Hunting Season, or "Oh, Deer"

"Ray? I'm sorry to bother you on the weekend."

Ray wasn't sure if he should be flattered or annoyed by Fraser's assumption that he might have better things to do on a day off than sit around waiting for his buddy to need something. "S'okay. What?"

"Well, as I may have mentioned, Inspector Thatcher took the Consulate's official vehicle to the criminal justice conference in Champaign-Urbana. She was to return this evening."

"Uh-huh."

"Unfortunately, as can often happen while driving at dusk this time of year, she struck a deer."

Reason 116 why he preferred not to leave the city if he had a choice. "That sucks. Is she okay?"

"Yes, she's fine. However, she called me to meet her on the highway and help her deal with the situation." He cleared his throat. "And I--unwisely, as it turns out--gave Turnbull permission to take the other official vehicle to Sault Ste. Marie. Evidently he's wanted to visit a yarn store there for some time, but Inspector Thatcher--"

"Okay, okay, I don't need all the details about the yarn store." Ray had his doubts that it was, in actual fact, more polite to spin some complicated story that required him to read between the lines and figure out what Fraser was asking for, than it would be if he just said, Hey, I need you to drive me halfway down route 57 to rescue my boss from a deer situation. But that was Fraser for you. "I'll pick you up in ten minutes."

"Thank you, Ray."

"Better leave the wolf home," he suggested. The back seat would be crowded enough with one adult human-type person in there.

"I had planned on it. Thank you again."

He took the time to pick out some CDs before he headed out the door. A few of them, Fraser would probably complain weren't appropriate to listen to with a lady in the car, but everyone knew that the guy doing the driving got to pick the music.

Well, everyone except maybe Fraser. He'd probably suggest they take turns picking, or vote, or have a sing-along instead.

When he got to the Consulate, he was a little surprised to see that Fraser was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, instead of the uniform. It was his day off, but Ray would've thought he'd consider Thatcher-retrieval to be official Consulate business.

He also had a rolled-up tarp tucked under one arm. Good idea--if the Consulate SUV was really messed up, they'd have to have it towed to a body shop and leave it outside, and the forecast was calling for rain overnight. If Ray had thought of it, he'd have brought a car cover along. But the tarp would work. "How far down 57 is she?" Ray asked as Fraser got into the car.

"Just past Onarga. I believe it was a buck," Fraser added helpfully.

Why that mattered, Ray had no idea. "We're in for a long drive, then. Get comfy."

Fraser's idea of getting comfy turned out to involve lots of stories about deer, hunting, deer hunting, and related topics. He didn't object to any of Ray's music choices; he just talked over them. Ray was vastly relieved when, in the middle of hearing about a pemmican recipe, he saw the exit for Onarga and was able to exit the highway and turn around. "Keep your eyes open for the wreck," he told Fraser. "I don't wanna overshoot it and have to turn around again."

Fortunately, Fraser took his wreck-spotting duties seriously enough to put the pemmican lecture on hold. He'd probably try to start up again once the Ice Queen was safely in the car with them, but maybe she'd order him to stop. He could hope, anyway.

It turned out that the wreck was easy to spot--it was the car by the side of the road with the tow truck in front of it, and the very angry woman behind it telling the driver how to do his job. "--damage the transmission, I won't hesitate to inform your supervisor. Fraser!"

"Sir," Fraser said.

"What took you so long?"

"It is a distance of approximately 150 kilometers, sir," he said apologetically, circling around the car from the back. "Ray, could you give me a hand?"

"With what?" He followed Fraser, and saw him crouching over the deer. "Fraser, it's dead," he pointed out. The deer was mostly on its back, with legs pointing every which way and the head twisted around under it in a way that made it real obvious the neck was broken.

"I know that. It would hardly still be here if it wasn't. Take the front." Fraser stood up and grabbed the deer's two back legs.

Ray sighed. Handling road kill was apparently one of those things you just had to do if you were hanging around with Fraser. He grabbed the front legs. "Okay, where are we going with it?" Maybe Fraser thought it would be more respectful or something to move it off the shoulder of the road, back in the bushes.

Fraser gave him a puzzled look. "The car, I would think."

He dropped the legs. "Here in civilization we do not haul away our own road kill, Fraser. There are people who do that for their job."

Fraser lowered his end of the deer. "There are? What do they do with the carcass?"

"I dunno. Take it to the dump, I guess. C'mon, you don't want to put the road-kill cleanup guy out of work, do you? He maybe has kids to feed or something." Ray knew Fraser well enough by now that he didn't bother pointing out that picking up dead deer was gross. Fraser didn't care about gross.

"Then he should take the deer home and feed it to them," Fraser said. "If he's just going to dispose of it, that's a dreadful waste." He picked up the deer's back legs again. "Come on. If I have to drag it, it'll damage the pelt and bruise the meat."

"It got hit by an SUV. It's already bruised. And dead, like I think I mentioned." Ray didn't allow himself to think about why it mattered if the deer was bruised or not.

"You have a point," Fraser agreed. He maneuvered the deer around and started dragging it toward the car.

Ray jogged after him. "We are not tying that thing to my car. The antlers and hooves and stuff will scratch up the paint."

"Of course not. It'll fit nicely in the trunk."

"Dead animals do not ride in my car, either. It's a sort of a personal policy I have."

Fraser paused. "When you go to the grocery store, do you take the food home in your car?"

The scary thing was, Ray was able to follow his train of thought. Ray ate meat. Meat was dead animals. He carried meat in his car. "That is road kill, Fraser. It's not the same thing."

"That's where you're wrong. Could you open the trunk, please?"

This was one of those arguments he was going to lose, he just knew it. Pretty much any argument with Fraser was an argument he was going to lose. He was trying to decide whether to keep arguing or save himself the trouble and give in now, when Thatcher strode over. "Constable, what are you doing?"

"I'm attempting to load your deer into Detective Vecchio's vehicle, sir," he answered.

She stared at him. "Why?"

Fraser dropped the deer and smoothed an eyebrow with his thumb. "Did you want to field-dress it here? I don't think that will be necessary; if we proceed without delay, we should be able to have it home within four hours of its decease, and if we butcher it there, Diefenbaker can have the offal, which he's been looking forward to since you called. But I do have a knife, if you--"

"No, I don't want to field-dress it here. I don't want to field-dress it anywhere. I certainly don't want to take it home."

Now Fraser looked really confused. "Then why did you call?"

"So that you could drive me--me, not the deer--back to Chicago."

"Oh."

Suddenly, all the hunting stories made sense. And the pemmican recipes. Not to mention the grocery-shopping comparison.

He hadn't wanted to take the dead deer home. Inspector Thatcher was taking his side, which meant he might actually have a chance at winning the argument, but Fraser looked so disappointed that Ray found himself saying, "There's plenty of room for both you and the deer." He opened the trunk. "C'mon, let's get it loaded up. Where's that tarp?" The tarp had better be for the carcass, and not for the car, as he'd previously thought. He wasn't putting a naked deer carcass in his trunk. You had to draw the line somewhere with Mounties.

Fraser lined the trunk floor with the tarp, and they lifted the deer in. "So, does that mean you won't be wanting your share of the meat?" he asked Thatcher hopefully.

She closed her eyes. "No. No, Constable, I don't want the meat."

"And, er, the hide?"

"Keep it."

"The antlers?"

"Merry Christmas, Constable."