From: JeanB7@aol.com
Date: Mon, 5 May 1997 14:10:21 -0400 (EDT)
To: choff@socrates.berkeley.edu
Subject: Cold Night...

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Well, there's nothing like crossing messages.  :-)  Text file of "Cold Night
on a Graveyard Shift" is attached.  If it gives you any problems, just let me
know.  Likewise, if you need/want either of the other stories, just e-mail
me: I'll  be glad to send them.

Thanks!
  --Jean
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Content-type: text/plain;
	name="COLDNITE.TXT"

Cold Night on a Graveyard Shift   by Jean Graham

[c] 1997 by Jean Graham.  Copyright applies to original material only and is not intended
to infringe on previously held copyrights.  Characters here-in are the acknowledged
property of Sony/Columbia/Tri-Star Entertainment Inc. (and others): they are used without
permission for non-profit/entertainment purposes only.

Permission to archive this wherever you like is granted...

Part 1

     Nick Knight did not want a partner.
     He'd never wanted one, had never worked with one, but after the homeless
murders, Captain Stonetree had insisted on permanently reassigning Don Schanke to the
night shift and suddenly, his objections notwithstanding, Nick Knight had a partner.
     One who was currently attempting to talk his ear off as the Caddy made its way
to the coroner's building.
     "...can get better donuts at Bigelow's, but Haroldsens' are bigger and, I dunno, they
got more fat in 'em or something I guess, they just *taste* better, and do you mind rolling
up the window?  It's freezing in here.  Hello.  Knight?"
     "Hm?  Oh, sure."  Annoyed, Nick complied, but the moment he did, the aromas of
Schanke's glazed donut and steaming coffee assailed his nostrils and he had to mentally
command his rebelling stomach to ignore it and be thankful his new partner hadn't
ordered souvlaki for 'breakfast' instead.
     "...just can't figure Stonetree sometimes, y'know?" Schanke mumbled between
donut bites.  Nick's stomach rumbled in protest.  "Twelve years on the day shift.  Twelve
years!  And now...  What'd I do to deserve this?"
     "Exactly what I've been wondering," Nick muttered, but his partner was yawning -
- loudly -- and hadn't heard him.
     "Well, long as we're stuck with each other a while, might as well make the best of
it, huh?  You know something?  You never told me, or maybe I never asked.  Where're
you from?"
     The lie came easily now.  "Chicago."
     "Oh yeah?  I got an aunt, two or three cousins in Chicago.  Great place.  You got
family?"
     Nick's blue eyes darkened for a moment  "No.  No family."  Thankful to at last pull
the Caddy up in front of the coroner's building, he parked and escaped the car, wishing
he could find some pretext to leave Schanke behind.  But his new partner trailed him into
the building, munching and slurping all the way.
     "I've got very good instincts," he bragged, wiping sugary fingers on his suit as they
headed down the corridor to Natalie's lab.  "And I've been around the block a few times. 
So like I said before, stick around and you might learn a few things.  I've got a few years
experience up on you--"
     Nick restrained the urge to laugh at that, settled for a longsuffering smile aimed at
Natalie as they came through her door.  Her eyes smiled back over a green surgical
mask, and Schanke cut his sentence off with a gulp, the devoured donut threatening an
imminent return when he caught sight of the gory mess on her operating table.  For
entirely different reasons, Nick hesitated as well.  The strong scent of blood mingled with
formaldehyde permeated the lab.
     "I uh, just remembered," Schanke stammered.  "Gotta check with Wilson in
forensics on the Calloway case.  Be right back."  And with near-vampiric speed, he
vanished back out the door, leaving it swinging in his wake.
     Natalie's eyes kept their smile as she put aside her scalpel, turning to the sink to
scrub down, strip off the mask and gloves and scrub down again.  Nick gave the
operating table a wide berth on his way to her side.
     "Daegel report's on my desk over there," she said, laughter still tingeing her voice. 
When he didn't move at once to retrieve it, she glanced toward the door and grinned,
drying her hands on a small blue towel.  "Having a little trouble with the new partner, are
we?"
     "Nat...  I can't do this!"  The desperation of having been cooped up with Schanke
for the past few hours came out full force.  "He's driving me crazy!"
     Her eyes widened in mock innocence.  "What, *Schanke?*  Nahhh..."
     "I'm serious," he snapped, a little more vehemently than he'd intended.  "If
Stonetree doesn't change his mind on this, I may have to resign.  It's either that or use
slightly more... persuasive methods to convince him."
     Instantly, disapproval shadowed Natalie's eyes.  "Don't you *dare,"* she
admonished.  "You want to be human, you'd better learn to live by *our* rules for a
change."
     "But Schanke--"
     "Is your partner.  Captain's orders, like it or not.  So now I guess you just have to
learn to deal with it."
     "That's the problem..."  He stalked to the desk, perched miserably on its edge,
picked up the report.  "I *can't* deal with it.  I've always worked alone, always.  How can
I get anything done if I'm saddled with him all the time?"
     She hung up the towel, leaned back against the sink and crossed her arms.  "Well,
that's the way partnerships work.  You watch his back, and he watches yours.  You look
out for each other."
     "Nat, I don't *need* looking after."
     She wasn't convinced.  "Yeah?  Well, maybe you need someone to look out *for*
then."  At his grimace, she added, "I mean that.  Come on, Nick.  You want mortal?  Well,
Schanke's about as mortal as they come!  And you'd better start getting used to it.  It's
what *our* world is all about."
     Frowning, he hopped off the desk, tucking the report under one arm.  He supposed
he should have known better than to expect any sympathy from this quarter.  "All right,"
he promised half-heartedly.  "I'll try.  But no guarantees."  He kissed her once, chastely,
on the forehead, and headed for the door.
     "Life -- mortal life, anyway -- doesn't come with guarantees, Nick," she said.
     "Yeah."  He waved the folder in parting, and went in search of his mortal,
unguaranteed partner.
     Back in the car, Schanke slurped at a can of Coke and resumed his non-stop,
meaningless chatter.  "Man-oh-man, can you believe a buck for a Coke?  In-cred-i-ble! 
I remember when it was twenty cents, can you remember when it was twenty cents?  No,
probably not, you're not that old.  Well, trust me, there was a time..."
     Nick glowered at him while the litany continued, though Schanke never noticed. 
There was just no getting around it.  Schanke would either have to go, or Nick would
have to kill him.  He frowned again.  Even in jest, the thought didn't really amuse: it was,
after all, a genuine danger.  He, or something he might do, could all too easily get
Schanke killed.  It was a risk he didn't want to take; the reason he'd always resisted
partner assignments in the past.
     "...don't believe this."  Inexplicably, Schanke was squirming in the passenger seat,
searching his suit, slapping at the pockets.  The Coke tipped and dribbled brown liquid
down his tie.  "I never do that!"
     "What?"
     "Guess I must've left my shield at home.  Damn.  Hey, we could just swing by and
pick it up.  It's not too far out of the way."  He rattled off an address and Nick, tight-lipped,
cooperatively turned the Caddy down the next street going that direction.
     "You really got no family?" Schanke asked again.  "No parents, uncles, cousins,
ex-wives...  Nobody?"
     "No."  Nick sighed, and Schanke mistook his frustration for sorrow.
     "Geez, I'm sorry.  That's really too bad.  I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not that
relatives can't be a royal pain in the butt sometimes, but... well, it must get awful *lonely*
in that barn of an apartment you live in.  No wife, no kids..."
     Nick looked away, increasingly uncomfortable with this line of inquisition.  "I do
okay," he said curtly, but Schanke never noticed the attempted dismissal.  He launched
instead into a lecture on the joys of parenthood, and Nick did his best to tune it out until
they arrived at the Schanke residence, an aging-but-comfortable-looking two story home
with a railed porch and gabled windows.  Nick stared at it, trying to reconcile the simple
charm of the house with Schanke's brash, abrasive personality and failing.  His partner
was already out of the car, blowing on his hands and dancing from foot to foot.
     "Think I'll pick up a coat and gloves while I'm at it -- it's really getting *cold* out
here.  Aren't you cold?  And don't say it's just my advanced age, 'cause I might have to
shoot you."  Schanke held open the passenger door, ducking to stick his head back
inside.  "You coming?"
     "I don't think--"
     "Oh, come on, Knight, for once in your life pretend you're a human being and..." 
He faltered, if only for a moment, at Nick's startled look.  "...and come in out of the cold,
would ya?  You can at least meet the wife and kid."
     Trapped, Nick did his best to smile.  "Yeah.  Sure.  Okay."  Like a man on his way
to the gallows, he crawled out of the Caddy and followed Schanke up the walk.
                                   {++}
     Man, was this Knight guy a piece of work or what?  Lived on some weird liquid
diet, allergic to sunlight, didn't talk much, and when he did, grumpy as a bear on steroids. 
Don Schanke slipped a key into the front door and wondered if it was going to take an
act of Parliament to get his new partner to lighten up a little.
     "Myra?  Honey, you down here?"  They stepped into the darkened entry hall and
he closed the door behind Knight, who was glancing nervously around as though
something might jump out and bite him at any moment.
     "Don?"  The love of his life appeared at the top of the stairs, her crown of dark hair
backlit by an open bedroom door.  Schanke grinned up at her, thinking how great she
looked.  So maybe he'd gained a few pounds and lost a little hair over the last fifteen
years.  Myra was still as gorgeous as the day he'd married her.
     "Honey, come on down a minute.  Somebody here you've gotta meet."  He flipped
on the hall light as she came down the stairs, noticing that Knight squinted in the sudden
glare.  "Myra Schanke, Nick Knight, homicide detective extraodinaire and Donnie-Boy's
new partner on the graveyard shift."  He grabbed both their hands and pressed them
together, delighted when Myra turned on her hundred-watt smile and hardily shook
Knight's hand.
     "I've heard so much about you," she said.
     With a tight smile, Knight shook back and then shyly reclaimed his hand. 
"Likewise."
     "Just stopped by to pick up my coat and gloves and uh... something I forgot,"
Schanke told her.  "Jenny already in bed?"
     "Not yet.  She's in the den."
     "Oh, great.  You can introduce Knight while I go on my little reconnaissance
mission.  Be right back."
     He saw a distinct note of pleading in Knight's eyes when Myra recaptured his
partner's hand and led him off through the parlor.     When Schanke returned with his
acquisitions and made his own way to the den, it was to find Knight seated next to Myra,
but on the very edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt at any moment.  The TV was on
with the sound muted, airing a *Star Trek* rerun.  Knight leaped to his feet the moment
Schanke walked in, but anything he'd planned to say was pre-empted by a small brunette
hurricane that came hurtling at Schanke from the floor.
     "Daddy!"
     The coat falling forgotten to the carpet, he caught her in both arms and whirled her
in a complete circle, planting a big kiss on her forehead.  "Hiya, kid.  Hey, you meet my
partner here?"
     "Uh-huh.  His name's funny!"
     "Oh yeah?"  Schanke cast Knight a questioning glance, but got only a shrug in
answer.
     "Yeah," Jenny giggled.  "Nick Knight, just like Nick-at-Nite!"
     While his partner continued to look thoroughly bewildered, Schanke tweaked his
daughter on the chin.  "That's what I get for buying a satellite dish.  And anyway, when
did *you* ever stay up that late?"
     "Didn't.  They have commercials."  In true kid-fashion, Jenny abruptly changed
subjects.  "Can we go to the zoo on Saturday?"
     Schanke executed a formal bow.  "Your Highness' wish is my command," he
intoned, then hugged her again.  A minute later, his offspring was happily sprawled back
on the floor in front of the TV set, where Captain Kirk engaged in a muted battle of wits
with an equally soundless Klingon.
     "What...  What are all those *fuzzy* things?" Knight wondered out loud, indicating
the TV screen.
     With a snort, Schanke bent to retrieve his fallen coat, checking to be sure his
badge and gloves were still in the pocket.  "Good grief, Knight.  Where have you *been*
for the last 30 years, in a cave someplace?"  He turned for the door.  "Well, time to
venture back out onto the cold mean streets of Toronto.  Later, Jenny!"
     His daughter looked over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers in farewell.  The TV
sound came back up then, filling the den with the clamorous sounds of a futuristic
barroom brawl.  Schanke made a hasty exit, Knight behind him, and Myra brought up the
rear, going with them to the front door and out onto the porch.  Knight had a peculiar look
on his face, moreso when Schanke turned to kiss the wife good-bye and said, "See you
later, honey.  Better get back inside now before you get frostbite."
     He shrugged into the coat, turned around to find his partner staring oddly at the
door Myra had just closed.  Only instead of wearing that far-off spacey expression he got
sometimes, Knight looked for all the world like one of those homeless waifs in a Dickens
Christmas play, gazing hungrily through the window at the family sitting down to turkey
dinner.
     "What's with you?"
     Knight glanced at him sharply, blinking.  "Nothing.  Let's go."  He spun and headed
swiftly for the car.
     For a minute there... Well, *just* for a minute, Schanke could have sworn his
partner had had tears in his eyes.
                                   {++}
Part 3
     The police radio had begun calling for 81 Kilo before Nick reached the Caddy.  He
pulled open the door, slipped inside, picked up the microphone.  "This is 81 Kilo
responding, over."
     "Possible homicide reported, 3085 Sherman Drive.  Do you copy? Over."
     "We're on it."  He replaced the handset without bothering to say 'out.'"  Dispatch
would complain about that later.  He waited for Schanke to close the passenger door,
then sped away from the curb.
     When they arrived, three squad cars, the coroner's van and several TV news
trucks were already clogging the street outside the rather run-down tract house on
Sherman.  They threaded their way through the crowd of gawking neighbors and news
reporters, flashed badges at the uniforms guarding the door, stepped inside...
     __Blood.__
     Nick barely avoided wheeling back around and bolting.  The blood odor was
overwhelming; stronger than any he'd encountered since...  No.  He wouldn't think about
that.  He concentrated instead on sticking next to Schanke until they'd made it all the way
into the living room, to the circle of uniforms and lab coats surrounding the thing on the
floor.  The thing that had been alive and human -- once.  Male, by the look of it.  Not
much else you _could_ tell, though.  One shot to the chest, one to the groin, and a third... 
It no longer had a face.
     Dimly, he became aware of Schanke crossing himself and murmuring, "Jesus-
Mary-Jehosaphat."  Nick closed his eyes against the blood scent, fought back an
obscenity of hunger that had no place here, looked up again when he heard Nat's voice
approaching them.
     _"Not_ pretty," she said with feeling.  "Twelve-gauge shotgun, point blank range." 
Behind her, the forensics photographer leaned in to begin taking flash photos of the
corpse.  "Victim's name is Walt Boyer, 46, married, two sons, and it's his house."
     Schanke gave her a grim little smile.  "Not anymore.  We know who did it?"
     Nat's expression wavered, the professional veneer dissolving.  "Yeah.  And that's
gonna get a whole lot uglier."  She nodded across the room, where three uniforms stood
over a teenaged boy who sat, staring vacantly ahead, on the sofa.
     "The _kid??_"  Schanke coughed.  "You're kidding, right?  Tell me you're kidding."
     "I wish I were."  Nat's distressed eyes met Nick's.  "He's thirteen years old, for
God's sake.  How do we--?"
     Nick grasped her arms, the touch as much a steadying influence for himself as for
her.  "Any other family here?"
     Nat shook her head.  "The 13-year-old is Paul.  The other son is Andrew, 15.  He -
- and the murder weapon -- are still among the missing.  The wife is in New York. 
Apparently, they were separated.  Turner's trying to track down a phone number on her
now."
     "We got an APB on the other kid?" Schanke asked.
     "Ogilvey called it in."
     Nick gave her hand a quick squeeze, a gesture not lost on his ever-inquisitive
partner.  "Thanks, Nat."
     Someone called her away then, and Nick became aware of a long, low whistle
coming from Schanke.  "Geez, I do _not_ believe this.  What on Earth incites a kid to kill
his own _father?_"
     Uncomfortably, Nick surveyed the room.  There were definite signs of a struggle:
overturned furniture, a broken lamp.  "There's always a reason, Schanke," he said, and
headed for the sofa.
     Following procedure, he held out his badge where the occupant of the couch could
see it, nodding to the uniformed officers at the same time.  They stepped aside, though
not very far.  The boy on the couch hadn't moved.
     "You're Paul?" Nick asked in a carefully moderated voice.  Still nothing.  Aware of
Schanke lurking just behind him, Nick tucked his badge away and squatted down to eye-
level, peering into a pale, sullen face.  "You want to tell us what happened here tonight?"
     "No."
     Hazel eyes finally turned on him: eyes filled with anger and defiance and so much
pain that Nick very nearly recoiled from them.
     "Maybe you can tell us who pulled the trigger, then."  That was Schanke.
     Paul glanced up at him just once, then lowered his head, over-long blond hair
falling into his eyes.  "I did," he said, no emotion whatsoever in the words.
     Not sure yet whether to take that as truth, Nick reached out and in what he'd
intended as a comforting gesture, placed a hand over Paul's.  The boy jumped as though
Nick had struck him, snatching his hand back and edging away.  Puzzled, Nick withdrew
his own hand, then straightened to exchange a questioning glance with Schanke before
he asked, "Where's your brother, Paul?  Where's the gun?"
     Two hours later at the precinct, he still had no answers to those questions.  Head
bowed, Paul Boyer sat like a statue at the interrogation table, as detached as though he
were indeed made of stone.  Nick, seated beside him, had long since wearied of asking
the same questions without getting answers.  And across the table, Schanke, late of the
day shift, was literally nodding off.
     Nick had had enough.  With a side glance at his dozing partner, he grasped Paul's
chin with one hand, and when the boy again tried to pull away, held firm.  "It's all right,"
he reassured.  "I want you to look at me..."  The boy's heartbeat pounded in his ears,
rapid with fright.  Green eyes locked with his, and again, Nick found that he wanted to
turn away.  The look in those eyes was one he knew all too painfully well.
     "Where's the gun, Paul?"
     The voice that answered him was lifeless, devoid of feeling.  "Andy," he said. 
"Andy took it."
     "Where?"
     The eyes blinked, began to refocus.  Nick re-exerted the bond, letting go of the
boy's chin as he did so.  "You trust me," he half-whispered, and saw Paul's lips move to
echo the words.  "You want to talk to me."
     When he released the mental hold, the boy shook his head and stared back at
him, the eyes less defiant, more open now.  "Talk to me, Paul.  Tell me what happened."
     As if on cue, Schanke looked up, suddenly attentive.
     Paul started talking, though his voice broke on the first word.  "We..."  He drew in
a timid breath, started over.  "We couldn't let him do it again, that's all."
     "Do what ag--" Schanke started to ask, but Nick quelled him with a pleading look
and a raised hand.
     "Andy knew where he hid the shotgun.  We just had to wait till he came home
drunk again, till he started in...  He used to take most of it out on Mom.  But when she
left, he started on us.  It was just the beatings at first.  But then...  then he..."
     Nick captured the boy's hand, not letting go despite the flinch it evoked.  "It's okay. 
You don't have to talk about that.  Just help us find Andy. You know where he was going,
don't you?"
     Without warning, rage darkened the too-young face.  Paul tore free of Nick's grasp
and leaped from the chair, overturning it.  "I don't have to talk to you!"  He pounded a fist
on the tiled wall, striking it again and again.  "I don't!"
     Nick came up behind him, standing as close as he dared.  "We can help," he
started to say, but Paul turned on him, fury and hatred far beyond his years burning in
those eyes.
     "Nobody helps!"  He slapped away Nick's hand.  "Not cops.  They just take a
report, and then they give you back... to him."
     Unbidden, flashes of Lacroix began to assail Nick; memories of enraged blows,
glowing red eyes, sharp fangs tearing flesh...  Still worse had been the shame at his
weakness, the helpless fear, and the despair of knowing -- to Lacroix's cruel delight -- that
his enslavement was going to last an eternity.
     "Cops don't care," Paul was sneering at him.  "Nobody cares."
     "You're wrong.  _I_ care."
     From over his shoulder, he heard Schanke say soothingly, "Take it easy, kid."
     Nick caught and held the boy's eyes again, though he extended no other influence. 
He wanted to say that he knew all too horribly well what it was like to be controlled by a
mentor, a master, a _father_; controlled by someone who claimed to love you, yet took
a sadistic pleasure in every unspeakable cruelty.  He wanted to say that he also knew
what it was to be driven beyond what you could bear, until you had to fight back, even
if it meant...
     He could see Lacroix writhing against the stake's killing blow, that look of utter,
disbelieving _betrayal_ in the master vampire's glowing eyes as the flames rushed up to
consume him.  In another eight centuries, Nick would never forget that scream...
     "We _can_ help," he heard Schanke's voice say gently.  "Just tell us where your
brother is.  Where was he going to ditch the shotgun?"
     Paul's eyes still held Nick's, all the anger and hatred still broiling in them.  "You
don't know what it's like, to have the bastard come home every night, stinking drunk,
screaming at you. Next thing, he's knocked you across the room.  Then he keeps hitting
you, and hitting you--"
     "Paul..."
     "You don't know--"
     "And maybe I do!"  Nick was almost shouting, grasping the boy's shoulders and
shaking him harder than he should have.  Peripherally, he saw Schanke's mouth drop
open in dismay.  But he held tightly onto the boy's arms, trying to draw some of the hurt
from those eyes.  "I _do_ know."
     Paul shook his head, disbelieving.  "Not you..."
     "Yes, me.  I survived, Paul, _and so can you._"  He saw tears beginning to
supplant the anger now.  It meant he was getting through.  "Schanke's right.  We _can_
help.  But you have to help us, too."  He was having trouble keeping his own voice from
breaking.  "Tell us what happened, Paul.  Tell us where Andy is."
     Fighting to hold back the floodgates, the boy began trembling under Nick's hands. 
"The lakefront."  It came out as a choked whisper.  "He was going to the lakefront."
     When the wracking sobs began, Nick pulled the boy into an embrace, hugging him
tightly against one shoulder.  "It's all right."  He put one hand to the small blond head. 
"It's over now."
     _He'll never hurt you again,_ he added mentally.  _We've both made certain of
that, you and I.  And neither one of us is sorry._
                                   {++}
Part 4
     God, but this was unbelievable.  Schanke watched Knight holding the sobbing
teenager, and retreated in silence to the table as the whole, horrible story began pouring
out.  He'd never have figured Knight for a cop who'd be good with kids, let alone a kid
like this one.  And what he'd said...
     When it had all come out, they'd kept on standing like that, Knight just letting the
kid cry.  Schanke had slipped out, unnoticed, to call in the lakefront info. and to notify
Juvenile Division that they'd need to send an officer -- and a couple of counselors --
pronto.
     Lord, he hated cases like this.  In twelve years on the force, he couldn't remember
one this bad.  But the even uglier truth was, neither could Don Schanke find any pity for
the late unlamented Walt Boyer.  As far as he was concerned, anyone who could do that
to his own kids...
     Schanke thought automatically of Jenny, of exactly what he'd want to do to anyone
who hurt her.  And the depth of that potential violence unnerved him.
     Shuddering, he snatched a report form off his desk and, with a barely-controlled
vengeance, twisted it into the typewriter.
     Juvenile Division sent over an officer and two counselors, precisely per his request. 
He showed them to interrogation and went back to his paperwork, letting Knight handle
the changeover.  But an hour after Juvenile had departed with their charge, his partner
still hadn't reappeared.
     Schanke checked the coffee niche first: it was where he always went after a
particularly tough interview.  But no, come to think of it, he'd never seen Knight drink the
stuff.  He tried interrogation next, and found his missing partner still standing against the
same wall, hands splayed, forehead to the tiles.  He'd seen Knight brood before, but
this...
     Schanke let the door click shut behind him, then stood there for several minutes
feeling utterly useless.
     "Knight?"  The formal name sounded suddenly cold.  "Nick?  You okay?"
     One of the hands flexed, clenched into a fist, lowered.  "I'm fine."
     Knight might be a good cop, but he was one hell of a lousy liar.
     "You don't look fine."
     Silence.
     "Look, I know we don't know each other all that well, and if you want to tell me to
get lost, go ahead.  I just wanted to say that... well that if you want to talk, I'll be there for
you, any time.  You may not believe it, but I'm a very good listener."
      Knight lifted his head, looked at him with eyes that he could have sworn had been
gold for just a moment.  Gold and full of a few centuries' worth of pain.  God, he'd seen
guys mortally wounded who didn't look that hurt.
     "I mean it's not that I'm an expert or anything.  My old man, he took a belt to us
sometimes if we got really out of line, y'know?  But never anything like..."  No wonder
he'd never wanted to talk about his family.  Schanke cleared his throat.  "I just want you
to know I'm here if you need me.  You want me to butt out, just say the word."
     Knight closed his eyes again.  "Do me a favor?" he asked, the voice still tight and
strained.
     "Sure.  Anything."
     "Book off for me?"  Knight moved, probably for the first time in hours, and pulled
his discarded coat off one of the chairs.  "I've gotta go."
     "No problem."  Schanke barely got the words out before his partner had vanished
out the door.  It wasn't the response he'd hoped for, but then again, this _was_ Nick
Knight he was talking about.
     Shaking his head, Schanke took a deep breath, left the room and turned toward
the timecard corner to fulfill the promised favor.
                                   {++}
     The sun had been up for perhaps an hour when an insistent buzzing roused Nick
from a fitful doze in his chair.  He made his way across the darkened living room to the
monitor over the door, found a yawning Schanke staring up into the camera.
     "Hello?  Is the knight in shining armor awake?"
     Nick smiled in spite of himself.  "He is now.  What's up, Schanke?"
     "Just some papers Cap'n Stonetree asked me to drop off.  Okay, not asked. 
Ordered.  Sorry to bug you, but he sort of insisted."
     Nick hit the security door release.  "Come on up."  He remembered to turn on a
few lights, and also disposed of a few empty bottles before Schanke came through the
elevator door.  He carried a manila folder and something else in a brown paper bag.  He
set the latter down on the coffee table, pulling out a bottle of not-inexpensive red wine
which he handed to Nick.
     "I'm... uh... usually more of a beer kinda guy myself, but somehow I didn't figure
you for the type, so..."
     Nick was at a loss.  "Is there some occasion...?"
     "Yeah.  Well, sort of."  His partner sank into a chair, absently fanning the folder. 
"Guess you could say we're celebrating either hello or good-bye."
     No more enlightened than before, Nick retrieved two glasses from his cupboard,
returned to place them on the table, and took a seat on the couch.
     "Cap'n said to tell you you did a great job with the Boyer kid," Schanke told him. 
"I guess Juvenile Division was really impressed.  Oh, and Saunders 'n' Hale over in the
25th picked up the brother an hour ago.  He ditched the gun in the lake, but he showed
'em where, and forensics is on it this morning.  So are the news crews, big time.  It's
gonna come down justifiable homicide, though, any way you turn it."
     Schanke seemed to run out of words.  Sighing, he leaned forward and proffered
the folder.  "Well, here."
     Expecting a report on the Boyer case, Nick took and opened the folder, frowning
when he began reading the contents.  "Schank..."  The second syllable of the name didn't
quite make it out.  "This is a reassignment request."
     "Uh-huh.  I know you put it in a few days ago, but Stonetree refused to sign it then,
'cause he wanted us to try at least one shift on a regular run together, to see how it went. 
He, uh, said to tell you, if you still want out, that he's signed it now.  All you have to do
is initial the fine print, cross the t's and dot the i's, and we're history."
     Nick stared at him.  "You _knew_?"
     "Yeah.  And hey, it's okay.  I understand.  Really."  Schanke scooted forward on
the chair, reached to uncork and pour the wine.  "I'll drink to whatever decision you make. 
I mean that."
     Nick snapped the folder shut.  "I'm sorry, Schank..."  For some reason, that second
syllable just didn't want to come out.  "It wasn't anything personal."
     "Like I said, no problemo."  Schanke lifted the glasses, handed one across.  "So
what'll it be?  A toast to partners, or ex-partners?"
     Nick knew it was a set-up, sending Schanke with the papers.  It had Stonetree's
indelicate touch stamped all over it.  But then, truth be told, Nick had already made his
decision, so the subterfuge was completely unnecessary.  Over the course of many lives,
he'd called a number of mortals 'friend.'  But none of them had ever offered the brooding,
temperamental Nick Knight the unconditional friendship that Don Schanke had extended
to him this evening.  It didn't even matter that he couldn't share the burden Schanke had
offered to carry.  The offer had been enough.
     "Tell him I changed my mind."  Nick handed the folder back.
     Schanke looked genuinely surprised for a moment.  Then he grinned and touched
his glass to Nick's.  "I guess it's to partners, then."
     "To partners," Nick echoed, and sipped at the wine, hiding a smile when Schanke
downed his in two swallows and gasped in appreciation.
     "Wow.  That is _good stuff._"  He stood, tucking the folder under one arm.  "Well
amigo, sorry to gulp and run, but if I don't get some sleep soon I'm gonna turn into a
grizzly bear."
     Nick rose, following to the elevator door as his partner began chattering again. 
"Myra'll probably have bacon and eggs on the table when I get there.  Old habits die
hard, I guess.  Sun comes up, eggs sunny-side-up.  That's my Myra."  He pulled open
the door, but stopped, hesitating briefly before he turned.  "Oh and Kni--  Nick...  I meant
what I said back at the precinct.  You ever want to talk, I'll be there."
     Nick's smile was restrained but sincere.  "Okay.  And Schank?  ...Thanks."
     There was an awkward moment before Schanke extended a hand.  "Yeah.  Well,
g'night -- _partner_.  See you tomorrow, same time, same station."
     Nick took the offered hand, warm flesh meeting cold, and shook it.  Then the door
slid shut across Schanke's broad grin, and the elevator bore him away.
     Nick took another sip of the wine and found himself mirroring the smile.
     Maybe this partner business wouldn't be so bad after all.
                                     
                                  + End +