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 demanded. "I could ask you the same, Clare," Nick retorted. Schanke's eyes widened. "You're Clare? Nick's new partner Clare?" "*Temporary* partner," corrected Nick. "*Temporary to permanent* partner." Clare corrected the correction, extending her hand politely, delivering the kindly expression she had planned before she felt Nicholas through the door. "I gather Myra mentioned me?" "Well, Jen did, actually. She thought you were pretty cool." At this comment, Clare beamed in Nick's direction a glow which seemed to translate 'See? I *am* cool. Silly boy.' "So you've heard of each other." Nick was still obviously displeased. "That still doesn't explain what she's doing here." He looked accusingly in Schanke's direction. Schanke shrugged. "Hey, consider me a blank slate--fill me in." Both men looked expectantly in Clare's direction. She didn't disappoint. "Detective Donald Schanke was my project for our wager, Nicholas. Shall I explain the bet for you?" Nick looked ambivalent, but Schanke nodded in encouragement. "You see, Nicholas was not thrilled to find out I was his new partner. He can get so cranky and moody. Then, he acts as though he is the only homicide detective in Toronto." "Tell me about it. Mr. I'm-Either-Away-Or-Incommunicado. No problems with sharing there," Schank agreed. Nick glared at him. "I hear Timbuktu has lots of sand. Do you still have those flip-flops?" Schanke gulped. "Uh,...You were saying something about a bet?" "So to nip that problem in the bud, I suggested a challenge. I would solve a case that Nicholas overlooked or closed incorrectly, and he would cease questioning my partnership." "She has to accomplish this before we finish our latest one," Nick interjected. "The Frank O'Leary case?" Nick nodded, so Schanke continued, asking Clare. "You mean to say that you figured out I was alive for this bet?" "That is exactly what I did." "All right. I'll bite. Why wasn't Schanke on the plane? Where has he been for the past year? And most importantly, Schank--Why?" Nick placed desperate emphasis on the last question. "Well," Schanke debated. "It's kind of complicated. It all started...I don't know when." He shook his head in frustration. "But it all ended with that plane ride..." ****************************************************************** Schanke's Plane Story Don wore the good suit, just as Nick had suggested. It was navy and double-breasted, with a natty pinstripe. His shirt was white with a button-down collar. His tie was red, with a pattern just flamboyant enough to indicate that he was a Schanke man. He'd kissed Myra and Jen goodbye, gotten a haircut special for the occasion, had his shoes shined, popped a couple Dramamine (flight sickness, don'tcha know) then showed up at the Ninety-Sixth during the daytime. Just how often did that happen? He was pretty nervous at all the press attention waiting for Captain Cohen, Dawes, and him at the airport, and it seemed that nine times out of ten, Nick was the one who ended up on camera. Was it the blonde hair? The knight in shining armor demeanor? Schanke had long ago given up sweating over that one. He was determined that this prisoner transport would go off smoothly, and he would come out smelling like a rose. In the end, he'd gotten worked up over the whole project. He'd even had a dream of his death, standing naked in a bowling alley. Talk about letting the stress get to you. Don was certain some rogue reporter was going to snag him picking his nose or something equally humiliating. That little gem would show up on the evening news, not his brilliantly rehearsed treatise on 'Donald Schanke--Making the Western World Safe for You' complete with a perfectly timed wink aimed at the general public. He'd been nigh on bursting, counting the mental rosebuds, when the interviews went well. Except for that moment towards the end of his speech when Cohen could be seen covering a yawn, they'd gotten the prisoner through to the detectors without a hitch. The group made their way to the ticket counter, then everything decided to go screwy. He'd made the reservations himself, so Nothing Would Go Wrong. Due to a computer error (Yeah right. More like some rookie flight clerk spilled their OJ on the keyboard just as they typed in three consecutive coach seats under the name Schanke. Some computer error.), Don had ended up with a pair and one lone seat in two different rows. How were the Captain and he supposed to escort a felon in sync with that seating arrangement? Hand signals? Instead of roses, Schanke felt as though he was beginning to smell like one of those hanging pine tree deodorizers people slung over their rearview mirrors. A strong artificial scent to overpower something stinky. Finally, Cohen insisted that they board the plane, saying that they would make the problem turn out for the best, meanwhile giving Schanke a look that said, Once they boarded the plane, Don tried to keep close contact. One of the first rules in escorting a prisoner is keeping close contact. So he stood at the end of the row Cohen and Dawes were placed in, holding the fort. This plan didn't work out well, either. Being coach, the plane aisles were extremely narrow. Narrower than Captain Cohen and the flight attendant's lips as they frowned at his location. Okay, so he blocked the walkway. It was a tight squeeze, for he *was* a decent block of manhood, and not just because of the two souvlakis with double onions he'd sniped for lunch. Mothers, fathers, little old ladies and small children were either intimidated or irritated at the thought of squishing past him, but Schanke was just trying to do his job. Finally, he decided to sit down. Only when he turned, Don was struck upside his head, like a bolt of judgment from heaven. First Schanke felt the burning of his jaw, the unreal crack-crunch of a tooth exploding, and the sensation of his dental bridge (a remnant of youthful hockey fun in Milwaukee) becoming an UFO. Don felt his mouth burn in pain and flailed about. Then he experienced someone treating his head as if it were the last spike of the Transcontinental Railroad. Bam!--Right on top of his skull! He was dizzy, lisping exclamations, and bleeding all over his good suit. The culprit responsible blinked at him in horror, but Schanke suspected he saw the twinges of a grin in the guy's face, too. Man, the guy didn't look like he packed such a sledgehammer wallop--it must have been that the guitar case he carried was lined with steel or tungsten, or an equally impressive metal. Schanke swayed as needles jabbed through his mouth and head. He heard Captain Cohen order him to get the blood cleaned up. He would be dead when Myra got ahold of him and the state of his best clothes. There were rivulets of blood trailing down his white shirtfront and onto his suit. What would the dry cleaner think? His personal scent-o-meter that judged how the trip was going plunged from artificial tree to something resembling a skunk's nether regions. Don stumbled after the stewardess, towards the front of the plane in search of a wet-nap. He made it to their station between first class and coach before the effects of the brain-panning and Dramamine combined to make him irresistibly nauseous. The memory of his two souvlakis spewed over the cabin, decking the walls like a Jackson Pollack painting (Myra had a lot of art books). The room turned blue, then yellow, and finally, a peaceful sleepy black. "Remembering this makes me hungry. Can I get you something to eat? Or drink?" Schanke offered, heading for his kitchenette. "No, thank you," Clare called, then added quietly for Nick's benefit, "That event made him hungry, and he needed Dramamine for a baby plane trip? Now that's a dyslexic gastrointestinal disorder." "So, did you know about the fellow with the guitar?" Nick wondered softly. "I *know* the fellow with the guitar--It was Vachon." "What? He didn't mention anything to Tracy or me!" "Vachon says You-Didn't-Ask. How was he supposed to know playing croquet with the head of a police official was important?" Clare defended. "I didn't ask. That makes sense." Nick sighed as Schanke returned to the room carrying a soda and an inordinately large piece of pizza. The notes of eau de garlic floating through the air made both vampires wrinkle their noses. Schanke hefted his goodies onto the round table. "I knew Nick wouldn't eat anything--he never does--but what about you, Clare? Are you on one of those New Age diets too?" "You don't have any fruit here, do you?" Clare responded. "No...Why?" "Because I'm a frutarian. I only eat fruit." "Like pineapple and mangoes and stuff? How can you only eat fruit?" "Well, it takes about ten years to wean everything else from your diet, but just think--I'm not killing anything to survive!" "Only eating their young," Nick teased and Clare glared at him, while he mouthed the word 'Liar!' Schanke was oblivious, commenting, "Well, I guess it's either that or eating rocks." Both Clare and Nick choked back their laughter. "Talk about a meal fortified with minerals," Nick joked. "You know, there once was a desert tribe that ate only rocks," Clare added. "They were people with true grit." Perhaps they were punchy from the seriousness of the night's earlier events, or slightly hysterical from the tension which still slunked in the dark corners of the room. Whatever the reason, they all lost it, chuckling uncontrollably. Schanke snorted and wiped his eyes. "Ouch. Where was I?" "You'd just passed out on the plane." "Yeah, right. And a one...And a two...And a--" Don woke up in one of the airport offices, sprawled on a stretcher. His gums felt raw and bloody, as did his head. He moved to sit up, but his brain began to bounce between his ears. He was alone, except for a frantic-looking secretarial person who anxiously fiddled with the tuner on a small radio. "'L-Lo?" Don said, finding it a challenge to form his lips and tongue around a rudimentary greeting. The secretary jumped, startled that there was someone else alive and making noises in the room. Schanke had collapsed again, watching the fluorescent lights of the ceiling swirl. The secretarial person scurried over to his stretcher-side. "Oh, dear," the man fretted. "You don't look very well. Are you going to be okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" Don tried to inform the man that he had eight fingers, and that he should probably see a doctor about the surplus, but his mouth just warbled incoherently. Much to his dismay, he also drooled. "Oooh. You aren't doing well at all! Let me see if I can find some medical people--I'm afraid they've all rushed out to the crash site." The many-fingered man zipped out of view, closing the office door behind him with enough of a clatter that Schanke saw stars. Again. Time passed. At least he thought time passed, he wasn't precisely sure. Schanke gritted his teeth (mainly what was left of them) and pulled himself into a seated position. He pushed himself to his feet, trying to stabilize his balance by holding onto any furniture scattered throughout the room. He gingerly began to step towards the door. The door did not choose to cooperate. Instead of standing stationary like a good, useful door, this one did a hula dance. Don imitated the wiggle in an attempt to keep his eyes in line with the motion. Apparently objects were also closer than they appeared, for he bumped into the door, and would have lost his footing had he not fortuitously grabbed onto the doorknob. Both Schanke and the door swayed backwards. He scowled at the hunk of wood--Don was supposed to move it, not the other way around. He inched his way through the entrance, finding himself in an alcove off an enormous terminal. He swayed across the floor, bumping into only a handful of people. Unfortunately, after one collision he dropped his wallet. It was destined to become the property of an elderly man with pinochle debts. Schanke stumbled to a flight display as if it were a holy shrine. His flight...had gone. Dejected, he shuffled through the terminal, deciding to lean against the wall for support. He would make his way back to his car, then venture home to expose the state of his suit to Myra. He bobbed and he weaved, dreaming of the field day the guys at the precinct would have because he missed the flight to Edmonton. Stepping outside, Don's floating brain was picturing Myra's face at the bloodstains paired with an image of his standing naked in a bowling alley. He moved off the curb, and not paying attention to the road (as is frequently the case with victims of head trauma), Schanke did not perceive the taxicab bulldozing his way. One big thump later, unconsciousness embraced Don once more. "A-ha!" Clare exclaimed. "So you were in a coma this past year!" Schanke shook his head. "No coma." "You had amnesia?" Nick proposed. Clare rolled her eyes at the thought, and he protested stridently, "It *could* happen!" Schanke was dejected. "Nope. No amnesia." "Well, since we're being outrageous," Clare gave Nick a pointed look. "How about...you were mistaken for an escaped mental patient and committed against your will to an asylum. Paperwork non-withstanding, it took Myra a year to spring you." "No. No asylum. Why would anyone mistake me for an escaped mental patient?" Clare shrugged innocently, attempting to not snicker. "Then *what* happened?" Nick pleaded. "I'm getting to that," insisted Schanke. Don awoke in the intensive care section of Toronto General. His head sported a large bandage, Schanke could feel that much, though he was still foggy. He had an IV hooked to one arm, and an identification bracelet encircled his other wrist. The bracelet read...John...Doe... thought Schanke. He coughed, and his chest hurt from the force. A nurse entered his cubicle and expressed surprise that his eyes were open. "Well, well stranger. We didn't expect to see you alert for another two days. You've been through quite a rigmarole, you know." Don grunted his assent--he *felt* like he'd been through something. Something large without brakes. "Hmm. You aren't quite alert enough to talk, eh? No shock there...First you had that nasty concussion and cracked ribs from the car accident...then you had all that nausea from the concussion--you must have breathed something in, because five days later you had a raging bout of pneumonia. I bet that we can put off forms for a few days...At least until the erythromycin kicks in..." Schanke wheezed his agreement and fell back into slumber. He dozed off and on for the next two days, never really having the strength to do much more than groan at the comments of orderlies and their brethren. He'd been in the hospital for eight days before he sat up, fed himself a meal, and performed other interesting personal functions. Now the nurses wanted his name and insurance information before they moved him to a regular room for another couple of days. Schank gave his name(though with his teeth still absent, it sounded like Donald Thanke), but the rest, well that information was at home with Myra. There had been no identification on him when he was carted off in the ambulance, and he assumed everyone believed he was in Alberta still, hence the lack of visitors. He could lift his arm and dial a phone--it was time to call Myra. "Hello?" She answered after many rings, her voice soft and strained. "Hey, hon. You'll never gueth where I am!" Screams emitted from the other end, and the connection terminated. "Myra? Myra!" Schank dropped the phone, yanked himself out of bed, and groped for the closet. Ignoring the breeze from the back of his gown, he scrambled for his stored clothing. His shirt and suit were missing--maybe they had been cut off of him in Emergency? He peeked around the doorjamb to his room, waiting until he heard the commotion associated with a STAT before attempting to sneak past the nurses' station. Shuffling successfully, Don slipped into a stairwell and descended one floor with tender steps. Stepping out into a new hallway, Schanke peered into private rooms until he spotted one that was occupied, yet temporarily empty for surgical purposes. Hunting in their closet, Schanke discovered a suitcase replete with a variety of sweatsuits fit for an extremely large man. He expected the pants to plunge about his knees at any second, but their coverage was still more adequate than that of the hospital gown. He also found some tube socks that would suffice, though this other patient's shoes did not fit. He made do with a pair of slippers. Lastly, Don pilfered through the bedside table, spotting a wallet. He lifted two twenties, tried to make a mental note of the name and address of his victim, then shuffled down to the lobby. He hailed a taxi and rode straight to his house. He didn't have a house key, so he anxiously rang the front doorbell. The soft tapping of footsteps approached the other side of the door, and it was lacklusterly cranked open. Myra stood there, mouth agape and eyes reddened. "Oh God, Myra!" Schanke exclaimed, rushing over the threshold to embrace her. "Are you okay? On the phone, when you screamed, I didn't know what to think--Is it Jen? Is she alright?" Myra sputtered, tears running down her face. She ran her gaze over his face, as if she could not trust her vision. Myra smoothed her hands over his cheeks, whispering, "Oh, Donnie...Everything's okay now. Everything's okay. You're okay." She gurgled back a laugh and kissed him. "That's sweet," Clare commented. Nick, sentimental at the picture, nodded in agreement. Schanke almost blushed. "Yeah, it was a moment." He waved his hand, trying to keep the story on track. "We were reunited, and I found out about the plane bombing, that my funeral service had taken place four days earlier, and, well...everything. I saw Jen, and I explained to both of them why I hadn't been on the plane. They coddled me, fed me dinner, and I slept some more. By the time I woke up that evening, Jen had already gone to bed. I suggested to Myra that I call you or the precinct..." "Before you do that, Don, we need to talk," Myra began. "Okay, hon. Let's talk." Myra took his hand, looking unsure as to how to start. "This isn't the first time that I've felt this way, and I know that you have had the same thoughts..." "Thoughts about what, Myra?" "Your job--being a homicide detective." Seeing her husband frown in acknowledgment, Myra rushed on. "You know, last year during the meteor scare, when you talked about quitting and moving to Scottsdale, and when...when you moved into Nick's for a couple days...*that* problem." Schanke rubbed the back of his neck, aiming to relieve some tension. "I know you're upset--you're scared and upset right now, Myra...This isn't good time to jump into a life-changing decision." "Life-changing?" Myra stood up, her face stark. "Life-changing is having your husband get on a plane that blows up. Life-changing is when your husband comes this close," She pinched up her fingers in demonstration. "Night after night to getting his head blown off, and every phone call sets off a panic button in your heart. Life-changing is when the first night in months that you spend with your family, with your daughter, is only because everybody else thinks you're dead!" Myra's face twisted up in exhausted sobs. Don pulled her down beside him, hugging her close. "Shhh, honey. It's going to be okay." "No, it won't. Not if you go back to your job. We'll just lose you again, only this time, fate won't intervene with a guitar case." "So you want me to quit? Okay, I'll quit. I'll just call Nick up and explain first," he offered. Myra shook her head. "If it was that simple, don't you think you would have done it last year? No," She wiped at her cheek with an angry hand. "You're too good. You're too unselfish--you just have to save the world. You'll gradually go back if you're around them..." She suddenly grabbed his hand, her pleading becoming intense. "Make a clean break now. They all think you're dead--let them get on with their lives, and we'll get on with ours. Do it for me. Do it for Jenny." She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. "I love you. I love you, Donnie, and I never want to have to face life without you again. If you love me, please..." Clare and Nick now watched Schanke silently and blankly stare in reflection. He shrugged away the musing, speaking again. "I love Myra. I love Jen. So I did it." ***************************************************************** End of Part Seven Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:25:53 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (08A/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************** Beginning of Part Eight A "You did it?" Nick's voice was incredulous. "Myra just asks you to pretend you're dead--And you do it?" Clare protested on Schanke's behalf, thinking on the loss of Conchobhar. "When you love someone, it is not that simple." "Yes. I realize that," Nick amended. "But it still hurts." "Okay, I know it may sound a bit crazy--just throwing away my whole career, my whole identity, but at the time we weren't exactly thinking rationally." At Nick's wondering look, Schanke continued, practically begging for him to understand. "Myra'd gotten the idea in her head that if I went back on the job, I'd be a dead man. And if I went around any of my friends, I'd be back on the job. It was a vicious circle. As for me, coming so close to the grand finale--I mean, one minute I'm worried about paperwork and Cohen, the next she's gone--just like that." He snapped his fingers in punctuation. "I thought to myself...Don, which is more important to you--being right or being happy? And the road to happiness is warped for a grieving widow and a guy getting over a concussion and pneumonia." "So, you admit that it wasn't right to let us think you were dead?" Nick wasn't being spiteful. He just wanted to hear the words and close the wound. Schanke watched him solemnly. "It was wrong. I hate that I did it. A month passed, two, then I began to regret the decision, but I felt committed. Too much time had passed-- my hands were tied." "Myra was right, though. You will go back. You've already started." "Why do you say that?" Clare was at a loss as to how Nicholas could be so certain of Schanke's leanings. Nick nodded towards the notebook on the table, and Clare walked over to peruse it. "Schank's made notes and records concerning every case I've covered since the plane crash." He looked at Schanke. "You never let go completely, did you?" "No. Though what good it does me, I don't know. Even if Myra encouraged my returning, it's not as if I could just stroll back into the Ninety-Sixth and say 'Oops. I'm not really dead--What say we start over?' There'd be hell to pay." Nick grinned to himself, then towards Clare. "I don't know. I believe there are some people capable of paving the way...If you wanted to come back." Clare looked up from the loop-ringed pages, where she'd been giving a little sneer to a newsprint image of Maeven's face. "It might be a good idea to brief Schanke on the O'Leary case, Nick. There are several *aspects* you may wish to share with him." She turned to Don. "Nick said you were familiar with beer production and the victim was a neighbor." "Which we can do once we reach the loft," Nick proposed. "Loft? Why do we need to go to the loft?" Schanke protested. "It's the closest. You may not have noticed, but the sun's almost up," was the reply. Schanke began to don his coat, scarf and toboggan again. "Let me guess--You want to ride in the trunk." A phone rang. It was Clare's portable--the precinct was on the other end. She listened, paused, then spoke to Nick in an aside. "It's the lab results on some items I pilfered from Secour's place, plus a drug screen for tonight. You have a fax machine at the loft, don't you?" He nodded, so she replied to the officer, "Send a copy via Detective Knight's fax machine. Do you have the number? Good." She broke the connection and inquired of the men, "Am I going to fit as well?" Clare did not appear enthused. She did not skulk in automobiles by habit. After all, her Ferrari's trunk would hold nothing more than a pair of shoes and a toothbrush. She grimaced. Too much light was pouring in the view window, and she was feeling overly peckish to spend the day lurking in the parking garage. "Largest trunk space of its kind," Nick informed her. "You only have to get over the ignobility of sharing." "Don't tell me you've also got that sun problem, Clare. What are you--pod people?" Schanke was incredulous. Clare pulled the Caddie's keys out of her pocket, tossed them to the designated driver (ie., the one who would not burst into flames), then headed out the door on the cusp of another fib session. "No, Schanke. It's not the same thing at all. It's a by-product of my frutarian diet. I don't get enough Vitamin D, so I'm extremely sensitive to sun exposure." "Vitamin D deficiency?" His forehead wrinkled with intellectual contemplation. "Yeah, I've heard of that." "Of course you have, Schank," Nick humored, watched his friend leave in front of him, then closed the door with finality. **************************************************************** Natalie shrugged off her coat as she entered her apartment. Sidney bounced from the bedroom, full of feline chirping relating his day's activities. He pushed his cheeks and hips against Natalie's ankles, then cantered towards the kitchen for feeding time. Natalie lifted the remote control off her coffee table, rotating the blinds so they filtered out all of the dawn sky. The window coverings were similar to Nick's. They had been rapidly installed the week after Clare brought her across, during Nat and Sidney's stay at her sire's vampire-friendly hotel suite. She tossed the remote onto the couch and squinted in displeasure as she observed the black rectangle slip between two cushions. She would have trouble finding the control later, she was positive. Natalie smirked. She had all of eternity before her, yet she experienced a nagging certainty that a generous portion of forever would be spent looking for knickknacks, car keys, and jewelry. A commanding yowl erupted from the kitchen. Sidney was becoming concerned with her non-appearance. Natalie let his noises lure her into his catly den. Over the past month, Sidney had displayed a devout pleasure at her new schedule. She no longer stayed at the morgue for extra hours in the morning. She always fed before she departed for work. Sidney hadn't failed to capitalize on the opportunities available for requesting a food supply. Natalie had not failed to spoil him. She refreshed Sidney's water and kibble before moving to the refrigerator. "Now we get the moist stuff, don't we, Sid?" Her cat looked up from crunching his dry food, the loss of concentration causing the pellet to pop from his mouth and tumble to the floor. The noise of hard meal bouncing on the linoleum made Sidney start with surprise. He prepared to bat the food into submission in punishment for the unexpected sound, but the opening of the fridge door made thoughts of revenge flee his head. He resumed his rotation around Natalie's feet, looking at her expectantly. Both Sidney and his person preferred eating wet food nowadays. Of course, the cat's meal with high water content came in a can with the words 'Science Diet' printed in black on peach. Natalie's liquid diet did not come with labels. It came in bottles with corks, or if she was really good, the carafe that matched her Osterizer. The dilemma was--did Natalie want to be good? She satisfied the cat first, scooping several ounces of squishy goop onto a saucer. Then she fingered her own containers: the human blood that usually only Clare drank when visiting, the cow blood Nat had never quite accepted, and the canister of mix for protein shakes. Natalie chose cow. She uncorked a green bottle as she pulled a glass from the cabinet. The redness splashed and twirled before settling into a tempting hemisphere that bobbled slightly with her movement. She brought the glass and bottle into the living room, kicking off her shoes and cuddling into the sofa. Natalie set the bottle on the coffee table, sucked a deep breath in and out, then took a drink. It seemed to tingle down her throat and swirl through her body. She felt hungrier than before, insatiably hungry. She swallowed another gulp, felt a wave of pleasure, yet some lingering shadow that this taste, this flavor, wasn't enough. She wanted something else, something more, a richer brew flowing through her veins. Natalie tilted her head back, drained the glass, then refilled to the rim. She consumed a long draught, subtracted half of the contents, then sat back once more. She wanted more than the burning, she wanted fire. She needed more than the glow, she wanted memories and sensations. She wanted... Natalie picked up her telephone and dialed. It rang once, twice, then she abruptly hung up. She sat thoughtfully, then chose to push another set of buttons. She heard multiple tones, then the sound of a desk clerk requesting to take a message. Natalie declined. She set the receiver down, deciding to turn on the television. The obnoxious sounds of a morning talk show twittered at her as she lifted her breakfast once more. Another morning, drinking alone with no one to talk to. The frustrating notion struck Natalie that nothing in her life had really changed. She hadn't allowed it. ****************************************************************** "Oof!" Clare grunted as the Caddie soared over a bump, and Nick's knee gouged her in the stomach. "I'm *really* hoping," she growled. "That you have something besides cow stashed at the loft." "One bottle." Nick made the token offering. "From Lacroix's private stock." "Ah. Jackpot. Your Schanke friend narrowly avoids another demise. By the way, I find it odd that you did not rip into him upon discovery. After all, you assaulted practically everyone else yesterday." "That's exaggerating." "Me? Exaggerate? Never!" Clare couldn't see him scoff at that comment; her face was squished up next to the tire jack. She would swear, however, that she *felt* him scoff. Then she sensed an impending mischievousness. "Schanke is my friend. Killing him wouldn't have been practical, not when he's my prize for the bet." "Your prize?" "My prize. You are running out of time, Clare. Remember: when I win-you quit, then ensure I am paired with the partner of my choice. I choose Donald Schanke." "Wait one second." She mentally projected a glare. "Is there some confusion? I did all the detective work towards finding the man--I solved that mystery before you did." "Not exactly." Clare fumed internally. "Actually," Nick continued. "I found Schanke first. We were in the middle of a nice chat before you arrived at the apartment, if you recall. The impetus of my discovery doesn't matter, only that I encountered him before you did. Case closed." Clare conceded to herself that he had a valid argument. To Nick, she retorted in her best I-am-Lacroix-and-you-are-not impersonation, "Indeed." Sneering icicles hung off the word. Then the Caddie must have hit a pothole, for she--oops!-- slipped and kicked him. "Watch where you stick your knees," Nick growled. Clare smiled contentedly. ****************************************************************** Maude O'Leary woke blessed with a hangover comparable to God's own army bursting from the middle of her forehead. If righteousness and redemption were the order of the day, Maude's newfound sobriety was the perfect foil. She scoured her neighbor's medicine cabinet--Phyllis had so many little bottles, and Maude's eyes ached terribly. Finally her hand clutched the treatment she was after. Spilling two aspirins in her hand, she then tucked them on top of her tongue, feeling the bitter taste seep around her taste buds. Maude brushed her hands over the vanity, searching for one of those cups people use to store their toothbrushes. Finding a ceramic holder, she swished it full of water, and took a hefty gulp from a little side hole, all the while ignoring any dregs that had pooled in the bottom. A small measure of the bitterness rinsed from her mouth, Maude coughed and wiped a thread of spittle from the corner of her lips. The insides of her cheeks felt pasty and rotten. She smacked her palate a few times to release some of the dryness, but was unsuccessful. The lining was still doughy, and her pebbled tongue resembled moss. Into the hall, into the kitchen. Phyllis put on an overly cheery display, making too many perky noises for Maude's sanctimony. She chose to nibble on an isosceles of toast proffered by her hostess, silently willing the aspirin's effects to take hold. After the toast and one too many exclamations sharp in her ears, Maude excused herself from her neighbor's hospitality and wandered towards her own abode. It was her house. Her own little kingdom, and it was empty. No precious kitty to purr at her feet, no husband to tell what to do. It was awful. It was unjust. Maude marched resolutely into her backyard. She had never actually done anything in her yard but supervise others, favoring labor done by lawn professionals rather than herself. This, however, was a special circumstance. Colored plastic ribbons wrapped about the trees and littered the grass, cautioning that she violated a crime scene. Maude didn't know if it mattered anymore, and she didn't care. Stripping away any tape blocking her path, she ventured to the tool shed tucked in a verdant corner. A shovel was her prize. She carried it to the clogged and desecrated pond hole, and commenced digging. It was a strange feeling, jamming the spade of the shovel in the ground, fighting the grip of the earth, and lofting the dirt into the stone circle. She'd never employed those muscles before, never attempted anything remotely resembling back-breaking work. It was a physical discovery. The police had drained the pond somehow, looking for clues and evidence. They had siphoned the water, yet abandoned every nasty lily and every grotesque fragment of algae possible. The malignant flora now plastered the walls and bottom of her pitiful pool lining. She intended to bury the foul things once and for all. Maude dug. She barreled and scooped and delved in the dirt until the burning pounding of her arms, back, and legs matched that of her post-drunk headache. Her palms began to blister, moist circles of skin shaving away to expose tender patches of flesh. She had forgotten to slide on gloves. Had she remembered, nothing suitable would have been handy, so she shrugged away the additional discomfort. She mined and exhumed and burrowed in the soil until she had craters at her feet and a meters' worth of ground piled above the pond rim. She paused, panting her exhaustion, but the work was not done. She smoothed the shovel as though it were a hoe, spreading the pile of dirt so it browned each decorative stone. The shelf of the waterfall became caked with mud and clay. She tossed the tool on top of her finished product, thirsty with satisfaction, and returned inside. Yes, she was thirsty. Thirsty. Maude homed to the kitchen cabinet where she kept the liquor, opened it and shoved her hands inside, but as the coolness of the glass soothed her raw hands, she was frozen by her thoughts. No-More-Martinis. The idea was painfully sharp in her head while she stacked the fifths of alcohol in a row on the counter. She rushed to the sink and twisted the cold faucet, letting the pure water flush and sting her hands and face. She slurped back a few swallows, licked the ripe, pure flavor from her lips, then risked another glance at the bottles. No-More-Martinis. But there was something else. Some form of indignation, some cry for vengeance snaked in the back of her mind. Another collection of words, a charming affirmation struggled to break free. Vengeance, retribution, justice, laws. Law. There's got to be some kind of law. Maude's brain was sharp and screaming. "A higher court," she whispered. Collecting the alcohol containers in her arms, Maude wobbled with the load into the den, grabbing some matches off her mantle. Then she heaved her load outside. She set the pile down gingerly at the edge of the last willful lily pads invading her lawn. She would have no more martinis. Uncapping each bottle, Maude doused the unwanted sprouts in her grass with equal parts vermouth and vodka, then threw in a good measure of gin and rum as a cherry on top. She stepped a few paces back, struck a match, and let it fly. The eruption of flames was a pretty sight. The light flared brightly for a moment, filled with added blue and orange streams in a rainbow of pyrotechnical wonder. Then, when there was no more alcohol to feed upon, the fire fizzled out. The grass was gone, but the lily pads remained. They were scorched black on the surface, yes, but they retained their lily pad shapes and ugliness. Maude cackled at the view, clutching her sides. She would have no more martinis, and she would have her higher court. ****************************************************************** End of Part Eight A. Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:28:31 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (08B/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************* Beginning of Part Eight B The sound of the garage door clanking to rest was ambrosia to both Nick's and Clare's ears. He pushed the trunk open immediately, leaping out to stand on his feet. Clare unfolded slowly, stretching her arms in the air, inching forward to sit on the rear bumper. Nick stilled in awareness, then she perceived the presence as well. "Lacroix is here," he murmured. Clare nodded in assertion. "The day grows more interesting yet." Schanke had jumped from the Caddie as well, and headed straight for the lift, whistling a cheery tune. "Come on, you two," he urged. "Let's take this party upstairs." Clare frowned. "Did he say 'Let's stake this party upstairs'?" "Uh-uh. Wishful thinking, Clare?" "Certainly not. I'm simply tired. *And* hungry." "Then perhaps I'll distract Schanke while you feed." "How sweet of you to offer, Nicholas. Does that mean I have the honor of distracting Lacroix?" "To your heart's content." They joined Schank in the elevator, who rubbed his hands together, anxious to exit the chilly garage. They cranked to the second floor, alighting to the already shuttered loft. Coming to a halt, Schanke eagerly scanned Nick's home, exclaiming, "Boy, oh boy! The memories in this place!" "How true, Detective Schanke." Lacroix stepped into view, holding a glass, his voice splinting through the room. Schanke swallowed in an involuntary gulp, though otherwise he appeared amazingly unafraid. "Um... Mr. Nightcrawler, isn't it?...Longtime no see." The mortal gave an awkward smile. Lacroix gave him a considering look. "It has been a long time, indeed, and you appear so...lively." Clare slipped a whisper to Nick, consumed by curiosity. "They've met?" "For a few nerve-wracking minutes, yes," Nick replied. He acknowledged his sire with a slight bow of the head, then called forth Schanke's attention. "Schank--let me show you what we have on the O'Leary case so far. *Over here*." His voice was some hybrid of an order and a beg. Don broke his gaze away from staring at this mysterious 'family member' of Nick's and moved towards the computer. "Oh, sure. Show me what you've got." Once they were across the loft, Clare pasted on her most charming smile for Lacroix's benefit, advancing leisurely in his direction. He captured her eyes and held them, taking a languorous drag from his goblet. Clare let her mouth drop open a little as she watched, then scraped her lower lip with her front teeth. Stretching out a hand, Clare wiped at a tiny droplet that still clung to Lacroix's own lips, then she ravenously sucked at the finger. He gallantly passed her the glass, and she luxuriated in a slow, feverish sampling. "You simply could not stay away, could you?" she challenged softly, allowing a minor shudder to pass through her after she dipped into the cup once more. "From Nicholas? Did you intend to attempt helping him, despite your protests to the contrary?" Lacroix had recruited another glass for his own use, adding blood to halfway between base and brim. Another quantity of his personal, human brand that he had brought this night with gifting intentions-But not to her. Clare realized it, and momentarily Lacroix caught himself wondering if she even cared. Certainly they had shared in the exchange the night before, but that was only a fraction of their souls. They were too experienced to not hide many secrets from a lover, offering only what they chose. Lacroix found that the small taste of insight into Clare taunted him even more. "I have sensed a certain...violence...from Nicholas tonight. The prospect was too delicious and intriguing to ignore. Yet his *friend*," He twisted his lips in forming that word. "Schanke is conspicuously present. So what phenomenon holds responsibility for these mixed signals?" "He *has* been violent tonight." Clare observed Nick and Schanke bent over his desk, discussing some matter intently. "Angry, vituperative, and still just as uncontrollable. Tedious, actually. But he has...changed...over the course of the night--I am not aware of the exact reason. Whatever the cause, I believe it involved Nicholas alone. His choice and reason in some unfathomable nature. His ex-partner is nothing more than a sentimental affection. Unfortunately, he plans to indulge it." Clare murmured the events behind Schanke's reappearance, and the displeasing possibility that she might lose the wager. "How galling the prospect must be for you." At Lacroix's ridiculing expression, Clare had a delightful desire to bite him. "Quite. Though, it may be for the best. I was hoping there would be fewer annoying mortals in homicide--And more dead people. Furthermore, I have not found time to hunt since this employment began." "That would be three-whole-nights?" A raised eyebrow mocked her torment. "Bah. But why go without?" Clare seductively trailed the tip of her tongue along the rim of her glass. "Would you?" She tilted her head back slightly, flashing a brief stretch of neck, pooling the remainder of her drink on her tongue. Lacroix stepped forward catching her slightly parted mouth with his own. The blood slipped over both of their palates in the sharing of the kiss, and slowly trickled down their throats. He pulled back, his voice seeming hot and hissing in her ear. "No. I would not." ****************************************************************** Nick displayed the crime scene photos that had amassed over the past two days. There were shots of Frank O'Leary's body in and out of the ornamental pond, the fermentation tank at the brewery, the ladder leading up to it, and a plethora of autopsy images. He described the injuries, showing examples of the beer bottle shards Forensics believed caused the initial debilitating wounds. He outlined the secretary, partner, boyfriend and wife, the latter whom Schanke admitted he had encountered a couple of harried times in the neighborhood. "I've never seen her sober and, man, can that woman talk your ear off!" Nick then produced the copies of the shipping statement for the crime scene batch of brew, to which Schanke exclaimed, "But that's not enough time for--" "Aging," Nick finished. "I know. Not to mention the evidence that it might contain." "So why didn't you intercept it?" Nick grimaced. "I checked into that. It had already crossed the border. Once the shipment reached the States, it seemed to disappear. I wanted to question Secour about the destination, but he wasn't exactly fit for interrogation when we found him." "Whoa," Schanke perked with interest. "You mean the evidence just happened to be an exported shipment?" "What do you think that signifies?" "I'm not sure, but right now it seems like you're kind of loose on a motive. I mean, either the wife or secretary could have killed out of jealousy, right? But you already don't buy that. That leaves Victor Barger and Louis Secour--but what's their incentive to murder O'Leary?" "Secour could be another jealousy, like the wife. He could have misinterpreted their relationship, attacked O'Leary while he was under the influence, and speeded up the shipment to hide evidence." "Possibly--but where did all the LSD in O'Leary's system come from?" Schanke wondered. "The partner acted as if there were no way to be certain if he was a user or not. Their mandatory drug tests went through both their hands, and O'Leary could have edited his own." Nick's eyes wandered, catching sight of several papers stacked in the receiving tray of his facsimile. These were the lab reports Clare had mentioned at Schanke's apartment. He scanned the news the pages contained, informing Schanke, "Clare confiscated beer samples from Secour's house. The lab found traces of blood matching O'Leary's type, not to mention an incredible quantity of LSD. That's what the man was high on when we found him." "And in O'Leary's corpse--the drugs could have come from the beer he drowned in." Schanke concluded excitedly. "Using the beer as a method to hide drugs?" Nick echoed. "There has been a resurgence in LSD usage in recent years. The street value per bottle would certainly be worth more than selling the straight brew. The culprit would already be committing a felony. Perpetrating another like murder to protect the operation might not have seemed a stretch." "The shipment went to America. Crossed the border. You know they check for narcotics smuggled in random cargo like that." Schanke frowned at the conundrum. "Yes, but usually inspectors would be looking in the boxes, not opening bottles and examining the contents. U.S. Customs would work with the FDA to establish that the beer fulfilled purity guidelines, but they would take a sample for analysis once in a blue moon." "Still, that would be a pretty risky proposition, even if you interspersed the LSD-laced cargo with the standard. At any given time, someone could demand for your bad brew before allowing it in the country." "Certain drivers could be involved, with instruction to turn back if they are challenged while carrying contraband," Nick reasoned. "Or there could be a weak link with Customs, someone on a payroll." "Yeah, you could look for a pattern in who signed shipments through. You know there's gotta be a mile of paperwork just for somebody trying to sneeze past Customs." "Schank, the more I think about this in terms of drug smuggling, I become very uncertain that Louis Secour is behind the organization. He may have been involved. He may be the murderer, but I guarantee one or both of the partners were embroiled in the crime." "So how can you be sure?" Nick suddenly appeared uncomfortable. "There is a possibility that there was a witness to the dumping of O'Leary's body in his backyard," he suggested in a low voice. "Great! So bring them in! Do a composite!" Schanke was enthusiastic, yet perplexed as to why Nick wasn't eager to latch on to the obvious. "Jen was the possibility." Schanke fumbled. "Jen? My Jen?" He sat wearily at the desk. "What makes you think she saw anything?" "The O'Leary's cat disappeared from the scene between the time before the body was dumped and the arrival of the police. Jen admits to wandering around the neighborhood at the time in question. Does she normally have a cat?" "No," Schanke admitted. "I'm allergic." Nick released a labored sigh. "Well, she has one. It resembles a photograph that I've seen of the animal in question. She's hiding the cat in her bedroom." "What could she have seen? Someone dumping a dead body?" Schanke rubbed his hand alongside him temple and cheek, pushing at the tension. "God, the kid's only ten years old. She hasn't breathed a word. What must she have been going through?" "There may be some other explanation, Schank. I just think that you should be the one to talk to her about it. If she did witness the culprit--your daughter is smart and resilient; she will be fine in the end. Myra and you will see to that." "Myra..." Schanke repeated. "She has no idea that anyone's aware that I'm alive, that the charade is over. She doesn't know that our kid could be a witness in a homicide case. How am I going to tell her?" Nick put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just be honest. At this point, that is the greatest thing you can do. Another thought, Schank--You can go back. If that is what you really want, you *can* go back." ****************************************************************** End of Part Eight B. End of Part Eight. Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:34:52 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (09A/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************* Beginning of Part Nine A Donald Schanke shook as he exited the Caddie. It was June--why did the day feel so cold? Leaving Nick's loft, he had again dressed in his surreptitious outwear that should have been too warm for the season. It was a habit now, he supposed. He had grown accustomed to hiding his identity. Despite his shivering, Schanke pulled off his hat and scarf and stood unabashedly in the middle of the sidewalk for a few minutes. This was his identity. He was a man coming home to his house, planning to talk to his wife. He was planning to talk to his wife about felony-witnessing daughters, failed death-faking attempts, and his return to a job she disliked, but hey--good, old-fashioned talk nonetheless. He'd called Myra from the loft, telling her something had come up, and she shouldn't go into work. She should call in sick. A minor version of hooky compared to his own. She had been worried. Schanke, he was just a leaf shaking in a gale force wind. Nothing uptight there. Nick had seemed reluctant to watch him go. Maybe he had a minor case of separation anxiety. Don remembered those first few weeks after he returned unscathed from the crash. Jen had become a clinging vine, Myra one-step-removed from a python. Man, it wasn't that they smothered him--it was that they seemed to need him so much. Through every argument, every tiff, each celebration and joy they'd had before, he had never felt so *needed*. That was what molded the guilt. Those thoughts that something so precious had almost been blown away. The culpability festered as the months flew by, because he realized that he wanted everything back: the danger, the challenge, and yeah, even the paperwork. With those came a life he'd thrown away. It had been a life of camaraderie, of dignity, and he knew too little of those sensations anymore. The parts he had clung to in the meantime--Myra and Jen, they meant no less to him. Maybe they mattered more. His life was just as transparent without their presence. So how come he couldn't have it all? Somebody, somewhere, on any particular day in the world, got their way. Why not him? Why not today? There was no reason why he couldn't hug his child off to school in the morning, see her beautiful smile and the sunlight in her hair. No excuse to stop kissing his wife, making love to her, honoring and sometimes obeying her. No rationale to never experience trust, and to unravel a few of the world's dirty, tangled knots. To have courage, and to recognize in the middle of gunfire, bullets blazing and heart pounding, that you were somehow safe because your best friend, the best guy you knew would be by your side in the trenches. Was it a selfish dream? Unreasonable? Probably. But Schanke wanted it back, all back. He walked into his home and greeted Myra with a caress on the lips. Schanke shared that need with her. ****************************************************************** Clare had drowsily consumed another half bottle of vintage, flirted outrageously with Lacroix, waved Schanke off with a smile and a whisper, then promptly fell asleep. She lounged on the couch, her hair loose and gliding over the black leather. One arm draped off the couch, her fingers loosely shielding her now-empty glass where she'd placed it on the floor. Lacroix watched her silently, even as Nick approached. He made no acknowledgment until his offspring seemed indecisive at the degree of disturbance turning off a lamp would cause. "Go ahead," Lacroix murmured. "She typically sleeps like the dead. I know of only one exception." "When?" Nick could not resist the temptation of asking. "The day her sire died." Somehow, Nick discerned that was not the complete answer, and yet there was foreboding-Was this one of those 'lessons'? Was Lacroix making a point, or simply conversing? Despite his wariness, Nick really wanted to know more. It was a combination of curiosity and a need for some private insight into Lacroix. Most of his sire's earlier existence was a mystery to Nick, save the recent revelations about Divia. More information, including his history with Clare, would certainly be intriguing. "Her sire? I have never heard word of Clare's sire. Was this vampire an ancient?" Lacroix stared at him with a cold blue gaze. "Hardly. He was Conchobhar, her mortal husband. He was interesting company-- called Clare by the name 'Cliodhna'. I considered him...a friend." Then Lacroix seemed to catch himself, realizing that he had confessed too much. "In the end Conchobhar was careless; he existed little more than three centuries. Not an auspicious reign, to say the least." His eyes translated that this was the end of that subject. He moved to another. "You have not fed." Nick did not look away or glare indignantly. He did not attempt to revert to the subject of Clare's sire in hopes of irritating Lacroix, though he was still interested in hearing more. He merely shrugged and commented, "I had more important concerns at the time. I suppose that I am ready now." "Ready?" Interest and disdain emblazoned his sire's voice. "When did your *readiness* become a factor? Did you experience an epiphanal transformation over the course of a night? You are so impulsive, Nicholas. Who holds the blame for your deliverance on this occasion?" Nick spoke with quiet certainty. "I do." "Well, well. No shaman, no cure, no twelve-step program...Assuming responsibility for your actions--I suppose that would sound different to you. But still, Nicholas, what of your guilt? You have clung to it for centuries. Could you possibly be strong enough to let go after nursing that bastard child for so long?" "How strong do you think I am?" There was a confidence to the question, one that Nick rarely showed in reference to himself. Lacroix's lips spread in an amused line. "Not strong enough, Nicholas." He shrugged, considering the assertion. "You may be right, Lacroix. But as always, I will find out for myself." Nick strolled to his refrigerator, grasping a container of the cow blood, decorking and drinking it in lackadaisically. He examined the sleeping form on the sofa once more, his face tinged with perplexity. "Why did Clare become my partner? What reason do you believe she had?" Another frown arose from Lacroix. Nick realized that his sire was very uninclined to discuss anything that involved Clare and himself. He tucked this information away for future consideration. Lacroix finally spoke. "It was a lark. She commits to everything temporarily except herself. Surely you did not imagine that Clare would be disturbed by being replaced by Detective Schanke? Or vengeful?" "I wondered if she would be upset. I think her intentions were to watch over Natalie and me, especially Nat. She couldn't be content if that was usurped." "You suspect Clare of being protective?" Lacroix drawled. "Really, Nicholas--how positive your belief system has become." His voice subsided from laughter to a dark warning. "Clare may say anything, do anything, but what she thinks--that is a mystery." Nick nodded. "Ah." Then he smiled at Lacroix, a simple offering of companionship. "Could you remind me about Daniel? I wonder if I remember him correctly. In fact, I believe there are still scores of stories that you have not refreshed in my memory since I was shot in the head." This calm and openness in Nicholas intrigued Lacroix, so he decided to indulge his offspring's request. It was to be a day of discussion and renewed closeness between the two men. ****************************************************************** With dusk came movement. In the late afternoon, Schanke called to inform Nick that he was coming in to the precinct. After discussing the murder with her parents, Jen had agreed to make a statement, describing what she had seen. Both Myra and Don wanted to be with their daughter, giving her support. The goal was complicated. For Schanke to visit the Ninety-Sixth, there was bound to be some uproar. The potential turmoil would be inappropriate for Jen to observe, and could upset a delicate situation. Schanke wanted to end the deceit, to broadcast that he was alive and confront his actions. His plan involved Myra and Jen arriving at the precinct first. Once they were sequestered in an interrogation room, Schanke would follow, Nick by his side for support. Lacroix left at the first suspicion of darkness, bound for the Raven. Clare made no comment at his absence when she woke, choosing instead to discover what progress Nick and Schanke had accomplished. Any reserve on Nick's part, she attributed to a return of his melancholy of the night before. She found the concept of smuggling LSD in the beer bottles fascinating, commiserated on the likelihood that at least one on the partners was involved, but was unconvinced of Secour's guilt. "If he was aware that O'Leary drowned, bled, and who knows what else in that fermentation vat, do you really think he would be drinking it? His garage held a variety of beer cases--I think Secour is in the habit of pilfering from shipments for his own private consumption. Just enough to slip through the cracks. He didn't have to know the beer contained drugs to be affected by them. If there were any ill effects, who would he complain to? It was stolen merchandise." "Amy Martin, his girlfriend, said O'Leary was aware of Secour's LSD use." "He tested positive twice in the past six months," Clare confirmed. "If Secour confessed to embezzling beer," he reasoned. "Justifying that the positives came from something off with one of the brews, O'Leary could have investigated further." "Killed because of what he discovered?" "He could have threatened going to the authorities." Nick added the information concerning the Schanke family's ensuing sojourn to the police precinct. "So Jen *did* witness who dumped the body in the backyard?" "You don't have to sound so pleased," Nick chastised. "It does simplify things," Clare insisted. "The girl is extremely alert--I'm certain that she will give an excellent description of the culprit." "If only Schanke's reappearance at the precinct was so easy." Clare rose from the couch, somewhat tousled and wrinkled. "We have methods of dealing with that, if you put aside a few scruples. First, I need to change, feed, and run one errand. I'll meet you at the Ninety-Sixth in about an hour and a half." Nick nodded, and she was gone. ****************************************************************** Clare'd had a shower, slipped into another suit, spent less than enough time savoring blood, but too much on the phone along her way. Perhaps the rush explained why she hurried into the morgue, declaring crossly, "Natalie, I have two things to tell you, and I have to be quick, so listen. One, make up your mind about Nick. Now." Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but Clare held her off. "I said I wouldn't make that decision for you, and I won't. But Natalie, you already know your preference. You've thought it over and over, ad infinitum. Accept your choice and act upon it-Anything else is unacceptable. Eternity makes no reason to waste time. I know this from experience... wasted centuries." Natalie panicked. "What brought this on? Did something happen to Nick?" Clare groaned in frustration. "If he is so important--Why aren't you with him? Case in point brings me to item number two...Donald Schanke is alive. The teeth you declared him dead by were, in fact, knocked out of his mouth in a collision with Vachon during boarding. Due to his injuries, Schanke was removed from the plane before it ever left the ground. He has not come forward to overturn his death, because Myra asked him to stay silent. Why did he do it? 'He loves her', he says, both Myra and Jen. He was being selfless. How many people has that sacrifice hurt? You said he was 'a peach'. Well, your friend is coming to the precinct," Clare checked her watch. "Any minute now. He is bringing Jen in for a statement. I thought you would want to know." Clare turned abruptly to leave. Natalie stood bewildered, poring over the discoveries in amazement. Suddenly she realized Clare was almost out the door, and yelped for her to stop. "Wait a second. I'm coming with you." Natalie struggled out of her smock with supernatural speed, and ran after her sire. ****************************************************************** Nick had shown Jen to the interrogation room five minutes earlier, Myra falling a bit behind as she nervously greeted acquaintances. Nick uncomfortably put Jen off when she asked about Clare. "She'll be here soon. Promise." "Cool. I wanted to thank her for the flowers." "Flowers?" "Yeah. A big bouquet of white and yellow things. They smelled excellent." "Gardenias?" "If you say so. Clare came to check on me while I was asleep and left them, but I saw her as she drove away because she started beeping." "Her phone?" Jen nodded. "Anyway, I wanted to thank her. No one's brought me flowers before. It was...I don't know...special." Nick looked deep in thought. "You know, there's a language to flowers," he confided with a devastating smile. "Gardenias mean 'You're lovely'." "Really?" Two patches of pink bloomed on Jen's cheeks. "Really." Nick stood to leave as Myra finally entered the room. "I'm going to get your Dad. Perhaps by then, the flower lady will have arrived." Schanke appeared surprisingly calm as he sat in the driver's seat of the Cadillac. The shaking had ceased, only to be replaced by an otherworldly numbness. Maybe hashing everything out with Myra had done the trick--with all the arguing, pleading, and emotion released, they had portrayed patience and composure by the time Jen arrived home from school. Somehow, the surroundings no longer felt real. Yes, there was Nick descending the precinct steps, and Schanke was stepping from the car to meet him, but the setting was out of focus and moving in slow motion. Nick asked if he was ready, and Schanke nodded while taking a deep breath. They climbed the stairs side by side, and Nick held the front entrance open. Schanke then felt his friend's hand on his shoulder, gently directing him onwards. Don considered this anchor with gratitude, squeezing Nick's upper arm, whispering, "Thanks, partner." Then they entered the bullpen. Almost immediately, it seemed as if a spotlight beamed over Schanke's head. The busy shuffle melted, voices ominously quieted, and the people--some strangers, former co-workers, and friends-all stared at him. He was naked in a bowling alley. A fog permeated his brain as the murmurs started, all unintelligible to his ears. Nick was pulling him forward, but his feet would not move. Then he heard the sound of brisk footsteps and opening doors, followed by a voice, missed but familiar. "Schanke!" It was Natalie, braked near the entrance, looking rushed and a little breathless with wonderment. Eyes crinkling, a smile so enormous enveloped her face that she appeared to glow. Natalie was happy that he was here and wasn't abashed at letting anyone know she thought it was cause for celebration. She approached, then embraced him in an enthusiastic hug. "I missed you, Donald Schanke. We *all* missed you." His vision seemed to clear, and the joyous laugh Natalie shared at his return rang like cathedral bells. He began to observe the faces surrounding him, seeing no censure, but expressions of welcome instead. Nick's attention was tempered by Natalie. Her hair curled exuberantly around her shoulders, and her sparkling eyes reflected the image of a thousand perfect skies. She looked so pleased, so delighted at the moment that Nick wanted to seize credit. To have her look at him like that. He caught Natalie's eye and returned her grin, enjoying the excitement, but her face suddenly fell. Nick felt swamped by a desperate urge to rescue that smile, to conjure it back again by any means necessary. He then realized that the worried look was not directed at him, but at someone at his back. It was Captain Reese, unearthed from his office at the sound of commotion, a stern demeanor on his face. He walked towards Schanke, then extended a hand. "Mr. Schanke? I've heard a lot about you, but I never thought I'd get to shake your hand." He enveloped Don's hand in his large grasp. "Nick and Clare explained how reports of your death were premature. How's your health now?" Schanke's mouth drooped. "My...health." "We let it slip how you've been in the hospital the past year," Clare's voice answered as she joined the group. "In a coma," Nick added. "And then the pneumonia," finished Clare. "You did?" Schanke's expression appeared tinged with unease. "I hope you don't mind," Nick continued innocently. "But I also mentioned that you might be prepared to return to work as a homicide detective." "I want to talk to you about that, Schanke. We can work with the health issue, and the precinct could use your return immediately," Reese offered. "I understand that your daughter is here tonight to give a suspect description in the O'Leary case. I know she's at the forefront of your concern tonight. Maybe you could come in for a talk sometime?" Schanke was in a minor state of befuddlement. "Sure. I'll see you tomorrow." Captain Reese nodded in acknowledgment of everyone in the party, then returned to his office. The acceptance of Reese and Natalie seemed to signify a general sense of relief and happiness at his presence. A mass of fellow officers rushed forward as though on cue to greet Schanke and celebrate his return. Natalie found herself pushed to the outer edges of the throng where Nick and Schanke were the centerpieces of interest. She watched Nick share his enthusiasm with his co-workers, just as he had with her in the mutual smile before Reese's entrance. She began to back away towards the exit, intended to slip out unnoticed. Clare caught her. "One down, one to go," she reminded her offspring. Natalie passed through the first doorway, then observed the reunion again through the glass. "I know. I've made my decision and I *will* tell Nick about it. Captain Reese was right, though. There are other more important concerns needing attention tonight. I can wait until tomorrow." With that, Natalie brushed out of sight. ****************************************************************** End of Part Nine A Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:40:29 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (09B/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************** Beginning of Part Nine B It took about fifteen minutes before the police dispersed back to their desks, allowing Schanke and Nick to lasso the sketch artist and proceed to interrogation. Nick experienced a surge of disappointment when he noticed that Natalie was nowhere to be seen. Nick promised himself. Clare had gone ahead to join Myra and Jen, accepting the young lady's thank you for the gardenias with grace. She spent the remainder of the wait quizzing Jen about the cat's antics, much to the girl's delight. "Have you named it?" Clare finally asked. "She has to return it to Mrs. O'Leary soon," Myra replied before Jen had an opportunity to propose any potential nomenclature. "Hmm. That part slipped my mind," Clare consoled. Jen displayed a small pout. "Yeah, mine too." Her father arrived then, along with Nick and another man. "Jen, this is Edgar," Schanke introduced. "Nick and Clare need you to repeat what you saw at the O'Learys'. Then you need to describe who you saw, as much as you can remember, and Edgar will draw a portrait." Edgar gave the girl a friendly smile coupled with a wave of his graphite-clutching left hand. The artist then took a seat at the far end of the table, as if to duck out of the way of interest. Jen fidgeted slightly in her seat and began to talk in a moderate voice. "I left my house around seven o'clock. I'd spent the afternoon visiting with Dad, so after Mom got home from work, and we'd eaten dinner, I cleared out so they could be alone. First, I went to my room, but I only stayed there a few minutes before I decided to go outside and walk around the neighborhood for awhile. As I passed the O'Learys' I heard a scratching sound, and some pitiful meowing, so I decided to check it out. I followed the sound to the backyard, and opened the door in its wooden fence--It was just a latch, no lock, at the end of the driveway. This cat just flies out of there and into the next door neighbor's front bushes. I decided to catch the cat and put it back. So I'm shuffling through the bushes on my hands and knees. It takes me about ten minutes to lure the cat close enough so that I can grab it. By the time I make my way back to the O'Learys', I saw there was a new car in the drive. It was tan--a Mercedes. It had one of those circular symbols, kind of like a peace sign, that's how I could tell. At that point, I'm not worried, so I continued heading for the fence gate. When I get there, the fence was opened farther than I left it, and I heard brushing sounds, like something pretty large was being dragged across the yard. I decided to peek inside--I didn't want to get caught snooping around their house. I saw a skinny guy that I didn't recognize who was pulling something heavy wrapped in a plastic tarp towards the pond. Then I noticed Mrs. O'Leary, laying flat by the edge of the water. That's when I got scared. The stranger unrolled the plastic, releasing Mr. O'Leary, and he just kind of flopped into the pond, like a fish out of the water. I got out of there, pronto. I took the cat, went back to the next-door-neighbors' bushes, and watched for the guy to leave. When he did, I got a decent look while he got into the car with his tarp, because the O'Learys' had their floodlights on. When he was gone, I just kind of stayed in the shrubbery, you know, I just wanted to hide out. Like, a half an hour passed, and the police started arriving. Once the place started to get pretty crowded, I ducked out and went home. I stayed outside of my house until Clare, I mean Detective Douglas, heard me moving at the side of the house. I guess I was scared to say anything." Schanke took his daughter's hand, giving it a squeeze, while Myra delivered an encouraging smile. "You're doing great, Jen," he praised. "Did you see any of the license plate on the man's car?" Nick inquired. Jen shook her head. "Nope." "Maybe you should start describing the stranger," prodded Clare. The girl scrunched her face in concentration, visibly determined to picture the man mentally. "He looked thin and gangly, kind of like that guy who played Gilligan on TV. I'm not sure how tall he was. Everyone looks tall to me." "What about when he got into the Mercedes?" Nick suggested. "Could you judge how much taller than the car he was?" Jen subsided into more deep thought. "I'm not sure. Around thirty to forty centimeters maybe. That would make him pretty tall." "Good job," Schanke congratulated. Jen smiled, pleased with herself, then continued her description. "His hair was brown, but light, like, he had gray hair at the temples, and scattered throughout. It was fairly short, and parted to one side--the right, I think. His eyes were small, kind of squinty, as if his eyelids were too big and he couldn't open them any farther. Almond-shaped, but flatter. His nose was bent just below the bridge, narrow through the nostrils. His chin was narrow and pointy, too. His lips were thin. His cheekbones stuck out-he looked sunken around the jaws." Jen suddenly looked at Edgar. "Hey! Can I see the drawing?" Edgar turned the pad in her direction, sliding it some across the table. "Sure. Tell me what doesn't look right." Jen bobbed out of her chair and across the room. Her face was filled with excitement as she pulled the paper closer, but upon inspection, she frowned. "He had a moustache-Didn't I tell you that? Maybe it was just too obvious." Nick and Clare exchanged a look at the mention of that attribute. Edgar shook his head. "You didn't. What was it shaped like?" "It was bushy and covered part of his upper lip. That's probably why his mouth looked thin." She waited patiently as Edgar added additional scribbles to the portrait. "That's right. This is pretty close, but his hair was longer in the front, stopping at his eyebrows. Oh, the chin was even pointier than that. Exactly." "Can we see?" Nick moved closer as he made this request. "Yeah. It looks like the guy now." At Jen's approval, Edgar turned the pad over, displaying the portrait for general inspection. "It's Victor Barger," Nick announced. "The partner?" questioned Schanke. "Then you know who this guy is?" Jen grinned. "Cool." "We should head for the brewery," Nick appeared ready to leave, and looked expectantly at Schanke, then Clare. Myra clasped her husband by the hand. "Go with them, if you like, Donnie." She spoke to Nick. "We drove in separate cars so we could give your Cadillac back. Jen and I will get home fine." "Thanks, hon." Schanke slipped her a quick kiss. There was a knock at the door, and Officer Miller poked her head inside. "Detective Douglas? There's a problem with the guy you brought in to lockup. Louis Secour? We need you to come downstairs." "I'll come along," Nick announced. "Schank, we'll meet you at the car, so you can see your family off safely." He said his goodbyes to Myra and Jen, then shook Edgar's hand. Clare let Jen give her a hug goodbye. "You did a wonderful job. You should be proud of yourself." "Thanks," the girl replied with a happy smile. Clare gave the Schankes a farewell wave and followed Nick out of interrogation. "What's wrong with Secour?" he demanded as they headed towards lockup. "Officer Miller simply said there was a problem. That isn't an enormously descriptive description. You won't be surprised to hear that I had to 'convince' him to forget a few things. Since he was under the influence of a narcotic at the time, technical difficulties may have developed in controlling him. Mind-altering substances can make the message scramble." Nick nodded. "What if he's a resistor now that he is sober?" Clare expression became stern. "He *won't* be a resistor." The yelling reached out to them through the door leading to the cells. The sounds of someone upset and hysterical. They approached softly, coming to a halt behind the guard who grumpily ordered Secour to be quiet. Louis Secour caught sight of Nick and started screaming even louder. "He's a monster! Keep him away from me! Please!" "It appears you made a lasting impression," Clare jousted Nick before waylaying the guard's attention. "Just unlock the door--you can leave the prisoner with us. Alone." She told him firmly. The guard automatically complied, opened the cell and handed Clare the keys, then shuffled out of lock-up. Louis Secour cowered away in the corner of the cell, begging them not to come closer. "Please! Don't hurt me! Leave me alone!" "Your well-being depends on your cooperation," warned Clare. "Cooperation is a good thing." She moved to Secour's side and he threw his hands up in fear. She firmly grasped those protesting hands, then sent Nick a warning look not to interfere. "Shh." Clare whispered softly, melodically, slowly pulling Secour's hands down to his sides once more. "There is nothing to frighten you here-no need to scream. Just listen to my voice, carefully. Look into my eyes. Do you understand?" Louis Secour released a breathy sigh and relaxed against the cell wall. He nodded dumbly as he stared devotedly at Clare's face. She let go of his hands, and he made a whimper of loss. "Hush," she reprimanded. Clare now ran her hands over his upper arms, feeling a lightweight cast wrapped about his right one. "Tell me how this happened," she commanded. He broke his vision away and glanced towards Nick as the panic began to return. "He attacked me. H-he was this horrible thing..." Nick wanted to look away, but he remained steadfast, returning Secour's fearful gaze with a calm expression. "No, no, no," Clare replied, turning his face so that he looked at her once more. "Detective Knight is a fine, upstanding officer in the police force. He is only here to help you. To protect and serve." Secour's head lolled back in capitulation, passively exposing his throat. Clare nibbled on her lip, considering her shoddy dinner, until Nick cleared his throat in warning. She waved him away with an irritated brush of her hand. Speaking again to Secour, she murmured, "Look at Detective Knight again. He doesn't frighten you, does he? You only want to cooperate with him. With me. He is not a scary creature, is he?" Secour did as she requested, staring at Nick once more. He shook his head. "No, I'm not afraid. I want to cooperate," he sighed. Clare patted him on the cheek. "Good. Good. Remember that, and you will be leaving here very soon." She moved to exit the cell. Louis Secour's eyes watched in wonder as Clare departed with Nick, locking the door behind them. "Sleep tight," Clare called. They readmitted the guard and returned his keys, then aimed upstairs to meet Schanke by the Caddie. "I think we should let Secour go," Nick suggested. "I don't believe he is involved either, but it would be better to first make sure the persuasion took this time." "And if it didn't?" "Then Louis Secour has a very large problem," threatened Clare. The thought twisted slightly inside Nick, but he worked to thrust it away. More important responsibilities existed for him at the moment. They reached the Cadillac, and no Schanke waited for them. Nick frowned, looked about, then gifted Clare with an exasperated look. "Did you have to park so close to the station?" She followed his gaze, spotting Schanke mooning over her car about ten meters away. "I was in a hurry." Schanke delivered a whistle as they approached. "Get a load of this car--can you believe it? Man, what kind of cop drives a Ferrari? It must belong to a lawyer." "It's mine, actually. An F550 Maranello." Clare informed him. Schanke was astounded. "Yours? Whoa, Clare--I don't know whether to shower you with envy or fall on my knees in worship." Clare's mouth twitched with a mischievous grin. "Supplication is always nice." "Yeah, right--You and my mother-in-law should play poker some time," Schanke drawled. "So how does a homicide detective afford such an amazing ride?" "Some members of her family are excellent investors," Nick supplied. "Yes, they are," Clare echoed. "We've flourished quite a bit over the years." Schanke ran his fingers down the sleek, black curve of the hood. "Man, look at the upward tilt of the front grill. It's almost as if the car is smiling." "Wouldn't you be happy if you were a Ferrari?" Clare teased. "Yes, the car is nice. Now can we go arrest a suspect?" Nick started to herd them both back to the Caddie. As they got into Nick's automobile, Schanke was still focused on the other. "So, Clare. How many cylinders does that thing have?" Her eyes twinkled. "Twelve. I get tingly by just looking at the engine--and the underbody is just sculpture...a veritable work of art. Plus, the Ferrari makes the most delicious noises when I change gears. Vroom! It turns on a pin and swerves perfectly." Nick changed his own gears, pulling out of his parking spot. "Remind me, Clare," he gibed. "To *never* let you borrow my car again." ****************************************************************** End of Part Nine B Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:47:27 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: Fwd: The Unselfish Partner (09C/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ******************************************************************* Beginning of Part Nine C Amy Martin's days were numbered. At her job, that is. The man she worked for was dead, and there were no open positions with any similarity to that one available within the company. Amy released a heartfelt sigh. Her occupation had transformed into a matter of tying up the loose ends in Mr. O'Leary's work files, then she was unemployed. When Mr. Barger had first requested that she transfer the material in Mr. O'Leary's files and computer, she had hoped the responsibility meant she would have future employment under the other partner. Not so. Within one day, she realized that Victor Barger believed she was stupid and incompetent. He had only offered her the task so that his own assistant would remain at his personal beck and call. Amy had tried to delve into what could have given Mr. Barger such a bad impression of her abilities, and her mind repeatedly sank to thoughts of Mrs. O'Leary. No doubt her former employer's spouse had given her two-cent opinion to Mr. Barger, hence her numbered days. Amy couldn't fault the woman--if their roles had been reversed, she most likely would have requested Mrs. O'Leary booted out of work. She gave another sigh. She felt the helpless tears begin to well up again, and fought them back. She should finish her work and be done with this place. The only material she had not transferred to Barger's computer yet was the personal diary. Despite the motherload of information that O'Leary kept on the computer, whenever he worked on recipes, came across something interesting that he wanted to pursue further, or brainstormed ideas, he would scribble the concept into a spiral bound notebook. The method came in handy since he frequently piled up notions while he was out and about in the factory. He would then put the notebook in her desk, for her to transcribe into the computer before she left work, or before he arrived in the morning. Mr. O'Leary had placed his notes in her drawer as usual, sometime before he was murdered. Amy had felt too traumatized by his death to even look at the messages, much less type them up. She supposed she had to force herself to examine them now, if she wanted to give Mr. Barger a complete set of files. She gave the pages a cursory glance, eyed the scribbled words and hand-sketched charts. She froze as their meaning seeped into her brain. Mr. O'Leary had confronted Louis about the drug tests. When he had first tested positive, her boss had asked Amy if she was aware of any problem. She hadn't been. She begged her employer to let it go, that she was certain the test must have been a lab error. Mr. O'Leary had complied until the second positive had arrived last week. Amy's heart sank as she accepted the fact that her pleading had amounted to nothing in this instance. Louis had found trouble head on. Could he have been the killer? Amy thought back to how she mentioned her boyfriend to that detective. Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh no!" she whimpered. Another life destroyed by her carelessness. Any thoughts of Louis' potential guilt flew out of her head. He simply *wouldn't* harm anybody. At this internal declaration, Amy began to devour Mr. O'Leary's final messages with close attention. Louis had confessed to regularly lifting cases of beer for drinking at home. Amy recalled seeing the many boxes stacked in his garage; she had never suspected that this was stolen merchandise. Louis claimed that some of the beer shipments were off, that he had become disoriented and started seeing things on less than a whole bottle. This aspect pricked Amy's interest even more. Apparently Mr. O'Leary had given Louis the benefit of the doubt, and he had followed up on his employee's accusations. Amy found additional notes concerning the shipment numbers Louis admitted he took and thought contained suspicious material. Every last one of the shipments had never reached their final destination once they entered the United States. They were labeled as lost or destroyed by Victor Barger. Amy leaned back in her chair, contemplating this discovery. There certainly was a large amount of missing cargo involved. Normally, that amount of undelivered inventory would result in a loss in profits in the company. She recalled only a slight increase in the profits over the past two quarters. So why was there no loss? Her boss had questioned the same thing. She found calculations based upon the company's earnings if all product shipped out had been delivered and separate calculations for the profit involved with what actually reached its destination. The company report, prepared by Mr. Barger, did not reflect the latter figures, but the former. Mr. O'Leary, incensed by this information, had then perused his partner's accounting records. He had included copies of pages folded into leaves of the notebook with payment inflow entries circled. Her employer had made notes in the margins that declared these figures consistently overstated the actual income derived from the shipment. Victor Barger had been ameliorating the numbers. The final finding Amy's employer described was his sampling of the days' brews. Normally, Mr. O'Leary did not taste every product on a particular day, but due to Louis' defamation and his other concerns, he was concerned about quality control. Her boss had described an odd taste to one batch. Amy noted with dismay that he had referred to the fermentation vat that the police claimed he had been murdered in. Then she saw a personal note at the end of the entry addressed to her: Amy, Please keep the above information to yourself until I have a chance to follow-up. I am making copies of this material and confronting Barger with this damming picture. I'm not feeling well, maybe due to that awful beer, so I may call in sick tomorrow. Thank you for your discretion, F. O'Leary Her hands jittered as she replaced the notebook on top of her desk. These words assigned a heavy motive to Victor Barger. She should run it to the police immediately. She started to get up from her desk, but a harsh voice cracked whip-like in her direction. "Stay where you are." It was Maude O'Leary, cold wrath in her eyes and a gun in her hand. Amy, speechless at the threat, collapsed into her seat once more. Maude stepped menacingly closer, a wicked twist to her mouth. "What? No pleas?" She gave a sharp cackle, utterly frightening in its sober seriousness. "No cries for help? It doesn't really matter. You'll still pay. You took my husband, and the police won't do anything about that. I'm taking you to another court--a higher court. Higher than provincial, country, or even this world. I'm going to kill you. Then hell can sort you and Frank out." Amy stretched out a small whimper of fear. She tried to gather her thoughts. She didn't want to die. What had that detective said? It wasn't her fault that this woman's husband was dead. Victor Barger deserved the blame, she felt it in her gut. She sensed her indignation stir, and suddenly found the heart to argue. "You're wrong--there was never anything between your husband and me but friendship and respect. I had nothing to do with Mr. O'Leary's death, but if you want to know who did, just take a look at his last words." She urgently thrust the notebook in Maude's direction. "Here. Take it. You must." Maude snatched the spiral away, sneering at the paper as she tentatively examined the pages. She darted quick looks at the words it contained while continuing to train her vision and weapon on Amy. As she dissected the final message, her arm faltered as if the weight of the gun was too great. Then her hatred seemed to boil up again. As she stormed out of the room, Maude snarled, "He won't get away with this-Barger will know what pain is." Amy breathed rapidly from her combined relief and shock for a few minutes, then decided to follow. ****************************************************************** Victor Barger looked rather innocent until the bitter Maude O'Leary slammed into his office, waving a gun and a notebook. "You killed him!" A furious waggle of the spiral followed. "I've got the proof right here. I just can't decide--Should I shoot to kill, or just crack a kneecap so you'll have a hard time running away from your future boyfriends in prison?" She paced about with predatory fervor. Barger slowly rose from his chair and came to stand in front of his desk, arms crossed in disdain. "Really. May I see this oh-so-incriminating evidence? No doubt this is just another one of your drunken rampages--one step up from mauling secretaries." Maude darted him a poisonous glare. "Here!" she spat. "Read it and weep!" Barger smirked as he began to peruse the notebook. Very quickly, his face began to knot with ugliness. "Where did you get this?" "Ha! As if I would tell you. Now give it back, or your dead!" Maude stepped forward in an attempt to rip the papers from his hands, but because of his height, Barger could hold them out of reach. At that moment, Amy Martin ran into the office, letting out an angry squeal as she witnessed the struggle. It was enough of a distraction, for Maude temporarily looked away, giving Barger the opportunity to snatch the gun from her grasp. Maude let out a gasp and scratched at him to gain control of the weapon again. He sneered and shoved her away, so that she crashed down on the floor. He watched as Maude crawled to her knees. In disgust Barger growled, "Lousy bitch." Then he fired the gun once, twice, and finally a third time. Amy screamed. Witnessing a murder was too much for her new forcefulness to take, and she erupted in hysterical tears. Barger grabbed her by the arm and slugged her into his desk. He bent her over, pressing her face down on the bureau's surface and his gun into her temple. "I know you gave her that notebook--You fool! She's dead now because you're so stupid. Do you want to stop being stupid? Do you? Answer me!" He banged her head against the desk for emphasis. "I-d-d-do," Amy choked out. "So tell me if there are any more copies of this notebook. Tell me, then maybe I'll only kill you, and not your boyfriend." Amy couldn't stand the fear any longer and released a disjointed wail. ***************************************************************** Nick, Schanke, and Clare heard the cry from the other end of the hallway. They picked up the pace, Nick and Clare pulling out their weapons, and ran towards Barger's office. Schanke held back, peering into the room after his partners entered. He spotted a woman's body sprawled across the floor and the gun Victor Barger held to the crying woman's skull. He remained ducked behind the door jamb, listening and waiting. Upon Nick and Clare's arrival, Barger whirled around with Amy shielding his front, still threatening her by cocking the trigger. "Drop your weapons, or I swear, I'll shoot her." Amy let out a frantic gurgle of laughter at that. "Y-you said you were k-killing me anyhow." He slammed her in the head with a quick pistol swipe. "Shut up!" "Just stay calm," Nick reasoned in a low voice. "Look. We're putting down our guns." He slowly bent to comply, Clare following in reluctance. Once both weapons uselessly rested on the floor, Barger barked. "Now kick them over here." Again, the detectives cooperated. Satisfied, Barger continued speaking. "Miss Martin and I are going to walk out of here. If I see any sign of you following me, she dies. If I see the first hint of any police on the road, she dies. Get it?" Nick and Clare nodded and observed Barger gradually back his hostage through the doorway. Schanke lay in wait, patiently lurking out of view. He held his breath as Barger inched backwards, moving closer and closer. A meter away, then centimeters. When Schanke felt he could practically blow sweet nothings in the guy's ear, he struck. With surprising speed, he snatched Barger's arm and hammered his wrist into the door frame. Barger grunted in pain and dropped the gun. Schanke happily wrenched the fellow's arms behind his back in immobilization, leaving the girl free to scurry safely back into the room. Clare and Nick had moved to aid Schanke, but found little more to do than offer him a pair of handcuffs. "Nothing like a little kung-fu fighting to make you thirsty. I wonder if they have anything to drink around here?" Schanke quipped. Clare rolled her eyes and Nick grinned, saying, "Good to have you back, Schank." Walking back into the office, they inspected Maude O'Leary and found that she was dead. "Barger shot her. I saw him. She confronted him with Mr. O'Leary's diary, and he shot her." "This notebook?" Nick scooped the spiral-bound and his own gun up from their resting places on the floor. "Yes," Amy Martin nodded. "It's evidence of Barger's motive in killing his partner." Nick thumbed through the pages, then passed them in contentment to Schanke. Then he sent Clare a pointed look. "Case closed," he murmured. ****************************************************************** End of Part Nine C Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:55:30 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10A/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ********************************************************************* Beginning of Part Ten A Squads of backup officers descended upon the Log & Oaks Brewery to escort Victor Barger to the precinct and Amy Martin home. A couple Forensics workers also arrived to deal with Maude O'Leary's corpse. Both Nick and Clare were vexed when Natalie did not appear on the scene, but sent one of her assistants instead. Nick, Schanke, and Clare returned to the station soon after the party had congregated at the brewery. When they arrived, Nick began acting distracted and quickly excused himself for the rest of the night while referring to some mysterious and urgent errands. He offered Schanke a ride home, and the two men departed, abandoning Clare to her own devices. The O'Leary case was essentially complete, and she should gather up her pencils, tissue, and Handi-wipes, then leave. Clare imagined illegalities of her own that she could indulge to pass the night away. She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind and let her gaze sweep over the folders littering Nick's desk and her own. Four open cases remained. Over the past three nights, Nick and she had practically ignored the lot. Perhaps on this fourth moonlit shift, Clare would devote a smidgen of legwork to this brood of paper. She collected the files and began to examine the progress notes that Nick had added so far. One case, the death of a known Taiwanese street gang member, jumped out at her. It was her own handiwork, her last hunting expedition before joining the police force. She thumbed the crime scene photos attached in delicious memory. She had slit his throat instead of straight biting, but excessive blood loss had been noted. Of course, a high degree of blood loss was bound to be expected when the victim bleeds to death. Clare wondered if Nick's suspicion of vampire involvement prompted his delay in follow-up. She tended to be careful in her feedings, and the evidence did not overtly suggest anything out of the ordinary. Maybe the frequency of gang murders and a lack of eager witnesses typically made these cases difficult to close. Regardless, Clare had inside information. She propped back in her chair, raking through her brain for images absorbed from the victim's mind. The man had committed many murders of his own before meeting up with her and had several compatriots worthy of convincing to confess to this crime. A handful of faces on her mind, Clare withdrew to begin her street search for an appropriate scapegoat. ****************************************************************** Clare slid open the loft door with one hand, her other arm occupied with balancing two baskets. She shuffled over to the kitchen table, setting her load down. "Nick? I know you're here..." she called, meanwhile flipping the lid up of one of the baskets to peek inside. Nick appeared at the top of his stairs, looking groggily over the rail. He still wore the same black pants and burgundy shirt of the night before. Discovering that Clare was the source of the summons, he appeared slightly relieved, yet disappointed. He casually descended the stairs to find out what she wanted. "What did you bring me?" he wondered, eyeing the baskets with unease. Clare's lips twitched. "Alas, they are not for you. These were my...unexpected gifts from the Schanke clan." Nick grinned at the orange and yellow contents of one container. "They gave you fruit?" Clare appeared resigned. "Apparently there were drawbacks inherent to my frutarian excuse. Somewhere, there are naked citrus trees due to my perfidy." She sighed. "Stop laughing. I'm sure I'll find somebody with a grapefruit fetish to take them off my hands." Nick swallowed his amusement and suggested that Clare play fruit donor to Grace. "She's always talking about diets. The grapefruit should be welcome. So what is in the picnic basket? And why is it making noise?" "The booby prize." Clare lifted the opening of the woven receptacle, unearthing a purring bundle. "The O'Leary's precious. Schanke *is* allergic. He must have sneezed out half of his brain cells when he handed the mite over." "Ah. So with Maude O'Leary no longer available to accept her cat, Schank and Myra thought you would be a convenient victim?" Clare scooped the feline into a cradle position against her chest. She proceeded to tickle the cat's belly fur, which earned her a miffed glare as well as prompt and generous shedding all over her melon-colored suit. "It was Jen's demand, actually. She insists that the cat likes me." Clare touched its nose with her finger, eliciting the feline's verbose licking of the digit with a gravely tongue. "She is rather engaging and comes equipped with fangs. She should fit in nicely." Nick was somewhat surprised. "You're going to keep the cat?" "Why not? I've had pets before. Of course, they never last long..." At Nick's stern look, she protested. "I meant compared to me--Fifteen or so years is not a lengthy period of time when you're two thousand years old." "Okay. I take the look back. See? I'm all smiles." He gave her an innocent grin. Clare considered him bluntly. "You do not look rested. What have you been doing? I would have thought your presence at Schanke's grand interview was a forgone conclusion, but I heard you took the night off. You left *me* to do paperwork which, I might add, is not going to happen again." "Let Schanke do it. He has a special bond with paperwork," Nick joked. "For your information, I talked to Schanke on the phone just after his meeting with Captain Reese, so I know all about the arrangement." Clare returned her new pet to its temporary carrier, then asked, "And how much did Schanke tell you?" Nick noticed a splotch of dried paint on his wrist, and began to rub at the spot. Unfortunately, the blot extended in a lobate squiggle onto his cuff. "Because of his supposed health problems over the past year, plus the time he's spent away from the job, the force wants to put Schanke on friendly probation for the next three months." Clare nodded slightly. "That about covers it." Nick shook his head. "That isn't all, as you're perfectly aware. You were chosen to report on Schanke's performance, his health, ecetera. Apparently, Captain Reese believes you will be impartial. However did he get that idea?" Clare scowled. "I had nothing to do with the decision. It isn't as if he realizes that I know more about irresponsible law enforcement than the alternative. You should be happy. Your wish has come true: Donald Schanke is your partner again." "But you haven't quit. Your end of the wager is unfulfilled." "Don't be ungrateful. You certainly don't want me to leave, only to be replaced by someone who actually *cares* how Schanke readjusts to the job. I will magnanimously deliver sterling reviews. In three months, the man will be all yours, and I will be gone from here." "Gone from the police force, you mean," Nick corrected. "What else could I have meant?" Clare started to wander about the loft. "Have you seen Natalie since last night?" Nick viewed her suspiciously. "I haven't. Why do you ask?" "I have no particular reason." She nonchalantly fingered the carving in the fireplace wood. "Since I plan to stop by the Coroner's Office to dispose of my fruit gift with Grace, and in all probability I will encounter Natalie--Is there anything you would like me to mention to her?" Clare snuck a sideways glance at Nick to judge his reaction. His lips spread in a secret smile. "That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer." Clare lifted her eyebrows slightly, then continued her inspection of the loft. She stopped by a canvas propped against an easel, clandestinely draped in linen. "Have you been painting?" She gingerly sniffed the air. "And recently too, it smells like. Is art what kept you awake all the day?" "Among other things." Nick shrugged noncommittally and worked his way closer to stand where Clare curiously twitched the fabric covering. "You don't mind if I peek, do you?" Nick intercepted her rising hand, firmly encouraging the shroud to float back into place. He shook his head, tantalizingly confiding, "Uh-uh. It's a *surprise* project." Clare's eyes widened in interest. "Ah. Will it have a restricted audience then?" Nick playfully considered the question. "Something like that." She forsook the hidden artwork, choosing instead to inspect the grand piano where reams of staff paper leaned against its music stand. She noticed the array of quarter-notes, chords, and additional musical nomenclature were all hand written. Settling on the bench, she hummed a few bars of the melody. Nick approached, letting the tune lilt through him. "I didn't realize you were musically inclined." Clare looked up from the pages. "I inherited the trait from my mortal family. I didn't realize you composed. This is truly lovely." Nick took a place on the bench beside her, thumbing a page of staves lovingly. "It's a song that has lingered in my mind over the past several days, maybe longer." She smiled knowingly. "I suppose you will be on vacation tomorrow night as well?" He returned with a grin, admitting, "There's a possibility." Clare rose, murmuring softly, "Good for you, Nicholas." She strolled towards the lift. "I'll leave you to your surprises." She paused as Nick called out her name. "Don't forget your presents," he reminded. Clare's vision drifted to the baskets, still waiting where she had positioned them. "My, how could they have slipped my mind?" She hooked her arms around both packages once more, then exited with the load. Nick watched her departure with amusement. It would have been a surprise if they hadn't. ****************************************************************** As per Nick's prediction, Grace was delighted with the bounty of citrus that Clare presented. She promptly left Natalie and her sire alone, in search of a refrigerator that did not contain body parts. "I won't pester you for too long," Clare began. "The O'Leary's cat is waiting in the car. Or, more appropriately, my cat." "Oh-ho...aren't you the lucky one?" Natalie teased. "At least Myra didn't give you any cosmetic samples." Clare pretended to cringe at the notion. She paused, appearing to examine Natalie with concern. "Joking aside, Natalie, you seem to be rather harried. Perhaps you should escape work early." Natalie demurred, bustling over to one of the morgue's stationary visitors and finding something incredibly fascinating about his fingernails. "I still have some work to do, and you never know what mischief and brutality the denizens of Toronto will get up to." Clare launched her counterattack. "Both activities could be capably handled by one of your associates. Grace, for instance, cannot eat oranges for the rest of the night. Besides, I'm taking the evening off, Nick's taken the evening off, and Schanke is not working either. If anybody gets killed in the shadows tonight, *we* aren't going to lift a finger. So..." She took Natalie's hand and shook it in encouragement. "Go home. Take a long bubble bath. Pet Sidney. Curl your hair. Just have fun--it won't hurt. I promise." Natalie hesitated, then tentatively assured, "I'll think about it." "That is all I request." Clare gave her offspring a brief kiss on the cheek. "No matter what your choice, have a good night." Natalie waved goodbye to her sire, then proceeded to continue with her physical exam of Mr. Doe. Half an hour passed before Grace returned, fruitless, yet bearing lab results. Another thirty minutes passed. Slowly, the odor of formalin grew more oppressive to Natalie's nostrils. It clouded about her, seeped into her clothes, her hair, and even her skin. The memory of Clare's suggestion of lengthy soak returned alluringly. She tended to do her quality thinking about life, the universe, and herself in the bath. Perhaps quitting early wasn't such a bad idea. "Grace?" "Mmmm-hmm?" "You wouldn't mind if I cut out for the rest of the night, would you?" "Oh, Nat. I wouldn't mind at all," Grace clucked. "Are you feeling under the weather? You've looked ready to come down with something for days." Natalie suppressed a shudder at the idea. "Maybe I just need some rest and relaxation. Nothing dire, Grace." The woman collected Nat's things and patted her on the back. "Don't worry. I'll hold down the home fort. You just get better, you hear?" Natalie chose to only put away her apron, leaving her scrubs on instead of changing back into a skirt and heels. She thanked Grace and headed for her car. She drove slowly due to her distraction, but Natalie still had to mentally kick herself as she made a wrong turn. She couldn't drive to her own apartment--that was pretty bad. Reversing through a U, she aimed her car the right way again, steadfastly concentrating on nothing but the road. Finally throwing the sedan into park, Natalie breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed her briefcase, and hied to her floor. She fumbled with the lock on her door. Finally sensing the tumbler give way, Natalie leaned her forehead against the frame, slowly counting to ten. Her eyes remaining closed, Natalie pushed the door ajar. Her ears detected a foreign click, and her lids snapped open with alarm. Suddenly, there was music. A beautiful, flowing melody derived from a solo piano. She closed the door quietly, set her briefcase silently on the floor, and shuffled off her overcoat. Then she attended to the source of the entrancing notes. There was a portable stereo system--not hers, nor one she recognized. It had an aura of newness, and a whirring sound derived from the cassette deck. She looked closely at the winding reels of the tape. It was simply labeled 'For Natalie'. It was Nick's handwriting. A wave of lightness swept over her. Each sound seemed to resonate in her head now, lifting her higher and higher. She moved to her couch simply cuddled into the cushions, letting her eyes drift shut again. Somehow, the composition seemed romantic and gentle, yet it seduced her, pulling Natalie into a blissful langour of fluctuating sound and silence. The tune began a crescendo, consumed with passion, at first modest and tentative, then expanding into an unyielding and unrestrained torrent. Then there was complete silence. As the room absorbed the echo of the final key, a tiny whimper escaped her throat. Natalie rushed back to the stereo and rewound the cassette, playing the gift again and again. Then she noticed three posies of small flowers seeming to form a mini-trail towards her closed bedroom door. Curiosity twisted, she turned up the volume on the stereo several notches. Natalie lightly removed the blooms from the floor. They were white, star-shaped flowers with short, narrow leaves and little outstanding scent. Perplexed, she gradually entered her bedroom, picking up floral bunches until she had an entire bouquet of emerald flecked with minute snowy bursts. Then Natalie detected two things. The first consisted of a rectangular object, draped in ivory lace, and slanted on an elegant stand chiseled from lustrous rose marble. The other was a howling Sidney, evidently demoted to enclosure in the bathroom because of his penchant for playing with new items. She stepped to release her cat from his makeshift prison and chastised him. "You would have eaten my flowers, my boy, so none of your protests." He huffed and rubbed against the marble stand, quietly declaring it his own. Sidney then eyed a corner of the lace that hung temptingly above his head. He appeared fully eager to pounce, pull, and wrestle, so Natalie commandeered his feline body. He let out an indignant squeak and swiped at her flowers as Natalie carried him to her bedroom entry, condemning Sidney to the den. Natalie brushed her hands together and breathed a preparatory breath. She hesitantly edged towards the pedestal. Smoothing a palm across the woven covering, her lips tilted in blissful beaming. The lace was ethereally soft, finely entwined from a maze of silky threads into a complex arrangement of flowers and buds. The material appeared to be folded in half, so that the intersection of two layers would adequately conceal the treasure underneath. Natalie raised the fabric in one fell swoop. At the first sight of what lay underneath, she clutched the bounties of lace and flowers to her chest. She then dazedly perched on the end of her bed. It was a painting of her. Natalie's own face reflected from the canvas in welcome. Her blue eyes seemed teasing, yet wondering. The sparkling sapphire irises pulled her closer, and Natalie crouched forward to examine the portrait more closely. Her skin was creamy, with blushes of pink. Her hair rioted in a mass of curls bouncing as an unrestrained tumble of gold and bronze. She appeared to be laughing, pleased and liberated in her smile. Natalie realized her mouth had fallen open and she was breathing raggedly in surprise. Her image was radiant. It glowed from within with some secret light. She was somewhat amazed, for her post-sleep vigils at the mirror never seemed to reveal such a woman. "Oh my..." she sighed. Natalie's painted neck slanted down, a continuing bridge of pearly pale skin. A shawl encircled her upper arms in a reproduction of the lace she now spread over her real lap. The virtual wrap crisscrossed her breasts, held in place by her right hand. The left hand grasped a bouquet, but not the tactile flowers she gently fingered during her perusal of the portrait. The spray was a collection of different flower types. No two blooms were exactly alike. Natalie recognized some: there were various colors of roses, a white chrysanthemum pompom, a streaked tulip, and a sunny yellow jonquil. She also noted what appeared to be sprigs of fern. Additional blossoms shouted their rich colors and greenery through the brushstrokes, but she wasn't precisely sure of their names. The unknown flowers added blasts of blue, purple, yellow, and white. A type of unusual heart-shaped leaves wound around her artful left wrist. The painting was unsigned, but a tangible vanilla envelope waited in one corner, graced with her name, once more in Nick's handwriting. She tore the paper pouch open, ripe with anticipation, and devoured the message it contained: There is a language to flowers... Chickweed means rendezvous. Nick Natalie felt strangely warm and expectant. She peered at her portrait again in amazement. The beauty and brightness of her likeness had her on the verge of tears. She hugged her bouquet to her cheek. The white flowers were very pretty, but a weed? Natalie grinned at the irony. She didn't care if they were a weed or not, the significance was perfect. Natalie placed her prizes on the coverlet and sprang for the bathroom. Instead of the long, leisurely bubble bath, she opted for a frenzied shower. After all, she had a rendezvous. ****************************************************************** End of Part Ten A Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 10:10:39 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10B/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ********************************************************************* Beginning of Part Ten B Leaving the morgue, Clare had returned to her hotel to change out of her fur-laden clothes. She released the cat from confinement, allowing the tortoiseshell to roam and inspect its new home. Then Clare realized she had no catly accoutrements. No proper food, no dishes, and certainly no litter box. Something would have to be done. She considered visiting Natalie's apartment to borrow some of Sidney's accessories, but who knew what interesting, do-not-disturb happenings were going on over there? Fearful at being doused anew with cat hair, she treated the pet like a holy water bomb, reluctantly stalking the feline and holding it aloft at arm's length as she secured it once more in the makeshift carrier. Clare then inspected her gown of rich, mahogany, figure-hugging crepe de chine for tufts of tan, black or orange. She had a fondness for gowns with no back. This one was a particular favorite, and Clare was reluctant to have to change due to excess lint. The gown's neck tied halter-like and below the band at her throat, the material was slashed away in a forty-five degree angle. The points originated about seven centimeters apart with the lower, slighter-sloped side continuing under her arms to meet at another point at the base of her spine. There was also a slit in the skirt that aspired to become an astronaut, ending somewhere between the floor and the moon. Finding her dress unscathed, Clare lifted the cat-in-a-basket, and darted again into the night. By the time she reached the Raven, her arms swung free as she slithered down the moody stairs. She located her first prey, espying Vachon chatting with Cecilia and Domino, two of Figaro's offspring. They had the same relationship to her as Vachon, yet inspired little of the same fondness. Perhaps the dissimilarity arose because they were carefully trained and tempered by their sire, and Javier had been abandoned. Maybe she still wanted to compensate for rejecting him when they first met. Upon her approach, the fires of gaiety within Cecilia and Domino extinguished. They rapidly excused themselves, obviously inventing an urgency elsewhere. Vachon grinned at their quick retreat. "Do you think they are terrified of you or just plain intimidated?" Clare displayed little interest in the cause of their avoidance. "They probably blame me for Figaro's death. They were chicks to his mother hen." Vachon played with a black napkin on the bar, attempting some form of minimalist origami. "Then his loss must put them in an awkward position. They want leading, but your reputation is just too scary." That comment piqued her attention. "Do *you* find me scary, Vachon?" "Bossy, manipulative, charming, maybe--And a snappy dresser, I might add," Vachon declared, momentarily distracted by the view of Clare's bare back as she leaned across the bar to clasp a blood cocktail. She then frowned when he failed to continue the statement, so Vachon crumpled up his napkin and completed the thought. "But, no, I don't think you're scary." Clare looked at him wickedly. "Good. I need a favor." Javier scowled. "Have you noticed, Clare, that every time you see me lately, you only want me to do some kind of work? Right now, I only want to kick back and have a good time." "That's what I want for you, too," Clare pronounced earnestly. "Let me elaborate: A gorgeous female has recently come under my protection. She has dark hair, delicious green eyes, and an alluring disposition." Vachon began to listen more intently at those attributes. "I just want you to look out for her, see to her needs, make sure she doesn't come to any harm." "See to her needs, eh?" Javier rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I could do that." He glanced about the Raven. "So where is this seductive creature?" Clare was suddenly all business. "She waiting at the church. I left you a list of things she needs. Here, you can take my car." She folded his hand about her keyring. Since Vachon was occupied with fantasies starring needy, gorgeous brunettes, he failed to be suspicious at the change in Clare's demeanor. Instead, he gave her a cheeky grin. "Thanks. Don't wait up for me." Clare waved him off with satisfaction. "I'll pick her up tomorrow night." Then she proceeded to her own evening's entertainment. ****************************************************************** Vachon whistled a happy tune as he climbed the church stairs. He alternated between swinging the Ferrari's keys into the air and catching them, then twirling them about his finger. Reaching the landing, he propped his door open, casting a welcoming grin at the interior. It would have been a perfect greeting, only no one was there to witness his charm. He neither saw nor sensed any vampires or mortals. Vachon shrugged. Maybe Clare's new friend wasn't as helpless as she had made out. He located a bottle and glass, then backed into his red brocade chair to sit down. A sudden squawk similar to a duck coughing erupted from underneath him. Javier leapt up and spun around. Then he released a tortured groan. A cat lay curled into a semi-circle on the seat. Its luminous green eyes reproached him in disfavor, as if to say 'How dare you sit in this chair?'. Vachon glared back, and the cat yawned, then dismissed him to groom a paw. "I don't believe it." He squinted in indecision, then stalked around the room, searching for the handy 'list of things she needs' Clare had oh-so-generously provided. At the foot of his bed rested an unwanted picnic basket, with a note in pencil (recycled, no doubt) taped to the lid. He ripped the page off in disgust and begrudgingly scanned its contents. Vachon- I know it was wretched of me to conceal the nature of my new companion. I think we are both aware that you would have never agreed to pet-sit had I not resorted to deception. "Damn straight," Vachon muttered before he continued reading. Be patient. She can be very endearing and entertaining when given a chance. She does need a litterbox and some cat food immediately. See what you can dig up. Oh, I need to rename her as well-- Her former owner called her Precious. I want something a substantially more dignified. Can you think of anything? Clare "Can I think of anything?" Vachon groused. "How about Demonspawn?" He then noticed a postscript at the bottom of the paper. P.S. -- Demonspawn would *not* be dignified, Javier. You can do much better. Vachon snorted in irritation, crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. The feline immediately sprang from his chair, bounding after the projectile. Regaining dibs on his furniture, Javier relaxed once more. He poured a glass and started to unwind about the prospect of a dismal evening. A handful of sips had passed when Vachon overheard the sound of snagging fabric. He curled around to inspect the area behind his chair and caught the cat red-pawed, scratching the upholstery. He extended a long arm, the tip of his index finger to her nose and reprimanded in that purely Vachon way, "NO." The cat calmly ceased its perforation, preferring to lick his hand enthusiastically. Javier began to thaw just a tad. "All right. All right. I'll take care of you. First up: a litterbox." He considered the materials on hand at the church, then stomped downstairs. When he returned, he carried an aluminum dish pilfered from the baptismal font, filled with backyard dirt. Vachon set the pan in an inconspicuous spot on the floor, inviting his guest's inspection. "Clare did suggest that I see what I could dig up." The feline was not as certain about the dish's suitability for her purposes. Javier petted her in assurance. "It's okay. Do you realize how tricky it is for a vampire to get into a baptismal font?" His promise that he had toiled and suffered to obtain her litter pan seemed to make the cat content. Soon the sounds of shuffling dirt echoed through the room. Vachon contemplated the cat food issue next. Stale, moldy bags of communion wafers were *not* going to do the trick. He would have to go out. The problem boiled down to whether or not any nearby stores would have remained open at midnight. He was gone for half an hour, returning with a box of dry pebbles labeled 'Chicken Lickins'. Vachon then realized that he owned no dishes. Cursing under his breath, he redescended the stairs, this time coming back porting two collection plates, complete with cheesy felt linings. They had been much easier to obtain, so Vachon happily filled the bowls, one with the food granules, the other with water. Locating the cat, he found it sprawled at the end of his bed, emitting a faint whistle of snoring. Javier grinned, never having heard of such a thing before, then stretched out on the bed himself for a good read. Fifty pages into 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', Vachon felt the cat crawl onto his abdomen. He set the book down and began to observe the feline more closely. She was sniffing his shirt and evidently approved of the smell, for she began to purr wholeheartedly. The decibel level of the reverberation was astounding. His guest then commenced alternating the pressure on her forepaws, kneading his stomach. He blinked out of habit, and the cat imitated the eye closure in sultry response. Vachon was caught. He set the paperback aside, propping his hands behind his head for a better view of the catly demonstration. She did not disappoint. The cat emitted a nasal peep, then walked up his chest to sniff his face. Then she began to lick Vachon's nose. He found himself laughing. Her whiskers lightly teased his cheeks, making him feel almost ticklish. Javier began to rub underneath the cat's chin, causing the feline to slant her eyes in blissful delight and lift her head in order to grant him better access. "Clare was right--You *are* a gorgeous creature." The cat bestowed another languid blink at the sound of Vachon's voice. He noted her features: the parallel black and tan stripes running down her nose, the similar patchwork of colors bisecting her forepaws and the fur of her neck and chin. The cat's whiskers were black and fantastic in length. She wasn't short-haired, but she didn't fall under the classification of a Persian either. Her fur fell somewhere in between, maybe five or six centimeters long. The hair was soft and airy, as though it was woven out of silk fibers instead of keratin. The cat reared her head back, gave Vachon's petting hand a few quick licks, then climbed off his chest to curl in the crook of his arm for another nap. He turned to the side a little to watch her leisurely drift to sleep, the purring gradually trailing into silence. Javier thought. As the feline began her soft whisper of snores, Vachon settled down to discern the perfect appellation in her honor. ****************************************************************** Lacroix did not feel completely in control. He caught his thoughts drifting too often to her, his mind haunted by the twist of unsatisfied possessiveness, the faint shackles of need. He despised the ramifications. Unwelcome, the memory of Maeven's words sang to him. Lacroix's lips sneered in distaste. To insinuate that he had been entranced by the woman so long ago yet did nothing to take her--It was absurd. That behavior was not Lucian Lacroix. He was the master, the conqueror. Nothing that he wanted escaped him for a prolonged interlude. Surreptitiously, images from Clare's blood gravitated back to provoke him, the faces mocking. Recollections of Conchobhar still proliferated her, wrapped in some form of affection, maybe even love. Upon reflection, remembering the man's life, his death through hereyes brought a twinge. Lacroix denied that it was jealousy. Jealousy was weakness, and he would not share in that encumbrance. He forced the feelings away, deliberately banishing any emotion regarding Clare. His most recent musical selection thumped to a close over the airwaves, and Lacroix leaned over the microphone to grate out harsh words of lecture. "To be selfish is not vile. The sermon-givers and do-gooders preach sharing and magnanimity. Recycle your soda cans, feed the world, and turn the other cheek. But the unselfish, what are they but victims? Sacrifice guarantees the restaurant bill but not a pat on the head for your good deeds. This altruistic immolation is the lowest form of submission. Think carefully before you fall into the trap--if every individual became selfless, forfeiting their wants without exception, who would achieve their desires? Someone must take. Someone must prey on the yielding. So grab what you crave, my children. Selfishness spins the world round." Clare leaned against the wall outside the broadcast booth, eavesdropping on the Nightcrawler speech. Vampires had to be selfish. Those who dabbled in self-sacrifice rather than feeding their own pleasures did not last long or ended up miserable. Nicholas was a perfect example of the phenomenon. She agreed with the theory, but to hear Lacroix argue the point so brutally disturbed her. She swallowed convulsively, experiencing a small twitch of fear. She uneasily bypassed entering the sound booth and progressed to the back rooms for relaxation. She lounged on the divan, absentmindedly caressing the upholstery. She was not afraid, merely...concerned. The nature of Lacroix's monologue had struck her as too serious and intent. Her earlier mood had been frivolous and libertine before his words had towed her screaming into sobriety. Clare no longer felt flirtatious and bright, but solemn and restrained. she privately cursed. She was supposed to be independent of such things. Then she felt his presence. He entered, and Clare ordered herself not to stare, but succumbed to the temptation anyway. Lacroix was undeniably impressive. She had observed others unable to resist his magnetism. Too many others, and the sight of his tall form encased in black, his broad shoulders and back, had her braving the pull as well. Usually Clare would delight in the sensation, willingly plunging into desire and seduction. At the moment, though, she wished to subdue the feelings. Maybe it would be wise for her to employ more caution. She suddenly felt too eager. Lacroix broke the silence. "I did not expect your company so early. Did Nicholas, in fact, win the challenge, leaving you unemployed?" Clare sat up, quietly responding, "He won, but I will be his partner for another three months. I simply escaped prematurely for the night." "And in three months, what will you do?" She shrugged. "I do not know. I am certain that I will be swept away by something, and it will have nothing to do with the Toronto Police." Lacroix moved closer, taking a seat by her side, stroking her neck idly with his thumb. "How easily are you swept away, Clare?" A tremor scalded down her spine. The echo of her words of the recent past scolded her. Did that offer make her the sacrifice, the victim? Was it subservience to allow this heat and hunger to wind about her in a passionate cocoon? Lacroix bent to flick his tongue over her throat, and Clare realized she was losing the war. She wanted freedom and dignity, but she wanted him so badly. She gasped and held his mouth to her neck, feeling the scratch of his teeth shudder across her flesh. Oh, yes. Her desire was intense, gnawing at her soul and her reason, and it was excessively succulent to resist. "Too easily swept away," Clare sighed,feeling the tie about her throat loosen. Then his fangs plunged through her skin. Lacroix drank as if to ravage, to loot her soul and her will, branding them his own. Clare let her arms fall to frame her head, moaning in rapture at the throb of the pulse from his consumption. Rather than drained, Clare felt she was overflowing. Every cell, every fiber of her being demanded impatiently It was submission, enslavement, and for the first time, Clare did not feel she was Lacroix's equal. ****************************************************************** End of Part Ten B Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 10:26:38 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10C/10) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ********************************************************************* Beginning of Part Ten C Natalie nearly had a panic attack on the lift as it rose to Nick's loft. She might be overly giddy with anticipation. That was a strong possibility considering the past couple of months. While she was thinking about it, she could throw in the past six years for good measure in terms of hopeful and desperate expectations. She twiddled a chickweed petal amongst the bunch in her hand--A recently acquired habit, it seemed. Natalie had not brought the batch from her apartment. She had spotted another trail of the perfect sprigs leading through the garage, ending with a collection on the floor of the elevator. Cranking open the grill to the lift and sliding the loft door aside, Natalie caught sight of one more posy waiting in the entranceway. She tucked it into her menagerie. Natalie then promptly dropped the lot. Assorted around the room, over a dozen bouquets of flowers stood proudly, each arrangement composed of a plethora of a single species. Natalie recognized them without a doubt as the flowers from her portrait. She crouched down to retrieve her scattered chickweed, crowding them into a bundle once more. Natalie heard an exclamation from upstairs, then beheld Nick hurrying to look over the rails of the landing. His face broke into a jubilant welcome. "Natalie--You're here." he announced breathlessly. She waved the chickweed blossoms in the air as she strolled to stand below him. "I got your message, so I rendez-ed-moi." She grinned piquantly and tossed the bouquet in his direction. By the time the flowers peaked in height by the rail, Nick was absent to catch them. He had flashed down to stand behind Natalie. As the chickweed tumbled below again, he wrapped his arms around her, lassoing the blossoms and presenting them to Natalie anew. "I wanted to give you a proper hello," Nick murmured in her ear. "I didn't think you'd arrive for hours." Natalie turned to face him, placing a hand on his chest. "Well, a little birdie told me to quit early tonight." "Ah. Let me guess--it was a little raptor of prey named Clare." Natalie laughed and fiddled with one of the buttons on the black silk pajamas Nick was wearing. He looked down at her hand, appeared abashed by the state of his clothing and swept his fingers through his tousled hair. "I was asleep when you arrived," Nick admitted sheepishly. "I wanted to get in a couple hours of rest since I've been consumed with other projects recently." "I'll say. I think you've been holding out on me, Detective Knight." Natalie ran her palm upwards to curve around his neck and inquired enticingly, "What exactly did your 'proper' hello entail?" Nick teased her with a wicked grin, then replied, "Ummm. Well, first there's this." He lowered his mouth to plant delicate nibbles just below her ear. "And this." Nick trailed his lips along her jaw, running his fingers through her loose curls and massaging her scalp. Natalie had tilted her head back with delight and murmured, "Yes, I believe I'm beginning to feel welcome." Nick chuckled in a low voice, "Good, but we can't leave out *this*." He finally captured her mouth with his, sampling her lips repeatedly. Natalie felt compelled to speak between caresses. "I adored...the painting...and the music...They were phenomenal." Nick smoothed his hands down her back, experiencing the softness of her lace shawl. Natalie had chosen to wrap this gift about her in a life-imitates-art interpretation of her portrait. He pulled her body closer still, then tore his lips away in order to nuzzle her neck. "How did they make you feel?" Natalie's answer was soft and passionate. "They made me feel...loved." Nick stepped back, flashing a mysterious smile, and took her by the hand. He lifted her palm, and gazing into her eyes, brought the back to his mouth for a courtly tribute. "Come with me. There's more." He slipped the chickweed from her grasp, setting them in a pile on the couch. Nick escorted Natalie to one of the enormous arrangements, this one containing some purple blooms that she hadn't quite placed. "There is a language to flowers," Nick pronounced, extracting a single stem from the crowd and presenting it to her. Natalie indulged in its heavenly fragrance, her nose moving from the deep lavender petal tips to the royal purple center. Nick continued speaking. "Purple hyacinth means I am sorry. Forgive me for failing you by failing myself, for ever letting you feel unloved, and for 'holding out on you'." Natalie hugged the flower close and pressed Nick's hand. "Oh, Nick, I'm-" He stopped her speech with his other hand touching her lips. "Shh. Let me finish the bouquet, then you can reply." Natalie gave a slight nod, so Nick ushered her to the next display, picked out one of the blue blossoms with lance-like stems for her, then explained. "A bluebell means humility and constancy. I am humbled by your faith, and your constant assurances of goodness in me and the world." The next flower he presented was the flecked tulip, in shades of yellow and red. "The variegation in the tulip means your eyes are beautiful. Yours convey so much, from dismay and sorrow to joy and enchantment. Yes, your eyes are beautiful." Natalie fluttered her lashes in teasing, causing Nick to laugh. "Come on. I'm just getting started..." As she received her fourth token, Natalie couldn't resist speaking. She was bursting inside. "A fern stands for..." "Confidence and fascination," Nick supplied. "For your strength and composure that you demonstrate day after day , or should I say night after night, in your job and acclimating to your new life as a vampire. You are a scientist, doctor, and medical examiner, fascinated by the secrets of life and death, hence, a fascinating woman. And a yellow rose represents friendship." Nick proceeded to the next bouquet. "You are important to me in other ways, but you have been my friend since the night we met." The sixth flower was one Natalie was familiar with. "The white chrysanthemum conveys truth. You have always shown more honesty about your feelings than I have. That's another strength, another beauty." Nick trailed his fingers gently along her cheek, and Natalie leaned endearingly towards his palm. The ensuing flower was a mass of pale pink double-blooms, scattered along a thin branch. Nick read her thoughts. "Yes, it's from a tree. Flowering almond means hope. Your hope for us, and for the future." The heart-shaped leaves that wound about her wrist in the portrait followed. Nick simulated his painting by wrapping the braid of leaves about her forearm and threaded them into her growing collection of flora. "From another tree--the white mulberry. It stands for wisdom. You've taught me so much, and that is an accomplishment when the student is an octo-centenarian. And violets represent loyalty." Natalie happily accepted the collection of small, blue petals. "You have stood by my side and supported me, you came to welcome Schanke at the precinct when he needed it the most, and you've even stood up for Clare. You have an unshakable spirit." They reached the tenth flower: strange, feathery sprouts that resembled yellow hydra. Natalie did not know its identity, but the smell was somehow familiar. "Witch-hazel." Nick explained. "Ah." "It says 'You have cast a spell over me.' You are an inspiration to my creativity in art, music, in everything." Natalie bit her lip in expectation. She could not imagine any improvement in the flowers, and there were still four to go. Nick next offered her a cluster of tiny white petals. "Ash blossoms. A promise to keep you safe. I swear to protect you and cherish you as long as we exist." Natalie felt her throat closing and the pressure of tears pooling in her eyes. She wasn't certain she would last through the next three messages without sobbing inanely at the sweetness of Nick's actions. The piano serenade had started the assertion, the portrait clarified it, but these flowers, these words, cemented her certainty. He loved her. Nicholas Knight, nee de Brabant, loved Natalie Lambert. Her thrilled inner celebration was interrupted by the next presentation. Nick surprised her by bestowing to her two flowers at once: white and red roses. "These go hand in hand. The red connotes passion and romance, the white true love. I love you, Natalie. I ache for you. I adore you. I dream of sheltering you, sharing with you at my side, in whatever form our relationship takes. If you are ready or unprepared, I want to be close to you. Forever." The tears started then, Natalie felt the wetness streak down her cheeks as Nick gave her the jonquil. "The final flower is a question for you-- Can you return my love?" "Yes!" Natalie stamped her foot and threw her arms around Nick, a vise she did not intend to loosen. "Yes, yes, yes. Why do you think I've sprung leaks?" Nick laughed in triumph and picked Natalie up, swinging her around in celebration. Setting her securely on the floor again, he tasted her lips reverently, brushing softly at first, then gradually allowing the passion to blossom as brightly as the bouquet Natalie clutched against his back. Natalie felt intoxicated, drunk with the sensations whirling through her. The blending of pure joy and the dark desire of hunger formed a magnificent and heady combination. The flowers slipped from her hand as she moved to pull urgently at the buttons on his shirt. Nick engaged in a similar occupation, stripping the ivory lace off her arms and waist, revealing additional lace of the same color stitched into a camisole. Contemplating his response, Nick was overwhelmed at the light and darkness that he perceived within himself. The balance. The parity. And impressions of Natalie. While touching her glowing skin, watching the electricity in her beautiful eyes, Nick recognized that he was happy. He was ecstatic. He released another laugh and swept Natalie up into his arms, moving towards the couch. As Nick placed her carefully on the cushions, Natalie produced a soft exclamation. She reached behind her, exhibiting the mass of chickweed that had crushed under her weight. Nick finished freeing his shirt and tossed it aside, then bowed to alternate nipping and kissing her neck. Compared to that, a bunch of flattened weeds fell pitifully short and into a heap on the floor. Dizzy with the ripples floating along her skin, Natalie pushed Nick up and flipped him over on his back. Their eyes now gleamed in arousal, reflecting a tarnished gold. Nick growled softly, teasing her with the sight of his fangs. Natalie refused to be impressed and exposed her own extended canines. She swayed forward until her teeth lightly pricked Nick's chest, chewing daintily until he released a groan. It was his turn to twist. Nick rolled until they lay sardined on top of the sofa, but side by side. They intertwined fingers and shared ardent eyes. Natalie broke the gaze, winding her lips from his chin to his throat. Nick's lids fluttered shut and he grasped her hands more tightly. Then she fed. Natalie sucked in a mouthful and paused at the sensory overload. The flurry of emotion, the tangle of remembrance, the sorrows, the victories, all became hers in an instant. Floating through all of the input, she saw herself in Nick's thoughts, a thousands of moments combined and erupting within her. She had no idea that this experience was so tremendous. Words couldn't express it, a mortal mind could never fathom it. Drinking human blood, that of a stranger, was an addictive experience, she was quick to admit that. Feeding from someone you cared for, someone you loved with all your soul--it reached another dimension. She swallowed and savored more, delighting in the nuances for a minute. Natalie relinquished Nick's throat, moving to kiss him tenderly on the lips. His eyes flared open as she licked across his teeth. Nick responded with a grin, then devoured her mouth in return. He took his turn, brushing his jaw against Natalie's and piercing the skin of her delicate throat. They swam in langour, each one consuming the other. They were everything. They were together. They were one. ***************************************************************** Nick reluctantly abandoned sleep as he detected something soft repeatedly pelting his face and chest. Watching the room focus, he spotted Natalie at the end of the bed, clad only in a toga composed of her new lace shawl. About half of her multifaceted bouquet rested in her arms and the other fraction littered the bed. Natalie winked at him, wielded the variegated tulip, and arrowed it in his direction. Nick was alert enough to intercept the bloom as it flew through the air. "You know, you have beautiful eyes, too," she drawled. Natalie tossed the witch-hazel like a discus. "Obviously, you have fed my creativity by the looks of my outfit." Natalie twirled around, modeling the precariously hung garment, then bulleted the three roses for Nick to snare. "Friend, lover--and I don't think I actually said it last night--I love you." She blew him a kiss, and Nick pretended to catch it to his heart. Natalie was left with an orphan flower--the jonquil. She considered it, then twirled the blossom around her fingers like a baton. She flung it into the air, but the yellow projectile tumbled to the floor rather than the bed. "Oh well," Natalie shrugged. "So much for 'Can you return my love?' But then, I am rather pleased with where everyone's affections lie right now." Nick grinned, then instructed her with false sternness. "Not so fast. I want my affections to come closer." Natalie consented and found herself pulled into bed beside him. "So how come I'm getting flowers?" Nick quizzed. "Because," Natalie circled a fingertip through his hair. "I got everything. A song dedicated *to me*. A fabulous painting *of me*. Then, the icing on the cupcake, a bouquet and sentiments of love *to me*. I feel like I'm hogging an unfair portion of the gifts." "Not necessarily," Nick countered. "The origin of every note, brushstroke, and flowery expression was you. I was just the medium between the ephemeral reality and the symbols." Natalie grinned. "That does it. I'm just going to have to kiss you again." "Do your worst." Natalie dedicatedly tried her darndest. As the bedside clock verged upon noon, Natalie wondered aloud, "So we both get the blame for the existence-altering events of last night, huh?" Nick pulled her to snuggle closer. "That's right. We share." Drifting off to sleep, Natalie smiled to herself, reflecting, ****************************************************************** End of Part Ten C End of "The Unselfish Partner" This is the part of the story where I ask you to send me overall comments about "Unselfish"--what you liked least and what was your favorite. It helps me improve, and sometimes shapes the outcome of future stories! Send opinions to: br1035@ix.netcom.com