FSE

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The precinct had been making changes, although no one knew where the money was coming from. I didn't bother challenging it, since I'd finally been given an office of my own. It reminded me a lot of Chelsea Watson's claustrophobic office at LK&M, because it was absolutely too damned small to take care of everything I needed to get my job done. The desk was a heavy, metal, military cast-off whose idea of having seen better days had to have been on the front lines. Metal filing cabinets, nearly bursting, proved that the Paperless Era had yet to happen, and yet more paper was stacked in piles all around me, almost enough to block the keyboard and monitor. The room was a wreck, four solid walls with a door in it, but it was mine. Mine, dammit.

"Hey, Dad."

I turned to find Michael at the door to the office, a grin on his muzzle, his forepaws bearing a paper bag and a brightly-colored thermos, a blister of color in the otherwise bland surroundings of my daily life. I grinned back at him. "Tell me that's a bagel and schmear, and it's to be my very own."

He passed the bag over to me, laughing gently. "You own it," he said, then brandished the thermos at me. "I bring to you the best hemlock, Hippocrates. Brewed it myself."

"You never know what's really in your food, do you?" I watched as he filled a ceramic mug bearing some comment that I couldn't read clearly. Probably something about Mondays. Of all the days of the week, Monday always catches the flack.

"Nothing bad for you, I promise. This blend has a lot of healing properties. It's got--"

He told me ingredients that I didn't recognize, a list of things that he clearly thought made the brew better than anything else. He knew his teas, so he was probably right. Steam rose up to my nose, and I sniffed. The scent was fruity, pleasant enough, and the temperature wasn't too hot. I took a sip of it, sighing a little. "This is good."

"I thought you might like it. It helps."

"What does it help?" I set the mug on my desk, glad that there weren't any papers in the way. The computer showed its screen saver, and I wondered why Barb's picture was on it. I jiggled the mouse; the image stayed. Perhaps it needed to, or maybe it was just stuck. Some things stick, even when you try to unstick 'em. As if that idea made sense.

"Like they say, it's good for what ails ya."

"I'd better have more then." Another sip went down well, reminding me of some flavor I'd had before, but I didn't know from where. I glanced at the window, glad that at least I got the office that faced the meadow. Spring had arrived, and it was going to be a beautiful one. I glanced at the wood filing cabinets, free of the piles that usually covered them, happy to see that the paperwork was finally caught up.

"How're you doing, Dad?"

"Just keeping going. Some cases are tougher than others, take a little legwork. Can't stop halfway, right? One paw in front of the other. Just gotta keep the routine going." I raised my cup to my pup, who nodded back at me, a happy smile on his muzzle. He still looked good in his MedSoc gear, or something like it, at least. I tried to remember the name that he had chosen for his Romany-like character. He read Tarot, I remembered, and the name was something to do with that, it seemed to me, but I couldn't recall it clearly. I knew that he was good at his readings; never had a customer complain. He told stories more than fortunes. It went over well.

Another sip of the tea, and I perhaps rudely closed my eyes to relax. I felt the sun on my face, not sure when I'd felt it last. The softest of breezes came in through the window. I'd thought it was closed. I turned my head toward the light, opened my eyes carefully. The picture windows that took up the entire meadows-facing wall were clear as crystal, and the sliding glass door was wide open. I turned back to my pup, who was sitting on a tree stump on the other side of my wooden desk. His smile never wavered, was still warm as the sunlight that poured into what was left of my office.

"Something's wrong," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I had the case file here a moment ago."

"Which one?"

"The suicide." The computer was gone, and my smooth wooden desk looked like it hadn't seen a day's work before. I could see myself in its polished surface. I saw a collie who had shadows around his sunken eyes, whose face looked drawn and haggard, who had the black shape of a tiger hovering behind him, somewhere near his shoulder.

"Drink your tea, Dad."

My forepaw shook a little as I took another sip of the brew. I had the strange sensation of it flowing through me rather than down my gullet. Shaking my head a little, I blinked hard, found the desk replaced by something like an end table, my chair more like a wingback, the space around me filled with sunlight pouring into the large, comfortable living space to one side. It was a familiar space, although it had been seen at night, and that was what finally made me figure out that I really was dreaming and that I was becoming aware of it.

Sitting in the other chair, my pup... my son still smiled, as if he had known where I was, what I was doing there. The images had already begun to slither away as I said, "Wait, Michael, what do I..."

"Dream, my sire," he said.

I reached the edge of consciousness, that point where enough of the brain is awake to log as much of the dream as it's going to, and I slipped back down again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Morning.

I sensed it before I opened my eyes. My mind pulled up the dream as best it could, and I tried holding on to the essence of it before waking up fully. I thought about tea that could erase my office, about my son who told me in my dream to dream, about how beautiful that picture window was, even when I knew there wasn't a meadow within (at best) three kilometers of the precinct, probably closer to twenty or more. The sunlight, though, that was something to remember. Warm, like the tea. Like the dream.

Holding myself quietly, I closed my eyes again, wondering if I could have just a few more minutes of just being Max instead of Detective Luton. That moment was inevitable, once we got the car pulled out of the ditch. I would find the wooden box and the items it contained, and everything would have to be told, and I wasn't looking forward to it. I wondered how they'd treat me when they found out. I wondered if there really would be a few renditions of "Up against the wall, fascist pig!" after all.

That wasn't what I was, though, was it? Did I really belong to that unhappy idea? What if there were something else? The tea seemed to erase so much pain, so much of "It Is What It Is," and I wondered if there were some sort of dreamer in me after all. I thought about this tribe, and I wondered if I could be part of it. That was less drinking some tea than drinking the Kool-Aid. I was no artisan. The best I could hope for would be to help them with their gardens, or their livestock, or something else. That would mean leaving what I'd been used to for so very long, the stuff I'd accumulated, whether physical things or otherwise. I thought of baggage that I would have to drag along, realizing there was no place for it here. The same was true of me.

I opened my eyes again as I felt Lightwing stirring beside me. She lay on her side, facing away from me. We had spooned for a long time, talked, eventually fallen asleep. I suppose the lust-filled monsters from my id had behaved themselves after all. After a few moments, she looked back over her shoulder, moving carefully to see if I'd woken up yet.

"G'morning," I whispered softly.

She slowly rolled her body back toward me, stretching out enough to pop a few joints in the process, smiling at me. "Hi there."

"Sleep?"

"Good. You?"

"Good," I nodded. "Thank you."

Lightwing reached up to pet my chest, and I stroked her headfur gently. "You see?" she grinned. "You were a perfect gentlefur."

"You're very warm, and... yeah, I guess I needed to let that out." I smiled at her. "Modern male, attempting to get in touch with his feelings, speaks some measure of truth."

She tapped my muzzle playfully with a finger. "And doing better than he thinks." She raised up on one elbow and looked at me affectionately. "Crying is an act of courage, Max. I don't remember where I heard that. It means letting yourself be vulnerable. Crying with someone else takes trust. Thank you for trusting me."

For a moment, I just looked at her, my smile still real yet not quite sure of itself. "Thank you for trusting a stranger, especially one with a secret."

Inwardly, I cringed at my words, and her forepaw reached out to caress my cheek. "Is it a secret, or something private?"

I had to think about the difference for a moment, then decide which it was. "It's a copout to say 'both,' so let me try something else. It's a secret that is connected to something private." I touched her cheek softly, my smile melting into something more somber. "I want to tell you them both. I think..." I swallowed. "I think both will happen later this morning. When it does, I hope you'll still want to know me."

"That bad?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying no judgment.

"It feels that way. Perhaps it won't be."

Pausing for a moment, the Husky considered me carefully. "Can you tell me the reason for keeping this secret? Is it selfish, dangerous...?"

"A little bit selfish. A lot about not wanting to hurt others."

Light rose in her eyes. "You really were looking for us."

"Not to hurt you." I reached out to clasp her shoulder gently. "I really did come here to look for answers. That's the selfish part of it. I think you've all given me some answers, and I hope to be gentle with you all." I shook my head. "Lightwing, I need your help. The more I have to talk in circles about this, the more frightening it must seem. When the car is pulled out of the ditch, I'll tell everything. All of you will hear everything. Is that enough? Is it okay?"

She took my forepaw and placed flat to her breastbone, holding my eyes with hers. "I want you to swear on my heart that you won't hurt us."

I felt tears trying to form again, knowing that the truth would make me say more. "My secret concerns news that may be painful to hear. It is not something that I bring to hurt you, any of you... most of all, you."

After a moment, she raised my forepaw to her lips and kissed my palm tenderly. "It's hurting you to keep it. So let's get started. Get dressed, we'll get breakfast, and we'll find out how to get that car out. After that, you can finally drop that burden. I will be here, Max. I promise you."

She hesitated only a moment before leaning in to press her closed lips to mine, a promise and a benediction of peace. It lasted only a few seconds, during which my heart tried to explode out of my chest. She pulled away, moved slowly out of bed, and got dressed. I found it difficult to say anything. After she had assembled herself, she leaned over the bed to touch my face once more.

"Better hurry," she smiled softly. "I hate suspense."

And she was gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I dressed, my mind decided to take a romp around its own playground, just to make me completely nuts. I tried to guess Lightwing's age, compared to my own 52 years, and concluded that we didn't belong sharing a bed together, even though "nothing happened." Of course, something happened, and it was both terrifying and liberating. I couldn't remember ever having broken down like that, especially not with someone there to witness it, much less share it. That's the part that was really doing a number on my head, when I looked on it through that lens. Lightwing wasn't just in the room like a casual observer; she held me, shivering a little, like she was feeling it too, like she dared to be a part of what was happening to me. It helped me, and I couldn't have imagined how much it would help, how good it would feel to let go of all that.

Fragments of the dream tried to resurface in my mind, and all I could remember was drinking tea, sitting in beams of sunshine streaming in through a big window. There was a feeling of release, of relief, that I was somehow letting go of... I shook my head. Not "life." It wasn't about dying, although there was some of that in there, too.

I dressed, then tended to a morning necessity, feeling unready to face the day, feeling also that the anticipation of pain is usually more painful than the event itself. I found myself unsure what it was that was going to hurt, and in what way it would hurt. A sensation from the dream, rather than the memory of the dream, came back to me -- something about erasing things, familiar things, important things... they seemed important, anyway. What was it that was so frightening?

The face in the ensuite mirror looked back at me. He was confused, not sure what about, and he was wondering what had happened in the last twelve or so hours. Dinner, conversation, tears, uncertainties. The body seen in that mirror was covered in the cotton garments borrowed from Darkstar. They looked less foreign on me today, felt more comfortable. That was probably a sign or some horrible portent. That nagging idea of wondering if I had any dreams left, if I could dare to try something new. But no matter how much pain it might carry, the old life was still familiar, like a car that didn't run well but at least was still running, no matter how much money, stress, and energy it took to keep it going. I guess it's true what they say: The only person who welcomes change is a wet baby.

Ah... that's more like the old Max.

That thought didn't comfort me. Perhaps breakfast would.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As I exited the hallway toward the den and dining hall, the stillness of the house struck me as odd. I couldn't be the first to leave his room? That made no sense, for any reason. Besides, the aromas in the air told me that someone had been doing a bit of cooking already.

The tables had been returned to their original positions, and I found some warming dishes on the sideboard, which surprised but delighted me with their contents. I found scrambled eggs far more orange-yellow than store-bought eggs would provide, some Canadian-style rashers of bacon, multigrain toast (homemade, I shouldn't wonder), marmalade-style cranberry preserves in a crockery pot nearby, and a carafe containing warm, rich cocoa. I tried not to be immodest with my portions, not sure how many others would be coming down and when. Enough was missing from each warming dish to tell me that I was most certainly not the first, and perhaps I wouldn't be the last.

A grand, leonine yawn turned my attention back toward the entranceway. Darkstar padded in wearing a rather grand robe, hanging down to mid-calf, which surprised me only a moment. I found the cotton pants and shirt amazingly comfortable, but when it's one's daily wear, one might want to be casual in other ways. I wondered if those fur-clad cuddle-piles ended with equally fur-clad breakfasts, and I thought probably not. I might have to ask, though. It would make a morning meal interesting, wouldn't it?

The lynx made a line directly for the warming trays, serving himself a portion of everything about the size of my own. I put my guilt on hold and smiled at him. "G'morning."

"G'morning to you, Max." He returned my smile generously. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," I managed to mumble through a bit of egg. "You?"

"Fine." He set his plate down at a place opposite me and sat himself on a stool. He took a long sip of the cocoa in his mug, and it seemed to revive him like coffee. "Ahh," he sighed, setting the mug down. "I could almost feel awake now." His eyes held a twinkle of mischief as he said, "Should I mention that I saw Lightwing this morning?"

"Don't you see her every morning?"

Darkstar chuckled softly. "No presumptions, just well-wishes. Timewind seems to agree with you, Max."

"I wouldn't have imagined it before, but perhaps I agree with Timewind."

He paused before eating, forepaws on either side of his plate, eyes closed -- a silent, personal grace. I'd neglected my own but paused during his, sharing it maybe. He breathed deeply, took up his fork, and dug in. I joined him, privately chastened, giving in to my hunger. HeHHAs with the night before, conversation took a backseat to stuffing our maws for a good minute or so. After that, Darkstar looked around and leaned forward as he spoke softly. "I still don't know what you're here for."

"I know."

"You said it wasn't an official matter, or at least you weren't here to serve papers or whatnot. What really brought you here?"

"I told Lightwing that I thought you might have the answers to some mysteries in my life. It was after that that she told me about Stellamara."

The lynx nodded somberly. "There's no question that she knows you're concealing something."

"Yet she trusted me."

"You cried. You became vulnerable. She must have felt that the secret was hurting you more than anyone else." He paused, then added, "Whatever it is, Max, I think you'll need to tell us. All of us. We keep private things private, but we don't keep secrets."

"You kept mine."

"Yours needed to be kept, for a short time, anyway."

There was no malice in his voice. I sighed a little, trying to make a decision. "Oaknail is your leader, isn't he?"

Darkstar let out a small snort of mirth. "In a way. We call him 'Chief' once in a while. When Timewind was created as a legal entity, he became its representative, like a CEO. We're a pretty democratically socialist bunch, overall; we manage to work out our differences without resorting to a strict chain of command. The bear will kick some tail when necessary, but not out of a position of absolute power. It's usually because we're letting ourselves down, and he motivates us."

"He's the founder, then?"

"He's a founder, yes. He doesn't lord it over us, if that's what you mean. I came along later, about twelve years ago." He regarded me over his mug of cocoa. "This is to do with one of the founders?"

"Does the name 'Airdancer' mean anything to you?"

"Thomas." The young fur's voice held a touch of awe. "I never had the chance to meet him; he hasn't been here for years. He's part of the history of the tribe, which I've been trying to compile. A lot of stories about him."

I decorated a bit of toast with cranberry marmalade, hoping I wasn't going to drop some onto my fur; the urge to lick it off might overcome accepted social graces. "What sort of stories?"

"He was the wielder of the sword of justice, called Albion. He would cut through the red tape and unnecessary bureaucracy that might hinder Timewind's growth. The tribe helped to put him through law school, and then he went into the public defender's office in upstate New York, taking the cases of furs who couldn't afford the big lawyers for themselves. After that, he went to a firm specializing in real estate law, which would really have helped us. I have the feeling, from the histories, that he was going to do exactly that, but..."

"He never came back?"

"Not as far as I know, and definitely not since I've been with the tribe. The early stories about him always seem to paint him a little larger than life. A powerhouse in law school -- bold as brass, said what he thought, pissed off his teachers, too good to get flunked out. Politically active, fighting for the best causes... He was 'born with the knack,' as Oaknail put it."

"You admire him."

"What I know of him, yes. I like dreamers, and Airdancer was one of those. One of the founders. Maybe a bit of halo effect, but all I've learned of him tells me a lot about him."

I looked down, realizing that I was about to destroy that picture. I remembered all the things that I'd learned, the things that defined the life of Thomas Glover, from being too unimportant to merit being murdered to the wholly pedestrian, wealthy-life activities that were so inconsequential as to be considered ordinary to those with such incomes. Nice to the staff, nice to his cubs, supportive to his wife, and yet lost to those who still dreamed. The idealist went to law school, then became a lawyer, then became little more than a shyster, a cog in a wheel, a tiger de-fanged and de-clawed in every important sense.

"Max?"

The words refused to stay caged any longer. "Thomas Glover is dead."

Darkstar paused for a long moment, then asked softly, "How?"

"Shot through the head."

Turning his head away, the lynx physically winced. Another brief pause before he said, "You're a homicide detective."

"Yes."

"He was murdered?"

"That's what my superiors wanted to believe. Glover was monied, part of a crowd that simply doesn't commit suicide, so they sent me to make sure that it really was murder."

"And it wasn't."

"No."

Another deep, steadying breath before he said, "You came all this way to tell us?"

"Partly," I admitted. "The rest was to try to understand why he did it."

"You think we caused him to--"

"I think," I raised my forepaws placatingly, "that he may have realized what he had lost. That's only a guess."

He nodded a little. "I see why you were hiding." He sat back and regarded me steadily. "I won't say anything until you talk to Oaknail."

"I'm sorry for the secrecy, Darkstar."

Smiling softly, he said, "That's the first time you've used my name, Max. Thank you."

"I didn't realize," I said. "Sorry for being so late."

"Late for what?"

The lynx and I turned toward the voice. Seeing our faces, Lightwing's happy demeanor shifted to one of concern. Darkstar rose from his place and went to hug her. She seemed instantly aware that he needed it, and she held him for a moment. That, I realized, was what this tribal family was about. More than friends, less than lovers. That feeling that asking for help didn't even need words or reasons, just someone who would be able to understand without them, or at least be patient enough to wait for the words, the answer to the "why" of the request... if there was one.

The Husky couldn't quite see over his shoulder to look at me while I was still sitting. Remembering my manners, I stood so that she could, and her expression remained concerned. When Darkstar gently released her, he kept a forepaw to her shoulder as he turned to me. "I'll fix a plate. I think she needs to know now instead of later."

I nodded, padding around the table to give Lightwing a hug of my own before sitting her down on one of the stools. "Everyone else will hear this soon; will you keep my secret for just a few more hours?"

"Of course."

The decision to reveal myself as a cop took only a few seconds; I still felt the cocoon that she had made for me last night, and I let myself continue to trust. I explained quickly that I had told Darkstar because he had found my shield the night before, and I apologized for telling him first. She was surprised, but not offended, especially not after I told her the reason for my visit to Timewind. She took the news of Glover's death only slightly better than did the tribal historian, as she was less familiar with the lawyer's legend. She still registered the hurt, as I explained to her the same details that I'd just given to Darkstar. The lynx brought a plate of food to her, as well as a mug of cocoa. She looked at me, her ice blue eyes filled with a different type of pain.

"No wonder you were hurting. Oh, Max..."

A saw a tear form and run down her cheek. I nearly had one myself. The morning, I remembered, had started off a lot nicer than this.