Chapter Three

Four nights later, that yearned-for end was still as distant as the horizon.

Doyle's scream penetrated the sepulchral stillness, reverberating through the small snow-bound chalet as through a hollow cave. Bodie shot straight up in his bed, searching through the night black surroundings in confusion until he remembered.

Should be getting used to this, he thought, as he ran barefoot across the cold floor to the master bedroom. For three nights now Doyle had wakened him this way. It was more than his silent partner's unconsciousness giving vent to the unvoiced fears of the day. When Ray let loose like that, he sounded like a soul subjected to all the horrors of hell. Or close to all of them, Bodie thought. He needed nothing more than the physical mementos of Doyle's captivity to guess the content of his partner's dreams.

Worse than the nerve rending noise was the knowledge that there was nothing Bodie could do to ease the torment. How could a man unable to utter a word or bear human touch unburden himself of the trauma behind such nightmares?

Bodie's first attempt at comfort on their second night in the chalet when Doyle's sleep was originally disturbed had almost sent his unbalanced mate over the edge. Like tonight, Bodie had awoken to ceaseless screams. Never would Bodie forget the horrid noise, half-sob, half-whimper that had replaced those cries once he'd gathered the tight ball of locked muscle and fear that Ray had become into his arms to offer solace. The closer he hugged, the more frantic the cries had come until at last he'd been forced to abandon Doyle, a fetal ball whimpering alone in the centre of the enormous bed.

That memory had been so vivid that last night Bodie had been afraid to touch him. Unwilling to intensify Ray's terror, he'd stood helpless at the bedside, gawking down at the suffering man like a child at a zoo exhibit. Only, unlike the zoo observer, Bodie had shared every second of that agony, hurting all the more for his impotency.

Tonight, Bodie was determined to help. How, he didn't know.

As he switched on the overhead light and saw Doyle balled up in a tangle of white sheets, still crying out in his sleep, he was once again besieged by that feeling of utter uselessness.

His hesitation vanished at a pathetically pleading cry. Maybe he wasn't capable of doing much more than startling his friend to wakefulness, but at least that would temporarily vanquish Doyle's demons.

"Ray," he called, as he approached the bed, the name a soft reassurance in itself.

He received no response until his hand gently squeezed a bony shoulder. That galvanized his partner into immediate, panicked consciousness, the fetal ball tightening protectively.

"It's just me, Ray," the quiet words, almost crooning, came with surprising ease. He couldn't see the tears with Ray's face buried between his blanket and curved arms, but he knew they were there. Bodie released his grip on the shoulder and eased onto the edge of the bed. Disdaining the bedside chair in which he'd spent the past nights. "'s only a nightmare, mate. You're safe here. Take a look around for yourself and see, no bogeymen."

It took some time, but gradually Doyle uncoiled.

Bodie's breath caught in his chest as the dishevelled curls popped up and Ray gazed about. Tears streamed down Ray's face in a steady stream. Doyle's lower lip was clenched tight between his teeth as if to trap all sound.

"It's over now," Bodie assured, although Doyle's unshaven face, torn with emotion as it was, looked as though it had been ravaged only moments ago.

"No one will ever hurt you again like that," Bodie promised, the solemnity all but lost on Doyle.

He could see that Ray needed some form of physical comfort; the brimming eyes fairly begged for a pair of arms to sob their pain out in, but Bodie's one move to offer it was checked by the now instinctive flinch. The need to hold his partner now a tangible ache, Bodie tried to content himself with the knowledge that he for once had Doyle's full attention.

If he couldn't touch, at least he could talk. Sensing that his words were finally getting through on some level, Bodie nattered on, "Almost forgot. 'm male, makes it off limits, don't it? That's okay. Don't want you ta think I'm after that anyway, sunshine. Only wish you'd let me help you."

He fell quiet, silenced by the intensity of Ray's tear reddened stare.

Dark with fear, Doyle's irises were very green at the moment, the body of them lush as the fuzzy moss that grew thick on streambed stones, striated with tiny lines of a gentler, jade colour that might pass for grey.

That compelling gaze fixed on Bodie, seeming to demand that he either justify or ease the fear.

"Tell you what," Bodie said, startling them both with his suddenness, "Why don't you take hold of my hand for a while, just until the jitters pass." He held his right hand over where both of Doyle's were clenched together. "The rest of me will stay right here. I won't move until you let go, then I'll go right back to my chair." He indicated the uncomfortable armchair he'd finished the last two nights in.

Doyle stared through him for the longest time, showing no sign that he'd understood Bodie's words. Then confusion entered his eyes, as if Bodie had just given Ray orders in a language he couldn't understand or offered him something he was unprepared to deal with.

Slowly, as if expecting the action to initiate a barrage of unforeseen violence, Doyle's right hand raised to clasp Bodie's open, offered palm.

Ray's skin felt cold, somewhat sweaty. Bodie's hand tightened around it, just enough to make him feel welcomed, but not entrapped.

Doyle continued to watch him intently, but when nothing threatening followed Ray's acceptance of the meagre solace, his eyelashes dropped closed as if to block out the sight of his partner. A tremendous shudder heaved through the slender body, followed by what sounded like a choked off sob.

The spring of tears flowed anew, but this time the sight of them didn't bring a cold touch to the bottom of Bodie's stomach. Instead, his own eyes stung with the effort to contain a similar flood.

"It's all right," Bodie gently soothed, afraid to so much as twitch a muscle in his hand for fear of shattering the fragile trust offered him.

The pressure Ray was applying gradually increased to a painful squeeze. After several moments Doyle's other hand blindly joined his other, clutching Bodie's hand tight as to a lifeline.

Still as stone, Bodie kept his promise to offer no more than his hand. Breathing in the salty scent of tears and subtle body musk, he let Ray cry, watching as the skin of his captured hand reddened to the same bright colour as Doyle's emotion flooded cheeks.

Eventually, the outburst stilled to ragged breathing that was punctuated by irregular, convulsive sobs. He expected his hand to be abruptly rejected, but Ray clutched it tight to his chest until sleep overtook him again. Only then did the vise-like hold gradually loosen.

Bodie cautiously withdrew his bloodless limb, the slight disturbance causing no more than a tiny whimper.

Rubbing sensation back into his crushed fingers, he pulled the bedclothes up over his sleeping partner then eased off the bed to settle into the nearby armchair to wait out the night.

Tomorrow, Bodie decided, he'd move one of the army cots that were folded in a basement corner up here. That way he wouldn't have nearly as far to travel when Doyle's nightly disturbances started.

Pleased by tonight's breakthrough, he sank into an uneasy doze.

---

Chapter Four

"Come on. Chew the damn thing and swallow it," Bodie ordered, lowering the fork and knife to rest beside the melted cheese sandwich. Three quarters of the oozing sandwich were now congealing on the plate. The corner ingested, in the time it would have taken him to force a three-course meal into his partner four weeks ago, was still trapped in Doyle's mouth unswallowed. Or so Bodie assumed from the bulging cheeks

Doyle glared at him, fully as furious and rebellious as Bodie had ever seen him.

"Come on, get rid of it so you can finish the rest of the soddin' sandwich," Bodie cajoled, his patience spent weeks ago.

He raw his tone seemed to register.

The pupils in the wells of enraged green flared wider in near incandescent anger, and then, the unthinkable happened. Like Vesuvius erupting, the entire soggy mouthful spewed forth into Bodie's unsuspecting face. All anger left Doyle's eyes immediately, replaced by a smug slant that seemed to say, 'you told me to get rid of it'.

Something in Bodie snapped at the nasty action. He'd never been meant to be a nurse. His patience was long gone. There was nothing left inside him but frustration and fury.

Bodie's left hand shot out to snag Doyle's collar, pulling the smaller man forward across the table as his right fist rose chinward in instinctive response. It would be so easy to just to smash that goading face and give the bugger what he'd been asking for for the last month.

Mid-delivery, he paused, stopped dead by the expression of satisfied anticipation that replaced Doyle's smugness.

"Damn you," Bodie sputtered, propelling Doyle back into his seat as though Ray were the most revolting thing he'd ever laid hands on. "You can't let it rest, can you?"

Snatching up a napkin, he wiped the unchewed goop from his face. His body was still shaking – from rage and from fear of how close he'd come to fulfilling Doyle's expectations.

"You don't want to eat, fine. You can sleep instead." Without waiting for a reaction, he hauled Ray none too gently to his feet and all but dragged him up the stairs.

Disappointment over his failure had long since vanished from Doyle's face, trepidation replacing it as he was rough-handled into the bedroom.

Bodie caught the fear. His anger was fully justified, he knew, but Doyle was still the one who was mentally unstable here. As satisfying as thrashing the aggravating bugger might be, Bodie was loathe to do anything to justify Doyle's fear of him, even when more than provoked.

Doing his best to curb the white-hot fury still coursing through his blood, he plopped Ray onto the bed.

"Take your nap," he said, not ungently. "I'll be back later."

With that, he fled the room, horrified by how close he'd come to actually hurting Ray.

None of it made any sense. That first night when Ray had taken his hand, he'd been so sure Doyle was on his way to recovery. Trust had been restored, or so it seemed then. But as he'd learned the next morn, any advances at night were paid for by ruthless withdrawals the next morning. It was almost as though Doyle were punishing one of them for his own weakness; though, which of them, Bodie couldn't decide.

At times he was certain Doyle's hostility was motivated by hate. He'd look into that venomous glare and know that the very sight of him revolted his partner. But, then, there were the days when he was equally sure Ray was testing him, that the twisted little sod was pushing him, trying to force him to reveal himself to be the treacherous monster Doyle's fears painted him. He knew Ray was trying to force him to somehow justify Doyle's continued withholding of trust. Which he'd come very close to doing today, Bodie reflected, disgusted by his own lack of control.

His aimless wander led him to Jacques' study, the only room in the house that reflected its owner's personality. For the last week this room had been his refuge, the place to which he escaped while Ray was napping. A few poems, several chapters of an adventure novel or simply a quiet hour of a snatched doze usually did wonders to bolster Bodie's sinking stamina.

Today Bodie ignored the overstuffed chair, the disorderly book stacks, and attention grabbing knickknacks that were haphazardly strewn about the room, homing in on the window instead.

The view was bleak when compared to that of the sitting room's scenic window. The jagged peaks of the hollow the chalet nestled in dominated the view. The thin cluster of spruce huddled at its foot only slightly gentled its harshness. Not a pretty picture, even with the mad rush of snow dancing between, but Bodie was not in a pretty mood. His soul felt as hard and cold and grey as the rock out back.

Despite what Marie insisted on during her frequent visits, Doyle was not improving. The flu might have worked its way out of his system and most of the physical damage healed or faded, but mentally, Bodie could see no change. If he was not forced, Ray would not eat; Doyle had yet to utter a word, and Bodie was quite convinced that if he didn't go in there and practically haul his partner physically out of bed in the morning, that Ray would just lay there until he starved to death.

What strength Doyle did regain seemed to be extended in resisting his meals. Three weeks ago, it took twenty minutes to feed Ray dinner, now it was fully an hour and a half before Bodie could start on his own cold food.

These battles drained Bodie more than his recuperating partner, who managed to acquire boundless energy for swivelling his mouth away and lock jaw on demand. Only now was Bodie beginning to understand the true meaning of nurse-maiding.

This last struggle had all but sapped his will. He was tired of forcing Ray to do things. Up until now, Doyle's compliance with his regime was based solely on fear. But, Bodie's intimidation factor was gone. He'd comforted Ray far too much during his night terrors to be considered a threat anymore. Deep down, Doyle knew that Bodie was not going to hurt him, which was why Ray felt free to mistreat him as he had. Short of beating Ray silly, Bodie could think of no way to regain that lost respect.

Anyway, he was sick of being a bully. He wouldn't want that fear back even if he could have it. Doyle might be behaving like an obnoxious, spiteful brat, but at least he was choosing to act that way, not following orders like a bloody automaton. How that was any better then the former apathy when Doyle still wasn't feeding himself, Bodie couldn't see.

Overwhelmed by his troubles, Bodie's forehead touched the ice-cold pane. Perhaps it was time to admit defeat. Cowley could be contacted by a mere phone call. Ray could be shipped home for proper care, and he . . . well, he could fade back into the shadows.

---

The house was filled with a disturbing quiet. The absence of sound hung heavy in the air, a tangible presence that seeped through every empty room and sank through one's skin to twitching nerve endings like syrup through hot cakes. The unnatural silence made every chance sound ring louder, the occasional 'shuwump' of snow falling through the pine branches outside the window, the irregular drip of water leaking from the sink in the master bath, the occasional bang of a shutter as the wind played games with it, all echoed eerily through the still room.

Most disturbing of all was the waning light. A dim, grey twilight oozed sluggishly through the window that had been ablaze with daylight only a short while ago.

Something was wrong. The stranger who called himself Bodie should have come for him hours ago.

His taskmaster's daily routine was regular as clockwork and as invariable as the course of the sun. His keeper roused him when the light had just begun to peek through the right corner of his window, put him down for a rest after the midday meal, came back for him when the shadow from the dresser just hit the bed's footboard and brought him back for the night sometime after sunset.

The bureau's telling shadow had slunk past the bed long ago, gobbled up soon after by the denser darkness that now held dominion over the room.

Goosebumps prickled across Doyle's flesh in an icy shiver as he recalled the act that had banished him here so early. The mere memory roused the nagging discomfort that had plagued him too often of late.

Guilt. Somehow he knew it was not a new emotion, but something he had often worn close to his heart; although why that should be so, he had no conception.

As he'd done for the last month, he tried to shrug off the unwanted burden. What was it to him if his captor bruised easily? The man had bought him in an auction and hauled him up here to the top of the world for god knew what purpose. He owed Bodie nothing.

Usually, that was enough of a balm for his troubled conscience. Today it did not work so easily. Another, more insistent part of his mind kept batting back the awkward truths underlying each of his justifications as ruthlessly as a tennis pro would an opponent's ball.

It was true the man had bought him in auction for an unspecified purpose, but it was equally true that Bodie's motives weren't the expected ones. In all the days Bodie had had him isolated up here, there had been no request for information. Bodie asked a slew of questions – enough to tire a man out just listening to, let alone, answering – but they were all of the 'how're you feeling today, mate? That rib catchin' you up again?' variety. No relentless probes into incomprehensible subjects. Nothing that Bodie demanded made Doyle have to sink further into that buffering well of silence he'd discovered within himself.

Which was why he clasped that distancing mantle so firmly around him, turning away from even the most innocent enquiries, lest his trust be betrayed. The puzzled hurt on the other man's face following such a rejection might rip right through him, but wasn't that better than being destroyed again?

On some level, he suspected that Bodie's benevolence was all just a front. Doyle feared that the instant he responded, verbally or emotionally, the sweet demeanour would drop and he'd once again be naked before a tormentor.

Yet, the longer he was with the man, the harder he found it to nurture such doubts. If Bodie's concern were an act, it was a near faultless one. More protector than captor, the other man guarded him with the fierce devotion with which a lioness would tend her injured cub, worrying over things that even the overprotective Marie shrugged off. For all the implied threat in his keeper's mealtime attitude, Bodie had yet to lift a finger to force him to do anything against his will – a fact upon which he'd shamelessly capitalized. Most importantly, the other man had shown absolutely no interest in his body, beyond getting it healed.

This last enigma had him totally puzzled. He could see where his muteness might discourage interrogation, but it did nothing to prohibit intercourse. In fact, his former captors had taken malicious delight in encouraging sound through rough usage. That type of sadism might not be part of this man Bodie's character, but he had to have had some reason for buying him, some reason for stoically enduring the aggravation Doyle threw at him.

Unless, what Bodie had claimed that first night were true. The details were hazy, fuzzed by fear, drugs, and the stupor of sickness. Partners, that was what Bodie had said they were when he'd bought him back to that white-haired man's house. Several times since their arrival here Bodie had referred to him as 'partner'.

What it meant, Doyle didn't know. There were times when he'd catch an expression in Bodie's creamy skinned face that stirred something deep inside himself that might be recognition, but it was ever elusive, always lost before he could properly grasp hold of it. Somehow, in protecting whatever it was that must not be told to his former captors, he'd lost the rest of what he was.

Tired of staring at the doorway of the darkening room, and more and more aware of the increasing pressure on his bladder, Doyle rose from the bed and crossed to the bathroom. The blackness was thickest in the smaller room, but he didn't bother with the light.

That stress relieved, he reviewed his alternatives. He could go back to bed. Bodie had left him there, making it more than clear that he'd had enough of him for the day. After the stunt he'd pulled, Doyle couldn't honestly blame him. In retrospect, all that surprised him was the other man's restraint. Bodie probably wouldn't want to see him for a long while. Best stay here until the anger cooled.

Which might take forever.

The white linen striping the top of the empty cot on the other side of the room caught his eye, being the only thing he could distinguish clearly through the gloom. Its gaping vacancy glared accusation at him, reminding Doyle of the cruelty of his act and bringing home its consequences.

Tonight, when the dreams came, as they inevitably would, there would be no strong hand to drag him from their depths, no motionless body to curl himself around while he sought the comfort of the embrace his fear denied him.

Only now was the tender patience, lavished on him with such casual generosity, appreciated. How man people could offer what Bodie gave each night? It couldn't be very easy, sitting there while a sobbing heap curled itself around him like an octopus' tentacle, while Bodie was bound by a promise to limit his own contact to a bloody handshake. Not many could do it. Even Marie, who had been present during one Doyle's rare daylight naptime attacks, trapped him like a vise, adding fuel to his panic. Bodie alone soothed him without binding him, letting the reassurance of his presence chase away his dream horror.

The calculated cruelty with which he repaid his rescuer now weighed heavily upon him. From his refusal of the badly cooked, well-intentioned meals to his complete ignorance of anything Bodie said to him, every barb struck its target with merciless accuracy. Wounded, Bodie didn't seem to see how he salivated for the culinary disasters or how Doyle's ears almost pricked forward at Bodie's slightest sound, not missing a single word or nuance. Usually all the hurts he inflicted were accepted, wordlessly, the pain showing only in confused, increasingly haunted blue eyes. But today he had pushed too far, beyond amends perhaps.

Knowing only one way to ascertain the extent of the damage he'd knowingly wrought, Doyle slipped through the door into the long, shadowy hall. No light shone up from below, no muffled music, not even the telltale crackle of a fire in the hearth could be detected as he strained his senses to pinpoint the other man's location. A fast-cast glance on the chance that Bodie had reappropriated the beige room showed that empty.

He crept down the stairs, soundless as a shadow's passing. The sitting room was also vacant, the huge scenic window providing its only illumination and that light, too, was ebbing.

His breathing sounded harsh in his ears, his heart beating wildly. The strained silence spoke of desolate lifelessness, of long abandonment. Alone in the darkling rooms, he had the hideous fear that Bodie had left him here.

Ridiculous, Doyle knew, sure that the car engine would have wakened him.

The now-dark kitchen looked equally unpromising. That left only the basement and the book-lined room he'd never had cause to enter. The latter seemed more probable, considering the number of half-read books that had been appearing around the place lately.

Unsure of his welcome, he paused at the partially open door. Bodie might not wish to see him after what he'd done.

Filled with reservations, Doyle edged the door silently open to the point where he could see within. Just a look to reassure himself that the other man was still here, then he'd go back to bed without disturbing Bodie.

A tall silhouette blackened the darkening grey rectangle of the window. Bodie was still here then.

About to withdraw, Doyle was suddenly struck by the strangeness of the scene. Bodie's head, usually held so straight and high in the natural arrogance of the man's perfect posture, was bent, the broad shoulders slumped and hunching in toward Bodie's chin. But it was more than the bowed head that was disturbing about the abnormally still figure. There was an undercurrent of dejection, intense, and bitterly moving, seeping from his usually cheerful keeper.

Utterly lost, Doyle could only watch as Bodie's hands, oddly pale in the fading light, appeared on both shoulders, clutching the material of his shirt as he hugged himself. The wide back began to vibrate in abrupt, shudder-like motions. It was only when a small, choked sound reached him that he understood what was happening.

Bodie was crying, more silently and strictly controlled than Doyle would have thought possible, but crying nonetheless. And he and his cruelty were no doubt the cause of those tears.

Even admitting his own responsibility, Doyle might still have been able to retreat - were the tears open and dramatic as his own nightly traumas. But they weren't. Bodie was standing there, looking as though he'd been fighting against the breakdown for hours; still trying to contain the sorrow that had defeated him. There was something all the more pathetic in that. Alone here, Bodie should have felt free to sob out his grief. Yet, every shudder looked as though it had ripped though a solid wall of resisting muscle.

He wavered a moment before approaching. Bodie might not want him here. But who else had the other man to turn to?

Bodie's grief was the only thing of substance in this room of shadows. Bleak and miserable, Doyle had never seen a man so alone. . .or could recall seeing none in the scope of his meagre memories.

Bodie jumped like a startled buck when Doyle's hand settled hesitantly on a tense elbow.

"Ray?"

It was the name he liked, the short one that had replaced the whip snap, Doyle, when Bodie had bought him. Ray was usually filled with kindness and concern or occasionally tinged with exasperation, never uttered with lust or malice as Doyle, had been. Tonight, it was a whisper of disbelief, the tone to question a midnight wraith.

Doyle left his hand where it was, watched as Bodie's free hand shot up to knock off the tears that still flowed.

There was no unwelcome in the grief-stained face, no trace of Bodie's former anger. Upon seeing Doyle, the tremor running through the tense form increased. Doyle could feel the tight-held emotion penned in the stone-like muscles. He rubbed his hand gently up toward the shoulder, attempting to relax the too-hard flesh.

That one small motion seemed to overload Bodie's struggling controls. With a choked sob, Bodie pulled him forward to pin him in a vice-like embrace.

Doyle's instinctive struggle stilled, defeated by the convulsive shudder wracking the man wrapped so close around him. There was no menace in this embrace; Bodie only sought support while he cried.

The face buried in the hollow of his neck was cool, the tears hot splashes against Doyle's skin. He wondered how long Bodie had stood here with his head pressed to the cold pane of glass to allow that much warmth to be leeched from his skin, then, gave up wondering, to hesitantly stroke what he could reach of the broad back. So long held apart by his own fear, Doyle felt inadequate at offering this sort of comfort.

His intentions must have been enough, for Bodie drew a shuddery breath and murmured, "You're the answer to a prayer, mate. Never thought to see you up and around again, least ways, not on your own."

Gradually, Bodie's shaking calmed to a near-imperceptible tremble. The arms loosened their hold as Bodie stepped back a bit, still maintaining a light, non-confining touch on Doyle's elbows.

The joy contained in the exhausted features was unsettling. Bodie was acting as if he'd been given a fortune, when all Doyle had done was walk down a flight of stairs on his own.

Doyle was so hard put to deny the eagerness in the red-rimmed eyes that he had no notion of how his own expression softened. He longed to respond, to tell the worried man that he was feeling better and that no, he was no longer intent on killing himself, but mistrust still lingered.

This could yet be a ruse enacted by an expert. Get his trust, get him talking, and then, get the information stronger measures had failed to secure. Improbable, perhaps. Instinct told him Bodie's concern was genuine, but Doyle had no idea where those instincts came from. Until he remembered what it was everyone had been intent on learning from him, Doyle thought it best to maintain his fiction.

Those same instincts assured him that Bodie would forgive him even that deception, too.

His continued silence did not seem to thwart Bodie's restored humour. A delighted smile quirked across his features as Bodie answered his own question, "'Of course, you're feelin' better."

The wind chose that moment to pitch a gustful of snow and sleet against the window. They both started at the pebble-like rain of sound, shivering at the subsequent draft.

"Let's get us a fire going to warm this place up and set about dinner." Bodie's happiness crumpled at his own mention of food, the shadow of today's incident dimming the cheer in his eyes. It was obvious that he dreaded a repeat performance.

Guilt-struck, Doyle searched for a means of reassuring. Speech already disqualified as a possibility, he tried the only thing left to him, a gesture not attempted since he awakened without a past. The smile sat strangely on his face, pulling at solemn features accustomed to a frown or blank freeze until Doyle thought the muscles would crack after long disuse.

The response the simple act elicited was humbling. Bodie gasped as though the breath were torn right out of him, the oh-so-efficient man seeming to melt under its onslaught. Doyle stared at his visibly stunned companion, noting how the recently dried gaze had filled up again with a liquid brightness.

Struck by the tenderness in the unguarded expression, Doyle came to an astounding realization. He knew, had he deigned to speak, that anything he asked for would have been granted at that moment. Doyle had the unsettling impression that even without speaking that that one insignificant gesture had won him the other man's soul.

What the hell had he been to Bodie that a mere smile could so undo him?

Puzzling out that enigma, he followed his keeper to the kitchen.

Doyle took his customary seat in the corner, watching as the other man set about heating a casserole left by Marie and fixing a small salad. Bodie's movements were awkward here, seemingly overshadowed by the number of charred, smoking catastrophes these efforts invariably produced. But this evening, Bodie was approaching the task with a certain flourish that was not lost on the watcher.

Any doubts Doyle might have harboured about the wisdom of his decision to trust, if ever so marginally, were dispelled by Bodie's glowing enthusiasm. He had not realized how heavily the pain he'd been causing his caretaker had weighed upon himself until now that it was lifted. Light-headed with relief – or hunger – Doyle leaned back against the wall, for once relaxed.

As expected, the portion of casserole placed on his plate was browned around the edges, looking uncooked in the middle. The food wasn't so burned that it failed to set his mouth watering, and, Doyle conceded, the salad looked quite appetizing.

Bodie filled only one plate, placing it before Doyle like a timid lion feeder.

An expression of grim determination paled the merry glow that had lit Bodie's face throughout the meal's preparation as he took a seat beside Doyle. Apparently resigned to the struggle, Bodie lifted a fork. The vivid eyes did not even blink as Doyle intercepted the hand, but something seemed to die in their clear blue depths.

Hope, Doyle realized. Bodie's gaze dropped as Doyle tried to pry loose the fork.

Realizing the struggle futile – he'd yet to win a single utensil from that Herculean grip – Doyle willed Bodie's eyes to lift again to end the battle.

Several moments passed before Bodie realized Doyle's resistance had ceased. Then, the questioning gaze rose slowly to meet his own.

Doyle schooled all rebellion from his features, entreating trust with his widened eyes.

As if bewitched, Bodie's grip gradually loosened from the fork. Doyle took it from unresisting fingers, not missing the look of utter defeat that darkened Bodie's bright eyes.

Bodie's defeated expression turned to incredulous wonder as Doyle's fork continued on its original path, dipped deep into the half-cooked casserole and shovelled a heaping loadful to Doyle's waiting mouth. Not surprisingly, it was cold. But even half-cooked, Marie's meals were delicious. Doyle continued to shovel the food down long after his appetite had been appeased, determined to finish the dishful for Bodie's sake.

He had his reward when he was done.

Bodie was simply sitting there, smiling at Doyle as if the entire world had been handed to him. It made no sense, but Bodie's unmistakable joy did make Doyle feel happy. Hoping he wasn't making the mistake of his life, Doyle reached for the salad bowl.

---

The first muffled cry had him off his cot and at his partner's bedside before the sound faded. Bodie snapped the lamp on and eased down onto the empty bed edge. As always, Ray was a huddled heap of blankets and fear-soaked flesh in its centre.

"Come on, Ray, wake up. It's just a dream." he called gently, almost choking on the last understatement. Doyle nightmares were 'just' dreams, the way a tsunami was 'just' a wave.

Fortunately for Ray, although the ferocity of the night terrors didn't seem to be abating any, his reaction to them was improving. Once awake and aware that it was Bodie at his side, his friend would calm. But sleep did not come easily afterwards.

Bodie had all but talked himself hoarse with inanities these last few weeks while trying to dispel Ray's residual anxiety to the point where Doyle could once again rest. What he spoke of, on these long nights, Bodie could hardly remember. At first, he knew he had stuck solely to himself, relating exaggerated accounts of childhood adventures. Those had seemed less likely to add any fuel to Doyle's dreams or jeopardize the semi-miraculous trust he'd recently won.

But lately, the topics more and more had been amusing anecdotes of the years they'd spent in each other's company. Bodie couldn't tell what effect his stories were having on his partner, if any. Sometimes he got the feeling that he started the day talking to himself and finished it the same way, that it had always been so and would ever remain unchanged. He'd all but forgotten what Ray's voice sounded like, but at least Doyle was listening to him now. As long as that was true, he'd keep right on chattering away.

"Ray, snap out of it, mate. You're safe, here in your own bed."

The firm tone seemed to penetrate. Doyle's eyes shot open to stare wildly around, the burgeoning cry muffled to a gasp as the startled green gaze came to rest on his own reassuring blue.

Bodie grasped the hand that reached for him, prepared for the odd, one-way embrace that usually followed. The way Doyle curled around him at such times came close to breaking his heart. The craving for comfort was heart wrenching, Doyle's denial of it even more so. Ray seemed to use Bodie's body to hide from whatever it was terrorizing him in his dreams, his entire body hugging Bodie in a tight boomerang curve with Doyle's face buried between the blankets and Bodie's left thigh, his legs pressed tight down the outside of Bodie's right thigh and his lower body acting as a warm backrest for the bigger man.

Generally, Bodie would sit still and let Ray sob out his hurt, offering an occasional pat or gentling murmur, but nothing more physical than that.

Tonight was different, however. There was no burst of tears upon recognition. Doyle heaved an unsteady sigh. But aside from tightening his grip and an occasional shudder, Ray betrayed no sign of the internal turmoil Bodie could see reflected so clearly in the over-wide eyes. That too, subsided, to be replaced by a rueful glint and unsteady, sheepish pull at the corners of the full mouth.

Unsure if this were progress or a set back, Bodie returned the handclasp uncertainly. "Bad one tonight, hey, sunshine?"

Remarkably, Doyle gave a slight, unconscious nod.

Bodie's muscles tensed. Intentional or not, this was the first actual response he'd received to a direct question. Over the past few weeks, Doyle had been doing better – signifying approval with a smile or ready compliance, but nothing this concrete.

The grin which split Bodie's own features was unplanned. Its radiance seemed to burn the remaining shadows from Doyle's gaze, turning that tiny, self-conscious quirk of lips into a full-fledged smile.

Bodie drew in a shaky breath at the sight. He felt the corners of his own smile drop a little in helpless response, but forced them back into place. He had the peculiar impression that Doyle was somehow basking in his grin, as if using Bodie's good humour to dispel the lingering fear.

"Let's straighten these covers out and get you settled," Bodie suggested once the moment passed. "Then maybe we could try another story. You know, we should get a stereo. That way we could put on some of that highbrow stuff you like so much. You know what they say about music soothing the savage breast, maybe it'd tame a savage nightmare or two," he said, patting the covers into place.

The spark of interest in the sea-green eyes decided him. Next stop in the village a phonograph and Mozart would top their shopping list.

Doyle's hand halted Bodie's move to his customary spot at the foot of the bed. Usually, he shivered there under a teepee of blankets, blithering on about inconsequentials until Ray's eyelids dropped closed again.

"What's up, mate?" Bodie asked, eyeing the hand. Under the best of circumstances, Ray wasn't a toucher. Since Doyle's rescue, it was practically a phobia; although that, too, was improving.

Doyle scooted over to the far side of the bed, lifting the covers up in clear invitation. Bodie hesitated, unwilling to offer a rejection but more than slightly stunned by the show of trust. "You want me there?"

The nod came again, accompanied by a slight tug at his captured wrist.

Bodie allowed himself to be pulled down. Senses numbed with shock, he watched his partner and tried to figure out why he was wanted here. Some of his uncertainty must have shown, for Ray gifted him with another sunny smile. Then, Doyle tugged the covers up to his chin and turned away from Bodie to face the wall.

Mystified, Bodie lay staring up at the ceiling, thinking that the lamp was still on. He resisted the impulse to turn it off, unsure if the light were offering Ray some added security.

So, after years of longing, he'd finally found himself in Ray Doyle's bed.

An ironic smile twisted his lips at the bizarre quirks of fate. Two years ago he'd have bloody well died for such an opportunity. Now, all he could do was long for the haven of his narrow cot.

Not that Ray was in any danger from him. The promise he'd made himself driving up here was still inviolate. This meek, psychologically scarred Doyle offered no carnal temptation.

What he feared was that Ray would forget his invitation when he awoke and fear him again. Why he was wanted here was beyond Bodie. Surely, it couldn't be for his own well-being. Though no longer intentionally hurting him, Ray was not yet recovered to the point of being particularly concerned over Bodie's health.

Even though he wasn't touching Ray, Bodie felt his partner's previously relaxed body give a sudden jerk and then tense over. A stifled gasp told him Doyle was awake again.

Bodie instantly understood. Who didn't know that terrifying sensation of falling which often overtook an anxiety-laden mind on the very verge of sleep? Awakened by the frightening lurch of seemingly every muscle one owned and the roar of a racing heart, a man could lay there for hours trying to get back to sleep.

A disturbing explanation occurred for the number of times the dawn had awakened Bodie to find a surprisingly alert Doyle watching him sleep. About to offer whatever solace he could, he stopped as Doyle rolled over to face him.

Feigning sleep, he waited to see what Ray would do. He willed his muscles not to betray him as a hand settled lightly upon his upper arm. A warm stream of expelled breath ruffled the hair above his right ear as Doyle settled down close to him.

"Everything all right, Ray?" Bodie asked at last, opening his eyes to find the nearby green gaze resting on his face. "Ready for that story now?"

A soft, almost indulgent smile met his offer. Doyle's hand left his arm and reached up to brush his eyelids closed before returning to its former resting place.

Taking that for his answer, Bodie's doubts subsided. Maybe after everything they'd been through these past months, Doyle might find his presence comforting. Or so Bodie hoped as he covered Doyle's hand with his own and allowed sleep to again overtake him.

---

Chapter Five

Winter that year was an unending ordeal. The snow fell and fell until it seemed the mountain would crumble to the ground under the weight of just one more flake. Then, when the Englishmen had abandoned all hope of ever seeing a patch of blue sky or sprig of green that wasn't conifer again, an amazing event occurred. The white, fluffy precipitation changed to clear, cold water.

The rain fell with equal vengeance, but no grudge could be held against it, for it battered the mounds of accumulated snow first into a hole-filled, pliant covering and then finally into mud. Not contented with this meagre victory, the rain continued its assault, melting snow and overfilling streams until flash floods became as much a danger as winter's avalanches. Then, as eventually must happen, the rain, too, lost its vehemence and the sun at last broke through the cloud cover and burned down until the mud was replaced by springy new grass and a riotous display of wild flowers.

Doyle bent to claim a purple and white bud from amongst its bright neighbours. His gaze wandered appreciatively over the meadow, still not quite able to believe all this beauty had survived a season beneath an icy pile of snow as high as himself.

The sun beat down upon him with fanatic vigour, warming the elevated mountain peaks to an uncomfortable level. Stripped down to his shirt already, Doyle popped a few more buttons open, wound the arms of his burdensome jumper around his waist, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and trotted on to catch up with Bodie.

His friend was making good time – Bodie always did when they were on their way to one of Marie's delectable dinners, Doyle reflected wryly, not at all slighted by his companion's helpless appreciation of a good cook.

Though, to be fair, Bodie was equally generous with his praise of Doyle's own endeavours, even if the efforts were motivated more by self-preservation rather than any true culinary love.

Doyle couldn't help grinning as he recalled the day he'd taken over the kitchen duties from his hapless mate. Bodie, his sweaty face streaked black from the burnt onions he'd been attempting to sauté, had still been labouring to save an already dead meal.

Unaware of where the knowledge came from, Doyle had instinctively known that each of the desperate moves Bodie was making was doomed to failure. More butter would not resuscitate charred onions, any more than the flour coating those chops would resist adhering to the pan they were sizzling away on.

Unable to bear the pathetic efforts a moment longer, Doyle had stepped up to the stove and silently brushed the floundering cook aside, too busy salvaging the meat for Bodie's open astonishment to register any more than peripherally.

But Bodie's euphoria had been unmistakable. Throughout that meal and many after it, his companion's renewed enthusiasm showed clear, bubbling forth in his endless tales and every chance glance. For some unknown reason, Bodie's good spirits had warmed him, filling him with a sense of pride and accomplishment.

Now, Doyle loped over to the other man. Impulsively, he held out the flower, grinning like an idiot.

"So that's where you got to," Bodie declared, accepting the gift nonchalantly in the spirit it was offered. "Better be careful. You'll get chiggers, if you don't get frostbite first. For God's sake, Ray, it's hardly May yet."

Doyle smiled all the wider. The words themselves might be nagging, but there was a happy glow to Bodie's eyes that made him feel very content.

Side by side, they continued up the trail. Since the weather had broken, they hiked over to Marie's almost every afternoon. By car, the ski lodge was over nine miles away, but travelling by the more direct mountain paths, they cut the mileage down to a manageable six. Once there, they feasted on truly sumptuous dinners and helped out with whatever chores needed doing. Currently, they were in the midst of painting the shed that housed the snowmobiles and rented skis during the summer months.

"Do you remember the time we saved all of London?" Bodie asked as they passed a sleepy pond. The clear water reflected back the rich blue sky and cottony clouds dotting it with mirror-like accuracy.

At Doyle's sceptical look Bodie continued. "'s truth, I swear it. We were in your back yard practicing on some aluminium cans and larger bottles when Cowley comes by. He tells us a man jumped out the window at this huge drug manufacturer, I don't remember the company's name, but they did some research on germ warfare too, if I'm not mistaken. Anyway, I tell the Old Man it's the dead bloke's business; then he tells us . . . ."

Doyle listened as his companion rambled on. As with most of Bodie's stories, this one was pretty fantastic. Half the time Doyle didn't know whether to believe him or not, but Bodie's tales always had the ring of truth to them, regardless of how improbable the contents.

The very way Bodie presented them to him tended to support their veracity. Whatever else his friend was, Doyle had learned that Bodie was no actor. Oh, he could try to con Marie or him into something with those beseeching, puppy-dog glances, but his caretaker inevitably overplayed his hand at such times, Bodie's ploys dolefully transparent.

There was never anything assumed about the desperation behind even Bodie's lightest anecdotes. The other man was obviously wracking his mind searching for the magical key that would unlock Doyle's forgotten memories.

Doyle himself was nearly convinced that no such trigger existed, that whatever he'd been was lost for good. But he did enjoy Bodie's stories, unlikely as they were.

A tinny sound of bells clanking filled the mountain meadow, followed almost immediately by discordant "blaahhing" and bleating. Both men glanced toward the mountain lake.

A white, horned head peered out from behind a large boulder near the top of the trail heading east on the far side of the lake. The small goat scampered to the water, followed soon after by several others.

The instinctive assumption of battle-pose eased from Bodie's tensed form as his alert blue eyes recognized the harmless intruders. The dark-haired man took up his story as though no interruption had occurred, "Then you gave Cowley one of those irritatin' grins of yours and said 'whatever we are, you made us.' Thought the Cow was goin' to . . . ."

Doyle, whose interest in everything around him for the past month had been nearly obsessive, had continued to watch the goats out of the corner of his eye. Now, a human figure came into sight, hurrying after its errant charges. The girl looked no older than ten. Her thick golden curls were caught back from her face in a small red ribbon. The dark blue dress she wore was embroidered with intricate, bright patterns whose attractiveness clashed unstintingly with the patched hose bagging about her skinny legs. Casting an uncertain smile the hikers' way, the goat-herder called out to her flock in a language Doyle didn't understand.

Struck by the strangeness of the scene, Doyle stopped dead in his tracks. He might be uncertain of where he came from, but he was willing to wager that Heidi-like goat-herders weren't common there either.

"Bodie, where are we?" he demanded into the other man's unending tale.

Bodie froze beside him, his expression running blank with shock. Then a wild joy lit his friend's eyes.

"You...spoke. By god, you spoke!" Giving a triumphant whoop, Bodie swept Doyle up in a fierce bear hug and spun him around, gibbering those two words over and over again like a madman.

Two months ago, Bodie's exuberance would have driven him into catatonia.

Overwhelmed, but in no way frightened by the reaction, Doyle merely waited him out. At last, the shouting stopped and Bodie deposited him on his feet. The hands kept a firm grip on his upper arms, as if unable to let him go, Bodie's twinkling eyes never leaving his face.

"You can speak," Bodie repeated, more calmly.

Doyle smiled, catching sight of girl and goats disappearing over the ridge behind Bodie's broad back.

"Yes," he admitted.

"You called me by name. You remember me, then?"

The eager plea troubled him. Bodie wanted it so badly, and yet all he had to offer was the frustrating blankness that had clouded his mind since before Bodie's bought him. "You rescued me, brought me here, and took care of me. The rest . . . what you've told me feels right, but...I've no real memory of it."

Bodie nodded, accepting the limitation and apparently undisturbed by it. "You can talk, anyway, and that's a fine start. The rest will come back to you soon enough, you'll see."

The certainty sounded unshakable. Doyle kept his own fears to himself, unwilling to disillusion the optimist.

"Ray," Bodie asked in a tentative tone after a prolonged pause, "why haven't you spoken before this?"

Doyle studied the crushed grass beneath his trainers, unable to face the hurt and loneliness visible in the strangely accusing gaze.

"Van Cleef was the stick. I figured maybe you were the carrot," he said at last, casting an apprehensive glance toward Bodie's face. The guilt and sympathy warring in a peculiar mixture there held him firm.

"And now?" Bodie asked softly.

"Doesn't matter now."

It was perhaps too much to hope that Bodie would drop the topic there. "How so?"

Doyle shifted uncomfortably, and then blurted out the truth. "Whatever you wanted to know, I'd probably tell you . . . if I could remember it." Doyle's head bowed in shame.

It was the ultimate surrender. The other man had won; whatever it was he'd just betrayed would be Bodie's for the taking. Its price – a little gentleness.

If this weren't some elaborate gambit and Bodie proved to truly be the partner he claimed, he'd have probably earned his disgust. Doyle consoled himself with the knowledge that at least the charades would end here. One way or the other, he'd know for sure. Either way, Bodie would probably be lost – the devious super-agent when he realized Doyle's information was irretrievably gone or the steadfast partner when he recognized that his loyalties had been wasted on a traitor.

"Aw, sunshine, don't take on so," Bodie soothed, gathering him close again. After a moment, he drew back, and lifted Doyle's chin with a hooked forefinger. "Now listen good, Ray." The stern tone was belied by a suspicious brightening of the clear blue eyes. "I'm your partner. There's nothing I want from you – not information, not sex, not even good humour. I know you're confused. You don't remember me at all, do you. But . . . you've got to try to trust me, okay?"

The question in itself was so serious that all Doyle could do was nod. He felt ridiculous for suspecting for even a second that Bodie was capable of such duplicity.

"Do you want to sit down, rest for a while?" Bodie asked, leading the way over to the pond without awaiting a response.

Bodie perched on a boulder. Taking his place on the lush, slightly damp grass, Doyle watched his friend pick up a handful of pebbles. One by one, they plopped into the pond, shattering its glassy surface. Bodie was seemingly fascinated by the spreading concentric circles the disruptive stones caused, but Doyle could see the swarm of unasked questions penned behind the mask of absorption.

After months of silence between them, it was only natural Bodie would have questions. How much Doyle remembered no doubt uppermost among them. Yet, there he sat, chucking stones into the pond with inhuman restraint.

Overwhelmed by a wave of tenderness, Doyle could only marvel at his companion's patience. Bodie obviously felt bound by his declaration to leave Doyle complete privacy. Such consideration would be in keeping with what he had observed of the other man's character.

"Have I a family?" Doyle asked at last, figuring the best way to answer the unvoiced queries was to detail his own memory gaps.

The hand reaching for the next pebble toss stopped.

"Family?" Bodie repeated, his neutral tone matching his expression.

"No wife and kiddies hopefully waitin' my return?" he asked lightly, to cover his own discomfort at the necessity of having to ask such a thing.

"No. No wife and kiddies."

Doyle's forehead crinkled in confusion as his ears picked up on something amiss in the font-of-all-anecdotes Bodie's uncharacteristic laconic reply. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but the response had sounded awful defensive, almost reluctant.

"How 'bout parents then? Brothers? Sisters?" Doyle questioned.

That scored a definite hit. Bodie shifted on his boulder, his eyes lowering to stare at the somewhat crushed bloom Doyle had presented to him. "You never spoke much about your family, Ray."

Both admission and evasion. He knew instantly that it was the truth, but there was something more which Bodie obviously didn't want to tell him.

"Well, what exactly did I say on those occasions I wasn't speaking much?"

Bodie sighed, the bowed head slowly rising to meet his gaze. Doyle was almost surprised at the lack of anger. The proud features were set in resignation, but Doyle still sensed support beneath them.

"You only spoke of them once, when I pressed you about it," Bodie answered. "What you said was that your family used to move around a lot when you were a kid, and that when you were seventeen they just moved on without you."

Stunned, Doyle fell quiet, not knowing what to say to such a thing and extremely conscious of Bodie's worried gaze resting upon him.

"Any reason why?" he managed.

Guilt-stricken, Bodie shook his head. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't . . . ." Doyle bit back the interrogative. He could press the point, but instinct told him that Bodie wasn't withholding anything. The very phrasing of the thing felt like his own wording. Unsure if it were memory or imagination working, Doyle thought he could almost see himself throwing the words out in anger, using his own pain to hurt the other man. Little wonder Bodie hadn't pursued the issue.

Trying very hard not to think about what such behaviour told him about his own character, Doyle pulled a sprig of tender grass from the ground and absently nibbled its end.

"They were fools, Ray. You were well rid of them."

Hearing the scathing bitterness, Doyle looked up.

"How do you know that? Did you ever meet them?" Doyle asked mildly, touched by the vehemence.

"No, but I met you didn't I? 'sides, what kind of family'd go off and leave a kid on his own like that?"

Bodie obviously did not see the other side of that argument, mainly, what kind of kid would drive a family away. Doyle kept the thought to himself. "So, we've eliminated wife and kin, what about girlfriends?"

Bodie's face lit up. "Oh, plenty of birds. Sometimes you pull juggling acts that amazed even me, though not often. I'm still ahead of you on that, mate, I'm afraid."

Doyle allowed himself a small smile that soon vanished. "No one steady, then?"

"Steady?" Bodie repeated, visibly troubled by the question. "No, no one in particular. Very democratic, you are, like to spread it around."

Ray nodded, expecting nothing else. "No wife, no family, no lover, no one to even care that 'm gone. Just what did I have back there, Bodie?"

Bodie finally appeared to comprehend what he was getting at. The thoughtful frown was oddly endearing, Doyle sensing how hard the other man was struggling to find just the right answer.

"By God, what a face! It couldn't be as bad as all that," he rushed to the rescue, realizing the uncomfortable position he'd put Bodie in.

"Lots of people cared . . . care about you, Ray. Your life wasn't empty," Bodie assured. "It's just that, well, the job takes a lot out of a man. It doesn't leave much time for a wife and kids. And you, you were the most conscientious bugger Cowley ever saddled a man with. You were always taking the job home with you, agonizing over things that had to be done long after everyone else had laid the ghosts to rest."

Doyle smiled, a sunny, provocative response to the note of patient, long-suffering in Bodie's defence. "Real pain, hah?"

Bodie shook his head, seeming to have difficulty finding his voice. "No, you had your reasons."

The moment he heard it, Doyle knew that Bodie had never understood his reasons, if he'd known them at all. "So, what else beside the job?"

Bodie looked heard-pressed for an answer. "You – you ran a self-defence class on Saturday mornings for ghetto kids. You liked to play racquet ball, darts and all the other things; were good at them, too," Bodie groped lamely, and then finally conceded defeat. "Guess it doesn't sound like much, put that way. Sorry, Ray, 'm not too good at this sort of thing."

"Don't be sorry. 's not your fault. You could hardly be blamed for my life. 'sides, you left the most important part out, didn't you?" At Bodie's look of confusion, he continued, "I had you, didn't I? Couldn't've been all that empty."

Bodie positively beamed at that, then, seemingly humbled, he answered in a carefully level voice, "You always had me, Ray. 's no big deal."

"No? You were the only one who cared enough to come looking for me."

"Everyone else thought you were dead," Bodie protested.

"You didn't."

"I couldn't afford to," Bodie replied.

Catching something indefinable in the tone, Doyle quizzed, "How so?"

"If you were dead, there'd be nothing left."

"Nothing left?" Doyle asked gently, having the feeling that Bodie had told him more than he intended.

The averted face justified his suspicion. Bodie was embarrassed. "It took me seven years to train you right, sunshine. I don't think I could bear it a second time around."

As no doubt intended, the light comment side-tracked him. "You trained me?"

"Taught you everything you know, me boy," Bodie bragged shamelessly.

The over-earnestness convinced Doyle he was being had. "Which is no wonder why I've got ask you all these stupid questions. Go on," Doyle snorted, "own up, you didn't train me, did you?"

The uncertainty he allowed to creep into his last question had its intended effect. Bodie's instant capitulation and his own lack of surprise at it, seemed to prove a theory he'd been testing out these last few weeks. Deep down, Doyle was convinced that he had the instinctive ability to play on the other man's emotions. Up to now, it had been something he'd done without thinking, knowing by the "feel" of each situation how best to act to achieve desired results. This was the first time he consciously tried it.

"No, I didn't. You were on the force for . . . ."

"The force?"

"The police force. You were a detective constable, then later undercover on the drugs squad. Real good undercover, you are, the best man Cowley's got."

Doyle absorbed the information, trying desperately to add substance to dry fact. He didn't think for a minute that Bodie was lying. There was an unmistakable hint of pride in Bodie's tone that cheered him, yet, when he tried to picture the uniform that he must have worn, or a particular case, all he drew was that same maddening blank. Bodie's stories stood clear in his mind, but vivid as they were, the characters involved still seemed more like the heroes in a thriller rather than Bodie and himself. Confused, he asked, "We were coppers, then? From the stories you been tellin' I thought we were spies."

"We were pretty much whatever Cowley wanted is to be at that particular moment. C.I.5 is a special task force with a nebulous brief. The old man had free reign to use whatever means were necessary to combat internal crime. Mostly, we were rubbish collectors, picking up human trash."

"Is that how I got . . . lost? 'Collectin' trash'?" Bringing his disjointed memories together into a coherent whole was no easy task. Bodie's information only seemed to cloud the emptiness with complexities, but how he'd ended up in that sick bastard's clutches was one question he needed an answer to, regardless of how Bodie's response might further confuse him.

He saw Bodie's face darken before his head lowered, leaving Doyle nothing but the top of a head to stare at. Absently, he noticed how red Bodie's shiny hair looked in bright sunshine.

"You don't remember what happened then?"

Doyle shook his head, an action that went totally unnoticed by the still-lowered gaze. "No."

"What do you remember?" Bodie asked.

Although the sun blazed down on them hot as before, Doyle felt a cold sweat break out all over his skin as he considered. "Not much. I just woke up one morning in this cold room – smelt awful, it did. Knew that there'd been something that . . . they wanted to know. I couldn't remember what it was, though, or even how I'd gotten to be there."

The means his captors had taken to spur his flagging memory were all too vivid, however.

From his position on the grass, he could hear Bodie's gulp. When he looked up, the blue gaze was once again fixed on him. He had the strange impression that those eyes had found him unwillingly, almost as though Bodie were incapable of turning away from Doyle's pain.

Doyle smiled weakly, trying to show that he was all right now, saw his effort only add to the worry. "It's not your fault, Bodie. No need for you to look so gloomy."

The lush gaze flickered downwards again, then swept back up to his face, determination setting the features. "It was, you know – my fault."

"Yours? How?" Doyle demanded, disbelief making his tone harder than anticipated. He mightn't remember a thing about his past, but he knew Bodie. The man would die before he'd allow harm to befall him, Doyle was sure of that, if nothing else. Whatever had happened, it couldn't have been Bodie's fault.

Bodie flinched as if struck, but his gaze didn't falter. "It was my job to guard your back. If I'd been there . . . ."

Doyle rose to his knees and made his way over to Bodie's rock.

"Tell me what happened," he ordered softly, taking his place at Bodie's feet.

His proximity seemed to ruffle the other man's composure, almost as though Bodie expected physical retaliation for his imaginary shortcomings. Then, the broad shoulders shrugged and Bodie began talking, "We were ordered to protect this think-tank physicist. Rogers had a small country house in Oxford. Real picturesque, but pure hell to defend with all those trees and bloody topiary. The second night out, there was a noise out back. We figured it was one of Rogers' damn cats knocking over another flowerpot, but I went out to check it anyway. I really cocked up, Ray," the tone was near pleading, but Doyle had the impression it wasn't understanding that Bodie was asking for. "They hit me from behind before I even knew they were there. Next thing I knew, Cowley was glaring down at me and you and Rogers were gone."

Doyle winced in sympathy, Bodie's tales telling how accepting their employer was of anything less than perfection.

"Knew it couldn't have been your fault," Doyle decreed once the confession had wound down to a halt.

"It doesn't bother you, what happened because of me?" Bodie demanded, face torn with suppressed emotion.

Was this what had kept Bodie beside him all this time, Doyle wondered, guilt?

"Of course, it bothers me," Doyle shot back, inexplicably hurt by his discovery. Realizing the effect hasty words might have on his companion, he quickly tempered rejection-born anger with truth. "But, 's strange. I don't remember any of that. Your telling me 'bout it, it's like it all happened to someone else. Anyway, you thick-skulled half-wit, none of it was your fault."

"I could've . . . ."

"You could have what?" Doyle interrupted. "Had eyes in the back of your head? You did what you could then and more than anyone else would later. Less you've forgot, if it weren't for you, I'd still be a prisoner."

Bodie, seemingly discomforted by his open show of gratitude, returned to his study of the wilting bloom.

Doyle considered their situation. Finally, he voiced a question which had been troubling him for some time now, "Bodie, were we rich back where we come from?"

The taller man burst into laughter at that, almost losing his seat on he stone in the process. "Hardly. To hear you talk we'd be on the bread lines next week."

"Hundred fifty thousand pounds 's a lot of money, isn't it?"

"Bloody fortune, mate. Why do you ask?" Before Doyle could answer, the shadow of comprehension flickered through Bodie's eyes.

"Where'd the money you . . ." there was only one way to say it, distasteful as it was, ". . . bought me with come from? Was it real?"

"Of course it was real," Bodie snapped back. "I could hardly risk passing queer bills on that lot. They were sharp, Ray. It took me over three weeks just to wrangle an invite to that affair."

Everything about Bodie's attitude told Doyle he didn't want to talk about this, but his determination more than matched Bodie's reluctance. "So where'd the money come from, mate?"

"Is it important?"

"Yes. 'm trying to fit things together in my head. You say we weren't rich, yet you pay a bloody fortune to Van Cleef to get me back. The money you keep forcing on Marie for this place is no bedsit rental and what you paid for that fancy stereo you bought me last month'd keep the whole village fed for a year. From what you've told me, we used to work our tails off and risk our skins for a quid, yet neither of us've worked in months. The money had to come from somewhere, so where?"

"Guess it doesn't make much sense put like that," Bodie agreed. "Ray, I'm no front-man. There's no faceless organization backin' me, waitin' for you to spill whatever it is you think I want from you. I'm no carrot and there isn't any stick hiding around here. I swear it."

"I know that." For a second, he wondered if this were a purposeful ploy to divert him from his original topic, but Bodie seemed sincerely worried that he didn't trust him.

The doubt didn't leave the blue eyes at the reassurance. "Don't know why you should. I wouldn't if I were you. But, there's nothing sinister in where the money comes from."

"I never thought there was, least not lately," Doyle amended.

"It's just . . . personal. If you don't mind, I'd rather keep it that way. Okay?" Bodie was almost pleading, obviously trying desperately hard not to offend.

Confused, Doyle could only nod. This was, after all, the first thing Bodie had ever asked for himself. Doyle knew if he'd wanted to, he could push and get his answers, but that wouldn't have been right. Bodie deserved the same privacy he gave him.

Unsure of what to ask next, if anything, Doyle fell to watching a long-legged bug skim its way across the pond surface. Intrigued by its oddly graceful motion and the tiny ripples its passage made, he lost track of time. Relaxing, he relished the feel of the sun upon hi skin, the refreshing spruce-scented breeze and cool cushion of living grass.

"Damn it!"

Doyle started at the frustrated exclamation. "What's wrong?"

"Ray, I don't want you to . . . distrust me. I don't want any secrets . . . I just don't want you to start hating me again."

"Hate you?" Doyle repeated, thoroughly confused. "What makes you think I'd hate you?"

"You would if you were yourself," Bodie explained, looking away.

"Why?" Doyle asked, not believing a word of it.

"Right and wrong were always very important to you. What I did to get the money to get you back, well, it wasn't legal. You-you wouldn't approve of it."

"What did you do, Bodie?" he probed softly, prepared for almost anything. The memory of this man ready to take on the host of his captors unarmed was vivid in his mind, as was Bodie's grandstanding with the Genevan doctor. Doyle doubted if the latter had ever been in any true danger from Bodie, but he knew with unshakable certainty that his former kidnappers would have died to a man were it not for Doyle's unarmed presence among them.

"I needed money, a lot of money. You wouldn't believe the price our friends behind the Iron Curtain paid for Rogers."

"How did you find out?"

"One of our operatives recognized Rogers. He liberated him, at great personal risk. When Rogers was debriefed, we found out about the auction," Bodie explained.

"That's how you tracked me down, through Rogers?"

"No. Rogers hadn't seen you since the night you were nabbed. All he could confirm was that you'd been taken alive. Cowley was of the opinion that your body had just been dumped elsewhere. He…he wouldn't sanction my looking for you." Bodie's hurt and betrayal over their employer's lack of support shone through.

"There wasn't any reason for him to assume anything else," Doyle pointed out, unsure why he felt compelled to defend a man he couldn't even remember. Perhaps it was Bodie's stories – the affection his friend held for that crusty old gent had flavoured even the most exasperating of them; it didn't take much detective ability to see how the destruction of that emotion had unbalanced his companion.

Bodie bristled, then, seeming to catch sight of the worry in Doyle's gaze, calmed down again. "Guess you're right. Anyway, I had to resort to my own contacts. That took time and money. In a way, it was lucky for us that it took that nutter – what did you say his name was, Van Cleef? – so long to tire of you. It gave me time to get me funds together and track you down."

"You were going to tell me where these funds came from," Doyle reminded.

Bodie nodded in resignation. "So I was. Before Cowley's squad and the paras put some . . . morals in me, I used to traffic in contraband materials." At Doyle's look of astonishment – drugs was one thing he'd never anticipated – Bodie hastened to explain. "Rifles, armalites, ammo – that sort of thing, Ray. Back then, wasn't really much more than a game. Supply some shooters to both sides; a couple of fools blow each other up playing soldier; and there it ended. But, things have changed a lot in that part of Africa since then. The penalty on gun runnin's death, without exception, as it should be. And the political situation – well, it's very unstable these days. An acquaintance of ours who deals in that kind of product had a large shipment to deliver, and no one fool enough to run it in for him. I'd made that particular run for Marty years ago. Even with the added security, I knew a way to get in, and more importantly, back out again. The pay was astronomical, mostly because old Marty figured I wouldn't be around to collect it. I survived, and, well, you pretty much know the rest," Bodie fell quiet, not watching him anymore.

Looking up at the shuttered expression, Doyle could tell how nervous his friend was beneath the impenetrable exterior. Once again, Doyle wondered what kind of man he'd been, that his closest mate would fear rejection at a sacrifice of that proportion made in his behalf. "I think you're wrong about me, Bodie. I don't know if I could ever hold somethin' like that against you."

Bodie's gaze shot back to him, sharp and penetrating. "You would, if you were yourself."

"Why?" Doyle questioned, intrigued as to why Bodie would have gone to such trouble to rescue him if he thought that badly of him.

"The guns . . . ."

"Would have found their way there in spite of you."

"But . . . ."

"I'd be dead or worse if it weren't for you. You gave up everything you owned to come find me, risked your life to get the money to buy me back . . . how could I ever hate you for that?"

"You'd have done the same for me," Bodie dismissed the enormity of his sacrifice, visibly twitching with discomfort under Doyle's grateful gaze.

Despite the certainty of Bodie's claim, Doyle wasn't sure he would have. From all reports, he'd been considered almost certainly dead. To abandon all, without proof of his existence – that took a peculiar brand of courage or a desperation so intense it bordered on insanity. What had driven Bodie to keep searching, when all others were devoid of hope, was something he still did not fully understand. But he could appreciate it and perhaps make up for the losses.

Doyle grinned, a wide, accepting show of white enamel amid a sunburnt face. The force of his smile seemed to dispel his companion's lingering doubts, finally forcing out an answering smile.

"There, that's better," Doyle proclaimed, rising to his haunches. "Race you down the hill!" he challenged. Before Bodie had the presence of mind to refuse or even answer, he reached out and toppled the unsuspecting man onto the soft grass. Then he took off down the mountainside as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, laughing till he was out of breath as Bodie's plaintive howl of "That's cheating!" resounded through the valley.

---

Chapter Six

Spring rushed by at an accelerated pace. Long walks and runs along the trails to Marie's toned Doyle's body back into shape, as his talks with Bodie had similar effects on his mind.

He still remembered nothing of the past, but he had a clearer idea now of what he'd lost. And, sometime during these carefree weeks, Doyle made a stunning discovery. Regaining that lost past was no longer paramount on his list of priorities in life. Listening to Bodie's charitable descriptions of the moody, ill-tempered man he'd been was like hearing about a stranger's exploits – a stranger he had no desire to know. It wasn't that Bodie ever spoke badly of him. The answers to his own questions which he had to almost bully out of his reticent friend had shown him the number of times he had let Bodie down or wounded him with thoughtlessness – unintentionally done, Doyle was sure, unable to believe that he'd ever consciously injure Bodie.

He'd learned that Bodie was very private about his hurts. Doyle was certain that his partner had probably never let his pain show; even now he would not admit how certain incidents had affected him. But his feelings were there for anyone to find, in Bodie's silences and expressive eyes. Doubtless, he'd been too self-absorbed to notice it at the time.

So, he concentrated on trying to make up for a past he didn't even remember. Making Bodie happy was absurdly simple, for the most part no more difficult that appearing so himself. Bodie also seemed to fund contentment in helping him – whatever he needed, the other man supplied unstintingly, whether it was answering his endless barrage of questions or holding him after a particularly traumatic dream.

That last was perhaps one of the most important breakthroughs for them both. Still new, Doyle found that healing embrace the cornerstone of his returning emotional balance.

The night he'd woke with a choked-back cry had been no different from the rest, save in the intensity of the dream. That night he could almost smell the stink of his own bruised body and the nauseating musk of Van Cleef as he mounted him yet again. He could feel everything – the cruel fingers pinching his raw nipples, the suffocating mouth clamped over his own, its insidious tongue almost making him choke with loathing as it probed deep as the cock pounding in and out of him, and, worst of all, the knowledge that there were others waiting for a go at him, and nothing he could do to escape any of them.

He'd awoken with a gasp to darkness, and the warm heat of a body snuggled close by. His instinctive withdrawal had awoken his bedmate.

"Ray?" Bodie's hopelessly sleep-fogged tone had ripped through growing panic before it had a change to take firm hold.

A deep breath taken as the lamp was snapped on brought only the scent of freshly laundered sheets and his clean, sleepy friend. Without thinking about the act, he took hold of the hand offered to him.

"My god, mate, you're shakin' like a leaf. Bad one, this time, was it?" Bodie observed, clutching his sweaty, cold hand between the dry warmth of his own.

He nodded, and tried vainly to take an even breath. He knew Bodie did not miss the shudder that jittered through it.

"Want to talk about it, Ray? It might help." Bodie's encouragement was sincere, but the resolved set of the mobile mouth and shadows lingering in normally bright blue eyes spoke of his friend's apprehension.

"Can't," he whispered shakily. Bodie knew it all, everything that had happened to him, the story told not by Doyle's lips, but by the scars on his body. That Bodie didn't hold it against him was a miracle in its own right. The bile churned in Doyle's stomach whenever he recalled the humiliating kiss Bodie had witnessed on the auction block.

Foolish as he knew it to be, Doyle felt soiled by what had been done to him. The less Bodie knew of it, the better. Besides, his companion's reaction to that one kiss made Doyle suspect that a more vivid description would only hurt Bodie.

"All right," Bodie accepted. "Least move a bit closer, mate, hey?"

Doyle squirmed nearer. Bodie's left hand released him so that their clasped hands lay between them. After a while, Bodie turned on his side, to face him, his free arm banding Doyle's chest.

The tension which instantly tightened his frame was reminiscent of his first reactions to his very male partner. Struck by the intimacy of their physical closeness in the huge bed, he lay stone still, panicked by the warm, regular stream of expelled breath that teased the damp, long curls plastered down his neck.

Bodie appeared unbothered by their proximity, aware only of Doyle's nervousness.

"Relax, Ray, you know I'm not after that. I told you before, no one's ever going to hurt you like that again. Never me. If you want, I'll go back to my cot. I just thought, well, 's silly to lay there shakin' alone like you've got no one in the world, while I'm right here."

Doyle smiled slightly at the rush of colour in Bodie's cheeks, sensing that the open avowals that were given to him so freely were completely opposed to the image Bodie strove so hard to project.

As the arm slung across his chest moved to release him, Doyle caught hold of it. "Stay," he ordered with false courage. "I know that you . . . wouldn't, you great

clown. 's just that . . . I don't like to feel . . . trapped, you know?"

"Yeah." Something in the tight syllable told Doyle that Bodie did understand, perhaps even from personal experience. Although nothing that Bodie had ever said hinted at such an attack, the vocal quality brought to mind other nebulously related happenstances that had emotionally scarred his companion.

After a moment, Doyle gave the firm chest a gentle push. "Lay back."

Bodie obeyed his command as though it were perfectly normal for him to do so, releasing Doyle completely to watch him curiously.

Overcome by awkwardness, Doyle hesitantly reversed their positions. With his arm resting across the white cotton undershirt hugging Bodie's chest he did not feel quite so intimidated by their closeness. Even when Bodie's right arm had snaked under his neck to rest loosely over his back after having drawn still closer and urged his head onto a nearby shoulder. Doyle still felt very relaxed.

Sleep had returned that night and all succeeding nights without music or reading, and mercifully, without prolonged wait. The sound of Bodie's breathing and the steady rise and fall of the chest so close to his cheek seemed a lulling and familiar rhythm.

His dreams had lessened in intensity after that – Bodie seemingly correct in his views on not facing them alone. Doyle was encouraged by his current record. Four nights now he had slept soundly straight through till morning on his own side of the bed. As a result, he felt incredibly refreshed and lively, practically bounding into the mundane chores which they performed for Marie with what Bodie tagged "maniacal enthusiasm."

Currently, he was enduring an enforced rest period. Marie, restless with him underfoot, had shooed him upstairs to amuse himself in her attic hobby room.

The long room was a hobbyists' dream. A long table was laden with all manner of craftwork and their various apparatus. Macramé, sewing machine, looms, sketchpads, boxes of yarn and material, and even a small potter's wheel vied for dominance in the limited table space.

The three large dormer windows overlooked a mountain view nearly as stupendous as their chalet's. In front of them, three large canvases patiently waited on their stands. The first two were unfinished – one was a nicely progressing enlargement of the family photograph that stood on the reception desk, the other was a rough sketch of the view. The last canvas was untouched.

Drawn as though by a magnet, Doyle crossed to stand before the empty pallet, haunted by an eerie sensation of familiarity. Without knowing how, he recognized the sharp tang in the air as paint remover.

Then, he gasped as a vivid mental scene all but blacked out his present surroundings.

The room he saw was long as this one, but much wider. Its sides were lined with canvases on stands, each with a very young artist.

In his mind's eye, he saw himself rushing into the room, his heavy motorcycle boots clicking loudly on the parquet floors. The other students ignored, no, shunned him as he took his place, almost cringing away from him.

His left hand slipped under the right shoulder of his jacket, unsnapping a peculiar holster or sheath. The fluid motion was well practiced, made to look like he was scratching himself. Then, the jacket and its lethal contents were smoothly removed and carefully placed on a nearby stool. The colourful emblem expertly stitched on the jacket's back – depicting a fire-breathing dragon and the anagram DRAGONS OF DEATH – was incongruous in this scholarly setting.

Stripped of his awkward status symbols, he rolled up his sleeves and pushed a scraggly wisp of unruly curl back from his newly broken face. Ignoring the near palpable waves of hostility washing over him from his fellow students, he reached for a brush and tube of paint and set to work.

"So, you did manage to find it," a pleased voice exclaimed from behind.

Doyle jumped at the sound, body crouched low as he turned on a startled Marie. Recognizing her, he calmed himself, bewildered as to where all the barely bridled fury he suddenly felt came from. Belatedly, he recognized it as a holdover from the . . . memory. That young man has been consumed with hatred and unfocused anger.

"Are you all right, dear?" Marie asked, her concern obvious as she came to lightly touch his arm.

"Ah, I'm fine," he answered, but he was shaking, trembling as hard as he would after one of those bloody nightmares.

Marie searched his face, apparently deciding to accept the lie. "Would you care to try your hand at it?" She asked cheerfully, gesturing to the empty canvas.

"Yes, thank you. I would," he accepted before he could think better of it. He didn't really want to dredge up any more memories, not if they were the sort to leave him so that he was ready to jump Marie for startling him, but there was an unfamiliar yearning pulling at him, an aching that had to do with the canvas and brushes.

"There, you're all set," Marie declared several minutes later. "I'll call you for dinner when it's ready. Come down if you get bored."

With that she left him to his hobby, no doubt gratified to have found something to keep him from underfoot during the rest period Bodie still insisted he take.

Doyle's brush hovered uncertainly above the canvas, as if reluctant to despoil its purity. At last, its tip contacted the surface, leaving an ugly brown smear in its wake.

What did he know about art after all, Doyle wondered. A disjointed memory, almost hallucinatory in its strangeness, was nothing to go by. He doubted it could be a true recollection. What would a street punk like that – he still refused to equate himself with the youth – even be doing in an art class? Maybe his subconscious was starting daylight broadcasts now that Bodie had pre-empted all nighttime performances.

Still absorbed in his mental puzzling, his hand reached out, brush tip softly caressing the pallet. Surprised, he stared at the result. The second stroke, joining the first with unplanned grace, sort of suggested the form of a tree.

Less self-conscious now, he let his hand work from impulse, each touch gaining in confidence.

Half an hour later, a stream of stinging perspiration dripped into his eyes, forcing them shut. He paused, only then realizing the sauna-like state of the room. The heat from the kitchen and pipes seemed to accumulate in the attic, making it insufferable this time of the year – probably why Marie had abandoned it for the open-air occupation of gardening.

Opening the three windows helped some, but not enough. In desperation, he pushed his sleeves up even higher and undid three of his shirt buttons. The breeze flapped the unbuttoned shirt sides quite pleasurably, soon cooling the sheen of sweat glossing his skin. Abruptly aware that the bulk of his irritation was being caused by the heavy tangle of curls draping his shoulders, Doyle nicked a small length of blue yarn from one of Marie's boxes and bound back the wild mass. Then, slightly more comfortably, he returned to work.

"Ray, what're you doin' way up here. Marie's been calling you these last ten minutes. supper's ready and . . . ." The plaintive rush of noise died as Bodie stepped through the door.

Concerned by the sudden cessation of what had promised to be a very long, self-sorry complaint, Doyle peered at his dumbfounded partner.

Bodie was rooted inside the door, appearing as though he'd just had his breath physically knocked out of him.

Doyle had no idea how he looked to his partner at that moment. The backdrop of bright windows highlighted him. He stood before the half-finished canvas, paint brush in hand, long hair pulled back in Renaissance fashion, no doubt a wild, bohemian figure. The simplicity of his clothes did not detract from the fanciful image. His plain white, over-long, cotton shirt stood stark against his tanned flesh, bunching around the waist of his tight jeans to suggest and older style of clothes.

Bodie gaped a moment longer, then swallowed in a gulp audible to Doyle from where he stood.

"Bodie, you all right, mate?"

Seeming to shake himself back into reality, Bodie approached, his voice carefully casual. "What're you up to, then?"

Doyle grinned, waved his brush at him. "Buildin' a ship in a bottle, aren't I?"

Bodie froze as he got a good look at what Doyle was working on. "God, Ray, it's fantastic!"

Doyle felt his cheeks warm at the heartfelt proclamation.

"'s nothing special," he denied, somehow knowing that the moonlit snow scene, though good, was not his best.

"Nothin' special – it's as good as anything in the National Gallery. Looks like you could just walk into our little chalet there, all snug and cosy in that lonely snow."

Shocked, Doyle realized his partner was completely serious. "You did know I could draw, didn't you?" he questioned uncertainly, unable to understand how Bodie could be so surprised.

Bodie nodded. "You went to art school. All I could ever ask about was the naked models. You said you had no real talent." The last was more than slightly accusatory.

Doyle shrugged. "I probably don't. You're just prejudiced."

"No, you're damn good. Ask Marie when she comes up if you won't believe me."

"Come on, let's get these brushes washed off and get to dinner."

Three hours later with a mouth-watering roast lamb resting in their bellies they set off along the twilit path back to their chalet.

Doyle felt oddly content, spirit buoyed by the heartfelt satisfaction which came from doing something one truly enjoyed.

He cast a speculative glance at his silent companion. The rush that followed Bodie's praise still tingled along his nerves, inspiring him with the self-confidence to broach a topic that had been troubling him more and more over the last few weeks. He was still not certain he wanted to hear Bodie's answer and was frankly reluctant to jeopardize their newfound stability, but his thirst for the truth was unquenchable. Tomorrow, the courage to ask might once again be beyond him.

"Bodie." He spoke so normally into the post-sunset hush that the tone itself should have been a warning. "Were we lovers?"

Doyle held his breath, anticipating the disaster he had so brazenly invited.

To his credit, Bodie didn't even break stride. However, the absolute blanking of all emotion from his face told its own story. Bodie smoothly returned the verbal grenade to Doyle's own court. "Why do you ask?"

Bodie wasn't as cool as he looked, Doyle realized, hearing the nervousness and –was it guilt? – lurking below the imperturbable surface. "Some of the things you did for me after you got me back, well . . . not many'd do it for another bloke," Doyle explained, almost managing to suppress the resultant blush.

"You're not just another bloke, Ray. You're my partner," Bodie reminded, visibly relieved. "And, to answer your question, no, we were not lovers."

Curiosity guided his mouth before common sense could intercede. "Why not?"

"Ey?" Never had he seen Bodie so utterly flabbergasted.

"I said why weren't we? You've gone out of your way these past months to remind me how close we were. Look at yourself now, standin' closer than me bloody shadow, and me, not thinkin' anything of it! Are you lyin' to me? Tellin' me what you think I want to hear? Cause if you are . . . ." Doyle's tirade deflated like a breached helium balloon.

What would he do if Bodie were lying – berate the man for attempting to spare his feelings?

"I'm not lyin'!" Bodie protested, backing away from him, the trapped desperation in his eyes prelude to flight.

What the hell was he doing anyway, Doyle wondered, seeing the state he'd brought them to in such a few, short minutes. He took a deep breath and tried to master the perplexing blaze of emotions. "No, I shouldn't have said that, but . . . can't you see, we just don't make any sense?"

Fawn-wary, Bodie remained distant, stationed in the off-trail underbrush, where his retreat had brought him. "What do you mean we don't make sense?"

Doyle flinched at the cold demand, wondering if he'd finally managed to alienate his long-suffering mate. "Just look at yourself . . . you're not the kind of man easily given to nurse-maiding. And me, well, I'm not exactly the sweet-natured type that'd inspire such loyalty, am I. There had to be a reason for all this. For Christ's sake, you gave up your whole soddin' life to come find me. And don't tell me it's coz we're such good mates," he forestalled before Bodie could even draw breath to say it.

"We weren't lovers," Bodie repeated.

"Once again, why not?" Absurd, but he discovered he was shaking with fury.

"Because I don't like to get involved and you never let anyone get that close to you," Bodie spat. "You satisfied now?"

Doyle dismissed the first portion for the malarkey it was. No one who so blithely tossed everything they cared for away could claim non-involvement, especially to the object of its sacrifice. But that last, it had the bewildered ring of truth.

Stunned, Doyle gaped at the other man, wishing to God he'd had the good sense to remain silent on this subject. Why else besides love would anyone do what Bodie had done?

His acceptance of the other man's physical nearness had led Doyle to suspect that they'd shared a sexual relationship. Why he'd wanted it confirmed so badly, he was still unsure. Perspective perhaps, although the emotions inside suggested something else entirely.

Guilt was uppermost now, burdened as he was with the secret Bodie had so unwittingly revealed.

Somehow, he felt it would have been easier had Bodie verified his suspicions. Had they been lovers, relations might have been awkward, but this . . . he felt he'd been handed the other man's pride in an eggshell-frail container.

'Never let anyone get that close to you,' meaning Bodie had tried to or had seen rejection as a foregone conclusion. Probably the last, Doyle decided, drawing on his knowledge of Bodie's character.

That instinctive familiarity and his inexplicable lack of concern at what should have been an alarming revelation made Doyle realize something else – none of this was new to him. Before his . . . capture he must have known how Bodie felt about him – and having known, not acted upon it. He did not care to consider what that said about his character.

How this awareness would affect their relationship now, Doyle was uncertain. Guilty as he felt, he knew his emotional state would not permit him to tackle it openly. He was simply not ready to deal with such a problem. Sex – with anyone, male or female – was beyond him right now, and might always remain so.

He searched Bodie's face, hunting for a threat, but found only the defensiveness of one unjustly accused. Panic made him want to push the man away, cut all bonds before . . . .

Before what, Doyle wondered.

What Bodie felt for him couldn't be just lust. Sexual obsession might force a man to extremes, might even make him risk all he knew to satisfy his compulsion, but once the object of his obsession was within his grasp, he wouldn't be able to hold back. Van Cleef had shown him that such consuming drives left no room for concern for the object. Yet, he'd been Bodie's for the taking since that snowy night in Geneva and his partner had yet to touch him sexually. Doyle knew Bodie wouldn't have had to rape him to achieve his goal. Pliable as he's been those first weeks, an order would have been sufficient. With a gentler approach and a minimum of fear, Bodie could have guaranteed himself a docile sex slave. Aside from withdrawing inward – which never seemed to detract from his users' enjoyment of a good fuck – there was nothing he could have done to prevent his partner from moulding him into anything Bodie desired.

But instead of turning him into a docile sex slave, Bodie had chosen to rebuild his shattered self-confidence, restore him to the point where he could once again ignore his friend's passions.

That wasn't lust. That was love, in its purest form.

He wasn't about to make Bodie suffer for it anymore than he was already.

Whatever he did in the future, Doyle knew he couldn't simply cut Bodie out of his life, nor could he let on that he'd discovered Bodie's secret. Were that to be known, he suspected Bodie would be gone before Doyle could blink – to protect him, no doubt.

So, Doyle put on his most aggravating, aggressive expression and answered Bodie's question. "Yeah, I'm satisfied. Are you going to stand in the shrubbery all night?"

Bodie glared at him before rejoining the trail, the essence of offended dignity. Doyle had to hurry to keep up with Bodie's stride.

When the unnatural silence became too much to bear, Doyle asked mildly, "You mad at me, mate?"

Bodie swung around, explosion imminent in action-taut muscles. Blue eyes blazed a fury too strong for words.

Doyle wondered if fistfights were commonplace in their partnership. Fear should have been his own response, but he found himself straightening, preparing to meet the outburst.

Bodie's eyes widened as they took in his reaction, then, amazingly, a sparkle of amusement replaced the cold anger. "Haven't changed a bit, have you? Still like to push till it breaks."

Doyle relaxed at the open affection. "You’re not angry with me, then? I thought I'd blown it for sure."

"No, 'm not mad, not much, anyway," Bodie qualified before asking, "What brought all that on, Ray?"

Doyle shifted uncomfortably and then started to walk again, finding it easier to offer the truth while minding his footing rather than the watchful, too perceptive, eyes. "I remembered something while I was paintin' that . . . was unsettling."

"Something I did?" Bodie cautious query was rife with guilt.

Doyle shook his head, his bound hair swinging heavily behind him. "No, you weren't there. I don't think I even knew you then. It was weird. I was in some kind of art class, only, I was wearin' colours."

"Colours?"

"You know, like gangs wear. I had the gaudiest dragon stitched on me jacket, with Dragons of Death written under it."

Bodie snorted. "Classy."

Doyle shrugged, and then made his dark confession. "I had a knife up my sleeve like any two-bit street punk."

Bodie didn't seem the least surprised. "You were always good with a blade. Not as sensational as some I've known, but better than most. Only, you don't like to use a knife."

The last piece was reluctantly delivered, Bodie obviously wanting to shy away from it while at the same time seemingly compelled to reassure him. Doyle decided to press the issue. "Why not?"

"Once, when I asked you why you became a copper, you told me that you'd carved a kid up pretty bad when you were just a kid yourself. You never said, but I always figured that had something to do with it."

"Oh." That effectively silenced anything he might've wanted to say.

Bodie, apparently understanding his need to brood, walked wordlessly beside him until they were almost home.

A mile out, Bodie commented into the gathering gloom, "None of that answered my question, Ray. What brought all that . . . other stuff up?"

Bodie was still nervous about what he might've given away, Doyle realized. Wanting to banish any lingering awkwardness, Doyle grinned his most winsome smile. "I wondered when you'd twig onto that," he admitted, growing serious. "You don't scare me the way you should Bodie, and like I said before, bein' close to me and doin' things for me doesn't seem to bother you the way it would most fellers. I've been thinkin' that maybe there was a reason for that. I just got the nerve to ask tonight. I didn't intend to . . . sorry, if it took you by surprise."

"No problem, mate. 'm used to you throwing me curves by now."

Which did not prove entirely true, Doyle reflected hours later, when Bodie halted mid-path from bathroom to bed, frozen as though Doyle had pulled a gun on him.

"What's up?" Doyle asked, the abrupt stop drawing his attention from the mystery he was reading.

"Ahh . . . if you feel more comfortable, I could sleep on the cot or move back to the other room."

"What, the brown study?" Doyle joked, knowing how Bodie deplored the bland room with its tiny bed. "Nah, I'd break me neck tryin' to get there when your clumsy carcass goes bump in the night. I told you before, Bodie, you don't scare me. I just wanted to know. Now, get into bed before your toes take root." Doyle lifted the covers on Bodie's side, privately pleased by the chastened expression and speed with which Bodie fulfilled his command.

"'nite, Ray," Bodie muttered sheepishly, turning his burning face to the wall."

"Good night, you loon," Doyle answered. Snapping off the lamp, he settled down into the darkness, sure that definite progress had been made today.

---

"Come on, Doyle. You can do better than that!" the voice taunted. "Use your foot. Aim high. That's the way. Now, try it for real."

Doyle did as directed, only when he did, the older man was no longer there. A leg that had to be made of rubber to bend at that angle shot out and neatly snagged the ankle that was supporting Doyle’s weight stork-like while he finished the motion of his last kick.

"Oh, damn," Doyle gasped in the microsecond he was suspended midair before he toppled. "Give a guy a chance, will you, Barry? I’ve got an appointment tonight. Can't show up in a plaster cast again, now, can I?" he demanded from the floor, afraid to move for fear of bringing further 'instruction' upon himself.

"'nother art class, lad? More fruit and vases?" the affectionate chuckle told Doyle that the training session was over, for now.

"A little less of the fruit, if you would," Doyle requested with grave dignity as he lurched into an unsteady sit.

"Come on, partner. I'll give you a lift. Go grab your paints and bonnet."

A strong hand hauled him to his feet, and then propelled him toward the locker room. He grinned at Martin's infectious bonhomie, unable to stay mad, despite his bruises.

The scene abruptly changed around Doyle. The mats and punching bags of the gym were gone, replaced by the lumber piles and huge crates of a sun-drenched dock.

That same face was there, changed very little: a few more lines, a touch of grey in the hair, nothing major. Except the expression. Grim determination hardened Barry Martin’s tired gaze. Unused to seeing anything but laughter and affection shining there, Doyle stared, his gun a heavy weight in his hand.

He hurt - from head to foot. He felt bruised and beaten. Ray’s numbed, equally battered mind was unable to accept what he had to do with the bloody gun. It was pointed right at Barry . . . .

"Shoot him, Doyle! Shoot him!" the voice, familiar as that of his own thoughts, shouted, sounding strangely panicked. His glance at Bodie mutated into a gape as he absorbed the long-handled knife jutting from Bodie's right shoulder. An ugly red stain seeped from its base, growing at an alarming rate. The owner of the hand that had put that knife into Bodie was under the bead of Doyle’s gun. All he need do was squeeze the trigger, as his partner was so frantically pleading for him to do.

The sight of Bodie's blood made him want to do it, but . . . that was Barry.

Torn to the point of insanity, he struggled to find the strength. One squeeze

and . . . .

Martin's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down at the hole in his chest, the wound far bigger than any Doyle’s handgun could have made from this distance.

With an odd sense of unreality, Ray recognized the report of the rifle blast that was dying in the still air.

A gull screeched and dove down into the muddy Thames as Martin's knees buckled under him, his body sagging silently to the ground.

"I didn't do it," even to Doyle’s own ears, his voice sounded numb with shock. He looked to his partner, begging to be believed, and was just in time to see Bodie slump to the quay as well . . . .

"Bodie!" Doyle gasped, shooting straight up in the bed.

Completely disoriented, he stared around. No dock, no dead mentor, no bloody partner. Only slowly did Ray recognize the eerily lit room as their own bedroom.

The grey light of dawn seeped half-heartedly through the open window, a breeze gently ruffling the curtains.

Beside him, Bodie slept soundly. The weak-spirited light cast a sickly pallor over his partner's smooth skin. Clad only in his briefs, Bodie lay trustingly beside Ray, blissfully oblivious of the scrutiny he was undergoing. Unable to see the rise and fall of the sleek chest and needing that reassurance after the peculiar nightmare, Doyle leant closer.

There, steady as always, the rhythm lulled his fears. Bodie's warm breath brushed his cheek in an oddly intimate caress.

A strange nightmare, if that was what it were. Both phases of the dream had more in common with those flashbacks Doyle was experiencing than the all-too familiar night terrors.

If those incidents weren't imagination, if they'd really occurred, what did they mean? During that last bit he'd been more concerned about the man who'd just knifed his partner than his bleeding friend. Had he betrayed his mate, then? His country? Was that how he'd ended up in Van Cleef's power?

Guilt lanced through him as he recalled Bodie's blood, the knife stuck in his shoulder. Doyle’s green eyes searched his companion’s alabaster flesh in the pale dawning light. Bodie's chest was unmarred . . . save for a tiny pinkish scar below the right collarbone . . . right where that knife had struck in Ray’s dream.

Bitter bile rose in his throat. It was real, then, a memory, not fantasy.

Doyle stared at the grim verification, trying to comprehend Bodie's steadfast devotion to a man who could stand by and let that happen.

But . . . Bodie wasn’t the kind of man who could let a betrayal of that magnitude pass.

All Doyle had learned of his friend these past months told him that Bodie wouldn't put up with it. If he'd betrayed the cautious agent in any way, shown himself capable of such monumental treachery, not only would he have lost his partner's trust, Doyle very well might have forfeited his life in payment. No, whatever had caused that bizarre showdown, Bodie must have understood Ray’s reasoning for not killing the bastard, and forgiven him.

Lacking a plane of reference, Doyle found it difficult to be similarly generous.

Seemingly of its own volition, his index finger reached out to lightly trace the mark.

Bodie gave a soft gasp at the touch, his eyes instantly snapping open.

"Ray?" Bodie breathed.

" 's me," Doyle reassured, shaken by the vulnerable expression in the unguarded, sleepy gaze. He wondered if Bodie had any idea of what his face revealed at such times. Open to him, the wide eyes seemed to promise Doyle anything he wanted.

His withdrawal should have been instantaneous. Still, Ray hovered, trapped by the yearning as though it were his own. His blood drummed in his ears, breath becoming a fluttery, elusive creature.

Awareness slowly filtered into Bodie's eyes. Doyle read the exact instant that the half-light and their circumstances penetrated his partner's sleep-confused mind in the guilt that shuttered the magnetic features. "Dreams again?"

Doyle nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.

"Bad?"

"So-so."

The strong arms closed around him, drawing him close without hesitation. Nor did Bodie's body betray what Doyle believed he'd seen in his eyes, save perhaps in a slightly tenser muscle set.

For his own part, Ray lay like a coiled spring. His cheek pressed against the bare chest. Each breath brought with it the scent particular to his partner - now disturbing. Restless, Doyle waited until the encircling arms became lax with sleep before he reclaimed his side of the bed.

---

Chapter Seven

"Stop twitching."

Bodie jumped guiltily at the terse command. "Couple of sales and he turns into a slave driver. My leg itches, Ray. Can't I scratch it?"

Irritated jade fire gave way to amusement. "Not a couple. Seven sales. Go ahead and scratch, for Christ's sake."

Bodie savagely attacked the leg in question, half listening to the good-humoured string of complaints that ended with, "What kind of model are you anyway?"

"A reluctant one," he reminded, still unnerved by the intense scrutiny of the artist at work.

Bodie cursed his own bluntness as doubt shadowed Doyle’s piquant features. He was proud of the advances Ray had made in the past few months. Painting had become more than just a therapeutic hobby. The sales Marie's neighbour had arranged to a Lucerne gallery had bolstered his partner's confidence astronomically.

To Bodie's relief, their relationship had returned to the point of good-natured squabbling. Doyle seemed more himself, though nowhere near as prickly as he’d been before his kidnapping. The quick comebacks Doyle used now lacked the sting Bodie had grown accustomed to over the years. A part of him would not be convinced of Ray's recovery until the other man verbally lashed into him and mercilessly took him apart with the unthinking ease at which his partner was a master. Though enjoyable, this sweet creature was not his Ray Doyle.

Still, Bodie would tolerate no setbacks. A charming Doyle was far preferable to a catatonic one. So, Bodie smiled his brightest smile and cast one of the self-satisfied looks he excelled at his partner’s way. "But a handsome one, you've got to admit."

Doyle gulped and ran a hand though his preposterously long curls. "Modest, to boot. Go on and have a stretch, that's what you'll be crying for next."

Bodie gratefully leaped at the chance of free movement after hours of containment. "When can I look?"

"When I say so."

As he'd expected no other answer, Bodie wasn't disappointed. His curiosity was getting the better of him, however. This morning he'd caught himself seriously contemplating sneaking down for a peek in the pre-dawn light. Only Ray's wakefulness had stopped him.

Which brought to mind their newest problem, as yet undiscussed. Bodie had lost count of the number of times he'd awoken in the last month to find Doyle wide-awake and staring at the ceiling or, even more unnervingly, directly at him. The cause wasn't the nightmares that had plagued their earlier nights. Those had receded to one every two or three weeks - no more than what they could expect while working on the squad.

He knew that Ray was beginning to remember his past; although how much was coming back, Bodie was still unsure. Doyle had become very secretive about his flashbacks after the first few. He supposed his partner could be trying to fit the disjointed memories together to attain some type of perspective on his past, but suspected the restlessness was a bit more than that. Bodie's instincts kept telling him that he was a part of whatever was troubling his mate.

"Want to call it quits for the day?" he asked the artist. "You look knackered."

"Not getting out of it that easy, mate. You said you'd pose in the bad weather, and . . ." Doyle’s laughter bright eyes darted to the dismal window and back again,

" . . . it's still rainin'."

"How you arranged that I'll never know," Bodie mumbled, grumpily reclaiming his seat. The fact of the matter was that since he'd given that half-witted promise three days ago it had done nothing but pour. Not just rain storms, but bloody torrents that had the disconcerting habit of turning to hail showers with no forewarning. Trapped three days with the conscientious artist, Bodie had no choice but to honour his word.

"Friends in high places," Doyle explained with an enigmatic wink as he lifted his paintbrush.

"Can't I at least read? 's all right for you sittin' here for hours. You get to admire my beautiful puss. All I get to look at is the back of the canvas."

Doyle gravely considered his complaint, obviously uncertain how far he could push Bodie's forbearance. "Okay, but just for a while. And keep your head up."

Surprised by the capitulation, Bodie grabbed the first thing that came to hand - a two-week-old Genevan newspaper filched from the hotel. He leaped half-heartedly through it, not quite able to keep his head up as ordered and read at the same time, especially in French.

About to despair at the effort, he froze upon seeing a familiar face in a small article in the back of the paper. Even now the malicious, burning eyes sent a shiver down his spine. Van Cleef. Rapidly, he picked his way through the story, his meagre store of French barely up to the task. Basically, it told of a prisoner shot attempting to escape - the body as yet unfound after the dragging of the river.

Christ, what a cock up! Van Cleef on the loose again. Ray would . . . .

"What the hell's happened? You look like you've just seen a ghost, mate."

Bodie jerked the paper closed and snapped to attention. It wasn't his ghost.

He debated telling Ray, but to what purpose?

They were as remote as they could be short of taking up residence on an uncharted island. The chance of Van Cleef finding them was virtually nil. If he'd be looking at all. Of the many things Bodie thought the sadist, a fool was not one of them. If Van Cleef were still alive, he'd be concentrating on avoiding the law - just like gunrunners.

The only thing he really need worry about was Doyle's reaction to finding out about the escape-death. Two weeks had already elapsed without Ray's knowing. Isolated as they were, there was little chance of Doyle finding out on his own - they hadn't a telly, newspapers were as infrequent as winning lottery tickets, and the only station their little radio could pick up was a German one from three villages over.

Uncomfortably aware of the ire with which his partner would respond to such a cavalier decision on his part when well, Bodie nevertheless chose to spare Ray the upsetment.

"Nothin'," Bodie lied sweetly, tossing the paper at the sitting room coffee table with assumed ease. "Everything's in French."

"Ah," the absorbed artist sympathized - not hearing a word he'd said, Bodie was willing to wager.

Van Cleef occupied Bodie’s thoughts for some time after that as he watched the play of emotions on Doyle's concentrating face. Bodie didn't like to consider how close the bastard had come to destroying his friend, any more than he cared to recognize the murderous thirst for vengeance that fired his own soul. That night in Geneva, Ray had been his only concern. Justice had to be left to the less-thorough authorities. Bodie wished that he'd been able to do the job himself. If Van Cleef had been left in his hands, that article would never have been written. Corpses rarely escaped.

"Think that's enough for one day," Doyle finally announced.

Bodie glanced out the window in confusion. There were at least three hours of daylight left.

"You all right?" Bodie asked, his gaze lighting on the shadows webbing the skin under Doyle's eyes.

"Yeah. Tired is all. Think I'll catch a kip before dinner."

"Here," Bodie said, taking the paintbrushes from his partner. "I'll clean these. Go ahead and get some rest."

"You won't peek?"

"Nah, I'll wait for the grand unveiling. Get away with you."

Doyle gave him a wary smile and climbed the stairs to their room.

Brushes in hand, Bodie gave the mysterious canvas a last glower before leaving the sitting room. Some weeks had passed since the large white room qualified strictly as such. It had more the look of a busy studio these days, what with Ray's art supplies and half-finished creations spread haphazardly about. Bodie supposed he could have said no when asked, but he could no more refuse Ray the use of the huge picture window than he could intentionally dash the eager light from those dancing eyes.

Besides, Bodie admitted, messy was it was, he liked the room this way. Reeking of paint and turpentine, there was a lived-in quality to the place that couldn't be denied. One had just to look at it to see Doyle's presence stamped into every nook and cranny. Signs of his own inhabitation were far subtler, glanced only here and there in orderly corners where the rampant disorganization would otherwise have reigned.

Brushes cleaned, he returned to the sitting room to remove the offending paper. Fortunately, what with the high altitude, even the hottest of summer days required a fire after sunset and it was already well into September. Another month, and they’d have snow. The dampness brought by the current storm made a fire almost imperative. Bodie knew he’d have no trouble dealing with the offending evidence.

Half an hour later, Bodie sat ensconced before the hearth in one of the huge enveloping armchairs. The mystery that had been quite enthralling last night and a lulling cup of hot tea were thoroughly ignored, his blue eyes intent on the curling wads of paper being consumed by the crackling orange flames.

He felt as if he were committing a crime of some sort. Odd, that. When he'd been running that arms shipment into Africa nine months ago -- an act that was indisputably criminal and rightfully punishable by death -- there hadn't been half the guilt. Probably because that was merely a means to an end. Anything that would help get Ray back, he'd do without hesitation. Not an easy self-discovery, but one Bodie had no choice but to accept, despite his delusions of being beyond certain actions at this point in his life.

This was different. Purposefully concealing something from his partner made him uncomfortable, even if such a deception were in Ray's best interest.

Long after the paper turned to grey ashes, Bodie sat brooding his decision.

His head jerked up suddenly. His hearing, always more sensitive than most, detected a distinctive rumble beneath the rhythm of the latest downpour. Faint as yet, the car was still fairly far down the road, probably not even visible.

But they didn't get traffic up here. There were two homesteads between Marie's hotel and their tiny chalet. Both were too far down the mountain for even the echoes of their car motors to reach way up here.

Thoughts of Van Cleef uppermost on his mind, Bodie was up the stairs and searching through the drawers of the dresser in the little brown room before he'd consciously decided to move. His Browning was there, swaddled amongst his long johns, just where he'd left it. Months had passed since he'd actually held the automatic.

It felt cold and heavy in his hand.

But not too foreign. He was inserting a fresh ammo clip before the unusual sensations fully penetrated. He slipped the holster on and secured his weapon, then descended the stairs to take up a defensive position behind the sitting room drapes.

The picture window gave him a clear, if rain-obscured, view of the road. He expected the car to stop before the bend so that their attackers could proceed more silently on foot to the house. The vehicle never even slowed.

Damn sure of themselves, Bodie thought, as the sturdy black Mercedes came into sight. Or maybe they knew his defensive strength, knew all they'd be up against was a handgun and a few spare clips. Christ, but he wished he'd brought a rifle.

Even so, it wouldn't be easy for them. There was no way in hell Bodie was going to stand by and see Ray fall into that nutter's clutches again. If he couldn't take Van Cleef out, he'd be sure to take Doyle with him.

Common sense slowly stilled some of his paranoia. Van Cleef simply could not know where they were. He hadn't even known Bodie's real name for the sale. There was no way the villain could have traced them here.

But what else beside vengeance could drive a man to tackle these treacherous mountain roads in the midst of such a storm?

His answer came several minutes later when the Merc came to a sedate halt before their front door. Behind the rain-sluiced windshield, its two passengers were little more than faceless silhouettes - clear targets.

Bodie gave some thought to there being more than just the two men. While his attention was on the car any number of assailants could be making their way through the copse of spruce trees to take them from behind. Finally, the passenger door opened and all thought died in Bodie’s mind as his eyes fixed upon a figure he'd never thought to see again.

Cloaked in a heavy raincoat and wide brimmed hat, the man's face was hidden as their visitor tried to shelter it from the driving rain. But the limp and proud carriage were unmistakable. George Cowley in the flesh, outside of his beloved England.

Bodie slumped with relief and holstered his gun. He should have known. Few villains could match the Cow's steely determination.

He opened the door before the rain-drenched man could knock.

"Bodie!" an exuberant Murphy shouted and grabbed him into a bear hug that nearly lifted him off his feet. "'s good to see you again! Where's your loo, mate?"

Bodie grinned, genuinely happy to see the affable man. "Some priorities you've got there."

"Least you came first. Ahhh . . . . " Murphy answered, in obvious distress.

"Through the sitting room, first door on the left. The kitchen's right behind it if you want to put on the kettle," Bodie said.

The big agent snorted and made a dash for the facilities.

The easier greeting aside, Bodie turned back to his former employer. Not since he was a child had he felt so at a loss for words.

The head of C.I.5 stood just within the threshold, dripping water onto the carpet, his ever-present briefcase clutched to his chest. That penetrating stare hadn't lost any of its power, even if the surrounding face did seem to have aged more than the twelve months that had passed since Bodie had last seen it. The old man looked tired and truly old to Bodie for the first time in their nine-year acquaintanceship.

"Sir," Bodie warily greeted, fully expecting a blast of condemnation for his desertion. Absently, he wondered if Switzerland's neutrality could keep him from being hauled off in leg irons, and if he'd even bother to resist.

"It's been some time, Bodie." Mere acknowledgment. Cowley’s gruff burr betrayed no emotion.

"Let me take your coat for you," he offered. Relieving his visitor of the soggy garment and hat, Bodie was almost physically aware of Cowley's displeasure.

"Is there a place we can speak in private?" George Cowley questioned.

Bodie glanced at the returning Murphy.

"The study?" Bodie suggested, dreading the interview, but seeing no way to avoid it short of drawing his Browning and ordering them off the mountain. Anyway, he was privately convinced that steel-blue glare would melt the gun in his hand. "Make yourself at home, Murph. If you'll come this way, sir."

"Ta, mate. Will do." Murphy’s friendly blue eyes were warm with sympathy.

"A drink, sir? Your usual?" Bodie asked, once the study's heavy wood door clicked closed behind them. Anything to postpone the inevitable.

Two doubles in hand, he turned back toward his guest. Cowley had assumed the seat behind the desk, leaving Bodie the choice of applicant’s chair or awkwardly hovering before the seated Buddha. With another, Bodie would have remained standing – intimidation though height – but such puerile tactics were useless against the man who had pioneered them all. Round one to the old devil.

Bodie handed over the scotch and took the free chair.

"You're a hard man to locate these days, Bodie," Cowley commented, sipping his drink appreciatively.

"I would like to know how you managed that, sir. I thought we were pretty well hidden myself."

"And so you were. C.I.5 had thoroughly lost track of you until you so thoughtfully contacted Interpol in Geneva last December. The follow-up investigation of that call eventually brought us to your Mr. Dupres and his Gypsy's Rest," Cowley said.

"Jacques didn’t tell you a thing," Bodie made it clear he wouldn’t fall for that tactic.

"No, you're right. He was most uncooperative. One of his neighbours was, however, very helpful. She recalled your driving habits most vividly. After that, it was merely a matter of time."

"I see." The chalet and property were under Jacques' name. Once that connection was made, it was inevitable that Cowley would find them.

Fervently, Bodie wished he had his partner's habit for double thinking. The silence that followed their matter of fact discussion was nerve-wracking. Unable to bear it a second longer, he bluntly asked the question uppermost on his mind, "Am I under arrest, sir?"

"This is somewhat outside my jurisdiction," the Scot dryly replied.

Which didn't answer his question, Bodie realized. "Local authorities have always been more than willing to assist C.I.5 with extradition," he pointed out.

"South Africa can do its own dirty work."

"You know about that?" Despite his confession, he hadn't even disclosed the destination of the arms shipment to Ray.

"That one month after your . . . disappearance from England, a man fitting your description and travelling under a falsified -- by C.I.5, no less -- passport, arrived on a French plane at the Johannesburg airport? Yes, I know that much."

"Then why didn't you have me apprehended there?" Bodie asked.

"That man never flew back out of Johannesburg. In fact, all traces of him disappear at that point."

"But the authorities . . . ."

Cowley grimaced. "Could have created a most embarrassing international incident were an active British operative to be associated with . . . the business that brought you to Africa."

Bodie didn't know whether to be grateful or appalled. "It's just to be overlooked, then?"

"For the record, yes. By me, no. You've disappointed me, Bodie."

Bodie’s eyes dropped to the knickknack-cluttered desktop. That subdued admission troubled him more than an impassioned tirade would have done. His respect for this man's opinion was seconded only to that of his partner. "That was never my intent, sir. It-it was the only way to get the cash I needed quickly."

"The only way?"

Bodie met the disapproving stare squarely. "The only way I'd even consider. I never strayed that far." When there was no reaction to that, save perhaps the slightest increase in scepticism, he went on. "So, what brings you here now, sir, if it's not to arrest me?"

"Two matters. First, I'd like your report," Cowley stated with his usual crisp efficiency.

"My what?" Bodie blinked, certain that he’d misheard.

"You were assigned that kidnapping case before your unscheduled hiatus . . . ."

"Hiatus? I bloody well quit!" Bodie exploded.

"No resignation was ever tendered by either yourself or 4.5."

"4.5 -- you had him declared dead!" All the betrayal Bodie had felt at that time spilled over into his voice.

"Aye, lad, that was precipitous on my part. But there was no reason to believe they would keep a bodyguard alive. Remember, we had no idea of the scope of the operation at that time."

"I told you he wasn't dead," Bodie reminded.

"A purely subjective belief that fortunately proved true. Now, I want your report. Start with your escape from England. You never cleared customs - on any passport. We had an agent at every exit point two minutes after you went missing."

"A little bird brought me," Bodie evaded. He had no intention of bringing up the smuggler's boat and its stormy Channel crossing. He owed the reluctant Brownie that much.

"Bodie, I'm warning you . . . ."

"That information is confidential. I won't incriminate anyone other than myself. Certainly not one of the few who would help me in such desperate straits," Bodie stubbornly insisted.

He fully expected Cowley to twist to conversation until he was inadvertently tricked into revealing the information. Surprisingly, something very like respect entered the intent gaze. "I suppose this D-notice applies to your arms friend as well?" Apparently accepting Bodie’s stony silence as assent, C.I.5’s controller continued, "All right, for the present we will accept that as privileged information. Now, the events leading to Doyle's rescue?"

About to tell the interfering egotist what he could do with his acceptance, Bodie was suddenly struck by the humour of the situation. Only George Cowley would have the arrogance to speak to a man who'd escaped his authority over a year ago as though he were still a paid lackey - and only the Cow would command the respect to get away with it.

Bodie tried to stifle his smile. "You're really something, sir. Come all this way to have me satisfy your curiosity, did you?"

"Partly," Cowley replied. "Now about that set up . . . ."

Laughing outright, Bodie began to detail his infiltration of Van Cleef's operation. Some time passed as he recited events, evaded disclosing his contacts’ true names and detailed how he’d acquired the small fortune spent to pave his way into that auction. Behind it all, Bodie’s terror rang clear, the solitary agony he'd endured under the strain of waiting for the day Ray would finally come on the block.

In the quiet that followed his tale, he tried to remember how to breathe around the heavy lump lodged in his oesophagus. Bodie hadn't expected the mere telling of it to so shake him. And he hadn't even covered the truly disturbing part of it - the effect of the captivity upon his partner. His narrative had halted after a much-edited report of the sale and the subsequent notification of Interpol.

"You did well, lad," Cowley's gruff voice eventually ended the stillness.

Bodie knew he was probably imagining things, but there seemed to be a catch in Cowley's voice as well.

"I didn't expect you to approve, sir," Bodie stated with characteristic frankness.

"Not approve of a solo operation handled with all the efficiency of a C.I.5 op? You even financed yourself," Cowley, notoriously hounded by budget cuts, sounded utterly amazed by his feat. "You did me proud, lad."

Bewildered by the abrupt switch in attitude, Bodie struggled to make sense of the situation. "But I disobeyed you. Took off without even . . . ."

"Aye, but you've done that before, Bodie - always for the same reason. It's become part of your character. I was as responsible for your . . . dereliction of duty as you were. Perhaps more so. Knowing your history, I should have taken more stringent precautions."

Had Cowley's precautions been any more stringent, Bodie knew he'd still be cooling his heels in a C.I.5 holding cell. "I don't believe I understand you correctly, sir. In the past you've always been quite adamant about your orders being carried out to the very last letter."

"Indeed." Cowley agreed, then quizzed, "And when I formed your team, what did I tell you was each team member's primary function?"

First lesson, drilled into thick skulls until it reverberated in their sleep. "Your primary function is to guard your partner's back at all times during an operation," Bodie quoted. "You are responsible . . . ."

"That will do. I can hardly fault you for practicing what I preached, now can I? Even if such disobedience does occasionally conflict with my present wishes," it was a rueful admission, one that sounded hard learned.

"But you said you were disappointed with me, sir," Bodie reminded.

"And so I am. Once Doyle was found, it was your duty to bring him home to England. That is the second matter which brought me here on this hideous day."

"Ray is . . . . " Bodie began, only to be cut off by Cowley.

"This is the report filed with the Genevan police by a Dr. Warner. The doctor is a very competent individual, most cooperative. He seems to have taken something of a dislike to you."

"I'll just bet he did," Bodie agreed icily. With an apprehension approaching dread, Bodie accepted the offered sheet. He slowly read its contents, doing his best to keep all emotions blanked from his face as he read the details about the sexually abused, near catatonic patient that was brought to Warner’s practice by an armed thug. Despite the severity of the report, Bodie couldn’t fault the good doctor. Warner had only reported what he’d seen. The doctor had acted in Ray’s best interests.

'A cow looks after its young,' the old man was fond of quoting. No words were ever truer. George Cowley would move heaven and earth to protect one of his own. Cowley might decide to toss them into the fire, but God help the outsider who dared do the same. If Cowley were going by Warner's report, he was in for trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Bodie quietly said, "I can explain, sir."

"I believe you should, now. In detail," there was nothing the least bit welcoming in Cowley’s eyes.

Not just disappointed, the man looked sick at heart, Bodie thought, which was understandable in light of the grim prognosis Dr. Warner had given Doyle’s chances of recovery. Taking a deep breath, Bodie began to talk, trying to ignore the sweat he could feel beading on his brow.

---

Shadows had crowded the room when Doyle finally rolled over. The window was a sheet of grey. The wind was tossing pellets of rain against its fragile surface and whipping the boughs of the neighbouring spruce in an alarming frenzy.

Shivering more from his emotional response than any real chill, Ray sought the reassurance of his sleeping partner.

It had been some time since he'd awoken to an empty expanse of bed. The sheets didn't even hold a lingering trace of Bodie's warmth. Where . . . ?

Ray caught sight of his shirtsleeve and remembered his nap. This was dusk then, not dawn.

Wondering what could have possessed the daft sod to let him sleep this long, Doyle climbed groggily from the bed. At this rate, it'd be dark before they ate.

"Bodie, why didn't you . . . ?" Ray started to sharply demand of the brown haired man bent over a book and comfortably sprawled on the sitting room couch, whom he naturally enough assumed to be Bodie. Doyle stopped dead in his tracks as a stranger's face lifted.

The man, a full head taller than Bodie and built like a huge grizzly bear, jumped to his feet. Unfeigned delight illuminated his friendly features.

"Ray! Good God, man, we thought you dead! When the Cow . . . ." The stranger halted his approach, visibly disconcerted by Doyle's reaction – or lack of one. "Ray, are you all right?"

Trying not to be physically intimidated by this enormous man who seemed to know him and hopefully intended no harm, Doyle nodded. Ray’s worried eyes searched the room for Bodie, a frown crinkling his features when he failed to locate his friend amongst the easels and furniture. "Where's Bodie?"

Perhaps not the most polite of greetings, it nonetheless seemed to satisfy the man. "In the frying pan, from the sound of it. The Cow's working him over for the scare he gave us all." The explanation, offered in a light tone and apparently intended as a joke, did nothing to quell Doyle's worry.

The stranger’s face was familiar in the way Bodie's had been before Doyle’s sketchy memories had started to return. But unlike with his partner, his recognition of every pore and angle wasn't instinctive with this man. The newcomer must have been an acquaintance, maybe even a friend, but not a close one. Doyle could find no name to tag to the grinning face. Whereas, the mention of Cowley's name brought to mind a very definite, if blurry, image.

As he watched, the man's smile faltered. "Ray . . . you don't know who I am, do you?"

The confusion was genuine. Doyle could sense the concern behind the man’s hesitant question. "No. I know I ought to, but . . . things have been a little confused lately."

Eyes, a paler blue than Bodie's, softened. "With good reason. My name's Murphy, Pat Murphy. We work together and you usually call me Murph."

Doyle accepted the hand offered to him, warming immediately to the man.

" . . . pleasure." Ray mumbled, a little overwhelmed by the hearty shake.

Murphy laughed. "Not as much as seeing you again, mate. Figured next time I laid eyes on you, you'd be posin' on a cloudbank, harp in hand and wings a draggin' after you."

"Wrong scenario, I think," Doyle chuckled.

"Yeah, knowing you, you'd probably follow that fire drake of yours to warmer climes."

"Speaking of which . . . . " Doyle returned to his original topic.

"The old man asked for privacy," Murphy informed him. From the tone, Doyle would have thought lightning had carved the order into a stone tablet.

"Did he now?"

A raised voice – Bodie's – saying, "Ray's my partner, damn it, my responsibility. Not some bloody hospital's," rumbled from behind the closed study door. The defensive anger in the familiar tone pricked up Doyle's protective instincts more thoroughly than a cry for help would have done.

"Excuse me," Doyle said and made to move around the big agent.

"Ray . . . ." Murphy laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

His job's to stop me, Doyle thought, measuring up the other agent. He was definitely outclassed here. Murphy's not inconsiderable bulk hadn't diminished any in the last few minutes. In fact, up close, he seemed even larger. Quite unconsciously, Doyle’s eyes and muscles hardened in a very feline preparation to pounce.

"You really going to fight me over it, mate?" Murphy asked.

"If you don't get out of my way." Level and calm, Doyle wondered where this confidence was coming from. What was even more astounding was that it wasn't bluff. He really meant it. Even knowing he hadn't a chance in a million of beating this wall of muscle in a fight, Bodie's need made it imperative that Ray get to the other side of that door.

Amazingly, a huge smile covered Murphy's round face. "You know, Ray, I never had a partner, but I'm beginning to understand why Bodie was willing to fight dragons to get you back."

"You going to let me by, then?" Doyle tested, not really understanding.

"If you're bound and determined to get chewed up in the lion's den, far be it from me to restrain you," Murphy laughed and stepped aside.

Once outside the door, Doyle hesitated in the gloomy hallway. Should he just storm in or knock?

Cowley’s voice continued from within, "Yes, we've heard much about your wants. But did you ever stop to consider what was best for your partner? Read the report, man. The last thing that lad needed was to be thrown into another threatening situation."

Even through the heavy oak door, Doyle could hear the anger in the Scottish burr.

"What do you mean by 'threatening'?" he heard Bodie challenge.

"Your motives for keeping Doyle. Your true feelings for 4.5, though hardly public knowledge, were no secret to me. Since I knew, I would assume Doyle did as well. After what Doyle had been through with Van Cleef, do you believe it was healthy to expose him to similar . . . . "

Thawed from his frozen state, Doyle moved. He didn't know if it were possible to slam open a door, but his entrance gave that effect. Two pairs of startled blue eyes flew to his face, Bodie’s more familiar eyes drowning in guilt, the second pair merely widening in surprise.

"There was nothing similar. I don't know who the hell you are that you think you can speak to him like that – or why he should just sit there and take it – but . . . . " Like a grassfire started by a carelessly thrown match, Doyle’s cold fury exploded into a full-fledged tirade as he defended his partner.

---

Bodie gaped at the wildcat let loose in their midst. Absolutely never had he seen Ray put on such a display. Livid with fury didn't half cover Doyle at the moment. Berserker rage came close, save that this wasn't physical – except in the way Ray had planted himself between Cowley and his partner. Bodie had always known Doyle to be a fiercely loyal individual, but this ferocious defence from a man he'd considered an emotional cripple left Bodie speechless.

Cowley, as well, Bodie realized, taking in his former employer’s spellbound face.

There was something undeniably fascinating about this font of fury. The blaze of iridescent green, flushed cheeks, and untamed mane of curls had the same paralysing effect as that of a charging lion. Bodie, who had been at the other end of the true feline's attack, thought a bloke might have a better chance with the lion.

The verbal blast stilled, Doyle's chest heaving for breath - preparatory to another outburst, no doubt.

Bodie tentatively laid his hand on a cotton-clad shoulder before the coiled spring could be sprung again, half-expecting the force of the explosion to be turned against himself. "That's enough, Ray."

Wide, bottomless eyes turned his way, pinning him with their concern. Doyle seemed too furious to even speak for a moment before he stuttered out, "He –"

"Is only interested in your welfare," Bodie defended.

"Thank you, Bodie," Cowley seemed genuinely surprised by his support. "Dr. Warner's report led me to believe that you were suffering from a severe shock. Mute, nearly catatonic, and likely to remain so unless supplied with proper treatment was how the doctor phrased it. I'm glad to see he was mistaken, Doyle."

Doyle glared at Cowley, visibly unmollified by the sweet words and as mistrusting as one forest-born.

"Ray," Bodie cautioned. For all his gratitude at Ray’s defence, he was unwilling to allow Doyle to berate someone who had travelled so far on Doyle's behalf. "Please sit down. Mr. Cowley's not the enemy."

Doyle turned that same probing gaze on him and then reluctantly pulled over a small armchair – doing so, Bodie knew, only because he asked it. Every well-defined line of Ray’s body and the taut set of his features spoke of rebellion.

Cowley’s smooth voice quickly assured, "Indeed, I am not the enemy, and I would like to apologize for coming down with such a heavy hand. We truly believed you dead, lad, and then when we did learn of your survival, the severity of your condition was greatly exaggerated."

Not knowing what to say, Bodie remained silent. On the fingers of one hand he could count the times he'd heard George Cowley apologize, and, then, never to him.

Doyle, however, found his voice. Apparently appeased by their visitor's sincerity, Doyle’s attitude altered a bit, the fire leaving his eyes as he said, "The report wasn't exaggerated . . . sir." Ray looked to him, seemingly for confirmation of his form of address. At Bodie's nod of approval, Doyle continued, "I was as bad as that and worse before Bodie put me back together."

"Then we've much to be grateful to him for," Cowley concurred, obviously still attempting to make amends for his earlier error.

Bodie tried not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt. Doyle's candour especially troubled him, for only he himself knew how justified the old man's concerns had been.

Bodie jumped as a hand gently squeezed his elbow. He tried to shy away from the affection warming the green gaze.

"Ey, come back to us, dreamer," Doyle's voice was pitched for his ears only.

Don't trust me so, Bodie wanted to shout. Cowley's right – in everything he's right.

Puzzlement creased Doyle’s quirky face, as though Bodie’s warning had been spoken aloud.

"It's all right," Ray assured, the whisper convincing Bodie that he had indeed spoken . . . except that even now the lump clogged in his throat was too big to get around.

"What . . . is?" Bodie rasped out at last, painfully aware of the too-perceptive third party observing them.

"Whatever's got you lookin' so grim. Cheer up, mate, I'm here to look after you," Ray promised.

And Doyle meant it, too. That last was thrown Cowley's way as a warning.

Cowley brought their attention back to him with a timely throat clearing. "Doyle, before you mentioned not knowing who I am. Dr. Warner's report hinted that there could well be some psychological side effects to your ordeal – hysterical amnesia only one of them. Is your memory loss complete then?"

Bodie winced at his former boss’ candour. Though he knew everything Cowley said to be true, he would never have phrased it quite so bluntly himself.

"For all practical purposes, it’s complete. I remember . . . your face and your voice. When I think very hard," here Doyle's eyes closed in concentration, "I get scattered images; most of them aren't very clear."

"Most, but not all?" Cowley pounced on the information.

Doyle's eyes opened to slowly focus on the older man.

"I remember yelling at you and then slapping some kind of wallet and gun down on your desk," Ray confessed in a confused tone.

"Jesus, but you've got a knack for pickin' them!" Bodie commented. At Ray's raised eyebrow, he continued, "You were spittin' fire at us both that day for invadin' your privacy."

Odd, that the only thing Doyle recalled of the drama-fraught case was that particular incident and not the girl or even poor Benny.

"Were you?" Doyle questioned of Bodie, Ray’s mood hard to judge.

There was no lying to that level verdant gaze now, anymore than there was back when the Holly case had forced him to shadow his own partner.

"Yes," Bodie admitted, wondering what he was letting himself in for.

"Under my orders," the older man defended.

A year ago, Ray would have gone off at Bodie’s admission and challenged the necessity of the trespass, but tonight Ray just nodded, his brow creased with concentration, as though he were attempting to force his memories.

Somehow, Bodie sensed that Doyle's calm acceptance had nothing to do with Cowley's unsought support.

"What are your plans now?" Cowley’s comment brought their attention back to the Controller.

"Plans?" Doyle repeated, looking to his partner as though for a definition of the word.

"We hadn't any immediate plans. We're rather comfortable here," Bodie supplied.

"So I see," Cowley enigmatically agreed. "Doyle's amnesia could no doubt be aided by proper treatment at home. Have you given that any thought, Bodie?"

Despite the spider-to-the-fly sweetness of Cowley's tone, the words stung. Guilt upon guilt pummelled at Bodie’s conscience, with his own selfish decision to keep Ray near him at the bottom of it all. Unable to meet Cowley’s relentless, convicting eyes, he lowered his gaze to his lap.

What could he say? Of course, he'd known . . . and failed to act upon it.

Bodie’s down-bent gaze flew to Ray when Doyle’s hand landed so naturally upon the forearm that lay rigidly along his wooden chair's right arm. Ray's gesture seemed automatic, almost unconscious, as was the soft squeeze of encouragement Bodie’s lucky limb received.

When Bodie dared a peek at his partner, Doyle's profile was stony once again, but this time the anger was held in check.

"Of course, he thought about it," Ray answered for him. "He didn't have a bloody passport that would get him back into the country legally now, did he? Me either, for that matter. Far as the world's concerned, I still don't exist. I sort of like it that way, Mr. Cowley. If you take my meaning."

There was safety in anonymity, as Bodie well knew.

Cowley, however, was not to be deterred. "But your memory . . . ."

"Will come back on its own. Besides, the previews I've been gettin' haven't left me all that keen on the show. If it comes, it comes. I'm not about to force it," Doyle said, shocking both Cowley and his partner into silence.

"I see," the old man said after a minute. "You must admit, it is a rather peculiar attitude to hold about one's own past. I would think you would do your utmost to regain what was lost to you."

"What the hell would you know about it . . . sir!" Bodie demanded, tiring of the cross-examination. Cowley mightn't be being judgmental, but his curiosity was obviously disturbing Ray. Doyle's pale face had the strained, almost pinched look to it that Bodie hadn't seen in over a year, not since they were last on the job together.

Ray’s hand had yet to release his forearm. It squeezed Bodie again, as if silently beseeching his patience.

"This is between Doyle and me," Cowley warned.

Bodie bristled, but backed off, as Ray obviously wanted.

"Well, lad?" Cowley prompted. "Are you trying to tell me you don't want to remember?"

"I didn't say that," came Doyle’s quick response.

But you meant it, Bodie realized, reading the unsaid as easily as the Cow. The shock of that discovery had yet to settle when he felt Cowley’s hawk-blue eyes probing his own reaction.

Though his bewilderment over Doyle's attitude felt very much like betrayal, Bodie carefully blanked his features. Ray would have his support, whatever the circumstances.

"No, you didn't say it," Cowley agreed, "but that was your meaning. Why?"

Bodie was almost grateful to the old man for voicing the question loyalty prohibited Bodie himself from asking. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Doyle's reaction.

First, the expressive eyes dropped and for the longest moment Bodie was certain his partner was going to ignore the question. Then, Ray's gaze swept almost surreptitiously his way, darting quickly back to his lap. Ray's hand left its hold on Bodie's arm to settle in a calm-looking, but tension-locked clasp on his knees.

The significance of the gesture escaped Bodie. All he was aware of was how isolated and alone Ray abruptly appeared.

Damning his own curiosity, Bodie interceded, "I think that's enough, sir. Ray's had too much excitement for one day. We don't get many visitors up this way."

Before the ire in Cowley's glare could reach his pursed lips, Doyle's deep voice interrupted, its quiet authority unchallengeable, "No, he has a right to know, Bodie, so do you. I'm not especially eager to remember because most of what I've gotten back I don't like much."

As ever, Doyle was unstintingly honest. Now it was Bodie's turn to look away. Ever the moralist, his partner was always at odds with the expediencies their profession forced upon them. This Doyle would be repulsed by some of the memories of what they’d done.

"So, you've made this judgement on a few, disjointed remembrances. That's very unlike you, Doyle, to prejudge a situation without all the facts," Cowley reprimanded.

"I . . . . " Doyle stammered.

"You've already indicated that you don't fully remember me, and if that's the case, you've no true grasp of the service you performed. You and your partner, and men like you, are necessary. You use your strength to protect those weaker than you. If you were in full possession of your faculties, you would know this to be so."

"I don't think I ever knew that," Doyle said.

Ray's certainty chilled Bodie.

"You're not a man easily led," Cowley countered. "If you didn't believe in what you were doing, why do you think you stayed?"

Bodie silently blessed Cowley for his unemotional common sense, until Ray’s telling green gaze strayed his way again. Although the glance was withdrawn immediately, Doyle’s answer had been given.

Bodie gulped, unable to repudiate the wordless claim and unable to accept the weight of this responsibility.

Absolution came from an unexpected quarter as Cowley gently corrected, "No, lad, you might want to believe that the reason, but we all know that isn't so. It wasn't Bodie that kept you in C.I.5, although the reverse might've been true."

Bodie’s head snapped up at the causal revelation, disbelieving that even their perceptive boss could have been privy to his close-guarded secret.

"You're a fiercely idealistic individual, Doyle, highly independent and motivated. Had you disapproved of C.I.5 as strongly as you imagine, you would have left, sure in the knowledge that your partner would follow."

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?' Doyle practically sneered, white-faced over Cowley's presumption.

Bodie, who knew the words to be no presumption, but merely the statement of fact, remained silent. Pride demanded he make some rebuttal, but what could he say? He'd given up his world to find Ray - all three of them knew it. Even if that hadn't been the case, to deny Cowley's claim would be tantamount to denying his commitment to Ray and, amazing as this unexpected show of confidence on Doyle's part was, that was one risk he was unwilling to take. He'd rather have Doyle smug in his assurance of his place in his life than doubting him.

"I know my men," Cowley told Bodie's fuming partner," and, had you any true memory of me, you would understand how sorely one of them retaining a stronger loyalty grates on me."

Bodie saw Doyle close his mouth on whatever he'd been about to say, his eyes darkening with consideration. "Yes, I can see where that would rankle. What – what do you want of us? Have you come here to get Bodie back?"

After Cowley's announcement, Bodie was convinced that he'd been left naked, without a single pretence to mask his one vulnerable spot. Yet, Doyle's tone as he voiced that last question was tremulous, as though he truly believed Cowley had the power to lure Bodie away.

"If possible," C.I.5's controller admitted. "What I really came for was you, Doyle. You haven't given yourself a chance here. Come back to England, accept what help the doctors have to offer."

For the first time that night, Doyle appeared threatened. "He can't make me go, can he, Bodie?"

There were any number of ways that Cowley could force them back, if he so desired. That knowledge silently passed between Bodie and his former employer in the quiet that followed the question. But the fear in Doyle’s atypical, child-like plea could not be ignored. So much in Ray’s life this past year had been beyond his control. Bodie would give him what little stability he could offer.

"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to, Ray," Bodie promised.

A speculative light entered Cowley's eyes at the warning. "And you're ready to back that up, are you, laddie?"

Not for the first time Bodie found himself admiring the old man's tactics. Laddie, that one word, uttered in Cowley’s humouring, near-affectionate burr made Bodie feel like a wayward schoolboy. But Bodie didn’t allow his reaction to show, delivering his words in his most dangerous tone, "If necessary."

"Och, man, don't take that tone with me. I'm the one who taught it to you. Doyle, you're being very foolish and you, Bodie . . . this irresponsibility ill becomes you," Cowley reprimanded.

"Irres . . . why you old bastard. I told you he was alive a year ago. I had to find him and take care of him on my own and now that he's near well, you waltz in here and want to whisk him away! Well, he doesn't need you or your bloody doctors now. Ray's doing just fine on his own. Anyway, can't see why you're so determined to have him back. You know Ray's no use to you now. You'd never let him back in the field – and I won't work without him. So you're wastin' your time here. Why don't you just go . . . ?"

"Bodie," Ray’s stern tone was belied by the soft touch to his arm. Bodie turned that blaze of anger on his partner. Doyle's wounded expression only exacerbated his fury at the old man. Cowley had come in here and made his demands with no thought to Ray's reaction.

"Please, stop," Ray pleaded.

Because Ray asked it, Bodie shut his mouth to sink back in his chair in sullen silence.

"What Bodie is trying to say, sir, is that we don't want to go back," Doyle began, picking each word with obvious care.

"I had managed to absorb that fact, thank you," Cowley answered with characteristic sarcasm. But as he continued to look at Doyle, Bodie noticed the hardness seep from the proud features. "You might not believe this, but I thought to act only on your behalf."

"I do believe you, sir, and your concern is appreciated, but . . . I'm happy here. I have my painting to keep me occupied and good friends close by," Doyle said.

"I am relieved to see you so content," Cowley answered, his pleasant tone instantly putting Bodie on his guard. Doyle, however, seemed oblivious to its portent. Cowley's next questions took Ray completely off guard. "But what of Bodie?"

"Bodie?" Doyle echoed.

"Bodie is no painter. Have you given no thought to his future? He has trained his entire like to do a specific job – one he can't do hiding out in these hills, lad. Is it fair to keep him here?" Cowley questioned.

And once again, Bodie watched his partner’s world fall apart around him.

Stricken eyes fixed on him. Bodie could see in their lost depths that Cowley's words had shaken Ray to the very core.

"No one's kept me here," Bodie’s words were calm, for to lose that icy distance would risk loosing the lethal rage simmering within him. "I'm a grown man. I'm here because that's where I want to be – nowhere else." The last he directed to Doyle, although it did nothing to relieve the burden of guilt visible in the clear depths of the emerald gaze. "If what you're saying was true, I could've put Doyle back on a plane to England anytime I wanted. So stop trying to manipulate him with guilt. It's unworthy of you and unfair to Ray."

"Is it now?" Cowley tested, and then shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, Bodie. My apologies, Doyle."

But the seed had been planted. Bodie could see it in Ray’s slumped shoulders and troubled visage.

"Well, I've taken up enough of your time. I'd best be on my way. If you need assistance – of any kind – you need only call," Cowley said.

Doyle’s head shot up from its down-bent position as Cowley’s announcement disrupted his troubled reverie. "You can’t go, not tonight, sir. You'll never make it down the mountain in this downpour."

Doyle nodded to the voracious storm raging outside the dark window.

"Dinna worry, lad. Murphy . . . ." Cowley began to dismiss.

"Ray's right, sir," Bodie interrupted, common sense and lingering loyalty winning out over hostility. "It's foolhardy to risk the roads on a night like this. The pass washes out at least once a month. We've plenty of room here and we'd be honoured to have you." The graciousness of his invitation seemed to startle even Doyle.

"Yes. There are two vacant rooms upstairs and there's more than enough food. If you've got to be back tomorrow, you can leave at first light. That will give you plenty of time to catch the afternoon flight from Geneva," Doyle added.

The normally resolute Scot wavered, exhaustion and the unfriendly weather weakening even Cowley's iron determination.

"That's fine, then, sir," Doyle said, acting upon the temporary indecision before their former boss' stubbornness could assert itself. "I'll tell Murphy you're staying and lay on some extra grub. Behave yourself, sunshine."

The jaunty wink Doyle threw his way left Bodie staring in befuddlement after his departing partner.

"Most reassuring," Cowley commented once the door had closed behind Doyle.

"Ey, sir?" Bodie started at the reminder he was not alone.

"Dr. Warner's report had led me to expect . . . something quite different. Doyle appears to be recovering remarkably well."

"The mountains seem to agree with him," Bodie said, and then added in a lower, more confiding tone, "I wouldn't have kept Ray here if he'd shown no improvement, sir."

"No, of course you wouldn't, Bodie," Cowley concurred with astonishing sincerity.

"But you said . . . ."

"Your concern for your partner was never in question." Cowley said. "I merely doubted your judgment and, after speaking with Doyle, I can see you were sound in that as well."

"Then why did you grill us like that?" Bodie demanded.

"There was always the chance you could be persuaded to return home," Cowley admitted.

"You crafty devil, you haven't changed a bit, have you?" Bodie chuckled, somehow unable to take offence at such outright effrontery.

"No, nor will I, God willing." Cowley's eyes sparkled with good humour. "There is a thing I hesitated to mention before your partner." The older man continued, all levity blanking from his abruptly hardened features.

"Which was?" Instantly on the alert, Bodie tried to relax.

"You have heard the news of Van Cleef's escape?"

"Just this afternoon."

"It has been an eventful day for you, Bodie. The information I bring you may be more happily received, however."

"How so?"

"A body has been recovered. Although badly mutilated from its time in the water, identification is almost positive. A man matching Van Cleef's weight and height drowned, following gunshot wounds two weeks ago."

"The bullets matched?" Bodie's paranoia forced him to ask. Cowley seemed certain that Van Cleef was dead, but the ever-doubtful part of Bodie’s mind couldn't help but remind him that Cowley had been equally assured of Ray's death a year ago.

Though well masked, Bodie nevertheless picked up on Cowley's uneasiness. "Unfortunately, it was impossible to determine. The calibre of the bullet used was the same. The slug passed through the right thigh, severing an artery. Death was attributed to drowning, no doubt brought on by weakness due to blood loss."

"I see," Bodie said, digesting the information. "Do you think it's Van Cleef, sir?"

"It does seem a likely probability," Cowley said.

"Wary to commit yourself?" Bodie questioned, his tone the most irritating lilt at the controller's caution. He had the suspicion that Cowley had read his thoughts earlier about presuming Doyle dead and was hesitant about making a similar error.

"No harm will come from waiting the coroner's outcome; although, I am almost certain it's Van Cleef," Cowley allowed.

"How would you feel about a second scotch, sir?" Bodie asked, noticing his guest's empty glass.

"Somewhat more positive."

Bodie grinned and passed the bottle.

The next hour passed in what Bodie would have considered idle chatting, had it not occurred to him halfway through the conversation that his wily ex-commander was drawing a highly detailed report on Ray's recuperation with his seemingly innocuous questions. Murphy's announcement that dinner was ready came as a welcome interruption.

How Doyle had managed to concoct such a sumptuous repast in the limited time was a marvel to him. The spaghetti and meatball dinner for four looked like it had been planned for days. As he took a seat across from his partner, Bodie found his mouth watering from the aromatic sauces that teased his senses.

After several heartfelt compliments from both their guests and Bodie himself, the four hungry men set upon the dinner like ravenous wolves upon an injured elk.

---

"Great spread, mate. Really hit the spot," Murphy praised, leaning his chair back from the table.

"Sure you don't want another helping?" Doyle asked the big agent before he recalled there wasn't a single strand of pasta left to offer. So far, Murphy and Bodie were equal at three helpings apiece – conservatively. Doyle wouldn't be surprised if he'd missed a serving or two. Their elder guest had displayed gracious manners, halting after a very dignified second helping.

"Ta anyway," Murphy declined, patting an incongruously trim belly.

"I'm glad to see some restraint, Murphy. I was afraid I'd have to send you off on one of Brian's refresher courses just to work off the effects of this feast," Cowley said to his suddenly alarmed operative. "That was quite a meal. My compliments, Doyle."

Doyle had barely mouthed his thanks when a pathetically hopeful voice asked, "You going to finish that, Ray?"

Doyle looked down at the food he'd been pushing around his plate for the last twenty minutes.

"'s cold," Ray warned his partner.

's good. Come on, give over," Bodie grinned.

With a shrug, Doyle passed the plate to his partner.

"Hey," Bodie said once he'd explored his new acquisition, "you barely touched this. You feelin' all right?"

"Fine," Ray lied. "Just saving space for dessert."

Which Doyle rose to fetch before further comment could be made.

Dessert was only three quarters of one of Marie's apple strudels left over from Friday night's visit. Being Monday night, the pastry had definitely seen better days. It was nevertheless readily accepted by those eating tonight.

His appetite not particularly keen, Doyle sipped his tea and tried not to feel left out. The steady stream of anecdotes made him feel a stranger; although, to be fair, all three of the others did their best to include him.

Bored with the conversation, Doyle took to studying his partner.

When Doyle had stepped into the study, the first thing that had struck him was the holstered gun Bodie was wearing above his tight black roll neck. The weapon was utterly alien to their environment, endowing his partner with an uncompromisingly menacing aspect. And, yet, the gun suited Bodie, looking as natural on him as the clothes he wore or his close-cropped haircut. The automatic had since been removed – hidden away again, no doubt – but its memory lingered, tinting his friend a disturbing hue Doyle hardly recognized, despite its having been there all along.

With some degree of alarm, Ray realized that the sleek and handsome man who shared his home and his bed was a predator, accustomed to both danger and violence. Bodie had told him as much. Still, Doyle had found it impossible to conform that image to the gentle rescuer who had wiped his nose and spoon-fed him with such painstaking devotion.

Until this afternoon, that was. Listening to Bodie relate to their two guests, he was no longer finding it quite so difficult. A toughness and macho bravado that Doyle had only seen hints of in the last six months now ran rampant through his friend's attitude. Though always lively and talkative, his partner was far more animated this evening, practically bubbling with vitality as he relived old memories.

"We have missed you," Murphy declared into a temporary lull in their trip down memory lane. "When will you and Ray be coming back, mate?"

Doyle watched his partner carefully. Whereas with Cowley only angry denials had met that same question, the very unexpectedness of the query in the middle to an obviously enjoyable discussion brought forth a true reaction from Bodie. A sweep of translucent lids sought to conceal it once Bodie saw him looking his way, but Doyle had already caught the flash of loss that shadowed the animated depths of his partner’s eyes.

"Bodie and Doyle will not be returning to England, at least, not immediately," Cowley supplied into the awkward pause which followed.

"I – see," Murphy said slowly in the tone of a chastened child who had asked an indelicate question at the dinner table and was still unsure of the nature of his transgression or the severity of his reproof.

"As you are planning on remaining in Switzerland, there is something I must ask of you, Bodie," Cowley said.

"What's that, sir?" his partner asked absently, his attention focused on the completely unprepossessing – to Doyle, at least – strudel.

"Do you remember Lord William?" Cowley asked Bodie.

"You mean Mohammed?" Bodie grinned.

"Mohammed?" Doyle asked stupidly of the three smiling faces.

Bodie's smile softened with understanding. "Lord William's the minister C.I.5 answers to, Ray. He always said George Cowley was the mountain Mohammed must travel to."

Understanding no more now than before, Doyle nodded knowledgeably, "Oh."

"Former minister," Cowley corrected. "Lord William has since retired from active service, which brings me to my present request."

"Which is?" Bodie's caution was obvious.

"Private business will bring Lord William to a series of economic conferences in Geneva. The first is scheduled for the end of the month. It is a three-day affair that will draw attendants from all nations west of the eastern block. I am dissatisfied with the security there and have been asked to recommend someone to supervise. Already there have been vague rumours and threats. The Swiss are most anxious to avoid any . . . unpleasant incidents. As it is my privilege to count Lord William amongst my personal friends, I am equally interested in preventing any such unpleasantness. I would take it as a personal favour if you would oversee the security of these events, Bodie. A man of your qualifications could make all the difference."

Doyle gulped at the appeal, recognizing that it was as close to deferential as the lordly Scot could ever be. Something inside Ray died at the unconscious leap of excitement in Bodie's eyes. The interest was masked with admirable speed once his partner recalled his ball and chain.

Doyle cursed himself for a fool. From that first night in Geneva, Bodie's physical presence had intimidated him. His instincts had recognized Bodie as a man of action. Doyle had known from the start that his partner could never be content with domesticity. What had made him think that could change? But, these last few months . . . Bodie had seemed happy, at peace or, Doyle wondered, had he been so blinded by his own contentment that he'd missed all the signs of Bodie’s restlessness.

"I'm afraid that would be impossible, sir," Bodie refused, just as soon as Cowley had stopped speaking. There was genuine regret in his tone. Obviously turning down a personal favour for Cowley did not come easily.

"Why would it be 'impossible'?" Doyle, not Cowley, demanded. The eager greed with which his soul had greeted Bodie's prompt rejection singed his conscience, forcing such a reaction, though Ray knew it went against his own best interests.

"What d'you mean, 'why', Ray? I'm needed here," Bodie answered.

Careful here. The internal warning did not go unheeded. Doyle saw how easily the ready denial which sprang to his lips could turn Bodie's hurt puzzlement into legitimate pain.

"It's only a couple of weekends," Doyle said reasonably.

"Indeed," Cowley added, "leave Wednesday night and you could be back the following Monday. If nothing else, it would be a brief change of scenery."

Or a taste of excitement to get Bodie hooked on action again, Doyle translated, uncertain if he'd been manipulated into supporting Cowley's plan.

"You want me to go, Ray?" Bodie asked.

The steady gaze demanded honestly.

Ray took a moment to answer. "I don't want you to refuse on my account. If it's my being on my own that's got you worried, I can always stay with Marie. If you want to go, don't let me stop you."

The indecision which followed his words cinched it. Bodie wanted to go. Doyle bit his lower lip, too aware that it was his own hand that had opened the cage door. How far his friend would fly, only the future would tell. The flight could last no longer than the series of weekends mentioned by Cowley or they could very well find themselves on a plane back to London in a month's time.

That offering freedom was the only decision Doyle could have made didn’t make its acceptance any easier.

"Do you need an answer right away?" Bodie asked their former employer.

"Take some time to think it over, sleep on it. You can give me your answer in the morning," Cowley said.


...Continued in Chapter 8…

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