World's shortest disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

Spoilers: Small one for Manhunt.

Notes: This, like most of my stories, takes place after COTW. Everyone is back at their old jobs. Ray and Stan are partners and Fraser tags along with them. Inspector Thatcher and Turnbull are still at the Consulate, Frannie is still the civilian aid, etc. As usual, I have no concept of the geography of Chicago. For those who live there, please excuse the street names. There is a recipe in here, and that, however, is genuine. It isn't mine, but it's real.

Rating: I'm going to go with PG-13 on this one.

Warnings: Cursing, violence, drugs, a mild Thatcher warning (although I think she's pretty cool ), and a HELL of a lot of flour.

BIG thank you to Postcard for her kind comments, and for beta-reading this for me!

As always, comments, questions, otters and fuzzy huskies to: kcabou@hotmail.com. Enjoy!

"If you give a Mountie a cookie, he'll smell it, lick it, and stop at nothing to figure out where it came from."

- Rayus Vecchius, 14^th century Italian philosopher and saint.

The following story is mine, but I have to give credit to someone else for the title of this piece. It's taken from the delightful children's tale of a pushy rodent and giggle-inducing circular logic, "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." (Written by Laura Joffe Numeroff, illustrated by Felicita Bond, published by Harpercollins, May 1985.)

by Kiki Cabou

Constable Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P, remained motionless, unblinking, his face set in a quiet grin. He had hit the mother lode. He was surrounded by frosty reflections and bright light, and a wonder came over him that he hadn't felt in quite a while. The door handle was beckoning to him, coaxing him to open, open… A chill wind hit him in the face as he opened the door, and he breathed in the cold air with a pleasant tingling sensation in his nose, and a keen rush of joy.

True, it wasn't home, but standing in the frozen food section of the grocery store was enough to make his heart skip a beat. It didn't hurt that he was buying ice cream, either! It was a rare treat, something he only allowed himself once a year, on the hottest day of summer. And even though he'd missed that day (it was now September), he'd gleefully decided to make it up to himself right now.

He'd only recently discovered this delightful confection when he'd come to Chicago five years ago. At friend/partner Ray Vecchio's insistence, he bought his first cone (chocolate with sprinkles) from a neighborhood vendor, ate it a bit too fast, and had spent the next hour feeling giddy and wonderfully distracted from the sugar, and horribly nauseous at the same time from the richness of the cream.

So now he was buying low-fat frozen yogurt, which was fine with him. The taste was a bit more chemical, but mostly the same. Suddenly, he heard a whine. He sighed, looked down to his right and firmly enunciated, "No."

Dief, who was sitting on his furry haunches, looked up at his human and whined again, this time rubbing his face on Fraser's leg.

"Absolutely not. And since when do you eat ice cream, anyway?"

*Rrrf!*

"'Frozen yogurt isn't ice cream,' eh? I don't think so. Honestly, this sweet tooth of yours! And I am absolutely not buying you anything with chocolate in it; you'll get very sick. Come on, we still have some produce to buy."

Dief whined pathetically as Fraser added his small pint of chocolate frozen yogurt to his shopping cart. He took off at a quick pace for the produce section and Dief followed, slouching, growl-grumbling about humans in general and this particularly stubborn one he happened to live with.

But the incident caught his attention. One second it seemed Fraser was going round the corner to another aisle, easily maneuvering his cart, and the next second there was a tremendous crash (which he felt as a vibration in the floor) and he saw Fraser's Stetson go flying. Concerned for his human, he rounded the bend. A group of four other shoppers had already run for the scene.

Fraser was half sitting, half lying on the ground, dizzy and rubbing his head. He was also covered in goo from the carton of eggs he'd just bought. There was sticky, yellow yolks and clear, mucousy whites all over his face, shirt and blue jeans, but he ignored it, stood, and approached the other person in the crash. Both of their carts had hit head-on. Apparently, neither had seen the other as they'd rounded the corner.

Fraser bent over a woman, who was also lying on the floor, momentarily dazed. Her dark hair was drawn up in a tight bun behind her head, and she wore black glasses, which were now dangling off of one of her ears. And while Fraser had purchased containers of food (mostly), she, unfortunately, had just bought a cake from the store's full-service deli, which had been resting rather precariously on the top of the cart before the crash. She was now wearing it --- the front of her pristine white blouse was imprinted with green icing that read, "Happy Birthday, Maude." The rest of the vanilla sheet cake was on her black skirt. She even had some on her face. Fraser put a hand on her shoulder as she coughed and spat out some cake. He helped her stand.

They both surveyed each other and began to apologize simultaneously.

"Please, ma'am, forgive me, I didn't see…"

"Oh lord, I'm so sorry, I made such a mess…"

They started to laugh, and the small crowd, seeing that no one was hurt, dispersed. Dief began to eat the cake that had fallen on the floor. Fraser spoke.

"Please, I have to apologize. I'll be perfectly willing to pay for a new cake. And, um, perhaps a dry cleaning is in order as well."

"Well, thank you. And I'll pay for your eggs and shirt. Is there anything else that got smashed, mangled, crushed, pick a synonym?" she said quickly, putting her glasses back on.

Fraser snapped into focus and her jaw dropped. She'd never seen this guy before, but even with egg all over him, he looked better than all the guys she'd ever dated. In fact, even if he was a total loser, just staring at him for a couple of minutes would be worth it. His dark hair in a neat, short cut, set in a striking contrast against his creamy skin and incredibly blue eyes, coupled with a muscular frame that not even his slightly loose clothing could conceal, was enough to make her gasp. She quickly contained herself, though.

"Well," the woman said, "My name is Bernadetta Tambarelli. And you?" she said, holding out a cake-covered hand in a very civilized manner for him to shake.

*Squelch* He shook. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Really!"

They got to talking as they took a quick inventory of what each needed to replace. Fraser had the bad luck --- the sheet cake was pretty expensive, as was the sparkling cider bottle that had gone flying and created a small mess of glass and goop, not to mention the bucket of meringues that had smacked into the dairy case and broken every one of the cookies. Ms. Tambarelli only had to replace his eggs and milk, and she insisted that he should only have to replace one thing, since the items were so costly. Fraser wouldn't hear of it.

They ended up talking for a few minutes, each paying each other, and he learned that she was an elementary school teacher (second grade), fresh from the U of Chicago (English major) and a teaching credential program. He learned that the only reason she'd been buying all of these cakes and things was for a staff party --- Maude was a close friend of hers, and taught a fourth grade class. And he also learned that her school, Hollybrook Elementary, was having International Day next week and would he come in uniform and speak a little bit about Canada? Of course.

In the end, they both settled it. Fraser picked up his hat, set it on his egg-covered head with a splorp, flicked the brim smartly, and told her to give him a call at the consulate concerning the logistics of the International Day celebration. She thanked him with a brilliant smile and they parted ways. Suddenly finding themselves apart on the way to the checkout, they realized simultaneously that they were a mess and were very embarrassed. But each had no one to look at or stand behind.

"Well, at least she was nice," Fraser said to Diefenbaker, who was not paying attention. It was just as well, because the Mountie had been a little distracted by the woman. Her glasses might have had a widening effect on her thin face, but her body was so sleek and supple, with such dangerous curves and … *My God! What am I, an animal?!* Fraser tried to shake off the thought and checked his groceries. The woman reminded him of someone else he knew, who would certainly be a little miffed if she'd seen him now. The clerk stared a little at the egg-covered police officer, and Fraser swore he could feel the stuff frying on his blushing face.

"Psssst!" hissed the voice.

"What?" another voice hissed back.

"You got the goods?"

"I always got the goods. What do YOU got?"

"A way to get them there."

"C'mon in."

The password entry sequence was complete, and the door opened out onto the pitch darkness. A pudgy silhouette slipped into the crack of light coming from the door, which quickly slammed behind him, leaving everything black again.

Fraser had the evening shift at the consulate, and arrived at four, in uniform, freshly showered, shaved, and egg-free. Even though he was wearing his brown uniform, he knew the inspector wouldn't mind. She had been pretending not to notice him wearing it for a long time --- she knew what it meant to him. He rapped on her door.

"Come in," came the groggy voice from inside.

Fraser stepped into his superior's office. "Hello, ma'am. I'm reporting for duty. Is there anything you need taken care of?"

Inspector Margaret Thatcher looked up at him from her desk. She rubbed her eyes. Fraser noticed dark circles under them. "Yes, Fraser, there is something you can do for me. You can watch everything for two hours so I can take a nap."

Fraser was concerned. "Ma'am, is there something I should know about?"

"Not yet," she said, a gigantic yawn almost splitting her face in two. "This case is pretty fuzzy right now, but I've been up all night and all day working on background checks and other stupid, mundane shit, so if you could please take care of it, I would be very much obliged."

"Y-yes, ma'am," Fraser stammered.

He wasn't used to seeing his superior officer acting this way. She stumbled out of her office, and he went to her side. She leaned on him heavily as they walked up the stairs to the guest rooms. Fraser checked to see Turnbull wasn't around, because he knew the other man would have a fit if he saw this, and led Thatcher into the Queen's Bedroom. She sat down on the bed, kicked off her shoes, and, having spent all her energy, simply collapsed onto the mattress.

Fraser pulled her legs up onto the bed, gingerly loosened her skirt to make her comfortable, and pulled a few sheets over her. He was quite tempted to run his fingers through her hair, but settled for just getting it off her neck and onto the pillow. Standing there watching her, he felt his mouth twist into an odd shape as he nervously bit his lip. Ever since he'd met his rather austere superior, he'd been, he was ashamed to admit it, quite attracted to her, and had been aching to know what lay behind that concrete, gray shell of professionalism and verbal venom. And over the course of many, many lunches together, he'd found out --- a wonderful woman, sensitive and intelligent, funny and interesting, with faults, fears, and big ideas; one of the most fascinating people he knew. A wonderful woman who was, at the moment, completely oblivious to everything.

*Oh, what the hell --- she's asleep.*

He stroked her hair for a bit, and felt the skin around his eyes crinkle and the corners of his own lips tug up as he saw her smile and give a little sigh, lost in a dream. Making sure the blankets were over her snugly, he retreated, carefully closing the door in front of him.

When he turned around into the hall, he almost jumped out of his skin and had to stifle a scream. Turnbull was right in front of him, arms crossed, wearing an angry expression which didn't seem to fit his goofy, slightly freckled face. It didn't work with his auburn hair, either. He was trying to puff himself up to show his displeasure at whatever he thought was going on, and simply looked ridiculous.

"Yes, Turnbull?" Fraser said quietly, running a thumb over one eyebrow in exasperation.

"Who do you have in there?" Turnbull responded quietly. "That's the Queen's Bedroom. Nobody's allowed to stay in there. It's only reserved for HER."

"Sssh!!" Fraser hissed suddenly and guided Turnbull away from the door. "Don't wake her up!"

Turnbull gasped. "You don't mean…"

"I do."

"She's here?"

"Yes."

"In there?"

"Certainly. And she gave me strict orders to let no one disturb her."

"My goodness! Our lady! Here!"

"Yes, the Queen of Here is in there."

Turnbull didn't catch Fraser's meaning at all, and continued to gibber like an idiot until Fraser caught him by the shoulders.

"Now Turnbull, calm down. I have a very important assignment for you. I need you to stand guard over our queen. If anyone tries to wake her up, remove him from the premises immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Turnbull said a bit too loudly, saluting and clicking his heels. He stood in front of the door, blocking it with his body, put his hands behind his back, and stared out into the hall with a stern expression.

*Oh, you poor fool.*

At least Turnbull would be out of the way for a while, though. Fraser bit his tongue to keep from smiling, saluted back and walked down the stairs to try and make sense of the case the inspector had been working.

"Chocolate chip!"

"Oatmeal!"

"Chocolate chip!"

"Oatmeal!"

"CHOCOLATE CHIP!"

"Goddammit, Stan, it's MY wallet, it's MY money, and I'm buying OATMEAL! Now stop acting like a jackass!"

Stan Kowalski slouched away, quite unhappy at Ray's choice.

Ray Vecchio frustratedly ran his hands over his *ahem* "thinning" hair and stared again at the cookie display in front of him. The only decent part about shopping for his family, with Stan tagging along, was that he got to shop for himself, too. He selected a large box of oatmeal cookies to take to the office party, knowing they were a personal favorite of Lt. Welsh. He happened to like them, too, and had the sudden thought that maybe he could bring Fraser a box. His Canadian friend hadn't asked for a ride home last night. Instead, he'd slept at the consulate, something he hadn't done in months. Apparently he was working on some big, high-profile case for a change.

He took another look at the display and noticed a package of "Super Chunky Earthy Nut-Berry-Spice" cookies.

*Perfect! He loves all that nature shit! I'll get him a couple boxes, and they'll be gone in a flash.*

"I still think yeh shoulda bought chocolate chip," his partner said grumpily.

"Shut up, Stan."

The blond slumped near the display, his arms crossed like a sulky child, until Ray wasn't looking. Then he sneaked a package of chocolate chip cookies off the display and hid it in the cart.

"Okay, Freddy, you have to tell me sometime. When is the shipment going out?"

"Tomorrow. Do you know where to take it?"

"No! No one's told me anything! And this operation isn't gonna go down at all unless I know where to drop the stuff off. What does the boss have planned?"

"Aw, it's brilliant, Mikey, just brilliant. Word is we're transporting the next big wave of rock. But it's not rock. It's something else."

"F**k. Something bigger than rock? That's unreal."

"Exactly. It's also a hell of a lot more expensive. Hang-time is like, really long, and it's twice as powerful as normal rock. They're calling it the Fire-Eater. This is way more than cocaine, man. This is earth-shattering."

"Yeah, yeah, that's great, Freddy. And just how the f**k are we going to get it out of here?"

"Like this."

Freddy, a lean man with a greasy mustache who was dressed all in black, motioned Mikey over to a large delivery truck, which read "Sunnydale Farms Baking Co." Mikey was confused. He put his chubby hands on his hips, which sunk out of sight into the thick layer of flab on his belly.

"I don't get it," he said, shaking his head and reading the sign.

"This way, no one will suspect you --- I know you drive for this company all the time, so there won't be a glitch with you taking one of these trucks, right?"

Mikey nervously shook his head "no."

"Good. So tomorrow, you're going to put on your nice, white uniform and transport about two metric tons of 'sugar' to the docks on Lake Michigan. The boat will come, and we're all home free."

"Now I got it. But who's gonna buy this stuff?"

"Any junkie that wants it. All we gotta do is hook 'em, and they'll pay anything. Sweetest high on earth, my man."

"You've tried it?"

"Hell, yeah. Tastes like sugar, and then you f**kin' start reveling in the smell of the color purple. It's wild."

"Wow."

"Order! Order!"

The room quieted, and Bernadetta continued.

"Thank you. I'd just like to say hello to all of you, honored guests, fellow teachers, and committed members of the PTA, and ask for your help in once again, planning our yearly International Day celebration. We will need a dedicated team of individuals like yourselves to plan the activities, set up the booths, and, of course, work on the food. We've got sign-ups for all the different categories over here, and if everyone could sign up for something, that would be…"

She was interrupted by a yell from the back of the room and some cries of "Ow!" as hair was being pulled. The two combatants were at it again, making raspberries at each other and stomping their feet in their anger.

"Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Lee! Would you please stop fighting!"

But the President of the PTA and the leader of a small movement to oust her were beyond hearing. Mrs. Lee tackled Mrs. Jenkins and sent her flying into the table at the back of the room. Bernadette winced. Maude stood up and whistled through her teeth.

"HEY! BOTH OF YOU! SHUT UP, AND GET IN OPPOSITE CORNERS! TIME OUT FOR FIVE MINUTES!!!"

Everyone stared at Maude, but she was a steel-haired woman with sharp eyes and wire-rimmed glasses, who had been teaching for twenty years. Nobody thought it safe to cross her. The two fighters grumbled and hissed at each other and then went to sit in separate corners of the room. Maude sat down nodded at Bernadette.

"Okay. Uh, well, that's why Maude is having a party tomorrow, everybody!"

The crowd laughed and cheered.

"All right. So, please, everyone, come on and sign up."

And sign up they did, quickly filling in the boards for booth set-up and decorations, as well as foods. There seemed to be a surplus of desserts, but nobody minded. Most of the cooks were happy for an excuse to use sugar. Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Lee were still upset, and did not sign up at all.

After the meeting had adjourned, the two teachers stayed behind to clean up.

"You're doing a good job, Bernie," Maude said. "Keep it up, and in a few years you'll be twice the battle-axe I am."

"Thanks," Bernie replied, laughing. "You weren't so bad yourself, disciplining those two cat-bitches."

Maude started giggling. "It's not nice to talk about your PTA members like that. Hey --- what are you going to make for the International Day?"

"Cantucci --- handmade, like my papa taught me. But I think I'm going to need some ingredients --- I'll check my pantry. You?"

"Kasha and varnishkas, just like my mom used to make, 'In old country,'" she finished with a Russian accent. "Irresistible."

"I have no idea what that is, but it sounds good. You have everything?"

"Yep, just about… Yeah, I do. Let's blow this pop stand, honey."

They left and turned out the light.

Thatcher woke up, and was so blissfully warm and comfortable that she didn't feel like moving. She knew she had to, though. Even with Fraser and Turnbull left to their own devices, she had the faint hope that the Consulate was still standing…

*grunt*

She heaved herself up off the bed and stood up, feeling refreshed. After her three hour nap, the bags under her eyes had fled, and she re-tied her skirt and put on her heels. The door was closed. What room was she in? She wasn't familiar with it, but shrugged, and walked to the door.

When she opened it, she came upon a puzzling sight --- Turnbull standing stiff, at attention, outside her doorway. She walked up to him and waved a hand in front of his face. He didn't move.

"Turnbull? Turnbull, you're relieved of duty."

Turnbull snapped to life. "Ma'am? Ma'am, what … did you come from in there?"

"Yes. So?"

"Oh, of all the nerve!" he muttered to himself. "Ma'am, I demand restitution, for I have been ungraciously deceived."

She crossed her arms across her chest. "Really. By who?"

"Fraser, ma'am," Turnbull replied indignantly, puffing himself up to his full height, which was about two heads taller than Meg. "He told me that the Queen was in there! That's why I was standing guard! If I'd known it was YOU asleep in there, well, I…"

"You would have WHAT, Turnbull?" Thatcher said angrily, glaring at him, just daring him to say something stupid.

"I… I… Um, well,… uh… I think I'll be going now."

"Excellent choice, Constable."

Turnbull scurried away down the hallway like a mouse.

*Ha! Still got it!* Thatcher sauntered down the stairs to her office, quite pleased with herself.

She found Fraser sitting at her desk, going through mounds of paperwork and turning often to type on the computer. He was sighing more than she was used to hearing from him, holding a pencil in his mouth, and busy as a bee. His shirt collar was open dangerously low, and his tie was slung around the back of his neck. His shirtsleeves were cuffed up, revealing his father's watch, which said 7:00.

"Ahem."

Fraser looked up. "Oh, sir. Hello." He realized he was sitting at her desk. "I'm sorry, I'll get out of here."

"No, it's okay, Fraser. Stay where you are. Oh, and thanks for getting Turnbull out of the way."

She smiled at him, and he returned it. Her heart skipped a beat.

"So?" she continued. "Find anything?"

"Yes, ma'am. Indeed I have. Something very important."

"Wait, don't tell me!" came a familiar voice from outside. "You've discovered that your blood sugar level is desperately low and that you need a pick-me-up, right?"

Ray Vecchio and Stan Kowalski wandered into the office.

"Hiya, Fraze," Stan said.

"Oh! Hello, both of you. What brings you around here?"

"Well, I saw these things at the supermarket, and thought you might like some," Ray said, handing Fraser two boxes of cookies.

"Thanks, Ray. Actually, you're right. I need a break."

He looked at the inspector with a glance that said, "please?" She rolled her eyes and waved him out.

"Five minutes!" she called after him.

"All right!" he called back, and left with Ray and Stan and the cookies.

Thirty minutes later found them sitting on the front steps of the Consulate, basked in the setting sun, discussing work, and devouring the cookies, which Ray and Stan had discovered, to their surprise, were quite good.

"So like, we were on this guy's ass fer like, four hours," Stan moaned. "I thought this chase was never going to end. And then finally, he ran outta gas and we had to chase him on foot until he surrendered. He almost took a hostage, but it didn't work, thank God."

Fraser nodded appreciatively at the story.

"All right, Benny, so now you have to tell us. What's this case you're working on? What's so big and important that you couldn't get a ride home last night?" Ray asked.

"Well, it appears to be a very big infraction of the law we're dealing with. Apparently, a Canadian druglord…"

Ray started laughing. "Canadian druglord? What's he selling, illegal aspirin? Under-the-counter vitamins?"

"Cocaine."

Silence.

"You're serious?"

"Deadly. And not just cocaine, even though it's snorted the same way. It's some filtered, distilled form of it, mixed with other amphetamines, and it's more powerful than the so-called 'crack' cocaine on the streets now. It goes by the code name, 'Fire-Eater.'"

The cops were quiet.

"We just don't know when the shipments are going through the United States, or how. But the drug has surfaced in New York, Texas, and it could spread to California. Medical examinations showed some fairly devastating effects, and this has to stop immediately before more people get hurt."

"What have you guys done?" Ray asked.

"Nothing," Fraser responded, with an exasperated sigh. "That's the problem. We just have to make one good evidence capture to let the criminals know that the R.C.M.P. means business, and that it won't stand for this kind of nonsense, but so far, no one's been able to figure out where the shipments are coming from. Officers have been staking out countless places up north, looking for generating plants, but there's no sign of it. No one knows how it's being made. And all we have is the name of this druglord, who conveniently has a face that no one's seen."

He put his face in his hands. "It's incredibly frustrating. Would you please pass me a coo--- Stan!"

"Wrrrugh?" Stan responded defensively. The box was empty. His mouth was full. He'd taken the last cookie, and Fraser was annoyed.

"Fraser! You've had half an hour, now come on!" came the inspector's yell from inside. The cops stood up, shrugged at each other, and all three walked towards the Riv.

As Ray and Stan began to get in, Stan turned back to Fraser. "Listen, what's the guy's name? We'll help you from dis end," he said, now able to speak clearly.

"Damian Carlyle. And thanks," Fraser replied.

He patted the car as Ray started it, waved to his friends, and ran inside. The two cops waved back, but quickly looked at each other, both worried about the situation. Ray stared out the windshield, quite flustered. If this drug was in New York, it would be on their streets in no time flat.

Bernadetta plopped her briefcase down on her rough-hewn kitchen table, kicked off her pumps and sat down on the sofa. What a day! Dealing with her class of thirty five darling, screaming lunatics, smacked into by a Mountie, and then watching those two idiots fight during the planning session… She sighed. *Ah, the joys of teaching.*

She pulled herself out of the comfortable seat, which was threatening to put her to sleep, and walked into the kitchen to check her pantry. Making cantucci had always been a family thing. Her father's mother had passed the art on to him, and he had, through numerous baking sessions, passed it on to her. In fact, she remembered with a smile, it was one of the last things they did together before he got so sick…

She forced herself to stop thinking about that and took a look in her pantry. If she was going to make cantucci, she needed the right ingredients, going over the recipe she'd long stored in her head.

CANTUCCI --- TUSCAN ALMOND BISCOTTI:

1 Cup Whole, Raw Almonds

2 Cups All-Purpose Flour

1 ½ Ts. Baking Powder

1/8 Ts. Salt

½ Ts. Cinnamon

6 Tbs. Butter Softened

2/3 Cup of Confectioners Sugar

2 Large Eggs

1 Tbs. Almond Extract

Place the almonds in a preheated 325-degree F. oven and toast the almonds just until they begin to take on color. Cool, and coarsely chop. Mix together the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. Set aside. In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, beat together the butter and powdered sugar. Add the almonds, the eggs and extract. Add the dry ingredients and continue mixing until well blended.

On a lightly floured surface, divide the dough in half, and form two loaves about 9 inches long and 2 ½ inches wide and place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Bake for about 35 minutes or until they are slightly golden brown. Allow to cool for 5 minutes, then using a serrated knife cut into ½ inch slices. Place these slices back on the baking sheet, and cook an additional 5-10 minutes or until the cookies are golden in color and dry. Cool, and store in an airtight container --- makes about 24 cookies. When ready to serve, splash a bit of San Vinto wine onto them.

She checked her pantry for ingredients and discovered that she needed more of everything, especially the powdered sugar, if she was to make the 100 cookies she'd volunteered for. She smiled as she made up her shopping list for tomorrow morning --- Saturday. It had been so long since she'd made these, and a tear ran down her face without her realizing it.

*This one's for you, Papa.*

The pink sun of dawn cut through the steel gray clouds the next morning as the truck rumbled through the streets. Mikey, sitting up front, didn't look much better in daylight than he had at night. The bags under his ever-shifting eyes were more pronounced, and in his white uniform he bore a striking resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy. He grumbled to himself as he sped down the road, a chill wind leaking into the cabin of the truck from somewhere and giving him goosebumps.

*Just a couple more miles,* he thought to himself, *and then the evidence'll be gone, and I'll be in the clear. And then --- it'll all be over. I'll get paid. Then no more cold. No more crappy jobs and being in with these nutsos. No more Chicago. Just me, and Sally, and Florida. What a relief! Dear God, what a relief!*

WHAM!

It happened before he could even react. He was going through an intersection, making a left on a yellow, when a truck coming towards him tried to beat the light. There was a tremendous crunch of glass and metal as the two trucks collided, the front end of the on-coming truck catching the tail end of Mikey's and throwing it into a spin with way too much inertia, careening it into a lamp post. There was a sickening smash as the side of the truck hit the post and the back door flew open, emptying most of the valuable cargo right into the street.

Mikey swore like he had never sworn in his life. Besides the fact that he would be in deep trouble if any cops came around, there was no way he could clear his truck from the road. The back right axle was completely ruined. He managed to get out and go to the other driver, who was looking absolutely petrified.

"What the hell did you do that for, you putz?!" Mikey hollered.

"Please, sir, I'm sorry, I was trying to beat the light because I was late for a delivery, I …" the other driver, sputtered. He was hardly more than a kid, about nineteen years old, with wavy red hair and blue eyes that were almost brimming with tears. "Please, I'm sorry about your truck. Mine is still working, though."

Mikey didn't know what to do. This had never been part of the plan, getting hit by some jackass kid on the way to the most important delivery of his career. He looked at his watch and ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. He could still catch the boat, but he wasn't sure what to do. And most unfortunately, the kid had taken his silence for acceptance of some unspoken proposal, and had picked up one of the large "sugar" sacks.

Mikey's eyes bugged, but he didn't want to give himself away.

"I'll help you. I saw your truck said Sunnydale Farms. They always deliver to the Albertsons on 5^th, and that's where I'm going. I'll take your stuff along!" the kid said happily, thinking he was doing Mikey a big favor.

Mikey was about ready to explode, but he didn't know what to do, save what he'd been taught --- killing the kid and running for it. But that would be kind of messy, and his legs weren't up to the challenge anymore. Besides, one look at the kid's eyes, and he couldn't have killed him, even if he'd been armed, which he wasn't. He watched helplessly as the kid loaded all of the unbroken sugar sacks left into his truck and closed the door. Mikey was so dazed that he waved the kid off when the boy asked if he wanted a ride. As soon as the kid left, he saw the mess his car had made, and swept all the rest of the spilled stuff into the gutter, cleaning out the truck as much as possible.

There was still a lot of glass in the intersection, and that, as he knew from experience, would attract cops like flies. True to his thought, the police arrived, and he decided to do the most sensible thing possible --- run from the scene. He planned to grab Sally, pack some underwear, and catch a flight to Siberia, or somewhere equally far away, because when the boss found out about this fiasco, he didn't want to be around to do any explaining.

Beep, Beep, Beep…

The alarm clock went off at eight and Bernadetta lazily rolled over in bed, ending up on her side, and opened her eyes. It always felt good to sleep in on Saturdays, as she was usually up at five during the week. She sat up, rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes, then hopped out of bed, noiselessly as the gray cat that was winding around her legs. It began to meow for its breakfast. She patted the cat's head and set out a bowl of food for him before getting some oatmeal and dressing.

Then she looked at her list --- it was all local, easy-to-find stuff. So where was the best place to go?

"Trader Joe's will probably have the San Vinto, so that shouldn't be a problem. And as for the other stuff, … I guess that Albertson's on 5^th is pretty close."

"His name is Damian Carlyle," Fraser said, and gestured to a picture on the overhead projector.

His small audience of six FBI agents, five cops, and two Mounties nodded as they surveyed it. The picture showed a sleek, well-groomed man with gray hair and brown eyes.

"He is responsible for shipping, at last count," and here Fraser checked his notes, "approximately 8000 kilos of a very dangerous product into the United States. It's a substance called the 'Fire-Eater,' and, based on medical and scientific analysis, it's a hybrid --- a mix of rock cocaine, heroin, and other narcotics that causes a 'high' period of at least a day and is highly addictive. Unfortunately, the only way we've come to know about this is from medical coroners' reports. What usually happens is that users take this drug, and then six hours later the feeling of being high disappears, even though the drug is still in the bloodstream. The users think they're down from the high and re-dose. This, obviously, leads to overdose very quickly. The whole cycle, from addiction, to usage, to overdose, to death, is very fast. This substance is nothing but a mix of toxins, and it's absolutely lethal, particularly when combined with alcohol. It's on your streets, and it's killing citizens.

Now, I've made contact with the R.C.M.P. in Canada, and they're doing everything they can, but we need America's support if we're to catch Carlyle and his employees. If you'll all check your packets, you'll see that we've provided you with as much information as we have concerning descriptions of possible suspects. What the R.C.M.P. is looking for, at least in this preliminary stage, is increased security at all ports of entry between Canada and the U.S. But it has to happen quietly, lest it strain international relations. Are there any questions?"

An FBI agent raised his hand, but Ray just yelled out, "Yeah! Any signs you know of so we can tell if someone we're questioning is on this stuff or not?"

"Yes, certainly. Good question. Ah, glazed or bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, general bodily weakness, and inability to communicate are the main signals that we've been able to identify so far. Anybody else?"

"Yeah," said a second FBI agent, in a snotty tone. "What are we worried about? If this stuff is killing junkies, hell, the cops oughta be thanking you guys. This isn't a federal problem."

"And if someone sneaks it into the President's coffee? Or uses it for some other purpose that would undermine the federal government? What then, gentlemen?" Fraser answered.

The agent glared at him. "Good day, Constable," he said. He got up and walked out, followed by his men.

The cops were miffed --- especially Ray, who really disliked the FBI. Stan didn't care for them too much, either. Huey and Duey shrugged at each other, but Lieutenant Welsh only nodded at Fraser. He stood up and the other guys joined him.

"Thanks, Constable," he said. "We'll see what we can do, and I'll be in touch."

Fraser nodded and they shook hands. "Thank you kindly."

The cops left, and Turnbull began to tidy the room as Inspector Thatcher got up from her chair. "Excellent, Constable. You didn't babble, or go blank, or otherwise screw that up. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

Thatcher sighed.

Bernadetta walked into the Albertson's with her shopping cart, and quickly began gathering her ingredients. When she reached the baking aisle, she saw the sugar display, and a nice brand of powdered sugar: Sunnydale Farms. She picked up two sacks of it, and was astonished at the price. It looked good-quality, and was unbelievably cheap. Happy at her luck, she put the two sacks in her shopping cart and headed for the check-out.

Four days flew by without a break in the case. Fraser practically begged Inspector Thatcher to give him some time on sentry duty, to take a break from scouring the docks around Chicago. She obliged him, but only after feeling his forehead to make sure he wasn't ill, or losing it. Ray and Stan chanced upon the bodies of four junkies in a back alley --- all had overdosed from the Fire-Eater. All Ray could do was lace his fingers behind his head and sigh. Huey and Duey found a pregnant woman sitting underneath a freeway overpass. She was clearly on the stuff and they tried to ask her where she'd gotten it, but she just twitched and wouldn't answer them. Even Duey, who'd seen a lot of garbage in the street over the years, couldn't look as she began to cough up blood, the first stage of an overdose. They tried to get her to a hospital, but it was too late. She died en route. So did her child.

The FBI was no help --- they spent half of their time complaining about the red tape trying to get the manpower, and the other half lolling around their headquarters. When Fraser, understandably irritated, showed up and requested that they give him back the information about the case because they clearly weren't using it, they got angry and told him to get his red-tunicked ass out of their office. Fraser, one against ten, wisely did as they asked. Then he called their superiors.

And Bernadetta baked cookies.

Thursday came, and so did International Day at Hollybrook Elementary. Turnbull was happy that Fraser was going to represent Canada, but Fraser wasn't. In fact, he was exhausted and unprepared. He took Turnbull up on his offer to watch Diefenbaker for the day, and then went back into his office to panic for a bit. He didn't even have a speech to present! He asked Thatcher if he could write one up and just be late, but the inspector insisted he would be excellent.

"Besides, Constable, won't Canada look outrageously stupid if our representative isn't on time?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I…"

"Go, Fraser!"

"…Yes, ma'am."

He hung his head slightly, left the consulate, and set off at a trot for the elementary school, feeling distinctly queasy. When he arrived, he saw that his red uniform blended in nicely with all the colorful decorations in the school's large multi-purpose room. There were booths representing 20 nations, and those that couldn't fit into the room had spilled out into the school yard beyond the large double doors.

"Constable! Oh, Constable! I'm so glad you're here!" said Bernadetta happily, running up to him. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thanks," Fraser said, shaking hands. "You?"

"Fine. Listen, the speeches will start in a few minutes, but they're going to be short because, you know, these are kids we've got here. The first ten nations are going to have three minutes each, so they'll listen to them for a half an hour. Then there'll be a little break, and then we'll have the second ten nations, okay?"

"Fine. Where do I fit in?"

"Oh, you're number 3 in the second group. So, you've still got plenty of time. But c'mon! Let me show you around!"

He agreed, feeling a lot better about not being first up, and allowed her to lead him around, introducing him to different parents of her students, other teachers, and of course, Maude, who shook his hand firmly and announced that she was 'proud to have a fine Canadian young man in attendance.' Her voice was warm and strong, and the fiery glint in her eyes behind her wire-rimmed spectacles reminded Fraser strongly of his grandmother --- in a very good way. He smiled and moved on with Bernadetta as the kids assembled near the stage at one end of the room and the speeches began.

She proudly showed him her booth, which she'd decorated with an Italian flag. The booth boasted four enormous platters of her cookies, covered in Saran Wrap at the moment, but ready for eating the second the speeches were over.

"Listen," she said quietly, not wanting to disrupt anything, "I just wanted to thank you again. You really didn't have to do this --- I'm glad you're here."

Fraser smiled. "It's my pleasure, Miss Tambarelli."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Bernie. Please."

"All right, then, Bernie."

After a quick stretch break, Fraser went backstage to join the other speakers, who were all dressed in their native costume. There was one man representing an African nation who must have felt extremely cold, because his clothing was rather minimal and it was edging on October. Fraser noticed, plucked up a blanket sitting backstage, and offered it to him. The man mouthed, "Thanks!" and slung it around his shoulders, leaving Fraser to nod "You're welcome" and then face forward again, only to wonder what the heck he was going to say about Canada in three minutes that could have any meaning for elementary school students.

He remembered the last time he'd gotten in front of an elementary school class --- it had been a total disaster. It had been a few years ago, just before he'd found out that his father's old partner had gone missing, but the only thing he could remember about the class was that 23 of them sat there, silently glaring at him, while one little boy repeatedly asked about how Mounties used the bathroom. That, coupled with being hung out of a dormitory window in his underwear up in Depot were possibly the two most embarrassing incidents of his life thus far.

Then suddenly, someone was hitting him and muttering, "Move it, Mountie!" and he was shoved onto the stage.

He stumbled. He was horribly nervous, and he knew himself well enough to know that he would do one of two things: freeze, or babble uncontrollably. *Or perhaps,* he thought, taking a breath and staring at Bernie, who was waving at him jubilantly from the back, *I can strike a happy medium.*

"Good morning!" he began.

"Ah yes, Agent Richards. I wanted to talk to you," Lt. Welsh said, leaning back in his chair.

"About what?" Richards said, in the same snotty tone he'd used at the meeting.

"About the Mountie. Constable Fraser. I heard he showed up at your offices yesterday and, no doubt, politely asked that you give him the information back."

"That's a lie."

"Oh, really? What part of it? I have a complaint that was formally lodged with your superiors stating, quote, 'that you told him to get his red-tunicked ass out of your office,' unquote. This complaint was sent to a LIVID Inspector Thatcher, who sent it to her superiors in the R.C.M.P., and me. And I want to know if it's true."

"I have nothing to say," Richards said, hotly.

"Oh but see, that's the thing. You'd better. Because this kind of crap affects international relations, and the last time I checked, the FBI wasn't doing DIDDLY SQUAT on this case. But in the end, it doesn't really matter, because even if the FBI doesn't care, the employees at the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago P.D. do. And I believe that if your agency isn't interested in apprehending a dangerous drug runner, the consequences of whose actions could have a dire effect on this country, it should hand the information back over to Constable Fraser. Otherwise, I will personally make sure that you and everyone under your command are officially discharged from the case, a move which might cause you a bit of embarrassment. Are you reading me?"

"Loud and clear." The agent's voice cut like ice. "We have been having some problems getting manpower on the case, Lieutenant, but once it's cleared up, we will proceed with our own investigation, and we will not get in the way of yours, or the Canadians'. However, we are keeping that information. It has become classified." Richards started putting on his coat. "Oh, and by the way. I would like to remind you that Constable Fraser has a history of screwing up our agency's investigations. You'd better warn that Mountie --- if he sets a booted foot in our office one more time, we will have him arrested faster than you can say 'Don't f**k with the FBI.'"

Lieutenant Welsh sat there, agape and staring, as Agent Richards left the room. Ray, Stan, Huey and Duey, who had all been listening murderously outside, glared daggers at him as he left. He turned.

"Same goes for you, gentlemen. Good day."

Stan started for him, but Ray held him back. "Don't be stupid, man."

"Boss, we've got some bad news. It took a while to reach us, because everything is very tight down there --- word is the FBI, the Chicago P.D., and even the R.C.M.P. is snooping around, so we had to be careful."

"Of course. What happened?"

"Well, everything was okay for the border crossing, but once it got in the truck … there was an accident. And no one knows what happened to the merchandise."

The businessman nervously tapped his desk with a finger.

"This is very unfortunate. My clientele will be quite disappointed. You will, of course, dispose of whoever screwed this up. Immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Fraser shook his head to get the dizziness out of it. All he could remember was staring at Bernie and that his mouth had been opening and closing. And that was it. He must have given quite a brilliant speech, though, because the class had started cheering wildly and was now yelling things like, "Go Canada!" "Right on!" and "I wanna be a Mountie!" as he left the stage. He smiled, waved, and walked off, but honestly couldn't remember a thing he'd said. He checked his watch and saw that he'd also miraculously ended in three minutes, and quietly sneaked back around to Bernie in the back.

"You were great! That was so inspiring!" she whispered in his ear.

"Well, thank you kindly!" he whispered back, and then blinked, a little dazed, as the program continued.

Perhaps this was the best way to deliver speeches --- in a near coma. He decided against suggesting this technique to Inspector Thatcher; she'd have him on guard duty for a month as treatment for lunacy.

After the speeches had ended, Maude climbed onto the stage. She still had a spring in her step, and walked quickly to the podium.

"Well," she said. "I've been teaching here for many years, and I've done lots of these International Days, pancake breakfasts, and other celebrations, so I know why everybody's really come. It isn't to listen to speeches, or look at decorations. No, people, it's the FOOD! Please feel free to celebrate any culture you want, and let's eat!"

The kids raised a cheer and then clambered up to go find their favorite booths.

"Here we go! I'm on!" Bernie said excitedly. She scurried behind her booth, put on a frilly apron and began unwrapping her cookies.

"They smell good," Fraser said, examining one.

"Oh go on, take one," Bernie said. "They're cantucci. My dad taught me how to make them."

"Mm. Well, maybe later," Fraser said with a wink. He was just leaving, when a small red-headed girl with a fluffy ponytail ran up to the booth and bonked into his legs. The effect was that of a soda can hitting a train.

"Are you all right?" he said, helping her up.

She just grinned nervously and nodded. "Ms. Tambarelli!" she said, in a merry little voice. "What did you bring?"

"Oh hi, Chloe!" Bernie said. "Fraser, I want you to meet someone," she added, coming out from the booth. "This is Chloe O' Flaherty. She's my best student," she finished, putting both hands on Chloe's shoulders. "You should see her spell!" Chloe turned a bright shade of red and looked at the floor. "This is Constable Fraser, Chloe. Say 'hi!'"

Chloe looked up again with clear blue eyes and held up her small hand. "Hi, Constable!"

Fraser shook and said 'hello'. It was rather like having a conversation with a pixie, though, because the child had no sooner introduced herself than she giggled, wriggled free of Bernie, took a cookie with a mischievous grin and ran off to join her friends at the China booth.

"She seems like a smart girl," Fraser commented. "Are her parents doing a booth?"

"Oh, no," Bernie responded. "Chloe's an orphan. The orphanage signed an agreement so that she could go to school in the system. I usually walk her home. I just try to give her as much praise as I can. She really is my best student, though. She just needs somebody to show her off --- doesn't get that much at St. Anne's."

Fraser stared at the girl for a long moment. She turned and looked at him with her startlingly blue eyes before biting into her cookie. "I completely understand," he said finally. "You're doing her a world of good."

He would have liked to say more, but soon a great horde of children, prompted by Chloe's full mouth and eagerly pointing finger, descended upon Bernie's stand, clearing her plates. Most were children from her class, and, pleased that the Mountie they'd liked so much was right near the cookies, they stuck around to ask him things about Canada.

They had all been talking for about five minutes, when suddenly the chatter dropped off. Most of the kids were looking at each other and holding their stomachs. Chloe was rubbing hers, an odd expression on her face. Fraser turned to her.

"Chloe? Are you all right?"

But he was looking at Chloe. This wasn't the polite pixie of a few minutes before. In her place was a dizzy, scared, red-headed little girl whose eyes were beginning to glaze over. Bernie was staring at the children gathered around her stand in shock.

"Kids?" she asked, a bit panicked. "Are you all right?"

One of her students, a stout boy of eight years, turned to her and said, his face contorted in nausea, "Thanks for the cookies, Ms. Tambarelli. They tasted great…"

But he didn't get to say anything else, because he threw up and then collapsed, unconscious, on the floor. Bernie screamed. People abandoned their booths and started heading their way. Fraser was ready to panic himself, but forced calmness into his voice and turned to Chloe. Her face was incredibly flushed, and she looked ready to collapse as well.

"Chloe?" he repeated, holding her steady. "Chloe, can you talk to me?"

She shook her head. She could understand him, but apparently couldn't answer, and looked ready to throw up, too. He tried to ask her something --- anything, just to see if she could respond.

"Chloe, how many cookies did you eat?" he said, a bit loudly. He was now completely supporting her.

She weakly held up three fingers before vomiting all over his tunic and collapsing in his arms.

"Chloe!" Bernie screamed. "Oh my God! What on earth…?"

There were children collapsing all around her stand, some vomiting before, and some after, both kinds making a slippery mess on the floor. It was instant chaos. Parents came running from everywhere, including outside, yelling their children's names, trying not to trample on each other and get to the scene as fast as they could --- without breaking their necks by slipping on the vomit. Fraser stood up in the middle of the throng, holding Chloe. She was unconscious. Bernie was stuck behind the booth, alternately shouting if Chloe was okay and screaming at Fraser for help. It looked like something out of Saving Private Ryan. The din was deafening.

"Somebody call the paramedics!" Fraser hollered. "NOW!"

"So."

"So."

The smoke was clearing. Their hearts were still beating wildly, and each was breathing very hard and fast. They were still holding each other tight under the kitchen table, their sweaty bodies pressed together. The man was gulping in air and his shirt was wet with the tears of the woman he was holding, who was shaking uncontrollably.

"'Ya gonna tell me?" said Sally, as they stood up, both a little wobbly, covered in glass and dust.

One of the windows in their cramped, third story walk-up was no more. Instead, there was a mess of shattered glass and splintered wood on the faded linoleum, and six little holes in the wall opposite.

Mikey looked nervously out of the demolished window. "They're gone," he said. "I think."

"You think?" Sally said, sitting down at the table. "Someone just tried to kill us, and you THINK they're gone? What the hell is going on, Mikey?!"

He sat down opposite her. She stared at him, and he sighed and scratched his head. She had to know --- it wasn't fair. He came clean about the whole thing, from start to finish.

"Jesus Christ, Mikey, why?" Sally sobbed, breaking down. "Why the hell did you do it? We could've been killed, you moron!" She buried her face in her arms and let her shoulders shake.

"Sally, please, don't cry."

"'Don't cry?' We've been cooped up in this damn apartment like rats for five days, someone just fired off a clip through our kitchen window, you've just barely told me why you came home looking so scared on Saturday, and you're telling me not to cry! That's rich! My God, honey, I didn't even ask! I figured you'd tell me when you were ready! … Goddammit, I trusted you! You told me you were through with those assholes! What were you doing making a delivery for them?"

"It was my last one! I was hoping to collect the cash, and then we'd just get up and leave! I figured I was small-time shit, baby! Trust me, they don't need me anymore. We would've been free if that damn kid hadn't crashed into the truck."

"Yeah, well he did. And now we're screwed, because those bastards with their machine guns, or whatever the hell they have, are gonna try again. And again, and again, and again, until they get it right. So whaddaya got to say to that?"

There was a pause. Mikey didn't have anything to say to that. He just stared at Sally. She was rightfully terrified. The rims of her wet eyes were as red as her lipstick, and her yellow house dress was dotted with dark patches where her tears had fallen. Her shoulder-length hair was gray from years of stress and worry. The skin around her eyes was bagging a bit, and her mouth, normally open and jabbering happily, was a thin, taut line. She was too angry and scared to make a sound.

Seeing her face finally brought home the severity of what he'd done, or failed to do. This woman, his wife, had trusted him for twenty years --- all those years that he'd been a legitimate delivery man for Sunnydale Farms, but doing this kind of work on the side to help pay the bills. All those years she'd known, and begged him to get out of it. All those years he'd said, "Yeah, yeah. Later, later."

For twenty years, he'd made deliveries while Sally worked at the Miller bottling plant. They were still working, and still a heck of a team, even though middle-age had crept up on them. He wasn't so sure what Sally thought of him, but as far as he was concerned, she was beautiful. Long nights and bad take-out had stolen her figure and given her sags in the wrong places, and a cosmic joke had lost her any chance at children, but God, she was beautiful. She'd always been beautiful. She'd always been there for him, and he'd really screwed her this time. All of his future plans to "get out" had suddenly been compressed into the present, into those six blinding shots through the kitchen window, any one of which could have taken her life.

They both sat there, staring at each other across the poor old kitchen table --- one looking for an answer, the other looking for an absolution.

He decided it right then. One of them had to make it out of Chicago alive. This wasn't small-time; this was serious. The buyers and sellers undoubtedly knew that the big delivery hadn't gone through, and they clearly knew exactly who to blame. They were ready to silence the guy who'd failed them, and no way was Sally going to be in the crossfire again. Mikey kept looking at her.

*I won't let you down, baby. You'll be on the next plane to Florida with all of our savings … with or without me.*

The double doors burst open with a bang, and the paramedics pushed the gurney into the emergency room. One of them was bagging Chloe as another started yelling out vital stats to the doctors. Six more gurneys followed them in, followed by many frantic parents and Maude. Fraser and Bernie brought up the rear, Bernie shaking with grief and terror, Fraser with one arm around her shoulder, using the other to leave a message for Inspector Thatcher with someone's cell phone. The gurneys continued through the hallway, but the parents, the two teachers, and the Mountie were directed to the waiting area.

Everyone sat down. Only seven of the 18 children who'd collapsed at the festival were here at Cook County General --- the other eleven had been split up between Southside and Grammercy. Most of the parents were staring off blankly, wondering what was going to happen. Bernie shook under Fraser's arm. He looked at her and saw she was crying.

"Bernie?" he said quietly.

"Jesus, … Chloe … I'm going to be blamed," she mumbled. "I always was, always am, always will be … Oh, Fraser!"

She snorted up some slush, buried her face in his shoulder, and kept crying. The front of his tunic was still stained with Chloe's vomit.

None of what Bernie was babbling made any sense. Fraser just held her and looked up at the small television set up in the lobby --- a news reporter was on the scene at the elementary school, reporting on the "mysterious collapse of 18 youngsters."

"Oh, just f**king terrific," Maude said, crossing her arms and looking sour.

"Just moments ago, eighteen youngsters collapsed at an International Day celebration right here at Hollybrook Elementary, apparently from food poisoning. All of the victims have since been transported to the hospital, but because the attacks appeared so severe, including vomiting and convulsions, police have been called in to make a formal inquiry as to whose food it might have been that did this, and whether it was intentional. As of now, there is no word on the condition of the victims. Back to you, Martha."

The news anchor took over and Fraser lost interest. Then the doors banged open again and three people he recognized well walked into the waiting area.

"Fraser!" said Inspector Thatcher. "I got your message."

"Yeah," said Ray, "and we almost took the inquiry. What happened?"

"Jeez, Fraze, are yeh all right?" Stan said, quite alarmed. "Yeh look like yeh puked on yerself."

It took Fraser a few minutes to explain, and ended by saying that it was Chloe, a second-grader, who'd decorated his tunic.

"And no one knows whose food was responsible?" Thatcher asked.

Fraser just looked at her. He'd finally had a chance to think, once the heat of the moment was over. It was as though his memory was on instant replay, selecting only the images that made sense. All the kids had headed for Bernie's stand, and had eaten her cookies. Chloe even managed to communicate that she'd eaten three before she collapsed. And then all of that chaos had distracted everybody. It must have been … but that couldn't be right. Why would Bernie intentionally poison her class? As far as he could tell, she'd never had the intention.

"Would you excuse us for a moment?" he asked. Thatcher nodded.

"Come on, Miss Tambarelli," Fraser said, helping her up.

They made their way to the registration desk and asked the receptionist if there was some quiet room that they could use for a moment. She pointed to an empty room down the hall.

"Ah. Thank you kindly."

She just nodded and blew a bubble with her gum. Fraser guided Bernie down the hall and into the room. He shut the door, and they were alone.

"Bernie," he began, "I'm going to need to ask you a question. It's not an accusation, but I have to know. Will you let me ask you?"

Bernie sniffed, but nodded.

"All right. Did you notice anything funny about your cookies before you brought them to the festival?"

There was a pause. Finally, she shook her head.

"No! No. I swear, if it was my food that did this, I couldn't believe it! My dad … he showed me … I used all the right things … I didn't even taste them, I was so sure, because they smelled just the way they were supposed to."

"Do you have any with you?"

"Well --- well, yes. I bagged up all the rest of them before the ambulances arrived. They're in my car, but I think I dumped a couple in my purse."

She fished around in her bag, then found one and handed it to Fraser.

"It was in there loose. Sorry."

"Quite all right." He held it up to the light, and looked at the almonds. Then he sniffed it. She raised an eyebrow.

"Alcohol," he said, seeing her look. "How much alcohol is in these cookies, Bernie?"

"None," she said. "The recipe always includes a splash of San Vinto at the end, but these were for kids, so I left it out."

"Are you sure?" he said.

She thought for a moment. "No," she said, finally. "It was pretty late when I baked these. I may have splashed a little wine on them by accident, just out of habit. But even if I did, it would have been like, I dunno, maybe a teaspoon for every twenty cookies? Yeah, something like that. It wasn't like I doused them with it, or anything. You think the alcohol poisoned the children? I just --- … what the hell are you doing?"

Fraser was running his tongue along the surface of the cookie.

"Constable, that's been loose in my purse! It's all dirty! … Bad boy! Stop that!"

She tried to slap his hand and grab the cookie away from him, but he held her off.

"Miss, please. I'm a trained professional."

He licked the cookie again and grimaced before spitting into the garbage can next to them. She was confused.

"Weh, thad's innerethting," he said. "By bouth ith combletely dumb."

"What?"

"Mith, wuh gyu bind ith I dook thith gack do the lab thuh analythith?"

"I have no idea what you just said!" Bernie shrieked, sensing he might leave and starting to panic.

"Thag you gindly." He started to walk away.

"Wait a minute!" She grabbed his arm. "Fraser, you can't just walk out of here. You're talking funny. Is it because of the cookie?"

He nodded.

"Oh, my God. Listen, before you leave, … you have to believe me! I was telling the truth! If I put something in those cookies, it wasn't my fault. Just please don't let it happen to me again."

Now Fraser was confused. *Don't let what happen again?* "Mith, ethrything'll de thine."

He stopped and thought for a moment, then pulled a piece of scrap paper out of his pocket and took out a pen. She watched him. He scribbled something on the paper, then handed it to her. It read:

"What ingredients did you use?"

She smiled a little, realizing she wasn't useless after all. "I had to go out and buy them on Saturday. I still have the receipt, if that's a help."

Fraser nodded. She dug through her purse, pulled out her wallet, and handed him the receipt. "It was the Albertson's on 5^th for all of these," she said, "and for the San Vinto it was the Trader Joe's."

"Geep be bothted."

"Keep you posted on Chloe?" she interpreted.

"Yeth."

"No problem."

He walked her back to the waiting area, and used pen and pencil to explain to Inspector Thatcher where he was going. She'd already made friends with the sternest person in the room --- Maude --- and, after finding out what had happened to the children, seemed quite willing to stay until he got back. He nodded in thanks, and summoned Ray and Stan to get a ride. They both started laughing at him the second he opened his mouth.

"Finally bit somethin' that bitcha back, hey, Benny?" Ray said as he opened the Riv's door.

"Oh thut ub."

"Today at five? No delays? … That's perfect. Thanks."

Mikey hung up the phone and turned to Sally. She had cleaned up the mess from the broken window and was making a sandwich with their last two pieces of bread. The small lamp dangling above her lit up the sparkles in her gray hair.

"Uh, Sal?" he said. "You know you asked me earlier what I got to say?"

"Yeah, and I'm still waiting for an answer."

"Well now you're getting one."

Sally kept making the sandwich.

"C'mon baby, look at me. Please."

She took a breath, sighed, and turned around. "What."

"I want you to get outta here."

"What?"

"Listen to me carefully. I gotcha a plane ticket. I want you to pack, get yourself to O'Hare, and go to Florida, like we've been talking about. Then get all our savings transferred to a new account once you're there."

She looked at him like he'd lost his mind and opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her and handed her a piece of paper.

"The flight'll touch down in Miami. Whenever or wherever you get settled, call this number. If I'm still alive, I'll pick up."

"If you're still alive? 'The hell's the matter with you?"

"Aw Jesus, Sally, I'm not bullet-proof! You saw the window thing. You shouldn't have, but you did." He put a hand on her shoulder. "For Chrissake, you know who they were aiming for."

She was having trouble looking at him, and decided to focus on his top button instead of his face.

"Sally, they're lookin' for me. I don't want they should find you instead, get it?"

She looked up, and they stared into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. She finally nodded, bit her lip, and threw her arms around him.

"I love you, you idiot," she mumbled.

"I love you too, baby."

They held each other tight in the dingy old kitchen.

By the time the Riv had reached the crime lab at the 27^th, the numbness had worn off and Fraser was able to talk properly. They handed the cookie to Lucy, the lab tech, and sat down on a bench outside to wait. Fraser went to the men's room to change out of his stained uniform into his spare --- the brown one. He came out to find Ray and Stan, still sitting and waiting, utterly bored.

"So what do you think it is?" Ray asked.

"The substance in the cookie?" Fraser said.

"Yeah."

"Well, I believe that I may have tasted cocaine," Fraser said, "But I'm not positive, because I don't use drugs."

"Yeh sure?" Stan piped up. "Yeh were lookin' a little loopy back at the hospital, buddy."

"Well I did feel a little dizzy, but I have a feeling that's what it was. In the jungles of South America, cocaine is used as a local anesthetic because of the very thing it did to my mouth."

"What, made you talk stupid?" Ray asked, laughing.

"'StupidLY, Ray, and no. It numbed it completely."

"So yer sayin' that Bernie put cocaine in the cookies?" Stan asked.

"Perhaps," Fraser said. "But I doubt she knew it."

"I doubt it too, knowing Bernie," Ray said.

"You know her?" Fraser asked, surprised.

"Sure, I know Bernie. I was ten when she was born --- helped her mom deliver because her dad was at work and couldn't be there. It was disgusting, and her mom was in pretty bad shape after delivery, but she was a cute baby."

Fraser and Stan just sat there, struck dumb. Ray didn't notice, and continued.

"She was really smart, too. Very precocious. She and Frannie were pretty good friends, even though they were six years apart. It was the damndest thing about the Tambarellis, though."

"What?" Stan asked, now interested as well.

Ray sighed.

"They were sort of like the neighborhood scapegoats. Nicest people you could find, hardworking as all get-out, but their house and their clothes were never in great shape, no matter how hard they tried. Just had bad luck. Like Mrs. Tambarelli, for example. She developed some kind of infection after delivering Bernie, and it never went away. Bernie was about 5 when she passed on, and then it was all up to her and her dad to take care of things, and the house just sorta went to hell. Didn't help that people like the Zukos were always blaming things on 'em; everything from crabgrass to burnt lasagna was their fault. It was pretty bad, especially when Bernie was in elementary school.

I can still remember --- I was 19, I guess, and I heard about it from a friend. It turned out there was this huge plumbing problem in the school bathroom that no one had fixed, and the pipes all burst at once. Almost flooded the place. Only one kid in there at the time."

"Bernie," Stan said.

"Yup. She was the one who flushed the toilet and made everything go boom. I mean, it's not like it was her fault --- she didn't know there was a plumbing problem! Poor kid had to practically swim out the door and be rescued by a teacher, for God's sake! But everybody from the neighborhood thought she'd done something to the pipes --- you know how stupid kids are. Anyway, to make matters worse, the teacher who fished her out of the bathroom found a copy of 'The Way Things Work' in her backpack"

"Isn't that the big one that shows how mechanical stuff looks on the inside?" Stan asked.

"That's quite a tome!" Fraser cut in, surprised.

"Yeah, well, here's the clincher --- bookmarked to the section on water pressure. I told you," he said, as the others blinked at him, "bad luck, but smart as a whip. Really something. Well, when it got out that she'd had that in her backpack, that sealed it for everybody who hated the Tambarellis. They were utterly convinced that Bernie had done it. Frank Zuko's little brother called her something I won't even repeat to YOU guys. He said it right in front of me, and to Bernie's face. I chased him off, but then the Zukos paid her and her dad a few visits, and they moved away pretty fast."

"That sucks," Stan said.

"It gets worse. While you were talking to the Inspector, Benny, I said 'hi'. I was pretty shocked that she remembered me, but we got to talkin', and I asked about her dad. He died last year. Cancer. Poor kid's got nobody now."

All three guys were silent for a bit, soaking up the story.

"How horrible," Fraser said, finally. "No wonder she was terrified of being blamed for this."

"Sad thing is, she probably will be," Stan said.

A very tired-looking doctor approached the huddled group in the waiting room. A few parents immediately stood up, and the rest followed suit.

"Am I looking at the parents of Ernie Chung, Fred Gibson, Chloe O'Flaherty, Amy Lee, Myra Banks, Alison Silverling, and Steven Welsh?" she asked, reading from a list.

She looked up. Everyone, except for Meg Thatcher, Maude, and Bernie, was nodding.

"Okay. Well, I am pleased to tell you that your children are all okay. They ingested a powerful poison, but fortunately its effects are not fatal if it's not in the bloodstream. In fact, in all of these cases, the drug didn't make it past the stomach. There may be some damage, but we won't know for sure until your children wake up."

Meg noticed that Bernie's hand was starting to shake.

"We simply pumped your children's stomachs, and they are all resting comfortably. I'll take you to them if you like," said the doctor.

"Please," said one mother.

In a minute, everyone was being herded off to see their children, but the doctor couldn't seem to find the relations of Chloe O' Flaherty.

"That's us," Meg said finally, as Maude and Bernie stared. "Could you please take us to her?"

"Of course," said the doctor. "Right this way."

She led the three women down the hallway into a curtained area, pointed at the bed, and left, closing the drapes behind her. Bernie got to the bedside first and took the little girl's hand. She nudged some of Chloe's hair off her face, but it didn't help much --- she still looked pretty bad. She was unconscious, with a small tube of oxygen running under her nose, an i.v. in her arm, and a stain of grime around her mouth. Maude and Bernie were confused by it.

"Charcoal," Meg said. "They use it as an aid in pumping stomachs."

Maude nodded, got around to the other side, and took the girl's other hand. Meg sat down on the end of the bed and looked on.

"Why did you lie to the doctor, Miss Thatcher?" Maude asked finally, never looking away from Chloe. Her voice was less steady, and her eyes were oddly bright.

"Because no one should wake up alone in hospital," Meg said.

"All right, I got a print-out," Lucy said, waving the paper at the guys.

They all came over and had a look. The cops couldn't make any sense of the chemical read-out, turning the paper upside-down and backwards trying to decipher it. In desperation, they handed it to the Mountie.

"So what is it, Benny?" Ray asked. "Is it coke?"

"It's worse," Fraser said, his voice blank. "It's the Fire-Eater."

Sally watched, her eyes finally dry, as Mikey threw a few possessions into a black duffel bag. He only had a vague idea of where he would go to hide. Her dress brushed the doorway, and he looked up and noticed her.

"Honey, you better get packin'. Your flight leaves in an hour."

"I know," she said.

Mikey straightened up, closing the bag, and walked slowly to the front door of the apartment. He wasn't sure how to say goodbye. Sally was right behind him as he opened the door.

"I know this sounds really corny, but will I ever see you again?" she asked.

He turned to her. "I don't know. I hope so. I want to see YOU again, that's for sure. Listen, whatever you do --- don't look out the windows."

She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. "I won't. … You better get going. And don't worry. I'll make sure we're okay."

"I know," he said.

They kissed. She stood at the door and watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the stairwell. Then she closed the door and leaned her back against it, rapping on it with her fingers. She surveyed their whole apartment, and her eyes came to rest on the phone.

"Mmm … Mommy?"

The hushed little voice startled all three of the women. Chloe was awake, staring dizzily up at the ceiling.

"Hey, honey, it's okay," Bernie said, and put her hand on the girl's forehead.

Chloe looked at her, confused. "Miss Tambarelli?" she asked, a little more awake now.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you?"

She yawned. "Tired. Really tired."

Maude rubbed her shoulder, getting her attention, and waved a little bit at her in a very grandmotherly way. Meg patted her leg, and Chloe noticed them both.

"Hi, Mrs. Butko," she said to Maude, and then looked at Meg, confused. "Who are you?"

Maude piped up before Meg could say anything. "This is Inspector Thatcher. You remember Constable Fraser from today?"

Chloe nodded, and then her eyes widened. "Oh!" she said. "Are you Constable Fraser's wife?"

Maude and Bernie both smiled a little as Meg blinked. Her cheeks went very red. "No, dear, I'm not. I'm his superior officer."

Chloe didn't react.

"His boss."

"Oh." She yawned again, then burped. "My mouth tastes yucky."

"Well, it's not a wonder, sweetie. You just had your stomach pumped," said Bernie.

It took a minute for Chloe to process this. "Now I remember," she said. "I got sick. Everybody got sick. Why did everybody get sick, Miss Tambarelli?"

Bernie looked nervously at Meg and Maude. She'd told them her horrible suspicion, but had no clue what to tell Chloe.

"I don't know, honey. I really don't know."

"So if Bernie had to buy all the ingredients, that means that on Saturday, five days ago, she went out, did her shopping, and in the middle of it accidentally purchased a nearly-lethal street drug from a grocery store," Ray said, still trying to force sense into the equation. "Is that what you're telling me?"

He started the Riv as Stan took shotgun. Fraser hopped into the back.

"Right," said Fraser. "And I have a hunch as to what she might have bought."

"What?" Stan asked, turning his head.

"Look here," Fraser said. "On the receipt, it says that she bought two bags of powdered sugar. Remarkable, considering that this drug, when ground up into a dust, looks just like it --- with one major difference."

"Man, I hope you're right about this," Ray muttered.

They arrived at the Albertson's on 5^th a few minutes later and went to check the baking aisle. Fraser, however, walked in with something bulging in his holster. It wasn't a gun. The guys made their way to the aisle, and headed straight for the powdered sugar.

"Cops with a sweet tooth. Surprise, surprise," muttered a little old lady who had to get out of their way. "Gonna start making your own donuts, boys?"

Ray glared at her, but Fraser held him back. "Don't upset her. She has a purse, and she'll probably use it on you."

Stan snickered. Ray glared at him. And then Fraser did something that surprised them both --- he opened his holster.

"Uh, Fraze?"

"I know I'm unarmed, Stan. I was just getting this."

He held up a long, skinny light bulb, and an odd shell which fit around it perfectly. The shell had a very narrow slit along one side, only letting a little light out. Fraser took out the rest of the apparatus from his pants pocket --- a handle that attached to the shell, and battery-switch. The cops had no idea what he was doing.

"Black light," Fraser said, in answer to their baffled looks. "The Fire-Eater, if it's here, looks red when the light hits it. Sugar won't even show up."

"Naddat's genius," Stan said. "Where'd yeh get the light?"

"Oh, Lucy loaned it to me. She just said, 'no charge'. Her eyes were a little glazed, though --- I hope she's all right."

"Figures," Ray said with a snort. "You normally have to rent one of these things. She just gave you a freebie 'cause you made her drool like a hungry wolf."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied. "Would you two help me get a bag of every kind of confectioners' sugar you see on the shelf?"

"Every single one?" Stan whined.

"Well the receipt didn't say what brand she bought," Fraser said, picking up a sack from Sunnydale Farms.

Once they had the selection --- six different brands --- they knelt in the aisle as Fraser took out his knife. He flicked his wrist and the blade clicked into place. Then he made a slit along the top of the package of each kind and, balancing a little of each on the side of his knife, he shone the black light on it. They had five failures, but then Fraser reached the Sunnydale Farms box.

He got a little bit of it on the knife, and all three guys immediately noticed that the texture was different. Fraser shone the light on it --- and the substance glowed bright red.

"This is it," he said.

"Jeez," said Ray. "Well, I'll call Bernie and tell her what happened."

"I'll go speak to the delivery workers and see if they know how the sugar got here," Fraser said as he stood up.

"Well, I'm gonna see if the cashiers can help. I mean, Bernie can't be the only one who bought confectioners' sugar since Saturday. If they've got a record, we'll need to track down who bought what and see what kind it was. Maybe we can stop this from happening again," Stan said.

"Right," said Ray. "We'll meet back here in half an hour. Okay?"

The other two nodded. Stan left the aisle, while Fraser opened one of the small flaps on his Sam Browne and took out a tightly folded up garbage bag. He put the Fire-Eater sack into it, and was just sealing it as Ray returned with a puzzled kid in an apron, who began to remove the Sunnydale boxes from the shelf and put them on a trolley.

Mikey had never run so fast in his life --- not that this was saying much. As he trotted through the crowded streets, he took a quick look all around him at intervals. But he didn't just glance --- he took everything in with the trained eye of someone who knew assassins personally, and how they operated. His one advantage was that anybody, besides the guy who'd blasted the kitchen window to hell, didn't know that he knew they were after him.

The street was crowded, but one of his panoramas caught something weird, so just to be safe, he took off down a narrow side-street, and started to run for the north end of town. If he could just avoid being seen, then maybe, just maybe, he had a real shot to reach the shelter. Then again, the newspapers could read tomorrow: Body of Pathetically Slow Man found in Alley. He huffed and puffed as he scurried along, trying not to think about it.

"Um, excuse me!" Fraser shouted over the din in the loading area.

The guy operating a forklift stopped it so they could hear each other, but it was still loud with everyone else operating theirs.

"Yeah?!" he asked.

"Um, yes! I was wondering if you could help me! I'm looking for the delivery person who transported the sacks of Sunnydale Farms sugar on Saturday! Do you know where I could find him?!"

"Yeah!" he hollered back, and pointed. "You see that guy in the red hat over there?! He's the one with the roster! That'll show you who delivered what!"

"Thank you kindly!"

Fraser took off for the man in the red hat.

"Hey. Chicago P.D. Listen --- where can I find a record of who bought powdered sugar from Saturday 'till now?"

The cashier stared at Stan blankly and began to twiddle his eyebrow ring.

"Dude. This is like, my first day. I don't know. Why don't you ask Marcy?" he said, and pointed a clueless finger in the direction of a fifty-ish African-American woman who was working aisle three.

"Thanks," Stan said warily.

He signaled another worker to come over to him, and together they got him to substitute for Marcy for a bit. She put a hand on her hip and leaned against the drugstore counter as Stan talked to her.

"So that's why I need the information," he said. "Because if someone else walked out of here with that stuff, there's gonna be big trouble."

"Mm hm. Well, lemme see. I know the computer has a record. Let's take a look. I take it you guys have already had the sugar removed?"

"Yep."

"Good. Well, the computer doesn't show anybody buying any other Sunnydale Farms powdered sugar since Saturday. Come to think of it, that stuff was delivered on Saturday. Gee. That's weird."

"What's weird?"

"Well, Sunnydale Farms only delivers on Fridays and Mondays --- never Saturdays. And I was working on Saturday, and I don't remember seeing the truck."

"Really. Can you tell what truck it arrived in?"

"Yeah. Jimmy brought it in his truck. Frankly, I'm amazed his was still working --- the front end of it was all smashed up. I pointed at it, and he said, 'Yeah. This morning,'" said the foreman.

He and Fraser had stepped out of the din of the working area and into his sound-proofed office.

"But Jimmy was all right?" Fraser asked.

"Yeah, he was fine. And he had his shipment, but he also had all this Sunnydale stuff in the truck. Poor kid --- he's already kinda scatterbrained. He musta forgot that Sunnydale doesn't deliver to us on Saturdays."

"Did he tell you about the accident?"

"Accident?"

"Well, sir, if the front of his car was dented, it would follow that he collided with something. Did he say what?"

"No. You know, he didn't. Hey JIMMY!" he ended in a holler, yelling it out to the loading dock.

Jimmy Baker poked his head up from what he was loading, and his hat slipped, revealing his fiery red hair. He shielded his blue eyes to see who was calling him, and then put down his burden. He ran over to the foreman's office and stepped inside.

"Jimmy, listen. I got a Mountie who wants to talk to you."

Jimmy's eyes widened and he backed away. Fraser looked at the foreman, and then at Jimmy.

"Jimmy, are you all right?" Fraser asked.

"I'm fine. What did I do?" Jimmy asked, petrified.

"You didn't do anything. I'm not here to arrest you, if that's what you think. I don't even have jurisdiction here."

Jimmy seemed to relax a bit. "Oh. Good. Well, what do you want?"

"I want you to tell me about the accident you had on Saturday. What did your truck hit? It's very important."

Jimmy sighed. Even if this drove the premium up, the Mountie said it was important. He decided to tell him.

"I hit a Sunnydale Farms truck. I admit it. I'm sorry. Please don't tell the insurance company! Please!"

"No one's going to tell the insurance company. But I need to know --- did you see the driver of the other vehicle?"

"Yeah, I did. He sure was mad that I smacked into him --- I mean, not that he didn't have the right."

"What did he look like?"

"I dunno. Fifty-ish, grey hair. Big belly. Kinda had a deep voice. Three-day beard. He got out and yelled at me and everything. Again, not that he didn't have the right."

"I think I know who he's talking about," the foreman cut in. "Sunnydale Farms only has four drivers, and only one guy matches that description --- Mikey Demetrius. He's been doing this for years. In fact, he usually delivers to us on Fridays."

Jimmy even managed to remember the corner where they'd collided, and Fraser said he'd put in a good word for him if the police came around asking.

"Thank you both," he said. "You've been a big help."

Even Jimmy managed a nod as Fraser left.

"When can I leave?" Chloe asked, a little fretful. She was a bit too warm, and started to squirm under the sheets.

"As soon as the doctors say you can go, honey," Bernie said. "Are you too hot?"

"Mm hm."

Meg helped Maude pull back a few of the sheets.

"Does that feel better?" the inspector asked.

"Yeah. Thank you," she said.

Her energy was spent, and her eyes were starting to close. Bernie began to smoothe her hair back.

"That's it, honey. Just go to sleep."

The three cops convened back at the sugar aisle.

"Okay, good news," Stan said. "Nobody else walked out of here with the Sunnydale Farms stuff."

"And I put a message through to Bernie about what we found," Ray said. "I just hope it's not a long time getting to her."

"Well, I talked to the delivery men, and it seems that the sugar found its way here by accident. A delivery man, Jimmy Baker, hit a Sunnydale Farms truck which was being driven by a regular driver, someone named Mikey Demetrius."

"Great," said Ray. "So we've got a name."

"We also might have a place," Fraser said. "From Jimmy's re-construction of the accident, it looked as though the Sunnydale Farms truck was traveling away from its correct destination --- Jimmy was heading towards the market, going south, while the Sunnydale truck was heading north and trying to make a left."

"Wait a minute. Sunnydale doesn't deliver to this store on Saturdays, and according to Marcy, the only store in the CITY that gets Saturday delivery from Sunnydale is always serviced by some guy with short brown hair and a body like a wire," Stan cut in.

"That's not Mikey, to say the least. So the question is, what would he have been doing driving around on Saturday morning with a fully-loaded truck, if he didn't know exactly what was IN his truck and where he had to take it?" Fraser asked.

"You're peggin' Mikey for the drug guy?" Ray said.

"Well, who else is there?" Fraser asked. "This was never meant to end up where it did. It was a botched delivery, and if we can find out where it was going, we might be a step closer to catching these people."

Ray nodded and tossed his cell phone to Stan. "Here, catch. Call Elaine and ask her to run Mikey. Let's all go up to the corner and let you sniff around," he said to Fraser.

All three of them took off for the Riv. None of them noticed the smartly-dressed man who peered out from behind shelf of spices and herbs, watching them go.

"Number 13 to base," he said, pressing a finger to his ear. "I've got 'em."

Mikey finally leaned up against a brick wall, hands on his knees, ready to cough his lungs up. *Boy, am I outta shape.* He looked around. He was on the north end of town, near the docks. *The docks --- Oh, no. Pier 7 was where I should've been on Saturday. God, if that kid hadn't hit me, I could've been in Florida with Sally by now!* He angrily slammed his fist up against the wall behind him, but that just made it sting, and he wondered, as a plane flew by overhead, if Sally was on it. He checked his watch --- it was 5:10. *Probably,* he thought. It was more a hope than anything else.

He got up and started running again --- the safe house was only two streets away. All he had to do was get there and lie low for a while, until Sally called. His friend Lou had seen this kind of thing happen before, and was always happy to get people into his basement. He was jogging along, when suddenly two men jumped out from behind a corner and pointed their weapons at him.

"Oh God," he said.

"Raise 'em," said one of the men.

Mikey didn't have a choice. He raised 'em. "Are you gonna kill me?"

"No," the other said. "Mr. Carlyle wants to hear your explanation. But of course, there is a definite possibility that he won't like it, in which case we will kill you, yes."

Mikey was baffled --- people from Chicago didn't talk like this. "Where the hell are you from?" he said.

"Toronto," said the first man. "Come on."

*Canadians?* Mikey thought, as he was smartly grabbed under the arms and hoisted away. *I'm delivering drugs for Canadians?*

Then the club came down on the back of his head, and he knew no more.

Sally picked up the phone. She hadn't even packed or gone to the airport. This was stupid. Her husband was not going to die because of an accident. What he needed was real, honest-to-God help, and she would give it to him, whether he liked it or not. She had enough information to help somebody save him, even if it was from himself.

This couldn't be about spousal loyalty anymore --- somebody had to get off their duff and do the right thing. Why shouldn't it be her? Mikey might be arrested in the process, but that Fire-Eater stuff sounded pretty bad, and these people had to be stopped.

"Hello," she said. "Chicago Police, please."

"Well?"

Fraser had been looking around the accident site. The Sunnydale Farms truck had long been cleared from the road, but he was still looking for some evidence.

"Give me a minute," he said.

"I'm kinda amazed this crunch didn't make the news," Stan said. "It musta blocked traffic a little bit."

"It was early Saturday morning, and there weren't any bloody bodies. Nobody goes for a fender-bender," Ray said. "Besides, there was no report filed. By the time the traffic cop had gotten here, that Jimmy kid had skedaddled, and so had Mikey. Did Elaine give you anything?"

"Yeah. All he's got are some moving violations. Paid 'em, though."

Fraser was kneeling on his haunches in the gutter, alternately staring down at the storm drain and up at the scratched, bent lamp post that the truck had careened into. He stood up and pulled a map of the city out of his pocket. Then he followed the left that Mikey should have taken with his finger. A few blocks down was a long, wide street that headed due north, which made a right onto another wide street that headed due east …

"I think I know where he was going."

"Where?"

"The docks."

Just then, Ray's cell phone rang. "Vecchio. Hey, Elaine. What's up? … You're kidding. … Yeah, put her on! … Ma'am? Ma'am. Yes, what can I do for you?" Ray listened for a long time. "Right. … Yeah, thanks." He scribbled down a number on a piece of paper. "Well, we're doing what we can, ma'am. Thanks for the info. Listen --- call that number, and see if he's there. If he isn't, we'll go check out the pier."

He gave the person on the other end his number, and waited for a few moments. The phone rang again, and he picked it up.

"Any response? … No? … All right. Thanks. We'll go straight for it. You have no idea how helpful you've been."

He hung up.

"And that was?" Stan prompted.

"Sally Demetrius. Mikey's wife. Seems somebody tried to off Mikey today by shooting through the kitchen window, and SHE'S supposed to be on a flight to Florida to get outta here."

"But she isn't, because she called you," Fraser said. "Right?"

"Right. She knows like, everything."

"Well that sucks! Doesn't this moron driver know anything? Now she's an accomplice to whatever he's done!"

"She doesn't care, Stan. Her husband's gone, and she's scared out of her mind. She doesn't know where he is. He gave her a phone number, though. Said he'd be there if he was alive. No answer."

"They must have him, then," said Fraser.

"Yeah."

"She's quite a brave woman to give the police all this information. What were you saying about the pier?"

"Well, she said Mikey mentioned pier 7 in phone conversations a lot. She always pretended not to hear, but she figured it was important."

"Listen --- if they know where Mikey lives, she can't stay in their apartment alone. We oughta go pick her up," Stan said.

"Good idea." Ray flipped his phone open again. "Elaine?" he asked as he started the Riv and the other two got in. "You got an address on Mikey Demetrius? We're gonna go pick up his wife."

Fraser borrowed Stan's cell phone to bring Inspector Thatcher up to date.

"Chloe?" Bernie asked, rubbing the little girl's shoulder.

Her sleeping had gone quite deep --- so deep that it seemed unnatural. She shook her again, but she wasn't responding. Maude had gone to get a drink from the soda machine, and Meg had gone to take a telephone call.

"Chloe?" Bernie said louder. "Chloe? … Chloe!"

She shook her very hard. Nothing.

"Omigod. Help! She's in a coma! Please!" she shouted, bursting out of the curtains.

A doctor came running over.

"Please, you have to help me! She won't wake up!"

The doctor ran into the curtains and immediately put the stethoscope to the girl's chest.

"V-fib!" the doctor yelled. "Somebody get the paddles!"

"Hi, Mikey," said one of the men.

He removed the blindfold, and Mikey moaned a little. His head was pounding, and he found himself tied to a box in a grubby-looking warehouse. The only light coming in was from the high, small windows. Sunset was approaching. He was surrounded by at least five unpleasant-looking men.

"Listen," said the man, "I want to ask you something."

He held up Mikey's wallet, and with the other hand produced something he'd found there --- a small picture of Mikey and Sally, standing in front of a bowling alley a few years before.

"There's nothing on the back, and it's just so touching, I had to inquire. Who's the woman standing next to you?"

*Oh my dear God. Lie! Lie!* "Just a friend."

"Really. You two must be close --- there's about ten pictures of you with this so-called friend." He leaned in. "Stop b.s.ing me, Mikey. Who is she? Your girlfriend? Your whore? What?"

Mikey just glared at him, and then realized the man already knew. Feeling his own hand, he sensed something was missing --- his wedding ring was gone.

"What are you toying with me for? You know who she is. And I swear to God, if you do anything to her, I'll …"

The others were starting to get closer.

"You'll what, Mikey?" asked the first man. "Besides, you can't do anything. You really shouldn't leave your drivers' license where people can see it. Got your address. Got your wife. They're pickin' her up right now."

"You can't! That's impossible! She's gone!"

"Horseshit. We traced a call to your apartment made not 20 minutes ago."

He was stunned. Sally hadn't left? Sally had deliberately gone against his advice? What was she, crazy?

"But don't worry, Mikey. We won't kill her. We just need her here as insurance."

"Insurance? Of what?"

"That you'll fetch that shipment back for us."

"I don't even know where the shipment ended up!"

The guy slugged him. "Don't play stupid. You'd better know where it ended up by the time your wife gets here, or else."

The Riv was just pulling up to the small apartment building. Fraser got out of the back and squinted up at the Demetrius apartment, on the third floor. Ray shut the door and they all started to cross the street, when a loud piercing scream broke out from the apartment, and something crashed. Fraser broke ahead of the others and ran into the building.

Stan and Ray drew their guns and followed. All three of them pounded up the steps, just in time to be met by three large guys and a screaming, grey-haired woman in a yellow house dress.

"Let the lady go!" Ray hollered at them.

One of the guys whacked the gun out of Ray's hand. Ray ducked and tried to rush him, but it didn't work. Instead, the guy grabbed Ray by the lapel and gave him a hard shove --- he went tumbling down the stairs, finally landing at the bottom in an unconscious heap.

"Ray!" Fraser yelled.

He'd been hiding in a shadow to the right of the perpetrators, and his yell scared them enough that they let their guard down for a second. Fraser walloped the one nearest him with a crackling face jab, and Sally elbowed the guy next to her in the groin. Sally's guy went down like a brick. Stan trained his gun on both him and the guy who'd knocked Ray down the stairs, while Fraser got into a fist-fight with the third man. Fortunately for Fraser, although the guy was very large, he was slow and clumsy. The Mountie finished him off with a few more solid whacks, and then turned to Sally.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he said.

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. May I escort you down the stairs?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, still a bit dazed from the whole thing. "Who the hell are you?"

"Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Watch your step."

He guided her around the man she'd damaged, and down the steps.

"Stan, you have this?"

"Yeah," the blonde replied, still with his gun on the first guy. "So. Yeh have a choice, my friend. Yeh can either tell me exactly where you punks were going to take her, or yeh can bite a bullet. What's it gonna be?"

The doctors were swarming around the little body like an efficient troop of ants. People were calling for medications, i.v. lines, blood, and yelling all sorts of things that made no sense to Bernie. She, Maude, and Meg waited outside the curtain as they worked on Chloe. The same thing was having to be done for some other children, since Meg had informed the doctors what was in them. The doctors seemed to know what to do for treatment, though --- that was all anybody could hope for.

Finally, after two agonizing minutes of resuscitation efforts, the EKG showed a rhythm, the frantic activity behind the curtain seemed to slow down, and a doctor came out to talk to them.

"Well?" Meg said.

"Well," the doctor said, "it seems that a bit of the drug leaked into her bloodstream, and it momentarily stopped her heart. At the moment, it doesn't look like there will be any brain damage, but we've put her on special medications to help her body flush itself out, as it were. She's also on an EKG to monitor her heart rate, and at the moment, she is breathing with assistance."

"With assistance?" asked Bernie. "Why can't she breathe on her own?"

"Because it takes a while for the body to start its processes again after a trauma like this. She'll need a little while. And she's not conscious yet. When she wakes up, you can go back in and see her."

"Thank you," Maude said.

"You're welcome. Excuse me."

The three of them stood there in the hall. Maude held Bernie, who had begun to cry out of relief. A few tears slipped down Meg's face as well, and her phone rang.

"Excuse me, girls," she said.

They nodded as she went down the hall to take it.

"Yes?" she said. "Oh, Fraser! What's going on? … Oh, dear. … Right. I'll call Welsh. You just make sure she gets there. Right then, over and out."

She came back over to Maude and Bernie, who both looked puzzled.

"We're going to clear you, Bernie," Meg said, and smiled. "We're going to catch the bastards who are responsible for this."

She walked out briskly, swinging her jacket on over her blouse, and dialed Lt. Welsh.

Ray stood up slowly, with Fraser and Sally's help. His lip was bleeding, and a bruise on his face had begun to swell. Very slowly, he put a hand to his side and winced. All three of them looked out at the street, where Stan was piling the handcuffed guys into a car, grabbing the keys, locking them in, and calling for back-up.

"Ray, are you all right?"

"Does it look like I'm all right?" he muttered.

" … Not really, no."

"Then what do you think?"

"Sorry. … Do you want me to drive your car?"

"NO! Thanks. I'll do it. I've see the way you drive, Benny. It ain't pretty. Stan knows where they were going to take her?"

"Yes. And I think he's just wrapping those three up."

Fraser watched as Stan patted the car, grinning, and scanned up and down the street before giving a thumbs-up.

"That's our cue. Let's go. Sally, would you help me?"

"Sure."

They each got one of Ray's arms over their shoulders and helped him limp across the street to the car. Stan opened the door, and Fraser got Ray into the back.

"Hey, wait a minute! I thought I was driving!" Ray protested. "And no way are you taking my wheel!" he yelled at Stan, who stuck his tongue out in response.

"You're injured. You can barely walk --- you can't operate a car properly," Fraser said as he climbed into the back with Ray.

Stan and Sally looked at each other. Sally took one good look at Stan, with his "experimental" hair and slightly crazy grin, and raised an eyebrow. His smile disappeared immediately as she grabbed the keys. She motioned him towards the passengers' side, and took the wheel. They burned rubber and shot off for the warehouse district on the docks. A dark blue car followed them, but since Sally wasn't really looking in the rear-view mirror, she didn't point it out to anybody.

*Hang on, Mikey. I'm coming.*

"Come on, Turnbull! Let's go!"

"Yes sir!"

Turnbull revved the engine on the consulate car, and they sped off for the docks.

Two squad cars left the 27^th.

Chloe opened her eyes.

At first, everything was blurry, but then the bedclothes came into focus, and beyond them the faded curtains. She looked to her left and saw blinking lights and flashes on a monitor. She looked to her right and saw an i.v. pole, with a bag hanging on it. The buzzing of the machines was almost silent, and she was quite alone. Her throat was itchy, but when she tried to swallow, it wouldn't work. She felt her lips around the plastic tube and the tape on her face, and the breath rushing in and out of her lungs without her doing anything. Something had gone very wrong, and no one was with her.

Where was Miss Tambarelli? And Mrs. Butko? And the Mountie Lady? Didn't they like her anymore? Is that why no one was there? A tear dribbled down her face. This stabbing loneliness was familiar. It was a rush that was powerful and sad, like the burly social worker who'd led her down the halls at St. Anne's for the first time, when she was two years old. She didn't even remember her mother and father.

She began to cry in earnest now, as alone now as she was then, and scared to death. Had Miss Tambarelli died too? Is that why she wasn't coming back?

She began to cry so hard that she hiccuped and accidentally bucked the ventilator. It jolted her and gave a nasty squeaking noise that attracted footsteps. A doctor opened the curtain and saw she was awake.

"Hello, dear," the woman said. "There's nothing to worry about. You have a tube down your throat helping you breathe. Let me examine you, and then we'll see what we can do about getting it out, okay?"

Chloe nodded.

"I can't believe this. I'm delivering myself," Sally commented.

"And you're doing an excellent job, ma'am," Fraser reassured her, grunting a little, as Ray had just passed out and was now flopping against him limply. "Just keep driving --- we're almost there."

"Hey, look! There's Thatcher and Turnbull! And Welsh and the boys!" Stan said excitedly, pointing out his window as they neared the warehouse.

They parked. Fraser immediately got out, laid Ray across the back seat, and took his pulse. It was quite low. Stan came around for a look.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I'm worried about him," Fraser replied. "He passed out. I think it's shock, but it doesn't look that serious. Besides, we can't call an ambulance and risk the lights and sirens frightening everyone away. Sally?"

Sally was getting ready to leave, but stopped. "Yeah?"

"Come here, please. I need you to unlock the trunk, get me a blanket, and then stand right where you are. I don't want you going in."

"Fair enough, but you have to promise me one thing," she said, digging out an old afghan from the trunk.

"And that is?" Fraser asked, throwing the blanket over Ray.

"That you believe me when I tell you Mikey is a good guy. He just makes deliveries. He's never killed anybody or anything. I don't want him getting hurt. That's why I made that call."

Fraser smiled a little. "Understood, ma'am."

Thatcher hurried through the gathering darkness to his side. "Fraser? What's the situation? Are they in there?"

"We think so. Has Welsh gotten any surveillance on them yet?"

"I don't know. Where is he?"

"They're parked over there, in the shadows, and…" Fraser stopped short, squinting beyond Thatcher.

"What?"

"Don't look. There's another car parked next to yours. The driver is wearing sunglasses, and he appears to be talking to himself."

"Either that, or there's someone else in the back seat."

"Wait a minute. I recognize him. It's Richards. FBI."

"What the hell are they doing here?"

"Looking to take credit, most likely."

Thatcher's lips twisted into a sinister grin. "How rude. We'll just have to show them off the premises."

"Indeed."

"What the hell is taking so long?" the man grumbled.

He was tired of hitting Mikey, as it was very much like hitting a bag of wet cement. This particular bag of wet cement wouldn't even groan or cry anymore, as it was unconscious.

"I don't like this," said one of the men. "It's too quiet out there for six o'clock. And why hasn't Carlyle called yet? This should've been over hours ago."

The others started grumbling assent.

"I'm gonna go check it out," the first man said.

He cocked his gun and made to unlock the door.

Huey and Duey, who had been waiting on a rooftop not far away, radioed down to everyone else, "There's about ten people in there! And someone's gonna come out!"

"Evasive maneuvers!" Welsh hissed, and everyone scattered, hiding behind cars and around corners, as they had no idea how many people would leave the building at once.

Fraser half-dragged Sally to a large dumpster, and they both crawled behind it.

The man stepped out into the open. The area was still very quiet. He walked straight over to the Riv. Beyond it, Fraser and Sally were deadly quiet behind their dumpster, listening to his footsteps. The man paused at Ray's 1974 Buick Riviera and leaned in. Fraser took a quick peek out from behind the dumpster, saw him do this, and then retreated, pressing his back up against the wall, and praying he didn't see Ray for who he really was.

The man, meanwhile, looked through the window, and saw Ray asleep on the seat, covered up to the neck in the blanket and breathing slowly. At first, he just looked like a guy, taking a nap in his car. But then, it dawned on the man. Why nap here? Why now? Did this guy know something? Very slowly, he turned and looked in at the rest of the car. His head cocked at a very bizarre sight: a revolving light on the dashboard, currently off, and a Stetson next to it.

Fraser, who had been watching, nervously felt his head. It was bare. *I can't believe it --- the one time I leave my damn hat in the car…*

"Oh dear," he mumbled.

The man spun around, taking in the empty space.

"Come out, whoever you are!" he hollered. "I swear, you better move your asses and get out here, or I'll shoot the cop!"

Thatcher and Welsh, who were hiding together, looked at each other. Stan, who was hiding behind a corner, looked unsure of what to do. He put on his glasses and raised his gun, but couldn't get off a clear shot --- Turnbull was in the way, damn him. *Stupid Mountie! Now what?*

"You have till the count of three to start moving! 1!"

"Stay here," Fraser hissed at Sally, and started to creep toward the man on hands and knees. He was coming up behind the man, as the dumpster was nearer to the warehouse than the Riv.

"2!"

Fraser jumped up and put on a burst of speed, pulling a bony fist back like a piston.

"3?"

*WHACK!*

The guy was unfortunate enough to turn around just as Fraser punched, and got a real face-full. The gun went flying and skidded to a halt, right in front of Turnbull's hiding place. He crept out, grabbed it, and stood up beside the car. The sun was down now; it was safe to come out a bit. The man went down on the cement, bleeding, and Fraser was on him in the blink of an eye. He threw him over on his front and pinned his arms behind him as Stan came running over with cuffs.

Thatcher, Welsh, Huey and Duey all came out as well, but before Welsh could stop Thatcher, she'd grabbed the gun from Turnbull and was running, livid, for the dark blue car.

She didn't make it. Agent Richardson jumped out of the door and pointed his own gun at her. She didn't lower her weapon.

"What are you assholes doing here?" she growled. "This is our investigation."

"Following you. We came to help out," Richardson said amicably.

"Get out of here. This is a Canadian crime. We have jurisdiction. You don't."

"You don't know this is a Canadian crime."

"Yeah, well who cares? I didn't see any of you doing a lick of work. This isn't a group project, boys. You ain't getting the credit just because Fraser invited you. We found these people. Now beat it."

Suddenly, there was an arm around her, large and threatening to break her ribs, and cold metal pressed up against her neck. Richards' eyes grew very wide, and there were the sounds of a lot of scuffling behind her and men yelling.

"Back off," said a deep, oily voice, "or I'll kill her."

She was losing the feeling in her arm, and had no choice but to drop the gun. Richards had no choice, either. The instant he dropped his weapon, a large man had appeared behind him and grabbed him as well. Thatcher couldn't look at who'd grabbed her, and was steered uncomfortably into the warehouse, where she was shoved down next to Stan, Welsh, Huey, Duey, Turnbull, Richards, and even poor Ray, who really looked like he'd been through the mill. He could barely focus his eyes, and Stan, who himself had a cut lip and torn shirt from the fight, was supporting him. They were surrounded by people aiming their weapons at them, but she did her best to ignore them.

"What happened?" she hissed at Stan, motioning at Ray.

"Got thrown down a flight of stairs when we went to pick up…"

"Shh!" she said, and clamped a hand over his mouth.

He looked around and caught on. He nodded, and she released her hand.

"She's awake now. You can go see her."

"Oh, great. That's great. C'mon, Maude, let's go."

"Huh? Wha ---?"

Bernie prodded Maude awake, and they both got up.

Sally was still breathing hard. The tumult around her had been awful --- people pounding out of the warehouse, and having fist fights with the cops. And the Mountie. *Where the hell's the Mountie?* she wondered. The area was silent once again, so she stood up and had a peek. She put a hand to her mouth at the sight of the car she'd just driven --- the back door was open, and the afghan was spilling out onto the ground, like a gooey, purple river. There was no sign of anybody.

She walked out into the open, feeling quite bewildered and out of place in her yellow house-dress and low-slung shoes. She was freezing, too. She pulled the afghan around herself and saw something silvery in the moonlight --- a gun. She walked over and picked it up. It was loaded. She looked at it in wonder, and cocked it before going over to the squad car and glancing at the warehouse. Something crazy was churning inside her. Mikey was in there. Everyone who was trying to help was in there. And she was out here.

Not good. Really not good. She opened the squad car and found something on a seat --- a bullet-proof vest. She was just picking it up, ready to do something drastic, when the voice sounded next to her. She almost screamed.

"I don't think that's a good idea, ma'am," it said.

Once her arrythmia had subsided, she turned and looked. Fraser smiled at her. He had a black eye from the tussle. His nose was bleeding and his uniform was ripped, but at least he was with her --- she wasn't alone anymore.

"Oh, Constable, you scared me to death. Thank God you're here. Are we it?"

"Looks that way."

"Oh, no. What are we going to do?"

"Well first, I suggest that you do something for me."

"What?"

"Put that gun down. The way you're holding it, if it fires accidentally, it'll blow your foot off."

She put the gun down. "All right, now what?"

"Well, there's two of us, and about twenty of them. That's ten to one odds, and…" He looked over past the consulate car. The dark blue car was gone. "Yes, it seems that the FBI has skivvied off. They've left Richards to die. It's definitely just you and me."

They were silent for a bit.

"However, I did get up on Huey's roof over there, and I saw through the windows that everyone is being held on the side of the warehouse nearest us. If we could just create a diversion, it might give everyone else a chance to do something."

Sally nodded, and then nervously felt in her pocket. She pulled out her hand. The moonlight made Ray's car keys glitter in her palm.

"I have an idea," she said finally, and pulled on the bullet-proof vest over her dress.

"Me too," Fraser said, understanding. "But you'd better allow me --- I think I stand more of a chance of living through an explanation to Ray than you do."

She nodded and handed him the keys as they went for the Riv. Fraser climbed into the drivers' seat and stared in surprise as Sally got in the passenger side. She stared back defiantly, and he didn't argue. Instead, he quietly radioed Elaine for back-up and an ambulance, then started the engine.

"What the hell was that?" said one of the men, hearing a grinding noise outside.

"I don't know," answered another. "Damn him! Why isn't he calling?! We need orders, otherwise I'm just gonna shoot everybody!"

"Everybody" backed away. Their guns had been taken from them. Thatcher was at the back of the group, and bumped into a sack, one of many that was lining the walls. She wasn't sure what was in it, so she felt in her pants pocket for something. Slowly and carefully, she withdrew her Swiss army knife, jacked out the blade, and plunged it into the sack behind her. She made a small rip, and took out a little handful of something. It coated her fingers. She was as well-trained as Fraser, so she sniffed it carefully. It smelled almost bready. She tasted it. *Flour?* She tasted it again. *It really is. Hmm. This would make a hell of a diversion.*

Two hundred paces away from the other end of the warehouse, the Riv was stopped, facing the set of double doors that led into the warehouse. Night had come, and Fraser turned on the headlights. He looked at Sally, who was white to the lips, holding the sides of her seat. They both looked at each other. He looked dreadful, with his bruised, bloodied face and tattered uniform, and she just looked ridiculous, wearing a bullet-proof vest over a yellow house-dress. Ray's sunglasses were resting on the dashboard, and Sally sighed, picked them up, and put them on, even though there was no sun. Fraser couldn't help but crack a smile.

"C'mon, honey," Sally said, smiling herself. "Crank that engine, and let's get these bastards where they LIVE!"

"Yes ma'am!"

Fraser gunned the engine, and they made straight for the doors with loud roar and the speed of a cannonball.

"HOLD ON!!"

…

*WHAM!*

Sally screamed as they crashed right through the doors and into several flour sacks, grinding them up under the wheels and sending flour flying everywhere before Fraser skidded the car to a halt. The flour was a perfect smoke-screen as they got out of the car and ran for opposite sides of the room. The guys who'd been looking at their prisoners coughed a lot, fanned the air, and turned to see what had happened. Thatcher took the opportunity to turn around and rip her sack open. Welsh spotted what she was doing, and she and all the men around her helped themselves to handfuls of flour. By the time their captors had turned around in wonder, everybody was armed.

It was an instant war zone. Bullets zinged at the cornered police officers, and the air was thick with balls of flour flying every which way. The dust was so thick that no one could see where they were shooting --- miraculously, though, no one got seriously hit. One of their captors tried to fire, but Meg proved once again why she was such a good softball pitcher and hit him right between the eyes. He fell back with a scream, trying to wipe his face off, and blindly stumbled over one of his friends. They both went down in a heap. Turnbull swept up an armful and pelted somebody else with it --- his target dropped to his knees, hacking and trying to clear the air.

Finally, there was more coughing than shooting going on. It seemed that everyone was out of bullets, but nobody was out of flour. Thatcher raised a battle cry and the officers attacked anew, hurling the white dust and trying to force their targets to surrender by jumping on them, ripping their guns away, and clobbering them when they were down. Unfair, perhaps, but necessary.

Richards, however, found a gun. It had one round left. He was shaking like mad --- this entire operation had become a disaster, and not only that, his suit was dirty. Shaken by being alone with a bunch of cops in a place he had no business being in, he took out the gun, and fired it off blindly. He didn't care who he hit anymore --- he just wanted out. But right after he shot, he heard a soft yell. *Omigod. Now you've done it, you knucklehead! You've hit somebody! Get out!* He stepped back in a panic, accidentally putting his foot on Ray, who moaned and came around. Stan shoved Richards out of the way and creamed somebody else with a lump of flour before getting his Ray behind a crate.

"Wh-Where's Mikey?" Ray gasped, and then passed out.

Mikey. Stan had forgotten all about him. The flour was thick in the air by now, and he coughed and looked around, through the haze of white dust and headlights, his head pounding with the sirens and lights of the in-coming back-up. Finally, he spotted a dark shape on the other side of the room. Part of it was moving, but the rest of it was very still, and it was emitting strangled cries.

Fraser came out of his corner with a yell and rushed the only guy who was still without a "sparring partner." They both hit the floor, and Fraser turned him over --- it was the man who had threatened to shoot Ray in the car. He was livid at being tackled, but that was nothing to how Fraser felt. And with the blood streaming down his face and his shirt ripped to reveal just enough of his powerful torso, he was quite a sight. The man yelled and tried to punch him, but Fraser dodged the blow and landed one solidly on his opponent's face. The punch exploded on the other man's nose.

Thatcher was still flinging wad after wad of flour at their attackers, and Welsh hopped through the fray swinging wildly, unable to see through the dust. He accidentally knocked Turnbull out. Huey and Duey tackled a particularly large man together, and Stan started to get up to see what the dark shape was when the back-up suddenly burst in, yelling, waving flashlights, and firing their pistols into the air. The scare tactic did the trick --- the criminals assumed that there were more people there than there actually were, and finally surrendered. The others who weren't in uniform took out handcuffs and in minutes everyone was rounded up.

Things quieted down pretty quickly after that. The twenty sulky criminals were led away by most of their former prisoners, most of whom were wearing small smirks under their caking of flour.

Fraser came over to Stan, who was now coughing a lot, bent almost double. A few paramedics approached with a stretcher, and got Ray onto it. Fraser offered an arm to Stan, but the blond detective waved him off, still hacking. They walked past the twisted wreckage of the Riv and out the doors. Outside the warehouse, it was freezing, especially with the wind blowing at them on the docks. It was much less pleasant than the inside, even with all the gunfire. The night air had turned bitterly cold --- they could see their breath.

Fraser was happy at how everything had turned out --- they had all gotten their men, even though no one had escaped unscathed. Meg was refusing medical attention for a minor bleed in her shoulder. Instead, she was bending over an unconscious Turnbull, who was propped up against a car, looking like a pose-able Mountie mannequin. She was slapping his face, and he was slowly coming around. Welsh was sitting in the back of an ambulance, pressing ice to a black eye. Huey and Duey were having minor facial injuries swabbed with alcohol. Richards was nowhere to be seen. *Well, at least the FBI won't be taking credit for this one.* As the paramedics loaded Ray into a van, Stan climbed in after him, and hollered a question at Fraser over the noise of everyone loading perpetrators and being treated.

"Hey Fraze! *cough* Where's Sally?"

*Omigod!* "I don't know!" he said, feeling horribly irresponsible all of a sudden as his heart dropped into his stomach. What if she had been … "I'm going back for her! Tell the paramedics to wait, just in case!"

"*cough* All right!" Stan yelled back, and held the ambulance.

Fraser raced back into the warehouse. The flour haze was clearing, but he still had to fan the air with his hands to get a good look around.

"Sally?!" he called out.

"Over here! Oh my God! Constable, do something!"

Fraser ran in the direction of her quavering voice, tripped over a flour sack and slid a few feet on the floor before finding her. Ray's sunglasses were perched on top of her gray hair. She was kneeling on the floor and crying, holding the head of a grizzled, beaten man in her lap. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was very still. His shirt was covered in blood, so much that it was spilling off of him everywhere, and very fast. Fraser moved to Sally's side and tried to take a pulse. He remained there for a long moment, trying to find it. When he finally did, it was extremely weak. The puddle of blood was so enormous, that it had spread all the way under Mikey's body and was washing around Sally's legs. Fraser felt the skin he was pressing turn slightly cold.

Finally, he sat back on his haunches. Sally sniffed, still holding Mikey's head up.

"Somebody shot him, didn't they?" she asked meekly.

All Fraser could do was blink and nod.

"But I think he was unconscious before he was hit," she continued, trying to remain calm. "He probably didn't feel it much, did he? 'Ya think?"

Fraser looked at her blankly, trying to force his face into a mask of protective authority, but it wasn't working that well. "No, he probably didn't feel a thing." *I can't believe I just lied to her.*

"It's okay, baby," she said quietly, as her husband gasped for breath. "I'm here. … I'm here." She smoothed his forehead and then looked at Fraser, her eyes shining. "Constable?"

"I don't think there's anything we can do, ma'am. He's lost so much blood already … Even if the paramedics manage to revive him, there could be permanent brain damage. I'm so sorry," he said.

She couldn't take it in, and looked at him wildly. "Please. Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do!"

"Well, you have to make a choice," Fraser said sadly. "Do you want him to die here or at the hospital, Sally?" he asked gently.

There was a long pause before she finally croaked, "Hospital? Ha! We haven't got insurance, anyway. … We could never afford it. … Oh, God! WHY?!"

She broke down sobbing violently, and kissed her husband passionately on the cheek as he breathed his last and went dead limp in her arms. She cried and shook as she lowered him to the floor.

"You were such a moron!" she shrieked, her fingers curled almost into fists. "You risked your life so we could get out of this town! Why, Mikey? Why did you do it? What were you trying to prove?"

There was a crazy sort of sadness in her eyes as she tried to wipe off her wet face. It looked as though she was expecting him to answer her, even though a team of paramedics was approaching with a black body bag. Fraser held them off with a hand.

"I swear, honey. I swear on everything you believed in, I'll go. I'll go to Florida for both of us. I know you wanted that. I owe you that. … God, I owe you so much. … I love you. I love you!"

She threw her arms around his cold neck and kissed him again. Fraser came around behind her and helped her up. He put an arm around her and kept her turned away from the paramedics. She clung to him, completely spent, weeping uncontrollably and unashamed of it, her hair covered in flour, her dress drenched in blood. Slowly, he led her away.

"Hey, sweetie," Bernie said.

Chloe smiled as she and Maude came in through the curtains.

"How are you feeling?"

"A little better."

"That's good. I'm glad."

Maude whispered in Bernie's ear, "I know this is inopportune, but I have to go to the ladies' room. You stay with her."

Bernie nodded as she left, and sat down on the side of Chloe's bed. The little girl and the woman looked at each other, each a bit unsure of what to do. They were teacher and student, nothing more. And yet…

"Miss Tambarelli, do you still like me?" Chloe asked.

"Of course I still like you! What kind of silly question is that?" Bernie said, laughing a little.

"Then why weren't you here when I woke up?"

"That's not my fault --- the doctors wouldn't let us in. I wanted to be here, I really did," she said, searching the girl's eyes.

Her fingers were itching to do it, her arms practically shaking. The impulse was irresistible. She picked Chloe up and held her tight. To her surprise, Chloe held her back.

"You scared me to death, honey," she said, and a tear dribbled down her face as Chloe gave a little heave, and rested her chin on her shoulder. "Did your mother ever hold you this way?" she asked, suddenly feeling foolish.

"I wouldn't know," Chloe replied. "Just keep doing it."

Bernie felt the shoulder of her blouse get damp.

The emergency room on the north end of town had a busy night. Most of the officers had minor injuries --- Welsh, Huey, Duey, and Turnbull were the least hurt.

Stan was still coughing a lot though, and after a doctor examined him, he was quite annoyed and embarrassed at the diagnosis. He had to lie down on a bed and be treated with a breathing mask for flour inhalation. *Who the hell ever heard of flour inhalation?* he thought angrily.

Inspector Thatcher was being treated for her wound, where a bullet had grazed her right arm. She sat silently and let herself be examined only on the condition that she got to watch Fraser being treated, to "make sure he didn't try and escape." They both kept their eyes on each other throughout the whole thing, and finally Fraser cracked a smile, watching Meg. She smiled back. They had survived.

Ray, however, was in pretty serious condition. It turned out the fall down the stairs had broken several ribs and caused some minor internal bleeding, which had only worsened when he was dragged out of the car into the warehouse, and reached its peak when Richards stepped on him. His face was still bruised up, and it turned out that his ankle was broken as well.

Everybody convened in the lobby, preparing to see him. It was around midnight, and the nurse at the registration desk had informed them that the initial treatment, surgery and bone-setting were all over and that the detective was resting comfortably. They all looked quite a sight with their battle scars, and were unsure of who should go in and talk to Ray.

Fraser was still a tad dazed from the whole affair, and not really paying attention. His thoughts were with Sally, who was in an examination room being treated for shock. He didn't even have all of his clothes on. His undershirt and jacket were completely gone, ripped to hell from the scuffles --- he wore a scrub shirt instead. Meanwhile, all the cops were discussing the case, and what measures were to be taken with the perps in order to find Carlyle.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" said Welsh. "Who's gonna tell Vecchio about the car?"

There was a sudden silence, broken only by muttered curse words, as Fraser took in the question.

"Um, I will, sir," he said. "I was the one driving it."

"Oh, crap!" Huey said. "Man, Vecchio's gonna rip you apart! What is this, like the fourth one you've totalled?"

"Nice knowin' 'ya, Fraser," Duey said, and had the gall to extend a hand for a last shake.

Fraser looked keenly at them both. He was very tired, and it showed. Thatcher noticed. *Was that a glare? An actual glare?* She smiled at him.

"I'll go in with you, Fraser," she said.

He turned, surprised. "Thank you, sir."

She nodded, and they set off down the hall, the others trailing behind them, just to see what would happen.

Maude came back through the curtain to find Bernie and Chloe still in an embrace. She coughed, and both of them looked up and immediately broke apart.

"Hi girls," she said. "Listen, Bernie, I took a call for you at the desk. It seems that uh, Fraser, and Meg, and their cop friends found some guys who were responsible for you-know-what. They just arrested them."

Bernie stared with her mouth open.

"You're clear, honey."

"I'm clear," she repeated, and then turned to Chloe, who was utterly baffled. "I'm clear, did you hear that? I'm clear! They can prove it! Everything'll be okay!"

She threw her arms around the little girl again, who returned it, but patted her teacher a little nervously. She still had no idea what Bernie was talking about.

"Ray?" Fraser asked cautiously.

The man in the bed moaned a little before opening his eyes all the way. He had to blink a bit before everything was in focus. His left leg was elevated and in a cast from knee to toe, and he stared at the Mountie with glazed eyes.

"Fraser?" he finally said.

"Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Pretty crappy. You?"

"Um, well, all right, I suppose." Thatcher nudged him. "I mean, I --- I feel pretty bad as well."

"How so?"

"Well…" Fraser took a breath. "RayIslammedthecarintoawarehouseandnowthehoodlookslikeaconcertina," he said.

"What?" Ray said, coming around a little more. "Could you say that more slowly?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said Fraser. Thatcher smacked him. "Apparently I can. *ahem* Ray, I slammed the car into a warehouse and now the hood looks like a concertina."

He finished with a hopeful, pearly smile, half-praying that Ray was on too much pain medication to make sense of anything.

Everybody outside heard the reply loud and clear.

"You WHAT? You CRASHED my CAR? You IDIOT!"

"Well, that was pretty tame," Duey said, slightly disappointed.

Everyone else shushed him and kept listening.

"Now Ray, please! Calm down! Allow me to explain!"

"Oh, no! Not this time! You are not doing any explaining! Did I not tell you that you were NOT to drive my car? Huh?"

"Yes, but…"

"Did I not tell you that?"

"Yes, however…"

"THEN WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING DRIVING IT?!" Ray sounded as though he'd hit the roof, he was yelling so loudly.

"Well, I wasn't really driving it, Ray!" Fraser replied, quite loud and flustered himself. "You see, I put my foot on the accelerator for the sole purpose of smashing it into the building!"

There was a pause, and a loud beeping noise was getting faster and faster inside the room.

"Oh, dear."

"DAAAAAAH! I can't believe you!" Ray exploded.

Then finally, his breath gave out on him and he had to stop talking for a while. He slumped against the pillows in pain from talking, and everything was quiet for a moment as both of them caught their breath.

"How much is the damage?" Ray asked, finally calming down.

"Plenty, but not to worry. I'm taking it to your mechanic, and I'm paying for it myself." He looked at the inspector. "It's coming out of my salary, now that I think of it." She nodded. He turned back to Ray. "Actually, considering it was used as a battering ram, the damage isn't that bad."

Ray sighed in frustration. "What happened?"

"Well, the hood got crumpled, a few radiator hoses blew, and the fuel line might have cracked a bit. I'm not sure. But rest assured, it's at the mechanic's as we speak, and you'll have it back in about seven days. Good as new."

Ray glared at him. "And what the hell am I supposed to do for seven days? You ruined my only means of transportation!" he said shrilly.

"Where were you planning on going?" Fraser answered just as shrilly, taking Ray by surprise and causing the inspector to giggle. "For heaven's sake, man, take a look at yourself!"

The cop sighed again. "When can I get outta here?"

"Tomorrow morning," Thatcher said. "And we'll get someone to give you a lift home. You're in no condition to be going anywhere; Fraser's right."

Fraser went slightly red at the inspector's show of support. "Well, have a good night's rest, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"All right, Benny. And thanks."

"For what?" Fraser asked as he and Thatcher neared the door.

"For coming clean," Ray said, with a bit of a grin.

"Goodnight, Ray," Fraser said, grinning back, and walked out with Thatcher.

The next day, the news about what was in Bernie's cookies was spreading like wildfire --- but the other side of the story, the tale of the terrifying accident that caused the whole mess and the caught perpetrators, quenched the rumors of her guilt immediately. In the weeks that followed, however, Bernie decided to hold off on her baking, anyway. She handed over all the left-over "sugar" to the police and spent very little time in the kitchen.

She had more important things to do, like painting an enchanted forest on the walls of an empty room in her apartment. It was certain to make her new roommate very happy. The carved wooden bedstead and toy chest would look nice, too. They still had to sign the adoption papers to make it official, but the two parties involved didn't care about the paperwork. Each truly wanted to be with the other. Bernie smiled as she painted, remembering Chloe's ecstatic grin and head-nod when she'd asked the little girl if she wanted to have her as her guardian. Chloe was practically jumping up and down. She was thrilled to be able to move out of St. Anne's and into someone's life.

*Don't worry, Papa. I'll raise her right, and I'll make sure her life is sweet, because I'll teach her how to make cantucci.*

Ray meanwhile, was welcomed home by nobody --- his mother had run off to visit her sister in the country, and had taken everyone with her. Fraser and Stan got Ray situated in the den on the pull-out sofa bed, and Meg made drinks. The two able-bodied Mounties and cop who was no longer hacking up dust arranged their schedules and made sure someone was always there, 24/7, for the first week. Fraser took the first shift that day, and Stan went out to his GTO to get back to work. Meg had to leave, as well. She was pulling on her coat with some difficulty, and wincing.

"Here, ma'am, let me get that for you," Fraser said, and helped her into it.

"Thanks," she said, and turned to look at him.

Even with that banged-up face, he was still gorgeous. She was mulling over the events of last night. He'd found time to tell her about Sally and Mikey, and what one had sacrificed for the other.

"You've done a fine job on this case, Fraser. You were very brave last night," she said, still trying to sound official.

"So were you."

They were way too close to each other, and didn't care. Fraser quickly looked at Ray in the den. He was asleep. Both of the Mounties were still running on adrenaline from the case, and now from being near each other. Fraser took her hand.

"Ma'am, I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to..."

"Oh, shut up."

They collided, lips first, and locked for a few seconds before breaking apart and turning red as tomatoes. He kissed her on the cheek.

"I'll see you when we change shifts."

"Yeah," she said, and smiled. "I'll see you later."

"Goodbye sir," he said, trying to smother a grin.

"Constable," she acknowledged with a slight up-curl of the lips, and walked down the steps to her car.

Fraser leaned against the door-frame and watched her go, his blue eyes dazzling, lit from the inside.

Sally looked out the window and was gently pressed into her seat as the plane took off. Pretty soon Chicago and the area around it had become just a bunch of rectangular green and yellow plots, a patchwork of color. The land was always so pretty in the fall --- *but Florida doesn't have snow,* she reminded herself with a smile. She reviewed the transfer statement she was working on for the bank. Everything seemed in order, and she sighed contentedly. Things were going to be better. Maybe she could take some classes and get a new job down there, or even retire.

A stewardess offered her peanuts, but she declined and began to twiddle with her wedding ring. It was peaceful and quiet in the plane, and she just wanted to look out the window, remember her husband's warm arms around her, and savor the journey.

THE END