The Season of Hollow Soul
Author's notes: Set just before and within the opening scenes of Burning Down the House, this is taken from Vecchio's perspective. Spoilers for Dead Man Running.
Francesca had never meant for the night to go like this.
It was supposed to be a date. Just a simple, ordinary date. A couple of drinks, maybe even a dance, then he'd drive her home and she'd tell him thanks for the night and then go into the house and never call him. It wasn't even as though she was attracted to him, she'd only agreed to the date to shut up her friends and as a vain attempt to get the image of one Benton Fraser out of her head. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work, and now she was stuck making nice to a man she didn't even like, not really, thought him a bit kooky and strange, possibly into the shadier side of neighbourhood life. Turning as best she could, to look from the passenger seat to the drivers, she gave him her best attempt at a genuine smile.
"Rankin, this has been really nice, but . . ."
"Didn't you enjoy it?" He gave her an alluring grin that didn't quite work, reached out to put his hand on her thigh. Resisting a repulsive shudder, Francesca slowly but firmly pushed him back.
"Yeah, it was great, maybe we should do it again sometime." Her fingers fumbled on the catch of the seatbelt, opened the car door and shot out of it as quickly as she could manage without looking like she obviously wanted to get away.
There was the sound of the other door shutting as Rankin got out of the car to face her, lean on the roof of the car.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you?"
"Actually," she said, turning towards the steps of her house, "I'm really tired, I'm probably just going to fall straight asleep when I -" She broke off with a small, startled yelp as he came from around the corner and grabbed her wrist, pulled her back towards the car.
"Come on, Fran!"
Her false smile dissolved into a frown. "You know I don't like that name!"
"Sorry, sorry," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But I thought you liked me. I mean, from the way you were dancing in that bar tonight . . ."
I wasn't dancing any stupid way, moron, she thought, but her best attempt at anger could not hide her fear. "Look, can we just forget it, okay? I'm going to go inside, maybe I'll call you -"
This time she did scream, or at least attempt to, but her mouth was covered by his as he grabbed her, pulled her towards him, kissed her hard. She tried to pull away, gasping, hated the taste in her mouth, but the grip on her arm only increased until it felt like his fingers were breaking her skin, knew she'd have bruises in the morning.
"Please, Rankin -"
"Come on!" He tried to kiss her again, one hand on her thigh and moving rapidly upwards. She struggled, felt bile rise in her throat, shuddered as he pushed her back against the car.
"Hey!"
Rankin broke away so suddenly she almost fell. Her first thought was that she'd been rescued, recognised the voice of her brother like he was her guardian angel.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Ray ran down the steps to grab Rankin's arm before the other man could make it to the driver's door. Pulled him around, and then hit him.
*
"Vecchio!"
There are certain noises, I decide, that I can definitely live without, and one of them has to be the sound of Lieutenant Welsh, barking my name across the room so loud the entire station house can hear him. I give a small, long-suffering sigh, push the half-eaten sandwich into Elaine's somewhat surprised hands, then head for my superior's office.
"Yes sir?" I say, adopting that air of 'don't know nothing' that I know annoys the hell out of Welsh.
"Get Huey in here too."
With another sigh I turn, beckon at the taller man.
"Get in here," Welsh tells us both, "and shut the door."
Without argument we both do as we're told, then stand to casual attention; Huey's folding his arms, and I'm leaning slightly against the door.
"Guy Rankin. What do we know about this man?"
Instantly I know why he's got that foul look on his face, and I have to struggle to hide my guilt. Not from what I did, but because Huey now has to cover for me.
Huey answers. "He's a perp we caught trying to rough up a few warehouse owners downtown. Trying on a protection racket. We collared him yesterday."
"Yes," Welsh says, in that tone that means he's about to come down on his two officers like a ton of bricks. "I know. And what happened to this perp whilst he was in our custody, detectives?"
We exchange looks. "He, er, he confessed?" I offer, earning a smirk from Huey and another scowl from Welsh.
"That's what I'd like to think, Vecchio. But no. It seems this gentleman had a small altercation with a door that left him with a broken jaw and a couple of black eyes. Now, if I was you, I'd be thinking long and hard about how this could possibly have happened to a suspect under this roof." His sarcasm does not go unwasted. Huey's look turns decidedly worried, and he gives me another one of those glances.
"Would you know anything about this, Detective?"
"Well, sir . . ." I shrug. "Those cells can be pretty dangerous places."
"Yeah." Welsh's eyes narrow. "Look, it doesn’t take much to guess that you and this Rankin have some recent history to deal with, and if Huey was taking a blind eye to this, then I might understand, in the spirit of partnership you understand. But I don't want those histories aired out in this station house, is that understood?"
I just nod, deciding it's better to admit to it than lie. Welsh always knows about these things, that's what earns him respect, what makes him a good commander.
"Now, I'm left with a problem. The new DA is on my back, understandably, what with our perps getting mysteriously beaten in their cells. But it seems Rankin forgot to mention something in his original statement, something his lawyer's only just revealed."
Another exchange of worried looks. "Sir?"
"I don't suppose either of you would admit to having a certain . . . memory lapse whilst in the pursuit of this suspect? Such as reading him his rights? Because if this was true, then Rankin might be persuaded to forego the charge of police brutality upon his release."
I can feel my eyes widen, can't keep the anger from rising, and I step forward, slamming my hand down on the desk so hard it actually hurts. "Sir, you can't let Rankin go on a technicality! He's just gonna go out there and do it all over again -"
"And if he does," Welsh continues, smoothly, "then two of my detectives - too other detectives - can go arrest him all over again. Look Vecchio, Huey here may be willing to overlook this small thing between you and Rankin, but District State Attorney Kowalski is after your badge. Now if it turns out that you and Huey failed to read this guy his rights, then the case is forfeit, and he goes free, and you and Huey get to be cops for a couple more days, understood?"
Huey nods, and I don't blame him, I shouldn't have dragged him into this. "Understood, sir."
"Good. Vecchio?"
I'm silent for a moment, and I can't keep my hatred for Rankin from my face. Eventually, and very reluctantly, I say: "Maybe me and Huey did . . . make a mistake when we caught this guy."
"Good," Welsh says, leaning back on his chair. "Then I'll expect two reports on my desk - within the hour - to say so. Let Rankin loose."
We turn, me and Huey, feeling decidedly more resigned than when we first entered.
"Vecchio, wait. I want another word with you."
I roll his eyes, trying to keep calm, keeping my face composed as I turn back. "Sir?"
Welsh is sat there with an odd look on his face, one I don't recognise, asks an unexpected question. "When was the last time you heard from Fraser?"
"Benny? A couple of weeks ago, I guess, It's not like you can get to a phone easily where he is. Last time I saw him was when I dropped him off at the station. Why?"
"He's on holiday for another week, am I right?"
"Yeah." I frown. "What's this about?"
Welsh gets up, quickly, takes my arm and starts leading me out of the office. "Come with me, Detective."
*
"In here."
Welsh almost shoves me into the room, pausing only to check that the room next door is locked and empty before following me inside. The small interview room is occupied by two men in dark suits, their backs to the mirror, strictly one-way.
"Feds?"
Welsh gives me a thin smile, pulling out a seat. "Relax, Detective."
The first man puts out his hand, elegantly manicured. "Mirfield," he offers, then indicates his partner, "Clarkson."
I shake their hands respectively, take my seat with a certain degree of caution. Feds are always bad news. "What do you want?"
Another thin smile, this time from the man called Clarkson. However, instead of replying, he takes out a thin folder from the case on his lap, pushes it across to me, flips it open. "Recognise this man?" he asks, one finger tapping a large, black and white photograph. A surveillance photo, I guess, from the angle of the shot.
"No. I mean, he looks like me, I guess, but do I recognise him? No."
"There's no reason why you should." He draws the photo back towards him. "His name was Armando 'the Bookman' Langoustini. He was a mob lieutenant in Vegas, a fairly big player."
"Was?" I ask suspiciously, starting to get a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach.
"Car crash, two days ago. A total right-off. Fortunately, we've been able to keep the identity of the victim a secret, at least for the next forty-eight hours, which leaves us with an opportunity."
Mirfield takes over, gives me an ingratiating smile. "We’re offering you a job, Detective."
I blink, disbelievingly, suddenly realising where they're headed. "You want me to pretend to be this guy? This Armando?"
"Langoustini was a pretty big link on a much higher ladder. If we can get even close to some of the guys he's known to work for, then we can bring down some pretty big names. Up to know, we've been chasing shadows, but if we can get some hard evidence on these guys, on the operations they're pulling, then we can take them all down."
I shake my head. "No way. No way."
Welsh places a hand on my arm, firmly. "Don't make any rash decisions, Vecchio."
"This is never gonna work!"
"Take another look." Clarkson taps at the photo again. "You're a dead ringer for Langoustini. If we can get you into Vegas before news of the Bookman's death is leaked, then you can slide into his place easily. You'll have the complete back-up of the Bureau, of course."
"What about my job? My family?"
The two suits exchange looks. "Any contact with people from your life as Ray Vecchio," Mirfield says, "is of course impossible. We can't take the risk. You would have the contact number of a secure line to the Bureau, to us, but that would be all, and nobody from here would be able to contact you."
"Yeah? And you don't think that the Mob is gonna get suspicious when their man goes missing for a couple of days, at the same time his identical cop counterpart goes AWOL in Chicago?"
"We're hoping they won't think to check - but if they do, we have a . . . back-up plan."
"You'll be fully prepped on the details before you arrive, of course," Clarkson adds, "and our Intel. is reliable."
I look, feeling a rush of panic, from the two Feds to Welsh. "Come on sir, you don't this is going to work, do you? I mean, how long is this gonna last? What about my job here?"
"Relax, Detective," Clarkson soothes. "We don't expect the operation to last more than a couple of months, three at most. Your job back here will be exactly as you left it - fully intact and with the strong likelihood of promotion. Which is a better deal than the one you'll get if you stay here."
The sinking feeling in my stomach suddenly takes a nose dive. "Why? What happens if I refuse?"
A small shrug from Mirfield. "We've been fully briefed on your little . . . altercation with a certain Guy Rankin. The man could still follow through on his charges on police brutality, and your District Attorney seems willing to let IAB have a hold of you if that happens. You would almost certainly lose your gold shield, Detective, if not your place on this force completely. It's not the first time you've been known to break the rules, and from all accounts, it sounds like you might need some time away from this precinct." He shuffles some papers, reads aloud: "Collaborated with a former superior officer in planting evidence -"
"I had nothing to do with that!"
"Several similar altercations with suspects in either transit or holding cells -"
"That was over three years ago!"
"Investigated by Internal Affairs over charges of fraud, deception, collaboration and possible involvement in a homicide -"
At this I fall silent, avoiding even Welsh' s gaze. It's an ugly blow, below the belt, and I hate them for bringing that whole thing up. "I was cleared," I say, eventually.
"That is all very well, but this, coupled with further reports of out-of-station actions, including involvement with one . . ." he pauses as he looks down at the papers, "Frank Zuko, means your continued employment with this department is looking increasingly unlikely."
"Bull!" I try to stand up, but Welsh's hand keeps me pinned to the table. "You take a look at my record, my official record, you'll see none of that stands against me!"
"Possibly true," Clarkson admits, "but your recent actions involving Guy Rankin do offer us an opportunity. Believe me when I tell you that your volunteered involvement within this case is the best decision you could make."
I hesitate, looking back at Welsh. "Can they make me do this?"
"They can't make you do anything, Ray," Welsh say, using my first name purposefully, I guess. "But I've spoken with the DA. Agreeing to this job might be the best thing."
There's a long silence. I look up at him. "How much time do I get to decide?"
"This is it, Detective." Mirfield folds the file neatly, slips it back into his case. "We will organise your flight for tonight. You'll be briefed on the way their, and will have several hours upon your arrival to familiarise yourself with the set-up before this begins formally. A cover story for your brief disappearance is already waiting."
Another silence. "I get to say goodbye, right?" I ask, surrendering under their gaze. "I mean, to my family, and everything?"
"Of course. As I said though, your flight leaves tonight."
"What about Benny?"
Clarkson glances at Welsh. "Who?"
"Constable Fraser," Welsh supplies. "The Mountie."
"Oh. Yes." He frowns. "We can arrange a phonecall. However, you cannot reveal any details of this case to anyone. We will brief your family as soon as you have left, and no doubt the same will go for your partner. But any details will be restricted."
I swallow, hard. "I really don't have a choice?"
Silence.
I close his eyes, rubbing one hand across my forehead. "Two months, right?"
"Maybe three."
I hesitate, hands clenching and unclenching. They've got me trapped in a corner, and Welsh knows it, and they know it. I hate undercover work, never used to, but since partnering with Benny it's like I've finally become comfortable with who I am, and suddenly I don't like pretending any longer. But they've got me backed into a corner. After a long moment, I look up, face hard.
"So how is this going to work?"
*
The station house is dark, with almost everyone having gone home to their girlfriends, wives, children. I can't help feeling jealous of them, because I know I'm not going to see any of that, not for some time. I miss home already, and I've not even left yet.
Saying goodbye to Ma was the worst. She didn't cry, or anything, was really good like that, didn't ask any questions about what I was doing, where I was going, whether I'd be okay. She hugged me, and tells me to stay safe, and whispers Italian in my ear just like when I was a little kid, promises me that she's gonna pray for my safe return. I think she's more scared than I am, except she's not going to let it show, and that makes me more resolved to do the same.
Welsh is still in his office. I can see his desk lamp, it's the only light in this place. He hasn't said anything to me, not much, since the Feds left. But he doesn't have to be here, I know that, he could have gone home hours ago but he's decided to stay, to see me off, and I guess that means a lot. He knows it.
Oh God. My hands are actually shaking. I dial the number Benny gave me in case of emergencies, and he's probably gonna think something's wrong. Maybe he'd be right. It's a long time before anyone answers, and when they do it's some Canadian, another Mountie I guess, and then he tells me he'll go get Fraser and I'm left waiting again. God knows where this phone is.
Eventually, and it seems like a lifetime to me, there's a small click as the receiver is picked up, and then I can hear his voice, and it's like my whole world has collapsed and all I'm left with is that one moment.
"Hello, Ray."
I keep my tone light, don't want to show that anything's wrong. "Hey, Benny, how's the vacation going?"
His voice sounds a bit muffled, but I guess that's what happens when you call long-distance. "Well, it's everything a Mountie could ask for, Ray. Lots of fresh air, plenty of exercise . . . How's Chicago?"
Typical. He's asking how I am. It's like he's twisting the knife, making this even harder than it has to be, even though I know he doesn't mean to. "Oh, you know, Chicago's Chicago." Chicago's Chicago? What the hell must I sound like? "I'm just calling to let you know that I may not be there at the train to pick you up."
"Well that's no hardship Ray, I have legs, I can walk."
Typical Benny. I laugh, though it must sound pretty feeble. "I know you have legs, Benny, that's not the point. I'm just calling to let you know that . . . you might be on your own for a while."
"Is something wrong?"
Jeez, I knew he would think that. "No, why would anything wrong? I'm just calling to let you know that I'd like to be there to pick you up but if I can't be there it's not because I didn't want to be, it's because something came up." Now I'm blithering, I sound like such an idiot. He can tell something wrong, I can hear it in his voice.
"You're sure everything's alright?"
I try to reassure him. "Look, Benny, I don't know if they have a similar thing up there in Canada but down here in America we have this thing called friendship, and this is something that a friend would do. Like for example, if a friend calls another friend and he's supposed to be at a certain time and a certain place and he can't be there, then he usually calls to let him know."
"So everything is alright?"
I sigh, start to sit down, it's like my legs have gone weak. "Yeah, Benny. Everything is alright."
"That's good to hear, Ray."
I pause, imagining him up there, probably strung up on some damn telephone pole, in full Mountie mode. "It's good to hear your voice." I have to tell him something, I can't let this be our last conversation, and for a moment I'm tempted to damn it all, to tell him. It's like I'm betraying his trust, and even though I'm not strictly lying to him, it feels like I am, and it hurts like hell. "Listen, um, I want you to have a safe trip, and I will be in touch."
I can almost hear him frown. "Alright Ray."
"You understand that I will be in touch."
There's a small pause. "As a friend?"
He understands, I know he does, not the details but he knows I'm trying to tell him something. Like I'm trying to say goodbye, but at the same time reassure him that I'm going to be back. And I smile, and resolve that I'm going to do anything, and to hell with the Feds and Langoustini, because I don't care what else happens, I'm going to keep my promise. "Yeah, Benny. As a friend."
And then I put down the phone.
*
There was the crack of breaking bone, and blood spattered against the tarmac, and Rankin was suddenly bent over clutching his nose.
"Ray!"
Franny stumbled, about to grab her brother's arm but he pushed her back, went in at Rankin again, this time harder.
"You think it's okay to feel up my sister? You sick, weirdo freak, you dare touch her again -" Each sentence was punctuated by another hit, another smack, and another groan from Rankin. He was on the floor now, curled up, trying to protect his face with his hands.
"Ray!" She grabbed his arm, and wouldn't let go, tried to pull him away. "Leave him alone, it's not worth it, he didn't mean -"
"Franny -"
"Please, Ray . . ."
Something about the pleading, desperate tone of her voice, her tears, must have finally gotten through, for he gave Rankin one last hard kick in the ribs, then shrugged off his sister's grip, grabbing the other man and pulling him to his feet. Pushed him towards the car.
"Get out of here, and I swear, you'd better thank God you were so lucky," he threatened, taking another step forward as Rankin scrambled to get into the car. "If you dare go near her again, if I even see your face within ten blocks of here, I'm going to come after you, and I'm going to kill you, understood? I will kill you."
Then he turned, and started walking back to the house. Francesca stood in the middle of the street, in tears, watched as Rankin started the engine and drove away, still wiping blood from his face. Turned back to her brother, but he was already disappearing inside, and never once looked back.
These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.
