Thanks to HP Jules and Nancy K. for humoring my silliness. Disclaimer: Any resemblance between someone who knows what they are doing and myself is purely coincidental. ****************************** The Right of Way (1/4) By Bonnie Rutledge Copyright 2002 A week before he officially joined the Metro Toronto Police Department as a Homicide Detective, Nick Knight received his first traffic ticket. It wasn't the first time a well-meaning officer of the law had pulled him over, not by a long shot. It wasn't even the first occasion he'd been presented with a formal-looking, carbon copy slip printed with a court date and an infraction, followed by the corresponding monetary indulgence for his automotive sin. This instance carried a difference, however. For the first time since carriages had become horseless, Nick Knight hadn't been able to get out of the ticket with a wink, a smile, or some unholy persuasion. No handing the carbon copy slip back to the officer for some official tearing-into-little-bits, and driving away with only a warning. Finally, a virgin experience over a century of combustion engines and pedal pumping, Nick had been well and truly fined. His inaugural traffic ticket occurred for a seemingly inane reason. It had been a clear night, but then every night is clear when you have the vision of a vampire. Still, it was a very nice night, indeed, for even mortals would have had an easier time than usual finding their way among shadowed, unlit streets. Nick had been house hunting, a tricky endeavor for a vampire, at best. Most realtors, the lure of a plump commission aside, were hesitant to meet up with a client more than an hour or two past the average mortal working day. Since it was the season of ever- lengthening days, Nick was fortunate to manage a short rendezvous with his 'relocation consultant' to acquire a list of vacant properties for his inspection. Vacant, of course, because few Misters or Misses were desperate enough for a sale to allow a stranger drop in around midnight to inspect their closet space. Sure, Nick could have handed the entire project over to the consultant with a list of his preferences: no wood frames, low natural light, blinds on the windows, room for his television, yard not required. Nick could have, but after so many centuries of make-do shelter and temporary stays in hotels, he wanted his new address to hold personal appeal. He wanted to pull his possessions out of storage and fill the empty space. He wanted to cross the threshold and think, 'Yeah, this is me. This is mine.' Nick wanted a home. So Nick drove down Gateway Lane on a clear night, his convertible open to the light breeze. He bobbed his eyes toward the slip of paper resting on the Caddy's dashboard to double check his target address, then darted his gaze to inspect the clusters of warehouse- looking buildings that lined the road to find number 101. Nick, admittedly, was moderately distracted. He had slowed the Caddy to a crawl, slipping through an intersection with stop signs guarding each direction, and checked the scene as he rolled. The roads were deserted: no cars prompting brakes, no pedestrians, not even an insomniac pigeon or a cricket rubbing its legs. It was one o'clock in the morning. Why should he stop for nothing when he was busy looking for his potential new home? Nick didn't see the point, and, again, he had excellent night vision. But there was a point, one that took the form of a squad car with flashing blue lights in the Caddy's rear-view mirror. It took Nick a while to notice he had company. Initially, he spotted 101 Gateway. He peered up at the multistoried brick building as though he could stare into its depths with X-ray vision. Since his powers of sight weren't *that* gifted, Nick eagerly turned off his car and plucked his keys out of the ignition. He had one hand on the frame of the Cadillac door, ready to decamp, when he sensed a mortal heartbeat. At his first glimpse of the uniformed officer approaching his car, Nick felt no trepidation. He experienced no guilt. He wasn't on the defensive. Yes, the officer looked humorless, her face pulled into stern lines, the thick set of her body held rigid as she walked. Still, Nick Knight tossed her a carefree smile. He thought there had been a misunderstanding. Her interest made some sense to Nick, considering how he was coasting down the street outside a vacant building in the middle of the night. The circumstances could look a bit dodgy to the suspicious eye; perhaps it appeared he was casing the area. The patrol officer danced the beam of her flashlight over the Caddy's seats, then Nick's face, causing him to squint uncomfortably at the brightness. "Your license and registration, please," the officer clipped. "Sure," Nick said, leaning across his car to begin an earnest hunt through the glove box for the requested items. He certainly hadn't done anything wrong...tonight. Digging through the clutter, Nick quickly found his State of Illinois registration, still two month's shy of expiration. His license proved a more elusive quarry. The glove compartment brimmed with sheaves of carbon copies detailing every oil change and tire rotation underwent by his Cadillac since 1962. To call it a disaster area would be generous and kind. After a search-filled minute, in which Nick could hear the officer's fingers tap-tapping with increased impatience against her holster, his grip finally latched upon a reassuring rectangular shape coated in industrial-strength laminate. "Here," Nick said, passing his identification to the waiting officer. "Sorry it took so long." Suddenly he frowned. Why was he apologizing? Why did he now feel so tense? He reminded himself: It's not like you've done anything wrong...tonight. The patrol officer focused the flashlight beam on the license, then back on Nick's face. "We have a problem. This has been expired for over 20 years." "What?" Nick said distantly. His gaze had drifted up the building at 101 Gateway, imagining the space inside with anticipation. Turning his attention back to the officer, he finally took a good look at the license he'd retrieved from the glove compartment. Sure enough, it featured his face, only with a goatee. Embarrassment at his mistake set in as Nick recognized the words 'State of New York' and a Greenwich Village address with a sinking feeling. "I forgot I had that," Nick confessed. It was the truth. Now to explain the resemblance. "It was my uncle's." He gave the officer a charming smile. "My Uncle Nick." He turned back to the glove compartment, burying both hands in the mound of papers with a surge of desperation as he continued to talk. "I was named after him," Nick spun. "People say there's a strong resemblance." His fingers met with another stiff plastic card. Ah. This time Nick checked the license before handing it over, noting that it was the correct one. "He's dead now. That's why I have his license." Nick's smile broadened. "Kept it as a memento." Noting the officer's slightly perplexed stare, Nick became conscious that maybe he shouldn't appear so cheerful talking about his fictitious dead uncle. He gear-shifted his expression to appear more forlorn with grief. "It was terrible," he elaborated solemnly, getting into the spirit of covering his slip-up. "He was walking to his apartment when some movers dropped a piano on him." Nick checked to see if his story was winning any of the cop's sympathy. She stared at him flatly, with all the emotion of mannequin. "From the fifth floor," Nick tacked on, shaking his head. "As the emergency crew finally moved his body, bystanders swore he played 'Chopsticks.'" Nick flattened his lips, holding back a grin. Okay, maybe he was pushing his story a bit too far. "You're not from around here," the officer concluded, adding, "You also seem distracted." "Hmm?" Nick glanced up, realizing that his thoughts had wandered back to the real nights that he'd lived in New York City. "Yeah, I just moved here. I'm hunting for a place," he said, launching into his reasonable explanation of what he was doing cruising the neighborhood so late. He picked the real estate agent's list of properties off the dashboard, pointing to an address, then the nearest building. "I'm touring 101 Gateway. The realtor's number is at the top of the page if you want to check that I'm supposed to be here." The officer gave the phone number a dismissive glance. "That's not why I stopped you, Mr. Knight." "Detective Knight, actually," Nick corrected, aiming for a spirit of camaraderie. "I start the night shift at the 27th next week. Homicide," he volunteered. "Really." For the first time, the patrol officer's voice betrayed some feeling. Unfortunately, that glimmer of emotion seemed to most resemble annoyance. "Really!" He paused. "If this check isn't to see what I'm doing out here in the middle of the night..." Puzzlement crept into Nick's features. "I don't get it. What is this about?" "Did you fail to notice the stop sign at the last intersection?" "No," Nick said. "I noticed it." "Then why didn't you stop?" "Because there was no reason to stop," Nick said logically. "There was the stop sign," the cop countered. "Maybe," Nick said with a stubborn note. This encounter was starting to resemble a debate with LaCroix. "Look..." Nick said testily as he referenced the policewoman's badge. "...Officer Gray. I know you're just doing your job, so let me assure you, I saw the stop sign. I slowed, I looked, and there was nothing coming from any direction, so I didn't see the point in stopping." "How do you know that nothing was coming?" Officer Gray responded. "I can see perfectly -" Nick was going to argue that he could see perfectly well in the dark. It was just as well the cop cut off his retort. It would have been a careless boast, and to a mortal's point-of-view, arrogantly untrue. "The night severely diminishes vision," the officer lectured. "Had someone been driving without their headlights on, they could have barreled right into you." "But there was no one -" Nick started to protest. "Wait here," the officer interrupted. Nick experienced the giddiness of indignation as he watched Officer Gray march toward her patrol car with his license and registration. His dead Uncle Nick's license, too! Certain she would run both through the system, Nick knew no troublesome details existed for her to find. It was the principle of the thing that bothered him - having to endure such an inspection for such a measly, absurd reason. A stop sign at a vacant intersection? Meanwhile, 101 Gateway Lane loomed in his landscape, a promised oasis, so close yet so far. Nick fidgeted. Nick bristled. Nick absolutely couldn't believe this was happening. After what seemed a gratuitously unreasonable wait, Officer Gray returned to the Caddy. She handed Nick the two licenses and his automobile registration, followed by a carbon copy of police paperwork. Nick scanned the form with disbelief. She was giving him a ticket! Not a warning, but an actual ticket! "You can't be serious." Nick was in complete denial. "You're giving me a ticket for failure to stop?!" "You can appear on your court date and dispute the charge," the officer explained in a mechanical tone, "or you can admit your wrongdoing and pay the fine and processing fees." Nick scowled at the citation, but quickly regrouped his persuasive manner. Giving Officer Gray his most winning smile, he tried to reason with her as if they were old friends sharing a secret. "Come on...can't you give a fellow cop a break? Let's just say I've learned the error of my ways and keep this little infraction between us, eh?" He smoothly held out the ticket so that she could rip it up, no hard feelings. Unfortunately, Officer Gray remained unyielding. She pushed Nick's hand, with ticket, back within the confines of his car. "Being a *fellow* cop," she echoed (and for the first time it occurred to Nick that might have been a poor word choice), "you should be familiar with how this works. Laws are not suggestions, Detective. We have them for a reason." Nick thought she was just being hardheaded. It wasn't like failure to stop was the same thing as murder, but that's how Officer Gray treated it. He said as much, couching his protest in a hypnotic tone, tacking on, "You don't......want to give me a ticket ......" The officer's response was like a dash of holy water. "Don't be immature, Detective. Accept the ticket. It may seem trivial to you, but I've seen many an accident in my time. Failure to stop *could* mean murder. I hope you never have the misfortune to find that out." With that, Officer Gray returned to her patrol car, leaving Nick to stare obstinately at his citation. As she drove away, Nick reflected grimly on the state of using vampire powers in this day and age. First Natalie Lambert resisted his mind control, and now the patrol officer. Were there any weak-willed women left in the world? Nick shoved the traffic ticket into the muddle of his glove compartment, and he shifted his attention toward inspecting 101 Gateway Lane with growing domestic pride. That was the beginning of his ticket trouble. ******************************************* End of Part One The Right of Way (2/4) By Bonnie Rutledge Copyright 2002 Time passed, and Nick Knight began working Homicide in the 27th precinct. The indignity of a paltry traffic ticket was eventually eclipsed by a more unlife-affecting disaster: Captain Stonetree had assigned him a partner, the boisterous, loud, and oftentimes obnoxious Donald G. Schanke. Nick only allowed Schanke to drive his car under extreme circumstances. Frankly, the alternative of implosion by sunlight was about the only thing that made Schanke's hands on the steering wheel an attractive notion. Nick knew he shouldn't blame Schank for the crash that happened during their first case working together; it wasn't Don's fault that the perp had cut the Caddy's brake line. No, it wasn't his fault, but Nick still couldn't so much as think of Schanke in the driver's seat without hearing polka music. The memory maintained Nick's tight grip on the Cadillac keys. So while they were on duty, Nick was almost always the one doing the driving while Schanke rode shotgun. Nick thought this was an ideal assignment of tasks. After all, driving the Caddy was one of the few things that gave him pure, guilt-free enjoyment. Don liked to sit around. Granted, Schank preferred to sit around in front of a television set with a beer in hand, but filling the passenger's side of a classic Cadillac was a close second, in Nick's view. For some reason, Schanke seemed less enthusiastic about this arrangement. A night's on- duty travel had this typical soundtrack: "Watch the road, Nick! Watch the road!" "Christ, Knight! My dead mother-in-law drives straighter than you!" "What the HELL are you looking at?! Knight!! EARTH TO KNIGHT!!!!!" "The yellow line! You crossed the yellow line!" "The car! Mind the car!" "If they can't pry me out of the wreckage, tell Myra I love her." "Stop! STOP!!!! STOOOOOPPPP!!!!!!!" "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!!!!!!!!!" Nick didn't understand Schanke's fussing. Nick knew he was a very good driver. He'd learned how to maneuver a car a full twenty years before LaCroix, who'd labeled automobiles a passing fad until the Model T entered production. Shaking his head, Nick decided to put Schanke's enthusiastic back seat driving down to his robust temperament. When Schanke's car went into the shop, Nick gallantly offered his partner a ride to and from work. Strangely, Don appeared hesitant to accept. "I was planning to take the bus." "That's a longer commute," Nick dismissed. "You've been late how many times this month? You don't want Stonetree lecturing you with that story about the moose herder who moved too slow and got frozen in a snow drift again, do you?" Schanke took his time as he weighed his options: Nick's driving or the tale of the frozen moose herder. "Alright, alright. I guess your driving is the lesser of two evils." Nick laughed. He thought Schanke was joking. Schanke, meanwhile, held onto the car door for dear life as the Cadillac screeched around another corner. ************************************** Nick Knight received his second traffic ticket the following night. "Man, oh, man, you're busted!" Schanke said as the siren sounded. "Next time, hit the squirrel." "I am not busted," Nick said firmly. "It was nothing." Schanke snorted noisily. "Yeah, right. Tell that to the life flashing before my eyes." This time, Nick did feel a tad guilty about his automotive maneuvers. The crime scene of their latest murder case had reminded him of an event from the past, and he'd slipped into the memory, recalling the first time he'd witnessed a victim stabbed to death with garden shears. That was when he'd met Feliks Twist... "What is it with the squirrels in Ontario?" Schanke's gabbing broke into his reverie once more. "It's like they're throwing themselves under your car, Knight. Suicidal squirrels! Hey, isn't that the name of one of those bands out of Seattle?" Nick sighed. Yes, he'd been distracted by his flashback. It had taken Schanke's dismayed yelp for him to realize that they were headed off the road. Nick had then overcompensated, steering too forcefully in the opposite direction. The Caddy had crossed into the oncoming traffic, and he had narrowly avoided a collision with two other cars. No wonder that patrol officer turned on the flashing lights. Nick felt slightly disconcerted at his embarrassing lapse behind the wheel, but he still didn't believe his slip up was that big of a deal. No collisions, and no injuries, least of all the demise of the fictitious suicidal squirrel. The most Nick expected was a word of warning. Most likely there'd be the usual Metro PD response: some ribbing from the other cop about his driving that Schanke would repeat to anyone who'd listen for the next week. Nick turned with a humble gaze to accept the approaching officer's jokes with good humor, but his expression faltered as he recognized a familiar face. Officer Gray. If she had a sense of humor, she'd left it in her other orthopedic footwear. Officer Gray glared into the Caddy with mud puddle eyes, already fingering her pad of citations in anticipation. Even Schanke was shell-shocked enough by the sudden cold atmosphere to gulp audibly. "We can explain..." he sputtered. "Squirrel..." Nick echoed, his mouth working on auto-pilot. He was starting to have another flashback, one where he dimly recalled receiving a traffic ticket while loft- shopping. Regrettably, he couldn't dimly recall paying it. "I see," Officer Gray said with biting sarcasm. "You're in Homicide, didn't you say? That little episode of lane acrobatics was to apprehend a homicidal squirrel, was it, Detective Knight?" "Nah." Schanke waved a careless hand. "We're off-duty." "Well," Officer Gray said, looking smugly satisfied, "if he wasn't acting in a police matter, it looks like Detective Knight has earned himself a new traffic ticket - crossing into oncoming traffic. I'll be back." "Thanks a lot, Schank," Nick muttered as they watched the officer walk back to her patrol car. "You had to tell her we were off-duty." "It just came out!" Schanke protested. He grimaced, then shook his head. "Man, I haven't felt that on the spot since the time I was twelve and got caught supergluing Mother Margaret Mary's shoes to the cafeteria floor." Schanke's face twisted in disgust. "What do I have to be guilty about?" He jabbed an index finger in Nick's direction. "*You're* the one who did the Skid Mark Polka." "I'm going to get a ticket," Nick said fatalistically. "Can't you talk her out of it?" Schanke asked. "Lay on the manly charm?" He fluttered his eyelashes to demonstrate. Nick grimaced, remembering his failed whammy from the previous time he'd been stopped by Officer Gray. "She's resistant to my charm, Schank," he said gloomily. "How about a bribe? I swear, the trouble that a pair of decent Maple Leaf seats can't get you out of hasn't been invented yet." Nick considered the suggestion. He supposed he could pull a few strings, or pay a scalper's price...or would that be wrong? Just as he made a decision, Officer Gray returned, police forms ominously clutched in her grip. "I have two hockey tickets..." Nick began hopefully, as Schanke signaled a thumbs-up. "That's nice," Officer Gray replied, her tone suggesting anything but niceness. "Now you have another pair of tickets," she said, handing Nick his copies of the citations. "Two?" Nick winced as if the papers were garlic-scented. "One for crossing the double-yellow, the other for outstanding traffic fines. I noticed you missed your court date for your last ticket. I suggest you pay up, Detective Knight...or else." She tapped her nightstick against her chunky thigh, her expression revealing a hint of maniacal glee, then turned sharply to stride back to her patrol car. "Or else?!" Nick repeated, smirking. "Or else? What's she going to do? Shoot me?" Schanke burst out laughing as his partner started the car. "Knight got busted...nyah-nyah- nyah-nyah-nyah..." he sang. Nick shot him a challenging grin before pulling away from the curb. "You want to walk the rest of the way home?" Schanke's face fell. "Breakfast would be cold!" Nick shook his head with regret. "That'd be a shame. I'd hate to do that to you, Schank." 'But he would' was implied, if Schanke's serenade continued. The Caddy subsided into silence for a thoughtful minute, before Don worked up the nerve to mention greedily, "If you *do* have hockey tickets..." But Nick had tuned him out, already returning to his memory of meeting Feliks Twist, all thoughts of tickets pushed to the back of his mind. ******************************************** Other citations joined the briar patch of Nick's glove compartment over the next two years. Once, he'd suddenly realized he'd forgotten to down his dose of Vitamin A before leaving the loft. He'd made a U-turn in the middle of the street, his main concern being the cure for vampirism more than any applicable traffic laws. Earning this fine actually taught Nick a lesson: the next time he overlooked taking his vitamins, he skipped them completely. In the end, he'd annoyed Officer Gray *and* Natalie. On another occasion, Nick had become distracted by the radio. LaCroix was engaged in one of his 'Nightwatch With The Nightcrawler' monologues - "What drives the hunter...? What veers him off course...?" - when heavy static interrupted the signal. Nick took his eyes off the road as he adjusted the radio dial, and next thing he knew, the Caddy wound up in some shrubbery. That ticket was really LaCroix's fault - at least, Nick told himself so as he shoved the citation into his glove box, then promptly forgot about the slip of paper as the airwaves cleared to broadcast bell-clear once more. Whenever, wherever Nick wavered in the legalities of driving, Officer Gray seemed to be lurking, ready with steely eyes and a ballpoint pen to pounce on any infraction, to question his decisions and damn him guilty. She became his number-two nemesis: resistant to persuasion, stubborn with the minutiae of the law, his shadow on the streets of Toronto. And the traffic tickets kept mounting... *************************************** "Detective Knight, I need to see you," Amanda Cohen announced. "Now." Nick complied immediately. Three months had passed since he'd transferred to the 96th precinct with Schanke, and he still found it cagey interpreting some of their new captain's moods. The tone of Cohen's voice suggested she was royally steamed about something, so he tacked on a placating smile as he entered her office. "Yes, Captain?" She settled behind her desk, flipping open a healthy-sized folder. "It's been brought to my attention that your driver's license is on the verge of being revoked." "Revoked?" Nick's face flinched with a mixture of pain and horror. No license would mean no Caddy! "Sixteen unpaid traffic citations over the past three years. Officers are granted some leeway because of the nature of their jobs and the special training they receive at the Academy, but, Detective, this is just unacceptable." Nick was stunned. He had to sit down. He could swear he felt faint. "What can I do?" "Pay the tickets, for a start," Cohen said crisply. "I've spoken with the judge, and he's agreed to clear your driving record if you take a defensive driving course. There are night classes available, and I expect you to be in one within the next two weeks. I don't want you behind the wheel until then. You'll have to ride along with Detective Schanke." "Ride along with Schanke?" Nick repeated, his voice faint with dismay. Perhaps there was a loophole. Maybe Larry Merlin could fix his record, bypassing judges and classes and suspension of his Caddy privileges altogether. If he couldn't...no, that didn't bear thinking about. ********************************************* End of Part Two The Right of Way (3/4) By Bonnie Rutledge Copyright 2002 Six nights and as many ride-alongs in Schanke's smoke-filled, dog-haired, pine-tree freshener bedecked sedan later, Nick entered the classroom for 'Defensive Driving 101 - Drive Down Safety Street.' To be fair, it wasn't Don's car handling that drove him round the bend, nor was it Schanke's taste in music. Nick's misery boiled down to the nagging sensation that he wasn't in control. He wasn't the one with the final vote in their destination. He didn't get to choose their route, fudge their speed, or pick the parking spot. Taken separately, these were all trivialities, but together, the circumstances created a man whose fate, whose destiny, was in the hands of another, and those hands smelled of extra-garlic souvlaki. Having no control, no final say, reminded Nick too much of centuries spent as LaCroix's pawn. He wanted his freedom back. He wanted to drive! Schanke, unaware of the dark metaphor his position behind the wheel had evoked, innocently tried to make the best of the situation. He eyed Nick frequently with concern, asking with a friendly amount of sincerity, "Knight, you okay over there?" Nick would nod weakly and grin, but it was all for show. He was not okay; he was a passenger. And so, Nick signed up for driving school. He was determined to take charge of his path to destiny once more, no matter what the sacrifice. It couldn't be worse than forever forsaking his Cadillac to the garage. Resolution to resume his place behind the wheel aside, Nick felt indignant and rather sorry for himself. Firstly, Larry Merlin hadn't returned any of his calls; the man's answer phone message spoke of a road trip to the States to visit his sister. This recording intensified Nick's surge of self-pity. He didn't have the option of taking a road trip, and he couldn't visit his sister whenever he felt like it. For one thing, his sister had been dead since the Middle Ages. Secondly, the driving school receptionist took his license upon his arrival. She claimed it had something to do with preventing students from sneaking out of the class early. Nick bristled. They treated everyone like they were hundred year-olds! (Never mind that Nick had contemplated sneaking out early himself.) The classroom was nearly full when Nick arrived. The room looked as though some effort had been dedicated toward making the mortals comfortable. The lighting was generous, yet not overly bright, the seats weren't cold metal, but lightly padded with blue fabric, and a television cart stood to the left, angled slightly so that the entire class could watch 'The Jerry Show' until the course officially began. Nick also picked out signs that this wasn't your average classroom. The chalkboard at the front of the room had been adapted to permanently resemble a four-lane intersection, while a collection of car, sign, truck, school bus, stoplight, pedestrian, and cyclist magnets were tacked to the right, waiting to be incorporated into deadly examples and their safety-correct counterparts. To the right, the first slide in a presentation had been projected on a screen, featuring the title of the course in bold yellow on a blue background: 'DRIVE DOWN SAFETY STREET!' Nick couldn't decide whether the exclamation point had been added to encourage or threaten. Instead of individual desks, the classroom had tables, three chairs each, as if the designers of this program wanted to encourage exchanges among the participants. Nick scowled, for he would have preferred a desk all to himself, where he could sit quietly, alone and undisturbed. With a resigned sigh, Nick scanned the remaining empty seats and evaluated his options. One spot waited at the front, but Nick could see where one inhabitant of the table - a bushy-faced older man - was gabbing and gesticulating wildly to his neighbor on the left - a skinny, pimply teenager with glazed eyes. Nick didn't want to join that scenario, so he studied the other remaining location. This seat had the advantage of being in the very back: more remote, therefore more attractive to Nick. The inhabitants were also more acceptable, being that they didn't appear inclined to talk to strangers. An elderly Chinese man, bent studiously over a workbook, filled the left seat. Every few moments his brow would furrow, and he would turn to a thick book at his elbow, flip through its pages, then proceed to make another note in his workbook. The right seat held a woman, a well-groomed brunette in her mid- thirties, who was engrossed in a conversation on her mobile phone. Feeling satisfaction that he could survive the evening brooding undisturbed between these two, Nick moved toward the middle chair. As he passed through the rows of tables, Nick sensed someone staring at him. His eyes followed his instincts, finding a scruffy dark-haired man studying him with a smirk. Nick's gaze narrowed. He couldn't place him exactly, but there was something familiar about the man - wasn't he one of the suspects Schanke and he had hauled into the precinct for a lineup a few months ago? Nick could swear he felt his cheeks burn as he swiftly continued toward the back of the room. It was a nightmare come true: he'd been brought to censure alongside a garden-variety criminal. Worse yet, that delinquent knew he was a cop, and that Nick Knight wasn't any better than a common crook. Nick slumped dejectedly in his seat, ashamed at his own hypocrisy. Who was he to feel superior? Criminals had every right to mock his faults. He was guilty. A killer. A sinner. A monster who defied the laws of heaven and nature. A foul beast unable to contain his hunger. A soulless devil. An enemy of innocence. A tempter of virtue. A destroyer of speed limits... Wait a second! Nick straightened, glaring ahead, ready to defy any who dared to attack him. He wasn't guilty of anything this time except bad luck and distraction - that's all his presence in a defensive driving course signified! Yes, Nick nodded to himself. He'd chosen the path of redemption. He was absolving his sins, be they an illegal U-turn or murder. Besides, the classroom held nearly thirty people, and only the scruffy smart aleck looked truly disreputable. The rest were all average citizens - a fine bushel of humanity's crop. He was in good company! Nick looked down at his portion of the tabletop and found a workbook. He glanced to his left, comparing it with his studious neighbor's. Their books were identical, apparently companion manuals to the slide show. Nick frowned worriedly, wondering for a moment if he was supposed to read up before the class started. No one had warned him that he should prepare! If so, Nick thought, checking his watch, he only had five minutes. Checking his neighbor once more, Nick reconsidered. The book the man consulted repeatedly was a translation dictionary, and Nick recognized the notes he scribbled in his workbook were in Chinese characters. His neighbor wasn't studying so much as he was scaling the Tower of Babel. Nick touched the man's arm to confirm his suspicion, asking in Mandarin, "You're learning English?" The old man beamed at the sound of his native language. "Yes! And not doing so well. My grandchildren make it look so easy!" He tapped his temple, a wise calm in his expression. "The older we get, the harder is it to learn new things. The brain becomes stubborn and tired, yes?" "Yes," Nick agreed whimsically, wondering how many centuries the man had underestimated his 800 years. "If you have any trouble understanding," he offered, "I'll help if I can." After his neighbor nodded with pleasure and returned to his dictionary, Nick's attention drifted toward the woman on his right. She was still absorbed in her phone call, her voice filled with alarm. "What?! No, she cannot have a sleepover. It's a weeknight!" An exasperated pause followed, after which she retorted, "Well, you just un-give her permission! Jenny knows the rules. She also knows you're a soft touch," the woman muttered. "What are you feeding her for dinner?" The woman dug absently in a large brown leather purse as she listened. She unearthed a bottle of lotion labeled 'Skin Pretty Silky Palms' and began to rub some on her hands. The fragrance of pina colada wafted into the air. Nick frowned, experiencing another twinge of recognition. Nick then felt a tap on his left arm. He turned his attention back toward his other neighbor, just as the woman exclaimed into her mobile, "Greek takeout! You and your Greek takeout! All right, Donnie, just make sure she eats some vegetables. No, garlic doesn't count. And no donuts for dessert! Love ya, Big Bear!" She puckered her lips. "Mwwaah! Bye-ee!" Nick glanced questioningly at the smiling Chinese man, who explained sheepishly in his native tongue, "You made your kind offer of assistance, and I failed to show respect by giving you my name and learning yours. I am Chen Kuohan." Nick offered Chen a handshake. "I'm Knight. Nick Knight." The woman to his right suddenly let out a horrified shriek. "Someone said 'Nick Knight'? Nick?! Knight?! OH NO!!" Hearing her dismay, Nick looked at the woman again, feeling uncomfortable. Awkwardness seeped into him as he grasped that he'd met her somewhere - yes, she did appear familiar - but where? Scraping the bottom of his memory's barrel, Nick swiftly weighed the possibilities. She was mortal. Okay, that narrowed it down to the British Invasion or later... Most likely he'd met her recently in Toronto. On a homicide case? She certainly shrieked like somebody had died, or was about to. No, wait...a flash of an introduction at the 27th Precinct's cookout the year before solidified in his mind like a lead balloon. They'd only come face to face that one time, but how could he have forgotten? "Myra? It's good to see you," Nick said politely. "Schanke never mentioned you were taking this defensive driving course." "Oh, dear. That's because Donnie doesn't know. He thinks I'm bowling with the girls," Myra Schanke muttered dejectedly, then her gaze grew steely. "And you have to promise me you won't tell him!" Nick was a bit stunned by the curveball of this domestic intrigue, and very curious considering the number of nights Schanke had mentioned his wife was 'out bowling with the girls.' "But why the cover-up?" "Because Donnie will grumble and groan if our auto insurance premiums increase," Myra said matter-of-factly. "The groaning will be because *I'm* the one with the speeding ticket. He'll use the cost as an excuse to avoid everything he doesn't want us to do - like whale watching excursions and trips to Hawaii." Nick nodded in understanding. He could imagine Schank wanting to steer clear of long, cold days watching Orcas getting frisky. "Taking this course gets my ticket dismissed," Myra continued. "No premium hike, so Donnie and I live happily ever after...on vacation in Oahu." "So if you have everything worked out..." Nick asked slowly, feeling he was perhaps treading on dangerous ground. There were certain things he didn't want to know about his partner. "...Why not tell Schank? Wouldn't he be happy you've taken care of the problem? Deceiving him, letting him think you've been bowling..." Nick said frankly, "Isn't that a bad way to handle someone you love?" Myra Schanke laughed. She laughed, a guffaw that brought tears to her eyes, right in Nick's face. "You've never been married, have you?" "Yes I have!" he countered instinctively. A split-second later, he regretted it. Myra's eyes immediately narrowed into twin black holes of nosiness, ready to consume all gossip that strayed into her path. "Really? Donnie told me you were single. It sounds like you spend plenty of time with Doctor Lambert in off hours, doing who knows what. I assumed that was why she didn't want to date my cousin Lionel. Hmm...Don also said you were very friendly with that nightclub owner. What was her name - Janet? "Janette. It's Janette," Nick said emphatically. "Janette." "Uh-huh," Myra said knowingly. "She certainly doesn't sound like the wifely type..." Nick's mouth formed a miserable line. "I'm not married anymore," he clipped, thinking of Alyssa. "It didn't work out." "Oh, that's too bad," Myra began sweetly. Then her voice became stingingly smug. "I bet you revealed some horrible truth to her that ended it. Don't you wish you could take it back now?" "All right. All right," Nick acquiesced. Anything to change the subject from his matrimonial past. "I won't breathe a word to Schanke. Enjoy Hawaii. Aloha." "That's very nice of you," Myra said before probing with an air of assumed innocence, "So about you and Natalie Lambert..." "What do you know?" Nick interrupted eagerly. "It looks like the lecturer has arrived. The class must be starting." Sure enough, a solid figure up front was writing in the top corner of the chalkboard. Nick's eagerness at escaping Myra's matchmaking conversation quickly dissipated into dread as he read the name of the instructor: Officer Gray. ************************************************ End of Part Three The Right of Way (4/4) By Bonnie Rutledge Copyright 2002 "What is the most dangerous thing you will do in your lifetime?" Officer Gray had pinpointed each member of the class with a disdainful stare. "We'll go around the room, shall we?" "Call my ex-wife." "Eat blowfish." "Skydive." An elderly Austrian woman in the third row lifted her chin proudly. "Cross zey Alps to escape zey Nazis!" When it became Nick's turn, he was stymied for an answer. What *was* the most dangerous thing one did in their mortal lifetime? It had been a long, long time. "Err...die?" he guessed. Myra followed up with her deadpan response. "Marry a Polish-Italian." When the entire class had offered up their suggestions, Officer Gray glowered her disapproval at the assembled students. "NO! DRIVING is the most dangerous thing you will do in your lifetime!!!! DRIVING!!!!" "Maybe *your* lifetime," Nick muttered under his breath. "During the four hours you will spend in this course," Officer Gray continued sternly, "approximately twenty people will be killed in motor vehicle crashes. In one year, over forty thousand people die in car accidents." By the time she'd finished reciting statistics, Nick's smirk had faded into a contrite frown. Forty thousand seemed an overwhelming number compared to the caseload of homicides he worked in a year. An entire motorized army falling on an asphalt battleground from bad decisions, chance, irresponsibility... "In a recent study, drivers were asked to rank their skills behind the wheel," Officer Gray announced. "Over sixty percent claimed they were better than the average driver." Nick's mouth tilted slightly as he consoled himself. He *did* drive better than the average person. He had more experience! Officer Gray's next words were ego-crushing. "Sixty percent of drivers are better than average? No way. This is an impossible figure, which only proves that there are a lot of people on the road who think they are better drivers than they really are." She's looking at me, Nick though suddenly. She means me! What if I'm not as good of a driver as I think? Sure, I learned stick shift from Karl Benz himself, but that was a long time ago. Maybe I've gotten complacent over the past century. Perhaps I take sitting behind the wheel for granted... What if? Nick thought. What if I *am* putting mortal lives in jeopardy every time I get behind the wheel? The thought made Nick's shoulders slump heavily. At that moment, he resolved to take Officer Gray's entire, grueling, four-hour lecture to heart. *********************************** "Oh, I can't look!" Myra Schanke moaned. She clapped her hands over her eyes, then squinted through a gap between her fingers. "Was he impaled? Did his head come off? Oh! Oh, I can't look!" she repeated, this time turning her head to the side. "Yes, he lost his head," Nick said, grimly digesting the fact that even vampires could perish in a severe car wreck. And hour earlier, Officer Gray had dimmed the lights so that she could show them a video montage of fatal car crashes in full color, accompanied by a gruesome soundtrack. Nick grew miserable witnessing the victims' suffering. Even worse, his stomach had begun to grumble at the onslaught bloodstained images to such a degree that Myra had offered him a granola bar for a snack. At a loss, Nick had no choice but to accept, the oats clinging to his tongue with the flavor of honey-kissed cardboard. Chen Kuohan had fallen into a horrified stupor as the videos progressed. "Is she here to teach safe driving, or to scare us into never touching a car again?" "Driving is a privilege," Nick announced stoically. "We've all taken it for granted. Never again!" Myra peeked at him through manicured nails. "Privilege? Now, don't get carried away. Some of us have to carpool ten year-olds." The trio at Nick's table sighed with relief as the video carnage motorcade drew to a close. Officer Gray flicked on the classroom lights and proceeded to write in large letters on the blackboard, "Let's Get Personal." Nick gazed around the room like a trapped animal. He did not want to get personal. He spent 99.99% of his time around mortals trying to not get personal, because plenty about his person was better left unshared, namely fangs and a persistent blood diet. This was not good. On a new line, Officer Gray etched "Who is affected by a traffic crash?" in yellow chalk. Turning to face the defensive driving students, she announced, "Open your workbooks to page 29. I want each of you to write down five names of people who are important in your life. Be prepared to read your list aloud." Nick gaped at the blank lines in his workbook for several pressure-cooker moments. He looked to his left, then his right. Both Chen Kouhan and Myra Schanke were writing with breezy certainty. Nick's thoughts and features cleared for a moment. He proudly completed the first line in bold, black letters: 'NATALIE.' There! One down! Natalie was perfect to top his list. She was undoubtedly important to him. After all, she was a friend, and she was making progress (kind of) studying a cure to his vampirism. Plus, he felt...well, he felt Natalie was important. That was good, wasn't it? Nick tapped the pages of his workbook with the cap of his pen as he considered other names he could add to his list. He peeked, not that he was cheating, and read what Myra had written on her own list. Myra's listing had exploded beyond the required five names, and now counted to the high forties. He saw 'Don' and 'Jennifer,' written at the top, followed by an extensive inventory of parents, aunts, cousins, friends and even 'Columbo,' the Schanke family dog. Nick hunched in his chair, rubbing his thumb slowly over his lower lip. He supposed he could put Schanke on his list. Myra's feelings would be hurt if he didn't, right? Don was his partner, and more often than not, in his passenger's seat. Including him on his list was the polite thing to do. Nick frowned. Number Two was aiming a little high, though. Did Schanke really rate second place? Come on, the guy liked polka music! Nick dropped his head into his hands, where he massaged the growing tension ache in his temples. People important in my life...think! Think! The names merged unyielding into his thoughts: LaCroix...Janette... Nick ground his teeth. No. No, no, no. This had nothing to do with LaCroix. This had nothing to do with Janette. He was changing, rerouting his life toward mortality, away from any vampire detours. He was damned - damned! - if he was going to add Janette or LaCroix to his list of people important in his life. They were the past. This was the present! Nick splayed his fingers across the page of his driving notebook, as though he could siphon an answer from the paper itself. This was his punishment, his unstoppable truth: he was lonely, isolated, cut off from the carpool of humanity. He hadn't earned an easy ride; he didn't deserve five whole names of important people in his life. His life hadn't been redeemed to that degree yet! But maybe he could list the Caddy? "You!" Nick jerked his gaze up from the sparsely marked, mocking pages of his workbook. Officer Gray pointed in his direction, while the other twenty-nine class members gawked at him like a mounted exhibit at the Museum Of Unnatural History. "Yes?" he said cautiously. "Share your list with us!" the officer instructed. "What five people would be most affected if you were in a traffic collision?" Nick smiled meekly. "My list probably isn't the best in the class. I'm sure if you asked someone else -" "Your list is the one the class wishes to hear!" Officer Gray had a unanimous vote. "Isn't that right, class?" "Yes," the class chanted obediently. Nick was in Purgatory. That had to be it. This driving school torture had been simulated to repay him for committing his most venal sins. "Number one on my list," Nick began in a hesitant, uncooperative schoolboy voice, "is my friend Natalie," He paused as Myra twittered, "who would be disappointed if I had to...uh..." He nodded euphemistically. "...Move on." "Number two," Nick continued defiantly, "is my Cadillac. While not an actual person, it would certainly be affected by a traffic accident, so I think it should count." "And, yeah, uh, number three..." Nick's voice a little penitent again. "That would be my partner at work. He rides along. A lot." Nick shrugged sheepishly at Officer Gray. "Sorry. I couldn't come up with anyone else." "*No one*?" "No one." Nick could see pity in some of the staring faces, superiority in others. Officer Gray's mouth formed a prim roadblock. "Yes, well, would someone with a fuller, more extroverted life like to volunteer their list?" Nick sank into his chair, abashed, as everyone else in the classroom raised his or her hand. He glanced at Myra, expecting some emotional support. Hadn't he included Schanke among his important people? But, instead, he found Myra shooting him with a .9mm glare. "You listed my husband after your *car*???" Oh, yeah. This was Purgatory. *********************************************** "Nick! You're driving like an old woman!" Schanke shouted. "Pull over! Pull over!" "I'm following the posted limits," Nick stated. "Man, oh, man! Pull over! Pull over!" "I'm not letting you drive," Nick was deadly certain about that. "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, Nick! Will you just PULL OVER!?!?" Nick pulled over. "There." He gave his partner a blank look as he put the car in park. "I pulled over." Schanke shook his head as he shut off the siren. "What has gotten into you, Knight? Look, I know you did that defensive driving course and all, but, Nick, you're a cop. We were just in a high-speed chase to apprehend a perp. Go figure, you're the only guy on the force who seems to think high-speed clocks in under thirty..." Nick radiated stubbornness, but he didn't look his partner in the eye. "I didn't want to endanger any citizens." "Hello? Can you hear yourself?" Schanke scoffed. "About the only thing you're in danger of is growing grass on your tires!" The police radio began to relate a message regarding an apprehended suspect in between bursts of static. Schanke gestured toward the radio with a heavy look. "That's our guy - the Dufferin double homicide. They bagged him. *We* could have bagged him, if only you still drove like you had any soul left." Nick maintained a death-grip on the steering wheel, but he turned to stare at his partner. "Is that what it is? I have no soul because it's occurred to me that I am operating a piece of heavy machinery that could slaughter the innocent? Maybe I don't want that on my conscience!" "Is that what they drilled into you at that class?" Schanke laughed, oblivious to Nick's dark glare. "Ye olde control-by-fear schtick? I would have thought you were too slick to buy into that, Knight!" he said, punching Nick playfully in the arm. When Nick made no response, Schanke sighed, sobering up his act. "Right, I know the routine - they show you a bunch of scary flicks, they fill your head with a crapload of statistics and put the fear of God in you - that heads will roll if you so much as double park. I taught that class when I was a rookie, Nick. I've given the same speeches, and nine-tenths of the people there were only guilty of having a careless moment. No fender- benders, no DUIs, no injuries...just carelessness." "And sometimes that carelessness gets people killed, Schank," Nick bit out harshly. "Yeah, you got me there," Don agreed candidly. "Wrong time, wrong place, somebody gets sloppy, and somebody pays the price. But, Nick, as much as I respect the law...you know, as much as I think it's good thing going that we have a set of rules around to guide society..." "Detective Don Schanke, the stickler," Nick said sarcastically. "I wouldn't have guessed it...not the way you rob the precinct vending machine." "Hey, it always keeps my change!" Schanke defended. "I mean it about the law, Nick. Why do you think I became a cop? Not for my health. Not for the pay." Schanke eased his coffee-triple-cream out of his cup holder. "Definitely not for my diet. No, I see the point some people have - your biggest fan, Officer Gray, for example - in cracking the whip on the letter of the law. But, you know, I'm also realistic enough to distinguish that people make mistakes." Schanke toasted his partner with his coffee cup. "To err is human." The phrase arrested Nick's attention. A numinous smile played about his lips. "To err is human," he repeated. "'Xactly," Schanke said, getting comfortable in his speech now that his partner had shown some positive feedback. "The world is filled with people ready to tell you what's right, what's wrong, what's moral, what's immoral, what's hot, what's not, what's recyclable...bu-blah, bu-blah...but at the end of the day, you're the guy who decides whose word you're gonna accept. Am I right, pardner, or am I right?" Don glanced across the car, watching for Nick's response with hopeful eyes. "Crazy as it seems..." Nick said slowly, with a shake of his head, "...you might just be right." Nick feigned a flinch, like it hurt to admit such a thing, then he started his car. The Caddy rejoined the traffic pattern, Nick pushing it to exactly the speed he felt like driving, which was faster than the posted limit. Schanke chortled to himself. "Ri-ight! I mean, I know you do some wonky stuff sometimes behind the wheel of this Caddy - like that suicidal squirrel thing...or the Earth- to-Knight thing...or the tires squealing every time you make a left turn thing - but I have faith! That's what I have, pardner! I have faith in a higher power with no interest in crushed metal a la Schanke, and a grand conviction that you passed vehicular maneuvers at the Police Academy! What's a civilian driving course when you've passed the Police Academy? Nada. Niente! Yes, indeedy..." Nick's eyes began to glaze over. Should he confess that he never actually went to the Police Academy? How could he do that without acknowledging the false background Larry Merlin had cooked up on his behalf? "Schank, what would you say if...?" Nick began. Schanke cut him off with an Italian gesture. "Just drive, will ya?" he said. "Just drive." And, nodding silently, Nick kept his eyes on the road. *************************************************** The End Note: I acquired the urge to begin this story when I wound up, rather like Myra Schanke, taking a defensive driving course so that I could keep my driving record pristine in the eyes of my insurance company. As such, I'm sure the story is woefully inaccurate in light of the Canadian Way. I hope you, Gentle Readers, have overlooked the Americanization and appreciated the what-ifs and metaphors for what they are. Thanks for reading! Comments and fanfic citations to: llamababe@carolina.rr.com