."

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 12/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


        By the time that Nick and Schanke arrived, the scene of Raimer's most
recent attack was swarming with reporters and uniformed police officers.  An
ambulance was parked near the crowded store front and, through the blue
curtain of protective officers, the detectives caught sight of paramedics
scrambling to stabilize Officer Jan Stuart in order to transport her to Mercy
General.  Immediately to Knight and Schanke's left, a television news crew
was busy with a remote broadcast.
        "...reporting live from the scene of the most recent violence in
an-ongoing string of attacks by the escaped Gerald Raimer.  Our information
is incomplete at this time concerning the details of the attack; however, we
have just been informed that the victim is twenty-six year old Officer Jan
Stuart of the 42nd precinct."
        Schanke grimaced.  "Twenty-six years old.  Practically a kid."  Nick
said nothing as he and Schanke watched for a moment as the paramedics
prepared to move the wounded officer to the ambulance.  The contorted face of
Officer Stuart, half concealed by an oxygen mask, was indeed youthful,
although, at twenty-six, Stuart was only twice as old as Raimer's youngest
victim on record.  Nick's jaw clenched with stony anger.
         The reporter continued her monologue, brushing her long red hair out
of her eyes where the winter wind had seen fit to blow it.  "At this time,
officials from the 42nd precinct are questioning Lt. Carl Woods, Officer
Stuart's partner and an eyewitness to the shooting"  Camera lights followed
the reporter's gaze to a group of officers gathered by the ambulance where an
animated conversation was taking place.  In the middle of that group, and
obviously the focus of attention, stood a tall dark-haired officer with a
mustache.
        Nick and Schanke made their way through the growing crowd of
spectators and, after showing their badges, were able to get within a few
feet of group that was questioning Lt. Woods.  The officer appeared worn,
although that was not exactly surprising given the circumstances at hand.  He
also appeared to be rapidly tiring of the questions that were being put to
him by a short, angry looking fellow wearing glasses and a tan trenchcoat.
        Schanke nudged his partner.  "I.A. Man, he got here quick enough."  A
tall, burly officer standing next to Schanke turned at the remark.
        "He was two blocks away when the shooting happened," he explained.
 "He heard Woods calling it in over the radio and was one of the first on the
scene.  Can you beat that?"
        Nick shook his head.  "Some luck, eh?"
        "One more time," Woods growled at the investigator.  "We came out of
the store.  Raimer pulled in behind our patrol car; yelled 'Merry Christmas,
Officers,' and then he fired at my partner."  The I.A. inspector pushed his
wire-rimmed lenses further up on the bridge of his nose.  His expression
indicated that he was clearly not impressed with Woods' explanation of the
events.
        "You're saying that Raimer had time to roll his window down and yell
at you, then he drew his gun and fired."  He looked down at his wristwatch.
 "Nearly twenty-three minutes ago?"
        Woods nodded.
        The inspector shook his head.  "And you didn't find any opportunity
to react to him in all of that time before he fired?  I find that hard to
believe, Woods."
        "I explained that to you before," the red-faced Woods replied
angrily.  "I couldn't see who was in the car because of the glare from the
store front reflecting on the driver's side window."
         Nick stepped forward at this point.  He pointed at the inspector.
 "Inspector..."
        "Rawlins," was the reply.
        "Inspector Rawlins, I'm Detective Nick Knight, ninety-sixth precinct.
 My partner here, Detective Schanke, and I were the ones who originally
brought Raimer in."
        Rawlins was busily scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad with the
help of a number two pencil.  "My congratulations, Detective Knight."
        Nick ignored the sarcastic tone.  "What Officer Woods is saying
exactly mirrors Raimer's style.  He hits hard and fast.  His moves are well
planned and precisely timed."
        "Law enforcement officers are to be ready at all times to deal with
the clever criminals as well as the stupid ones, Detective.  You know that."

         Woods slapped the metal side of the ambulance in frustration. "The
man is a fugitive!  You'd think that he'd be on the run...avoiding cops.  How
could we possibly expect him to come gunning for us?  We weren't even chasing
him at the moment.  He came and found us!"
        Rawlins' reply to Woods was cut short by the paramedics who pushed
their way through the group, wheeling the wounded Jan Stuart to the rear of
the ambulance.  Once they had completed the delicate task of placing the
officer into the ambulance, Woods reached for the nearest paramedic.  "Is she
going to make it,"  he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
        The sandy haired paramedic clapped Woods on the shoulder.  "It's
going to be rough.  We took as long as we dared to make sure she was ready to
be moved.  She's critical but I think that she can pull through if we get her
to the ER fast enough."
        Woods nodded appreciatively.  He then joined Nick and Schanke and the
other officers on hand as they backed away from the ambulance, allowing it to
maneuver.  A police escort led the emergency vehicle through the crowded
streets to Mercy General.
        Woods ran one hand through is dark hair.  "Her family's already been
informed,"  he muttered to no one in particular.  "I can't imagine what it'll
be like for them if she dies."
        Nick heard Schanke take a deep breath.  "I don't know how many times
that thought's gone through my head, Nick."  He paused, watching the
ambulance fade from view.  "What would Myra and Jenny do if 'yours truly'
caught a bullet one night?"
        Nick was watching the ambulance depart as well.  "It's a common fear,
Schank," he said in a low voice, remembering another time and place.  "What
would our loved ones do without us?"


******

Rouen, France, 1943
French Resistance Safe House

        The French Resistance had specifically forbidden guerrilla operations
within the city of Rouen in the hope that the Nazis would become complacent
in their occupation.  By the winter of 1943, the Nazis had indeed grown
somewhat complacent in regard to Rouen, and the Resistance began to use the
city in earnest to harbor Jews and other fugitives fleeing imprisonment and
death.  Their one great hope was that deliverance might come from the
Americans and the British before the extent of Resistance activity in Rouen
could be exposed.
        Nicholas and Michel had taken temporary refuge in a cramped, damp
room that had been constructed by walling off the last twelve feet of a shoe
shop.  Resistance members had often used that small chamber in the two short
years since it had been built, and although it was completely utilitarian in
design, none of those who sheltered there dared complain about their
accommodations.  Any shelter at all was infinitely preferable to the
unspeakable horrors of the Nazi death camps.
        The shopkeeper made certain that he left a small supply of food and
water on hand in the chamber for any guests who might arrive after he had
gone home for the day.  The journey from Dieppe had allowed the travelers to
carry little in the way of supplies across the countryside, and Michel was
more than simply a little grateful for the shopkeeper's thoughtfulness.
        "Nicholas, my friend," Michel said, while chewing on another piece of
homemade bread.  "I cannot begin to thank you for your help."
         Nicholas, who had feigned an upset stomach in order to refuse eating
the chamber's supply of foodstuffs, sat by the door where he would have a
better chance of hearing in case anyone should approach.  He folded his arms
across his chest and stretched his legs, smiling at his friend.  "Think
nothing of it, Michel.  I would do the same if I were in your position."
        Michel would not have his gratitude accepted so lightly.  "Ah, but
you are the only one who would make the journey with me.  Most of the others
thought me a fool and would have no part in the matter."  He waved his left
hand back and forth in the air as though brushing away spider webs.  "So much
for them.  We have nearly done it ourselves."
        Michel duBois was, in the eyes of the Nazi invaders, a renowned
terrorist.  To the loyal French; however, he was a candidate for sainthood.
 Michel had been a thorn in the side of the German occupational forces since
the fall of France and readily sought participation in most underground
operations that took place west of the Rhine.  The Nazis were offering a
generous bounty for the capture of duBois.  Michel scoffed at the price that
had been placed on his head and joked that he would make it his personal
vendetta to so annoy the Germans that they would have to increase their
reward for his capture.
        The one drawback to Michel's patriotism had been the plight of his
family.  They too had been driven underground and Michel had sent them away
to Vichy France where the invaders were less plentiful.  His great fear had
been that the Vichy French would discover his family and hand them over to
the Nazis.  Now, at long last, an opportunity had arisen to transport his
family to England and freedom.  Michel had found few members of the
resistance that were willing to assist him in his endeavor until he had been
introduced to Nicholas deBrebant.  Nicholas had agreed to help Michel escort
his family to the rendezvous that would take them out of occupied territory.
        Nicholas regarded Michel with admiration.  "Your achievements in
harassing the Nazi war plans have more than earned you the right to save your
family, Michel.  France owes you that much in the very least."
        Michel's otherwise jovial features took on a pained appearance.  "I
worry for them so, Nicholas.  In a world at war, what will my family do with
no one to protect them?"  He idly traced a crack in the floor with one
finger.  "I say that I will always evade the Nazis.  Proud works, eh,
Nicholas?"
        Nicholas smiled.
        "Ah yes, " Michel went on after a moment.  "Proud words from a proud
Frenchman.  But I must admit that one Nazi bullet can kill even a proud
Frenchman.  I must provide what I can for my family while I am still able to
do so."  The man's words touched Nicholas deeply.  His eyes revealed a depth
of love that had cried out when he had first told Nicholas of his plans.
        In all of his travels throughout the world, Nicholas had repeatedly
seen the power of a man's love for his family.  After their initial meeting,
Nicholas had vowed to aid duBois in whatever manner possible.  Such love
might yet prove strong enough to save even a world gone mad with hate.
        "We have only an hour or so to wait," Nicholas told Michel.  "And
then you shall see your family again."  The plan was that Nicholas and Michel
would rendezvous with members of the French Resistance that had been charged
with escorting Michel's family to Rouen.  They would then return to the safe
house, if possible, and begin the journey to Dieppe after nightfall arrived
once again.  The traveling times perfectly suited Nicholas, but the time that
they would meet Michel's family gave the resistance members only a half an
hour to escape the dawn.  If anything went wrong...
        Michel raised a small tin cup that he had filled with a bit of wine
from the shopkeeper's flask.  There was one luxury to the small chamber after
all.
        "To you, my friend...to family...and to the end of wars."

******

        Nick was brought back to the present via a firm punch to the arm.
        "Well, Knight, while you were admiring the view of Richmond Avenue, I
was trying to get something done."  Schanke produced a pocket-size spiral
notebook and handed it to his partner.
        "1995 Gray Ford Taurus," Nick read aloud.
        Schanke nodded.  "Ontario plates.  Woods said that he thought he got
a couple of rounds into as Raimer was pulling away, if so, it shouldn't be
hard to find.  There's already an APB out on it."
        Nick returned the book to Schanke.  "Knowing Raimer, he's probably
ditched the car by now," he said to the frosty night wind.  The crowd
surrounding the doughnut shop had abated somewhat in the few short moments
since Officer Stuart had been removed from the scene.  Camera crews had given
up attempting to interview Carl Woods and had gone inside of the store in
order to get at the customers and store workers that had witnessed the
shooting.
         "Then he can't have gotten far," Schanke declared as he got into the
Caddy and closed his door.  "And if he's on foot, we might have a better
chance to pick him up.  Right now, I think I'd go for just about anything to
bring this guy in."
        "Me too, Schank."  Nick started the Caddy.
        They were back in traffic a moment later when Nick moved to adjust
the volume of his police radio, turning it up even louder than it already
was.  He threw Schanke a reproving look.
         After Nick had gone into the Raven, Schanke had turned down the
volume on the police radio in order to listen to some Christmas carols and,
as a result, he had heard the bulletin concerning the shooting nearly ten
minutes after it had happened.  Hence their late arrival on the scene.
        Schanke smiled sheepishly at his partner.  "Sorry, Nick.  I came and
got you as soon as I heard."
         "And you accuse me of daydreaming," Nick replied with a grin.
         "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Schanke said, laughing.  He lapsed into silence
for a few minutes, listening to the static bursts randomly emanating from the
police radio, and considering what he had heard concerning Raimer's attack on
the lady officer.  The details that Lt. Woods had related just did not seem
to match the profile of the man that he and Knight had tracked for so many
months.  "Does any of this make sense to you, Nick," he asked, nervously
fishing the Rubick's Cube from his coat pocket and giving it a few
halfhearted turns.
        "What do you mean, Schank?"
        Schanke thought for a moment longer, wanting to be certain that he
formed his question in precisely the right way before spoke again.  After
all, there was a very real possibility that Nick did not always take him
seriously.
        "The whole thing just doesn't add up," he said.  "I mean, you said it
yourself back at the doughnut shop.  Everything that Raimer does is 'well
planned and precisely timed.'  This was a drive-by shooting, Nick!  A random
act of violence with no apparent purpose other than to kill a cop."
        Nick glanced at his partner and then back at the road.  "You're
dealing with a twisted mind, Schank.  You can't apply reason to the actions
of unreasonable people and expect to make any sense out of it."
        "I know he's crazy, Nick.  He's certifiable, but I also know that
everything that he does is always directed toward some ultimate purpose.  I
just can't see what his purpose could be in this."
         Nick had to admit that what Schanke was saying made sense in light
of the patterns of the Gerald Raimer that they had once pursued.  The traffic
light ahead of them turned red and Nick eased the Caddy to a halt.  "Maybe
that's just it, Schank.  Maybe there is a purpose and it's just not something
obvious.  After all, it *would be* just like Raimer to do something for no
other reason than to simply make us wonder why he did it *and* to possibly
throw us off of the track of what he is really up to."  Nick paused.  Schanke
was nodding thoughtfully.  "That's most of the reason why he was so hard to
catch the first time," Nick concluded.
        Schanke smacked himself lightly on the top of his head.  "You know,
that should've occurred to me already, Nick."  He sighed and began turning
the sections of the Rubick's Cube with considerably more vehemence.  "C'mon,
get with it, Donny."
         The light turned green.  Nick shot a look at his partner as they got
moving once again.  "It's all right, Schank.  I think that you've had your
mind on other things tonight."
         Schanke laughed.  "Maybe I'm just losing it altogether."
         "No chance," Nick countered.  "You're too good for that."
         The compliment had come quite unexpectedly.  Schanke considered it
for a moment and then grinned.  "Yeah, you're right."  His grin grew larger
at the sight of Nick's tolerant smile.
          They drove on.  Although it was now late, traffic showed no
immediate signs of lightening.  Schanke scrutinized each vehicle that they
passed and each person shuffling along on the cold sidewalks in the hope of
spotting the elusive Raimer among them.  He wondered if Raimer would slip
through the police net and make it out of Toronto...if that was his intention
at all.  Finally, he turned to Nick.
        "What *do* you think Raimer is up to, Nick?  With everyone and their
brother out looking for him in this city, you'd think that he'd be on the
run.  Why start playing games with the cops?"
         Nick braked to let a few pedestrians cross the road.  He turned to
respond to his partner's question and was cut off by a sudden, blaring
announcement from the police radio.
        Raimer's vehicle had been spotted heading west out of the city.

***Disclaimers can be found in part one***

And To All A Good Knight (Part 13/?)

By:  Stephen Lansing


          Her luscious Christmas ham secured in several layers of plastic
wrap on the seat beside her, Natalie inserted her keys into the ignition and
cranked her car to life.  She cupped her hands to her mouth and exhaled
slowly, attempting to hold off the chill while she gave her heater time to
wake up and do its job.  The temperature had seemed to drop at least another
ten degrees with the reappearance of snow flakes, right about the time that
Natalie had reached her apartment building.  She had raced up the seemi