She died anyway.

Despite their best efforts. Despite the crucial CPR. The practiced paramedics. The bandages. The backup. The compresses and the pressure. The firefighters. The cops. The entire emergency response cavalcade of the fucking Chicago fucking public service. She died. She died anyway. She just… died.

And Ray’s eyes were dry. Dry like sunburn. Sahara and savannah and Serengeti dry. Dry like ice as he reached inside himself to feel something. Anything. Anything besides hate and anger and loathing for the system that had turned her away. Away from safety. Away from help. Toward the streets and their ambiguous asylum.

More than anything else, he hated himself. Because he’d known her. Or should have. But he didn’t. Didn’t remember at all. Even though the cheerless parade of cheerleading trophies on the mantle said they’d both been at George Washington Carver Memorial high school together. At the same time. Probably in the same classes. Same fucking teachers.

Teachers he’d hated. Hated them calling him Stanley. Calling him stupid. Or just “not working up to potential,” which was so much the same as stupid as not to make any difference. And calling her… what? What had they called her? What had he called her? If he’d called her anything. Ever. Anything at all. Jane. Her name had been Jane. Jane Devereaux. French. Devereaux.

He hadn’t a clue. Couldn’t fuckin’ remember. Didn’t know her. Hadn’t noticed her then. Back in high school. Hadn’t noticed. When sullen behaviour and roller coaster moods and delirious fawning puppy love had ruled his world. Make that puppet-love. Stella-the-ringmaster. Pulling his strings. Pulling his heartstrings. Stella. Then as now. Maybe Stella remembered her. This Jane. Jane Devereaux. So close to Jane Doe as not to make any difference.

“You with me, here, Vecchio?”

“Keep the area blocked until the forensics guys are done and gone. Right, Lieutenant. Gotcha.”

And Ray hated how easily, how fluidly he rose out of his head. Rose up out of his head and swam toward reality. Others’ reality. Swam smoothly, slickly. Like swimming in oil. So smoothly that nobody, not Welsh, not Huey, not even Fraser, knew how furiously he dog-paddled underneath. Under the surface where they couldn’t see. Bloom and close. Bloom and close. He was good at this. Damn good at this. He’d built his entire fucking career on it. And right now he hated that too.

And now he was crowd control. Working with the other boys in blue, or mostly blue and blue jeans and whatever you were wearing when you were called in from your day off. Your one day off to try and get control. Of your life. Of anything. Anything at all. And now crowd control. Holding back the crowd. The crowd that was no crowd. Just a few curious stragglers, lookin’ for a thrill. Maybe a reporter would show up later. And he hated himself for knowing, knowing in advance, that he would hate them for their morbid curiosity. And if they didn’t come, he’d hate them for not caring enough to be morbidly curious. It was a lose-lose situation.

Fuck. At least he knew himself.

It started to rain. It was dark and cold and starting to rain. And that was the first thing in hours that Ray didn’t hate. He liked this rain. Loved it, in fact. Loved it good. Not because it was cleansing or symbolically smacked of rebirth, but because it was cold and wet and set physical misery matching psychological misery. Body and mind working pitifully together—a matched set, like Tourister fucking luggage on the Greyhound to hell. He almost-laughed, weakly—coulda sounded like choking, maybe.

He wiped his burning eyes, blurring eyes.

The forensics people had finished outside. Doing outside first instead of inside first. In anticipation of the rain, he guessed. Now they were inside, and strangely, oddly, with the weird perversity that never failed to make him hate people anew, the thin crowd was not dispersing in the rain, but actually thickening. Thickening. Clotting. Coagulating. As if cold and dark and wet were the big draw. Or, at least, the big mood setters.

How do they know? Know where to go? They must have been called. Called from the scene. Called by friends on cell phones who said, “Come look. Come stare. We’ll bond. Bond over blood. Bond over death.”

And they’d come. Come to gawk at the crime scene. The scene of the crime. Gawk at where someone had died. Been murdered. Butchered by the one person in life you were supposed to be able to trust. Till death do us part. Oh yeah. Till death. But you weren’t supposed to orchestrate it yourself. Hard enough to orchestrate life, easier to orchestrate death. Orchestrate. A Fraser-word. Orchestrate. Or-castrate. Now there’s an idea. A very Ray-idea.

So the onlookers had come to gawk. And feel superior. “That could never be me.” “I’d never do that.” But what if it had been you, you fucker? What if it was your wife-sister-daughter-mother? What if it had been Stella? Frannie? Elaine? Stella?

A glint of red in his peripheral vision. His lousy, 20/45 peripheral vision. A glint so familiar, so common as to not be noticed. Recognized. Noted. But not acknowledged until the steaming Styrofoam cup appeared in his hand. Without a word. And peripheral red stood beside him. No words. Thank God. No words. Just stood, and peripherally raised its own steamy pearly cup-shaped Rorschach blot every now and again.

And there was something else Ray didn’t hate. Didn’t hate it when a blotch of red slid into his hazy peripheral vision. Knowing him. Knowing him well enough not to talk. Knowing him well. At least peripheral red had a hat. With a brim. Against the rain. Ray’s rain. Ray almost-laughed again.

And it was good to be known. Good. Goodness. Good that someone knew him. Maybe not from high school. There was always Stella for that. But from now. From recent. From this Vecchio thing. And this Kowalski thing. And maybe for a long time to come. That would be good. Was good already.

Not as good as last time, though. Not like last time, when they’d saved the wife and got the fucker and the bomb had exploded harmlessly. Saved the wives: ex-wives. So hard to remember. X marks the spot. X takes the square. X-ray. Ex-Ray.

But Fraser was good. ’Cause Fraser would be there for him. As much as he could. Which was a whole fuck of a lot. Fraser was very there. A very there kinda guy. When he was there, he was very there. And he’d be there as much as he could, for as long as he could. And that was good. Greatness. When he was with Fraser, he was someone he wanted to be. Wanted to be around.

And Fraser could only be around him when he was around Fraser, right? So Fraser got to see the best of Ray Kowalski. No chance to see the other Ray Kowalski. The Ray Ray was when he wasn’t around Fraser.

And Fraser had once said he found Ray attractive. That he loved Ray. Symbolically or something. He’d ask Fraser about it later. Talk to him later. Ask him about Canada. Fraser liked to talk about Canada. Like to talk about home.

And then Ray remembered The Threat. The Great looming fucking Threat. The Great Threat of Canada looming over them. Looming over his life. Large as life. Large as all outdoors. That Fraser could get called back anytime. Could choose to go back anytime. That he wanted to go back. To go away. Go away from Ray.

And then Ray hated all over again.

“I believe they’re done, Ray. Let’s go home.”

“I am all over that, Fraser.”

And Ray lived. He lived anyway.

End