On The Edge, Looking Over

Rating: PG
Completely un-betaed.

A spurious scene from the due South movie I fantasized.

CHICAGO, 1999

"Kid," he said carefully, "I know you're upset that your Mom's boyfriend left, and I'd be pretty pissed off too, if he took all my baseball cards. But you just, you know, you got to know that pointing that thing at my head is going to get you in trouble."

The 10-year-old's hand didn't waver.

"I'm gonna move now, okay?" Ray Kowalski said. "I'm gonna push up the window the rest of the way and climb out on the ledge with you. That all right?"

No answer. Christ. The kid's Mom had just asked Ray to stop by, talk to the kid, do the Big Brother thing. But these days he couldn't even talk to an unhappy kid without it escalating into a disaster that would probably leave one of them in the hospital and the other one completely screwed. This was the way his life had gone since the Franklin expedition went sour.

He pushed up the window, and carefully climbed out. It was one of those old-building ledges, maybe 15, 18 inches. After climbing crevasses, it seemed wide as a barn. He sat cross-legged on the opposite side of the window from little Timmy. Time was, he'd leave this sort of thing to Fraser, both the heights and knowing exactly what to say to make someone feel better, to make someone feel hopeful when everything looked black. But Fraser wasn't around and Ray'd never been real good at saying the right thing.

So he just sat, and looked around, for a few minutes while he tried to think of something to say. He ignored the can of Mace that the kid was pointing at him. He ignored the eight-story drop below them. There was a fresh wind, and he could see doves wheeling above the building across the street. "Hey, it's pretty nice out here."

The kid didn't say anything, so neither did Ray. It wasn't that he was waiting exactly. It was more like, everything on the other side of the window, in normal life, was completely screwed up, while out here he hadn't done anything wrong yet.

Ray'd started thinking all his recent problems were something like a curse that Franklin, Franklin's ghost, had laid on him for getting so sick of pemmican and the cold that he'd given up the quest. Although, he hadn't really given up, it hadn't been a decision he really thought about. But when he woke up in the hospital hypothermic, concussed, and underweight, the doc had explained that he'd being Medivac-ed out of the Arctic Circle, and Fraser was still someplace out there, mushing the dogs back towards civilization. And by the time Fraser got to the hospital, Ray'd gotten used to being warm again, and indoor plumbing, and he'd even gotten one of the nurses to let him drink coffee.

Ray couldn't remember how he'd gotten the concussion, Fraser was being real stand-offish, and neither of them mentioned the possibility of heading back North. Before he really figured out what had happened, Fraser and Dief were reassigned to someplace in the Territories, and Ray was back to Chicago. It was all downhill from there. One jam followed another, he'd lost his touch, or at least his luck. Back in blue, back on a beat instead of following cases as a detective in major crimes. He didn't even carry a gun anymore. Which, it looked like, was a damn good thing, considering that if he had, the kid might've blown off his head by now.

And speaking of the kid. . . time to try again. "I've got a collection, too. Haven't done much with it lately," like since he was 14, "but I got a Sosa rookie card."

No answer.

"Hey, you want to report the cards stolen? If we can find him, maybe we can get him to give them back, without having to press charges."

Still no answer, but Timmy was, finally, thinking instead of just glaring, and Ray could almost read his thoughts.

"You don't want to get him in trouble, 'cause you really liked him, huh?" That seemed to be okay with the kid. "But then he takes a powder, he, uh, betrays you by taking off. And taking your cards is just mean. That about right?"

By now the boy was sniffling. He lowered the can of Mace, finally put it down, and crawled over towards Ray.

What the heck? A hug. The kid wanted a hug. Yeah, Ray could do that. Besides, that story he'd just told, about being abandoned by someone you love, was sounding awful familiar. "Story of my life, kid. You just tough it out."

And that was good, they were getting along, the kid was calming down, Ray was just about to suggest they climb back inside when Timmy's Mom, the TV news van, and the fire department, and the child psychologist, and the department shrink, and about a zillion cops pulled up in front of the building and started yelling at them.

"Fuck," said Timmy.

Ray knew he shouldn't encourage children to swear, but in this case -- and since Fraser wasn't within a thousand miles -- "You can say that again."

The ledge was a Paradise lost. "Time to face the music. Hand me the Mace, would ya?"

They began the process of climbing in the window, ignoring the circus below them. "How come you don't wear a gun?" Timmy asked.

"I shot a bad guy. Department took my weapon away."

"But you got him!"

"Yeah, but I wasn't aiming for him." And that was all he had time to say before Mrs. Leary and the social worker had whisked Timmy away, and Ray was informed that Captain Carter was demanding his presence at HQ, soonest.

Captain James Carter watched ex-detective Kowalski walk through the bullpen. Kowalski, his problem child. His resident pain in the ass. Harding Welsh assured him that there was a good cop underneath all the baggage and bullshit, and occasionally Carter could see it for himself. But mostly what he saw was the James Dean attitude and a weird accent that Harding said was Canadian. Even though Kowalski was born and bred in Chicago.

Kowalski hadn't been on duty three hours yet, and his uniform was already a mess of wrinkles. He was receiving an unusual amount of flack from the rest of the room, some of it even audible through the door. Carter swallowed the two Tylenol he'd gotten used to taking before dealing with Kowalski, just before the knock on the door.

"Come."

"Sir?"

"Do you have anything you can't shelve for a few weeks, Kowalski?"

This clearly wasn't the question the man had expected. He answered, "I'm pretty sure that I know who's dealing coke in a couple of the buildings, and my informants aren't going to talk to anyone else."

"That can wait. God knows why, but somebody actually wants you. We're lending you to the Feds for a few weeks. They need someone to go someplace called. . . " he looked at piece of paper, "Inuvik."

"Inuvik in March. Franklin's really got it in for me. Do I got a choice?"

"No."

"Right. I'll go pack my mukluks."

"Oh, and Kowalski? You're supposedly a highly trained police officer. Explain to me why you allowed a six-year-old to remove Mace from your belt."

Kowalski ran his hand through his hair. "Uh, it was a turtle, Sir. And he's ten."

"The turtle is ten?"

"No Sir. Timothy Leary is ten years old. His pet turtle has an unfortunate tendency to pick pockets. This time, he managed to get the can off the belt, but couldn't pick it up in his beak."

"The turtle?"

"The turtle."

"So Timothy got the Mace. . ."

"He picked it up off the floor. He seemed to think I was there to arrest the turtle, and he was holding me off while it made a quick getaway."

"Funny. Turtles don't have a reputation for quick getaways."

"But they make up for it with amazing endurance, Sir."

"Get out of here, Kowalski."

END