To Love the Sun

by Eve

Author's notes: This is an older piece, which originated as a sort of
companion piece to "Getting Physical" (and then languished on my hard drive
for over a year due to lack of a title), but it really does stand rather
well (and perhaps better) on its own. Archive? Yes, please! Oh, and none of
these characters are mine, except the girl behind the counter, and you can
use her. I won't mind. ;)

~

I stand in the aisle, hands firmly implanted in my pockets, and wait while
my partner contemplates this most momentous of decisions.

"Um..." he says.

I glance around impatiently. It is a store like any other in the mall:
prefab, sterile. The overhead lights are strong, the linoleum slickly
reflective. I shouldn't have left my sunglasses in the car. This place has
the added bonus of being a candy store: acrid scents accost me at every
turn.

Worse still, the mall is teeming with tired, irritable shoppers. It's their
monthly 'midnight madness' night, and the stores are open all night long,
offering all kinds of discounts. If I were after buying jellybeans at
half-price, we'd be in business.

Schanke hems and haws. "Oh, jeez..."

The girl behind the register exhales pointedly, fingers drumming an
impatient rhythm on plastic. She is very young--they all are, I suppose,
relatively speaking, but this one seems little more than a child. She is
fake-blonde and painted-on pretty. I shoot her a friendly smile. She blushes
and suddenly becomes very interested in the display of lottery tickets under
glass on the counter.

"I can't believe you never bought a box of chocolates before," Schanke is
saying. "And I *really* can't believe I let you talk me into waking up Myra
just to ask her about her favourite--"

"Hey, I just said ask her. At no point did I suggest calling her at four in
the morning when she has to be up at six to take Jenny to soccer practice."
Maliciously, I add, "I may not know as much about women as you do, Schank,
but even I know better than that."

My partner likes to believe that he is an authority on women, and rarely
hesitates to share the benefit of his vast experience. Some of his advice
leaves me wondering how his marriage has lasted this long.

A few feet away, the child cracks her gum, the sound ripping through my head
like the report of a gunshot. My partner picks up a box, turns it over, then
puts it back.

"Schanke," I prompt.

He tugs at his tie for a moment before throwing up his hands in
exasperation. "Nope. Nada. Zip. Zero. Shoulda written it down when she told
me on the phone... Myra is gonna kill me. You are looking at a dead man
walking, Knight. Dead. Man. Walking."

I can't quite resist an ironic smile.

"Yeah, go ahead and laugh it up, buddy. You're not the one in the
doghouse--unless that's why you needed the, ah..." He gestures to the row of
neatly-stacked boxes before us. At times Schanke can be so ingenuous that
it's astounding, considering what we do for a living.

I effect a calculated shrug, and contemplate the bright colours and
overwhelming odours that surround us. Even taking shallow breaths, I can
clearly discern sugar, wax, molasses, gelatin, and various chemical
additives. Fortunately I don't have to breathe often. The very thought of
putting any one of these bizarre concoctions in my mouth is enough to make
my stomach do impromptu gymnastics.

Schanke, meanwhile, is determined to have it out of me. "Come *on*, partner,
ya gotta give me something... all I have to do is mention your name in the
morgue these days and she's practically walking on air. And when you two are
talking, it's like you forget I even exist. And, AND, I haven't seen you
kissing any of your other co-workers recently."

"Feeling neglected?"

"Oh, you crack me up, Knight. Look, you can't expect me to believe there's
nothing going on."

I'm tempted to administer a mental 'push', just enough to make him drop
it... and then that little voice in the back of my mind, the conscience
LaCroix and Janette both insist I don't actually have, warns me against it.
Lately, that little voice is starting to sound suspiciously like Natalie
Lambert. Let's just not consider what the eminent Dr. Jung would have to say
about *that*.

"Wish I knew what to tell you, Schank." There. Neatly done, and I didn't
even have to lie.

I glance at the girl again. Her head is bowed in studied indifference, but
her heart rate increases just a touch as she realizes she's being noticed.
After a moment she looks up at me, and beams. So very young... and fresh,
beneath the mask of makeup she wears to disguise her youth. I can smell her
from here--the scent of summer rain. Refreshing, exhilarating. Sweet, but
not cloying. A pang of hunger slices through me. I jam my fists deeper into
my pockets and nudge Schanke with my elbow.

"Pick one," I growl.

Schanke closes his eyes and stabs at the air with his index finger. At
length his hand alights on a box, and he grabs one. I grab one too, and we
head up to the counter. Schanke goes first; I am surprised to find myself
strangely self-conscious when my turn comes, even though we're the only ones
in the store. After all, as Schanke so kindly pointed out, I've never done
this before. Oh, I've bought little tokens for special women in my life: I
spent almost a century plying Janette with flowers, clothing, jewelry,
perfume... all the usual suspects. Almost without exception, the gifts were
extremely well-received. But chocolates, no. I doubt very much that Janette
would have appreciated them the way Natalie will.

Or rather, the way I hope she will.

The fragrant blonde child carefully counts out my change, making sure our
hands touch more than once. Her fingers are warm and petal-soft. She is
obviously surprised to find mine so chill. I distribute the coins among the
jars on the counter representing various charities, which earns me an
admiring smile and a quiet, cinnamon-scented, "Bye now."

Schanke waits until we're both back in the car before launching his second
attack. "I'm not the only one who's noticed, ya know."

I play innocent, which I know infuriates him more than anything else.
"Noticed what?"

"What else? You." He pokes me in the shoulder for emphasis. "Natalie." Poke.
"You *and* Natalie." Poke poke.

I gun the engine pointedly, and the car rolls out of the parking lot into
the deserted street.

"Well?"

I do not want to be having this conversation anymore, but I suppose it's too
much to hope that I'm actually dreaming. "Okay, Schanke." I've found that if
I can sound like I'm agreeing with him, he'll often let it go at that.

"Okay, what?"

Damn.

"Okay, let's drop it. Okay?"

"No. Not okay."

If either of us says 'okay' once more, someone will be exiting this car
riddled with bullet holes.

"C'mon, Nick," he coaxes.

"Have you ever considered the fact that this may be none of your business?"
I regret that the second it's out of my mouth, but it's too late.

Schanke crosses his arms and glares out the passenger's side window.

Only through a Herculean feat of will power do I manage to refrain from
banging my head against the steering wheel--repeatedly. I take a deep
breath, then another, until the repetition of the action calms me somewhat.
I am the more mature individual by more than seven centuries. It probably
won't kill me to be the bigger person here.

"Look. Schank. Um..."

Then again...

A burst of static saves me from possible death by humility: "81-Kilo,
81-Kilo..."

Schanke catches the call, and we are directed to proceed to an apartment
block less than five minutes away from our current location.

I maneuver the Caddy into the nearest metered spot. Schanke mock-punches my
shoulder and jumps out of the car. This is the closest to an apology either
of us usually comes when we have an argument. He was perfectly within his
rights to be angry: after all, I really don't talk to him about personal
matters, and more often than not I doctor the truth about myself. He would
be disgusted with me if he knew who and what I really was, but there's so
much I'd like to tell him, about my past, my previous experience in police
work.

I trust Don Schanke. I'd trust him with my life if it ever came to that.
He's a great partner, and an even better friend. It bothers me that people
generally don't seem to realize what a rarity he is. It bothers me even more
that I almost overlooked it myself.

Schanke suffers from a tragic and deplorable excess of personality, and
because of that everyone assumes he's not an intelligent man and a capable
detective. I've noticed that he uses this to his advantage; people are less
guarded with him because they don't take him seriously. Every now and again,
he does something which makes me wonder if he hasn't already figured *me*
out. He ribs me about my "condition" with the same underlying strategy he
uses in interrogations, waxing obnoxious as if he's trying to get a rise out
of me. Hoping I'll slip.

"Hey, Knight, you gonna sit in the car all night pouting, or what?"
Schanke's voice quite neatly derails my train of thought.

"Pouting?" echoes another, equally familiar voice.

I give the driver's side door a shove and get out of the car. Just beyond
Schanke's bulky form a mass of hastily upswept auburn curls becomes visible,
then a pair of clear, sagacious eyes.

And suddenly all can't help but be right with the world, for here is
Natalie.





(Continued from 1/3)

"Now that doesn't sound like Nick... oh, no, no, he's pure sweetness and
light."

She knows perfectly well I was able to hear that. Schanke, who doesn't,
stifles a chuckle as I step soundlessly over to join them.

Perched on a stone planter in front of the building, Nat is bundled up in a
long coat and gloves; it's cold enough outside that wisps of steam emerge
from her mouth and nose with each escaping breath.

I'm surprised to see Natalie here tonight; she's had a rough week. I don't
need enhanced senses to notice how tired she is: the too-straight line of
her body, the careful and correct rigidity of posture with which she sits,
clipboard in her lap, betrays her weariness. There are dark shadows under
her eyes, and her face is drawn and pale. I've seen Natalie like this
before; she'll make it through the shift--just barely--but the moment it's
over, total shutdown, physical and mental.

A part of me just wants to scoop her up from the cold stone and take off
into the night sky, witnesses be damned.

In spite of her exhaustion, she grins up at me. "Speak of the devil. Good
morning, sunshine."

"Hi." I grin back.

"Hi," she echoes, as if I've just given her a compliment she wishes to
savour. Something intangible passes between us.

When did this happen? When did we cease to be professionals and metamorphose
into moony-eyed teenagers? It's utterly ridiculous, and yet... I can't help
it. I guess you could say she rejuvenates me.

"Hate to get you out of that nice, warm car," she adds teasingly. I offer my
hand, helping her gain her feet.

"Nice warm car, my ass," Schanke grumbles. "I bet if you licked me right now
your tongue would stick."

Nat makes a particularly gruesome face. I can't say I find Schanke all that
appetizing myself. Too much garlic, for one thing.

We examine the body, making shop talk and puffs of cold air. The murder
victim is a child, a little girl; she is naked, anonymous. We will have to
find out who she is before anything more can be done. The phosphate test is
a positive. The more upset Natalie is, the more clinically she tries to
approach the case, but I can tell it's really bothering her. Schanke is
rattled, too: in every murder like this one, he faces the possibility of
harm to his own daughter. It's a relief to all of us when the necessary
rituals are complete, and the tiny body is loaded into the back of a van and
conducted back to the Coroners Building. I can tell Nat is reluctant to
follow it, that this is one examination she would just as soon put off.

Schanke's teeth are chattering. "Look at this!" he announces, delivering a
backhanded smack to my shoulder. "We've got a windchill of fifteen hundred
and he didn't even bring any gloves! I swear, Nat, this guy must be part
polar bear."

"Nah. He's just cheap."

I meet her gaze with the quirk of an inquiring eyebrow. I've been accused of
many things in my time, but frugality has never been one of them.

"Yeah, well, if he can afford to drop--" Schanke's retort is truncated by a
swiftly-applied elbow to the midsection--mine, naturally. The guilty look
that flits across his face confirms my suspicion that he was about to blurt
out how much I just spent on the box of chocolates now reposing quietly in
the back of my car.

Fortunately, the timely sound of Natalie's pager saves either of us from
having to explain. She pulls it out and checks it, then snorts in disgust.
"Damn it... not another one."

Schanke has used the opportunity afforded by the distraction to make a
speedy exit, stage left.

"Wrong number?" I inquire.

"This has been going on all week. It just so happens that my beeper number
is one digit off from the number of a very attractive young woman who
apparently earns a lot more than I do for providing..."

I can't quite manage not to smile. "A more involved sort of examination?"

"Much more involved."

"I hope you get commission for referrals."

A wan smile. She sighs, and glances around to make sure we aren't being
observed before leaning into my shoulder.

Despite the bitter cold, Natalie is very warm, and also fragrant. Along with
her own scent, and the familiar coffee-and-wintergreen-gel combination that
trails after her on work nights, there is just a touch of jasmine--one of
the aromatherapy bath oils I bought her for Christmas.

She adds, "Someone's supposed to take it off my hands and get me a new
number, but you know what it's like..."

I enfold her in a brief hug before stepping back. "Walk you to your car?"

"It's not here, I tagged along with--" She half-turns, pointing, then stops
short. "Damn it. They must have seen me talking to you and just--just
assumed that you..." Her gaze is riveted on the blank patch of asphalt where
there should be a van. I move to put a consolatory arm around her shoulders,
but she sidesteps my embrace without a word or even a look in my direction.

"I can drop you off, Nat, it's not a problem."

"Maybe I'm just tired of people assuming things about me."

Schanke, master of bad timing, chooses this moment to stroll over to us.
"What say we hustle, Knight?"

I nod. "Sure."

"I take it the lovely doctor will be accompanying us?"

I nod again.

My partner makes a merry little bow. "My lady, your chariot awaits."

"I'm really not in the mood, Schanke."

Schanke's mouth falls open in a silent O of puzzlement. For possibly the
first time in his life, he decides that discretion is the better part of
valour, and closes it without further comment. As for me, I have the
distinct impression of having walked onto a minefield, and am trusting
blindly in instinct to lead me to safety. She turns her back on us both and
walks over to the stone planter to pick up her clipboard and bag.

"Hoo boy. Someone's on the rag," Schanke mutters.

"No." My absent-minded reply draws raised eyebrows from my partner. I
hurriedly add, "I wouldn't go around making those kinds of comments about
any woman with access to a lot of very sharp surgical equipment and
knowledge of all the best places to hide a body." I toss him the keys to the
Cadillac. "Go warm up the car, I'll be there in a minute."

"Your funeral, compadre." He walks off, shaking his head.

I approach Nat, who scowls up at me, drained and defiant. I open my mouth to
speak, even though I have absolutely no idea what's going to emerge. Before
I get a chance to dig myself in deeper, however, her pager goes off again.
Nat whips it out of her coat pocket and glances at it, then erupts into a
fluid and surprisingly pungent string of curse words. Then, still cursing,
she drops the pager on the ground and mashes it into the hard soil with one
tiny, booted foot.

Schanke watches through the windshield, his expression one of carefully
schooled nonchalance. He and I exchange looks--who is this stamping,
swearing woman, and what has she done with the calm and pragmatic Doctor
Lambert?

Finally, once the fit of choler subsides, she looks up at me--and laughs. No
doubt my current deer-in-the-headlights (or minefield) expression is
profoundly amusing in ways I can only imagine. "Sorry," she whispers. "I,
uh, I really just needed to get that out of my system."

Nat approaches, and I hold up the ribbon of yellow for her to duck
underneath. My gallantry is rewarded with a smile.

Suddenly, miraculously, the mines have been defused, and I can walk freely
through the field once more.

I throw open the passenger door, ignoring Schanke's anguished cries as what
little warm air had built up inside escapes. "Get in the back."

"What for?"

I stare pointedly over his shoulder at the white plastic bag on the back
seat. "Now, Schank." I know Nat well enough to know that she wouldn't be
able to resist peeking in the bag, and I didn't plan on presenting her with
the chocolates in front of an audience, even an audience of one.

The ersatz audience of one moans and groans, but does as I ask. Natalie
looks a bit surprised at my insistence, and also somewhat flattered. She
installs herself neatly in the front seat, dwarfed by the Caddy's spacious
interior. I turn up the heat as high as it will go, then remove my coat and
drape it across her lap. It's not much of a gesture since I don't exactly
need it anyhow, but she smiles and thanks me.

Schanke does most of the talking, with me contributing the occasional
remark. Nat stares blankly at the dash, completely zoned out.

"So you think I should get flowers?" asks Schanke.

"Hmm?"

"For Myra. For waking her up. Flowers oughta do it, don't ya think?"

I sneak a peek at Natalie. "Usually works for me," I say. Her lack of
response confirms what I had already sensed.

"Nat, you're a woman, what do you--"

"Shh," I interrupt.

Schanke chuckles and peers over the seat. "She asleep? Oh, yeah. Out like a
light. Natalie has left the building."

Making slow, steady movements so as not to disturb my passenger, I reach
into my coat pocket and retrieve my cellular phone. I dial the number of the
morgue, and Grace answers.

"Hi, Grace, it's Nick Knight."

"Oh, Detective Knight, Natalie's not here right now--"

"I know, she's here. I'm en route to the precinct. She's really tapped
out... she's gone to sleep on me."

A rich chuckle on the line, as Grace apparently envisions the most literal
interpretation of that last comment.

"I figured I'd just take her home--to her apartment," I add, forestalling
whatever crude insinuation Schanke and his upraised index finger are about
to make. "Will you guys be okay over there?"

"Sure. I can handle things here if you can do me a favour, make sure that
girl gets some rest."

"Great. I will. Thanks, Grace." I close the phone and toss it over my
shoulder into the back seat.

We pull up outside the precinct and I let Schanke out on my side of the car.
"Don't forget--" I gesture to the back seat, irrationally concerned that Nat
might somehow overhear even in sleep.

My partner grins and reaches across for one of the boxes. "Want me to sign
you off?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"No problemo. After all, you've got places to go, M.E.'s to deliver... I'm
gonna get the flowers," he announces meditatively. "What kind, you think?"

"I don't know... something that reminds you of her. Something that shows how
important she is to you."

He gives me a blank look.

"Or just roses. Can't go wrong with those."

He smiles.

"Night, Schank."

"See ya, partner."





(Continued from 2/3)

I close the door, as quietly as possible, and drive. Not much traffic, aside
from the occasional early riser. Nat's breathing and heartbeat are slow,
regular, peaceful. She nods for a bit, her head falling forward and then
jerking up. At length she drifts sideways, coming to rest on my shoulder.
Her proximity is distracting, especially the hot flutter of her breath just
beneath my ear. Her chin is tilted upwards and her scarf has come loose,
exposing a snowy expanse of throat. My jaw tenses, and I feel that tell-tale
tingle in my gums, just above the canines. Each muscle in my body tightens,
my senses becoming incredibly acute. For one horrifyingly seductive moment,
the blood in her veins whispers my name with every beat of her tranquil
heart.

I should really wake her up before this becomes too much for me to handle.

"Nat?"

She sighs.

"Come on, Nat."

"Mmm."

"Natalie..."

Still sleeping, she shifts positions and settles more decidedly against me.
So unaware.

"Nick..."

So unafraid.

I focus on the road. Gradually--very gradually--the sharpened points in my
mouth retract. The flood of scent and sound subsides somewhat, and I feel
comfortable enough to reach around and wrap my arm around her, pulling her
closer. I can still hear the blood, feel it thrumming through her body, but
it no longer calls to me as often or as loudly.

And Natalie sleeps on.

She should be terrified of me, but she isn't. A fact which hasn't ceased to
amaze me in all the time we've known each other. I've shown her myself--my
true self, "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice," as Shakespeare
would have noted--and she is able to see beyond *what* I am, to care for
*who* I am. More than that; she takes it entirely in stride. She accepts my
imperfections and my eccentricities, and yet still loves me.

She loves me, this woman. This mortal. A fragile creature, subject to muscle
strains, headaches, colds, paper cuts, and all the little vagaries of
humanity. As well as the larger ones... including death.

Absently I draw her nearer, as if by physical contact alone I can protect
her from these things. Immortality by osmosis. And that's another thing;
unlike so many I've known in my life, Natalie isn't cultivating my
friendship in order to gain what I have. She wants to help me. Not me and
all of vampire-kind, not even me and a few select friends. Me. And my love
is the only reward she has ever sought--a false reward, because it is a gift
I would freely give her whether she cured me or not.

A sound, soft at first but steadily growing, brings my mind back into the
here and now with a jolt. I try to ignore it, try to concentrate on
something else, but I can't. I reach the point where it's all I can do not
to laugh out loud.

Natalie is snoring. And not those tiny, ladylike snorts she sometimes makes
when she falls asleep on my couch, either. She sounds like a cross between a
buzz-saw and an irate Doberman. It's enough to make me wonder, fleetingly,
if her tape recorder is within reach.

My beautiful Natalie... forbidden to me by a promise I made centuries before
her birth. But I can't regret saving my sister's life, any more than I can
regret saving that of the woman sleeping beside me now. Not that I honestly
believe LaCroix fell for my desperate ruse. I can't be sure of his
intentions; either he is biding his time, waiting for me to slip up, or my
callous words finally convinced him of the wisdom of the decision he made so
long ago. Or perhaps he really does believe that his love for my sister was
purer than mine for Natalie... and he could very well be right. For he was
able to leave Fleur, to let her live a life in the sunshine, free from the
taint which stains both his soul and my own. I, on the other hand, was not
able to do that for Natalie. And by letting LaCroix take from her the memory
of my declaration of love, and keeping her at arm's length, I've hurt her
far more than my sister was ever hurt.

The car rolls gently to a stop outside Nat's building, and, through feats of
flexibility even I would have thought impossible, I manage to disentangle
myself without waking her. The sky is lightening, almost imperceptibly--it's
not enough yet to harm, but my skin feels uncomfortably warm as I exit the
car and walk around to the passenger side to open the door.

Natalie, apparently roused to some level of consciousness by the cool air,
tries to get out of the car and all but falls into my arms. She makes vague
and indecipherable noises of protest as I gather her up, but by the time we
reach her apartment her arms are firmly clasped around my neck, her face
buried in my shoulder.

Sidney is insistently underfoot the second we're through the door. I shove
him aside with the business end of my shoe at least twice on the way to the
bedroom, but he persists, yowling plaintively. I deposit his mistress on the
unmade bed, peeking out the window as I draw the curtains closed. I don't
have much time.

"Okay, Nat, I need to get going."

I bend down, kiss her cheek, whisper my good-nights, and make for the
door... only, there's that conscience again. The one that still sounds like
Natalie, even when she's the topic of discussion. I turn and see her propped
up on the bed, rumpled and disoriented, making a half-hearted attempt to
bring foot and hands together. She almost topples right over onto the floor
in the process. It's obvious--even to Sidney, who moves away from the edge
of the bed to avoid any and all falling coroners--that this isn't going to
work.

I sit beside her and place both hands on her shoulders, easing her back.

"Here, I'll do that."

"Nick--I have to--"

"You don't have to do anything right now but rest." I guide her foot to my
lap and work at the clasp on her shoe. "I'll take care of you." I meant to
say *I'll take care of it*, but it didn't exactly come out that way.

After slipping off her shoes, I unbutton her coat and help her to shrug out
of it. Nat murmurs worriedly, trying to blink herself awake; the only
intelligible word, "autopsy", makes her intention clear enough.

"Not tonight," I tell her.

"They need me."

"I called Grace. She said they'll survive."

Natalie offers up a watery smile. "Thanks, Nick," she whispers.

I lean in and apply a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Any time."

She submits wordlessly to my attentions after that, holding out each arm in
turn as I divest her of her jacket. As I reach around to let down her hair,
she grinds one fist in her eye, like a sleepy child. My hand hovers
momentarily over the top button of her blouse; to go further would be to
take liberties. Nat nods her consent, and I proceed to undress her down to
her slip. This could easily become a very intimate act, but I am mindful to
keep my movements steady, mechanical, benign. She is my friend, and she
needs my help, and so I will help her. The stockings are the most difficult;
perhaps my hands do linger over her warm, bare skin rather longer and more
tenderly than those of a mere friend. But apart from that, I conduct myself
in the fashion becoming a gentleman.

My deliberate detachment does not go unnoticed by Natalie, as fatigued as
she is; her heart rate increases with each article I remove, then slowly
stabilizes as she seems to realize my intentions. The monster inside me
stirs, briefly, at the sight of so much of her, so vulnerable and quickening
to my every touch, but settles as I fold the down comforter around her pale
and trembling body.

It doesn't take long for her to drift off. Again I go through the litany of
parting: a kiss on the cheek, another on the temple for good measure, a
whispered goodbye, and away I go... only the tiny rivulet of light trickling
across the carpet tells me what I already suspected: I'm not going anywhere.

I glance over my shoulder at Natalie, in the bed. She's so sound asleep that
she probably wouldn't even notice if I just...

The thought of getting into bed beside her evokes a pang of hunger, and
reminds me precisely why her insensibility to the situation probably
wouldn't be for the best.

So I feed the cat, raid the crisper for the couple of bags of donated blood
Nat usually keeps there for me "just in case", and settle into a comfortable
spot on the sofa. Sidney, who has obviously staked it out as his territory,
is not impressed with my intrusion. As a rule it's hard for me to fall
asleep, let alone in an unfamiliar setting with a cat mewling and batting at
my leg. Finally we compromise and share.

And as I hover on the very edge of sleep, I recall the box of chocolates. A
few fragmentary thoughts randomly brush against the back of my mind in rapid
succession: it's been a long time since I've let anyone need me this much...
I hope the chocolates are the right ones... I'm grateful to Schanke for his
friendship and his advice, even if it's hard for me admit it... the last
image and the clearest, the one that carries me into sleep, is a vision of
what Natalie's expression will be when I present her with the box. Her smile
reminds me what it was like to love the sun, and gives me hope that I may
see it once again.

FIN
Eve (umdutto3@cc.umanitoba.ca)