Elizabeth MacLeod put the sandwich in the compartment and latched the lunchbox closed. She handed it to her son, Rory, and placed his touque on his head snugly. Wrapping her shawl around her quickly, she and her son raced to the end of the snow-lined driveway where a great yellow bus with screaming children had momentarily parked itself. She waved good-bye as the bus veered away and went back inside. She plunked down on the couch and took out her knitting from a straw basket. Time weaved itself around the needles, clicking away obliviously, wrapping the periwinkle-blue wool cords around into a tapestry chronicling the love put into a scarf, or merely a way to waste time. That was how it was for Elizabeth now. Her husband, a valiant and capable R.C.M.P. officer, was killed brutally. His death sent shockwaves into her very soul. She was left a widow and her son orphaned for no more than the price of vengeance. But she would not leave that legacy for her son. She quit the force and settled down in the outskirts of Ste.-Anne-du-Lac. Her days would be quite like today from there on in.
A sharp pang of fear set into her heart. A sound in the back of the house sent her shooting up from the couch. She tiptoed quickly into the kitchen to the back door. A masked man tried to force the door open. With no form of defence, Elizabeth tried to telephone the police but the line was dead. Alone, she braced herself and grabbed a poker. An arm swung around her body and pulled her back. She thrust her feet to the ground, jabbed her elbow into the man's ribs and threw him over her shoulder. She retreated to her bedroom. An unseen iron bar struck her in the chest and sent her reeling back. She gasped for air. A cocked gun was pointed at her temples. Sensing now the futility of resistance, she lay still, a captive in her own refuge. Constable Benton Fraser drew back from the cold. Winter in Chicago had set in violently with a temper hardly weathered in recent memory. It was bitter cold. Maybe it was because he had lived here for a time but the cold now bothered him. Perhaps it could have been something else.
He put his coat on the hook and made his way to his desk.
"Constable Fraser!"
He spun around. Inspector Margaret Thatcher, superior officer and tormenter of muskoxen extraordinaire, stared at him with an officious glare.
"You're early."
Fraser nodded.
"Yes, I am, sir."
"Just thought I'd tell you," she said and resumed her work.
A simple white envelope lay on the oak desk. Fraser looked at the return address. Elizabeth MacLeod... Putting the letter down, he delved into a melancholy. Elizabeth MacLeod, formerly Fraser, was more distant to him than anything. Even Ray had a better rapport with her than he did. Aside from the fact that they were both in the force, they were different from one another. As different as twins could be. Perhaps it was the distance they had placed between them. After all, Elizabeth had left home when she was sixteen and never looked back. She was her mother's little angel and with her mother gone, nothing was in store for her. She left home, started a family, entered the force and lived further away from the self-reliant brother. Fraser longed for the affinity that they had when they were children. He didn't read the letter but put it away in his desk to be read another day.
Detective Ray Vecchio kicked back, lifted his feet on his desk and covered his eyes from the glare that was normal light. He wanted a vacation, he needed a vacation. He was always tired of being shafted out of a vacation because of that Canadian do-gooder and letting Elaine, the much-picked-on civilian-aide, get all the fun. No more. If he had to run over little old ladies, he would have that vacation.
Opening his eyes, he could see the face of Elaine smiling down on him.
"What is it, Elaine?"
"Oh, just the typical hit-and-run that you have to take care of before I go on vacation that was meant for you," she laughed, "that's all."
Her smartness did not create a climate of love between them.
A thin, angry young man stormed from, or was kicked out of, Walsh's office. This caused quite a stir in the quiet Violent Crimes division.
"America has enemies and they must be sought out," the man said.
"Yes, well, you can do that by yourself, Mr. Jefferson," Walsh said as he patted, or pushed, Sam Jefferson on the back.
"You'll need my services," he warned, "I've worked with the C.I.A., the F.B.I., the I.R.S., PCB. I could come in handy."
It would be safe to say that Walsh did not buy it.
Oddly, Inspector Thatcher and her entourage comprising of Fraser and Diefenbaker, wolf and donut connoisseur extraordinaire, and the young, impressionable Constable Renfield Turnbull, flew in with the blast of cold winter air. In her gloved hand, she held a tape.
"I need to speak to the officer in charge," she demanded.
Walsh presented himself.
"Yes, you'll do," Thatcher nodded, "I also need to see a Ray Vecchio."
Ray ambled by with his hands in his pockets, disinterested.
"Right. To the conference room!"
Thatcher and her entourage led the way to the conference room.
Elaine set up a television as she was asked while the others filed into the room. Sam remained aloof. He crouched to the seated Walsh and whispered a warning.
"Lieutenant Walsh, I believe these people are Canadians."
"You would be right."
"We must eject them from the building then. They are a subversive threat to our national well-being."
Walsh simply looked at Sam.
"You'll see, Walsh. Mark my words."
Thatcher cleared her throat.
"Early this morning, we watched a news broadcast that concerns people within this room."
"Well, it doesn't concern Uncle Sam!" Sam huffed.
Thatcher ignored him and played the tape. Norma Lee MacLeod, CBC news anchor and ballroom dancer extraordinaire, readjusted her earpiece and began to read from her paper.
"Early this morning two masked and armed men broke into the home of a Ste. Anne-du-Lac woman, Elizabeth MacLeod, and have asked a local news crew into the house to broadcast their demands. We have a live link which we broadcast to you very shortly."
Ray became extremely concerned. He cast a glance at Fraser. His stony countenance revealed nothing.
The picture changed to Elizabeth bound and gagged on the couch. She writhed and tried to free herself. The two men, masked and apparently without weapons aside from a crowbar that rested at the side of one of them, were seated next to her. One of them got up and spoke.
"We are members of Freedom of the World and we are holding this woman hostage until our demands are met. If this woman is to live, this man," a picture of Ray was held to the camera, "Benton Fraser, must negotiate her freedom. That is all."
Thatcher pressed the stop button.
"You see, Detective Vecchio. They think you are her brother."
Too astounded for words, Ray tried to believe it.
"What do I have to do?" he asked.
"You'll have to go there and impersonate me," Fraser replied.
"Easier said than done," Ray scoffed, "I don't think I could hold doors open for people for too long."
"Ray, this is no time for levity," Fraser scolded. He bit his lip. "Everything now rests on your shoulders. Her life..." Fraser could not bring himself to say what he had been thinking. "Rory needs his mother. Will you do it?"
Fraser did not need to ask.
"I guess I'll have to learn French, won't I?" Ray asked rhetorically.
Fraser leaned against the wall and wiped water from the fountain from his lips. He turned rather pale. Elaine had noticed this. She had always noticed the subtle ways he would act when something concerned him or when he was worried. Faint to startling blushes whenever she or Francesca approached him, the grim, stoic look of perseverance when he and Ray were at odds, the clarity of rebuke when Diefenbaker swiped a donut. Now, worry had set in. She had not seen this so severely on him before. Concern, but never really worry. She walked over to him quietly. She placed her hand on his shoulder. When the unsuspecting Canadian recoiled from her gentle touch, she withdrew it.
"Will you be alright? She asked.
"I will be fine, Elaine. Thank you kindly."
"I don't believe you."
Fraser looked at Elaine. Her admission was like a slap on the face. But she could see right through him. In a way, she always could.
"Bess and I had rarely spoken in years," he confessed, "for a while, I just didn't care what happened to her. I almost forgot that she existed. After all, she left home and left us all behind. I suppose I thought of her a quitter the way she turned her back on us but I guess she had to live her life and I had to live mine. Now, I realize that I don't have anything left of the life I had before. That's a terrible feeling, when a man realizes that he is at the end of his rope. There is no way of turning back."
"Would you like me to come with you?" Elaine asked. "I have some vacation time. I could prove useful..."
Fraser thought her request was almost whimsical.
"But Elaine, I thought you liked to vacation in warmer places. Quebec is quite cold."
She shrugged. Fraser smiled.
"You will have to dress warmly..."
Thatcher entered the hallway. A rift had again set in.
"Constable Fraser, we will leave at 8:00 this evening."
"Officer Besbriss has agreed to accompany us. She will act as a...personal aide for Detective Vecchio."
Thatcher seemed strangely indifferent.
"Alright then."
Fraser winked at Elaine. This would prove to be fun.
The day was crisp and cold. The lake was covered with layers of blue ice. Outside Elizabeth's home, T.V. crews waited for every tantalizing or not-so-tantalizing bit of news. This was the biggest thing to happen to Ste. Anne-du-Lac since the referendum.
Meanwhile, the second biggest thing to happen to Ste. Anne-du-Lac, the appearance of French singing sensation, Celine Dion, on the local CBC morning show, Bon Jour, Ste. Anne!, was on the verge of being preempted by a more colossal heavyweight, the dynamic Yankee called in to end the hostage crisis.
Celine was in her dressing room brushing her hair. Ray barged in and preened, invading Celine's private space. An argument ensued. The dressing room was not big enough for the both of them. Celine stormed out after shouting a barrage of incoherent French swear words at the errant American.
Marie Savard and Michel Couseau, the pert hosts of the morning show, sat before the cameras. They fiddled with their microphones and allowed the crew to toy with their hair. The manager checked and double-checked the cameras and teleprompter. Finally, all was ready and the cue was given.
"Good morning, Ste. Anne!" Marie chirped. "Thank you for joining us today."
"Our show this morning is quite full, I think," Michel added. "We will continue to bring you up-to-date on the hostage crisis here in Ste. Anne and we will have an interview with Sgt. Andre Lalonde who is heading up the task force in this situation."
"Later on the program," Marie joined, " we will have tips on how to deal with the winter cold..."
Marie's speech was cut off. Her face went pale in front of the camera. Michel experienced tightness in his chest. The teleprompter broke down.
"O Mon Dieu!" Marie cried. "Where are the words?"
"You have to bring back the words," Michel declared. "We are lost without the words"
"We need the words," Marie wept, "it is so cold without them."
Michel pulled at this tie and ran from the set. Marie wept profusely and had to be taken from her lounge chair. Turnbull, who had been standing idly by, was pushed onto the set. He turned pale and began to sweat.
"Hi," he said slowly, "my name is Renfield...I have never been on T.V. before." Turnbull sat down. "Let me tell you a story about my uncle, Herb. His brains were sucked out by aliens in the Athabasca Flats..."
Ray pulled the drawstrings on his parka. It was damned cold. But he stood confidently before the house, ignoring the swarms of television crews and the police who held them back. Fraser came to him and continued to coach him on what to do and say.
"Now, remember, you are me, Benton Fraser. You were born June 12, 1962 in Fort Nelson, British Columbia, five minutes before Bess. You entered the service in 1981..."
Ray shoved him away.
"I know what I'm doing."
A hand was brusquely put on his shoulder. Ray turned to see who it was.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Wherever there is an American in need, I will be there..." the man answered.
"Perhaps you didn't understand me," Ray interjected, "who the hell are you?"
"I'm Sam, Sam Jefferson. I'm here to act as an attache on your behalf."
Ray tried to protest.
"No," Sam shook his hand at him, "there's no need to thank me. The only thanks I receive is the fact that a fellow American is in good hands." Sam whispered in Ray's ear. "Can't trust these subversive Canadians. Nor the Australians."
"Look, Sam," Ray put out plainly, "I don't need your help. I have Elaine over here to help me."
Elaine gave Ray a cup of coffee and a supportive pat on the shoulder. Sam groaned.
"But she's a girl."
"Yeah! So?!"
Sam crossed his arms.
"All I need her for is for coffee and stuff," Ray admitted.
"Ray!" Elaine scolded.
"Well, that's what you're here for Elaine," Ray admitted, "you're a civilian aide and civilian aides are useless."
Ray tickled her stomach and laughed. Elaine slapped him away.
"I am not useless, Ray," Elaine turned to Sam, "you'd just better stay out of my way."
Elaine nudged up to Fraser.
"Do you think I'm useless?" she asked.
"No, no," he muttered.
"Thanks," she blurted. "You sounded like you really meant it."
"I'm sorry, Elaine," he apologized, "I just hope Ray knows what he's doing."
She put her hand on his shoulder.
"Ray knows what he's doing. Come, you look hungry. We'll get you something to eat."
Fraser accompanied her. Elaine always looked out for him. Ray slowly walked to the door. His muscles tensed up. He swallowed hard. He had to make the charade appear convincing or he and Bess would be carried away in body bags. The pressure exerted itself onto every pore of his body. Bess' captors, the safety of Bess herself, Fraser's endless barrage of detail, the annoying press, the people who did not speak English. Sure, French sounded pretty but what were they really saying about him? Finally arriving at the door, he knocked. A masked man pulled a black-gloved hand from the door and yanked Ray in.
Though Bess kept her house tidy and tastefully decorated, foodstuffs lay stewing on the kitchen bench, furniture had been strategically placed to ward off possible barrages by the police and bric-a-brac had been broken. Bess was securely tied to a chair. Her black hair was unkempt, hanging stringily off her head, covering her face. Ray could see a dried trickle of blood from her nose and a bruise on her forehead.
"What have you done to her?" Ray gasped.
"Never mind that, Mr. Fraser," the first masked man cried. "We want you to be a mediator between us and the police."
"I want to talk to Bess first," Ray demanded, "or no deal."
The men were agreed and Ray approached Bess. He removed the gag from her mouth.
"Ray," she whispered.
Ray shushed her.
"They think I'm your brother so act like it. I'm going to get you out of here."
Bess threw her head back in frustration.
"Ray, I hold your negotiation skills in serious doubt."
Ray frowned.
"Then maybe you'd like to stay with the Menendez brothers."
Ray patiently wiped away the blood from her nose and dabbed her bruises with a wet kerchief.
"I missed you," he admitted softly.
The captor's iron hand fell on Ray's shoulder.
"Time's up," he said brusquely.
"I'll talk to you on the outside, Bess," Ray called back.
"I missed you, too," she whispered away from Ray's alert ear.
"What do you want me to do?" Ray asked the men.
"We want $5,000,000 in unmarked bills for the People's Revolution and a helicopter to take us to the airport where a fuelled jet will take us to Cuba within the hour."
Ray grimaced.
"I don't know if I'll be able to get that in time."
"You will if you like your sister's brains in her head," the captor threatened in a thick accent. "Now move it. Within the hour or she's dead." Ray walked from the house slowly. Fraser received him.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, how is she?"
Ray shrugged off Fraser's worry.
"She's fine. A bit bruised but she's a tough broad. Anyway, the captors are your typical run-of-the-mill Marxist revolutionary-types who want a motherload of cash for their cause in Cuba. I think it's all crap myself but that's just me."
Thatcher pushed through a barrage of police officers and nosy press and introduced Ray to a man on her left.
"This is Real Gauchon, he is an expert on FLQ terrorist tactics."
"They are not separatists," Fraser corrected.
"What makes you say that, Constable?" Thatcher asked.
"They have not made claims to such a cause nor have their demands reflected it. I surmise that the captors are merely thugs."
"Keep in mind that there is no record of them nor have any separatist groups claimed to know them," Elaine piped in.
"They're out for a big load of cash and a trip to Cuba," Ray added.
"I think you are sadly misinformed," Real said. "These men are hardly going to claim outright that they are members of a separatist group or even that they believe in separatism. The other groups will do anything to divorce a group that looks bad for them. It is simply a matter of public relations. These men have a deep-rooted anxiety, one that can only be construed as separatist sentiment."
Fraser and Elaine just looked at Real.
"That is a rather vague and bold statement, sir," Fraser noted, "would you mind supplying your reasons for that."
"I have been hounding these men for years, Constable," he explained, "I have come to feel that I know them. And after the Laporte incident, we cannot be too careful."
Real walked on to discuss some matters with Thatcher.
Ray threw his hands in the air.
"He's an expert?!"
"Apparently," Fraser droned.
"Oh God! He's the equivalent of Carter!"
Ray stormed away.
"What's the Laporte incident?" Elaine queried.
"FLQ members murdered the Labour Minister Pierre Laporte in October, 1970 when their demands were not met," Fraser explained. "But there has not been an extreme incident like this since. That man has it all wrong."
Elaine shook her head.
"Why do we let morons run our lives, Ben?"
"I have no idea."
In the corner of Fraser's eye, a middle-aged woman with curly black hair clutched onto two children. She seemed lost and distressed. He moved over to her.
"Anais?"
The woman smiled when saw a familiar face.
"It is so good to see you again, Benton," the Frenchwoman said softly as she readjusted the black-haired baby in her arms.
Fraser looked at Rory. He was the spitting image of Ron.
"I couldn't let him go to school today," Anais admitted. "The other children ask so many questions...and he's worried, Benton." She walked over a few steps and whispered. "What will happen to Bess? He cried last night for her. Will she be alright, Benton? Please, don't lie to me."
"Anais, nothing will happen to Bess. I promise you."
"Promise my grandchildren, promise the moon, Benton," Anais smiled. "Look after yourself. I'll say a prayer for you."
"Say one for Bess," Fraser requested.
"I do-always."
She took the children home with her. Fraser regarded Anais. She was always a brave woman who took everything handed to her on the chin. He did not believe that anything could sway her.
Thatcher watched the television from the police van. She sipped her coffee slowly. Turnbull's gaunt face appeared on the screen. Thatcher, as though struck in the gut, spat out her coffee. Turnbull asked public relations director of Movement du liberation du Quebec a flood of questions.
"I don't know anything about Roswell," Mr. Gagnon said, "I simply want to deny my movement's involvement with that terrible kidnapping and discuss our views on separation."
"I don't care about separation," Turnbull snapped. "What do you think about Roswell?"
A French Mountie laughed wistfully.
"The station's teleprompter broke down and they've put him on the air. He's doing quite a good job, I think."
But Thatcher did not think so. He would be on sentry duty for the rest of the winter at the consulate and nothing happened at Roswell. Nothing.
The captor looked out the window once and pulled off his ski mask.
"Dammit, Gaston! This plan won't work. In another hour..."
Gaston dragged his friend into the kitchen where Bess would not hear them.
"For God's sake, Etienne, don't mention our names, don't let the woman see our faces and don't lose your cool." Gaston pulled his mask off and placed in the pocket of his orange ski jacket. "This plan will work like a charm. Just don't drop the ball on me. Okay?"
Etienne nodded. Fraser and Ray nodded their heads once and approached Thatcher.
"I want to go in again," Ray requested.
"That would not be wise," Thatcher warned.
Fraser interceded.
"Sir, if I may step in, the captors trust Ray and in order to for them to feel secure in their trust in him, he has to return to the house. In any event, he is Bess' first and last line of defence."
"But not her only," Thatcher countered. "I say we wait."
Real agreed with Thatcher.
"Waiting is a viable option at this moment. Eventually, time will wear these people down and they will give in."
"You also claimed that these people were separatists and that is unfounded," Fraser shot back.
"Constable, that is enough!" Thatcher rebuked. "We wait."
Elaine waved a piece of paper in front of Ray.
"Here is the official press release stating that the whackos who have your Bess are in no way, shape or form associated with any mainstream separatist organization."
"Great," Ray took the paper, "what does this mean?"
"It means what this other piece of paper says," Elaine replied.
Fraser smiled. She was up to something wicked.
"What is it, Elaine?"
"The phone company's records. Five telephone calls have been made to the same location from that cafe down the road to a certain Gaston Lefebre, approximately five minutes in length and were made at least two days before Bess was taken hostage."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning that our captors are not professionals but they have been staking Bess out. In short, this is a random attack," Fraser joined.
"Someone was playing eenie, meenie, miney, moe," Ray resolved, "and they landed on Bess. Perfect."
"Precisely. Our initial suspicions are confirmed."
"I checked out this Gaston guy's record," Elaine added, "a telephone call was made to a travel agency in town and later to the airport. Made two days ago."
"Thank you kindly, Elaine," Fraser looked over the record, "I could kiss you."
Elaine cleared her throat and pointed to her cheek. Fraser gave her a discreet peck.
"What would you do without me?" she wondered dreamily and floated away into the flock of tense policemen.
"I want to go in," Ray revealed to Fraser.
"As do I, Ray," Fraser agreed, "but I have orders to wait and that is what I must do."
"Do you always do what people tell you to do? Your sister's in there and God knows I'm not the one to pull this off. I don't want her blood on my hands."
"Ray, you have her blood on your hands, anyway. You alway have."
Fraser remained aloof and silent.
"Ray, she is closer to you than anything. She always has been and I don't think anything will change."
Ray frowned.
"She really likes you, Benny. The sole reason why she stamped out the flames on your jacket that time is because she didn't want to see you hurt."
"She stamped out the flames because she set that fire, Ray. She would never set you on fire."
"Oh, yes she would."
"No, she wouldn't, Ray."
"Yes she would."
Fraser tried to contradict once more but Ray stopped him.
"There's no point in arguing. We'll bring her out alive together."
"Right. We go in."
Fraser and Ray walked towards Bess' house together. Thatcher's face went pale. She ran up to them.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Constable?"
"I'm going in to get my sister, Inspector, and Detective Vecchio is here to help me. Neither you nor Mr. Gauchon or even the entire Ste. Anne police force will stop us. Bess' captors are not to be trusted and every minute we waste counts against her. So, if you will."
Fraser put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her aside gently. She grabbed his arm forcefully.
"I can have your badge for this, Fraser."
Fraser looked down on her. He was not stupid. He knew very well what was at stake.
"Yes, you may."
Thatcher surrendered. Something told her, despite the irregularity of it all, this off-the-cuff plan would work. She rejoined her comrades. Elaine ran up to Fraser.
"You need a good luck kiss," she claimed.
"I do?"
Yes."
Elaine pulled Fraser's face to her's and kissed him. He went as red as the serge he normally wore. Ray looked jealously on.
"What about me?"
"Get stuffed!" she snipped and left the two.
"I'll just put Neet into her shampoo," Ray promised himself.
Fraser and Ray continued to walk. In the distance, they could see the captors peer at them. Ray waved his arms in a sign of good will and that he was unarmed.
"I've come to talk to you," he cried out.
The captors let the two in.
"Who the hell are you?" Gaston asked Fraser.
"This is Ray, Ray Vecchio, Ray Vecchio from Chicago, Illinois," Ray answered for Fraser.
"Yes," Fraser nodded, "I am Ray, Ray Vecchio, Ray Vecchio from Chicago."
"Why do you say everything twice?" Gaston pointed his gun at Fraser.
"He sometimes forgets," Ray motioned for him to put the gun down. "We've come to see Bess before your demands are met. We want to assure the doctors that she is fine. If not, the cops come in."
The captors agreed to this and left them alone with Bess.
Fraser crouched beside Bess.
"Are you alright?"
Bess nodded.
"I've spoken to Anais. She is looking after the children."
Ray looked at Fraser.
"What children? Who's Anais?"
"That's not important right now," Bess interjected. "I know that this is a set-up. I don't think they are headed to Cuba after all. I saw an airplane ticket for Costa Rica. They left it on the bench in the kitchen."
Sudden realization caused Fraser to raise his brow.
"This is all a ruse," Fraser illustrated, "they will be airlifted to the airport where they will assume the identities of airport personnel secretly and before anyone gets wind of it, they will be headed for Costa Rica with millions of dollars. Ray, why didn't we see it before?"
"I have no idea," he admitted.
"What we need is a plan," Fraser surmised.
"Think no more!" a voice cried.
Sam Jefferson climbed into the house through a window and cocked his Berretta. Both Fraser and Ray thought of various profane things to shout out at this moment but curbed, under great stress, that desire.
"God's sakes," Ray rasped under his breath, "get the hell out of here before they see you, Sam."
"I can't do that, Ray," Sam replied dangerously, "You're going to need a fellow American to pull this off."
Bess gaped at the stupid man.
"Ray, if you have your illegal firearm with you, shoot him. I won't say anything. I promise."
Ray slapped his forehead.
"I left it at home," he whimpered.
"Aww, Ray," Fraser whined, "do you have to listen to me all the time?"
"Fear not, little Canadians. I will bring an end to this crisis without a drop of American blood spilled," Sam proclaimed.
"What about our blood?" Bess asked nervously.
"I'm not concerned about Canadian blood at this moment, little woman."
Bess, infuriated at the audacity of this man, wanted to kick his...
"I say it's time to do medieval on some French Canuck's hineys!" Sam brazenly declared.
Etienne came back into the room and spotted Sam. Readying his weapon, Etienne screamed for his partner-in-crime. Before Gaston could come back and Etienne could fire his gun, the young Frenchman felt a blow at the back of his head and collapsed on the floor. Gaston rushed over to Etienne but it was too late.
"Goutte le pistolet maintenent!" (Drop the gun now.)
Elaine cocked her sidearm, which she had snuck into the country illegally, and aimed it at Gaston. He put down his gun and raised his hands over his head. Elaine yanked off his mask.
"I believe you're under arrest," she smiled.
Placing handcuffs on the two, she strode over to a very relieved Ray.
"Civilian aides are useless, eh?"
Ray bit his lip and crossed his arms.
"Alright, you're not useless," he mumbled reluctantly.
She smiled confidently at Fraser.
"What would you do without me?"
"I think that about wraps it up," Sam tugged on the belt of his jeans in a blase macho manner.
"Sit down!" Fraser demanded, seizing his Berretta from him.
Sam sat down obediently.
"I'm in my right mind to charge you with carrying an illegal weapon, conspiracy to interfere with the course of a police investigation and subversion of duty and being an idiot."
Ray looked at Fraser puzzledly.
"Can you do that?"
Fraser surreptitiously winked at Ray.
"Oh, yeah," Ray nodded at last, "That's a serious offence in this country."
Bess stood and stared down on the humbled Sam.
"And if you ever come into my home again and call me a little woman, I'll personally cut you off at the knees."
Fraser grabbed Sam by the arm and with Elaine started to escort the criminals out. Bess had been untied and rubbed her rope-burned wrists. Ray cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. Gaston gawked at the "unseemly" action.
"He just kissed his sister. What is this? A Greek tragedy?"
Ray spun around and glared at Gaston.
"Hey! I'm Italian. There's a big difference."
Bess laughed. Ray did not understand why.
"Hey, I am Italian. What?"
Fraser and Elaine put Gaston, Etienne and Sam into a waiting police car. Thatcher walked up to him and warmly shook his hand.
"Excellent work, Constable. I'll see you get a commendation for this."
"Actually," Fraser corrected, "it was Officer Besbriss who bravely avoided a potential tragedy."
Thatcher was taken aback. Still, smiling, she commended Elaine for her bravery. Thatcher left for the police station. Real talked smugly with reporters. Fraser grimaced. He questioned why some arrogant blowhard was paid a higher salary then himself. Elaine swivelled her head to Fraser.
"She said congratulations, but did she really mean it?"
Fraser put his hand on her shoulder.
"Of course she did. She's not fire and brimstone as Ray makes her out to be. Really."
Elaine put her hands on her hips.
"Ben, she hates you."
"She does not. She is just not...crazy about me. That's all."
"Well, I am," Elaine confided and put her arms around the ingenuous Mountie.
He rested his hand on her head.
"What would I do without you, Elaine?"
Bess lifted Ray's hands from her hips.
"You have to go home now."
Ray frowned.
"Do you want me to go?"
Bess looked down and did not answer him. Ray became impatient.
"Don't do this to me, Bess. Not like last time. Bess?"
Bess opened her front door and led Ray out by the hand.
"My door will always be open."
And the door was shut upon him. He rested his hand on its icy face.
"Bess," he whispered to no one, "you is my woman."
The sun shone bravely on the February ice. It was nine in the morning, the start of a new day. Bess remained at home, her refuge, nursing her bruises and coaxing Rory to eat his breakfast. Anais sat in her rocking-chair, la grande grand-mere, watching over a brood of feisty grandchildren. Only Ray and Fraser, made oblivious by the world, ate breakfast alone.
Ray, now unburdening himself of thought, shoved another forkful of pancakes dripping heavily in maple syrup into his mouth.
"So why were you keeping the province of Quebec from me?"
Fraser could not believe Ray's outlandish accusation.
"I never was," he made little faces with his scrambled eggs, "you never asked me about it. And you knew Bess was here."
"When?"
"When," Fraser lowered his voice, "I worked for CSIS."
"Oh, yeah."
Ray poured more maple syrup onto his pancakes.
"Still, we should go fishing here or something. I mean-it's really pretty and we could stay with Bess."
"You mean you would like to stay with Bess," Fraser interpreted.
"No," Ray shook his head, "we can be like a family kind of thing. Come here often. It will be like Prince of Tides or something."
"Have you ever seen that movie, Ray?"
"Well, no, but it sounded nice."
Fraser laughed quietly to himself.
"We really have to get going. Inspector Thatcher has us for an afternoon flight and I haven't even begun to pack."
"Oh, great!" Ray complained. "I'll just have to do my souvenir shopping right after breakfast. You can't think properly when you've just finished eating, you know?"
Fraser shook his head.
"Why don't I take some of this syrup home?" Ray proposed. "They don't have anything this good in Chicago."
A young woman, namely an irate Celine Dion, poured a pitcher of syrup over Ray's head. Dusting off her hands, vengeance had been satisfied.
"I didn't think she'd still be mad at me," Ray confided, trying to soak up the goo with a napkin.
"I think this is a good sign," Fraser smiled.
Ray glared at him. Humbled, Fraser asked for a wet towel and tried to help his friend ungoo himself.
"It could be worse, Ray. It might have been bitter-tasting molasses. I think that is a bad sign."
Ray was stuck in mid-thought. Where the hell did Fraser think up these things?
THE END.