Conduct Unbecoming

by Josephine March

The story related in Chapter Three is loosely based on the song, "Canol Road," by Stan Rogers.

The evening continued without further incident. Fraser drove her to her apartment and escorted her to the door.

"Now that was an enjoyable function. Wouldn't you agree Constable?"

"Yes sir." He was looking at her nervously.

He's afraid that I might do something else. Remember your duty Meg. You give the orders. He follows them. That thought brought a smile to her face.

"Constable. You didn't have any dessert tonight." Grabbing him by the front of his serge she yanked him into her apartment.

"Do you like whipped cream?"

Chapter 1. In Which Meg Makes Mischief and Fraser has a Long Walk

Fraser followed his superior officer into the apartment and stood immobile in the foyer. He was careful to leave the door ajar. His embarrassed blush had disappeared, and his face was pale. The blue eyes appeared neutral, devoid of any emotion. He reached out with a grasp that was neither rough nor gentle and freed his tunic from her grasp, then returned his own hands to his sides. Though it would not have been apparent to the casual observer, Fraser was angry - almost as angry as he could ever remember being. The humiliation of his treatment at the party, at the hands of his commanding officer, still stung.

Meg was at that cheerfully undecided stage between fairly sober and really toasted, where she could go either way. She brushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes and looked up at him owlishly. "Y'know, Fraser, you should relax." She leaned tipsily against him, draping her arm around his shoulder, and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Have a little fun every once in a while. Now, how about that dessert?"

"I don't care for any dessert, thank you, Sir," said Fraser evenly. Once again, with that touch that was neither rough nor gentle, he reached up, grasped her wrist firmly, and returned her arm to her side. "And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from doing that." His voice was calm, quiet, not unpleasant. It was as though he were advising her of a possible scheduling conflict or replying to some request for information.

At this juncture, some part of Meg's brain that was not under the direct control of her thought processes decided that "really toasted" was the way to go. "Oh. Do you mean this?" And she grasped the front of his tunic again with one hand. "Or was it this?" And she draped the other arm back over his shoulder, looking into those blue eyes with a touch of what looked suspiciously like defiance.

"You are indisposed, Inspector. Good night." He calmly removed her hands again, replaced his hat on his head, turned, and left, closing the door carefully behind him. Meg stared at the door for a long moment, then shrugged and turned down the hallway towards her bedroom.

Fraser began his long walk home with relief, though his anger had not abated. Although he had succeeded in maintaining his normal calm demeanor, several instincts were at that moment warring within him. First there was justifiable anger over the way he had been treated. The endless hours spent on sentry duty or pursuing mindless, trivial clerical work; the demeaning personal errands - all of these were tolerable. But the overtly provocative behavior of this evening - as though she were daring him to transgress the boundaries she, herself had so carefully set up and maintained - would have driven any normal man - he corrected himself - would have driven any normal person to mindless fury long since. He had a fundamental respect for the dignity of others. Had his own finally been violated to the point where he could not tolerate it?

There was also a kind of nameless dread. He risked being branded once and for all as a real troublemaker. It was a label he had worked very hard to leave behind after the events surrounding his father's murder. He wondered if there would be any outpost left in any obscure corner of his vast homeland that would be willing to harbor him.

And finally, she had looked so beautiful; her pale cheeks flushed and rosy with the wine, her hair tousled, her dark eyes glittering with mischief. He had wanted nothing more, there in the hallway, than to run his hands along those smooth, white shoulders; to see the red dress lying on the floor about her feet; to bury his face in her dark hair, inhale her scent, and lose himself forever. She had stood so close to him that he could feel her warmth. How could he bring himself to hurt her when all he wanted to do was take care of her for the rest of their lives? How could he place himself in jeopardy of never seeing her again?

Without quite knowing how he had gotten there, Fraser found himself walking into his apartment building and up the stairs. He had come very close to confronting her right there and then in the foyer of her apartment. He was thankful that he had been able to resist the impulse. A night's sleep - and a morning of sentry duty, he thought wryly - would calm his anger and shed some light.

Chapter 2. In Which Meg Sees Things by the Dawn's Early Light

Meg arrived at the Consulate early the next morning; not surprising, since she had not slept much the night before. Fraser stood at his accustomed post outside the door, eyes front. Did he look a little pale? She resisted the impulse to lower her own eyes and walked past him without speaking.

Meg knew what she had to do. She helped herself to a cup of coffee, entered her office, closed the door, and sat down to face the facts - the same ugly facts she had been facing since Fraser's abrupt departure from her apartment. Her behavior at the party had been reprehensible; inexcusable. He had every right to be angry. More than that, he had perfectly adequate grounds to file charges. God! There had probably even been witnesses, should it ever come to that. But there was no way she could deny that her actions had constituted harassment, even abuse, of a subordinate - a betrayal of someone entrusted to her command. "Good work, Meg," she told herself. "Nothing like taking it out on someone who can't hit back."

Her head ached, but she refused to permit herself the luxury of rubbing her temples. Her thoughts turned to Henri Cloutier, and she suppressed an involuntary shudder. Evil, corrupt, greedy little man! But - and here she winced inwardly - had her recent behavior really been any better than his? Cloutier was an opportunist; a miserable hanger-on who had seen her talents and tried to turn them towards his own ends, whatever those ends might be. His behavior towards her was demeaning and, yes, abusive. Contending with him had occasionally taxed her to the limit, and she knew that she was fortunate at this juncture not to have damaged her career permanently.

Meg knew that there were plenty of people who believed she hadn't achieved her present position through her own merits. But she consoled herself that the people who really mattered knew that the rumors was untrue. She had friends, teachers, mentors, former superiors - people who had believed in her, perceived her talents, and done all they could to help her on her way. Who were Fraser's friends and mentors? It was the sort of information not normally found in personnel files. It was information that a careful, conscientious superior would discover in the normal course of things.

Meg took the last swallow of her coffee. It was as cold and bitter as she felt. Maybe some tea would be better. She reached for the intercom to call Turnbull, then snatched her hand away, picked up her mug, and left her office. She encountered the young officer in the back hallway leading to the kitchen.

"Sir, did you want some more coffee?" he asked. "Here, let me refill that and bring it to you." He reached for the mug.

"That's quite all right, Constable," Meg replied. "I was just going to the kitchen to make myself some tea. Is the conference room ready for the 11 o'clock meeting?"

"Yes, Sir," replied Turnbull. He stepped back with an air of perplexity, but Meg saw the shadow of something else flicker briefly in his blue eyes. Fear? No, it was wariness; the sort of wariness one exhibits when dealing with something unpredictable and menacing like a strange dog growling on the sidewalk. Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it came, to be replaced by his normal guileless smile.

"Carry on, then. Please inform me at 10:45." Meg entered the kitchen. She lit the burner under the kettle and set about preparing the tea. She found that this simple chore soothed her. Her hands were a little steadier than they had been first thing this morning. The tea was soon ready, and she carried the small tray back to her office, stopping to close the door behind her.

She poured herself a cup of the steaming tea and took a small sip, then stared into the cup. Earl Gray, she noted with a flash of pleasure. Her favorite. Turnbull must have noted that fact at some point and taken the trouble to have some on hand in the kitchen. She considered again his reaction to her in the hallway. Whatever else he had learned under her command, he had certainly learned how to school his features. He'd learned a great deal about vacuuming and dusting as well, she thought wryly.

Meg swirled the tea in her cup. A few leaves had collected at the bottom. If Turnbull could be masking such wariness, what about Fraser? He often appeared startled, then became very still, when she spoke to him. Rather like a deer transfixed in the headlights of an oncoming car. She had assumed that look was born of his attraction to her. But what did he look like when he was evaluating a tenuous ice bridge over a deep crevasse? Or standing in a darkened hallway on one side of a door that might or might not conceal a dangerous criminal? Was she seeing confusion? Or was it the wary calm of a mind considering its options in an unpredictable situation?

She was startled by Turnbull's discreet knock at her door. "It's 10:45, Sir."

Meg walked into the small bathroom adjoining her office. Methodically, she combed her hair, splashed her face with cold water, and repaired her lipstick. She could not bring herself to look into her own eyes.

The meeting was a monthly roundtable of her colleagues in law enforcement from other consulates and the local police department. Meg focused her attention on taking careful notes as the meeting dragged through old and new business and several committee reports. Idly she wondered if any of these people had witnessed her behavior at the party last night. She smiled and chatted graciously through the informal lunch and finally stood at the front door, shaking hands with the last attendee, at a little before 2 o'clock. She noticed that Fraser was still immobile at his post. She should relieve him, she thought. But instead she closed the door wearily and turned down the back hall to the kitchen, where she knew she would find Turnbull.

"Constable Turnbull," she began. There it was again, that elusive flash of wariness. "Why didn't you relieve Constable Fraser at noon?"

"I did, Sir," replied Turnbull. "He came inside for about twenty minutes, then returned and sent me back inside."

"I see." But she was not sure she did. Meg returned to her office with another cup of tea. The folder with her notes and reports from the morning meeting lay in the exact center of her desk blotter. She was chair of one of the committees, and the meetings always generated reams of paperwork. She sat down, pulled her reading glasses from their hiding place in her center drawer, opened the folder, and took out the first report.

Meg knew that her program was one of the most successful law enforcement liaison programs in the country and that the success was due largely to the man standing on sentry duty outside the front door. She had four - no, five - files of documents attesting to that fact. The commendations came from everywhere: The Chicago Police Department, community organizations, private citizens, their own government, and even the U.S. government. She removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. What would they think if they knew, she asked herself...but she could not pursue that train of thought. She continued to bury herself in the reports.

At some point during the long afternoon, she arrived at a conclusion. A wrong existed, and it was her duty to set it right. But how? How indeed? She stood up and stretched, then began slowly prowling the room, picking up objects and putting them down again. For a while she stood at the curtained window, lost in thought. At a few minutes before five, she left her office and went in search of Turnbull. As expected, she found him in the kitchen. "Turnbull, please tell Constable Fraser to see me in my office when he comes off duty at five," she said. "And I would like to see you at eight o'clock Monday morning." She turned and re-entered her office without looking at him too closely.

"Yes, Sir," said Turnbull to her retreating back. He went immediately out the front door and stood patiently for the few remaining minutes until the clock on the nearby church steeple struck the hour. "Inspector Thatcher would like to see you in her office right away." And having relayed his message, he retreated back to the kitchen.

3. Entr'acte: "They Hid the Four-Wheel Drive in Johnson's Crossing"

Ben stood for a moment considering. He removed his hat and checked inside it carefully. The crisply folded sheet of paper was still tucked in the inner band where he had placed it during his short break. Squaring his shoulders, he walked smartly down the steps as though he had not been standing entirely still for the past eight hours. He did not look back. Nor did he stop until he had reached the sheltering trees of the park near the Consulate. He continued, looking neither to the right nor to the left until he arrived at his favorite spot - a secluded bench near a tall hemlock tree, overlooking a small fountain. Through the trees he could glimpse the bright clothing of some youngsters playing baseball. Their shrill voices echoed through his little glade, and he could occasionally make out the satisfying crack of a bat impacting with a ball.

From the deep pocket of his trousers he extracted a small, brown leather-bound volume. Removing his hat, he sat back comfortably with the book, opened it, and allowed himself to relax for the first time that day.

February 18, 1980
Johnson's Crossing, Yukon Territory
Weather fair, -40F, barometer falling

Ben shut his eyes for a moment. He could imagine the sun sparkling on the snow, and the long shadows it caused during its brief daylight journey. The jagged mountain peaks would appear impossibly white nearby, fading to palest blue in the distance. The sky would be a clear blue with the high, feathery clouds - mares' tails - that signaled a change in the weather. The cold would be biting - unimaginable, really, to anyone who had not experienced it firsthand as he had. It would sting the nostrils as they tried to detect any scent on the still air. The sun would have come up, finally, around nine o'clock in the morning, only to set again a little after three. He drew a deep breath, bringing each of his senses into play to set the scene in his mind's eye.

When he opened his eyes again to continue reading, his father was seated on the bench beside him. Although spring in Chicago was far advanced, the older Fraser was covered from head to foot in furs. He removed his heavy gloves and threw back his hood before speaking to his son.

"What in God's name are you sitting here reading that for, Son? In case you hadn't noticed, you just disobeyed a direct order. I'd say you're in quite a pickle. You go back there right now and..."

"Hello, Dad," interrupted Fraser evenly. "You know, I've always thought this was one of your more interesting cases. In a larger sense, you failed on this one."

"Failed?" The older Fraser allowed his irritation to show. "Failed?"

"Yes. You didn't bring Simon Mullen in. He died."

"It was suicide, Son. Suicide, pure and simple. You just don't get all liquored up like that and go out joyriding when it's fifty below - at least not without making sure you have a full tank of gas. I don't care what you're driving.

"Besides," he went on. "It turned out to be a crime of passion, you know. That's not in the journal. Funny part about it is, if he hadn't been so drunk, he might have gotten away with it." Bob Fraser shook his head.

"Crime of passion?" His son knew that if he kept his father talking about the case they could avoid the other unpleasant subject.

"Absolutely. You know what they say, 'Cherchez la femme.' Well, in this case, truer words were never spoken. Simon Mullen had a partner, Jamie MacDonald. They'd trapped together out there for at least twenty years. Shared a cabin. Never a problem, never a harsh word between the two of them.

"About three years before the shooting, Simon met a woman. Fell for her head over heels. He took her out to live in the cabin." The older man shook his head. "It was a bad situation from the word go. A woman and two men cooped up in a small cabin like that. There was bound to be trouble. One afternoon Simon came back from a morning of fishing and caught..." He paused.

"It's all right, Dad. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a grown man now. I'm also a Mountie. Let me guess. Simon came back from checking the trap lines and caught Jamie and the woman in bed," Ben finished the sentence.

"Exactly." The elder Fraser nodded with satisfaction, as though pleased that his son had caught on so quickly. "He took his shotgun and ran 'em both right out of the house in the state they were in - naked as the day they were born. Fortunately it was summer. But the mosquitoes must have been terrible. They finally made it out to the highway and flagged down a trucker, and he took them into Whitehorse. Jamie set her up in a house there, and they got married soon after that. But you know," Bob paused again, then went on with a chuckle. "She threw Jamie over the next spring. Divorced him and married some fellow in the lumber business. I think she finally moved to Vancouver."

"Vancouver," echoed his son, intrigued in spite of himself.

"Yep. Perfectly good friendship of more than twenty years, shot to hell over a woman." Bob Fraser shook his head.

"Well, to make a long story even longer, Simon was never the same after that. He took to drinking out there at the cabin, sitting on his porch taking potshots at the empty liquor bottles. The winters were terrible for him because he'd drink up his supply of liquor by January. His place was sixty-five miles outside of town. He had plenty of money, and the second summer he ordered himself a brand-new Chevy Blazer. Four-wheel drive, everything you could want in a truck. He used to drive it into Whitehorse in the worst weather, but it ran just fine. Maybe a little too well.

"On the night of the murder, he showed up at the bar early in the evening. He must have waited for a break in the weather, but still, it was quite a drive. The witnesses all said he looked mighty peculiar when he got there. 'Strange around the eyes,' was how one of them described him to me. Still, he stood his round and settled in for all the world like he was just going to sit there and get quietly drunk. But of course, Jamie showed up a couple of hours later."

"How did Simon know which bar to set up shop in?" Ben was now thoroughly absorbed in the tale.

"Well, eventually everybody showed up at that bar. One of the more popular spots in town. It's still there, by the way."

"Yes, I know."

"Anyway, Jamie - the idiot - walked right over to Simon, sat down, and ordered a drink. The two of them chatted away for a while like old friends. But Nature took its course, you might say, and Jamie didn't have a chance to finish that drink before the fight started. People sitting nearby said he insulted Simon, but we could never corroborate that. All we know is that Simon stood up, knocked the table over, and went after Jamie. When it was over, he'd slipped a knife between Jamie's ribs. He took off running out of the bar and was into that Blazer before anybody knew what had happened."

"But you said he committed suicide," interrupted Ben.

"Well, I was coming to that. By this time it was the middle of the night. He made it all the way out to the Canol Road."

"Closed for the season?"

Bob threw his son an annoyed look. "He wasn't about to let that stop him. He made it 38 miles up. Then he ran out of gas. Thirty-eight miles into the middle of nowhere, the dead of winter, and he ran out of gas. By the time we got there, he was dead - frozen to death right there in his truck. I'll tell you, Son, I don't remember ever seeing anything so horrible. There was an aurora that night. He was all white. Covered with frost, and when we pulled him out of the truck, the light turned him all greenish. It's enough to freeze your blood."

"You don't have blood, Dad. You're dead."

"Well, I had plenty of it then!"

"And how did you get to him? I assume you didn't use dogs."

"Dogs!" his father gave a derisive snort. "Son, this was in 1980. We got to him in a Ford Bronco we had in Johnson's Crossing. Only ours had plenty of gas. Dogs!"

Chapter 4. In Which Fraser Bows to the Inevitable

Father and son sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Sounds of a heated argument drifted over from the baseball field. The younger Fraser winced as he heard his father heave a sigh.
"So, what are you going to do, Son?"

"About what, Dad?"

"Well, it appears to me she's got you. Right or wrong, she left orders with - what's his name?"

"Turnbull."

"Right. She left an order with Turnbull that you were to report to her office. You didn't do it, Son."

"Dad, after what happened last night, I don't think I have a thing to worry about." It was Ben's turn to sigh.

"How so?" "Well, you know the regulations as well as I do. Take your pick. Sexual harassment, conduct unbecoming an…"

"You're going to pull regulations on the poor girl? You don't sound like yourself, Son. Not at all." Bob Fraser shook his head in amazement.

"She's not a poor girl, Dad. She's my commanding officer."

"I know that, Benton. And you don't think this is a bit...well, a bit harsh?"

"Yes, it is harsh, Dad. But I've come to believe...That is, I..." Ben stopped, took off his hat, removed the document he had folded there, and opened it so that his father could read it.

"Request for transfer!" The elder Fraser stopped for a long moment. "So you're going to blackmail the poor girl."

"I wish you would stop referring to her as 'the poor girl,' Dad! What about me? I'm your own flesh and blood. And if you want to call it blackmail, well then, maybe that's what it is. I have as much right as the next human being to live and work in peace. If I have to go back to Moose Jaw to do it, that's fine with me. Besides, I've thought about it, and I don't think it will come to that. I think she'll let me go quietly if I confront her calmly."

The older man paused for a moment. "Just what is it you want, Son? Do you really want to go back to the Territories? I thought you were happy here. Buck and I never had too much of a choice in our assignments, you know."

Ben sighed. "I have been happy, Dad. I have friends here. I like the work. It's the Inspector."

"I thought you two had hit it off, as they say. What was that all about on the train?"

"Think again, Dad. She didn't waste any time telling me it was over. That is," and he tugged at his high collar and said with some asperity, "Unless we're ever on a train that's been commandeered by terrorists, loaded with unconscious Mounties, and headed for a nuclear disaster. So I guess you could say she held out some hope. But to do what she did last night. And don't think it's the first time."

Bob Fraser could not suppress a chuckle. "She really went after you, did she, Son?"

"It's not funny. And yes, she did. I don't how it was when you were young, but the boys at the high school in Tuktoyaktuk had a name for women who did things like that."

His father threw him a sharp look, then chuckled quietly again. "Well, I think we probably had the same name, Son. But you're wrong about her, you know. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. She wants you. And, by God, she's gonna get you. I can see that you're angry. Maybe you have a right to be, or maybe you've just lost your sense of humor. Just don't be too hasty. You don't want to end up like old Simon."

"Well, you and I will just have to agree to disagree, Dad. The transfer request is going in Monday morning - with or without her cooperation." Ben turned to his father, but the older man had chosen this convenient moment to disappear. Instead, he was startled to see his commanding officer making her way down the path.

Chapter 5. In Which Deli Sandwiches are Consumed but Not Much Else is Accomplished

Ben got to his feet quickly, replaced his hat, and stood at attention.

"Fraser," said Meg evenly. He noted that she was carrying a white paper bag in addition to her briefcase.

"Sir."

"As you were. It's after five o'clock. Did I hear you say something about transfer papers? Who were you talking to?"

Fraser's shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch. "No one, Sir. I was just...That is I was sitting here reading one of my father's journals. He held up the book."

"And what's that in your other hand?"

"Nothing, Sir. Well, yes, it is something. It is...It is a paper that goes along with the journal." Fraser concluded his speech with relief and placed the folded paper inside the cover of the book.

"Please sit down, Constable."

Fraser obeyed but maintained his air of watchful attention. Meg seated herself on the bench, but at a distance that respected his personal space. No deer-in-the-headlights look yet, she noted.

"You must be hungry," she went on. "You stayed on sentry duty all day. Turnbull tells me you took only a twenty-minute break at noon. Did you eat?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, I stopped and got a couple of sandwiches at the deli." Meg extracted two foil-wrapped bundles and two napkins from the white bag. She handed one to Fraser.

"Thank you, Sir." And there it was. The fleeting look of wariness, quickly concealed. Meg sighed inwardly as she pulled out two bottles of iced tea. "I hope sugar and lemon will be all right."

"Thank you." Fraser set down his tea, tucked his napkin into his high collar, opened his sandwich, and took a bite.

"You're very fortunate to have your father's journals," Meg said after a few moments of awkward silence. "Do they cover his entire career?"

"Yes, Sir, they do," replied Fraser. "These and the cabin were his legacy to me." And he fell silent again.

"Well, from what I've heard of Bob Fraser, those journals cover a lifetime of exemplary service," observed Meg.

"Thank you, Sir." Ben returned to his tea and sandwich. He wasn't going to make this any easier.

Meg resolved to continue. "People in Ottawa said he was the last of a breed," she went on. She paused. Her dark eyes narrowed as she scrutinized his face. "You're cut from the same cloth, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir."

"All you've ever wanted to do is serve - honorably and to the best of your ability. No one can ask any more of an officer."

Fraser was silent. He finished the last of his sandwich and crumpled the foil and his napkin into the paper bag.

Meg plunged on. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out several files. "The monthly roundtable was today, and as usual, it generated a lot of paperwork. These files cover the liaison program with the Chicago Police Department. I took a look at all of them this afternoon. "This one," and she handed a file to Fraser, "contains letters of commendation received from Lieutenant Welsh and other police and municipal officials, as well as the Federal government, regarding your work with Detective Vecchio and the cases you two have solved as a team."

Fraser accepted the folder without opening it. At some point, the boys across the way had finished their baseball game, and the park was now mostly silent as the shadows lengthened. The slight chill in the air grew deeper as the sun sank lower.

"This one," she went on, "contains letters from various members of the community including schools, a home for the aged, a hospital, and a church." Again, she handed him the folder, and again, he took it without looking at it. The next folder was thick. "This one is for communications from the Government." Clearly he was not going to offer her any help. "And this one contains reports and statistics from the monthly roundtable meetings."

He now held all five of the folders, but he still had not uttered a word. The wary look had not resurfaced. "Bloody minded!" thought Meg. She took a sip of her tea. She admitted to herself that what she wanted to do more than anything was to slide across the bench, throw herself into his arms, beg his forgiveness, and drown herself in those blue eyes now returning her gaze so calmly. But that had been the problem from the beginning, hadn't it? She took another sip, cleared her throat, and began.

"First of all, Constable, you needn't be concerned about," and here she paused, "recent occurrences. I intend to have this same conversation with Constable Turnbull on Monday morning. It is long overdue." She looked at him again. There it was again - the look. Damn it! Did these two people regard her as some sort of mad dog? She forced herself to regard him calmly. "You have compiled a commendable record here in Chicago, Constable. Your actions reflect great credit on you and on the force. You have," she took another sip. "You have made my work here a great deal easier."

"Thank you, Sir."

"What I have been unable to..." she searched for the right words. "What I have not taken the time to discern during our time together is precisely where your interests lie." She paused and looked at him expectantly, but he did not accept the opening she had offered.

"For example." Meg had resolved to continue no matter what. "You have been teamed with Detective Vecchio at the 27th. And you have quite a track record at solving major cases. Lieutenant Welsh has never struck me as being particularly demonstrative, yet he sings your praises in these letters. And you've attracted the favorable notice of others in the department. That would seem to indicate a natural aptitude for this type of work.

"On the other hand, you have a strong interest in being part of a community, as these commendations from the schools, churches, and so on would indicate. You've had a positive influence on several juveniles - youngsters who would have gone on to serious crime had it not been for your intervention, your...compassion. You've been a leader in your own neighborhood..." Meg was running out of steam.

"Finally, you've been involved in a number of cases with the U.S. government as well as several with our own government. And here again, you've served with distinction. Although this type of undercover work is the most demanding of all, you have consistently demonstrated competency. No, you have consistently demonstrated an aptitude for it, even under difficult circumstances."

She squinted at her watch, then stood up. He was instantly on his feet.

"It's getting too dark to see out here, Constable," she continued. "But there is a point to this discussion, and I would like to get to it before too much more time goes by. I realize that you are now off-duty. I would like to request that you accompany me to the deli at the edge of the park so that we can continue this discussion where the lighting is adequate. That is, if you are free. I will not take up too much of your time."

"Yes, Sir." He tucked the folders carefully under one arm and followed as she led the way out of the park.

Chapter 6 - In Which we Learn that the Deli Closes Early on Friday

Meg congratulated herself inwardly on her impromptu choice of a venue for the discussion. Not her office. Not his office. Not a dark, comfortable restaurant. The deli, with its harsh, fluorescent lights, aged and cracked vinyl booths, and chrome fixtures came close to being perfectly neutral territory.

They settled into a booth and the waitress brought them coffee. Fraser did not touch his. He set the file folders down on the table between them and sat, quietly focused, waiting for Meg to speak. Once again she resisted the impulse to throw herself across the table at him.

"So, Constable," she began again. "Do you have anything to add at this point?" She felt she had placed the ball in his court as precisely as she could.

He looked at her for a moment, then returned the serve handily. "Well, Sir, I can't help wondering what might have brought this on so suddenly."

"It's a fair question, Constable. And believe me, I was coming to that."

Meg's hands were folded in front of her on the tabletop. She swallowed hard, preparing to continue. With a sudden clarity, Ben could see what was coming. He could see the pulse at the base of her throat. He imagined her hands must be cold. "It's all right, my love! Don't do this...don't!" The words came from the very depths of his soul, but he did not say them. He wanted to cover those still, white hands with his own warm ones. But he kept his hands quietly folded. Instead, he nodded as if to say, "Go on." If she had been able to notice, she would have seen that his eyes had softened. But her own eyes were focused inward now.

"My behavior last night was...reprehensible. There is no excuse, no apology I can offer that would even begin to make up for it. But," and she gave a wry smile. "I'm not stupid. And I've spent today very profitably."

Finally Ben spoke. "You don't have to do this," he began.

"But I do." And she smiled again. This time the smile almost reached her eyes. "You see, I've come very far, very fast. And I realized this morning that there have been three kinds of people in my life. There have been people - friends, I would say - who have done all they can for me and who have never asked for anything in return. And there are others," she drew a deep breath. "There are others who have manipulated me like a chess pawn. And still others," her eyes grew cloudy with anger. "Who have made my life a living hell sometimes."

"I had to decide...I have to decide, just which type of person I want to be. It's not a very difficult choice." She laughed. "What's going to be difficult is overcoming my...track record. But there's no time like the present, is there?" She shook her head and smiled ruefully.

Ben simply looked at her, thinking that there were many kinds of courage abroad in the world.

"You really aren't going to make this easy, are you, Constable?"

"But I.." he began.

At that most inopportune moment the waitress arrived. "Folks, it's closing time."

Meg squinted again at her watch. "But it's not even seven o'clock."

"Right. But Mr. Schirmer likes to close early on Fridays. So he can go home and be with his family, you know?" She indicated the white-haired man, now busy behind the counter.

"Of course, murmured Meg." She fished a bill out of her purse and handed it to the waitress. Then she extracted her agenda and opened it. "Well, Constable. It seems that as much as I'd like to, we're not going to be able to finish this conversation until Monday." She frowned slightly. "I have an eight o'clock appointment with Constable Turnbull. Shall we say ten o'clock?"

"I'll be there," he replied.

The waitress brought their change. Meg set the tip down and picked up the folders, replacing them in her briefcase. She and Ben left the deli together.

Chapter 7 - In Which External Forces are Brought to Bear

They stood together on the sidewalk in the gathering darkness. The street was deserted; the only light came from the front window of the deli and a streetlight a few buildings down. As they stood there, Mr. Schirmer turned off the lights in the deli, plunging them into almost total darkness.

"I want to get a cab," Meg said.

Ben had begun looking for one. "Let's move down towards the streetlight, he replied. If need be, we can call you one."

He refrained from placing his hand under her elbow as they made their way to the middle of the block. A young boy on roller blades approached them. Meg thought idly that he seemed to be having a good time. As he skated near Meg, he suddenly put out his arm. She felt a strong tug on the leather strap of her handbag. She tugged back, hard, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk.

Ben moved quickly, but the boy was up in an instant and gone. He hesitated, deciding that it was better to stay with Meg than to try to apprehend the would-be criminal.

"That little bastard!" Meg exclaimed. "Thought he was going to get away with my purse!"

"Are you all right, Inspector?"

"I'm fine. Just a little aggravated, that's all."

Mercifully, a cab appeared up the block. Ben stepped out into the street and waved one arm. He placed two fingers of his other hand in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle.

"Well done, Constable." Meg laughed. "I never did learn to whistle like that, though my brothers tried to teach me."

The cab passed by without stopping.

"It's not all that far. I often walk," observed Meg.

"If you're going to walk, I'll accompany you." replied Ben in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

And so, together, they rounded the corner and set off to walk the eight blocks or so to Meg's apartment building. The street they followed was a large one, better lit than the one they had left. Though each kept a wary eye out for the young delinquent, the warm spring night and easy pace of the walk seemed to invite conversation.

Meg felt she could not let the opportunity pass by. She began again in a brisk tone. "Well, since we have these few minutes, I'll continue where I left off."

This time, Ben made no move to stop her. She would see this through, no matter what. And some part of him felt he owed her a hearing.

"Let's see. My track record. Well, I've focused on my own ambitions and ignored the fact that you - and Turnbull - might have ambitions of your own. I've failed to make the best use of your talents and aptitudes. I've belittled and abused you..."

Ben stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and held up his hand.

"Yes, Constable?" Her voice held a trace of annoyance, as though she did not want to have to begin this all over again.

"You know, Inspector, I learned something interesting while I was working undercover at Saint Fortunata's School."
"Ah, yes," she replied. "The antiques heist and the missing girl. You went in disguised as a teacher, I recall."

"Exactly," Ben went on. "And one afternoon before supper, I was left in charge of study hall. The sisters went into their own part of the building for a closed-door meeting. Sister Anne, the headmistress there, told me about it later. It seems they spend a great deal of time going over their consciences. And once a week, they get together to discuss the results. But," and he stopped again. "None of them gets to go over more than three of her faults at any one time."

"And why is that?"

"Well, according to Sister Anne, the idea is that while it's good to have a clear idea of one's faults, it's not generally a good idea to dwell on them too much. I suppose that would be viewed as counter-productive."

Meg was secretly glad that she did not have to participate in such meetings. "Point taken, Constable."

Chapter 8 - In which Fraser, like the Young Daniel, Goes Into the Lion's Den

A few more minutes of walking brought them to the front of Meg's apartment house. They stopped on the sidewalk in front.

"Thank you for seeing me home, Fraser."

"You're welcome, Inspector. We will see about apprehending that young delinquent on Monday morning."

Monday. The word hung in the air. "Let's see," thought Meg. "Monday morning. That's almost sixty hours from now. Two full days. Three nights." She found the prospect daunting.

"Constable," she said, turning to him. "I've come this far with what I had to say. I'd like to finish. The prospect of waiting until Monday morning at ten is a little..." her voice trailed off.

"Daunting.," he finished the sentence for her. "Understood."

"Let me make you a cup of coffee," Meg went on. "An honest cup of coffee."

For the second time that night, her courage amazed Ben. Throughout their entire conversation, she had not offered a single excuse, had not sidestepped a single responsibility, had not flinched at a single issue. The echo of his grandmother's voice came back to him, saying "...The courage to change the things I can..." If nothing else, he reasoned, her bravery had earned her a fair hearing.

"All right," he said quietly.

Meg scrutinized his face in the darkness, but she could see no sign of the wariness. At least his response hadn't been "Yes, Sir," she consoled herself.

The ride up in the elevator was silent. Neither of them could quite forget that they had been in this elevator together a little less than twenty-four hours before, under very different circumstances. In the close quarters, Ben noticed that her face was paler than usual and that there were violet smudges of fatigue under her dark eyes.

When they entered the apartment, Meg placed her purse and briefcase on the table in the foyer. "Please make yourself comfortable in the living room while I see to the coffee," she said. "The bathroom is just down the hall there if you'd like to wash your hands." And with that she disappeared into the kitchen.

Ben began to lay his hat on the hall table. But first he reached into his trousers pocket. He could feel the crisp edge of the paper folded up inside the front cover of the journal. Quickly he pulled it out and replaced it in the inside band of the hat. The living room furniture included a couch and two comfortable chairs. Ben chose the larger of the two chairs and sat quietly. He could hear Meg in the kitchen, but she did not speak.

Meg made the coffee. She supposed Fraser might still be hungry, and she looked around her admittedly sparse kitchen. Her eye fell on a bowl of peaches which she had left in the windowsill. A little fruit might be welcome. As the coffee began to drip, she sliced two of the peaches into a glass bowl and sprinkled them with sugar. Her refrigerator boasted a half-pint of cream - something she did not normally keep around, but which she had bought to go with the peaches. She poured some into another bowl, added a little sugar, and beat the cream with a fork; not enough to turn it into whipped cream, but enough to make it adhere to the peaches. Satisfied with her efforts, she added the cream to the fruit.

She opened another cabinet to get out a tray. No. Not the living room. Not the dining room either. The kitchen was more comfortably neutral. She laid two places at the table by the window and set out the coffee and dessert. Then, squaring her shoulders a bit, she went back into the living room. Ben was on his feet instantly.

"I thought we might have our coffee in the kitchen," said Meg. As he followed her into the room, she indicated a place at the table. "Please, sit down, Fraser." She laughed a little as she poured the coffee. "This is probably the most disjointed meeting I've ever conducted," she said. If you count the walk, what is this? Our fourth location? We may qualify for migrant worker status."

"Where was I?" she went on. "Yes. I was going over my many transgressions, and you were saying that the good Sisters only get three faults at a time. It was a good point. Fraser, I can't change what's gone on in the past. Believe me, if I could, I would. All I can do is resolve that things will be better from this point forward. And I will see to it that they are better - not only for you but for Turnbull." She thought back to the moment in the park when she could have sworn she heard him say something about a transfer. "If that means..." She swallowed hard again, just as she had earlier in the deli. "If that means a transfer for you, then I'll see to it that it's the best, most advantageous posting we can get you."

She stopped and looked down at her cup, unable to continue for the moment. She willed her hands to be still, and when they would not obey, she picked up the cup.

"Thank you," said Ben simply. "I believe you." If she had looked over at him, she might have noticed that his hands held his own cup in an iron grip.

Chapter 9 - In Which Unlike Daniel, Fraser Stays a While Longer than Necessary

"I'm forgetting about dessert," Meg said finally. "These are fresh peaches. They're a little out of season, but I had one this morning, and they're very good. Will you have some?"

"I can never turn down fresh fruit," replied Ben. "I didn't get enough of it when I was a boy. Somehow it's always a treat for me."

She finally looked over at him, grateful to see that the smile in his eyes matched that on his lips. "Well, I hope you'll enjoy this," she said, handing him a bowl. She served her own fruit, and they ate for a while in what seemed to be a comfortable silence.

Ben was the first to finish. "Very good," he observed.

"Would you like more?" Meg smiled as Ben shook his head. "Oh come on, Fraser. Finish them off."

"Thank you kindly," he replied, holding out the bowl with a bashful smile. It was another real smile, she noted with some relief.

As he started on the second bowl of peaches, Ben thought that Meg looked a little better. Some color had returned to her cheeks, though the violet smudges remained under her eyes. He wanted to kiss her tired eyes closed and hold her in his arms as she slept. He pushed the thought away. It would never happen now, he told himself.

Meg worked her way through her own bowl of fruit, hardly tasting it. Perhaps the kitchen hadn't been such a good choice after all. It was so peaceful and domestic. This would be the only time the two of them ever sat at this table. There was no turning back now, she thought. It was over and done with. She shivered as she put down her spoon.

His eyes searched her face intently. He had noticed.
"Cat walking across my grave," she said with a smile. "I think I'll get some more coffee." She picked up Ben's cup as well as her own.

As she set the cups on the counter, Meg put her hands to the small of her back in an involuntary movement of fatigue. Ben noticed that her feet were still encased in the black, heeled pumps she had been wearing all day. Ben's disguise as a woman teacher at St. Fortunata's had convinced him that women's footwear was little better than Chinese foot binding. She would be more comfortable in the living room, he decided. But she would never suggest that they go there. He tugged at his collar and licked his lips nervously. "Inspector," he began as she turned around. "Would you be more comfortable seated in the living room? It was a long walk," he ended somewhat lamely.

She threw him a sharp glance; then, as if satisfied, she replied, "Yes. That's a good idea. We might as well make ourselves comfortable. I still haven't heard from you." She handed him his cup and led the way into the living room, where she seated herself at one end of the couch, slipping her shoes off and tucking one foot underneath her. "Much better," she smiled.

Ben, who was beginning to feel a little as though he were moving around a series of stage sets, re-seated himself carefully in the large chair.

"Well, Constable," Meg began with a tired smile. "I'd say the ball was in your court."

Ben raised his eyebrows quizzically.

"You've been remarkably quiet through all this."

"I was angry last night," he began. "And I stayed angry through most of today. Angry enough to pull regulations on you. Angry enough to leave this city, and my work here, and the best friends I've ever known." His voice was quiet, as though he were speaking to himself. "And then you..." He paused for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. He looked at her intently. "You came back and pulled off one of the most extraordinary demonstrations of courage I've ever seen."

Meg said nothing. Ben stood up suddenly and walked to the sliding glass doors at one end of the room. The curtains were open, revealing a view of the city lights spread out below them. He placed his hand on the doorframe and peered out as though the view held some answer or as if he would gladly sprout wings and fly off the balcony. "I can't do any less, can I?" he said, almost to himself. Then, as though he had discovered some answer out there, he turned around.

"I can do this, Meg." He did not notice he had used her given name. "I can stay here. I can work at whatever assignments you give me. I can enjoy my friends, my...my adopted family. But I have to know, and you have to tell me."

"Tell you what, Ben?" Meg's voice was as quiet as his.
Ben turned to stare out of the window again, and said so quietly she had to strain to hear him, "You set up the boundary after we stopped the train. You said that what had happened could never repeat itself. I didn't have any say in it. It was your decision, and all I could do was resolve to abide by it."

Meg stood up, walked to the window, and stood beside him looking out. "I never realized, when I said those words, that I was condemning two people to such a life of misery," she said quietly. Then, when he did not reply, she went on. "What would you have said," she asked, "if I had given you the chance to have your say?"

He was quiet for such a long time that she feared she had made him angry again. She was almost startled when he finally spoke.

"I would have gotten down off that horse," he began, "and I would have set you on the ground, and I would have said, kiss me again. Kiss me again the way you did on the train, and if you can still say it's over, and mean it, then I'll do as you wish."

Meg made no sound. But in the dim light from the window, he could see the faint track of a tear as it fell from her eye and made its way slowly down her cheek. He reached over and touched it with a kind of wonder, only to see it replaced by another.

He did not urge her not to cry, nor did he try to hush her. He took both her hands in his, led her to the couch, sat down, and gathered her into his arms. As her tears fell faster, he gathered each one up with his lips, as though tasting its bitterness could somehow make it his own.

Finally, with a little shudder, Meg closed her eyes and was instantly asleep. Ben settled his arms around her more closely, rested his cheek on her soft hair, closed his own eyes, and slept, too.

copyright (c) 1999 by Josephine March