WORLD'S SHORTEST DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.

EXPLANATION: This story takes place after "Call of the Wild." Fraser and Kowalski have returned from their unsuccessful search for the Hand of Franklin. Kowalski is now Vecchio's partner at the 27^th precinct, and Fraser works with both on a regular basis. Thatcher has returned to her post after a year in CSIS. Turnbull has failed miserably at being a politician and has returned as well. Vecchio and Stella are back from Florida. (They didn't get married!) Frannie is still the civilian aid. Everyone has, essentially, gone back to the way they were. Meanwhile, Fraser and Thatcher are beginning to mildly explore their feelings for each other. Because they are both Mounties and obviously don't want the RCMP to find out, they've been keeping their relationship low-key, i.e., not telling ANYBODY.

WARNINGS: Uh, lessee… just your basic warnings here. Thatcher warning for those who hate her (you'll come around! <G>) and mild warnings for the mention of some rather indecent behavior, a little cursing, and if you're really super gung-ho freaky about it, cruelty to animals because Diefenbaker DOES get lightly tapped with a salami. Also, all the street names are totally bogus, because I don't live in Chicago. So if you do, please excuse it and try not to laugh too hard. <G>.

RATINGS: Taken all around, this is PG.

SPOILERS: All the Queen's Horses (barely,) and The Deal.

SUPER HUMONGO THANK YOU to Postcard for beta-reading this for me!

Well, I guess that's it! Please send comments, questions, otters and fuzzy huskies to: kcabou@hotmail.com. Thank you kindly!

by Kiki Cabou

Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P., and Meg Thatcher, R.C.M.P, were enjoying a quiet lunch together at a local diner. Besides having genuinely interesting conversations with each other, they both knew that this was the only proper way to see each other outside of work. Lunch was… non-committal. Just the way they needed it.

"Tho," Inspector Thatcher said, with mouth-full of tuna sandwich before she swallowed. "I'm interested. What do you do with your evenings, Constable? You can't just ride around with Detective Vecchio all night."

"Ah, well, no, ma'am. I don't. But if I may, why are you asking?"

"Curiosity, Constable. Plain and simple."

There was a teasing quality about her voice, and she smiled, but he looked genuinely uncomfortable and began to squirm as only a Mountie could. She sighed a little, knowing she would have to share first.

"Well, I've actually been taking ballroom dancing lessons. You know, for embassy balls and other formal events. And I have two left feet, let me tell you! But it IS a lot of fun. I've been learning to tango."

Fraser nodded appreciatively at her little story, but remained silent. *Jeez --- squeezing information out of this guy is like trying to wring blood from a stone!* she thought. "So? Come on. Now it's your turn to tell me. What do you do?"

"Well, er, at night, you mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Fraser. At night."

Fraser looked a little nervous, and there was a long pause before he said, "Well ma'am, um, at night, I am currently a seed-spreader."

The rosy blush left Thatcher's cheeks and she looked downright pale. "A what?"

"A seed-spreader," Fraser repeated, politely, and smiled. He was over his momentary nervousness. She wasn't.

"I see. And ah, …" She licked her lips. "Where do you spread your seeds --- at night?"

Fraser thought for a moment, then glibly responded, "Oh, I don't know. Everywhere, I suppose. I just try and cover as much ground as I can in three hours and then go home to bed."

*OH, MY, GOD.* "Is that a fact. And do you spread your seeds with anyone in particular?"

"You mean regularly?"

"Yes."

"Well then, no, ma'am. But I must say --- every nun I've done it with seems to be quite appreciative."

Thatcher was already bug-eyed, but here she did a spit take with her water and started to choke. Fraser was up in an instant, mopping up the mess and patting her on the back until she calmed down. She just sat there breathing for a few seconds, then as he sat back down, she made a gesture at him to continue.

"Ah, yes, ma'am. As I was saying, most of them appeared to appreciate my services although sometimes, you see, it's difficult to tell, because their English and my Italian are so poor."

Thatcher just stared at him slack-jawed. Obliviously, he continued. "And of course, sometimes it's Ray."

"Oh my GOD!!!" she finally burst out. The entire diner turned around and stared at the two of them. "Fraser, that is so disgusting!"

"Disgusting, ma'am? Well, I'll warrant it's a dirty job, but as the saying goes, 'someone has to do it,' right?"

"You tell her, sonny!" some drunk shouted across the room.

"Shut up!" Meg hollered back at him. Then she whirled around to face Fraser, absolutely livid. "How long has this been going on?!" she yelled at him.

"A-a-about two months, ma'am," Fraser stammered.

"Boy, do you have stamina."

"Well, ah, thank you, ma'am. I think."

"Hush up!" she said, cutting him off. "That was not a compliment. I honestly cannot believe you, Fraser. Now I know that we have absolutely no claim on each other's lives outside of work, but to just go off and TELL me something like THAT! Over LUNCH! I nearly LOST mine! Have you no shame?! Ooooh!!! You are the filthiest man alive! And mark my words. This is our last meal together."

"B-but ma'am …"

*WHACK!* She slapped him across the face. He sat there, staring at her, beautiful blue eyes wide open in shock, one muscular hand gingerly covering the spot where she'd hit him. He looked like whipped puppy.

"I am this close to firing you, Fraser," she said, measuring an inch with her forefinger and thumb. "And I swear, if I don't hear anything different about you by 5:00 today, I will mail off an application for transfer to SIBERIA for you!"

"Please! I don't understand!"

"Oh I do, Fraser. I do."

She snatched up her purse and stormed out of the diner, leaving a mute, wildly blinking constable to pick up the check. Fraser and the rest of the diner faced off in an innocent staring contest until everyone else went back to their food. Then the confused Mountie left the proper amount and a nice tip on the table, picked up his Stetson and walked out the door. He had no idea what he'd done to upset her so.

"And then she slapped me in the face, threatened to fire me by 5 o'clock and walked out! Ray, I… Oh, dear! What did I do to upset her so?" Fraser asked his friend.

The two of them were sitting on the bench in a hallway of the 27^th precinct. Ray had a hand on his distraught friend's shoulder, and the Mountie had just finished repeating, verbatim, the events of the incident a few minutes before in the diner.

Ray was taking his time in answering, because, being Ray, he had an idea of why his friend was so agitated. Normally, Fraser said stupid things that pissed people off all the time. But in this instance, he seemed really upset by the other person's reaction, which made a light bulb go on for the detective that perhaps Fraser cared a lot more about Thatcher than he was letting on. But, ALSO being Ray, he knew that insinuating something so improper to his best friend would most likely rile him further. He smirked a little.

"Whatsa matter, Frase? You afraid you drove her away? That she'll never want to see you again, huh, Constable Casanova?" he said, laughing, punching Fraser on the shoulder.

The Mountie glared at him, apparently in an effort to disintegrate every atom in the cop's body. Ray saw the look and knew he had to back off. It was kind of difficult because he was laughing pretty hard, but he managed.

"Okay. *snicker* I'm sorry, Fraser. Look. You want to know why she's pissed?"

His friend's lips were a tight line on his face, opening just wide enough to let out the words, "I'd appreciate that, yes."

"Okay. Here it is. Lean in."

Fraser did, and Ray animatedly whispered in his ear. Fraser's eyes got bigger and bigger as Ray prattled on, until he realized what he'd apparently said. They pulled away and looked at each other.

"No," the Mountie said. "No. I swear, I didn't say that to her!"

"Yeah, but Benny, that's what she THOUGHT you said. It's all about sexual innuendo, my friend, and you, sadly, just got caught right in the middle of it."

"Oh, dear." Fraser's signature line came out as more of a groan than anything else as he bent over a little and dropped his face into his hands. Ray put a comforting hand on him and patted his back.

Just then, Detective Stanley Kowalski came sauntering down the hall. The slim blond was bumping his hips to his own inner rhythm, and in the middle of tossing about 3 metric tons of M&M's into his coffee. He was stirring them in when he saw his partners sitting there dejectedly on the bench.

"Hey, guys. Whassup?" He took a tiny sip of his morning brew and felt his eyes widen and brows shoot up involuntarily.

"Hey, Stan," Ray said, a little glum. "Fraser got screwed. Nothin' unusual."

"What?! What happened? Hey c'mahn, Frase. Look at me."

Fraser obliged him.

"Wow. Talk about a long face. Mind clueing me in?"

"Well, ah, as you put it, my 'face is long' because…"

Ray cut him off. "He said somethin' outrageously stupid and now Thatcher thinks he's humped an entire convent."

Kowalski was in the middle of a chug. It ended up all over the floor and he started coughing. Fraser was up in half a second and patting Stan on the back. Finally, Kowalski held up a hand.

"I'm cool. I'm cool. Thanks."

Fraser nodded and stepped back.

"Okay. Somebody explain this to me."

Ray did. When he was finished, Stan was pretty sympathetic to the Mountie's plight.

"Hey don't you worry, Frase. We'll just track the bitch down and set her straight. I mean, if she's gonna fire you over this!… Just don't worry about it. Me and Ray, we'll help you fix everything. Right, Ray?"

"Yeah, sure. We'll get this taken care of, Benny." Ray meant what he said, but he didn't say anything else. He was too busy thinking about how Fraser's eyebrows had raised when Stan had called the inspector a "bitch." *Ehh --- maybe I'm reading too much into it. I mean, c'mon. This is Fraser we're talking about. Mr. Celibate. Why would he have any feelings for the Dragon Lady?*

The three cops set off down the hall.

The Canadian Consulate was bustling with activity. It was a big paperwork mailing day. Thatcher was walking quickly with arms full of documents, hollering for copies. Ovitz was desperately trying to crack the code on Fraser's desktop computer so he could gain access and (what else?) snoop, but fortunately the inspector caught him and dragged him out. While she was yelling at him, Turnbull was busy signing forms and crashing into things while trying to follow the inspector. It was chaotic. It was messy. Just an average afternoon at work. But everyone, even the few other secretaries, looked up when he came in.

He'd been coming in for a week now, but every time he walked through the door, they were still blown away. He was a looker! As always, he was dressed in a neatly pressed suit, and with his combed hair, incredibly gorgeous features, bronzed skin, blond waves atop his head and blue eyes… well, to quote the old saying, "What's not to like?" Even Inspector Thatcher was still a little struck dumb by Jake Ferguson, the temporary worker.

"Good morning, Inspector," he said politely.

"G-good morning, Jake," she stammered. "Thank you very kindly for coming in."

"My pleasure."

"Mine too." *Did I just SAY that? Oh, no!*

"Pardon, ma'am?"

"I said, 'my tooth.' It's a bit painful --- I'm going to the dentist today. Anyway, please see Mr. Ovitz. I have lots more filing for you to do!" she said cheerfully and patted him on the shoulder.

Her fingertips instantly electrified at the touch of the iron limb underneath his white shirt. She didn't feel guilty about it --- after all, it didn't look like Fraser wasn't an option anymore. *Nuns. Yech!* She still couldn't get over it. Besides, was she mistaken, or was the Blond God checking her out? He certainly was giving her a good look. One that she recognized as humble allegiance, of course. The guy was great. He would gladly do the most tedious, time-consuming, pointless tasks and never complain.

"Thanks, ma'am. I'll do my best," he said with a pearly grin.

She nodded, but was interrupted by a banging on the door. "Excuse me." She made a motion at Ovitz to get Apollo started on typing something, then went to answer it. She was met there by the other temporary worker --- Floyd, from Misty Springs Janitorial Services. He'd been coming in for about a week now too, but he was still grating and hard to take.

"Hello, ma'am." His voice was cold. So was his hand when he shook hers. And his breath reeked of garlic, or something.

"Um, hello."

She surveyed him again, hoping somehow that he might have changed since the day he'd started coming in last week. Long, stringy, dirty black hair, which hung down limp under his dirty blue cap. A thin, pale face with a beaky nose. His smile was disgusting. He had a few teeth missing, and what remained were yellowed, probably from smoking. His hands were gnarled and leathery, and his fingernails were way too long. Haunted eyes. His blue t-shirt and overalls stank. Nope, nothing had improved.

"Well it's, um, it's good of you to come. Maybe you could get started in the basement, today? Turnbull will show you where it is." She turned around and hollered, "Turnbull!"

Turnbull came running up to her. He'd just gotten off guard duty, so he was still in his red serge. It set off his light red hair and brown eyes, and made his six-foot frame look even more impressive. Turnbull had always been off doing something else when Floyd showed up for work, so he'd never seen the man. He smiled pleasantly at the janitor, who smiled back. At the sight of Floyd's grin, Turnbull looked at the inspector fearing he'd done something wrong, and that was why he was being punished. The custodian looked like a psychopathic killer.

"Take Floyd down to the basement so that he can start cleaning the furnace. I have to go run some errands. Now, we have some important documents going out and I don't want a single one escaping by any means, so don't let anyone in who doesn't have clearance."

"Y-y-yes, ma'am," he answered, as she grabbed her purse and coat and left.

Floyd followed Turnbull down the hall. The messy janitor was already starting to grumble, as he always seemed to be doing. "I hate the wallpaper in here."

"Yes, well, the uh, the inspector picked it out. Not me, no sir. Um, see the door? That goes down to the basement. Just follow the stairs until you hit the bottom and start from there."

Turnbull practically shoved Floyd through the door and closed it too fast, bumping the janitor on the butt with it. He heard a "Whoa!" from inside and a couple of loud bumps. Ignoring the noises, he leaned on the door with a sigh of relief at having the custodian out of sight and looked at the clock. 1:30. Constable Fraser wouldn't be back until two. Turnbull knew that what the staff was lacking wasn't more people --- it was Fraser. His fellow constable was one of the most efficient, qualified people for taking care of paperwork. It was always difficult when they didn't have him around. He shoved himself off the door and went to go change for the rest of the day, still a little concerned about Floyd.

He would brief Fraser when the other constable returned --- Turnbull wasn't sure if Fraser had met Floyd, but he'd certainly met Mr. Ferguson. The guy who everyone was enchanted with. He still remembered the look on Fraser's face when he'd met him. It was one of barely controlled disgust. He understood why --- Mr. Ferguson was revoltingly cheerful. And Fraser's rather mortified reaction to Inspector Thatcher's surveying of the new guy was as close to jealous as he'd ever seen the other man get.

The Riv pulled up to the Canadian Consulate at 1:35. Fraser jumped out of the front door, holding his hat.

"Ray, could you…"

"I'll circle the block till you get back."

"Thank you kindly."

"Good luck, Fraze!" Kowalski said from the back seat.

"Thank you, Stan."

Fraser raced up the steps and knocked at the door. Turnbull answered.

"Oh, sir! What are you doing here? I thought you weren't due in until two o'clock."

"Well, I'm not, but it's imperative that I speak with the inspector. Can I come in?"

"Do you have clearance?"

Fraser looked at him blankly, then put a hand on his chest, shoved him out of the way and walked in. Turnbull was a little bit flabbergasted when Fraser took his shoulders and stared him in the eye.

"Turnbull. I WORK WITH YOU. I think that gives me clearance."

"Yes, sir," the other constable replied, nodding like an idiot.

"Now, if you can tell me, where is the inspector?"

"I'm sorry, sir. She just left."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"Um, on errands, I think."

"Did she say what sort of errands?"

"No, sir."

"Did she talk to anyone about them?"

"She might have, sir."

"Who?"

"Perhaps Ovitz, sir."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, sir."

"Fine." Fraser was getting a tad irritated. "Do you know where her datebook is?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"I'm sorry sir, but that's the inspector's personal information. I am not allowed to reveal its location to you."

Fraser gave him a blank, absorbing, know-nothing look as he considered wrapping his hands around Turnbull's neck and strangling the life out of him, but the thought dropped quickly as he walked past Turnbull and into the inspector's office. There, on her desk, was her datebook. There, filing things away, was Ovitz. And there, next to Ovitz, was Mr. Ferguson, who immediately stood up, flashed a pearly grin at Fraser and said good morning. Fraser gave him a tight-lipped, polite "hullo" in return then turned and glared at Turnbull, who gave him the facial equivalent of "eh-heh-heh," and backed out of the room as fast as he could. He could tell Fraser was upset. He'd brief the constable about the "Floyd situation" later.

Fraser went over to the desk and took down the personal appointments she'd made that day. The bank at 1:45, the dentist at 3:00 (wow, she was really packing a lot in!), and the opera in the evening. He discounted the opera, since that was after five, but the other two were fair game. He took down the times and addresses --- if nothing else the inspector was organized.

Just then, grumpy Floyd walked into the office. He saw Fraser in his dress reds and, not being able to tell one Mountie from another, assumed it was Turnbull. He tapped him on the shoulder. Fraser spun around to take him in, and was as inwardly disgusted as the inspector. He'd known of Floyd's presence, but seeing the worker face-to-face was, well, creepy.

"Hey, you. Mountie. I'm finished with the basement. Never knew Canadians could be so dirty!" He showed his teeth on the final word and it took a tremendous effort on Fraser's part not to retch. "Anyway, this job sucks, so I'm gonna beat it. Tell the inspector that I took off. I guess I'll be back tomorrow."

"Ah. Yes. I will. Goodbye."

"Bye." Before leaving, Floyd leaned over and took a nosy peek at the inspector's datebook. Fraser slammed a hand down over the information. Floyd looked up, gave him another creepy grin and left. Fraser put the information he'd taken down under his hat, tipped it to the two gentlemen, dashed out of the office and out the Consulate door.

Ray was circling the block for the fourth time and Stan had fallen asleep in the back seat from being up late for a night shift when Fraser came bounding down the stairs, waving a piece of paper. Ray screeched to a halt and Stan rolled off the seat and onto the floor of the car. Fraser hopped in as the blond mumbled "Ow!" and hefted himself back up onto the seat.

"The bank! Quick!" he said breathlessly. Ray burned rubber and the Riv shot off for downtown.

"Thank you," Thatcher said. She'd just completed her transactions and had resolved a few situations on her stock portfolio. She took her purse and a few folders from the bank, shook hands with the consultant, and left.

She walked out the exit and got into her car just as Fraser, Ray and Stan ran in, in a disorganized jumble. Repainting her lipstick in her rearview mirror, she saw a blur of guys behind her, but shrugged, thought nothing of it, and took off.

The three of them ran into the bank. Fraser walked beside the line to the teller. Stan and Ray decided to shove their way through it.

"Scuse me!" Ray said, and pushed in front of an petite, elderly woman.

"Oh!" she said and almost fell over, but Fraser caught her. "Oh," she said, a completely different tone to her voice. Fraser helped her up, smiled, then stepped away.

They finally reached the teller with a bunch of steamed people behind them.

"Hi," Ray said to the teller, a pretty Asian woman in a blue dress. "Chicago P.D.," he said, and flashed his badge. Sorry to hold things up, but this is real important. Did a Canadian lady with brown hair just come in here?"

The teller looked at him blankly.

"Yo! Over here!" came a voice from across the bank. The men turned and looked. A well-dressed, slim African-American woman, her hair done in tiny braids and coifed in an up-do, motioned them over to her desk. Even from ten feet away, Fraser noticed her attractive gold earrings.

"Heh-heh. Sorry," Ray said to the teller and the line in general. The elderly lady smacked him with her purse and he and Stan quit the line to join the Mountie. All three walked over to the desk. The woman stood up and shook hands with Fraser.

"Marjorie Johnson, executive investing consultant. Who are you looking for?"

"Inspector Margaret Thatcher, R.C.M.P," Fraser replied. "She's my superior officer."

"Too late, boys. You just missed her."

"Oh, dear. This isn't going terribly well." He looked at his watch. "She's not due at the dentist 'till three. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

"I think so. She mentioned something called 'Perducci's', I think it was. Something about a pair of pumps."

"Ah! Thank you very kindly, Ms. Johnson."

She looked Fraser over. "Miss."

"Of course. Miss. Well, please pardon the disturbance. Ray? Stan? Shall we?"

"Yeah, uh huh," they chorused. Fraser tipped his hat politely to her and the three left a rather disappointed woman standing there alone.

"Dummy," she muttered angrily, and sat down.

The three of them got back into the car.

"Perducci. Perducci. Where have I heard that name before?" Ray mumbled.

"Joey Perducci. The poorbox thief. Remember? Zuko was trying to close down his shoe shop?"

"Jeez! You're right! Is he still in the same place?"

"I have no idea. Stan? Do you know?"

"You know, I think he is! Stella goes to him, and she always says he's the best in the business. Third and Main, I think."

"Let's rock and roll!" Ray drove them off. They were on their way to Joey's when Fraser looked back and saw how exhausted Stan was.

"Stan? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just peachy keen."

Thatcher was chatting with Joey Perducci. Since the Zuko incident, he'd re-opened his shop and had been left alone --- exactly according to the terms of the deal Ray had made with his old enemy. He was doing well --- even had a few local kids working for him. A few pins in his mouth, he was making exact measurements of the inspector's feet --- fitting her for a pair of handmade, stylish, black leather pumps. She'd selected that color because she knew she'd be wearing them for the rest of her life. Joey's warranties were pretty long.

She smiled a little devilishly, wondering how maddening these would be for Fraser. Despite all of her attempts to focus her attention on Jake, it kept wafting back to him. Her favorite Mountie. The guy she'd been trying to forget and shove to the back of her mind for three years, now. The guy who kept popping back up into her consciousness. The hero she'd kissed on the train.

Finally, in the clear light of the afternoon, she began to think about what she'd said to him. Surely, Fraser must have meant something else. *I mean, c'mon. Screwing nuns? Screwing RAY? Maybe some whacked-out psycho or something, but not Fraser. He must have been talking about some other subject. Jeez! Why am I so tainted? Why is it that all I could think of was sex? Oh, right. Because I was around HIM. *sigh* I can't believe that I lost control like that. I actually slapped him! I hurt him, the poor guy! Well, that settles it. After this and the dentist, I'll meet him back at the consulate, apologize, and calmly ask for an explanation. I'm sure he'll be perfectly willing to give one.*

But outside the store, a man who would try to ruin her life was watching from his car. Completely dressed in black, black ski mask over his face, he waited for his victim.

The Riv pulled up to the nice apartment building on Third and Main. Kowalski sleepily blinked up at the condominiums.

"Um, Stan?" Fraser said. "I believe this is your apartment building, not Joey Perducci's Shoe Repair."

"Gee --- I knew the address sounded familiar," he said with a yawn.

Ray let his head bang onto the steering wheel in frustration. He obviously hadn't known Stan's address, or he would have ignored the instruction.

"Hang on a minute, okay, Ray?" Fraser said. Ray nodded.

Fraser got out, opened Stan's door, and gave the sleepy detective a shoulder to lean on. He guided him into the building, into an elevator, up to his floor, into his apartment, and onto his bed, where the blond promptly conked out. Fraser took off his friend's shoes, hoisted his legs up onto the bed, covered him with an afghan and left, locking the door behind him. He hurried down to meet Ray.

"Let's go. I got the REAL address from Frannie. I can't believe you let Kowalski off so easily!"

"He's exhausted, Ray. He wouldn't be of much use anyway. Just get us there, all right?"

Ray floored it.

Thatcher paid Joey and inquired, "So when do you think they'll be done?"

"Gee, uh, I think about three days. Yeah. Give me three days. They should be ready then. Okay?"

"Okay! Thank you."

"It's always a pleasure, my lady," Joey said with a grandiose bow and a merry laugh. "Take care, Inspector!"

"I always do. Have a good evening, now!"

"Okay!"

She lifted a hand in a wave as she pushed open the door. The little entrance bell tinkled as she exited the shop and began to walk towards her car, her high heels clicking on the pavement.

He followed. Sensing someone was behind her, she stopped. The footsteps she'd heard stopped. She walked a few more paces and heard the footsteps. Immediately her CSIS training kicked in and she began to pick up speed. More footsteps. Turning her head slightly, she got a look at her pursuer --- a man in a black ski mask and entirely dressed in black clothes. He even had sewn sheer stockings over his eyes so it was impossible to identify any part of him. She screamed and really started to push it. Her stylish purse banged against her hip, her straight brown hair blew back from her face, and her legs pumped crazily as she ran for her life. Her heels weren't doing anything for her speed. Only a foot away from her car, she whirled around to face him --- just in time to be tackled against the hood.

He grabbed her by the back of her fitted business jacket and hurled her violently up against a wall. His hands were almost around her neck, but not before she could scream again and knee him in the groin. She'd hoped that would end his attack, but she was dead wrong, as her knee connected with something enormously hard and painful --- some kind of protective cup around his jewel box. Gritting her teeth and ignoring the pain in her knee, she struggled and squirmed, then, because he was holding her arms, preventing her from getting a good face shot, she used all the leverage she could and punched him right in the ol' solar plexus. Surprised at the force of the blow, the attacker released his grip on her just long enough for her to drop to the ground and give him a killer floor-sweep style, straight-leg roundhouse kick, which knocked his legs out from under him.

"OOF!"

He fell to the sidewalk with she was on him in a second, trying to pin his arms behind his back, and punching him in the back of the head. She surprised herself --- the fifth hook knocked him out. Breathing hard, her clothes slightly twisted and her make-up smudged, she stumbled away and stood up. Her attacker, at least two heads taller and far broader than she, was unconscious. Now, all that was left was to call the police. She turned away to dial on her cell phone.

"Hello? Yes, Chicago P.D., please, I have a crime to report," she said, her voice a little hoarse from being chased. Sadly, the noise from the phone left her unaware that her attacker was back up, silently creeping towards her, holding a white rag in one hand, rubbing his head with the other.

"Yes… yes, hello? Yes, I'm at 433 East Michelin Avenue, and I've just been --- Mrfff!!! Ohhhh…." Her last words were muffled by cloth, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she began to lose consciousness. The man was holding her in an iron grip and had pressed the rag over her mouth and nose. She went limp in his arms and the cell phone fell to the ground.

"Ray, isn't Michelin Avenue the other way?"

"Look, I've lived in this city my entire life. I think I know where I'm going! Jeez --- the only thing worse than a back-seat driver is a FRONT-seat driver."

"I was merely commenting…"

"Shut up, Fraser!"

*sigh*

"Inspector? Are you okay? Hey! Inspector! Inspector!" Joey hollered at an empty street.

He'd heard her scream the second time, but was a tad slow in coming to her aid --- he'd tripped over some machinery and was quite a while in getting to the door. When he finally got out onto the sidewalk to lend a hand, he was alone. Nothing. No inspector. Apparently she'd left for the dentist, as she'd told him she would. He shrugged and walked back inside.

"I'm probably hearing things again. Gettin' old, is what I am. Gettin' old."

He stood around, taking in the sunshine. About fifteen minutes later, he decided to get back to work and turned to go inside as the Riv drove up and Fraser hopped out, having managed to convince Ray to go the right way. *Amazing what a simple sigh can do,* he thought.

"Pardon me! Mr. Perducci!" he called to the retreating figure, recognizing him immediately.

Perducci turned around. "Constable! How goes it?" Ray stepped out of the car. "Hey! Vecchio! What's up?"

Fraser spoke first. "We're looking for the inspector, Mr. Perducci. Has she been here?"

"Joey, Constable. Joey. And I'm sorry, guys, but you just missed her."

"Yeah, we've been gettin' that a lot," Ray said, rolling his eyes. "She's a tough chick to catch."

Fraser checked his watch. It was three o'clock. "Joey, when did she leave? I know she has a dentist's appointment right now."

"She left about fifteen minutes ago, I think."

Fraser turned to Ray. "Let's give the office a call, and the consulate, too." He spoke up to Joey. "Thanks for the information!"

"You're welcome! Why are you looking for her?"

Fraser was getting back in the car. "She's trying to fire me!"

"Again?!" Joey called out as the car drove away. "Jeez. She earns her nickname."

Fraser dialed the number on the cell phone. "Hello? Ah, yes, is this Dr. Singh's office? It is. Excellent. Could you just please check for me if there is an Inspector Thatcher in your waiting room? … Yes, I'll hold. … … … … Yes, I'm still here. … … … … No, there isn't? You're sure. … … You've called the name twice. Ah. … Yes, that certainly does settle it. Thank you very kindly. Good day." He turned to Ray. "She's not there. I'll call the consulate."

"Why the hell are you calling there?"

"Well, she keeps a toothbrush there. Maybe she decided to hurry back and brush her teeth before setting off again."

*Fraser knows where she keeps her toothbrush? Whoa! What else has she shown him?* Ray thought with a grin.

Fraser dialed another number. "Hello? Oh! Mr. Ovitz. It's Constable Fraser, I ---… What are you doing? … Yes, right now. … … Spit it out man, I can hear clicking, for heaven's sake. … … Oh, it is not! Your computer is down! It's at the shop! Now what on earth are you typing on? … 'Nothing,' eh? I think not. You're either on the inspector's computer, in which case you are in BIG trouble, or you are still trying to crack the access code on mine, in which case I will personally come down there and kick your secretarial patootie all over the consulate. Now get out of my office!!!" He angrily hung up, accompanied by the raucous, whinnying, hysterical laughter of Ray.

"'Patootie'? Ah ha ha ha ha ha! Who the hell says 'patootie' anymore? Eee hee hee! Hoo ha! Ha. … Ha ha. Oh, man!" He saw Fraser's rather irritated expression. "Sorry, Benny. It's been a long week. I couldn't resist."

Fraser stared him down. "Try."

Ray started giggling again as Fraser dialed the consulate one more time. He shut up long enough to hear his friend's exasperated greeting of, "Oh, hello, Turnbull," before he burst into a guffaw again. Fraser hung up immediately.

"Turnbull! Oh, no! Just what we need!" He was laughing so hard that his chortle had become a gasp-for-breath wheeze and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

Fraser had to join him. Chasing his boss all over Chicago, and dealing with, quite possibly, the stupidest assistants on the planet, was not his idea of working. By the time they arrived at the consulate, they were both so blitzed from laughter that they had to take several deep breaths and pull themselves together before Fraser jumped out of the car again. He zipped up the steps and through the door.

"Ohhh…" the inspector moaned as she came to. Her burgundy jacket had been removed, and her matching burgundy skirt and white blouse were torn. She tried to squirm, but the bonds holding her down were tight and she found that she was too dizzy and miserable to try and escape. Then bits and pieces of her experience came floating back. She'd been thrown into the trunk of a car --- even in her unconsciousness she'd heard the wheels screeching --- then had been carried up to this rather airy, high-rise apartment and violently strapped to a chair. The white walls were blinding. She only remembered one blow to her face, but obviously there'd been others --- one of her eyes was almost swelled shut. She licked her cut lip and could feel a little blood coming from a gash on her cheek.

She moaned again. Finally, her attacker leaned into view. She gasped a little. The mask, while not threatening, still had a pretty freaky texture up-close.

"What do you want?" Her voice was a pathetic croak.

"For you to stop fighting me," the man said. His voice was grainy and low. "I'll give you a couple of points for it, though. You're a lean, mean, kick-boxing machine, lady. I dragged you up here, and you almost kicked the crap out of me. Had to chloroform you again. Not so tough now, are you? Huh, pussy?"

Inside the consulate, Fraser met one of the secretaries, who was re-doing the raven bun atop her head.

"Ah, Suzie. Can you tell me where the inspector is?"

She peered at him through gold wire-rimmed glasses. "Gee, sorry, Fraze. I haven't seen her. She left at 1:30 and hasn't been back since. Why do you ask?"

"Well, she's trying to fire me…"

"Again?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And I've been looking for her all afternoon, trying to explain something to her. In any case, she was supposed to be at the dentist at three. It's now 3:30, but I thought perhaps she'd come back here to brush her teeth in preparation."

"Nope, sorry. Not here. What did you mean by 'supposed to be?'"

"Well, I just called the dentist's office again. She never made it. And Ray and I don't know where she is."

"Oh, dear."

"Indeed."

"Well, it'll be tough finding her, Constable. Oh!" She snapped her fingers. "Hold up just a second! Her cell phone! I've got her number right here. If it's on, you can reach her."

She pulled a card from the neat little Rolodex on her desk. It was a new automatic version, and a button turned the central wheel to the proper A-Z lettering index marker.

"Oh, that's a nice little device."

"Isn't it cute? I just picked it up at Staples. Anyway, here's the number. Good luck!"

"Thank you kindly."

He was about to leave, when he smelled something in the air. He took a quick sniff and blinked, trying to recall what it was. He'd smelled it before. Suzie noticed what he was doing, and filled in the blank.

"My boyfriend sent me a little pot of red roses this morning. It was very sweet of him."

"Ah."

She continued, sadly. "But somehow, they walked out of here. I haven't seen them since that creepy janitor guy left."

"Well, if I find them, I'll return them to you, Suzie. How's that?"

"Oh, thank you. Please do."

He nodded, went into the inspector's office and used the phone. The number rang ten times. No pick up. Until finally …

"Hello?" Fraser said into the device. No answer. Just raspy, slow breathing. "Hello?" Fraser said again. *CLICK*

"Oh, dear." He set the phone down and ran out to meet the Riv again, yelling, "Ray! I think I'm having one of your hunches! Get us to Perducci's, quick!!"

"Who was it?" she mumbled. Her attacker had just hung up the phone.

"Beats me. Probably one of your little red-coated friends, Inspector. Probably worried if he doesn't have his little boss lady around for five seconds," he said. "Anyway, no one will find you here. And if I don't get what I want, no one will hear you die."

Her one functioning eye widened. "I don't even want to know how you know who I am, but whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Just let me go!" Her control was crumbling, or so he thought.

He menaced her. "Whatever I want? You'll do whatever I want? Splendid." The last word was more of a hiss than human speech.

He grabbed her face and held it an inch from his. She glared at him. Then he lifted up just the bottom of his mask, revealing his chin and mouth, and kissed her hard on the lips. She wrenched her face from his, but it was of no use --- he grabbed her face with both hands, pried her jaw open, and in a second his tongue was in her mouth, practically down her throat. She hacked up some phlegm and gagged it into his mouth, hoping to choke him. He SWALLOWED it. So she tried another tactic --- she bit down on his hands and slimy tongue with all her might.

He screamed in pain, getting the message loud and clear. It hurt her, too, because her jaw was bruised, so any biting caused a lot of discomfort. But she'd never heard a grown man wail in that octave before. The way he retreated to the opposite corner of the dark room gave her some satisfaction as she sat there, heaving with rage, glaring at him, her eyes angry chocolate slits. No way was he going to do anything to her if she could help it.

The Riv screeched to a halt in front of Perducci's. Ray was hanging up his phone after calling in a possible kidnapping on Thatcher. Fraser's mouth was a grim line as he stepped out of the car, his eyes already beginning to scan the area for possible clues. He took a sniff of the air as Ray got out.

"Benny, sniffin' the air ain't gonna tell 'ya whodunit."

"It's not the 'who' that's important right now, Ray. It's the 'where have they gone.'"

His nose had picked up a scent in the air, almost masked by gasoline and garbage. But he couldn't identify it, and saved the pondering for later. He turned and looked up the street a little ways.

"Oh, dear."

"What?" Ray said.

Fraser hung his head. "I can't believe I was so foolish. I hadn't seen it in so long, I didn't even think! We've been wasting valuable time! I utterly missed it the first time we came by."

"Missed what?"

"The fact that her CAR is still here!" he said, motioning in the direction of the white Toyota Camry parked a ways down the street.

"Shit. I'm callin' this in. Start lookin' around, Benny! I'll give Kowalski a wake-up call. We're gonna need him!" The Italian barked out the orders and ran to the car.

Fraser started looking around, starting with the area around the inspector's car. He put on a pair of latex gloves that he always kept handy in one of the small pockets of his belt and knelt by the car, peering underneath it and letting his eyes roam over the neighboring vicinity. Suddenly, he saw it, and was so surprised that he forgot where he was, stood up too fast, and banged his head on the side-view mirror. He muttered to himself, shook it off and marched over to the object on the pavement.

Ray came running over to join him as he picked it up. "What did you find, Benny?"

"A tube of lipstick. It's the color she wears."

"And that proves what? That she was doing her makeup when she disappeared?"

"No. I've never seen her walk around with her purse open, so it couldn't have fallen out accidentally." Then he took a closer look at the hood of the car. There was a smudge of lipstick and foundation makeup on it.

"What is it?"

Fraser paused and said nothing for a moment. The situation was looking grim.

"Ray, something very sinister has happened here. My guess is someone attacked her from behind and tackled her. Pressed the poor woman's face right onto the hood of her car. Probably sent her purse flying. Go take a look down that way," he finished, and pointed.

Ray was disturbed by his friend's mechanical, "my-wheels-are-turning-so-I-can't-emote-right-now" tone of voice. He was worried, too. The Dragon Lady was one tough broad, but to be getting all of this nasty evidence wasn't heartening. Then he saw it. *Oh, shit.* He came back with a heavy step, forlornly carrying Thatcher's all but destroyed leather handbag. He and Fraser looked at each other, then at the bag.

Ray was too stunned at the whole situation to say anything. Fraser was dealing with it as best he could --- treating it like just another case, getting the job done.

"Let me see. If I were to pin someone on one surface, and I weren't sure about their strength level, I would probably try to pin them against something else. Hard." In an instinctive gesture, following his thoughts, he pivoted at the waist and froze, facing the brick wall of a storefront. He walked over and took a look.

Ray was right behind him as he put one latex-covered pinky up against the wall and brushed it across the surface gently. He picked up a small red stain. Dried blood.

"Oh, my God," Ray said. "Do you think whoever attacked her killed her?"

Fraser shook his head. "This isn't enough blood to suggest a serious head wound or brain injury. No, whoever did this wasn't going to kill her here."

He walked out into the street. Ray looked around impatiently, but the Mountie's eyes picked up something on the pavement his didn't, immediately. Skid marks.

Fraser knelt by one of the twin scuffs and let out a low whistle of semi-approval. "These are very distinctive marks. Look at the pattern on the tire." Ray was kneeling now, too. "Whoever was in such a hurry to get out of here shouldn't have been. Can you identify the marks, Ray?"

"Plain as day. They're Skyriders. Latest thing from Goodyear. They're supposed to be more aerodynamic, or something. And they've all got that signature tread. They're really expensive. I've only seen 'em on Mercedes and stuff like that. I mean, don't get me wrong --- if I had the money I'd put a set of 'em on the Riv, but uh, I ain't Rockefeller."

"Are they rare?"

"For now, kinda."

"Let's make a few calls."

"Why don't we make 'em down to the station? The Duck Boys are helpin' out on this, Welsh knows, and Kowalski's already down there. He said to thank you for the nap."

"Ah. Well, he's quite welcome. Let's go."

"You got it. Hang on!" He revved the Riv and they left the crime scene.

"You BITCH!" the man screamed at her. He was busy bandaging his hands, and under the mask his tongue was bleeding from where she'd bitten him.

She stared him down from the chair, and gave him a look that said, "If you get your masked face within an inch of me again, I'll rip your nose off with my teeth."

He angrily finished bandaging himself, then turned away from her. When he came back, he was holding a long cloth rag almost taut between his hands.

She raised an eyebrow. "What are you going to do, Wimpy?" she taunted him. Breaking him down psychologically was the only defense tactic left. "I can't believe this! You can't even handle one pathetic little woman! You're actually going to try and chloroform me ag---agghh!!"

She was silenced as he rammed the rag straight between her open jaws and gagged her with it. She struggled and spat, but only succeeded in dribbling some saliva on her blouse as he tied the rag behind her head firmly, jangling her.

"Bassple!!" ("Bastard!!")

He stood in front of her with his hands on his hips, cocky and triumphant. "I guess you won't be saying anything for a while. And since before you said you'd give me whatever I wanted, I'm sure you'll be happy to oblige me."

"Rrrrrgggh."

He knelt before the chair and untied her legs. For the first time since she'd woken up, she noticed them. Her thigh-high stockings were torn, one of them was scrunched down around her ankle, and her pumps were scuffed. Her legs were also tied together very tightly with a coarse rope. Twin rope burns and shallow cuts on her thighs, knees and calves let her know that she'd obviously fought it hard. Unfortunately, the rope had cut off most of the circulation and she'd lost all feeling from the thighs down. Although she commanded her legs to kick her attacker in the face, they would not obey, and hung there, limp. There was nothing more she could do.

She watched helplessly, and a lone tear streamed down her face as it became hideously apparent what he wanted. He spread her legs as wide as her form-fitting, knee-length skirt would allow. That wasn't far enough, so with his knife he cut slits up both sides of the garment, almost up to her butt. *As if this weren't enough! He has to destroy my clothes, too? How dare he!!* Finally, he managed to get her legs open wide enough. Then he grabbed one, wrenched her shoe off and, aligning the limb knee to ankle with one leg of the chair, lashed it there securely in a continuous, powerful spiral of gray duct tape.

For the first time, she realized how very wide the chair's seat was. He grabbed her other leg and lashed it in the same manner to the chair's opposite leg, then spread a towel over her from the waist down. It was long, and fell to the floor, covering her feet. He was shaking with excitement. She was shaking with terror and disgust. Where was help when she needed it? All she could hope was that Fraser, or someone else with a brain, was looking for her by now.

"You know, you were always so strong, Inspector. That's what attracted me to you in the first place. It'll be a pleasure for me to take you."

He got out his knife again and reached under the towel. She screeched through the gag and fidgeted, but quickly realized that he wasn't planning on stabbing her. *Of course not. That would have been to easy for this asshole. What in the world is he doing?* She felt his hands on her skin, then suddenly understood. *Oh, my God.*

*SSHHKK!* *SSHHKK!*

The man took his hand out and put the knife away. Then he reached back under the towel, felt around for a bit as she squirmed from his touch, then stopped and looked her straight in the eye. He had what he was looking for.

"I know you R.C.M.P. types always like to feel informed. So congratulations, Inspector."

He ripped her underwear, neatly cut in half at the side-seams, out from under the towel.

"You've been de-briefed."

She gasped and blinked in anguish as he continued with what must have been some kind of ritual for him. He brought a trash can over to where she was tied, held her panties over it, took a cigarette lighter and set them on fire. She stared with frightened eyes as she watched the last shred of hope that stood between her and violation begin to burn to a cinder. She started struggling again, but it was no use. The ropes were too tight, and she was too exhausted from all the fighting she'd done. The man dropped her underthings in the trash, only half-burnt. Then he walked over to a small pot of roses on the window sill and cut off a pretty red one. Walking back to her, he trimmed the thorns off and placed it on the towel, inside the V of her legs, its flower facing her body.

"Now you be a good girl and stay there. I'll be back in an hour and then we can begin."

His voice was the nicest she'd heard it, but it sickened her. He finally left, carrying a leather briefcase. The door slammed and she leaned back against the chair, weak from all the struggling, in pain from all of her injuries, thirsty from all the tears running down her face, and scared half to death. But her attacker had done an incredibly stupid thing --- he'd left her alone. And there was only one word pounding through her head, over and over. "Escape."

The police station was chaos incarnate. Cops were rushing everywhere making phone calls, manhandling suspects, and screaming at each other at the top of their voices. Fraser and Ray stepped gingerly into the din of confusion and craziness, hoping they could just start making calls by themselves without being noticed. Fraser's appearance and coat, however, prevented that.

"Hiya, Fraze," Frannie said.

"Oh, hello, Francesca," Fraser responded.

Every female in the room heard his name and their "hunk antenna" went up. Which meant their mouths closed. There were a lot of women in the room. The sudden near-silence got the attention of Huey and Duey, who immediately came over, followed by Kowalski. Everyone started asking questions at once.

"I didn't get over to the crime scene yet …"

"What did you find?"

"I started making those calls and…"

"Hey! *whistle* Shut up! All of you! Let's go back to my desk and talk," Ray said.

The other cops agreed and followed. They pow-wowed around Ray's desk while he and Fraser explained what they'd found, and expressed their consequent fears for the inspector's safety. The other cops looked grim. Dewey piped up.

"I'll do a background check on Thatcher; see if she's pissed anybody off recently."

"And I'll call Goodyear, find out where the sales of the Skyrider tires have been happening and who was buying 'em," Huey said.

Stan was frustrated. He had nothing to contribute, his fire stolen by the other two. "I guess I'll go get us sandwiches. Everybody's tastes, I know. Anybody wanna tag along?"

"Rowrff!!" Dief was nuzzling his leg in a heartbeat, panting and yipping.

Ray stared deadpan at Fraser. "Fraser, tell yer dog that if he pees on my leg, he ain't goin' nowhere but the pound."

Fraser hardly looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. "Dief, don't pee on Stan."

The other cops giggled. They could tell that Fraser was distracted --- none of the words in his sentence were more than one syllable.

Ray announced that he was going back to the crime scene, and would anybody want to take a look with him? Fraser got up and joined him. He watched as Diefenbaker followed Stan out, off to the deli to grab dinner, and shook his head in disgust. *I swear, that animal will never learn. One day he's just going to get too greedy and then WHAM! He'll probably choke on a bone. Hmmph. Serve him right if he did, or at least got a belly ache, or something.* Fraser sighed and followed Ray out.

She checked the clock. The attacker had been gone for five minutes. Slowly, she breathed in and out, then began to feel behind her with her hands. Her arms were tied behind her around the back of the chair. Her wrists were lashed together and knotted several times, but she saw some hope, remembering how Fraser had once given her some advice about how to deal with being tied up. *Concentrate, Meg. Come on. Just like Fraser taught you. One knot at a time. Concentrate.* She began to slowly undo the first knot, eyes closed, fingers doing the work and loosening it, smiling as she called his image to her mind. It was all she had to hold on to.

Stan and Dief entered Marlene's Deli, a few blocks from the station. It was one of those old-fashioned delis with the glass case in the middle of the counter, housing a variety of ready-made, chilled, delicious, beautifully arranged sandwiches. Dief put his paws up on the counter, looked down at the delectable food and licked his chops, wagging his tail crazily. The other customers in the store thought he was cute and appealing, and one of them even patted him behind the ears, but the exhausted teenager working the counter found him neither cute nor appealing and rudely shoved him off.

"What'll it be, Mac?" the kid asked Kowalski.

Stan gave him the orders and the kid nodded, slapping the counter to doubly affirm he'd heard, and took off. Kowalski watched as Dief wandered over to a refrigerated case up against one wall, filled with gourmet cakes. He smiled a little and took a look at the overhead menu, when suddenly he heard a "Zzsshhwwipp!" and turned. The door was open, and Dief was nosing around inside the case! Even worse, he was getting hairs all over the creamy, vanilla sheet cake that he was busy licking.

"Dief! No!" Stan yelled and ran over to try to pull the wolf away, but he was too late.

The counter kid had beaten him to the creature, waving a huge salami at Diefenbaker to scare him off. It worked, and Dief retreated, but the kid was pretty upset about the damage. He gently slapped poor Dief on the behind with the sausage-turned-bat, who promptly let out an ashamed little puppy cry and hid behind Kowalski. The salami left a little red mark on him.

Stan wasn't interested in defending him --- now he had to pay for the cake, along with the sandwiches. He grumpily handed the kid the extra money for the damages and disgustedly headed back to the station, without once looking at Diefenbaker. The wolf walked with his head low, tail between his legs.

Fraser and Ray were at the crime scene. Ray was kneeling, surveying the marks. Fraser was sniffing again. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers.

"That's it! Ray, that's it! Roses!"

Ray looked up at Fraser like the Mountie had lost his mind. "What?"

"Roses! It's the exact same scent that I smelled back at the consulate. It just took me a while to distinguish it from all of the garbage smells and gasoline smells around here."

Ray stood up. "Benny, I don't get it. What are you thinking?"

"I smelled a missing pot of roses back at the consulate. They had a very nice smell, but it was so pungent that I smelled it even after they had been missing for a while. They were a present to Suzie, one of the secretaries. You know Suzie?"

"Oh, yeah, like my own sister," Ray said, rolling his eyes. "What happened?"

"Well, apparently someone has stolen them. She said they disappeared at the exact same time Floyd left."

"Floyd?"

"The new janitor. He gives everyone the willies."

"Mm." Suddenly, Ray's cell phone rang. He picked it up. "Vecchio. … Really? Good. Read 'em off. … … … Uh huh. … Uh huh. … Yeah. … Got it. … Keep going …"

He wrote down a list of ten names. "Thanks, Frannie. You're a peach. See 'ya." He hung up and showed the list to Fraser. "Huey just compiled a list of likely suspects. All of these tire purchases are for vehicles that are registered to big companies. And look what showed up."

Fraser looked. "Misty Springs Janitorial Services. This is far too many coincidences for my liking. Let's go back to the station for a warrant. We'll need an address on Floyd, uh, 'Whittaker,' I think is his last name."

"You got it! Let's go!"

They jumped into the car and sped off for the station. It was only ten minutes away.

Meg had gotten most of the knots undone on her arms. The clock showed she had a half an hour left. The sweat was pouring down her face from the effort, and she went for the next one. It took her only a few seconds. Finally, the last one came undone and the rope fell to the floor. She was breathing hard from all the exertion, and her arms were so stiff and sore that she had to twist forward in the chair to get them off the back of it. She looked down at her toweled legs. There was still an awful lot of duct tape to get off. In desperation, she had doubts about being able to do it.

By the time Ray and Fraser arrived at the station, Dief and Stan were back from the deli. Frannie was patting Dief after hearing about his incident with the salami. Most of the other cops were pretty sympathetic, too. Unfortunately, no one gave him any of their sandwiches.

Fraser took one look at his animal being cuddled and babied and didn't even see fit to inquire. He just sighed and walked over to the other cops.

"So what's the story?" Dewey asked. His background check had come up with nothing.

"Well," Fraser said, "we have a series of coincidences that might lead us to Inspector Thatcher. First of all, a pot of roses were stolen from the consulate. However, I detected their scent at the crime scene. Which means, that whoever took the roses from the consulate brought them to the crime scene … and possibly was even the kidnapper."

"So, we find the roses, and we find Thatcher?" Stan asked.

"Well that's certainly an idea," Fraser said, "although it just might be simple coincidence. But it's worth checking out nonetheless."

"One more detail," Ray added. "The roses disappeared the same time Floyd Whittaker left. He's the new janitor. Works for Misty Springs Janitorial Services."

"Wasn't that one of the companies…?" Huey asked.

"That you got a match on for the Skyriders? Yeah."

All the cops were thinking the same thing, but Huey and Dewey suddenly heard their names being bellowed by Lt. Welsh and had to excuse themselves. Stan, Fraser, and Ray took off to go bring Floyd in for questioning.

Meg tossed the towel to the floor and looked down at her legs. She'd finished stretching her arms so as to get the feeling back in them. Slowly, she began to peel the duct tape off of her right leg. It hurt like hell, so she decided to just give it a good rip.

"Yow!!"

She focused herself, inhaled, and then ripped again as she blew out her breath. That leg took her only two minutes. When she'd finished, the limb was bleeding and raw, a solid block of red inflammation from just below the knee to the ankle. The stocking had even come off with the duct tape. She looked at her other leg and sighed. Sarcasm kicked in.

*Well, at least this saves me a wax.*

She looked at the clock. Twenty minutes left. She gritted her teeth, grabbed the tape on the other leg, and ripped.

Ray, Fraser, and Stan were cruising in the Riv. Ray was driving. Fraser was scanning the street. Stan was loading his pistol. They were about a mile away from the Consulate, in a rather unsavory part of town, when Fraser spotted something.

"Ray! Slow down!"

Ray did, and all three looked out of Fraser's window to see a rather disgruntled, grumpy man, in dirty overalls with stringy black hair, walking along. His shoulders were slumped, and he appeared to be admiring his shoes as he loped along.

"Floyd Whittaker, from Misty Springs Janitorial Services?" Ray yelled out the window, past Fraser, to the man on the street.

He looked up. "Yeah, what's it to you?" he said with a snarl.

Kowalski jumped out of the car with a pair of cuffs. "Chicago P.D.! We gotta talk!" he said, holding up the cuffs and jangling them.

He was expecting Floyd to freak out and run, but the man did neither. He just stood there and stared at Kowalski like the cop was an idiot. Fraser and Ray watched the odd reaction and looked at each other.

"So you're uh, you're gonna come quietly then, right?" Kowalski said.

"What the hell do you want?!" Floyd said. He was grumpy, but seemed genuinely confused.

"Get with the program, jerk! You know what we want! Now where's Thatcher?!" Kowalski barked at him.

"How the hell should I know? I left work three hours ago! Haven't seen her since! She's missing?"

"What are you doing out here?" Fraser asked him.

"Some asshole stole my truck! Hell, it wasn't even mine. It belongs to the company I work for."

"Why didn't you report it?" Fraser asked.

"Because I didn't have enough change for a payphone. I figured I might as well just walk home and call from there."

"How far away do you live?"

"About fifteen miles," the janitor said a bit sheepishly. "It's taking me a while."

"Why didn't you just ask someone to borrow some change?"

"Hey I might be a janitor, but I got pride too, you know! I don't beg from nobody."

Fraser got out of the car and walked over to Floyd. The custodian shrank away from the Mountie, but Fraser held up a hand to hold still, "he came in peace," and walked over to the custodian. If the cops were right about the roses and Thatcher, then if Floyd had done it, the scent would be on him.

So the unsuspecting Mountie got his face close and took a big whiff of Floyd. Floyd found it more entertaining to watch the reactions of the cops than to watch Fraser. Kowalski's was one of "Oh-my-God-I'm-gonna-hurl" disgust, and Ray's face was so scrunched in a wince that it looked like it was trying to implode.

Fraser removed his nose from the vicinity of Floyd, coughed once, and shook his head at his friends. "He's telling the truth. No roses."

He tipped his hat at Floyd as Stan hopped back into the car. He got back in and they drove off.

Fraser's eyes began to roll back in his head as he dizzily muttered, "Just an awful lot of methane and ammonia."

He fanned the air in front of him as Ray and Stan burst into laughter.

"I just want to take a look at one more thing at the consulate --- see if anyone else left when Floyd did."

This satisfied them as the proper course of action, and they quieted more quickly than usual. Fraser shook off his dizziness at smelling Floyd as the car stopped in front of the consulate, and the three of them got out.

The consulate was in chaos when they arrived. Turnbull came running to the door with such force that he failed to stop and crashed into Fraser. The two of them went sprawling onto the floor in a tangle of red. Fraser sat up, exasperated, and shoved Turnbull off of him.

"Oh, sir! I'm so sorry, but we just got the most awful news! Thankfully, Suzie had enough presence of mind to record it. Quick! Hurry!"

Fraser picked himself up off the floor, joined Ray and Stan, and ran into the inspector's office. Suzie was crying. Ovitz didn't look terribly perturbed, just a little worried. Ferguson was there, too, looking a little distraught.

Fraser arrived and everyone looked up.

"Oh, Constable! It's awful! You have to hear! How are we going to come up with that much money?" Suzie said, blubbering uncontrollably. "I always liked her, too!"

Fraser put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Someone play back what Suzie recorded, please."

Ovitz obliged him. Everyone listened as the demand came in over the answering machine.

The voice was gruff, deep, and male. "Okay, everyone listen. I've kidnapped your precious Inspector, and if you ever want to see her again, you'll drop a briefcase containing 2 million dollars, AMERICAN, on the roof of the Brushmore Hotel in downtown. One person is allowed to come, carrying the money. I'll be there with the inspector. You're allowed to take her, but I get the money in my hand first. You have, at the time of this message, 30 minutes. I want the money at five o'clock. And if I don't get it, she dies."

Fraser looked at his watch. It was 4:45. Ferguson announced that he had to use the loo, and so was excused to do so.

"Okay, who's got the time records?" Ray said.

Suzie, still crying, held up a hand and went to get them. She came back quickly and handed the record to them.

"Look at this," Fraser said. "Right here." The other cops saw what he was referring to, and nodded.

To everyone else assembled, Fraser said, "Well we know the kidnapper wants us to meet him on the roof. So he must have the inspector somewhere in the hotel, because transporting her this late in the game could prove dangerous. But our culprit has made several errors. First of all, he stole your roses, Suzie. The purpose for that was unclear. But he also stole Floyd's truck, and probably used it to commit the crime. And since the roses have such a pungent odor … there may be hope for the inspector yet."

"How so?" Ray asked.

"Easy," Fraser replied with a slight smile. "We just follow my nose."

Stan groaned at the pun and the cops followed the Mountie out.

" 'Follow your nose!'" Ray moaned. "We're looking for a woman, not a box of Fruit Loops, Benny! What the hell are you thinking?"

They raced to the hotel, and Ray tossed Stan the cell phone to dial for back-up. They were all praying that she was still alive, but as they approached the hotel, they found the first clue that they were nearing their goal --- the Misty Springs Janitorial Services truck, quietly parked and almost hidden by the other cars in the hotel's parking lot.

Thatcher looked at herself in the free-standing mirror, an antique, brass-framed thing in the corner of the room. She was a mess --- torn skirt and blouse, a bloodied up face, numerous bruises all over her body from fighting her attacker, various cuts on her limbs, and newly "exfoliated" legs from the knees down. Even her hair was a mess, but she didn't care anymore. She was more concerned with getting out of … wherever she was.

She stretched painfully, walked slowly over to the window, and looked out. Downtown Chicago greeted her. *Just great. How on earth is anyone going to find me here?* She'd stopped trying to get out of the place by the door --- it was locked tightly, and she had nothing to jiggy it with. Not even a hairpin. And she wasn't about to be a damn fool and climb out of the window.

She looked at the clock. Five minutes. She decided to really get him where he lived this time. She sat back down in the chair and re-tied the gag. Then she spread her legs just as they'd been, only it was more painful to put them in the position because anything her raw limbs touched made a wave of pain shoot through her calves and up to every place else in her body. Ignoring it, she spread the towel back over herself and, disgusted, replaced the rose. Then she put her arms behind the chair as they were --- only now, she was free.

She'd done it just in time. Her attacker came back in, dressed as usual, and somehow happy.

"You'll never guess what I did!" he said. "I might not be able to have you …" and here he looked at his watch, "oh, no, wait a minute. I still have time. Never mind. So not only am I going to get you, my sugar plum, YOU'RE going to get ME a cool two mill."

"Arf deb wull?" she asked.

"What?" He removed the gag. She spat.

"I said, 'And then what?'"

"Why and then, I'll have no more use for you. But enough of that. Let's not think about the future. Let's only think about NOW."

He lunged at her and plucked the rose up from between her legs, savoring it's smell. Then he moved closer, getting his face in hers right as he ripped off the towel and attempted to straddle her for foreplay.

Too bad he wasn't wearing the cup.

*WHAM!*

Her freed leg shot up and connected squarely with his groin. He let out a squeal of pain and dropped to his hands and knees, doubled over, practically crying. Thatcher stood up and wrapped the towel around her waist. He was shocked to see that she'd freed herself. She leaned over him, bloodied, bruised, arms akimbo and feeling quite triumphant.

"Nobody gets near me if I don't want 'em to, jerk! NOBODY!"

Fraser, Ray and Stan were in the foyer. The back-up was arriving, waiting for instructions. An ambulance was on stand-by, just in case. Ray and Stan loaded their guns and followed Fraser, who stopped every ten steps to sniff the air. The three bounded up the stairs. The smell got stronger and stronger as they reached the 5^th floor.

Fraser knocked on a door. A little old lady appeared, holding a bouquet of pink roses, and smiled at Fraser. He said hello, politely tipped his hat to her, sniffed the roses, said "Thank you kindly," shook his head at the cops, and they took off again.

"Now," she said, towering over him, "let's find out who you are."

"No!" he screamed, but she removed the mask anyway.

"Oh my God! You!"

Fraser kept sniffing. He and the boys were on the twelfth floor. He banged on another door. A fat, hairy-chested guy came out holding a single red rose and, with a rather demented look in his eye, made some weird, slobbering, "huh-huh" noises and offered it to Fraser. The three cops ran for their lives up the stairs.

She was in shock. It was HIM. "Why?"

"No! It isn't supposed to happen this way! I was supposed to give you my love and THEN tell you why! Not the other way around! Goddammit! You screwed everything up!"

He managed to stand, although still hunched over. She backed away.

"What on earth is the matter with you?!" she screamed, hoping to attract attention from down below.

"Me?! You want me to tell you 'what's the matter with ME?!' All right, how's this? You gave me the worst jobs you could think of. The most boring, mundane shit you could come up with. And while I tried to tell you in a million different ways that I liked you, did you ever offer yourself to me? No! Not once! Did you ever let me get close to you? Never! I saw that look in your eyes. You want HIM! That other guy! The one with the dark hair and the blue eyes! But never once did you really look at ME!!"

"Jake, I DID look at you. Though why I did is completely beyond me, now. You could've just said something, you know, like 'I would really prefer to do something else.' I would have obliged you! You were a good worker!"

"Yes, but I must not have been a good enough man!" Jake Ferguson stood as tall as he could manage, unmasked, staring at her. His blue eyes were flashing in anger, and his blond hair was stuck to his head, matted in some places.

"Oh, Jake," she said, shaking her head. In her sorrow over the situation, she made a fatal mistake. She looked down.

When she looked up, she got belted across the face. The blow knocked her to the floor. Her visage was pressed sideways onto the rug, and from her horizontal perspective, she could see the clock --- it was five. She screamed in pain as Ferguson dug a knee into her back to hold her down. Her legs were curled under her, and she shrieked as he moved her sore arms too fast and duct taped her wrists behind her back.

"Get up!" he hollered, and wrenched her up off the floor.

She was barefoot, having lost her stockings and shoes, and about ready to collapse from exhaustion and gradual blood loss. The rug was soft under her feet. She looked at him angrily. Her cut lip had been re-opened, and was bleeding again. The blood was running down her chin, and a drop fell on her blouse. He pulled on the mask again.

"C'mon! Move it! I'll at least get something out of this!" he yelled, grabbing a loaded gun from a nearby end table, and maneuvered her to a door, that, unfortunately for her, didn't lead out into the hallway.

The rose smell was very strong by the time the cops reached the top floor of the hotel --- the 16^th. Fraser sniffed at the door and looked back at his partners.

"This is it."

The three leaned back and gave the door a very strong combination kick. It practically blasted off its hinges and Ray and Stan burst in, guns drawn. Fraser hung back.

"Inspector?" Stan yelled.

"Yo! Dragon Lady!" Ray called.

Fraser stepped in between them. He noticed the little blood drops all over the floor, but then pointed over at the windowsill. There it was --- Suzie's little pot of roses.

"Bingo."

He walked into the room a little ways, but then his eyes widened when he saw the open door and the cramped emergency staircase leading up.

"The roof! Quick! You two get to the roof! I'll go wait with the back-up in case something happens!"

"Right!" the cops yelled in unison.

"Whatever happens, remember --- she isn't armed. You are. So do your best to protect her!"

He didn't need to tell them twice. They shot off for the elevator. Fraser looked down the long flights of stairs. It was a central, spiral staircase, with an interesting feature --- a pole running down the middle. He stood on the railing of the top staircase and flung himself into empty space, caught the pole and slid down, fireman fashion, in a ten-second descent. Jumping off at the bottom, he ran out to join the back-up and the small crowd assembled down below.

The gravel of the roof was horrible on her bare feet, especially compared to the rug back inside.

"Where are your little friends, Inspector? They're late," Ferguson said. He was holding her securely, and had the gun pressed to her temple.

She was too tired to care if she lived or died anymore. Being conscious long enough to see this bastard arrested was all she was concerned about. She took a look off the roof. It was a long way down. There were four huge canopies sticking out from the side of the building that she could see, and a crowd of police officers and squad cars was parked down below. She smiled a little. They'd found her. *Thank God.*

"I don't know what you're talking about, you psychopath!" she finally retorted.

"Oh, right. You don't. Well, someone from your office was going to meet me here with two mill."

"And if they don't come?"

"I'll blow your head off."

*Well, at least the jerk was decisive.* "Fine. But I think I ought to warn you…"

Ray and Stan darted out onto the roof, and skidded to a stop, guns drawn, aiming at him. "Police! Freeze!"

She finished her sentence. "You won't get very far."

"How the --- What the --- Shit! Well, forget this crap! I don't need YOU anymore!" Then he screamed at the cops, "You blowholes can just back off! Drop your weapons or I'll kill her!"

Here, the cops and the perp started arguing about who was going to put down whose gun, so they hardly noticed Thatcher. Her towel had fallen off, and there was a breeze. Fortunately, it was blowing in her direction. The flimsy skirt was plastered to her. She took another desperate look off the roof, but her eyes grew wide with hope, for there, standing in the crowd below, was a very tiny red uniform.

"FRASER!!" she screamed.

Physics was on his side today. He heard her. "Inspector?!" he yelled up. Somehow, they'd caught a great air connection, and were able to hear each other over the noise of the traffic.

"Fraser! Do something! Anything!"

"I will, ma'am!! But whatever happens, try to stay on the roof! It's a very long fall!!"

"It's spring, Fraser, and I don't care! Just help me! And don't mention nuns! Because if you do, I'll fling myself off this building VOLUNTARILY!!" She was getting hysterical.

"Ah, ma'am, about that! Please! Let me explain! I swear, I didn't have sex with an entire convent!!!" he hollered up at her in an amazingly loud voice.

The crowd gathered started laughing.

"It was a misunderstanding! I --- Oh, dear." He stopped yelling for the last two words as he saw her come closer to the edge.

Ferguson was still holding her next to him. He'd shoved her all the way to the edge of the roof. Stan and Ray were paralyzed with fear. They were terrified of his being so near her. God forbid they missed, and the inspector took a bullet and went over the edge! Fraser would never forgive them, that was for sure.

The edge of the roof had a foot-high wall around it. At gunpoint, Jake forced Thatcher to get up on it. There was now nothing between her and open space except what she was standing on. Jake was a foot away. He pointed his weapon at her. Ray and Stan never lowered their guns, but the helpless looks in their eyes told the tale. The inspector knew now, as everyone in a predicament comes to know at some point or another, that there was no fooling around this time and that all her help had been used up. A tear of frustration and rage dribbled down her face as she made a mental note of her few options and picked one.

"Goodbye, Meg!" Jake said, a crazy half-smile on his face and a glint in his eye.

He aimed for her heart, and pulled the trigger.

But in the split second that he fired, she leaned to her right, and managed to take it in her left shoulder. It hurt like hell, but at least it hadn't hit her in the chest.

There were worse fates than that, however. She was about to discover one, because unfortunately, she was off balance when the slug hit her, giving her just enough momentum to spin off the roof and fall, screaming, to her death.

"Inspector!" Ray hollered, and took a shot at Jake. He missed, but Kowalski winged him in the leg and ran over to arrest him as he went down. Ray took a look down the side of the building.

Fraser saw her fall. "INSPECTOR!!"

She screamed bloody murder as she fell about twenty feet, but miraculously landed in the top canopy. Fraser and the crowd were relieved for a moment.

"OOF!" she said as she connected with the canvas, landing painfully on her back, her arms still tied behind her, but basically safe. Or so she thought. Vecchio leaned over the edge and saw her.

"Stay there! I'll come out and get you!"

She nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, but her eyes widened, and all she could get out was "Oh, no! Help!" as the flimsy, papery canvas ripped out from under her, and she fell another twenty feet, screaming again.

Kowalski slapped the cuffs on Jake.

"You're under arrest for the kidnapping and the --- Jesus H.! Is she still alive?"

Ray shrugged, absolutely in shock at what had just happened. She'd fallen again before he could go anywhere, and he couldn't see her anymore.

"And the really hurting bad of Inspector Margaret Thatcher. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will cause me and Vecchio to kick the shit out of you. Now let's go! Move it!"

Vecchio was not amused by Kowalski's interpretation of the Miranda speech and extremely pissed off at the perpetrator as they manhandled Jake off the roof, despite his bleeding leg and pleas for prompt medical attention.

Poor Thatcher took the next canopy on her side, her ribs banging into the light metal bars of the canopy top with tremendous force. She heard several unpleasant snaps, and thanks to the adrenaline rush, felt no pain, but suddenly, *SSHHKK!!!* she ripped through that one and fell another twenty feet. "Aaaah!!"

*WHUMP!* She landed heavily in the third one on her butt. It wasn't that bad; it would only leave a mark. But she ripped through this one too with a short scream and fell another twenty feet before coming to rest in the last canopy. She was still at least thirty feet above the sidewalk. Thirty feet of thin air and then sudden concrete.

She lay there limp, her arms tied in an excruciating position, breathing hard from her accelerated heart rate, and groaning in pain. This was it. There was no help for her --- and she hadn't exactly written "DIE" under the 5 o'clock "To Do" heading in her Day Runner. Her shoulder was bleeding all over the place --- she guessed that the bullet had struck an artery. Her thoughts were a jumble. She was weak and in pain and felt horribly vulnerable all of a sudden and why was this happening to HER? She, Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? The one that everyone had dubbed "invincible" for her work with CSIS?

Then she heard it.

*SSSSSHHHHH…*

"OH, SHIT!"

*KKKK!!!*

She screamed in fright and pain and rage at dying like this and plummeted to earth…

Only to be caught gently in Fraser's arms. He'd been waiting under the canopy to catch her, and made the save. The crowd went crazy, whistling, applauding, and only barely letting the paramedics through.

"Fraser?" she mumbled. "Am I still alive?"

"Very much so," he said, with a faint smile. She looked up at him, her eyes already starting to glaze over from the whole ordeal. Was that a tear running down his cheek? She figured she had to be hallucinating. Fraser didn't cry. And if he were crying, why would he be crying over her? She'd tried to fire him again, after all.

The paramedics had arrived, and one started tapping him on the shoulder, but Fraser was still holding her in his arms. She was filthy from the smoke and dirt on the roof-top and looked absolutely dreadful. A large red stain was spreading on her white blouse.

"Oh, dear. I think I'm bleeding on you."

"One of the perks of a red uniform, ma'am. No one will know," he said quietly.

She moaned a little as he set her gently on her side on the pavement, whipped out his knife and carefully cut the duct-tape off of her wrists. Even though he tried to remove it as mercifully as possible, she still made little noises of pain as he ripped it off. He cradled her gently, brought her stiff arms in front of her and picked her up again. He was carrying her over to the gurney when Ray and Stan brought out the attacker.

Fraser was at first generally disgusted, as he was with all evil-doers, then livid when he finally got a good look. He'd already had an idea that it was him --- the roll sheet had shown that he'd taken a "coffee break" right when Floyd left. He'd had the window, and had gone unnoticed until it was almost too late. Still, it was awful to be right. The cops had unmasked him, and the back-up crowd was cheering as the two of them guided a ruffled and disgruntled Jake Ferguson over to a squad car, where he again demanded some medical attention.

"Stuff it, you turkey," Ray said. "We'll get it for you." He turned to Fraser, who was assisting the paramedics in getting Thatcher onto a gurney. "Fraze?"

"Separate ambulances," the Mountie replied, his voice frosted-over. Then he looked squarely at Jake and finished, "There could be a serious accident on the way."

He turned to the paramedics. Thatcher was still conscious, and clearly in pain. The head E.M.T. saw that, and yelled, "Ten megs morphine, now! Let's go!" The gurney was pulled into the ambulance, and Fraser got in after it.

As soon as the I.V. was in, the fluids and medicine began to rush into her veins, and Meg felt Fraser take her hand. She could barely hold his. The drugs and exhaustion were starting to pull her under, but she managed to get out, in a hushed, ragged voice, "Please. Stay with me."

The ambulance door shut and they took off. Another paramedic put an oxygen mask over her face, and others were starting to bandage her shoulder injury and the surrounding area. Fraser held her hand and winced for her as the cuts were cleaned. He leaned in and nodded. "I will. You can go to sleep now."

She had no choice. Fraser didn't let go of her hand as she slipped into oblivion, and the last thing she remembered was a blanket being thrown over her legs and feet before the darkness took her.

Then suddenly, she was back in the chair, tied down, unable to move, every muscle taut and injured, somehow. And then he leaned in to do the deed … and there was nothing she could do to stop him this time!

She woke up screaming.

It was a loud one, but almost immediately she felt someone squeezing her arm gently and heard a voice saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am! Calm down. There's no one here but me. No one will hurt you. Shhh … Everything's all right."

She quieted down immediately, recognizing the voice. Fraser leaned into view, happy that she was awake.

"Everything's all right," he repeated, almost in a whisper.

A warm paw of a hand, larger than hers, was protectively resting on the hand of the arm with the I.V. in it, and the other was smoothing her hair off of her face. He'd stayed, just as he'd promised.

She tried to smile a little, but found she could barely move her face. "Fraser?" It was good to see him, even though it seemed she was only looking through one eye.

"Where am I?" It was hard to speak, and her words were coming out a little slurred.

"In the hospital, I'm afraid."

"How long have I been here?"

"About ten hours."

She moaned a little in discomfort. "Why does everything hurt?"

He quickly pressed her button for more pain medication. "Well, you took numerous beatings, a bullet, and fell through several canopies."

"I know that, Fraser. It was a rhetorical question. Give me a checklist, will you?"

"Ma'am, I'm not sure you want to know…"

"Give me a checklist, Fraser. I want to know exactly where I stand."

He sighed. He knew it was a fair question, but what he had to tell her wasn't very good news. "All right. Well to start, your left shoulder is immobilized from the wound. The bullet went straight through, though, and you're being treated with antibiotics, so the chances of infection aren't that high. And ah, your torso is in a brace from collarbone to navel because you broke four ribs when you hit one of the canopies. They had to give you emergency surgery to repair them with rib glue."

"Rib glue?"

"I'm not kidding. There was also a transfusion for all the blood you lost. And besides that, the cuts on your legs were quite deep, not to mention all the new skin that you exposed when you ripped off the duct tape. So you've been sterilized and bandaged thigh to toe on each leg. And you might be a little sore between your legs because, well, after seeing your lack of underwear, the trauma team felt they had to do a pelvic exam to make sure you weren't, um, violated. Also, you had some facial abrasions and cuts, and your black eye got a bit infected and really swelled up, so they gave it some antibiotics and a compress. And your lip was cut more deeply than anyone thought, so that required two internal stitches. In any case, they ended up bandaging the eye and most of your face, but it seems to be starting to heal already, and there shouldn't be any scarring."

"That would explain why I'm talking funny and can't see you properly."

He nodded. "You also have cuts on your arms, abrasions everywhere and quite a collection of interestingly-colored bruises all over you, so in short, sir, you're a mess. Any questions?" he finished.

She blinked at him, not sure what to say. Fortunately, they were both distracted by the entrance of Ray and Stan.

The cops had been told what to expect out in the waiting room, but were still pretty shocked at the sight of her. The blankets were up to her armpits and she wore a white hospital gown. Her left arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged and covered by one of those ghastly blue hospital slings. And her face --- it was so bandaged it could have been anybody. But they could still see one of her warm, chocolate brown eyes.

She stared at them, beyond Fraser. He ushered his friends in. She was terrified, and did her best not to show it. She knew the cops didn't like her at all. *They're probably here to rub salt in the wounds,* she thought miserably.

"This probably gives you two a good deal of satisfaction, doesn't it?" she said quietly.

But to her surprise, Ray didn't fire back with a retort, or say something callous like "Yeah, sure does."

*If you wanna know the truth, Dragon Lady, it's breakin' my heart,* he thought sadly, as he sat down on one side of the bed and Stan sat down on the other.

But all that came out was a gruff, "No. It doesn't. Anyway, we collected the evidence from the apartment, including your, uh, your unmentionables and the roses, and we caught the guy. He got treated for a wound because Stan winged him, and he confessed. He's getting twenty. Eligible for parole in 10."

Thatcher was silent for a moment. "Thank you," she finally whispered.

The two cops were having a hard time controlling themselves and nodded "you're welcome" at her. Ray turned to Fraser. "Benny? Can we go out in the hall for a bit?" Fraser nodded. "I'll only steal him for a second, Inspector."

"Oh, take all the time you need. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

She yawned as Kowalski got up to join them. "Hey, detective." He turned to her. "Did it feel good to shoot the bastard?"

He gave her his trademark grin. "Hell, yeah!"

She smiled as best as she could with an immobilized lip. "Good work."

"Thanks." He gave her a smart-ass salute, but watched for a moment with a smile as she dozed off again. He left to go join the others in the hall.

"Ray, what's the matter?" Fraser asked.

"Look, uh, Benny, this is hard to say, but I think Thatcher's gonna need some help."

"Well, certainly. She'll leave the hospital in a few days and then I'll be happy to assist her in her recovery at home."

"I know you'll help her, Fraze. You're her subordinate. You have to. That isn't the issue." Ray sighed. "It's the insurance. I found out from the doctor. Because she's from Canada, there's been some mix-up and now all her company is going to pay is a thousand dollars."

"A thousand? That's it? But she's been badly injured!"

"Yeah! On American soil!" Kowalski said. He and Ray had found out the story together. "And since she ain't got American insurance…"

"Oh, dear. How much is the bill?"

"For all the treatment she's gotten so far, its nine thousand. So that leaves her eight thousand in the hole. But she's been here for ten hours, and if she stays more than twelve hours in the hospital, because of the whole non-American thing, it's going to jump to TWENTY eight thousand," Ray finished.

"WHAT?" Fraser felt his voice jump half an octave in anger and clamped a hand over his mouth. Fortunately, the hall was empty. No one had heard. "Why?" he finished, a bit more calmly.

"Because her injuries aren't 'life-threatening,' and those that were have been repaired. According to the insurance company, she can't be here. She'll have to go home as fast as she can."

Fraser sighed. He was exhausted from being awake all night, watching the goings on in the emergency room and waiting for news. Ray and Stan were equally tired. Nobody wanted to know or impart any of this. But then they all heard footsteps and turned to see a surgeon coming up to them, still dressed in his blue scrubs.

"Hi, fellas."

"Hey/Yo/Hullo."

"Listen, I'm sorry about the mess with the inspector. I uh, I was the one who performed the surgery. And I've done this before."

The three cops looked at him, confused.

"When the insurance company only offers to pay a little, sometimes I make concessions. I heard about your superior's predicament, Constable, and I don't need the money that badly. I'm doing okay. So if the insurance company will only pay a thousand, then that's my price. I know the procedure cost six thousand, but as far as I'm concerned, it only cost one, get my meaning?" he said, and winked.

Fraser could only stare in awe and gratitude. He blinked, shook hands, and nodded dumbly. So did Vecchio and Kowalski. The doctor said good night and left them standing there.

"Okay. Three thousand to pay. That she can do," Ray said. Stan and Fraser agreed. Ray and Stan took off to go deal with the paperwork for Jake Ferguson, while Fraser went on a little mission, finding out from various departments what he would need to do in the way of wound care, gathering the necessary supplies, and getting the paperwork ready so she could leave within the hour. She had, after all, asked him to stay with her in the ambulance. And he knew she would need someone soon, whether she liked it or not. Why not him?

A week later, the stitches from most of the serious cuts came out, and her face was much improved. As predicted, there were no scars. The black eye looked a lot smaller, and her cut lip was hardly noticeable. She would be wearing the rib brace under her clothing for a while yet, but most of the soreness was practically gone. And since Fraser had helped her begin to manipulate her shoulder a lot early in her recovery, there would hardly be any scar tissue to break up in physical therapy. She'd replaced the ugly blue sling with a simple, white linen one, had combed her hair, put on a little make-up, and was dressed in her usual business attire, albeit in a long-sleeved jacket and pants, to cover the bandages on her arms and legs. She finally felt rested and semi-normal. But nothing could have prepared her for her return to work.

She arrived at nine o'clock in the morning, alone --- Fraser had the early shift. When she opened the door with her key, she was stunned. Not only was there an absence of frantic activity and people screaming at each other, the consulate was spotless. She stepped into the hallway, and Turnbull, Ovitz, Fraser, Suzie and some of the other personnel came out of their offices and stood silently at attention, in a line in front of her. Then silently and slowly, they simultaneously graced her with a salute.

She stood facing them, stood at attention herself, and saluted back smartly. They raised a cheer, and there was much congratulating and hand-shaking all around for her having survived her ordeal. As far as they were concerned, she was still invincible. It was comforting to know. Five minutes later, the small celebration was over, and things went back to normal.

Two weeks later, the bruises had faded, and the cuts on her face were nearly gone. Make-up did the rest, and as far as Fraser was concerned, she looked perfect. He'd told her so, which had secretly pleased her. It was after work on a Friday evening, and the constable was making good on his promise to explain everything about his statement in the diner when she had recovered. He gently put a hand on her back and led her through the gates of the local convent in Ray's neighborhood: Santa Maria's. He was taking her to where he'd been "spreading his seeds:" the convent's garden.

"You see, ma'am, I'd been working here at night for the past two months in preparation for planting three weeks ago. I was helping the nuns with the actual work, and Ray helped by transporting things in his car. So, when I told you I was a seed-spreader, I was also a waterer, a landscape designer, a weed-whacker, a color planner, and a lawn mower."

She began to laugh and looked around in awe at all the beauty that he'd helped create. Hanging vines of sweet peas, clusters of peonies and poppies, and beautiful flowers of every color of the rainbow were planted in a terrific color scheme. There would always be something beautiful blooming, and always something appropriate next to it. It was a brilliant flash of colors and textures, and just about everything was represented. She fingered a graceful iris, one of many along the brick walkway that divided the rather large area in half. Even the large knotted trees in the four corners of the garden seemed magical, framing everything and providing boundaries for the thriving ivy, which ran in all directions along the beautiful wooden slat fence, hiding the garden's secrets from prying eyes.

"Fraser, it's beautiful. I really have to hand it to you --- you certainly do have a green thumb."

"Well thank you, ma'am."

"And the next time you have the urge to say something appallingly stupid that could so easily be misconstrued…?"

"Ma'am?"

"It would serve you quite well to jam it in your mouth."

She patted him on the shoulder with a sigh, and went to her car, leaving him standing there, blinking, next to the begonias for a minute before she came back. She'd put a shawl from her car around her shoulders. He hadn't realized she was cold, so he cautiously tried to make up for it by putting an arm around her. She let him.

There was so much she wanted to say. *Thanks for staying with me when I woke up in recovery. Thanks for staying with me for that week after the incident and taking care of things so that I could actually recover. Thanks for carrying me to the bathroom that first day when I tried to do it myself and fell on my face. I can't believe I thought I was fine. Thanks for giving me those rub-downs before bed. They really loosened up the muscles and it felt great! I have a feeling that you enjoyed them as much as I did, but I wouldn't want to embarrass you over it. And I would never say it, but thanks for helping me into the shower so many times without gawking at all the colors my body was turning and preserving my dignity. Thanks for feeding my cat and letting me sleep so much. Thanks for changing my bandages so well. Thanks for simply knowing that Ferguson didn't get me and not asking if he had. And thanks most of all for just being there when I needed you.*

But all that came out was, "Thank you very much. For everything. I --- I'm sorry I kept saying 'Dismissed' when you were helping me. I just didn't want one of my employees putting himself out for me, is all."

"It was my pleasure, ma'am, and it's only natural that you should say things like that. You seem to have this feeling that you were a bother, which you weren't. I was glad to help. You're quite an independent woman, you know."

They looked at each other, their faces inches away. Thatcher pulled back a little with a bit of a smile.

"So I'm told. Well, in any case, thank you for everything you did. Perhaps, if you're interested, we could try to have lunch again?"

"I'd like that. And I'll try not to mess it up," he said with a laugh.

"Well, all you had to do was tell me you were taking care of a garden and I wouldn't have reacted that way. Honestly, Fraser, it's all about having the proper preface! Just remember that, and it'll be smooth sailing."

"Understood."

He took her non-bandaged hand in his unoccupied one and led her over to show her the Japanese wisteria, before it got too dark to see it properly.

THE END