Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:17:36 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (01/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com SPOILERS: Mainly, just "Black Buddha". This fanfic takes place after "The Spirit and the Dust", a post-Last Knight story that I wrote. I believe that it stands on its own, but if you have not read "The Spirit and the Dust" you will have missed the characterization of Clare, and the, in general, undoing of The Episode that Never Happened. It is available through http://www.fkfanfic.com/ (The FK Fanfic Page), the ftp site, or from me by request at br1035@ix.netcom.com (And I will lovingly send it with my own two hands and a virtual cookie). Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of 'Forever Knight' were created by Parriott, Cohen, et al. and are owned by Sony/Tristar. Nunkies Alerts for Parts 4, 8B, and 10B. The whole of Part 10 is for Eloise.:>) ******************************************************************* The Unselfish Partner (01/10) by Bonnie Rutledge "Excuse me?" The young beat officer looked up from the accident report he was diligently composing and let his mouth hang open just a little. The owner of the voice was beautiful, absolutely above and beyond anything he'd seen behind the wheel of a Honda or minivan with a crumpled fender since he'd joined Traffic six months before. "Uh, can I help you, miss?" "Yes. I'm sure you can. Could you point out which gentlemen here is Captain Reese?" The officer indicated a figure, wrestling intently with the water cooler, some ten meters away. "That's the Captain, but it looks like he may not be in a good mood right now. I also heard he's expecting a meeting with some transfer detective." The woman nodded. "That would be me." She thanked the young man softly, and wandered a la watercooler, where Captain Reese now banged repeatedly upon the spigot with a clenched fist. She paused to stand by his squatting figure, tapping one leather-uppered foot against the base of the refreshment contraption. She placed one flat palm on the top of the water canister, then lifted it in the air and down again in a mighty smack. Bubbles burped up from the bottom of the tank, and water began a rapid exodus into Reese's waiting receptacle. "Sometimes they get air pockets in the spout," she explained. "You just have to jar them loose by disturbing the water." Captain Joe Reese beheld his full cup as if it were the Holy Grail. "Well, I'll be. It's good to know *somebody* has some how-to around here." He proceeded to introduce himself. "What can I do for you?" She held out a slender palm in greeting. "That's my question. I'm the transfer from Ottawa." "Good." Little contented beams sparked from the Captain's eyes. "This is probably the only time you're going to see me smile, so you'd better enjoy it. Come on into my office and take a seat." She settled across from his desk and waited politely while he excavated a particular pile of papers from amongst the shambles of his desk. "I must say," began Reese, after flipping open the beige cover for a quick re-perusal. "I've read your file and it's not too shabby. You have an excellent service record as a homicide detective, full of commendations, and prior experience with Forensics. Frankly, I was surprised that you would want the change. By all accounts, there was a promotion from detective soon in your future. Would you mind telling me what you're doing here?" She delivered a slip of a grin. "Well, not every account is collectable, if you understand my meaning, sir. I was well and ready for a change in venue, and Toronto was in need of Homicide detectives...so here I am." "Then Ottawa's loss is the Ninety-Sixth precinct's gain," Reese declared. "I'm afraid your partner-to-be, Nicholas Knight, has the evening off. Are you sure you don't have a problem working the night shift?" "No. Should I?" "No, no. Just checking. But let me warn you-- Detective Knight has lost two partners in the past year. He's a good cop, but it might be a little rough starting to work with him now. Be prepared to give him a little space at first." "I will treat him with kid gloves," she assured Reese. He nodded in acknowledgment, then rose. "Let me show you to your desk. It's right next to Knight's. You should find all the current cases there." She followed his lead to an empty desk, its surface bare except for a slightly doodled blotter, which made her lips twitch with some private memory. Reese shook her hand again, instructing, "Glad to have you aboard, Detective Douglas. If you have any questions, feel free to ask." "Oh, I will--feel free." She peeped as Reese's back retreated once more into his office, then set her purse on the desktop. Rolling her middle drawer open, she began to transfer some of the pocketbook's contents. Kleenex, recycled pencils, and Handi-Wipes. She slipped the desk shut once more, grabbed a stack of interesting-looking papers off Knight's desk, then she leaned back in her new chair. Ah... comfy. Clare, naughty little fibber that she was (Okay, she was a bald-faced liar with good counterfeit credentials.), began to read Nick's files. ****************************************************************** Sickly lily pads floated on top of the muck-filled green water. The ornamental pond had seen better days, that was for certain. Maude was perfectly aware of the state of her personal lagoon, and the cesspool that it had become. Rather like her personal life... She tripped down the pebble shelves that supposedly impersonated steps, trying to balance a martini glass with one hand while attempting to drag a large laundry bag with the other. Oh, yes. The pond had been absolutely lovely upon installation. Exotic flowers garlanding the most perfect pair of koi you ever did see graced a tranquil pool, complete with an itty-bitty waterfall. Maude had corralled neighbors up and down the street to admire her paid land sculptor's handiwork. Her husband, Frank, had groused about the yard addition for weeks. "It'll freeze in the winter," he would complain. "And kill everything. Or the cat'll eat those fancy tuna." Maude pooh-poohed. "We can *heat* the water, Frank. And mama's precious would never go outside, much less eat the wittle fishies." Frank had grumbled and groaned, but had finally given in to the little woman. Maude had received her pond, her heater, and her fish. And with the first winter, the water had overheated, boiling her fish, and everything else contained within the confines of her decorative stone border, except the lily pads. Apparently, her landscaper had incorporated some form of supernatural lily pad in her pond. They appeared ugly, rank, and on the verge of decomposition, yet their number kept multiplying. Some industrious plants managed to sprout from Maude's decorative stone border, much to her chagrin, and then pillaged across the yard aiming for her house. Frank, that evil little troll of a spouse, would not remove the pond now. She had wanted it so bad, he would taunt, and now she was stuck with it. At that moment, Maude tripped over a member of that invading flora, causing her to flip her martini glass up into the air in a graceful triple-twist and double somersault, then splat-crash! into the infamous stone border. Muttering an unhappy and wholly inebriated snort, Maude let go of her laundry bag, which through the wonderful force of gravity, began to roll down the hill. Maude displayed much more concern about the loss of her martini glass. She *needed* the martinis. She didn't need her husband's suits or sportscoats that she had carefully crumpled up into a wad, stuffed into the laundry sack, and allowed to roll downhill. Maude hiccuped, twisted her ankle (funny how olives will do things to your coordination, not to mention the vodka and vermouth), then went a-tumbling after. Several bumps, bruises, and contusions from a shattered martini glass later, she sprawled unconscious, one Dear-foamed foot dangling over like a sacrificial virgin to the voracious lilies of her pagan pond. Waking up, she struggled to remember just where she was and what she was doing there. Maude groggily spotted the blue chambray material of the clothes-sack enthroned proudly on the green-brown padded surface of her monument to bad lawncare. Raising to her scraped knees, she shuffled up to the satchel, determined that it would become submersed in the filthy water. Maude pushed with both hands. The bag bobbed maybe an inch, then returned to its original position. Maude frowned, then pushed harder with a hearty dose of violent enthusiasm. Still drunk, she overpushed herself, her hands sliding off the bag and elbow deep into the water. Her hand struck something. Something slimy and very un-lilypad-like. At this point, Maude elected to move the laundry bag aside. To her dismay, Frank's bulbous eyes bulged out at her. His face was floating amongst a halo of pocked green leaves, strings of algae littering his wrinkles. There were puckered cuts on his face and the surprised hollow of his lips oddly resembled that of her dear, departed koi. Maude plopped backwards to rest on her generously padded rump and began to bawl like a baby. ****************************************************************** "So-o, have you met this new partner yet, Nick?" Natalie questioned, tiptoeing around the black and yellow plastic tarps that now littered Maude's yard. Nick, distracted, ceased his thoughtful staring into the fourth dimension. "The Ottawa transfer? I haven't seen her. I haven't heard anything about her except that Captain Reese approves of her hard-hitting technique, whatever that means..." Now Natalie began staring off into space. After a moment, Nick realized that it wasn't the infinite mental beyond she was examining so closely, but rather a woman approaching them, halted every few steps by a uniformed officer. What was Clare doing here? Natalie's sire gifted them with a cheeky grin, and Nick suppressed a groan. With grim foreboding, Nick suspected that Clare wasn't here just to visit with Nat. He'd heard enough references from Natalie over the past three weeks to realize that she and Clare had remained in daily contact ever since the Maeven incident. "Hi," exclaimed Natalie, giving the other woman a spontaneous hug. "You said you had a surprise for me, is it this visit?" Nick mentally grumbled, kicking himself for the thousandth time about bringing up the 'V' word right when things were getting physically interesting between Nat and him. , his memory mocked. It had been a momentary doubt, a potential concern if they were both trying to regain mortality again. At the time, he'd really believed his protest. In the back of his mind, he still did. Nick, though, hadn't considered the consequences of his words. No more spontaneous hugs for him. Natalie had taken his suggestion to heart. She smiled, laughed, was perfect in a Natalie way, but did not lay a single hand on him. Her behavior was driving Nick crazy. Everything felt capable of driving him crazy recently, as if some taut wire pulled inside of him just waiting to snap. Natalie declared that, as she adjusted to being brought across, she didn't need a microgram of additional temptation to test her control of the vampire. It was challenge enough already to maintain her composure throughout the demands of nightly work. Her retraction wasn't overt, but Nick sensed some lingering resistance in their relationship. Even in her company, he would experience sudden panics of loneliness. It must be due to the change. All the change... Nick sympathized, but his imagination wandered once more in edgy fervor to thoughts of seducing Natalie and sweeping her off her feet. That would banish the stress, this tension between them. She really wouldn't mind...would she? Nick's attention started back into focus as a rookie beat officer eagerly planted himself at Clare's side, pleading, "Can I do anything for you? Background checks, interview potential witnesses?" She gently turned him down. "I'm fine, but thank you for the offer, Andy." As the rookie wandered off deflated, Clare was tickled to spot Nick's face twisting into an apoplectic spasm. Natalie's expression was a study in wonderment. "You didn't...did you?" "Surprise!" Clare cheered. "No." Denial was one of Nick's many talents. He indulged in a quick bout of practice. "No. No. No." He frowned stridently, as if to say 'Bad vampire!'. Clare ignored him. Natalie had begun to grin. Clare wandered around the crime scene, Nick and Natalie both dogging her steps. "How did you...?" Natalie wondered. "Aristotle!" Nick snapped (He *was* feeling frustrated in more ways than one). "She had Aristotle conjure her up a police service record!" A new and improved frown, intended to connote 'Bad, *bad* vampire!' radiated from Nick's lips. Clare continued to disregard him, choosing instead to peek happily at the water-logged corpse blanketed in shiny Coroner's plastic. The body rested in a grove of ugly plant life not a meter from an unattractive ornamental watering hole. "Now, Nick...didn't you do the same thing when you first became a detective?" Natalie chastised. "That's not the point." Nick retorted, for Natalie's benefit, though no doubt Clare overheard every syllable. "She doesn't *want* to be a homicide detective! She has some ulterior motive, I know it!" Letting his eyes wander to how the object of his irritation was occupying herself, Nick reached out to pull Clare up from her perusal of the deceased. "Don't touch that! Don't even look at it!" Having almost completed her inspection, Clare didn't protest the yanking. "Really, Nick," she drawled. "I'm going to start believing that you don't like me. I thought that we were becoming friends." Nick scoffed. "Clare, can you honestly say you know the first thing about police procedure?" "Um," She bit her lower lip in mock-contemplation. "Don't shoot the natives for fun?" She confided in an aside to Natalie, "I hear that kind of behavior gets bad publicity." Nick scowled in disgust, throwing his hands up in the air. "Evening, Detectives," boomed the voice of Captain Reese, "Doctor Lambert," Natalie nodded in greeting. "What do you have for me, Douglas?" Nick waited anxiously for Clare's reply, certain her initial report would be totally inadequate. "Well, the deceased was one Frank O'Leary, age forty-eight, occupation--he was one of the founders of Log & Oaks Brewery, a mid-sized company that produces the twelfth most popular bitter stout in Ontario. The company also does a goodly amount of U.S. exporting. His wife, Maude, found the body, apparently while trying to ruin his entire wardrobe in their pond. She says that one minute, there was no body in her pond, she slipped and was knocked unconscious, and when she awoke--there he was. I did some initial interviews with her and the next door neighbors--Mrs. O'Leary was very unhappy about her husband's alleged affair with a co-worker." "So she's our suspect? A crime of passion?" Clare shook her head. "She has some suspicious injuries: cuts and bruises. I've had a few photographs taken of her, as well as a breathalyzer. Her blood alcohol is more than twice the legal limit. She can barely sit up. She may have had motive, she may have had opportunity, but I wonder at her physical ability to do the crime. Another interesting aspect is the amount of blood in the water. If O'Leary was killed and dumped there on the premises, I would have expected signs of more bleeding. Perhaps he was murdered elsewhere, and the body was placed here to put suspicion on the wife. We should try to locate the alleged girlfriend...maybe get more information from the neighbors. They don't appear to have been the secretive sort, and the people next door are rather gossipy. Regardless, it will be interesting to see Doctor Lambert's findings after the autopsy." Clare smiled at Natalie, who was mouth agog at this discourse. The Captain beamed in contentment. "Sounds like you have a handle on things. I'll leave you to it, detectives." Clare gave a little wave to counter Nick's glimmer of a sulk as Reese walked away. Nick had to admit, Clare had recited virtually the same things he had noticed about the body, and he hadn't bothered to interview anyone yet. Of course, he had been distracted by Natalie, as well as the familiar neighborhood they were in... "You're still frowning, Nick?" Clare teased. "Here I stood, feeling so proud of myself, and you disapprove of my abilities yet!" She mused for a moment, slipping one hand into a tailored trouser pocket. Her eyes brightened, and she pointed the fingers of the other hand at him in triumph. "I know! I'll make you a bet..." In spite of himself, Nick listened with interest. "I'll wager that I can solve one of your closed cases. I'll discover a fact that you completely overlooked, unravel it, resolve it before you do, and have you eating crow for questioning my detection skills in the first place." Nick rolled his eyes. "I suppose that if you manage to accomplish this feat, I have to grin and bear you as my police partner for this lifetime?" Clare nodded piquantly, so Nick continued. "And if you don't, what lies in this bargain for me?" "Why, I'll quit, of course," Clare declared. "Furthermore, I will personally see that you are paired with the homicide detective of your choice." Nick considered the deal for loopholes. "I want a time limit. By the end of this O'Leary case, you have to beat me in working out this *hypothetical* solvable mystery that I've missed." Clare squinted her eyes with her first sign of displeasure. "I can do that." She didn't sound quite so positive as before. Instead of huffing and puffing like a few minutes earlier, Nicholas seemed to be daring her to just try finding a different ending to one of his investigations. Plus, she would be racing against the clock... "Then we have a deal." Nick grabbed Clare's hand to shake on it, as Natalie looked askance at the whole proceeding. "Fine," replied Clare. "Fine." Nick turned and began to stalk off. "Wait one second!" Clare sputtered. "Where are you going?" Nick, at last, grinned broadly. "Why, to interview the neighbors and find the girlfriend. No doubt I can have this whole murder wrapped up by dawn...You had better get cracking, Clare." She was very displeased to realize that she pouted in answer. ****************************************************************** End of Part One Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:27:37 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (02/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ***************************************************************** Beginning of Part Two "Okay, I admit it was a funny joke," began Natalie as they observed Nicholas depart. "The look on Nick's face was priceless. But you aren't really serious about this job, are you?" "Of course I'm serious. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed snooping around NeoGen Corporation to discover information about Maeven's work. It assuages my natural curiosity, and I will get to see you more regularly. This is the perfect solution to Nick's partner deficiency." "Ah. Hold it right there." Natalie lifted a symbolic palm, indicating a halt to that idea. "This isn't just an excuse to keep an eye on me, is it? You said I was handling myself very well." "And you are, considering the pressures of the change. I simply like your company." Clare gave a small shrug. "Nick's all right, too, for all his fussing." Natalie sent her a knowing look as she began to double check her body tags. "Another reason why you leapt on this new partner concept just crossed my mind. Be careful how you tease Nick, for my sake..." "For both of your sakes. *That* is why I am here. Never doubt that," Clare insisted. "I imagine that you already have a case picked out and planned in order to win that bet?" "Actually, I don't. I've only read half of Nicholas' open case files, much less any of the closed ones." "Six years' worth," Natalie groaned. "Time is not on your side, Clare." She agreed. "I know." A broad grin followed. "Isn't that a first?" Clare had a sudden thought. "Maybe you could tell me, Natalie. I know what happened to Tracy Vetter, but what about Nicholas' first partner?" Natalie's face glowed as she began to scribble a few crime scene points in her casebook. "Detective Don Schanke. He was an absolute peach. Schanke and the precinct's captain at the time, Amanda Cohen, were transporting a prisoner by plane to Alberta when it was bombed." Natalie looked up from her writing. "You know, that was the crash in which Vachon and an infant were the only survivors." "Really?" Clare perked up at this comment. Some recollection pricked at her consciousness. "Really." Natalie began to scribble details in her notebook once more. "In fact, Schanke's widow and daughter, Myra and Jenny, live five doors down from here, this side of the street. I can almost guar-an-tee," Nat savored the word, emphatically dotting a page of her paper and closing her pad, "That Nick went straight to visit them after leaving our company." "You don't say..." "I do. Listen. I'm ready to have our victim wrapped up and delivered to the morgue. Do you want to look at anything else before I ship him out?" "No. I'm content with what I have already seen here. Oh, you haven't noticed the O'Leary's cat roaming around here, have you?" Natalie frowned. "No, I haven't. Why?" "Apparently, it's an indoors-only model. Mrs. O'Leary was moaning that she must have let it out into the fenced backyard by accident. By the time the police descended, it was gone." "So the cat left through the fence gate when the police arrived," Natalie suggested. "That's what I suspected, but the first officer on the scene said he came to the front door." Clare sighed. "Well, I've wasted all this mulling over the missing feline, and it's probably just hiding away in a closet somewhere asleep. I will see you later at the morgue." She moved to traipse away. Natalie could not help indulging her curiosity. "Where are you going, now?" "Why, to chez Schanke," Clare retorted. "I can't let Nicholas get ahead of me, now can I?" **************************************************************** Nick had visited with Myra for but a short time when his unease took root. At first he thought the discomfiture resulted from a combination of the months that had passed since his last visit and his recent loss of yet another partner. Tracy's death had him scratching the barely healed wounds of his grief for Schanke. The first dozen weeks after Schank was gone, Nick had checked in often on Myra and Jenny out of guilt. Time passed, the pain dimmed, Myra got an executive position at that cosmetics company she once did sales for, and the world moved on. Soon enough, Myra began to hint that Nick really didn't *have* to come around so frequently. Nick slowed down, tempering his hyperactive sense of obligation, until eventually, it faded into the background of his subconscious, only to scramble to the forefront of his concerns tonight. Myra had appeared flustered when she answered the door. Was it because it was too late for someone to ring the doorbell, or because Nick stood across the threshold? He got the dim impression that Myra was *not* happy to have a social call. He caught her looking worriedly towards the upstairs, her slender face wrinkled with concern for a moment. Could someone be there? Another man? Nick wondered, then pushed the thought away. It wasn't his business, and Schanke had been gone almost a year. Myra was still a young and attractive woman. Still, the idea of Myra dating again, moving on from Schanke's memory, irritated him. Nick asked her if everything was okay, and Myra gave a nervous laugh, explaining that she was wondering where Jenny had wandered off to. She had hardly seen the girl since she arrived home from work. Myra then requested that they move into the kitchen and offered Nick refreshments, which he declined. She proceeded to deal with a cooking emergency--Jenny had apparently volunteered her services for a school bake sale, and just bothered mentioning it this evening, the night before the treats were due. Myra was baking cookies and created a surprising degree of noise in the process. For a second, Nick could have sworn he heard the front door creak, and he gloomed in the direction of the kitchen exit. Almost simultaneously, Myra started to cuisinart pecans in an unholy racket, drowning out the suggestion of any suspicious sounds. Nick gave a mental sigh and began to prod Myra for more insight into how Jenny fared at school. ****************************************************************** Clare walked to the house. Actually, it appeared to be more like a home. She silently fussed to herself for the hundredth-plus time that she *must* move out of her hotel, even if that relocation meant more realty shopping. A placard swung from a post near the front steps, proclaiming 'Don & Myra Schanke'. Clare smiled at the romantic carving on the sign, then turned her attention to the actual abode. It had stone facing, and appeared to embrace a style of construction found most often in pre-World War II homes. Bottom-heavy squat columns supported the front porch in welcoming shelter. Overall, Clare thought the place was...quaint. There came a rustle in the bushes standing at attention alongside the house. Clare detoured from the walkway in order to investigate the movement. She was silent as a shadow or the wind, startling the young girl crouched behind a hydrangea into a gasp. "Hello," Clare soothed. "Is everything all right?" The child looked to be about nine or ten years of age. Clare thought she was beautiful, but then she had a partiality for little girls with brown hair and eyes. She spared a twinge at the memory of her own Morrigan, then noticed that the present pair of little chocolate irises frowned at her suspiciously. "Who are you?" the girl demanded. "This is private property." Clare slipped her newly minted badge out of one crisp pocket. "Metro Police. Are you Jennifer Schanke?" The girl grasped the shield, examining it sternly. "How do you know my name? Oh, and it's Jen, not Jennifer." "My partner is Nicholas Knight, Jen," Clare responded. "I believe he stopped off to visit your Mother?" The girl gave the house an excited, yet concerned, look. "Nick's here?" Clare started to smile and nod, prepared to lure the girl into more conversation, when another shaking of branches exposed a feline prepared to wind about their combined feet. It was a long-haired tortoiseshell domestic-- very fluffy with aristocratic features and a verbose purr. It settled beside Clare's Italian leather footwear, then prissily raised one hindquarter so as to style its bloomers. Clare's lips began to twitch. Jen appeared...caught. "Is this your cat?" she asked. "Of course," Jen replied. The girl was a good fibber, and Clare gave her silent kudos. She didn't even blink abnormally, an invaluable skill in deception. "You let it roam outside?" "All the time." "Ah." Clare leant down to scoop up the fluffy bundle of cat flesh. Massaging one of its forepaws in her grip, she continued speaking. "An interesting thing about outdoor cats... they get calluses on their pawpads. I suppose it is due to all that trampling around on concrete and rocks. Indoor kitties keep the bases of their feet soft as a baby's behind. Why, just like this one!" Clare punctuated her statement by helping the cat brush a smooth paw down Jen's nose. "You have kids, don't you?" The girl's voice was accusatory. "I did once. Why?" "Non-parental grownups aren't so fast to catch on. Nick wouldn't have doubted me for a sec." Jen moved towards the front porch, gesturing for Clare and the cat to follow. "Come on in." Entering the Schanke front den, Clare's eyes immediately swept over the French country decor and focused in upon a collection of photographs. Jenny in a ballet wearing a flower costume. Jenny singing in front of a group of children. A slightly younger, still adorable, Jen Schanke glowed from another 5x7, flanked by two adults. The adult female appeared to be climbing a glacier in another picture. There was also a photo of, wonder of wonders, the male adult and Nick. They were receiving some kind of award. Clare lifted this frame, and tapped it to attract Jen's attention. "Is this your Dad?" Jen nodded, "Yep. Sure is." The girl seemed to gaze distractedly between the noise emanating from the kitchen and the upstairs. She appeared to choose the upstairs, motioning for Clare to bring the kitty along. Up the stairs and around a corner, then through a closed door, Jen unearthed a bedroom concocted from shades of lavender. "This is my room," she announced, shutting the door after them. Clare released the cat, allowing it to proceed with a nasal inspection of its surroundings. Jen plopped down atop her frilly comforter and continued speaking. "You were right, it's not my cat. It was a stray. I found it wandering around the neighborhood." Jen risked a peep at Clare to estimate whether the woman believed her declaration. , Clare graded silently. "Don't tell my Mom about the cat just yet, okay?" the girl pleaded. "I'm not supposed to have them around because...I'm allergic." Clare nodded in complete understanding and agreement, while tucking Jenny's lack of red eyes and sniffles away for future reference. What were the chances that this cat hadn't been wandering down the street when Miss Schanke happened by? What if Jen had inspected a meow from someone's backyard and had witnessed more than she bargained for? Mrs. O'Leary didn't need her pet back right away... ****************************************************************** "We're thinking about moving to Chicago," Myra Schanke confessed as she slipped two dough-laden sheets in the oven. Nick felt a rising panic, a loss of control float up from deep inside. "Isn't this rather sudden? Why?" Myra occupied herself with cleanup, replying half-heartedly, "I have had to do quite a bit of traveling for Skin Pretty lately. I'm spending more time away than not. I want to be with Jenny more." "Are you dating someone new?" The words voicing his earlier suspicion slipped out of their own accord, too hastily for Nick to bite back. "No, I'm not seeing anyone *new*." Myra's protest was not as indignant as it could have been, and Nick noticed. "And it certainly wouldn't be any of your business if I was." She angrily twisted the knob on her cooking timer, then slammed it on the counter. "I'm just finding it hard, staying in Toronto after...everything." Myra brushed out of the kitchen, Nick trailing behind. Walking through the den, a flustered Myra called, "Je-en?" The girl stomped down the stairs. "I'm here, Mom." Both Nick and Myra's faces were portraits of welcome until they spotted the woman Jen was leading by a hand. "This is Clare Douglas," Jen briefed her parent. "She's Nick's partner." "*Temporary* partner," Nick qualified belligerently. "Temporary to *permanent* partner," Clare qualified the qualification while shaking Myra's hand. "Jen, why don't you show Nick your school awards?" Myra suggested. "But they're upstairs," Jen protested. "So take him upstairs." The response was an order. The girl gave a little sigh. Clare could sense her mind sifting over the permutations of the feline in her room combined with Nick's trustworthiness. Shoulders hunched with resignation, Jen tripped back up the stairs. Nick climbed after her, throwing Clare a warning glare. "So, Detective Douglas, how long have you been working with Nick?" Myra wondered. "Two days. And please, call me Clare." "Ah. I heard about Tracy Vetter. It's such a shame when tragedy strikes, but then Homicide Detective is not the safest of jobs." The words sounded routine, well-rehearsed and repeated by rote. Clare did not look askance at Myra Schanke's comment or demeanor, but they caused an odd twitch inside. "May I ask you a personal question? I know we just met, but I'm having a few difficulties fitting in with Detective Knight. I gather that he and your husband were extremely close, and that his...death...was an enormous loss. Could you give me any insight into their relationship? It might help me get along with Nicholas better." Myra's expression was not pained or grieved, but rather suspicious. She seemed to deliberate momentarily, then decided to grant the request. "Nick's a nice guy. He was very supportive after the crash, and he always appeared to be genuinely fond of Don." "I sense a 'but' lurking in that statement somewhere." "Well, I think that Nick would awe Don. He saw him as some kind of swinging bachelor, flying free, taking the big risks. I often felt like Don pushed himself too much in order to keep up." Clare could not stop her mouth from gaping just a little. "Are you saying you blame Nick for your husband's death?" Her tone was a bit incredulous. "Oh, no. That's not what I meant," Myra corrected. "It's just that Don put so much into this profession, and I never felt like it rewarded him enough for the time he spent away from me and our daughter. Or the danger. I think I'm just trying to warn you. You're young and beautiful and in a job that tends to chew people up and spit them out." A little bitterness had seeped out, and Myra caught herself. "Are you married? Do you have children?" A pause, then an answer in laden words. "I was once. I had children," Clare offered. "But they died. You see, I have already experienced Fate chewing me up and spitting me out. I may be a bit forward in saying this but, I'm aware that there is more to marriage than a couple of vows and a joint checking account. An intimacy forms that cannot be compared to a tickle and a whisper, or replaced easily..." Clare carefully observed the other woman's expression. It had become somewhat dreamy, yet Myra still looked Clare in the eye. "The intimacy...you're right. If a marriage works, then you trust that person above all things because you know that you can." "And Nick and Schanke trusted each other?" The slight downturn of Myra's lips returned. "I suppose they did." The sound of Nick and Jen descending the stairs once more prevented Clare from probing further. "Would it be all right if we, maybe, visited again another evening? We might need some impressions about the neighbors or Mr. and Mrs. O'Leary." "I guess that won't be a problem," Myra shrugged, unenthusiastic about the prospect, but evidently feeling obligated. The bing! of the cooking timer traveled from the kitchen. "It was good to meet you." She gave Clare another handshake. "Nick." He gave her a nod in return. "Jen--will you see Nick and Clare out?" Jen did, giving them both hugs in the process. "Remember, you two," the girl cautioned. "Not a word about my cat sleeping inside." The front door closed and locked behind them. "Her cat sleeping inside?" Clare challenged once they were alone. "It's an outdoor cat. Myra doesn't want it scratching the furniture, but Jen's worried about it sleeping in the cold. She snuck it into her room--I thought you knew." Clare smirked at Nick's back at he headed for the Caddie. It was the beginning of June, and he believed that the cat was going to freeze. He *didn't* doubt Jen for a sec. "So why the urgent need to question Myra and Jen?" Nick demanded, turning the ignition. "I'll tell you later," Clare breathed with satisfaction as she joined him in the car. "Right now I want to savor the moment." "I'd rather that you stay away from them." He seemed to emanate that this subject was on deadly ground with him. "And if they become necessary to the investigation, what would you have me do?" Nick jerked the Caddie abruptly into gear. "Simple. They won't become necessary." ****************************************************************** "You were right, Clare," Natalie announced, looking up from a microscope as Nick and she entered the morgue. "Frank O'Leary died before he ever reached his residence." "Cause of death?" Nick questioned. Natalie stepped over to the examination table, lifting the plastic obscuring the body. "My findings are preliminary, but I waited to close him up until you got here. Take a whiff." Nick and Clare did, both grimacing at the smell. "There is a preponderance of malt beverage in the lungs and stomach contents." Natalie bit her lip, smiling in spite of herself. "O'Leary drowned in beer." Natalie held off their eruption of questions and continued. "He was also roughed up a bit in the process. Our victim did not just fall into a vat of hops and meet his doom." "So you believe that he was murdered at the Log & Oaks Brewery," Nick specified. "Since he had no micro-brewery at home, I'd say yes." "Then we'll go there tomorrow night," Nick declared, then whispered in Natalie's ear, a hint of a plead to his voice. "I'll see you at the loft, right?" Natalie gave him a slight nod, but did not make eye contact. "Tomorrow? Why not tonight?" Clare protested. "Because I have to run an errand," Nick retorted. "If you're going to win the bet, Clare, no doubt you have one as well." Then he flipped out of the morgue. "He's trying to worry me," Clare pronounced, glowering at the exit. "Is it working?" "No. I know where he's headed. He's planning to tell on me." That information rendered Natalie no more content. ****************************************************************** End of Part Two Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:39:21 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (03/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ****************************************************************** Beginning of Part Three Nick had not been to the Raven since the night Maeven and her creatures had destroyed Figaro. Lacroix had herded Vachon and him back to the club, demanding answers, angry with, yet protective, of Clare. Two nights later they had swarmed Maeven's laboratory, destroying her vampire-like mutants and their creator as well. Lacroix had not stopped there, however. All of Maeven's work, papers, photographs, and cultures had received his careful attentions. Any chance of Natalie and Nick using this material to find a cure for vampirism had been stripped away. As usual, a bitterness towards his sire's heavy-handed control had seeped through him. This time, though, Nick had the urge to attempt to turn Lacroix's dominating streak against himself. Perhaps he would disapprove of Clare's interference. "I received a new homicide partner tonight," Nick declared, leaning beside his sire against the Raven's bar. Lacroix acknowledged his statement with a lackadaisical twitch of an eyebrow. "Really?" He took a haughty sip of blood cocktail, then progressed. "I should be fascinated by this occurrence because...?" "My new partner is Clare." The older vampire was surprised, though his outward appearance did not alter. Nick felt the small mental jolt at his revelation, and that was enough to please him immensely. "She didn't tell you?" Nick barreled on, not waiting for Lacroix's reply. "Strange. I thought that you two were spending quite a bit of time together. I'd expect she'd mention a career change..." "No doubt, Nicholas, her intent was to surprise me. I have no doubts that she stunned you, but Clare would want a greater challenge." "It is interesting that you should bring up challenges. Clare and I have one. She has to find a case in which I came to the wrong conclusion and solve it before we close our latest project. Otherwise, she's out as my partner." Lacroix's blue eyes actually twinkled. "Your capacity to amuse me never seems to end, Nicholas. You chose to play poker with Clare, where each card is a trump, and you think it is a daring venture? I, myself, can find fault within any number of your frolics as a detective. Foremost, it was an error that you sought to champion mortal justice at all." "And you don't have a problem with Clare making the same choice?" Nick disputed, his indignation clearly evident. Lacroix leaned closer, dangling his goblet tantalizingly closer to his offspring's nostrils and lips, and taunted, "But neither of us would believe that motive, would we? Now Nicholas, what is the real reason that lured you here?" Nick's lips clenched, his hands twitched, and he half-turned away from the proffered refreshment. "I merely came to share the news." "To share?" Lacroix lingered over a taste of his glass' contents. "How endearingly companionable of you. Do you intend to disclose how Doctor Lambert is enjoying her newfound freedom from the bonds of mundane human existence? You two have been spending quite a bit of time together." His tone mimicked Nick's earlier delivery. "Natalie wants to find a cure. We *both* do," Nick insisted. "Indeed? Then what are you doing here?" Lacroix delivered the words as a mocking rebuke, leaving Nicholas to sinkingly wonder at the answer as the Nightcrawler commenced the evening's broadcast. "Our subject tonight brings us to expectations and the hazards they hold captive. What is trust, dear listeners? Is it the diligent assurance of security? A promise to chase the bogeyman from your door and back to where the wild things roam free? Is trust a compromise that merges your own self-interests with those sweet desires of another...dear...individual in a paradoxical partnership? Or is it just another illusion of faith, waiting to beguile and break? Here is a hint, and yes, this is a test question . You will be graded accordingly, my children. Trust is not faith in oneself. Self-reliance is restricted to the omnipotent, and we need no such assurances--You may *trust* me on this..." ****************************************************************** "Did you meet Myra and Jenny Schanke?" Natalie occupied herself with the post-mortem sewing up of Frank O'Leary's abdominal cavity, her movements labored and methodical. "Yes. The daughter was charming. She also had the O'Leary's cat," Clare mentioned. Intrigued, Natalie looked up from her stitching. "The cat? Where did she find it?" "I cannot be certain, but the O'Leary's backyard is a distinct possibility." This statement did not serve to soothe Natalie's wonderment. "What does Nick think? What does Myra think? Did Jen tell you she found the cat there?" she sputtered. "With all those questions you are constantly spouting, it's no wonder you're a scientist," Clare jested. "Answers, in order: Nick doesn't think." Before Nat could protest she continued. "Sorry. I couldn't resist that one. Nick doesn't suspect Jen Schanke as a potential witness, and I didn't say anything to Myra. The girl claimed that she found the cat wandering around the neighborhood." "Well, that's perfectly likely." Clare conceded that point. "Yes, but it is just as conceivable that she saw something of interest to the case. Jen as good as admitted that she was near the O'Leary's house at the time the body was allegedly planted in their decorative pool." "Nick will have a problem with using her as a witness. It's his protective instinct." "I know. Myra is not going to be jumping for joy either. She seemed somewhat disturbed about her husband's police career. Altogether, her behavior struck me as unusual." Natalie's forehead wrinkled with perplexity. "Myra acted unusually? In what way?" Indecision clouded Clare's features. "I cannot pinpoint what makes me uneasy about her attitude. It simply strikes me as...atypical... for a woman in her position." "People grieve in different ways. Don't project too many of your own feelings." "I am aware of that. It was so odd, though. First, she mentions Tracy Vetter's death--what a tragedy it was. You would think she would emanate empathy about the subject. After all, she has lost her husband in an untimely accident. Yet the aura about Myra Schanke seemed...untouched, as if she was relating the words she thought I expected, but had no real concept of sentiment behind them." "Couldn't Myra still be in a denial phase? A year after the death is an extremely long time to still block out the loss, but it wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened," Natalie proposed. "Denial," Clare repeated to herself. "Maybe you are right. I expressed a few sentiments that made her reminisce about her marriage. She was full of memories, I could tell, but they appeared to be fresh within her mind. They have several photographs on display at their home--she never looked at them once for a reminder of his face. It was as if Myra had no need of a prompt. It makes sense to refuse such assistance if you denied the person's death. The action would grant that photos were the only remaining source of their face." "The more you talk about it, the more you force me to wonder. I remember the funeral-- it was such an awful day. Both Schanke and Captain Cohen buried, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. The same crowds attended the two services, with the same crushed, sorrowful faces. I sat in the row behind Myra and Jenny , sobbing uncontrollably. They *were* grieving. Such an about face, especially in Myra, does feel a little bizarre." "Well, I certainly don't have a hundred percent understanding of the human psyche, despite what I may profess sometimes. Let's file this oddity under Interesting Things To Muse About Later. I'll leave you finish your work in a timely manner, then you can have your rendezvous with Nicholas." At Natalie's discomfited look, Clare chided, "Of course I overheard your plans. Vampire eardrums and my inquisitiveness do not make for safe whispers. Actually, I've wondered exactly what was going on between you two since you've kissed and made up, as it were." "That makes two of us," Natalie sighed, and gave up any remaining pretense of work. Thinking of Nick, she readjusted the statement, her words plunging forth from her troubled thoughts. "No, make that three of us. Clare, I don't trust myself not to lose control around Nick. With the way I feel about him, it's much harder than autopsying a fresh kill or forcing myself into chugging a protein shake." "Ah." It was a pendulous syllable, full of meaning and depth. "I don't blame you for being torn, but I don't think that I can help you. That choice is yours and Nick's alone." "I love him. I want him. But I don't want the responsibility of sabotaging our desire for mortality in favor of ...something else." "So you want to pass that burden off to me? No thank you, Natalie." "My feelings are so frustrating. I've been over and over the scenario in my head. I tell myself that we could consume a surfeit of cow blood and just be together, but who am I kidding? The blood arouses the vampire. Feeding the craving so I can be with Nick-it's backsliding, whether it employs cow, human, or vampire plasma. So my dilemma, Clare, boils down to... Is the waiver worth payoff?" Her newest offspring looked so lost and in need, Clare could not resist giving her opinion. "To be honest, Natalie, I have never known a greater intimacy outside of sharing the blood. Nothing I underwent as a mortal could match the headiness. To suckle on another being's soul, to experience it rushing into every pore and become your own-- nothing compares to that sensation. Nothing can replace it. But once it happens, there is no going back, for that melding is completely addictive. You could consider it a trap. Where does it stop? *Does* it stop? Your question is answered with another question. If you don't believe that you can be with Nicholas without indulging the vampire, you will have to chose which is more important: nobility or love." Clare caressed Natalie's cheek with a self-conscious smile, unable to resist adding, "I always pick love...or a reasonable approximation thereof." ****************************************************************** Something smacked Vachon in the face. "Yoo-hoo, Javier -- wakey, wakey!" A loud, sing-songy, and very demanding voice was yanking him from the arms of restful slumber. Abrupt footsteps rocked his mattress. Someone was *stomping* across his bed, and if Vachon wanted to fuss at them, he was going to have to open his eyes. The jostling ceased, and Javier risked a peek through slitted vision. It was Clare. She sat cross-legged and arms akimbo. She was also minus a shoe after apparently bonking him upside the head with it a moment before. Temptation to fuss rapidly evicted Vachon's thoughts, and his lids dropped once more. He was playing possum. "I saw you peeking. Get up!" Vachon resisted her summons for a few more moments, but then Clare repeated herself, adding a painful thump to his nose. "Get up!!" Vachon sat up, rubbing his stinging proboscis. "Enough 'ready! I'm 'wake! Swear!" Clare waggled a reproving finger at him. "Shame on you, Javier. It's two in the morning. What kind of mischief did you rummage in yesterday to be so slothful?" He was now massaging the back of his neck. "Try yesterday, the day before, *and* two days before that." Clare looked at him expectantly for greater elaboration, and Vachon complied. "I went out with some of Figaro's old fashion crew. We partied. We partied some more. Somehow we ended up in Puerto Rico." He shook his head in wonder. "That part is a bit of a blur. We had a Rum-O contest." Clare smirked. Rum-O was a favored competition amongst Caribbean vampires. Equal parts of Type O and ninety-proof were chugged in alternating shots by the contestants. Alcohol alone typically had no effect on a vampire, and was absolutely wretched to the taste buds to boot. Mixed with blood, though, it could enhance the burning, floating feeling and temporarily eradicate a few brain cells. Speed, however, was of the essence for the maximum effect employed in Rum-O. The game was basically a drinking contest. Each participant was given until a crowd counted to ten to chug their latest glass. If they didn't make it, they paid a forfeit. Forfeit was usually something deliciously embarrassing, such as losing all your clothes except a conveniently placed ribbon, or painful, like having a finger temporarily cut off. It all depended on your playmates. Competitors would continue drinking until someone forfeited, or died from alcohol poisoning. Of course, no one *really* died, not as a mortal would in similar circumstances. No, the loser experienced a sensation similar to falling off a thirty-story building and splatting into the pavement, while the winner fared slightly better. Oh, and when the loser regained consciousness, they also paid a forfeit. In a strange by-product, the successful game players tended to acquire a pronounced blink as a consequence of their skills. "I won again," Vachon volunteered. Vachon was a renowned champ at Rum-O. "Well, congratulations. Have you regained the ability to form complex sentences yet?" "Uh, yeah." "Good. I want you to tell me a story, and you need to be perceptibly eloquent." Clare had brought some of her own stock to snack on, and proffered the bottle in Vachon's direction. "It's of British derivation. A few sips might help." He accepted the container, downed a portion and rubbed his neck. A minute passed. "Okay. I am feeling much better now. You're in need of a storyteller?" Clare nodded. "I want to hear about your plane ride, the one that crashed as you were trying to flee the Inca and resulted in your encounter with Tracy Vetter." "Haven't I done that before?" Vachon squinted, doubting the necessity of speaking at length. "Yes. But I want you to tell me all the events up until the plane took off again, and in more detail this time. Just flash back..." "Let's see... How did that one go? It all started with a plane ride..." ****************************************************************** Vachon's Plane Story The Inca had tracked him to the church and had been lying in wait when Javier returned home from his last oil rig job as J. D. Valdez. Vachon had sensed his sibling before venturing up those antiquated stairs and favored making a 180 degree turn, getting out of there fast. He made a pitstop at the Raven, informed Urs that he was moving on, and headed for the airport. Vachon carried only those possessions he'd taken on the rig: clothes, ID, and a guitar case containing his acoustic. He'd had to leave the electric back at the church-amps and oil didn't mix due to possible blowouts and pesky explosions. Vachon took a taxi to the airport, and encountered a flurry of press roaming the airport lobby. The objects of their desire had just finished making their statements and rushed ahead of Javier past the metal detectors. It was an unlikely trio: a stern-faced Asian woman, a dark-haired, round-visaged guy in a pretty sharp suit, and another fellow who slumped between them accessorized with handcuffs. Vachon branded the troupe as law enforcement and hoped to give them a wide berth. Unfortunately, Javier ended up behind the sharp-dressed man at the ticket counter, and he appeared to be having some kind of problem. "No, no, no, no. That won't do, comprende? We are police officers. We are escorting a *criminal*. We have to have three seats together." The fellow fidgeted in frustration. "Do you guys know the meaning of the word 'security'?" At this moment, the self-proclaimed police officer's female cohort stepped forward, dragging the handcuffed man along. "They just started boarding the flight, Detective Schanke. If they can't get us one group, we'll just have to make the single and double work. We're only one row apart. Come along." The man called Detective Schanke grumbled as they moved away. "You know, Captain, sometimes I don't think anybody takes pride in their work anymore. How hard could reserving three seats together be? We ought to complain." "Later, Schanke, later. Let's just get on the plane," the woman sighed. "Are you sure you don't want to grab a cappuccino, first?" "Plane, Schanke. Now." Vachon stepped up to the counter and politely asked the harried clerk with a winsome smile, "You wouldn't happen to have one seat available over an engine, now would you?" "Get out!" Clare interrupted, joyously swapping Vachon with a pillow. "You didn't actually hear the woman call that fellow Detective Schanke, did you? And he called her Captain? Why didn't you mention this before?" "Because now I am under orders to be *descriptive*. Before I was actually telling you the story for *fun*," Vachon replied, not nearly as excited as his company. "Yes, and the details are what separate us from carpet salesmen." Clare's voice was downright urgent. "Tell me, Javier. Did you see those people again?" "Why, as a matter of fact, I did. On the plane. May I continue with my description?" "Please do." Vachon purchased his one-way ticket to Edmonton over one of the left engines and boarded the plane with no hassle. Getting to his seat, however, was a problem. Detective Schanke was standing in the narrow aisle, hovering over the row that contained the Captain and their prisoner as if he were a human shield. Each person whose ticket sent them farther back into the plane had to squeeze past the detective first. This caused a bit of backup, much to the dismay of the flight attendants. Vachon let a mother carrying an infant girl make her way in front of him, then attempted to pass the Schanke gauntlet himself. A few too close for comfort moments later, he realized that his seat was directly next to the hovering form of the Detective. Vachon unhappily moved to stash his guitar case, a study in black leather with steel brackets along the sides, in the overhead compartment. He lifted the container abruptly over his head, in a rush to clear the pathway of his form. Detective Schanke had suddenly decided to clear the aisle, as well. He made an about face, smashing his jaw directly into a piece of metal reinforcement on the object Vachon was lifting. A white projectile flew through the air, bouncing hidden to a halt under a foot rest. In surprise, the Detective staggered forward into Javier's back, while clutching his injured jaw, startling Vachon in the process. Vachon whirled around, lowering the case as he did so, and managed to crown Schanke over the head with almost supernatural force. There were several exclamations, including those of the Captain. Schanke just stood there, swaying slightly. He bled from his forehead and his mouth. Vachon had struck something hard, but not quite hard enough, in both instances. "My toof! My bwidge! Man, Myra'th gonna kill me! She'th been hounding me to go to her cousin'th dentitht for month-th!" "Detective Schanke! See if the stewardess can give you anything to clean up that blood before the flight starts!" It was an order from the Captain, a very determined order. "Yeth, Captain." Schanke wandered out of the compartment, woozily following an attendant until he was beyond their view. The Captain sighed heavily, giving Vachon a glare that he felt was unjustified. He'd gone out of his way not to assault a police officer. It had just *happened*. Javier now successfully stored his guitar and found his seat. Maybe ten minutes went by, and the takeoff announcements and signals to fasten seatbelts commenced. He then overheard the Captain question a steward on the whereabouts of her fellow officer. "I'm sorry ma'am. I don't know where he is. I remember hearing that someone fainted up front. He could be recovering in first class. I'll find out for you as soon as we're in the air," came the reply. "Of course, the Captain never found out what happened to Detective Schanke," Vachon noted. "Because the plane went boom before we reached altitude." "I remember you mentioning whopping a fellow over the head with your guitar case now. I *knew* something uncommon happened on that plane!" Clare was very satisfied. "Yeah, I lost my guitar. It was my favorite--it had silver inlay on the neck." A passionate look encompassed Vachon's face, heretofore seen only in reference to mortal necks. "But consider the implications, Vachon!" Clare espoused excitedly. "That's ten minutes at least before the flight taxied to the runway in which Detective Schanke was unaccounted for. If he fainted, and it looked serious, it's perfectly possible that some of the crew had him taken off the plane. That's fantastic!" "That's one enormous conclusion," he countered. "What's the big deal about Detective Schanke, anyway?" Clare wriggled off the bed, extremely pleased with herself. "Didn't you know? Schanke was Nicholas' partner before Tracy Vetter." "And you're suggesting that he wasn't on the plane when it crashed?" "Just that he had the reason and opportunity to leave that plane before it took off. Nicholas isn't aware of your close encounter with the Detective, is he?" "No way. He and Trace were worked up over the bomb aspect. They wanted to know if the plane exploded, and I told them the plane exploded." "That's perfect. Thank you, Vachon." He gave Clare a drowsy smile. "Well, before I go back to Zzz's, answer one question for me--if there's any chance that Detective wasn't killed in the crash, how come everyone thinks he's dead?" ****************************************************************** End of Part Three Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:45:15 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (04/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ****************************************************************** Beginning of Part Four Nick drove to his loft in a troubled mystique, his thoughts ferreting around old words. This night had been nothing but unsettling, pricking at his already anxious subconscious. A myriad of voices snapped at him, shadows of the past. There were conversations with Lacroix: There were revelations with Schanke: There was his own voice, swimming in the hollow echo of a phone line: The memory of his and Schank's shared laughter was overpowering. Nick pulled the car to the curb and stopped, sheltering his head in his hands. What did he want? His hands tremored, and the shaking wave traveled throughout his whole body, causing him to catch his breath. Pent up desires and losses railed at him, wreathing his conscience in confused cacophony. Reoccurring upheaval lashed at his reason. The anger and resentment flowed forth, a bitter flavor added to his bland dismay. Nick lost sense of time, realizing numbly some while later that the clatter of the police radio still barked at him. Moisture trickled through his fingers, and strain pinched at his face. He leaned weakly back in the driver's seat, thankful the convertible top wasn't lowered. He appreciated the facade of shelter. Nick continued to gaze forlornly at the vehicles passing him down the street, the speeding headlights broadcasting shadows and brightness across his face. Someone that he hadn't seen had hidden at the Schanke's tonight. He had not caught them with his eyes, but his senses and observation of Myra's manner had not been so blind. Why would Myra conceal a visitor from him? Nick had never given her any cause to be less than forthright with him. Unless, of course, this person was someone that Schanke would have disapproved of greatly. Nick's expression was cold as he restarted the Caddie's ignition. He would find out. He owed that much in remembrance of Schanke. He would just make certain Myra and Jen were in good hands. If he discovered that they weren't, Nick would handle the problem. ****************************************************************** Clare popped her head into the morgue, lips upturned, and caught Natalie still on the job. "Oh, good. You haven't left for Nicholas' yet." Natalie watched her enter briskly, her own mouth bleakly compressed. "I haven't made up my mind. I've been hiding in reports for the past hour, so you don't have to hurry on my account. What brings you back so soon?" "I have a question about that plane crash you mentioned earlier. Did you work the site?" Natalie nodded, slightly discomfited at the recollection. "I did the body identifications, yes. What do you want to know?" Clare phrased her words very carefully. "Were any of the victims confirmed solely by use of their dental records because no corpse was found?" Natalie's mouth dropped open. "How did you know that? We had to match teeth fragments found in the plane wreckage to identify Schanke. It was very difficult. Of course, he wasn't nearly as impossible as two sisters that had been seated over the wing--there was nothing, absolutely nothing left that we could work with in their cases. What else do you need to know?" Natalie appeared almost desperate for additional distraction. Clare smiled brightly. "That's it. Just a tad of curiosity to finish off the evening." Natalie examined her sire's face consideringly, looking for hints as to her real purpose. Having no flash of insight and full of her own quandary, Natalie murmured a distracted goodnight as Clare made her exit. Stepping into the hall, Clare scrounged for her cell phone. She dialed, then waited patiently through the first couple of rings. Very patiently, if you considered how ecstatic she'd become inside at Natalie's answer to her question. "Hello, Feliks? It's Clare. I need you to do me a favor." She strolled out of 26 Grenville Street in the direction of her sportscar. "I would like for you to dig up all the financial records concerning Don, Myra, and Jennifer Schanke. " Clare rattled out the spelling, their address, Schanke's badge number, and other pertinent facts, then added, "I need the information to go back over, say, the past eighteen months. Just call me with anything interesting. Thanks. Bye." Stopping by the driver's door of her automobile, Clare closed the mouthpiece with a satisfied click. Beating Nicholas was going to be *too* easy. She was of a mind to interact with a man who demanded considerably more skill. But first, a change into something less comfortable. Full of anticipation, Clare revved her engine and flew out of her parking spot, a force of nature released on the unsuspecting metropolis. ****************************************************************** Nick slung open the elevator door to his loft, and swung a hateful glance towards the blender mounted in the center of the kitchen counter. He primed his answering machine to spit out his messages. There was only one. It was Natalie's voice, ringing a little strained and sad. A frantic ache erupted from inside, exposing his raw heart for the bruising of every taped word. "Nick. It's Natalie. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to come over tonight. Don't take this the wrong way, but I just need more time. I'm sorry." A memory, a pleading from Natalie to stay, to not leave her alone, scoured at his security. The end of the message beeped, but he just allowed the cassette to keep running. The sounds of older, happier, and more urgent messages sang to him as he delved into the refrigerator. One green bottle of temptation to clasp his hand around, and another to drown the shame of splurging. Tracy's voice yacked at him to call her *now*, then a dial tone , a crackle, and he was thrown into a message from Schanke. How many years had those sounds lurked there since they were first received? Two? Three? "Partner? You there? Earth calling Nick. Come in Nick. We need to talk muy pronto. There's a problem--" Nick missled the machine across the room, shattering the blender with pinpoint accuracy upon impact. Cracks of plastic rolled from the counter and bounced lacklusterly to the floor. Nick swayed in place for a spell, undecided about which direction to move. Too much had happened too quickly, and it all was sinking in, drowning him. His feet didn't seem to respond initially, but he finally moved toward one leather armchair. Seated, he jerkily unstopped a container and embarked on drowning his hopes. He made it halfway though the bottle before his eyes became too pained and his hands shook too much to continue. Then Nick just let the blood fall from his grasp, pouring out on the floor. It struck him as odd that he did not cry, but just felt scarred and dazed. He hurt. And he had run out of tears. ****************************************************************** The Raven was empty, a dark sepulcher of sensations filled with people who once were. The clearance was no wonder; dawn pushed at the night sky when Clare had left her car at curbside. Mortals and vampires alike had moved on to their daily destinations. Her heels clicked softly across the parquet of the dance floor, and she employed one strappy toe to gently open the unlatched door to the back rooms. Lacroix was seated there in half-light, writing something which he pushed aside as she leaned to shut the entrance with her weight. "You waited up for me?" She wasn't inclined to be worried or flattered. There was something troubling in the air, an aura that, despite her recent triumphs, dampened her spirits. The room seemed still, as though she stood in the eye of the hurricane. Lacroix watched her indulgently. "I had my suspicions that you would arrive, despite the lateness of the hour." Clare moved forward to stand before him. "And did this startling realization come after a visit from a special someone?" He took her hand, choosing to trace a thumb over her knuckles. "Apparently, I am in your debt." Blue eyes met green, searching, plummeting in their depths to divulge cause and effect. Clare protested softly. "Coming here was Nicholas' choice, maybe even his need. I trust that he was suitably indignant at my interference?" "Delightfully so. I am awed by your talents." Clare leaned over his chair to whisper a liquid dare in his ear. "Confess. I surprised you, didn't I?" "Yes." Lacroix seemed to release the word under duress. "Good." She smoothed a fingertip possessively down his right cheek. "I warned you to not be so complacent." Lacroix's eyes flashed brightly, and Clare's fingertip was suddenly caught between his teeth in a biting caress. Her gaze echoed in brilliance, a satisfied gasp escaping her throat. He slipped one palm to the small of her back, pulling her form into his lap. He twisted her amber hair around the other hand, keeping her vision pinned within his own. "Who here is too complacent?" "I have every reason to be pleased with myself. I have arranged for our offspring to be under my close, personal supervision on a daily basis, for an indefinite length of time." "Then you should indefinitely be intoxicated with your success." Clare's lips arched in a sultry promise. "If you ask nicely, I might concede any interesting interludes that pass my way." "I would *hate* to take you for granted." The slick catch to the words professed anything but this declaration. Clare cradled his face in her grasp, then nipped his lower lip none-too-gently before sharing her heated reply. "Then I grant that you take me." He kissed her in a battle for domination, ravaging her mouth in riposte. She pushed to her feet, breathing a low, eager laugh. Swaying in an embrace across the floor, she then sunk to her knees atop the divan, wrapping an arm behind his head as he bent to trail his lips from the side to the back of her neck. Her dress started just below the shoulder blades, a confection snugged out of red silk, so dark to become almost black in the dim light of the room. Lacroix pulled at the zipper, rubbing his thumbs in a path down either side of her newly exposed backbone. He then brushed his jaw in a mimicking course to the base of her spine, his canines projecting and scratching her pale skin. Clare released a longing squeal as he sunk his teeth slightly into the flesh above her hip. She scraped her nails along the divan then flipped over, clutching Lacroix by the collar. She caught her lips around his jugular, impaling the skin above, licking and sucking. His blood burst over her tongue, spreading an addictive charge over her skin. She shuddered with the first swallow, then subsided into a deep langour with the subsequent tastes. She could almost feel her heart pulse with the lushness of the thoughts, a thousand surrenders bathing in her bloodstream. Brutal intentions lingered towards some of the faces that flashed through her mind, but there was ever so much more lust and hunger to demand her attention. Lacroix poured into her--the awareness seemed to wind and scuttle through Clare, nestling into part of her soul. She let his sensations secure their passage, savoring the minutiae. Totally unexpected, a sudden pulse of anger and despair seared at them both, causing Clare to cry out in surprise, and Lacroix to clutch at her violently. She trapped his gaze with her own, a single tear rolling over her cheekbone. She touched the side of his face, perhaps to comfort or steady them both. "Nicholas...in pain...his grief..." Clare choked, seeking some confirmationof her interpretation of the connection. Lacroix silenced her, quietly responding, "What could I do for him that I have not already several times over? Release his torment..." She panted, lolled her head back, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He fed, reaching into her and pulling out her joy and laughter, her conquered ghosts, and achieved his own escape. ****************************************************************** End of Part Four Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:58:38 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (05/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ***************************************************************** Beginning of Part Five Clare sat with Maude O'Leary in the interrogation room. Maude's lawyer glared in her direction as his client dissolved into sobbing once again. Clare smiled sweetly in return. If it weren't for Captain Reese and Officer Miller spying in through the two-way mirror, this interview would have been over and done a half-hour ago. Instead, she was under observation, forced to play fair for appearances' sake. She felt Nicholas' approach, and quietly excused herself from the room for a few moments, under the guise of providing Mrs. O'Leary ample time to collect herself. Heading for the observation room, Clare rubbed her fingers together in anticipation. Now, Figaro would have said, would be the perfect time for a stress smoke. Nicholas was late. Clare, sensibly, had not expected him on time, not after her experience of the night before. She had calmed somewhat once she caught Natalie on the phone. Natalie was fine, Natalie swore she was fine, and that she was still pondering her decision. She had not seen Nick again the night before, and her tone insinuated that she would not see him until she was ready. In the end, Natalie was no more forthcoming as to the specifics of Nicholas' torment than Lucius had been the day before. Without a concrete explanation, she attempted to shove the afterthoughts concerning Nicholas into the back of her mind again. Then Clare covered for him, pacifying Reese with talk of her partner stopping to check on a lead en route to the precinct. Now Nicholas had arrived, and she wished that he hadn't bothered. He was not in an emotional state to be around these mortals. He was a time bomb waiting for detonation. Clare had sincere doubts about her readiness to coddle him out of harm's way. She entered the observation room, interrupting the conversation. Nicholas watched her with empty eyes and explained, "I was just informing Captain Reese that that lead I was running turned out to be a dead end." Clare nodded and delivered a credible, "Too bad." "You might as well send Mrs. O'Leary home." Captain Reese sighed as he moved to depart. "I don't think we'll get anything productive out of her tonight. Since forensics holds with her story about sustaining injuries while falling in the backyard, you two had better dig up another concrete suspect." "We will send her home," Clare agreed. "Then we have an interview with the co-founder of Log & Oaks Brewery," Nick supplied. Clare did not protest the announcement, but did not express enthusiasm either. "Well, go to work," commanded Reese. With the Captain and Miller gone, the two vampires stood in the room alone. Mrs. O'Leary could be observed blowing her nose into a tissue that Clare had thoughtfully supplied. Her lawyer yawned his boredom through the glass. "Is there anything that you would like to share with me?" Clare's voice was stilted, trying to edge out the reproof. Nick looked at her blankly, as though her displeasure was insignificant. "Not a thing. Let's do as the Captain says, and go to work." He opened the door once more. "After you," he gestured. Into the interrogation room they went, poised to dismiss. Nick assured the sniffling Mrs. O'Leary that they were doing their best to discern her husband's killer and wished her farewell. "There's one more thing I wanted to check," Clare added. "Mrs. O'Leary, in searching for your missing cat, a photograph would be of the utmost assistance. Would you happen to carry one that we may use?" "Why, yes." The woman eagerly scrounged in her billfold, slipping out a print. "I used this one of precious on our Christmas cards last year. Isn't she darling?" Clare took the photo, quietly assenting the feline's beauty. "Goodbye, and thank you." "Would you mind telling me what that was about?" Nick demanded bitingly once Maude and the lawyer were out of earshot. Clare held up the photograph for his inspection. "Certainly. Do you recognize this cat?" Nick frowned at the image. "You can't be serious," he protested. "It bears a remarkable resemblance to Jen Schanke's pet, doesn't it? It disappeared sometime between when Mrs. O'Leary entered her backyard and the police arrived." He was dismissive of the suggestion, left interrogation and began to walk out of the precinct. "There isn't exactly a shortage of tortoiseshell cats in Toronto." Clare followed, unabashed. "Yes, but a tortoiseshell cat in the possession of a girl who admits she found it in the neighborhood on the night of a murder is less commonplace." She rushed down the station steps after him, blocking his path in the parking lot. "You may find it unpleasant, Nicholas, but the fact remains that Jennifer Schanke might have been an eyewitness to the murderer. We don't know where she acquired that cat. The girl could have gone into the O'Leary's backyard and seen the culprit dump the body. She needs to be questioned further." Nick suddenly seized her by her jacket lapels and slammed her up against a car, making a dent in its front fender. "I told you to stay away from them," he hissed, his face twisted into a vision of fury. "No one is going to harass Jen Schanke into a statement, witness or not. Understand?" Clare's first instinct was to strike him back. The fever boiled through her, but she fought the rage down. She slowly and deliberately placed a hand flat against the car on either side of where she leaned. Staring Nick down, she pushed against his force until she was standing once more. "I understand that you are experiencing some difficulty right now. I do not know the details, but I have sensed it," Clare remonstrated intently. "The nature of the grievance does not matter. What matters is that you are making an appalling mistake." Clare leaned closer, forcing Nick to take a step back. "Don't you dare dream that you can take your upset out on me. I will not tolerate it. If you have an argument to express, I am open to debate. Otherwise, consider yourself warned." Nick released her, his expression somewhat abashed. "You're right." He turned, choosing not to apologize, and continued toward the Cadillac. "If Jennifer Schanke saw something," she called after him. "You cannot just ignore it." He stilled at the driver's door. "I know." His face was haunted, anguished. Clare moved to the other side of the automobile, frowning in consideration. "I mean the girl no harm." Nick did not believe her, she could tell from his expression. He started the car, and she breathed in heavily to release some of her tension before joining him inside. "I don't comprehend your antagonism. What do you think that I'm going to do to Jen--drag her into the precinct and beat the truth out of her?" Nick countered in dispute, "Can you swear that you have never intended to cause a child injury?" Clare's mind flashed to the aftermath of her husband's destruction, and the villagers she'd slaughtered regardless of age. "I cannot," she admitted softly. "Exactly. You hurt Daniel. I've seen the damage that you can do." Clare stared at him in surprise. "Daniel? Are you suggesting that I destroyed him out of malice?" She shook her head. "You spent time with him, you were there--how could you so misapprehend the circumstances?" "I don't think that I did." "A friend informed me recently that what we chose to think and the truth are not necessarily identical. Perhaps this thought could do you some good as well." Nick did not reply, but gazed steadfastly at the night traffic. "This isn't over," Clare warned quietly, then turned away for her own contemplation of the passing street lights. ****************************************************************** The Log & Oaks Brewery resided in a medium sized warehouse and factory. Constructed with a log cabin exterior, the entrance to the plant invoked an outdoorsman's hominess, at least until the mechanical sounds of the third shift hummed busily to the ears. Forensics had combed through the factory since lunch, searching for evidence of the murder taking place on the premises. Packs of their labeled jackets still conferred in huddled clumps about plant floor. Also cluttering the factory floor, a tapestry of hoses and pipes interconnected amongst the vats and into the walls, evidently for transporting gases to waste and product to the bottling sector next door. Before Clare and Nick had an opportunity to discover forensics' progress, a thin, middle-aged, moustached man rushed up to them, rubbing his hands together worriedly. "Are you the police in charge? Detective Knight?" he pleaded. As Nick confirmed his identification, the man continued. "I am Victor Barger, the co-founder of Log & Oaks. Do you have any idea how much longer your people are going to be searching through my vats? It's wasting time, and time is money." "May I remind you that the waste of time is in search of your partner's murderer?" Nick answered gruffly. Mr. Barger smoothed his moustache. "Why, yes. I understand that Detective. I certainly want to see Frank's killer to get what they deserve. It's just that I don't want to go bankrupt in the process. Your people have halted production!" Clare's phone rang. She stepped away and answered the insistent beep while Nick trounced Victor Barger's protests. It was Natalie, sharing the results of the toxicology report on O'Leary. Ending the call, Clare motioned Nick aside. "That was Natalie," she informed him. A substantial degree of animation faltered from his expression. Clare noted to herself, deciding to tiptoe around that fact for the moment. Natalie ought to be on the scene, but she was apparently giving Nicholas a wide berth. "Toxicology indicates a significant amount of lysergic acid diethylamide in Frank O'Leary's system and his stomach contents." "LSD? There weren't any physical signs of prolonged drug use in the autopsy, were there?" "There were none," Clare confirmed. "There is another way we may find out about O'Leary's drug history, though." The leader of the forensics team approached them, ready to report. Clare slipped a glance in Barger's direction and noticed him pacing impatiently between copper wort kettles, on the verge of interrupting again. "We're ready to clear out," they were informed. "We've identified the location of the murder. The vat was apparently drained and shipped out by the time we got here, but there are significant signs of struggle and blood stains in the surrounding area." The team leader indicated a particular tank, leading Nick and Clare to where metal rungs climbed up the vat's side. "There are signs that O'Leary was disabled here. We found some tiny glass fragments that we could luminesce blood on. O'Leary could have been struck by one of the label's bottles. The glass is of a thicker gauge than that which caused the cuts on the wife's forehead." "That would explain the similarities yet differences in their wounds," reasoned Clare. The team leader nodded. "We believe that O'Leary was beaten repeatedly over the head with a bottle, carried fireman-style up the ladder, and then dumped into the fermenter. The killer held his head under until the deed was done." After the forensics head excused himself, Nick posed a question. "He stated that the vat was already bottled and shipped out by this morning?" "Right." "Isn't that unusual? Beers are typically stowed for a time, especially the gourmet types, to improve smoothness. That's where the term 'lager' comes from--it's derived from the German 'to store'." "What *have* you been sipping besides cow, Nicholas?" murmured Clare on a teasing note. Nick gave her A Look. "Brewing was one of Schanke's hobbies," he confessed. "After Myra dragged him to an Oktoberfest, he was set on becoming a brewmeister. It went rather well with his other passions: bowling and souvlaki." Clare grinned. "I'm not laughing. It may look as if I'm laughing, but I'm not. It's a good point. I wonder if anyone here had the power to send out product before it was ready besides the founders. And why would they?" "Perhaps Victor Barger could provide some illumination." "Perhaps." ****************************************************************** Barger's office was a mesmerizing design of wood paneling and mounted animals. Their vacant glass lenses stared in surprise at the room's livelier occupants, who were unsettled either by the preponderance of surrounding wood or the concept of a police interview. Barger had become somewhat content when they informed him that Forensics had completed their work. Production would be resumed to his eminent satisfaction. Nick and Clare were playing good cop/bad cop. Clare had volunteered to be the nice and friendly one, since, as she put it, "Behaving around Mother Teresa might be a stretch for you right now." Nick had begrudgingly assented. First, Clare innocently brought up the subject of employee drug testing. "We certainly do have a screening program, what with machinery and drivers being such a staple to the business," Barger assured her, naming a local tech lab. "They randomly come in every twelve to sixteen weeks and test all the employees." "All?" Nick exacted. "Including yourself? "Well, yes." "But you own the company!" Nick protested. "Surely you and O'Leary trusted each other." "Of course we did," Barger excused. "It was Frank's idea that we include ourselves in the testing, for employee morale, a sense of company camaraderie--it was something like that. Frank was more of a personnel and product type of guy. I'm the businessman of the two of us. Or I was." "But the lab would inform you of any potential narcotic problems in your staff, including Mr. O'Leary and yourself. Is that correct?" Clare requested. "Well, yes. Though Frank was usually the one who checked the status of the tests, we've had very few problems over the years." "Were you aware that Frank O'Leary used any sort of recreational drugs?" Nick asked flatly. Victor Barger's pulse jumped just slightly, and both Clare and Nick took note of the fluctuation. "No. I mean...he wasn't a stranger to our brews. After all, he developed most of the recipes. I don't understand--why do you want to know?" Clare smiled angelically, and acted unconcerned. "We just have to cover all the bases. He was murdered..." At this cue, Nick jumped into the conversation once more, inserting suspiciously, "In one of *your* fermentation vats. The contents of which have been sent out, and possibly contained evidence relating to the case. Who here has the authority to make such a decision?" "Frank did, and myself, as well as any of the shipping managers." "Their names? Who was in charge last night and this morning?" Nick shot back. "That would be Louis Secour. He was on duty from eight p.m. to six in the morning. I can't imagine him really involved in this situation, though. You could look at the shipping records to double check. I'll call down at the office if you like." Clare hid a frown. This man was not acting nearly as difficult as his earlier greeting had intimated he would. "Were you here yesterday evening?" she could not resist asking. Nick glared at her, for he had been prepared to pose the exact same question. Barger stroked his moustache again. Nick wondered. "I was here until around seven. I went on vacation recently and I had some work to catch up on." "Can anyone verify your activities?" Nick continued. "I don't like that insinuation, Detective. Surely you don't think that I..." "I think Detective Knight is attempting to be thorough Mr. Barger," Clare interjected. "It is nothing personal." "Humph. Well, I spoke with Frank's personal assistant briefly before I left. My own left at five-thirty. I was alone in my office for about an hour and a half. I suppose that doesn't clear me of any nefarious suspicions." He sent a little sneer towards Nick, which was returned with much greater skill and delicacy. Suddenly, there were shouts and commotion that leaked to the office from the hallway. Nick, Clare, and Victor Barger all crowded to the scene of the disturbance. One participant was Maude O'Leary. Her face was flushed red, and she swerved on her feet while trying to leap at the shrinking figure of another woman. Maude was screeching at her, and attempting to swipe at her with an open palm. Evidently, Mrs. O'Leary had been successful with at least one of her assaults, for the other female was trying to soothe a reddened cheek with her hand while speaking in pleading tones. A man and a woman held Maude out of reach for further contact, but she continued her abusive yelling of slurred epithets. "You take care of one, and I'll take care of the other?" Clare posed softly to Nick. He grimaced, obviously unenticed by either prospect. "You may have Mrs. O'Leary," he pronounced. "Why, thank you. A most generous offer. You're all heart," she drawled. Nick's lips twitched in spite of his foul mood. "You're certainly more qualified to temper a bloodthirsty female. Kindred spirits and all that." He approached Mrs. O'Leary's victim, leaving Clare to mumble to herself, "Give a fool enough rope..." before she accosted Maude. Clutching the warlike woman firmly about the shoulders, she forced her away from the object of her enmity. "Good evening, Mrs. O'Leary. Imagine running into you again so soon." She aimed the woman down the hall, and into what resembled a boardroom. "Lemme at 'er! Homewrecker! Shrew! She took my Frank-ie!" Maude moved to scramble back down the hall, but Clare caught her with an arm around the waist, then sacked her into one of the meeting chairs. "Oh, no you don't. Let's have a little chat, shall we?" Maude was still intrigued by all sorts of potential slander she could spew. "That slut secretary! She-devil! Whore! Bit-" "Now, Mrs. O'Leary," Clare interrupted. "There are ladies present. Tell me how many martinis you've had. You can hold up fingers." Maude frowned, stymied. "And toes," Clare continued. Maude barked out a laugh. "You're funny. I was counting *slowly*. I've had," She held up one hand of splayed fingers and one foot. "Martinis." She proceeded to giggle hysterically, then succumb into sobs, moaning "Frankie," over and over again. "Oh dear. You didn't drive here, did you? I would hate to have to arrest you for vehicular manslaughter too." Clare appeared uneager to perform this duty, yet stoically resigned. Maude became somewhat sober, in technically non-sober terms. "I took a cab from the police station. I made pit stops." Clare gave her a congratulatory wink. "Well, good for you." "But...you still have to arrest me?" There was doubt and hope in the woman's question. "Let me ask--Did you or did you not jump on that woman and smack her silly, whereas *she* made no move to retaliate?" The woman delivered an ungainly burp, then scrunched her forehead in intense consternation, as though she were formulating a new geometric postulate. "Uh, I guess so." "Then she could very well press charges," Clare sympathized. "It's called assault and battery in legal circles." Maude let out a discordant wail and sputtered. "But she was having an affair with my Frank! Alie-ation of in-fections! That's gotta be some kind of law!" Clare patted her on the shoulder. "Maybe in a higher court, but not in Canada. Now, look at me Mrs. O'Leary." Maude did, temporarily ceasing her whimpering. "No-More-Martinis." ************************************************************** The victim watched dazedly as Clare led Mrs. O'Leary away noisily. Nick moved to block her view, as if placing her attacker out of sight would render the continued verbal arrows nonexistent. She was short and frail, with dark blonde hair--one of those people who seem too fragile to withstand a faint breeze, much less the stings of an angry wife. Tears welled from her large hazel eyes, overflowing only to rush unabashedly into large blots on her collar She looked guilty. She looked penitent. She looked pathetic. Nick wondered. How could anyone watch this over and over without eventually needing to turn away? How much sympathy could reach out from any one soul? A harsher sense of self-loathing furrowed deeper into his gut, and doubt at the necessity for such anguish bloomed in its place. "I don't know your name," Nick stated in a low voice. Her bright, shiny eyes stared at him in dismay. "I'm sorry. My name is A-" her voice caught for a fraction. "Amy Martin. I was...Mr. O-O'Leary's per-personal assistant." She brushed wonderingly at her cheek again. "Oh, it's all my fault!" She broke down and began to weep in quiet earnest. Nick's expression was solemn and dispassionate. His words came out strangely flat and calm. "How can it be your fault?" "Mrs. O'Leary thinks we were having an affair, and it's not true. But--" She looked away in distress. "She's mad with him at she shouldn't be. He was the nicest man and I ruined his marriage with my own problems." "And how did you accomplish that?" Nick challenged with a trace of disbelief. "Why, he was consoling me over my boyfriend. We've been having lots of problems lately." Amy bowed her head with some form of sadness or shame, shrinking her slender form into a smaller huddle. "He'd been using drugs, and Mr. O'Leary knew. It's been affecting Louis' work." "Your boyfriend works here? That wouldn't be Louis Secour, would it?" Amy nodded glumly in answer, disconsolate with the admission. "Is he working right now?" Nick added, increasingly interested in speaking with the fellow. The reply was negative. "I'm sorry. It's his night off. Is that bad?" "Not catastrophic." Nick fidgeted impatiently as Amy searched for a tissue to wipe her nose. "Do you want to press charges against Mrs. O'Leary?" The girl's eyes widened in horror, newfound fluid welling in their depths. "Why would I do that?" An ironic statement, considering how the skin was swollen around her jaw. "She assaulted you. That is a crime. You could have her arrested," Nick informed her. Amy Martin gasped in protest. "Oh, I couldn't do that. She's not wrong. She saw her husband giving me a hug, comforting me. It looked pretty bad, I guess. I offered to explain, but Mr. O'Leary said to not bother, that his wife was just being silly." She was sobbing again, quiet snorts and blows interrupting her words. "I should have talked to her anyhow, but I didn't. I'm such an awful person. The whole misunderstanding is my fault." Nick had heard enough. His unusual resentment had taken verbal form during the girl's ready acceptance of any and all blame. "It's not your problem. You can't take responsibility for the shortcomings of others or the twists of fate. No one can, believe me. You're just being selfish, keeping all the pain to yourself and letting it tear you down inside. You should stop trying." With astonishment, Nick realized that releasing those words felt good. Amy wiped her nose with her sleeve and watched warily as the homicide detective's mouth curved into a grin of contentment. ****************************************************************** End of Part Five Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:08:44 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (06/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************** The lyrics Nick quotes are from the song "Nature Boy" , written by Eden Ahbez. Beginning of Part Six Amy Martin desisted from sending any legal retribution Mrs. O'Leary's way. She staunchly protested granting the right to punish anyone but herself for the night's blowup. Nick, feeling his hands were tied and just a bit disgusted, turned Amy over to the care of her co-workers with some relief. Clare bundled Maude into a brand-new taxi, giving the driver orders to deposit the woman at a neighbor's house with absolutely no detours. Nick shared the contents of his session with Amy, especially the data concerning her boyfriend, and Clare agreed the man deserved further attention. "I obtained his address from personnel. I also received confirmation from shipping that Louis Secour did, in fact, sign out the beer shipment that Frank O'Leary drowned in, " Nick explained, waving a piece of paper which Clare snatched away for a quick perusal before returning it. "Barger, though he couldn't confirm any problem offhand, offered to find the employee drug reports for us and fax them to the station." Riding in the Caddie, Clare slipped Nicholas curious looks. She still sensed that he was disturbed and prepared to rage. Dealing with the meek Miss Martin had not eased matters in the slightest. In contrast, Nicholas seemed more relaxed within the fit of his foul temper and prepared to allow it free rein. Louis Secour lived in a small house not too far from the brewery. Nick and Clare strolled up the weedy drive to the front door, knocked, and identified themselves as Metro Police. They heard a scramble inside, which Nick followed by kicking the door in with a blow of his foot. They couldn't see the figure, but they could hear him race through the rooms. "He's heading out the back!" Nick exclaimed. Neither vampire went through the pretense of hefting their firearm. Nick slalomed through the halls on his quarry's trail, while Clare went back out the front door, lifting through the air. Louis Secour had no chance. Nick breathed down his neck before he was halfway across the backyard. Nick vised him about he neck and threw his body flat on the lawn. The brief rush of the hunt lured Nick's instincts forward. For a change, he felt no qualm in expressing them. His eyes glowed and he hissed as Secour attempted to kick away and clamber to his feet. The man moaned his disbelief at the creature before him, collapsing into a fetal position, his arms wrapped about his head. The noise reached Clare, not to mention the sight. She dropped to the ground, heaving Nicholas' figure several feet away. He thrashed about and appeared ready to pounce on her in return with a growled threat. "What are you doing?!?" she railed. His stance seemed to smolder. "Catching a suspect." Sarcasm ripened his delivery. "Then look at him!" Clare gestured at the man still writhing in the grass, desperately wailing for the visions to go away. "He's incapable of going anywhere! He's in the middle of a drug trip, and you're making it turn for the worse, in addition to jeopardizing us." Nick swaggered around her, pulling his handcuffs loose. He yanked Louis Secour's arms behind his back. One flailed freely, slapping the demons away, only to incense Nicholas further. He snapped Secour's free limb back again, and Clare thought she heard a crack before the sound of the closing cuff latch. The suspect undoubtedly secured, Clare forced Nick to release his hold on the man. "Dammit, Nick! Let him go!" She was exasperated and furious, exacting all her composure not to physically rip into him. Nick's face twisted, and he stumbled in retreat. "You know, you almost sound like Natalie." He began to chortle maniacally, stalking towards the front yard. "Where are you going?" she protested. She turned to Louis, who was mumbling incoherently into the night air. "Where's he going?" Clare sighed, and squatted beside the fearful man. She brushed his hair back and commanded intently, "You have witnessed nothing tonight. You will remember only the sweetest of dreams in the morning and an eagerness to cooperate with the police. We're going to the car, and when you get in, you will fall asleep. Quietly. Peacefully. All right?" Louis stared forward in a haze, offering up a mellow gurgling sound. Clare helped him to a standing position, rubbing down his arms to search for breaks. She thought she felt a fracture in the right humerus, so Clare gently prodded the man to march in front of her, giving him verbal orders that he followed like the best of trained pups. Reaching the Cadillac, Clare spotted Nick roaming down the street. She opened the car's back door, sat Louis Secour inside and reminded him, "Go to sleep." She slammed the door after making sure the fellow had all limbs within the confines of the Caddie, then Clare stormed down the curbside after her partner. When she had gained all but a few meters behind him, Clare halted him with her voice. "You're going to have to stop, Nicholas. You're out of control." His lips pulled into a taunt. "I'm going *to have to* stop? I am a vampire. I can do whatever I want. Isn't that what thrills you so to shove in my face? You and Lacroix. You can stamp out anyone who tasks you, get under anyone's skin, and you don't care what the consequences are as long as you get your way." Clare's disdain for this suggestion was apparent. "But you still miss the point. You're a vampire, yes. You are *not* Bela Lugosi, Nosferatu, or some demon from the bowels of Hell. It isn't black or white, good or evil. When is that concept going to penetrate your thick head?" Nick bared his fangs, and arrogantly leaned to sniff under Clare's jaw. "What's the matter, Clare? I've seen the light, or the darkness, as it were. Don't you want to share some of the action?" She tilted her head and brushed him away. "I don't understand you, Nicholas. It's as if you deliberately make everything difficult. The way you take a problem and mentally grasp it--it's as though your brain is missing an opposable thumb." Nick sneered, looking askance, but she continued to speak. "I'll tell you what I want. I want you to think long and hard. I want you to actually sit back and employ reason for a change. You know, sometimes you can actually be downright likable. Other periods, like right now, you're an abyss, a black hole just sucking the enjoyment out of everything." "I am a vampire. I destroy things. I am a servant to death and pain." Nick mocked. Clare resisted, placing a hand on his chest. "No. *No*. That isn't true." Her voice was entreating, but firm. "Listen to me. You are falling apart. I know that. Lacroix knows that. But we can't help you. Natalie can't help you. The ghosts of Janette, Schanke, Tracy--they are *not* going to help you. You have to help yourself." Nick looked away, silent in torment. "It isn't life or death that is the issue. It isn't morals." Clare gently turned his face to look in her eyes, to see that she was being truthful and sincere. "It is a question of happiness. You don't know how to be happy, do you? You aren't angry at Lacroix's vices or mine; you are jealous of our contentment with what we are." The shroud of grief came over him again, draping forlornly over his features. He was frantic. He was in despair. "I want to be different than what I am," Nick choked in a simple plea. Clare released a ragged breath. "There isn't a cure for misery. There is no one to imitate. Simply becoming mortal again, or the most ferocious undead creature you can imagine-- it will make no difference. There is not a magic wand to sway in order to solve your sadness. No one can rescue you but yourself. It is unreasonable--no, selfish-- to expect otherwise. Surely you have experienced moments when you were overjoyed, simply pleased with the world and your own merits over the centuries. Follow those thoughts. The path *you* chose to feel that way. Maybe you can find something more stable to cling to than this agony." With a thoughtful frown, she added, "And Nicholas?" He was touched by her words. Something inside sparked, flared to life, and accepted the sense of her counsel. For a first step, Nick chose to listen. He took her hand, answering quietly. "What, Clare?" She earnestly offered an encouraging smile. "Don't be scared of your past. Do not let it shame you. Shame is a vicious playmate. It bites and it scars. If you can accept the good and the bad of your actions, learn from them both, you will become a better, much stronger, man from the effort." A whisper of hope graced his face, beaming forth a promise of the future ahead. "Why did you take this job? So you could watch over Natalie? Give me advice?" Nick teased mildly. "You may find it impossible to conceive, but I always intended to be helpful. At first, I thought that I could be a crutch. You had lost two mortal partners. If you worked with another vampire, you wouldn't have to worry about their protection. The same applied to Natalie. When we went to the morgue, she could relax in our company, unafraid of letting herself slip. But I suppose nothing worthwhile remains so simple for long. You have been very difficult," chastised Clare. "Are you satisfied with that answer?" He nodded gruffly. "I need to be alone for now." Nick pulled out his car keys and passed them over. "Can you manage Secour?" "I dare say I will manage just perfectly. He's going to need to sleep it off, anyway. I thought that I would partake in a glance around his house, then drop him off at the precinct." "Well, there's book of regulations in the glove compartment," Nick suggested. "If you have any questions." "I think we have passed the point of any misgivings about the rules already tonight," Clare retorted. He squeezed the palm he held before letting it drop to her side. "Thank you. For everything." "You're welcome. Be safe, Nicholas," she answered, then watched him tread alone down the dimly lit road. ***************************************************************** Clare observed Louis Secour's form snuggled in the Caddie's back seat, his snores detectable through the windowpane. She re-entered the house, probing for drug paraphernalia or anything of equal interest. She rummaged through drawers, cabinets, under beds, behind the clock, and in general, found nothing of note. Stymied, Clare ventured into the connecting one-car garage. Like many of its kind, there was no car to be found within this shelter. Instead, the floor was littered from wall to wall with boxes, the bodies of spiders suffering repellent-induced paralysis, and tools of varying sizes and shapes. Clare wrinkled her nose with disfavor, but buckled down and gave the garage contents her best look-see. A goodly number of the boxes appeared to contain beer: crates of twelve six-packs each. They sported varying degrees of fullness and dust. Secour no doubt obtained them at different times. The least worn of the containers missed only a single bottle. Clare plundered her memory for the shipping number Nick had shown her earlier. Could this case of beer have been lifted from the evidence shipment? It looked like a match, so Clare borrowed an unopened draft. She meandered back to the front of the house, her newly primed eyes latching onto another, yet uncapped, beer on the den table. Lifting it, Clare realized the bottle was half full. She doused a fingertip with the liquid, giving the brew a thorough sniffing. Frowning in distaste, she wondered if there was more to this shipment than just hops, water and syrup. Drifting to the kitchen, she wandered through the shelf contents for some sort of plastic wrap to guard from spilling the sample. She arrived at the precinct in good time, speeding only somewhat, burning just a small fraction of the rubber in Nick's tires. On her way, she used her cell phone to set up the labwork she wanted: analysis of the contents of both beer bottles, as well as a urine and blood sample from Secour. She kindly provided for a technician to draw the blood, rather than give the job her personal touch. She took Louis to lockup. As the night was slow and the blocks were uncrowded, Clare requested in a quite persuasive manner that her suspect remain in a private cell. She received no argument. Tiptoeing through the bullpen, Clare tried to determine if the faxes Victor Barger had promised of Louis Secour's drug tests had arrived. A few quiet questions asked of Officer Miller found the papers, which Clare happily read. On two separate occasions in the past six months, Secour had tested positive for LSD. She shared the significance with Officer Miller. "Oh, there was a delivery for you, too." The policewoman looked frankly envious, drawing Clare's attention to her desktop. It was a bouquet of gardenias, maybe two dozen blooms off a Cape jasmine. Clare picked out one flower, touching the waxy snow-white petals. She brushed the pulpy yellow center under her nostrils, and the scent, rich and exotic, wafted through her. There was a card. Clare lifted it delicately, slipping the paper free of its envelope and staring at the words it contained. She closed her eyes briefly, then ensconced the message in her pocket. Offering the lone blossom to Miller, Clare spoke. "I'll take the arrangement with me. You'll brief Captain Reese, won't you? I have an urgent lead. So long..." She left the officer to sputter as she headed back to the Cadillac for her next mission. ****************************************************************** Nick intended to walk aimlessly through the night, searching for some answer to the formidable task of his deliverance. To hunt himself, not some object, no legendary book or cup, no treatment or medication. Could he already be aware of the secret to his own salvation, as Clare had intimated? Beyond mortality, beyond the vampire--just a measure of contentment defined the goal. The thought that his peace of mind lay within his own heart, not the grand philosophy or religion of another, was a revelation. Perhaps that was why he had always fallen short. He attempted to live up to someone else's expectations, someone else's plan or formula for fulfillment, but never his own. But what did his own entail? Nick found that he had subconsciously returned to his loft. , he mused, So near to the entrance lay the bane of his torment--the kitchen. He paused through the cabinets, noting how empty they sat. There was so little of him inside. Only a few pots and pans provided for the use of people other than himself. Last night, he had dumped the remnants of the cracked blender in the trash. The plastic shards still waited there for the final discard into a bin outside. He closed the lower cabinet, realizing that it made him nervous to look at the pieces. Turning away, the refrigerator confronted his sight. He was afraid to open it, afraid what that action might mean. He was frightened that the shelves contained his undoing, a method to scatter every other thought from his head but the fever for the taste. He was terrified that he was nothing more than a vessel for the blood. Maybe if it was taken away, there would be nothing left--perhaps he was only the blood. Partnering this doubt danced shame, the undeniable shame if the emptiness was true. He stepped away from the kitchen, choosing instead to wander about his possessions. He ran his fingers over the top of a canvas. His art. That was something. He found joy and release in painting, transforming the images from nothing to an expression of his soul. Whether the product was intrinsically beautiful or horrific, he had no regrets about the process. He smiled with pleasure. It was a merit. He was an artist. Nick next felt himself pulled towards the piano. His fingers began to form around a melody before he had assumed position at the bench. He indulged in playing for several minutes, letting the sounds flow around him and echo in the open room. His hands stilled on the keys. Nick closed his eyes as he savored the reverberation, the fading waves of the tune still repeating in his head. He swam in the awe that an amalgamation of tones could alter the air into magic, serenading the sullen heart. He was a musician. Another merit. Nick began to warm to the project, lifted a book here, a photograph there, and finally, plunged into his memories, considering his past. He had known so many people over the years, regarded many of them with affection, but mere handfuls had he truly loved. His parents and his sister had been the first. They were part of him, they had molded him, and he still cherished their memory. Then he encountered Janette. With Janette he had delved into charm and flirtation. He felt capable of the impossible, and in the end, that is what he became. He was a crusader. He was noble, admirable and righteous. These were facets Janette let him discover in himself. Around her he became receptive to his own sensuality. She urged him on, and set him free. That had been an incredible gift. Nicholas agreed. And Lacroix. The nature of his feelings for Lacroix was almost inexpressible. Nick did love him...his closest friend, brother, another father. In his sire's presence and persecution, what characteristics had he found in himself of note? Of which to be proud? Strength. He had to be a strong person to aspire to stand against Lacroix's will for a moment, much less over and over throughout the centuries. Nick shook his head in amazement. Compassion. The memory of placing his hand in comfort on Lacroix's shoulder as he prepared to destroy Divia's corpse floated back to him. Then there was Alyssa, his wife. He had believed that making her a vampire would be a blessing. He would have committed to love her for eternity. Yes, once upon a time he could share what he was unabashedly, never second-guessing the consequences. For a shining moment he had faith. The idea of faith and love brought him irrevocably to Natalie. He had been haunted, unworthy and broken intermittently since he met her that April night years ago. On the other side of the coin, he had experienced more cause for hope and rejoicing than ever before. In the glint of her angel eyes, he knew he was proud of himself and his accomplishments. He believed he could help people. He could be a hero. Maybe that explained his panic and pain at her recent pulling away--it was the assumption that without her he had none of these virtues. Nick understood now that he couldn't change Natalie, he couldn't control her, but he could still have faith in himself. Lastly, Nick had loved Schanke. How much of his own hope and rejoicing had derived not only from faith and affection, but camaraderie, humor, and trust. Nick moved abruptly back to the fridge and opened the door without trepidation. He stood and examined the contents without repent, without qualm. Rows of green bottles lined before him, along with one white and black tube that Lacroix had presented to him months earlier. They did not control him. They would not control him. A calm wonder had settled over Nick. It was a start, an initial hill, and he felt incredulous at the achievement. Regardless of what lay in the future for him, he appreciated one concept. Like the line in a song, He had unearthed something more stable to cling to and was ready to leave the loft. It was time to respond to the question of Myra and Jen Schanke's well-being. He would go to their house and watch for any sign of trouble. Clare still had the Caddie, so he flew. Nick hid in the shadows near the Schanke abode for half an hour before he observed a swaddled figure trip quietly down the front steps and street. He guessed the figure was a man from his height and his girth, but had no clue as to the fellow's features. There was a dark toboggan cap pulled over the man's head, a scarf wrapped about his neck and lower face, as well as a long, baggy coat that draped him from shoulder to knees. Nick trailed behind the mysterious person, noting that he entered a non-descript sedan about a block away, driving off. Nick rose into the air, choosing to fly in pursuit. ****************************************************************** Clare pulled the Caddie up to the curb scant minutes after the Schanke's midnight guest had departed. She missed the sight of the man skulking to his car and Nick soaring after him into the night sky. She had lowered the convertible's top, desiring the breeze of the motion to muss her hair. It proved to have a relaxing effect, and as she threw the auto into park, Clare debated whether or not to raise the roof. She was debating more than just convertible tops. Knowing there was a rabbit in the magician's hat was quite a different thing from pulling it out, exposing the mammal to the audience. So was it worth the trouble for Clare to win her bet with Nicholas? Just what kind of trauma was she destined to handle if she did win? Clare shrugged to herself, turning her attention to the house. Getting out of the Caddie, she moved for a closer inspection. She chose to bring her gardenias along, sniffing them absentmindedly as she peeked in the downstairs windows. There was no one in the kitchen, no one in the den or dining room. Clare floated to the upstairs, aiming first to examine a lighted room. It was Myra's bedroom; she was getting ready for bed. Perfectly innocuous. Another window, second-floor center front, darkly lit. Clare landed on the roof, walking delicately to look inside. The room contained a sleeping Jen Schanke. The girl was hibernating between two impossibly large pillows, her head resting on neither, one arm hooked over each. Her dark hair streaked as if it were a cloud running across the purple sky of her pillowcases. The tortoiseshell was curled into a ball at what appeared to be the crook of Jen's blanketed right knee. Clare couldn't resist entering and found the window unlocked, maybe because it was supposed to be too high and inaccessible. The cat blinked sleepily at her as she pushed the pane up and slipped inside. She carefully moved one of the pillows so that it was no longer stuffed in the girl's face, wondering at Jen's ability to breathe through its wadding. Moonlight poured into the room from the clear night sky, bathing them both with halos. Clare simply sat and watched Jen sleep, feeling lulled herself by the rise and fall of the girl's chest. The cat had begun to purr rhythmically, and Clare scratched it behind its velvet ears. Minutes passed, then Jen became agitated, crying out softly in her sleep. "Shhh," Clare soothed, brushing a palm over the girl's stressed forehead. Jen's hand clutched in her sleep for the relocated pillow, and Clare swiftly pushed it back into place. The girl quieted, feeling secure once more. Clare let her hand trail from Jen's brow and over her soft hair. "Sweet dreams," she murmured softly as she stood once more. Picking up the bouquet from where she'd left it on the floor, Clare leaned the flowers on the bedside table. She tiptoed back to the window, ducked into the fresh air, and slid the frame into place. Then her cellular phone rang. Not waiting to spare a glance indoors again, Clare leapt off the roof and into the Caddie before the second pulse. By the third she had started the car, pulled away from the curb, and answered. "It's Clare." "Hello. This is Feliks. I have completed that research you requested." His voice sounded happy and expectant over the line. "I guess you found something interesting," she prodded. "I would say so. I suppose that you are already aware Donald Schanke died almost a year ago?" "Yes," Clare confirmed with a bit of hesitation. "It is strange, though...His police pension is available to the wife and child, but it remains uncollected. The same holds true for his life insurance. Did you realize Nicholas had a trust fund set up for the girl?" "No, I didn't. I gather that it is untouched as well." "Exactly. They have existed off of Myra Schanke's income. The penultimate curiosity concerns residences. They maintain the home you described, but also an apartment across town." Feliks rattled out an address. "It's a one-bedroom studio in a large, anonymous complex. Not exactly convenient for a mother and child. I expect you have some theory as to who lives there?" Clare bit her lower lip. "I'm afraid so." A moment of silence, then she wrapped up. "I'm glad that you found the information in such a timely manner. Oh, and Feliks?" "Yes, Clare?" "Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful." "Who deserves them more?" Clare smiled wistfully and broke the connection, whispering to herself. "Only the angels." ****************************************************************** The non-descript sedan traveled for about forty minutes before pulling into an underground parking lot. Nick landed outside and drifted through the shadows of the cement cavern on foot. It looked like a hotel or an apartment building, maybe twenty floors high. The only sounds came from the man heaving out of his car, slamming the door, and the motorized ventilation shafts of the enclosed space. Nick saw the man move towards an elevator, pulling out a ring of keys to unlock the outer doors. The fellow recalled the elevator, and began to tug at the scarf mummifying his neck and lower face as the doors slid open. Nick held back until the elevator began to close, then rushed into the chamber. The man had just pulled off his toboggan, and exclaimed with startled surprise at the sudden movement. Both men gaped at each other in recognition. Nick, dumbfounded as he was, realized he spoke involuntarily in an astonished tone. "Schanke." ****************************************************************** End of Part Six Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:20:19 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (07/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ************************************************************** Beginning of Part Seven Schanke was giddy. "Oh, Jesus! Nick!" "Is that your idea of a welcome?" the vampire's voice was stilted and bewildered. Schanke ran both hands over his face, as if to wipe away the dismay. He then leaned against the lift rail, looking exhausted and strained. "God, Nick. I don't know what to say. To run into you like this, you know? I mean, where do I start? How do I start? This is beyond uncomfortable." Schanke shifted his weight between feet and added, "How did you find me? Did Myra tell you?" Nick shook his head. "Find you? You're the last man I expected to confront. No, I was just tracking an unknown guy that I observed leaving the Schanke house. Someone that Myra and Jen were hiding. I was being protective in *your* memory." Schanke managed to look sheepish. "Gee, thanks, Nick. So you're just as surprised as I am?" "More so, I would dare say. You are *supposedly* dead," Nick retorted, nodding towards the lift door. "Is there someplace where we can talk?" "I'm leasing an apartment here," Schanke admitted as the elevator drew to a halt. "Then we'll go there." They walked stiffly down the hall, speaking no further. Schanke stopped in front of a door and inserted his key. He stopped before turning the lock, giving Nick a worried glance. "Look, I can't hold this back any longer. I'm sorry I didn't let you know I was still around. I am so sorry. But I promised--" "You *will* explain everything. Later." Nick's voice was curt, burdened with emotion. "Just open the door, Schanke. I don't want to have to do this in the hall." Schank swallowed nervously, felt the latch unlock, and pushed inside. Flipping the light switch, his tiny foyer was bathed in light. "I don't have much stuff here. We were planning to move in a couple months." "Yeah. To Chicago. Myra *did* mention that." Nick examined the apartment's contents. Schank was right--the place was rather devoid of furnishings and space. It was basically a den with a kitchenette. There was one other door, Nick assumed it led to a bedroom. The furniture consisted of a sofa, and a circular table with two wooden chairs. The table was covered with a single, thick- rung notebook. The most redeeming feature of the place was an enormous window that covered two-thirds of the far wall. With the clear night sky, the view of the Toronto skyline was fabulous. "Right. I was in the upstairs bedroom when you rang the doorbell. Talk about having a heart attack. My knees were knocking harder than two squirrels in springtime. I snuck out while you were in the kitchen with Myra. Kicked the tires of the Caddie on my way past. It's still looking as smooth a ride as ever." He still looked nervous, rubbing his thumb under his collar. Nick's gaze had focused upon a familiar object. Schanke's god-awful ugly lamp. He remembered Schanke sharing his loft, transforming it into a 'bachelor pad' for a couple days. He caught himself staring and moved over to the table, flipping the notebook open. "What's this?" Schanke protested his inspection, waving his hands. "Just a few pictures. Nothing important." But it was important. The notebook contained newspaper clippings and photocopies covering the past year: the investigation of the plane crash, the bombings of several Metro precincts and death of Vudu, the Jerry Show murders, the killings surrounding Christine Black and Dr. Ben McGee, the Jordan Manning murders, on up through the deaths associated with NeoGen Corporation. Every case Nick had worked on since Schanke's plane went down that had been mentioned in the news was given tribute. Tracy's obituary occupied one page, her smiling face of an academy portrait captured in newsprint. Nick felt overwhelmed. He closed his eyes, running his fingers across the photo. "I tried to keep track of what you were up to," Schanke intoned humbly. "To see if you *could* manage without me around." Nick stepped away from the table and enveloped his friend in an enormous hug. "Oh, God, Schank--I missed you." He returned the embrace, patting Nick on the back, his voice choking back, "I missed you, too. Man, Nick. I figured you'd want to kick my butt from here to Timbuktu!" "Don't give me any ideas." Nick replied gruffly, pushing back from Schanke. "I'm still furious with you. You've been alive all this time and didn't breathe a word. I feel betrayed. How can I not feel betrayed?" Don frowned and looked prepared to offer an explanation, but there was a knock at the apartment door. Then both Nick and Schanke frowned. "It's one in the morning--Are you expecting anybody?" questioned Nick. "I guess it could be one of the neighbors..." Schank walked to the entrance as Nick put his hand on his firearm out of protective habit. Schanke gazed through the peephole and let out a wolfish whistle. "Hel-lo..." Nick paused in pulling out his gun, and awareness settled over him. "It's okay, Schank...I think." He then rapidly unlatched the door and swung it open. Clare waited on the other side. Her welcoming smile had fallen farther than a hole drilled to China. Rather than ply for an invitation to enter, Clare stormed inside. "What are you doing here, Nicholas?" she de