Fic: T.O., Russell/ Alan, AU, Pt 2

[under_hatches]

Chapter 7: Barrie

After closing the door to their room, Russell had waited for Alan to shrug out of his coat and examine the single perfectly round hole in its side. It almost looked like a cigarette burn, as Alan remarked in a casual but shaky voice. Russell looked at him then and at the room he had signed in for with a fake name. It was spacious, but simple. A summer residence that was open during the winter, but almost deserted. The lake had been clear and sparkling when they had pulled up into the parking lot. Russell remembered this place from years ago. There was a new coat of paint on the houses but other than that it had remained the same. He had taken a small summerhouse, two rooms, lake view.

Russell opened the door to their bedroom, checking the two single beds, the closet window, the emptiness of the room. When he turned back to Alan, Russell noticed that Alan was shaking slightly. He had been cold in the car before, so Russell had cranked up the heating.

He looked at the other man for a second before wrapping him in his arms.

“Shh,” he murmured, “You’re fine, you’re fine now.” He continued murmuring sounds that weren’t words, just a soft thread of encouragement. When Alan stopped shaking, he gently steered him towards the sofa. He pushed Alan down onto the three seater that had definitely seen better days, and held out a blanket. Alan took it with the greatest reluctance as if he had forgotten what a blanket was for.

“Wrap yourself in,” Russell suggested. “I need to make a few calls.” He picked up the phone, taking it into the other room with him. He took one last glance at Alan before closing the door.

Alan watched the door shut with a click, and he stretched a bit as if to test his legs. The spreading numbness did not seem to sit in his limbs though. He curled up again, pulling the blanket around him. Just now did he take in his surroundings. At the sight of the darkness outside, the wooden floor, the holiday home that was so different from what he had been used to for the last months, the events came rushing back to him. They carried a different memory along, one that came rushing back to him at full force now. He remembered being hit, the details blurred by time but still carrying the unforgettable terror that now had shifted to a more shapeless threat. It was enough to make his heart race again, unbidden and on the verge of being painful. He closed his eyes, feeling exhausted. He could hear Russell come in again and sat up a little.

“No need to get up,” Russell said, “Are you feeling better?”

Russell held out a tumbler with an amber liquid. Alan considered lying, but felt too tired for it. He simply shook his head and took the offered glass.

“Thought that would warm you up a little.”

Alan blinked a little at the warmness of Russell’s voice. He began to understand that Russell’s answer to violence was retreat. Maybe only for a little while, until the worst had blown over. And then he would be taking measures Alan did not want to think about. Right now, Alan only wanted to focus on this feeling of warmth that he suddenly felt. No matter who had taken a shot at him, he would not be able to come here.

When Russell sat down next to him, Alan could not help but note how warm Russell was, how alive. He would be able to hear the other man’s heartbeat if he leaned over. Alan did lean over then, wrapping his arms around Russell’s middle, pressing his ear against his chest. Russell made a surprised sound, then hugged him back.

“Alan,” he said, almost a question.

When Alan looked up, he noticed the impossible proximity of their faces. His lips curled up in a smile, and he leaned a bit closer, kissing Russell on the lips. He was aware that there were approximately a million reasons not to, he could think of a dozen right away, but they only came to him after he closed that tiny space between them. Russell made that surprised sound again, this time muffled and deep in his throat, not at all sounding unhappy about it.

The next thing Alan knew, they were up in the bedroom. His shoes and sweater gone, the duvet off the bed he was half sitting, half lying on, and Russell was standing in front of the bed, slipping out of his shirt. Alan reached out for Russell, not wanting to lose touch for a second. The moment Russell lay down, they were kissing again. Alan let his hands roam over Russell’s warm skin, pulling him closer. There was this blissful moment of want, and Alan could have sworn that his brain short-circuited, because he seemed to be missing small pieces of what happened, like single frames cut out of a film. Next time he looked, there was a irregular love bite at the nape of Russell’s neck, like done in a haste, and Russell was looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

Alan was fumbling with the button of Russell’s trousers, trying not to break the kiss.

“Let me,” Russell said, sitting up just enough to let the trousers slid down so he could kick them off.

He opened the button on Alan’s jeans, and Alan lifted his hips off the bed. Russell tucked the jeans down, stroking along Alan’s legs.

“Come here,” Alan said before Russell could asked if he was sure about this.

And Alan could not bring himself to care about possible consequences. Not with Russell’s kisses becoming more urgent until finally matching his own, and not with Russell pressing up against him with clear intent.

Especially not with Russell swearing under his breath and trying to be careful where Alan did not want him to be.



Chapter 8: Highway 400 to Toronto

They woke up next to each other, almost in the same position they had fallen asleep in. Alan woke up disoriented, but with a familiar warmth behind him. Russell had one arm wrapped around Alan’s middle, and Alan smiled at that. It had been months since he woke up like that. He did not want to think about how many. He stretched carefully.

“Awake yet?” Russell whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Want to stay here for a while?”

Alan thought about it.

“Will you stay here with me?” he asked and could feel Russell shaking his head.

“I need to get back to the city.”

“I’ll come too.”

They did not have to pack up anything after their shower, so Alan looked around the bedroom purposelessly. He looked at the second bed for a long time, the one that they had not touched.

They had not brought anything along, so they used the little soap sachets that came with the room. Alan’s hair smelled of poppy now, something that made Russell grin when he noticed.

On the drive back, Russell made light conversation. Alan could feel himself smiling all the way, chatting along, telling Russell about his hometown in Newfoundland and that he was thinking about going back someday. Russell looked at him from time to time, asking questions about small things. What the harbour had looked like, if it was true what he had heard about the fog, wouldn’t Alan miss T.O.

They stopped for coffee. When Russell came back to the car, carrying two paper cups with steaming coffee, Alan wished that this was all there was to Russell. Just a commuter from the outskirts of the city. Leave away the rumpled shirt and the stubble on his face and it was easy to believe. Russell returned his smile, and suggested lunch at their usual diner back in the city. Alan nodded, wrapping his hands around his paper cup, and holding on to the thought he just had.

As soon as they entered the city, Russell changed again. He gave curt answers, stopped by the office and came back with a small package under his arm.



At their usual place at the diner, Russell handed him a gun. He pushed it over the table, wrapped in white cloth. Alan unwrapped it and swallowed hard.

"Not registered,” Russell explained. “You know I'm not keen on guns, but you need protection."

"You worry about me," Alan half asked, half joked, "that's sweet." Alan cradled the gun in his lap, hiding it from view while reaching for his coffee. He took a sip, looking at Russell over the brim of his cup.

"One condition though," Russell said, unfazed, "You have to shoot if I tell you too. Think of it as a debt to repay."

Alan felt a sharp pang at that and thought about the implications of such a request. When he looked up from the gun in his hands and into Russell’s face, he was surprised by the intensity of Russell’s gaze. By now he knew he would not deny Russell any favour he asked for. The thought was a lot less scary than Alan had suspected it to be.

"Sure, boss," he then said with a shrug and a grin, and pocketed the gun.

"Swear it."

"All right. I swear it. Cross my heart and..."

"I believe you," Russell interrupted. "And don't call me boss again."

Alan grinned.

The rest of their lunch was spent in silence, with Russell being absentminded and lost in thoughts. Alan tried to get the conversation going again, chatting about everything that wasn't work related. But what always worked with Séan, was lost on Russell. After a while, Alan gave up, finished his meal and looked out of the window.

Russell was back at his normal state, where it was impossible to get personal information from him. Alan had learnt that right away. Sometimes Russell shared a memory with Alan, but always when he felt like it. It was almost as if Russell had picked it previously, deciding that it would be safe to reveal it. There was no way Alan could push him to open up. Especially not about business.

"You don't need to know that," Russell had said. Alan had not dared to argue. Recently, he had cared less about business anyway.

"When I retire, I want to buy some land," Russell had once said. But when Alan had asked where, Russell had grown quiet again. At first Alan had thought that maybe Russell did not know yet. It was a different kind of retirement after all; one that didn't come with a meagre pension after a set amount of working years. Russell spoke of Italy a few times, and Alan found himself liking the thought of Russell, older and maybe a little grey, sauntering under cypress trees. While Alan's notes had stayed professional and facts only, he thought about what would happen if they didn't nail Russell.

They parted shortly after. Except for a lingering touch on Alan’s arm, Russell did not behave differently. Alan walked home, trying to clear his head. He did not want to admit it, but he had started hoping. Hoping that it was not Russell after all who was responsible. Hoping that he was not guilty of what Homicide accused him off.

He knew he should pull himself out as long as he could at least pretend to be judicial.

***

Rat came in without knocking. He stood next to the door for a moment as if to decide whether or not to walk up to Crowe’s desk. You could think that Rat had his name from his looks, but his skinny frame and pointy nose had nothing to do with it. Rat had his name from his nervous ticks, his never ending sniffling. He was telling everybody that he was not paranoid, but on a constant lookout. Russell had a strong feeling that paranoid was indeed the right term, but it had proofed helpful to keep him around.

“Yes?” Russell asked, weary of Rat’s shuffling feet.

“I have something, Mr. Crowe, something of interest. I found it. I knew I had it, I knew it was somewhere and now I found it.”

Russell looked at him, growing impatient. He held out his hand.

“Give it to me, Rat.”

Rat handed him a cut out from a newspaper, or rather a rip out, hastily torn and folded twice. Russell still recognised the man on the picture the instant he looked at it.

“Thank you, Rat. You can go now,” he said. Russell had to squeeze out the words as they threatened to choke him.

Only after Rat had left the room and closed the door behind him Russell took another look.

“Officer involved in brawl” read the headline. The blurb stated that Mr Frank Fernando claimed that he had been beaten and mistreated after his arrest for the murder of young Jenny Monroe. No detail was given on the truthfulness of the accusation, but a grainy black and white picture accompanied the article. It showed an angry white male cuffed and being led away by a police officer who had the tense look of suppressed rage on his face. Even though the paper mentioned the name Doyle instead of Pike, Russell knew he was looking at the same man. Alan had not changed much in the six years that had passed from event mentioned in the article to now. In fact, he almost looked the same, except for the uniform.

Russell put the cut out on his desk, smoothing the creases. He looked at it again, rubbing his face. He suddenly felt tired, and older, than he had this morning. Carefully, he took out the envelope he had in his topmost drawer and slid the cut out inside.



Chapter 9: The Precinct

Alan had gone straight to the precinct. He called Crime Scene from his desk, requesting specific information. He remembered a shoe print, and needed size and type. Alan had brought his notepads from the apartment, and the shoe prints he had taken from Russell’s shoes. He had collected fibres in small envelops, and had sent them off, now asking for the results to be faxed. For the first time, he started to look for evidence to exclude Russell as a possible offender.

It was not more than a hunch right from the start, and Alan went through his notes to see who the informant was that had dropped Russell’s name. Freeman. From Narcotics.

He called Browne.

“Don’t get me wrong, but I need to see what cases Freeman worked on previously,” Alan said as soon as Browne picked up.

“Doyle, that you? Can’t get you that information, buddy. It’s all locked up until the internal investigation clears. We had an eye on him ever since that last deal did not clear and the buyers did not show up.”

“I think he might be connected to Zanier.”

“No shit, buddy.”

“You might want to check if there is a connection to my recent investigation, Browne.”

“Do you have names?”

“A whole list of them, I’ll send them over.”

After he sent the fax, Alan looked at his notes for a long time. No physical evidence connected Russell to the crime scenes, he felt certain of that. Finally he stood up, clutching the folder, and walked into Chief Adair’s office.



“I don’t think Crowe had anything to do with the murders, Sir.”
“And you believe that because…”

It doesn’t seem like him.

“It doesn’t fit the profile.”

The chief stared at him.

“Are you shitting me, Doyle? You’re suddenly a profiler, or what? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m only suggesting that there might be a different killer on the loose.”

“No, what you are suggesting is that we have been following a wrong lead almost from the start. Are you working for us or against us, Doyle?”

“You know which side I’m on, Sir.”

“You’re suggesting that you spent over a year undercover for nothing, Doyle.”

“I’m saying that during my investigation a different lead came up. One I’d like to follow. The evidence strongly suggests that…”

“Doyle,” Adair interrupted him. Alan held out the folder, but the chief merely looked at Alan for a long time.

“Back to work,” Adair then said. “You better bring in something I can work with the next time. Dismissed.”

At his desk, Alan cleaned away all scrapes of paper, every note, everything about the investigation. He pulled out a notebook, ripped away the first pages and started anew. He made a list, compiling every bit of evidence again, without side notes. Alan then took out a map of Toronto. He circled murder sites, and made crosses for the alleged hits of Crowe’s gang. The modus operandi had been different all along, and he had seen it right from the beginning. Yet the points all lay close, except for the last one.
The last one were where ends did not meet., where times didn’t add up. Crowe, Russell, couldn’t have made it halfway across the city in twenty minutes time. He would have taken closer to two hours, given time of day and inner city traffic.

He could have sent someone.

Alan got angry. Yes, he could have. Look at the evidence, he chided himself. Or, he thought, I could go back and ask.


Alan waited in his usual spot at the corner café. No doubt, someone had spotted him, and probably Russell was on his way already. Alan never had had to wait long. He tried to think of a way of asking without revealing anything. The waitress came up to his table and refilled his cup of coffee, and when she turned, Russell stood next to Alan’s table.

“Alan.”

Alan motioned for him to sit down. Russell looked at him, his lips set in a tight line, but slit down into the seat opposite Alan. Suddenly taken aback, Alan could not find the right words.

“You wanted to talk to me, I presume.”
“Yes, maybe not here though.”
“Why not, Doyle, is something wrong with this joint all of a sudden?”
“How did you call me?”

Alan could hear his voice shake. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t going as planned.

“Doyle. That’s your name. I don’t think it would be wise to address you with your title, Sergeant, but then again, it isn’t wise for you to show up, mate.”

“Maybe not. But I need to know something.”
“All right. Ask.”
“I need to know about your whereabouts on the 13th of October.”
“So that’s what you sound like as a cop.”

“Please, Russell,” Alan said. “I know you didn’t do it.”

“You should know where I was. You were enjoying my elusive company in a summer home near a lake where you told me about the one time you were shot. You were shaking so hard I was thinking you’d fall over. Was that at least true? I saw your scar, Doyle.”

“October last year. I need to know where you were October last year.”

Russell looked at him as if he still waited for an answer. He took a deep breath when none came.

“If I remember correctly, and you might want to check with the hotel’s books, I was training. Around seven I left the hotel and met with a business partner.”

Alan hated the way Russell delivered all this through gritted teeth. It wasn’t so much the fear of being pulled across the table. It was the distance in Russell’s voice that made him shake.

“I need names.”
“Make some up. You’re apparently good at that.”

Russell stood up.

“We’re finished.”
“No, we’re not,” Alan said quietly.

Russell raised an eyebrow at that.

“I will finish my investigation.”
“What’s in it for you? A promotion? A raise? What does the government pay you for lying?”

Alan slammed his hand down on the table.

“It’s not about that.”
“Right. It’s probably about justice. Don’t come to the office anymore. If I know, some of the boys might know too.”

There was a hint of honest concern, before Russell straightened up and turned to leave. Alan watched him go. He knew his work was over here, and that he could play for a few more days the most. Then he would have to hand it over to either Narcotics who would have a solid reason to bust Russell’s butt, or another team would take on a different approach, which most likely meant interrogations at the station.

Alan did not want Narcotics to have a change at having a take on this.



Chapter 10: Crescent Drive

“What are you doing here, mate?” Russell asked when he got close enough for Alan to hear. He had seen him when he came around the corner, by now recognising Alan’s statue and way of rocking on his heels.
Russell’s hair was tousled, slightly sweaty from his morning run. Despite the sweatpants and t-shirt, Russell did not look unlike the first time Alan had met him. Alan looked at the sneakers Russell wore, automatically assessing their size.

“I think I know who the murderer is.”

Russell smiled, a sad tired smile.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“No,” Alan said, “Not in this case. There’s too much at stake.”

Russell walked up to his front door. It was a nondescript house in a good neighbourhood. Nothing too fancy, nothing too humble. The street was lined by trees that had lost all their leaves by now, and some tenants had already Christmas decorations up in their windows and driveways. Russell took the key from a sill above his mailbox.

“Shouldn’t you hide it someplace… safer?”
“Hey. Didn’t you tell me that Canada was such a safe place you didn’t even need to lock your doors?”
“Yeah, but this is Toronto and not the small town I’m coming from.”

Russell reached out and patted Alan’s neck briefly.

“Toronto police let’s you wear your hair like that? Come on in.”

Alan smirked. “Yeah, they do.”

Once inside, Russell locked the door. He seemed tired suddenly, and sad.

“Tell me about your murderer.”


They sat down in Russell’s study, a small dark office like room with books and papers. He smiled apologetically when he cleared the sitting area.

“Haven’t had visitors in a while,” Russell mumbled, making room for the files Alan had brought and two mugs. Alan started to talk then, about the evidence he had collected over time. His eyes never left his papers, as if he needed to read everything off instead of knowing it by heart. This way, he did not have to meet Russell’s disapproving glance. Alan was confessing more than a minor break of trust after all. He left out nothing, starting at the beginning and walking Russell through thirteen months of investigation work. When he finished, he looked up. Russell looked at him, unreadable but attentive. He only looked away when Alan handed him a hand written list.

“Do you recall any of the names?”
“Yes.”

Russell’s jaw set. He looked into the room, then back at Alan.

“What kind of list is this?”

Alan opened his mouth to start about his obligation not to talk about an ongoing investigation.

“People associated with Zanier.”

“I see.”

They were quiet for a while. Alan knew better than to interrupt Russell’s silent brooding. He knew the expression in Russell’s eyes. He only hoped that Russell would share the name of the traitor with him.

When Russell looked back at Alan again, he managed a little smile.

“You’re not here to arrest me, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Fernandez. He’s on your list, but he’s a good man.”
“Can cross him off. But there is one name you’re not happy to see. Which one is it?”
“Mark Orr. What do you know about him?”

“He worked for Zanier for years, vanished when Zanier did. We thought he’d left the city with him. Narcotics was surprised to see him around. Orr is loyal, so if he’s around your office now, it can mean that he’s still working for Zanier.”

“He’s the one that revealed your identity to me.”

Alan sucked in air.

They looked at each other for a while, both having their own reason to dislike Orr. Russell smirked suddenly.

“But really, since when can policemen wear their hair long,” he asked.

“Don’t know. Since I refused to cut it, maybe.”

Russell smiled at this. It was the first genuine smile Alan had seen that day.

“I can’t imagine you with a crew cut.”

Now it was Alan’s turn to smile.

“Had one once. Let’s just say it didn’t suit me.”

“Long hair suits you,” Russell said, and reached out to play with a strand of Alan’s hair.

“Uh, listen…”

Russell leaned over and kissed him, effectively shutting him up.

“You came here for a reason. Because you want something from me, right?”

He gave Alan no time for an answer but kissed him again, making it clear to Alan what he wanted from him. Alan wanted to draw back, but he had missed Russell’s unexpected tenderness ever since Barrie. And now it was back, the lingering touches, the kisses that seemed almost unsure. Alan did not want to call it cute but cute was better than admitting that he could fall for this side of Russell. The caring part, the one he first got a glimpse of at that sea side retreat. He sighed deeply and shook his head. If to shake the thoughts from his mind or to say no, he did not know.

Russell ran his fingers through Alan’s hair, and Alan leaned close, not able to pull away for the life of him. He wanted to give in so badly, forget why he was here, what he came for. His reluctance must have shown, as Russell whispered to him between kisses. First it was reassuring nonsense, more sounds than actual words, but then he stopped long enough for a question.

“What is it, Alan?”

Russell kissed him again before Alan could answer, maybe because he knew what Alan would say. Alan took his time, kissing back as if they had met under different circumstances. As if it was possible. As if he didn’t have a badge.

Alan slid his hand beneath Russell’s shirt, but the touch sobered him. He broke the kiss reluctantly.

“We can’t,” he said, sounding dismayed.

Russell looked at him, and leaned over for another small kiss. The kind you give to someone at a door before seeing them in while remaining outside; the kind you give to someone on a train when you don’t have a ticket.

Alan turned away and looked at the room. He looked at the books and whispered:

“You should leave.”
“It’s my house.”
“No, the city. You should leave Toronto.”

Russell nodded.

Alan’s mobile rang. When Alan saw the Caller ID, he swore under his breath and motioned for Russell to be quiet before taking the call.

“Séan.”

“I don’t know where the fuck you are, but Adair won’t wait anymore. There’s a warrant out with Crowe’s name on it.”

“What?”

“There out looking for him. You better hurry.”

“Séan…”

“Just come back in one piece, okay?”

Alan hung up.

“I’m ready to go in 5 minutes,” Russell said.

Alan just nodded, staying slumped in the chair while Russell left the room. He listened to the sounds of the house, imagining living here. In this neighbourhood, in this house. With Russell.

He only stood up when Russell came in again. Russell was not carrying a bag as Alan had suspected him to, but Alan still nodded, grabbed all his papers and followed Russell out of the house.

Outside, they heard sirens in the distance, and while Alan knew it bordered on paranoia to think so, he could not help but suspect them to be after Russell.

He led Russell to his car, motioning for him to stay down while driving up Crescent Drive and then taking a left. A police car passed them when they were two minutes away from the house. The policeman looked at Alan and nodded a hello. Alan nodded back, fighting the urge to reach over and touch Russell, who was trying his best to squeeze his large frame into the small space between dashboard and seat. As soon as they took the next turn, Russell sat up, swearing slightly and rubbing his knee. Alan gave a small smile, already thinking about the best way to leave the city.

Alan knew that he had been right about the sirens. Maybe it was time for a little paranoia after all.


Chapter 11: Rouge Beach

They had led the officers on a wild goose chase through the entire city, before driving South as fast as they dared without breaking the speed limit. Alan drove, his hand clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He gritted his teeth against the things he wanted to say, hoping that there would be a better time.

They were going at 55 miles per hour on the highway. Russell had agreed to leave the city, and all Alan could think off was to get him as far away as possible. Out of they’re jurisdiction. Maybe even cross the border.

Alan drove toward Niagara Falls, before abruptly catching an exit and driving back top the city. He swore under his breath, angry at himself for forgetting standard procedures. Of course they would not be able to leave the city this way. There probably was a roadblock not far ahead.

“Where are we going?” Russell asked, sounding tired.

“I don’t know,” Alan said. “I thought we could drive through the park.”

“Drive up to the beach.”

“Rouge Beach? Are you sure?”

Alan could almost feel the police cars tailing them.

“Alan. Drive to the beach, will you.”

Alan turned on the 401 eastwards.

“They’ll search the whole city.”

“Yes. They will.”


They had almost reached the park. Alan had just turned into the street leading towards the tourist’s parking lot, figuring he could leave the car there and get on by foot. The other car came out of the darkness, no lights, but motor howling. As soon as he heard the sound, Alan stepped on the gas, accelerating the car further.

The car still hit them sideways, with an abrupt intensity that made them sway over the asphalt. Alan gripped the steering wheel, sending the car into a wild zigzag across the street. He took a sharp left, too sharp as the wheels lost grip on the gravel that led to the parking lots.

Alan was swearing under his breath. He glanced at Russell, who was holding unto the dashboard. He was looking at the other car, trying to make out the driver, his expression grim. Alan swerved the car on purpose, driving over the parking lot and sinking the bonnet into the bushes next to the trail.

They sat quiet, listening into the dusk above the ticking of the engine. Alan got out first, slightly moaning at the damage to his car when he saw Russell hopping out of the car.

“I wrecked it,” Alan said.

Russell was looking at the driveway, the streets, the traffic. Trying to make out anyone following them. They had both seen the car sped straight on, and right now, everything seemed quiet.

“That was no police car just now. My spare gun is in the glove compartment,” Alan said and Russell bent into the car to retrieve it.

“You should leave,” Russell said.

Alan shook his head, his smile a little grim. He wouldn’t leave now. Not until he made sure that Russell was save. Instead he pointed up to the trail leading away from them.

“Rouge Beach is that way.”


They followed the trail for a while, stumbling on in the darkness. Alan held his side, only now noticing how painful breathing was. Suddenly, Alan stopped and listened into the night.

“Sirens,” he said curtly, “Closing in.”

They left went right into the scrubs, crisscrossing between the trees until they finally met the trail again where it broadened near the beach. It could have been only minutes, but to Alan it felt like they had wandered around in the cold for hours. Alan looked at Russell, who looked tired somehow.

“You have a plan, no?”

Russell walked up to the black stones near the water, looking out onto the water as if looking for something. And then the rain came.

The sand soaked within seconds, and the drumming of rain on water almost drowned the approaching sirens.

“You do have a plan, don’t you,” Alan shouted over the rain. Please.

Russell did not answer, just walked on, towards the rocks that defined the border between swimming area and wildlife area. Alan tried to walk next to Russell, but slipped on the stones more than once. He tried to see what Russell was looking for. An escape route, anything out of this mess.

And then blue lights flashed up on the beach, casting irregular shadows.

“Run,” Alan said.

“No, it’s too late for that now.”

Alan just stared at him, the rain like a heavy curtain between them. His coat was soaking through already, his hair plastered to his face. When he pushed the strands out of his eyes, he saw Russell backing off slowly.

“Shoot. Now,” Russell said just loud enough for Alan to hear.

"You have to shoot if I tell you too.”

“What?!”

“Shoot me,” Russell repeated.

Alan knew he could not risk to hesitate, so he raised his gun. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his side, the rain that was turning to sleet, the look on Russell’s face. He knew he had the same look in his eyes. The moment stretched and he would have said something to Russell, but he heard the backup coming up behind him. The ground around the lake was muddy, slowing them down, and with the rain they could not get a clear a shot at Russell.

Alan lowered his head, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.



Chapter 12: St. John’s, Newfoundland

Later they said Alan had missed because of his head wound, because of the cold numbing his hands, because of something, anything. They did not ask how could he have missed somebody that close. It could have been a perfect shot, to the chest and not lower, barely hitting a thigh. They also said that it did not matter since if not Alan’s bullet than the ice cold water had sure killed him.

Alan was not praying for what they thought when the police searched the lake for a body. He used his injury as an excuse for taking two weeks off and flying to his hometown in Newfoundland alone. He spent a great deal of time walking up to Signal Hill and watching the ocean. He watched the waves slap relentlessly against the rocks, wearing them off crumb by crumb. He couldn’t decide if it was depressing or optimistic.

In his dreams, he heard sirens. In his dreams, he watched Russell fall into black water and never surface again. He woke up in a sweat, not looking at his watch on the bedside table, as he knew it was no reasonable hour to be awake at. He walked around his hotel room, taking a sip of cold water after another sip, avoiding the hotel bar until five in the morning. He told himself again and again that they did not find a body. Somehow it did not console him.

He called Séan everyday, not talking about work, and hanging up before the worry was too evident in Séan’s voice. Afterwards, Alan went on walks again. He felt restless while looking at the sea, yet the way it stretched towards the horizon made him come back each day. Signal Hill became his observation post, which was fitting except for Alan feeling like he was on a constant look-out without knowing what it was he was looking for.

Alan made plans to come back and join the local force, only to discard those plans after an especially lively dinner with his parents. No hard words were said, but he remembered something.

“Wouldn’t you miss T.O.?”

The next day he packed his bags and went back to Toronto.

Séan was around him as soon as Alan came through the door, and he welcomed it after the solitude of the last weeks. Séan made him coffee and then left him at the kitchen table to a shoebox of mail. When Alan cleared the box of two weeks worth of collected junk mail, he found a picture postcard among the flyers and usual clutter. It had a picture of some nondescript wide open landscape on it, with tall slender trees
Cypress trees
and a print reading Wish you were here. When he looked at the back, he found no message, just his address with the name Doyle underlined twice. Alan smiled.

Séan asked him if there was a reason for his sudden change of mood, but Alan only shook his head. He pulled Séan into a tight embrace then, an apology Séan would not understand, but maybe did not have to.

He went back to work the next day, and pinned the card to the wall above his desk.