what_we_dream (
what_we_dream) wrote2010-08-05 08:05 pm
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Entry tags:
SPN/Due South: untitled
Title: Untitled
Series: Supernatural/Due South
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED, and will remain so. For the good of the universe.
Summary: I admit it, I mostly just wanted to have Ray and Dean geek out over cars.
The park was very nearly empty. At night, even the homeless avoided it; the scarcity of trees and wide expanse of frozen lake combined to create one of the coldest points in the Chicago. Tonight, although the clouds were smothering the moonlight, the pale glow of the street lamps – few and far between – lit the edges of the dark lake in unusually sharp circles.
Harold put this down to the cold. He was no stranger to the changes the world twisted through when the mercury hit bottom. And he didn`t mind freezing his ass off, if it meant he could walk home unmolested by the usual collection of druggies and pimps; it stung to admit that he was getting to an age where even average hustlers began to inspire fear. He avoided the park in the summer, when the water cooled the scorching heat and attracted the dregs of an already borderline neighbourhood, but in the winter he trekked out of his way to cut through it.
The snow was crunching dryly under his feet now, cold enough that the powder flaked away from his boots with each step, falling silently to lace the edges of his footprints. On his right, the yellow glow of the street lamp flickered unevenly, light flashing on and off in a series of hiccups. Harold, staring at the struggling bulb, did not notice the dark patch on the ice.
When the moon finally broke out from behind the clouds, the park was empty.
----------------------------------------
“This isn’t going to be about the exhibit again, is it? I told you, using bones for art is just creepy and probably illegal-” Seated at his desk in the squad room, Ray Vecchio stirred his coffee while grimacing slightly. Sitting across from him in the folding chair that had long ago become something like his second office, Fraser cut him off.
“They’re not human bones, Ray. And no. It’s about Harold Kurtis, a neighbour of mine. I think he may be missing.”
“And you think this because…?”
“I haven’t seen him in several days.”
“That’s it? Look Fraser, people leave this city all the time without telling you. Your neighbours leave without telling you. Your boss leaves without telling you. Hell, sometimes I leave without telling you. Just because this guy Henry-”
“Harold.”
“Harold hasn’t taken the time to track you down – which, I might add, is no easy task when you refuse to get a phone – and check in does not mean he needs your help. The guy probably just decided to take a vacation. I bet he’s on some beach soaking up the sun and drinking out of a coconut.”
“He walks past me every evening while I’m on duty at the Consulate, Ray. If he’s worried about going home alone he’ll wait for me to get off shift so I can walk with him. He wouldn’t leave without telling me, especially not in the middle of the week. I stopped by his apartment, and the mail hadn’t been collected in several days.”
“So he didn’t cancel his subscriptions before he went. Maybe he’s only going for a few days. I’m telling you, sometimes work gets too much and you just take off, get away from it so you don’t crack up. Spontaneous trip, especially in the winter. Especially this winter. Weather lady this morning said we’d set a new record. Cold like that can trigger deep urges, Fraser. Like the urge not to freeze your butt off, for one.”
“Harold only moved down from Yellowknife a year ago, Ray. Weather like this is barely fall for him.”
The detective sighed, and opened the file cabinet next to his desk , drawer sliding out with a metallic hiss. “Look. You can file a missing persons if you want, but I’m telling you, until we get some more substantial proof that he hasn’t flown out to attend a luau – an opportunity which, let me add, I would currently kill for – I’m not going to be able to put any man power on it.”
“Alright. Thanks, Ray.”
---------------------------------------- ---------------------
“So what’ve we got?” The motel’s stiff comforter sagged reluctantly under Dean’s weight as he slumped to pull his socks on, his short shock of hair standing straight up with the damp from the shower.
“Not... much. Couple of dead cows making state news in Idaho.”
“Dude. Potato carving makes news in Idaho. What else?”
“Uh... some missing people popping up on the radar in Chicago. Old guys, mostly.”
“Old guys. In Chicago. In the winter. Probably chilling in some back alley. Literally.” Dean finished pulling his socks on and looked up, raising his eyebrows. Sam rolled his eyes.
“I’m not talking homeless people, Dean. Middle-class guys, three in the past week. Home addresses all in the same area.”
“Same neighbourhood?”
“Not quite.”
“Right,” said Dean, dryly. “Any other connections?”
“Well, two of them are Canadian.”
“You said three.”
“Yeah, the other guy’s American.”
“I’m not really seeing any tie here, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like anything else is exactly throwing itself in our faces. You know winter’s slow, Dean.”
“Yeah, Hell’s so busy freezing over. C’mon, Sam, there’s gotta be something more solid.”
“There’s not. Unless you’d rather spend hours scouring the net for occult signs on sites run out of kids’ parents’ basements.”
Dean rocked easily to his feet. “Nah, I’m good. Whole computer nerd gig’s not my thing.”
Sam snorted. “So what, it’s mine?”
“’Course it is.” Dean slapped him firmly on the shoulder. “But c’mon, there’s gotta be something. What about those cows?”
“Why are you avoiding this? What’s so off-putting about missing people that you’d rather tackle cattle mutilations?”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just...”
“Yeah?”
“Chicago’s a big city, man.”
“Uh, yeah. I seem to recall reading about it in Socials 7. So?”
“Very funny, smart ass. Big city means plenty of cops, cops who actually check the wanted posters, unlike the small-town hicks. And we’re not exactly innocents here. That bastard Henrickson’s probably got us papered in every station in the place. Going to Chicago, that’s like wearing a kick me sign. Except instead of kick me, it says please throw my ass in jail ‘til I’m ninety.”
“So we stay away from the stations, Dean. It’s not like we haven’t done it before. Come on, man, when have we been afraid of a little heat?”
There was a long considering pause, while each brother held up his end of the staring contest. Finally, Dean threw up his hands. “Fine. Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming everything on you. Murder, forgery, impersonating every possible officer of the law, credit card fraud, grave desecration. Especially the desecration.” He wagged a warning finger. “Be told.”
---------------------------------------- ---------------------
The Riviera pulled up into one of several empty spaces in front of the museum, engine rumbling to a halt as Ray turned the key. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the wheel, to look at the old stone building through the windshield. The wide stone steps were empty, exhibition banners lit unevenly by streetlights waving forlornly in the wind. In the backseat, Dief whined quietly.
“Yep, looks like you’re drawing quite a crowd.”
“Well, it is eight at night, Ray. The museum is closed.”
“Right. So why’re we here?” Ray pulled on his scarf and stepped out of the car, immediately raising the collar of his coat against the biting wind. Fraser followed, putting on his hat with a clean twist. In the darkness the red serge of his collar, the only part of his jacket visible under his navy wool coat, stood out as a dark crimson band. He held the door open for the half wolf, then closed it with a thump, sound mostly lost in the wind. Dief yipped and shivered, wind playing through his fur.
“The Inspector asked me to look over the exhibit, as I have some familiarity with the subject matter.”
“Old bones?”
Fraser sighed, just slightly. “It isn’t entirely bones, Ray. In fact, many of the artefacts are carved from stone or walrus and narwhale ivory. The carvings depict scenes from traditional Inuit myths and daily life.” They arrived at the stairs and began climbing, heading for the main entrance.
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s an amazing exhibit. The Canadian government has been working together with tribal elders to gather the artefacts and make sure they are properly cared for, displayed and explained.”
“Well explained, constable.” At the sudden interruption by a new voice, both men paused. A woman stepped out from the shadows of one of the tall archways. Dressed in a long wool coat only her dark hair caught the light, raven tresses shining blue under the street lamp. She approached to meet them, light also glinting off the lenses of her square glasses.
“Dr. Nauja?” Fraser held out his hand. “I’m Benton Fraser, and this is Diefenbaker,” he motioned to Dief, sitting in the lee of the Mountie’s legs, ears folded down.
“Yes. Pleased to meet you, Constable. The Inspector told me you would be coming. And this is?”
“Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Nice to meet you.” Ray held out his hand as well, tone slick. A closer examination had revealed Dr. Nauja to be a young woman clearly of Inuit origin, with large dark eyes and rather delicate features. Ray adopted a winning smile.
“Pleased to meet you as well, Detective. I was unaware the Chicago police department took an interest in art museums.”
“Well, I don’t know about my colleagues, but I’m one hundred percent behind cultural exchange. I hear you’ve got some really fascinating exhibits here made from, uh, ivory and stone.”
Dr. Nauja smiled. “Yes, we do. If you’ll come this way? The museum’s curator has the side door open for us.” She led the way around the side of the building, keeping close to its tall stone walls, her own long hair fanning out in the wind. Ray shivered and pulled his coat closer. The red-lined tails of Fraser’s coat caught the wind and licked out like flames.
“I hear you lived in Tuktoyaktuk, Constable?”
“Yes, for more than ten years when I was a boy. Have you been there?”
“No, but I grew up in Inuvik. Most of my family still lives there.”
“Then you must know Jason Crowsfoot.”
“Yes, of course, although I haven’t seen him for a few years. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Well, we spent a few months together in Boy Scouts when his family came up for the summer to visit. He probably remembers it fondly, if he got over the incident with the caribou and the fishing line…”
They arrived at the side door, an inconspicuous gray door set in a shallow frame. Dr. Nauja knocked once and it opened immediately, bright light shining out into the dreary evening and throwing out a long yellow rectangle onto the concrete. An old man was standing slightly stooped with the door knob in hand, thinning hair combed unevenly over parchment-like skin. Fraser greeted him with an easy smile, “Good evening, Mr. Michaels.”
“Ah, Fraser, nice to see you again. You’ve met Dr. Nauja? She’s already got the exhibit all set up. An excellent use of space; the temporary gallery’s really shining with this one. Come on in, I’ll show you.” He held the door for them, bobbing at their greetings like a float in a choppy sea.
“And who’re you, young man?”
Ray gaped for a second, then answered in unusual politeness, tone moderated to a clear ‘speaking to the elderly’ voice. “Uh, Ray Vecchio. Chicago P.D.”
“Don’t have no crime here.” The man shut the door and shot the two bolts. He gave the electronic pad by the door a hard stare for a moment before pressing the “engage” button. The green light on the pad switched to red.
“That’s good to know,” said Ray, in the same slightly-sugared voice. Fraser and Dr. Nauja were already walking along the corridor, conversing in quiet tones.
“…really very interested to see how you handled the issue of differing ownership claims, as well of course as differences in the myths themselves.” Fraser’s voice echoed slightly in the long corridor running behind the galleries, along with the clicking of heels and the quiet shuffle of thick coats.
“Well of course we’re providing a brief overview of the significant claims, while keeping clear of the issue of which might be the best supported. As for the differences in the myths, they all have the same fundamental origin and that’s what we’re emphasising. The real truth behind Sedna. And of course Anorak and so on, but since out best artefacts deal with Sedna there’s a primary focus on her.”
“The idea of real truth is certainly an interesting one. Do you mean the original origin of the story, or those which are now the closest to the first telling?”
They reached the door at the end of the corridor, and Dr. Nauja glanced at the curator before reaching out to open the door.
“I mean, of course, who Sedna really was.”
PART 2
The room beyond the door was large. In the dim lighting, that was all that was immediately apparent. Small lights had been hung, probably on walls, turned to provide points of light which illuminated the floor and the exhibits without catching the walls themselves. Here and there a naked branch or a sprig of pine shone in the light, while in other places stones had been piled high to provide the impression of stone cliffs or boulders. Throughout the room long glass display cases were carefully lit from the inside, light pouring down on the carvings within without flowing out from the cases. In the centre of the room, lit solely by one overhead light, was a picture of a dark haired woman swimming beneath a canoe rocking on a violent sea. The effect of the entire presentation was to give the sense that the gallery was in fact outdoors and that in the darkness beyond was a forest, or a mountain, or an open tundra. It created the illusion of a huge space in a room which was in fact only fifteen metres by fifteen metres.
“Wow,” said Ray, walking forward into the room. “Nice… decorating. Got a real outdoors-y feel to it.”
“That was, of course, what we were aiming for.” The doctor’s smile softened the slight sarcasm in tone. “During the day, there will be quiet sounds from nature playing on hidden speakers; the wind, the trees rustling, ice creaking, bird song and so on.”
“Great. And this? The Sadie person you were talking about?” Ray walked forward to stare at the central painting, indicating the woman swimming below the waves.
“Sedna, Detective. An Inuit goddess of great power, ruler of the creatures of the sea and the underworld.”
“Huh. Just looks like a mermaid to me.”
“Although not often mentioned in the common perception of mermaids today, Detective, they were once known as dangerous creatures who would drown men unfortunate enough to fall prey to their charms.” Nauja smiled.
“The Inuit have many stories about Sedna, Ray. In some of them she’s an innocent girl who was thrown out of her canoe by her father in a storm so he could save himself. In others, she is similar to a monster, and is thrown out of the canoe by him in his rage. In all versions, though, she becomes a goddess. She rules the animals the Inuit rely upon to live; the seals, the walus, the whales. The Inuit pray to her to provide them with food. When she is happy, villages live happily. When she is angry, villages starve.”
“Good to know you haven’t run out of stories, Benny.”
“It’s one of the most important myths in Inuit culture,” said Fraser, turning from the main picture to look at the artefacts displayed in the glass cases. “It’s not surprising there are so many wonderful art works dedicated to depicting the story. It’s wonderful that you’ve managed to gather such a fine collection, doctor.” Fraser turned back to Nauja, who was inspecting the labels posted on a farther display case. “But what did you mean by ‘who Sedna really was’?”
“Surely you must know many myths are posited to have originated with one real source.”
“Yes. You’re suggesting then that there was once a real woman whom the myth was based upon? But isn’t there also the possibility that the myth was simply a composite, slowly evolved from daily life and related stories until it grew into the form which we know today?”
“Not in this case,” replied the doctor coldly. “The myth had its basis in fact, and I’ve been working to track Sedna, through these artefacts.”
There was a pause. Ray looked up from a case full of carved ivory knives. Fraser was watching Nauja with an expression of polite interest, but there was doubt in his eyes. “I see,” he said simply. Behind him, Dief whined, and he turned. The half wolf was standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched.
“Is something wrong with your dog, Constable?” Nauja, apparently concerned, also turned to look at him.
“No, he just doesn’t like galleries. I’m afraid there was an unfortunate accident a few years ago with a children’s art display.”
There was a click and then a shuffling from the other side of the room. The curator let himself in through the gallery’s main entrance, locked it behind him and hobbled forward.
“Well, Fraser, what do you think? Pretty good layout, eh? Not as good as the Carr exhibit back in ’87, but better than anything we’ve had in a long time. Nice job with the lighting, if I do say so myself.”
“It’s excellent, Mr. Michaels. I’ll certainly be back during normal visiting hours to have a closer look, but from what I’ve seen it’s a display with wonderful vision. Ray?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, real nice. The, uh, bones, have a really great layout.”
Fraser nodded, turning towards the back doorway. “Thank you kindly, Dr. Nauja, Mr. Michales.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Ray tagged along behind as they headed for the doorway. In the hallway, Dief whined again, and shook himself.
----------------------------------------
The Impala glistened, newly waxed body shining like a dark star compared to its dusty and occasionally rusting neighbours. As they walked along the street, Dean was throwing a glance back at it every few seconds.
“Dude, chill. The car will be fine.”
“Are you kidding me? They eat vintage cars for breakfast around here. Why am I even coming in? I should be out there, watching her.”
“Come on, focus, we’ve got a job to do.”
“They’re probably already eyeing her up. I swear, that bum on the corner’s a spotter.”
“Yeah, you’re right, he’s just faking extreme poverty and drunkenness to get first crack at all the Rolls.”
“I’m serious, someone so much as lays a finger on her and I’ll-”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“Shut up, we’re here.”
The two men stopped at the mouldering one-story house. The roof was sagging ominously under the weight of several inches of snow, paint peeling away from the siding to reveal damp wood, dirty windows set in cheap plastic running boards. The doorbell was crooked, and surrounded by a rusty stain.
“Nice,” drawled Dean. As they climbed he glanced up at the underside of the porch roof, bare boards having expanded and contracted with so many summers and winters that they were now severely warped.
Sam glanced at his brother, who shrugged, and then rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. After several seconds, he reached out and knocked on the door instead. It rattled in its frame. Inside the house, a dog started barking, the low wheezing bark of an elderly animal. Then the thumping of footsteps, and the further rattling of the door in its frame as the lock was forced open.
An elderly woman dressed in a striped mohair sweater and navy cotton pants wrestled the door open, white hair tangled and matted, glasses perched crookedly on her nose. Cloudy blue eyes peered up at the brothers. “Yes?”
“FBI, ma’am. Agents McCloud and Angus. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, if you don’t mind?” Dean pulled the fake badge out of his pocket, displaying it with confidence. Sam mirrored his actions, presenting his badge for the old woman’s closer inspection.
“FBI? About Danny? Have you found him?”
“No ma’am. Just a few routine questions to help us locate him faster.”
“Alright then, come in. Mind Roger, he’s a bit under the weather.” She led the way through a cramped linoleum-floored hallway past a despondent Basset Hound lying in a decrepit basket, and into a tiny sitting room. The couches were floral-pattered, and covered with large lace doilies. Dean made a face at Sam behind the old lady’s back.
“Have a seat.” She took a seat in a rocking chair facing both couches; the brothers sat carefully on the larger of the two couches with its back to the wall. It the hall, Roger gave a low howl.
“Your son disappeared five days ago, correct?”
“That’s right. He came down to see me for my 80th birthday. Danny always was such a thoughtful boy. He lives up in White Horse. Canada, you know. A mining engineer with a diamond company.”
“And he just went out one night, and didn’t come back?”
“Yes… We ran out of coffee, and he simply can’t wake up in the morning without it. The nearest store is only a ten minute walk away, but he didn’t go there for some reason… oh, yes, it was already closed for the night. He had to drive over to Southerlands, or at least that was what he said he would do. When he wasn’t back an hour later I started to get worried. I called the police an hour later.”
“You said he was going to drive to the other store on his own; does he know the neighbourhood well?” Sam leaned in, pen tip against his paper.
The old woman looked up, surprised. “Well, of course he does. He grew up here. He moved to Canada after he graduated from university; the job opportunities there were better. Wanted me to come up too, but I could never live up there, with all those polar bears and glaciers and things.” She indicated a sideboard covered with cards depicting a picturesque version of the north. “No, this is my home.”
“Did Danny have any enemies? Anyone who might have held a grudge against him?” Sam watched her carefully, manner serious. Dean’s eyes wandered across the room, over the dusty photographs on the mantle place and the framed cross-stitch picture mounted on the walls.
“The police asked me that too, but Danny’s always been such a friendly boy. He got along well with everyone; he was his high school Valedictorian, you know. And besides, he hasn’t been in Chicago for so many years, how could he have any enemies here?”
Dean turned his attention back to the conversation. “Did you notice anything strange in the day or two before he disappeared? Any unusual occurrences? Lights flickering, problems with the heating or the appliances?”
The old lady’s brow furrowed. “No, nothing like that. Why would there be?”
“No reason. Just a routine question. Well, Mrs M…”
“Mrs. Malley,” cut in Sam, smoothly.
“-Mrs. Malley, thanks for your time. We’ll be sure to let you know the minute anything turns up.” Dean stood, barking his shins on a low coffee table and smiling awkwardly to cover up the grimace. The old lady showed them to the door, Roger rolling onto his side to stare up at them with apathy as they passed.
Outside in the sharp air Dean shook his leg and swore. “Fuck I hate those coffee tables. Who the hell puts it right in front of the couch?”
“People who can’t reach more than a foot? Oh, hey, look, the car’s still here.”
“Don’t get smart with me. This was a complete waste of time! There’s nothing here, Sam. Did you see those photos on the mantle? Pictures of the guy and his mom posing for the camera. Man’s a complete loser. Probably took a wrong turn and pissed off some gang with his goody-two-shoes-ness.”
“Yeah, that sounds probable.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You heard her, he grew up here. No way he just got lost.”
“He hasn’t been back in years. Places change. Neighbourhoods change. Next thing you know-”
“You’ve got the Crips living next door waiting to pounce on hapless middle-aged engineers? Sounds pretty far-fetched.”
“You got a better explanation? No EMF, no suspicious circumstances, no pissed-off spirit waiting for a chance to get even.” Dean pulled on a pair of gloves and spread his hands over the Impala’s bonnet, sweeping them across as if to check for damage. “We didn’t find anything at the other guys house, either. No EMF, nothing weird in the apartment, neighbours reported all serene. These are just unrelated incidents, Sam.”
“There’s still one left.”
“Oh, yeah, I bet there’ll be a bloody message on the walls just waiting for us.”
“Come on, man, we came all this way…”
“I know, I know.” Dean opened the door and swung himself into the driver’s seat. “But when this next one turns up blank, we’re outta here. I call next case in Texas. I’ve had it with this cold.” He slammed his door shut. As if on cue, tiny snow flakes began to dot the windshield. Dean turned over the engine and swore darkly.
Series: Supernatural/Due South
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED, and will remain so. For the good of the universe.
Summary: I admit it, I mostly just wanted to have Ray and Dean geek out over cars.
The park was very nearly empty. At night, even the homeless avoided it; the scarcity of trees and wide expanse of frozen lake combined to create one of the coldest points in the Chicago. Tonight, although the clouds were smothering the moonlight, the pale glow of the street lamps – few and far between – lit the edges of the dark lake in unusually sharp circles.
Harold put this down to the cold. He was no stranger to the changes the world twisted through when the mercury hit bottom. And he didn`t mind freezing his ass off, if it meant he could walk home unmolested by the usual collection of druggies and pimps; it stung to admit that he was getting to an age where even average hustlers began to inspire fear. He avoided the park in the summer, when the water cooled the scorching heat and attracted the dregs of an already borderline neighbourhood, but in the winter he trekked out of his way to cut through it.
The snow was crunching dryly under his feet now, cold enough that the powder flaked away from his boots with each step, falling silently to lace the edges of his footprints. On his right, the yellow glow of the street lamp flickered unevenly, light flashing on and off in a series of hiccups. Harold, staring at the struggling bulb, did not notice the dark patch on the ice.
When the moon finally broke out from behind the clouds, the park was empty.
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“This isn’t going to be about the exhibit again, is it? I told you, using bones for art is just creepy and probably illegal-” Seated at his desk in the squad room, Ray Vecchio stirred his coffee while grimacing slightly. Sitting across from him in the folding chair that had long ago become something like his second office, Fraser cut him off.
“They’re not human bones, Ray. And no. It’s about Harold Kurtis, a neighbour of mine. I think he may be missing.”
“And you think this because…?”
“I haven’t seen him in several days.”
“That’s it? Look Fraser, people leave this city all the time without telling you. Your neighbours leave without telling you. Your boss leaves without telling you. Hell, sometimes I leave without telling you. Just because this guy Henry-”
“Harold.”
“Harold hasn’t taken the time to track you down – which, I might add, is no easy task when you refuse to get a phone – and check in does not mean he needs your help. The guy probably just decided to take a vacation. I bet he’s on some beach soaking up the sun and drinking out of a coconut.”
“He walks past me every evening while I’m on duty at the Consulate, Ray. If he’s worried about going home alone he’ll wait for me to get off shift so I can walk with him. He wouldn’t leave without telling me, especially not in the middle of the week. I stopped by his apartment, and the mail hadn’t been collected in several days.”
“So he didn’t cancel his subscriptions before he went. Maybe he’s only going for a few days. I’m telling you, sometimes work gets too much and you just take off, get away from it so you don’t crack up. Spontaneous trip, especially in the winter. Especially this winter. Weather lady this morning said we’d set a new record. Cold like that can trigger deep urges, Fraser. Like the urge not to freeze your butt off, for one.”
“Harold only moved down from Yellowknife a year ago, Ray. Weather like this is barely fall for him.”
The detective sighed, and opened the file cabinet next to his desk , drawer sliding out with a metallic hiss. “Look. You can file a missing persons if you want, but I’m telling you, until we get some more substantial proof that he hasn’t flown out to attend a luau – an opportunity which, let me add, I would currently kill for – I’m not going to be able to put any man power on it.”
“Alright. Thanks, Ray.”
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“So what’ve we got?” The motel’s stiff comforter sagged reluctantly under Dean’s weight as he slumped to pull his socks on, his short shock of hair standing straight up with the damp from the shower.
“Not... much. Couple of dead cows making state news in Idaho.”
“Dude. Potato carving makes news in Idaho. What else?”
“Uh... some missing people popping up on the radar in Chicago. Old guys, mostly.”
“Old guys. In Chicago. In the winter. Probably chilling in some back alley. Literally.” Dean finished pulling his socks on and looked up, raising his eyebrows. Sam rolled his eyes.
“I’m not talking homeless people, Dean. Middle-class guys, three in the past week. Home addresses all in the same area.”
“Same neighbourhood?”
“Not quite.”
“Right,” said Dean, dryly. “Any other connections?”
“Well, two of them are Canadian.”
“You said three.”
“Yeah, the other guy’s American.”
“I’m not really seeing any tie here, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like anything else is exactly throwing itself in our faces. You know winter’s slow, Dean.”
“Yeah, Hell’s so busy freezing over. C’mon, Sam, there’s gotta be something more solid.”
“There’s not. Unless you’d rather spend hours scouring the net for occult signs on sites run out of kids’ parents’ basements.”
Dean rocked easily to his feet. “Nah, I’m good. Whole computer nerd gig’s not my thing.”
Sam snorted. “So what, it’s mine?”
“’Course it is.” Dean slapped him firmly on the shoulder. “But c’mon, there’s gotta be something. What about those cows?”
“Why are you avoiding this? What’s so off-putting about missing people that you’d rather tackle cattle mutilations?”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just...”
“Yeah?”
“Chicago’s a big city, man.”
“Uh, yeah. I seem to recall reading about it in Socials 7. So?”
“Very funny, smart ass. Big city means plenty of cops, cops who actually check the wanted posters, unlike the small-town hicks. And we’re not exactly innocents here. That bastard Henrickson’s probably got us papered in every station in the place. Going to Chicago, that’s like wearing a kick me sign. Except instead of kick me, it says please throw my ass in jail ‘til I’m ninety.”
“So we stay away from the stations, Dean. It’s not like we haven’t done it before. Come on, man, when have we been afraid of a little heat?”
There was a long considering pause, while each brother held up his end of the staring contest. Finally, Dean threw up his hands. “Fine. Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming everything on you. Murder, forgery, impersonating every possible officer of the law, credit card fraud, grave desecration. Especially the desecration.” He wagged a warning finger. “Be told.”
----------------------------------------
The Riviera pulled up into one of several empty spaces in front of the museum, engine rumbling to a halt as Ray turned the key. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the wheel, to look at the old stone building through the windshield. The wide stone steps were empty, exhibition banners lit unevenly by streetlights waving forlornly in the wind. In the backseat, Dief whined quietly.
“Yep, looks like you’re drawing quite a crowd.”
“Well, it is eight at night, Ray. The museum is closed.”
“Right. So why’re we here?” Ray pulled on his scarf and stepped out of the car, immediately raising the collar of his coat against the biting wind. Fraser followed, putting on his hat with a clean twist. In the darkness the red serge of his collar, the only part of his jacket visible under his navy wool coat, stood out as a dark crimson band. He held the door open for the half wolf, then closed it with a thump, sound mostly lost in the wind. Dief yipped and shivered, wind playing through his fur.
“The Inspector asked me to look over the exhibit, as I have some familiarity with the subject matter.”
“Old bones?”
Fraser sighed, just slightly. “It isn’t entirely bones, Ray. In fact, many of the artefacts are carved from stone or walrus and narwhale ivory. The carvings depict scenes from traditional Inuit myths and daily life.” They arrived at the stairs and began climbing, heading for the main entrance.
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s an amazing exhibit. The Canadian government has been working together with tribal elders to gather the artefacts and make sure they are properly cared for, displayed and explained.”
“Well explained, constable.” At the sudden interruption by a new voice, both men paused. A woman stepped out from the shadows of one of the tall archways. Dressed in a long wool coat only her dark hair caught the light, raven tresses shining blue under the street lamp. She approached to meet them, light also glinting off the lenses of her square glasses.
“Dr. Nauja?” Fraser held out his hand. “I’m Benton Fraser, and this is Diefenbaker,” he motioned to Dief, sitting in the lee of the Mountie’s legs, ears folded down.
“Yes. Pleased to meet you, Constable. The Inspector told me you would be coming. And this is?”
“Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Nice to meet you.” Ray held out his hand as well, tone slick. A closer examination had revealed Dr. Nauja to be a young woman clearly of Inuit origin, with large dark eyes and rather delicate features. Ray adopted a winning smile.
“Pleased to meet you as well, Detective. I was unaware the Chicago police department took an interest in art museums.”
“Well, I don’t know about my colleagues, but I’m one hundred percent behind cultural exchange. I hear you’ve got some really fascinating exhibits here made from, uh, ivory and stone.”
Dr. Nauja smiled. “Yes, we do. If you’ll come this way? The museum’s curator has the side door open for us.” She led the way around the side of the building, keeping close to its tall stone walls, her own long hair fanning out in the wind. Ray shivered and pulled his coat closer. The red-lined tails of Fraser’s coat caught the wind and licked out like flames.
“I hear you lived in Tuktoyaktuk, Constable?”
“Yes, for more than ten years when I was a boy. Have you been there?”
“No, but I grew up in Inuvik. Most of my family still lives there.”
“Then you must know Jason Crowsfoot.”
“Yes, of course, although I haven’t seen him for a few years. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Well, we spent a few months together in Boy Scouts when his family came up for the summer to visit. He probably remembers it fondly, if he got over the incident with the caribou and the fishing line…”
They arrived at the side door, an inconspicuous gray door set in a shallow frame. Dr. Nauja knocked once and it opened immediately, bright light shining out into the dreary evening and throwing out a long yellow rectangle onto the concrete. An old man was standing slightly stooped with the door knob in hand, thinning hair combed unevenly over parchment-like skin. Fraser greeted him with an easy smile, “Good evening, Mr. Michaels.”
“Ah, Fraser, nice to see you again. You’ve met Dr. Nauja? She’s already got the exhibit all set up. An excellent use of space; the temporary gallery’s really shining with this one. Come on in, I’ll show you.” He held the door for them, bobbing at their greetings like a float in a choppy sea.
“And who’re you, young man?”
Ray gaped for a second, then answered in unusual politeness, tone moderated to a clear ‘speaking to the elderly’ voice. “Uh, Ray Vecchio. Chicago P.D.”
“Don’t have no crime here.” The man shut the door and shot the two bolts. He gave the electronic pad by the door a hard stare for a moment before pressing the “engage” button. The green light on the pad switched to red.
“That’s good to know,” said Ray, in the same slightly-sugared voice. Fraser and Dr. Nauja were already walking along the corridor, conversing in quiet tones.
“…really very interested to see how you handled the issue of differing ownership claims, as well of course as differences in the myths themselves.” Fraser’s voice echoed slightly in the long corridor running behind the galleries, along with the clicking of heels and the quiet shuffle of thick coats.
“Well of course we’re providing a brief overview of the significant claims, while keeping clear of the issue of which might be the best supported. As for the differences in the myths, they all have the same fundamental origin and that’s what we’re emphasising. The real truth behind Sedna. And of course Anorak and so on, but since out best artefacts deal with Sedna there’s a primary focus on her.”
“The idea of real truth is certainly an interesting one. Do you mean the original origin of the story, or those which are now the closest to the first telling?”
They reached the door at the end of the corridor, and Dr. Nauja glanced at the curator before reaching out to open the door.
“I mean, of course, who Sedna really was.”
PART 2
“Wow,” said Ray, walking forward into the room. “Nice… decorating. Got a real outdoors-y feel to it.”
“That was, of course, what we were aiming for.” The doctor’s smile softened the slight sarcasm in tone. “During the day, there will be quiet sounds from nature playing on hidden speakers; the wind, the trees rustling, ice creaking, bird song and so on.”
“Great. And this? The Sadie person you were talking about?” Ray walked forward to stare at the central painting, indicating the woman swimming below the waves.
“Sedna, Detective. An Inuit goddess of great power, ruler of the creatures of the sea and the underworld.”
“Huh. Just looks like a mermaid to me.”
“Although not often mentioned in the common perception of mermaids today, Detective, they were once known as dangerous creatures who would drown men unfortunate enough to fall prey to their charms.” Nauja smiled.
“The Inuit have many stories about Sedna, Ray. In some of them she’s an innocent girl who was thrown out of her canoe by her father in a storm so he could save himself. In others, she is similar to a monster, and is thrown out of the canoe by him in his rage. In all versions, though, she becomes a goddess. She rules the animals the Inuit rely upon to live; the seals, the walus, the whales. The Inuit pray to her to provide them with food. When she is happy, villages live happily. When she is angry, villages starve.”
“Good to know you haven’t run out of stories, Benny.”
“It’s one of the most important myths in Inuit culture,” said Fraser, turning from the main picture to look at the artefacts displayed in the glass cases. “It’s not surprising there are so many wonderful art works dedicated to depicting the story. It’s wonderful that you’ve managed to gather such a fine collection, doctor.” Fraser turned back to Nauja, who was inspecting the labels posted on a farther display case. “But what did you mean by ‘who Sedna really was’?”
“Surely you must know many myths are posited to have originated with one real source.”
“Yes. You’re suggesting then that there was once a real woman whom the myth was based upon? But isn’t there also the possibility that the myth was simply a composite, slowly evolved from daily life and related stories until it grew into the form which we know today?”
“Not in this case,” replied the doctor coldly. “The myth had its basis in fact, and I’ve been working to track Sedna, through these artefacts.”
There was a pause. Ray looked up from a case full of carved ivory knives. Fraser was watching Nauja with an expression of polite interest, but there was doubt in his eyes. “I see,” he said simply. Behind him, Dief whined, and he turned. The half wolf was standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched.
“Is something wrong with your dog, Constable?” Nauja, apparently concerned, also turned to look at him.
“No, he just doesn’t like galleries. I’m afraid there was an unfortunate accident a few years ago with a children’s art display.”
There was a click and then a shuffling from the other side of the room. The curator let himself in through the gallery’s main entrance, locked it behind him and hobbled forward.
“Well, Fraser, what do you think? Pretty good layout, eh? Not as good as the Carr exhibit back in ’87, but better than anything we’ve had in a long time. Nice job with the lighting, if I do say so myself.”
“It’s excellent, Mr. Michaels. I’ll certainly be back during normal visiting hours to have a closer look, but from what I’ve seen it’s a display with wonderful vision. Ray?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, real nice. The, uh, bones, have a really great layout.”
Fraser nodded, turning towards the back doorway. “Thank you kindly, Dr. Nauja, Mr. Michales.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Ray tagged along behind as they headed for the doorway. In the hallway, Dief whined again, and shook himself.
----------------------------------------
The Impala glistened, newly waxed body shining like a dark star compared to its dusty and occasionally rusting neighbours. As they walked along the street, Dean was throwing a glance back at it every few seconds.
“Dude, chill. The car will be fine.”
“Are you kidding me? They eat vintage cars for breakfast around here. Why am I even coming in? I should be out there, watching her.”
“Come on, focus, we’ve got a job to do.”
“They’re probably already eyeing her up. I swear, that bum on the corner’s a spotter.”
“Yeah, you’re right, he’s just faking extreme poverty and drunkenness to get first crack at all the Rolls.”
“I’m serious, someone so much as lays a finger on her and I’ll-”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“Shut up, we’re here.”
The two men stopped at the mouldering one-story house. The roof was sagging ominously under the weight of several inches of snow, paint peeling away from the siding to reveal damp wood, dirty windows set in cheap plastic running boards. The doorbell was crooked, and surrounded by a rusty stain.
“Nice,” drawled Dean. As they climbed he glanced up at the underside of the porch roof, bare boards having expanded and contracted with so many summers and winters that they were now severely warped.
Sam glanced at his brother, who shrugged, and then rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. After several seconds, he reached out and knocked on the door instead. It rattled in its frame. Inside the house, a dog started barking, the low wheezing bark of an elderly animal. Then the thumping of footsteps, and the further rattling of the door in its frame as the lock was forced open.
An elderly woman dressed in a striped mohair sweater and navy cotton pants wrestled the door open, white hair tangled and matted, glasses perched crookedly on her nose. Cloudy blue eyes peered up at the brothers. “Yes?”
“FBI, ma’am. Agents McCloud and Angus. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, if you don’t mind?” Dean pulled the fake badge out of his pocket, displaying it with confidence. Sam mirrored his actions, presenting his badge for the old woman’s closer inspection.
“FBI? About Danny? Have you found him?”
“No ma’am. Just a few routine questions to help us locate him faster.”
“Alright then, come in. Mind Roger, he’s a bit under the weather.” She led the way through a cramped linoleum-floored hallway past a despondent Basset Hound lying in a decrepit basket, and into a tiny sitting room. The couches were floral-pattered, and covered with large lace doilies. Dean made a face at Sam behind the old lady’s back.
“Have a seat.” She took a seat in a rocking chair facing both couches; the brothers sat carefully on the larger of the two couches with its back to the wall. It the hall, Roger gave a low howl.
“Your son disappeared five days ago, correct?”
“That’s right. He came down to see me for my 80th birthday. Danny always was such a thoughtful boy. He lives up in White Horse. Canada, you know. A mining engineer with a diamond company.”
“And he just went out one night, and didn’t come back?”
“Yes… We ran out of coffee, and he simply can’t wake up in the morning without it. The nearest store is only a ten minute walk away, but he didn’t go there for some reason… oh, yes, it was already closed for the night. He had to drive over to Southerlands, or at least that was what he said he would do. When he wasn’t back an hour later I started to get worried. I called the police an hour later.”
“You said he was going to drive to the other store on his own; does he know the neighbourhood well?” Sam leaned in, pen tip against his paper.
The old woman looked up, surprised. “Well, of course he does. He grew up here. He moved to Canada after he graduated from university; the job opportunities there were better. Wanted me to come up too, but I could never live up there, with all those polar bears and glaciers and things.” She indicated a sideboard covered with cards depicting a picturesque version of the north. “No, this is my home.”
“Did Danny have any enemies? Anyone who might have held a grudge against him?” Sam watched her carefully, manner serious. Dean’s eyes wandered across the room, over the dusty photographs on the mantle place and the framed cross-stitch picture mounted on the walls.
“The police asked me that too, but Danny’s always been such a friendly boy. He got along well with everyone; he was his high school Valedictorian, you know. And besides, he hasn’t been in Chicago for so many years, how could he have any enemies here?”
Dean turned his attention back to the conversation. “Did you notice anything strange in the day or two before he disappeared? Any unusual occurrences? Lights flickering, problems with the heating or the appliances?”
The old lady’s brow furrowed. “No, nothing like that. Why would there be?”
“No reason. Just a routine question. Well, Mrs M…”
“Mrs. Malley,” cut in Sam, smoothly.
“-Mrs. Malley, thanks for your time. We’ll be sure to let you know the minute anything turns up.” Dean stood, barking his shins on a low coffee table and smiling awkwardly to cover up the grimace. The old lady showed them to the door, Roger rolling onto his side to stare up at them with apathy as they passed.
Outside in the sharp air Dean shook his leg and swore. “Fuck I hate those coffee tables. Who the hell puts it right in front of the couch?”
“People who can’t reach more than a foot? Oh, hey, look, the car’s still here.”
“Don’t get smart with me. This was a complete waste of time! There’s nothing here, Sam. Did you see those photos on the mantle? Pictures of the guy and his mom posing for the camera. Man’s a complete loser. Probably took a wrong turn and pissed off some gang with his goody-two-shoes-ness.”
“Yeah, that sounds probable.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You heard her, he grew up here. No way he just got lost.”
“He hasn’t been back in years. Places change. Neighbourhoods change. Next thing you know-”
“You’ve got the Crips living next door waiting to pounce on hapless middle-aged engineers? Sounds pretty far-fetched.”
“You got a better explanation? No EMF, no suspicious circumstances, no pissed-off spirit waiting for a chance to get even.” Dean pulled on a pair of gloves and spread his hands over the Impala’s bonnet, sweeping them across as if to check for damage. “We didn’t find anything at the other guys house, either. No EMF, nothing weird in the apartment, neighbours reported all serene. These are just unrelated incidents, Sam.”
“There’s still one left.”
“Oh, yeah, I bet there’ll be a bloody message on the walls just waiting for us.”
“Come on, man, we came all this way…”
“I know, I know.” Dean opened the door and swung himself into the driver’s seat. “But when this next one turns up blank, we’re outta here. I call next case in Texas. I’ve had it with this cold.” He slammed his door shut. As if on cue, tiny snow flakes began to dot the windshield. Dean turned over the engine and swore darkly.