March 16, 1998
A rhythm beat through Chicago quickly as a heart beats beneath one's
chest. Tomorrow was Saint Patrick's Day. There were many festivities
planned, especially the Great Saint Patrick's Day Parade which would
consume the whole city in a blur of stereotypical green and unrivalled
debauchery. Those of Irish descent rushed into department stores and
purchased all the green paint and gaudy, awful plastic green paraphernalia
in hopes that acting stupidly would bring them closer to a heritage left
behind so many years on the Emerald Isle.
Constable Fergus Mullally knew it all too well. He drove slowly down the main street casting an occasional glance to store owners putting up paper shamrocks on their plate-glass windows. He was patient with all the foolish ceremonies and decorum. He knew in his heart what it meant to be Irish and it didn't matter a damn how many drunken frat boys doused themselves in paint. He nudged his passenger.
"Wake up, Alex, we're nearly there."
Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds lifted his head awkwardly from the headrest. Red marks were etched on his fair skin. His otherwise perfect chestnut hair stuck up on one side and he reluctantly opened his blue eyes to the overcast light of day.
"We're not, are we?" he asked glumly. "I so want to drive through Chicago. Come on, Fergie, let's get lost."
Fergus wouldn't listen to him.
"Nah, we do that and Thatcher will have our heads."
Alexander huffed. It would be a slow, boring day.
Inspector Margaret Thatcher watered her fern and gazed idly out the window. There was nothing to do, no reports to fill out and file, no lost tourists, no curious would-be travellers, no escaped convicts, not even vacuuming in the lounge room. There was nothing to do. Oh, yes, there was Turnbull's abundant family heading this way from Saskatchewan but not even that curried her interest. A series of blond heads and profuse and wholly unbelievable UFO stories. Oh yay.
She ambled over to Fraser's desk. He was shining up his nameplate and looking for an advantageous spot on his desk to place it. Noticing she was before his desk, he stood. She motioned him to be at ease.
"So, Constable Fraser," she began steadily, "what is new?"
"Nothing, really, sir," he admitted, "I was preparing a manual for travellers to the Territories but that is not really of any interest to you."
She sat down, propped her head on her hand and paid him all the attention in the world.
"Well, it entails what trails are safe, various landmarks, animals
to notice and to avoid, like
avoiding to torment the muskox for
example, plant life, the history of the Territories, things like that."
"How absorbing," she breathed.
Thatcher's avid interest in Fraser's new book was curbed when two visiting Mounties entered the main office. The first one, a tall redhead with a freckled face, came in first. The other one was more familiar to Thatcher.
"Constable Fergus Mullally reporting, sir," the redhead saluted Thatcher.
"Constable Alexander Mackenzie Reynolds reporting, sir," Alexander raised his hand above his eyebrow in a blank expression of duty.
"At ease, Constables," she addressed the two. "I assume Sergeant Hawkings sent you?"
"Yes, sir," Fergus replied.
"Good. I'll put you to work. Dismissed."
Thatcher's sudden dismissal came as a surprise to the ardent Mounties.
"You don't want us for anything?" Alexander asked.
Thatcher neared him.
"Do you want us for anything, sir?" she corrected. "The answer is no. You are dismissed. Oh and Fraser, you may go, too."
Fraser smiled. For once in....Actually, the first time, he had been let out early. He could now spend some time with Anna, his unruly daughter.
"Thank you, sir."
She waved the men out. Placing their Stetsons on their heads, the three Mounties walked down the street on the overcast March day.
"How have you been, Alex?" Fraser asked.
"Great," he smiled back at his friend. "You?"
Fraser shrugged.
"I have not been up to anything exciting really," Fraser admitted, "I have been compiling information on the Territories for a traveller's handbook. It is nothing, really."
"I'm sure it is," Alexander answered back.
Fraser gave him a slight scowl. Fergus laughed slightly.
"He's a cheeky tosser, Benton!" Fergus exclaimed. "All Ulstermen are!"
Alexander frowned on the brawny redhead. Fergus simply laughed back. Suddenly, the wind at their backs became hurricane-force and shoved them to the ground. The windows of an Irish pub merely a few doors from the consulate blew out. Glass was sprayed everywhere. A loud baritone scream emanated from the gutted cavity of the pub. Lifting themselves up, they ran into the pub. A man cut and bleeding from the glass staggered out. Fergus put his arm around his shoulder and helped the man out. Fraser and Alexander rushed indoors to see if anyone else had been inside. Their search came up empty. Thatcher, who felt the quake of the blast, ran out of her office.
"What the hell happened?!" she cried.
"Someone tried to kill me!" the injured man cried. "They wrecked my pub!"
He grimaced in pain.
"Who?" Fraser asked.
"I don't know, somebody on the phone," he whimpered, "I just heard dial tones."
Fergus neared the pub. The glass window had been completely blown out making a fine crystal dust on the ground. Chairs and tables had been swept from their booths. Pint glasses and bottles of alcohol had been completely destroyed. Climbing over the wrecked timber, he walked up the demolished bar. Under a cranny at the far end, a briefcase, now no more than a burnt polypropylene shell, resembled a wretched flower of death. He lifted the case up. Underneath it, etched in the floor, a single hand containing two flags, one the American and the other the Union Jack, lay on a background of burnt orange with a disturbing inscription underneath- Nex Hibernibus. He stood up straight.
"The Troubles have found us," he uttered simply.
Ray stepped out of the Riv. His trenchcoat wrapped around his skinny form and the soft wind tickled his stubble.
"T'was the night before St. Patrick's Day and all through the streets, somebody's blowing the guts out of Irish bars."
"I hardly think this is a time of levity, Ray," Fraser rebuked him.
"I wasn't laughing," he came back. "What do we have here?"
Fergus approached him.
"What we have is a low-grade explosive, small enough to fit into a briefcase and powerful enough to shatter all the glass in the pub. Whoever planted it wanted simply to scare the occupant, not to cause serious damage to property and certainly not to kill anyone."
"Who are you?" Ray asked.
"This is Constable Fergus Mullally," Fraser introduced Ray to him, "from Sarnia. He spent eighteen months in the Canadian consulate in London, England and is familiar with IRA tactics. His knowledge will be useful in this investigation."
"This is an IRA bombing?" Ray asked.
"No," Fergus shook his head. "I found an etching on the floor behind the bar. It depicted a single hand on an orange background holding on to two flags, the American one and the British one. There was an inscription underneath. It read- Nex Hibernibus."
"Death to the Irish," Fraser intoned.
"Is that all?"
"No, Ray. The victim of the blast, one Patrick Conlon, said he received a call before the bomb went off. He heard four dial tones, one at a lower pitch and three at a higher one."
Fraser took Ray's cellular telephone and dialled the numbers.
"BOOM," Ray remarked.
"It is a perversion of the traditional IRA warning," Fraser explained.
"What does this mean?" Ray queried.
"I don't know," Fraser admitted.
Ray exhaled.
"That's wonderful. That's just freaking peachy. We have a low-grade bomb go off at some Irish saloon, a weird engraving in Latin, dial tones that some terrorist organization uses and two Mounties who can't figure out the connection. Great!"
"Actually, there are three," Fraser corrected, "Alex is here."
Ray went pale.
"He's not, is he?"
"Yes."
Ray slapped his head.
"What Beatles' CD has he brought this time?"
"He didn't bring any," Fergus replied, "but I do have my collection of Irish drinking songs."
Ray frowned.
"I hate Irish drinking songs."
"That's because you haven't heard the right ones," Fergus smiled.
Alexander and Huey walked up to the three men.
"Forensics is looking at the bomb fragments," Huey reported. "They won't have anything for us until tomorrow."
"So what will we do now?" Ray asked.
"To the pub!" Fergus exclaimed.
"The pub?" Fraser asked.
"Yes," Fergus affirmed. "Can a man think without beer?"
"He's right," Alexander concurred. "We all need to drink."
Ray seemed reluctant.
"Who will go drive with Fergus now?"
All of the men raised their hands. Shrugging in defeat, Ray volunteered to drive everyone to a pub.
The Ben Bulben was enduring its early evening rush. Fergus, Alexander and Ray proceeded to the bar, each nod signifying what a man would have for his pint. Only Fraser stood behind them meekly. Fergus sipped his red ale and ignited the investigation once more.
"What do you think that etching could mean? I've never seen anything like it."
"Do you think that Patrick Conlon had any enemies?" Alexander asked.
"Maybe," Ray answered, "we're looking into it now. So far, it could be just a psycho on the rampage."
"I hardly think so," Fraser joined. "The etching and the dial tones are calling cards, warnings hearkening the arrival of someone, or maybe even a group of people. These clues are too ostentatious to be construed as anything else."
"Ya think?" Ray quizzed. "I personally think that this is an act of some very unhinged individuals."
"Not unhinged, Ray. Just angry."
Fergus gulped his pint.
"This reminds me of the bomb scares in London. They want people terrified. That may be what this person or persons want."
"Precisely," Alexander concurred, "but that doesn't help us find out who they are or what they really want."
"Seeing as we don't know anything else, let's just finish our beers and get the hell out of here," Ray suggested. "If anybody from my neighbourhood sees me here, they'll think I've gone soft and that I actually like Irish people or something."
Ray bit into a slice of soda bread.
"What the hell is this stuff?"
"It's soda bread," Fergus responded, "doesn't your mother make you any?"
"Are you kidding?"
Fergus laughed.
"You Irish, Ray?"
Ray gave his bug-eyes to him.
"No way."
Fergus turned to Fraser.
"What about you, Benton?"
Fraser ate some soda bread.
"Highland Scot, actually," he revealed. "Descendant of Angus Fraser, Mad Dog of the Glens and Homicidal Maniac of the Highlands. When he wasn't beheading Frenchmen, he was degutting the English."
"That's a fine sentiment," Fergus proudly proclaimed. "What about you, Alex?"
"My father's people were Ulstermen. They left County Antrim in the early 1800's because they openly defied the English and made haste to Canada to freedom."
Ray smirked.
"You mean they stole a chicken and barfed their way over to Nova Scotia?"
Alexander frowned.
"No, they did not." He resumed his proud oration. "On my mother's side, I can boast that Alexander Mackenzie, the second prime minister, was my great-great-great grandfather."
Fraser let out a laugh.
"You can boast but not prove."
Alexander was ready to pound Fraser.
"What about you, Fergie?" Ray asked.
Fergus stared at the distant past wistfully.
"My grandfather came from Ireland when he was a baby. His father, a nationalist, had been shot during an interrogation. My grandmother left Ireland that night and never looked back. We've been in Canada ever since."
The men kept silent. They could see in Fergus' story the blood that had been spilt in Erin's violent past. Ray cast his glance on Fraser. He could see that Fraser coveted his beer.
"Would you like me to buy you one, Benny?"
Fraser shook his head defensively at first and then paused.
"Beer does make one thirsty," he breathed. "That won't be necessary."
Fraser reached over and gulped back Ray's pint. He then gulped back Fergus' and Alexander's pints. They stared at him as he wiped the creamy ale froth from his lips. He noticed their evoked attention.
"What?"
"You drank our pints!" Alexander scolded.
Fraser groaned.
"Well, excuse me! My gosh, some people are so darn snotty!"
Before Alexander could even think of hurling a chair at Fraser, Turnbull came into the Ben Bulben followed by a crowd of sunny, blond people.
"Ahoy!" he waved. "I did not expect to see you guys here."
He presented the group to the men.
"This is my family all the way over from Esterhazy. My parents, Allan and Marsha, my older brothers, Iain and Hector, my sisters, Mary-Jane, Sarah, Susie-Jean, that's Brynie and Tearlach by the Guinness keg, Aleck and little Nancy."
Fraser regarded the gap-toothed Nancy. She was a little blond version of Anna. She seemed endearing but somehow he instinctively felt he should be afraid of her.
"We're here for the UFO convention," Marsha explained, "do you watch the skies?"
Fraser shook his head.
"Sadly, no."
"That's not all we'll be doing," Turnbull confessed, "we'll be occupying ourselves with all the Hibernian activities that will rage on all week."
"They actually begin and end tomorrow," Ray corrected, "everyone
will be too drunk or hung over to continue."
"Ah!"
Allan sighed. "Thanks for the tip, partner."
The men excused themselves from the happy Turnbulls and left the pub.
"There were twelve of them and five of us," Alexander counted.
"They scare me, Alex," Ray admitted. "Be afraid. Be very, very afraid."
March 17, 1998
The sun had crept out behind the dark March clouds and the air had
become less crisp and more balmy. The good, kind, unsuspecting citizens
of Chicago lifted themselves out of bed and set out to start a new
day. This was the day of all days- Dies Sanctus Patricius, Feile Padraig,
Saint Patrick's Day.
Walsh walked out of his office proudly, his hammy arms upraised as in victory.
"Today is the Day of the Potato-Eater!"
All in that brave precinct listened to Walsh's words with enthusiasm, or mere interest, or annoyance that the Hibernians should have a day of the year in which to get drunk while everybody else on any other day would get arrested.
"Men of the Pale, unite!" Walsh cried. He walked among his men. "We few, we happy few. For he who shares his beer with me today shall be my brother, be he never so sober this day shall intoxicate his condition. And men now in England shall think themselves accursed and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks upon Saint Patrick's Day!"
The precinct roared with pride.
"That sucks!" Ray exclaimed. "Why is it that the Irish have a holiday and not the Italians? We discovered America."
"Didn't Saint Brendan discover North America?" Elaine quizzed.
"Shut up, Elaine!" Ray ordered. "I think if the potato-eaters have a day off, so should everybody else."
"Oh shut up, Ray!" Elaine returned. "You sound like an old woman."
Ray tried to ignore Elaine. His cellular telephone rang.
"Vecchio," he answered.
"Ray, it's Benton. I'm at the consulate. We believe we have the identity of the persons who attacked the pub yesterday."
"We're looking for more than one person?" Ray sounded surprised.
"Yes," Fraser affirmed, "someone has come down from Ottawa to explain the situation further. I ask that you be at the consulate in half-an-hour."
"Consider me there, Benny," Ray agreed and hung up. He grabbed his coat.
"Where are you off to?" Huey asked.
"Canada," Ray said as he walked out the door, "if I'm not back by lunchtime, send a search party."
Sergeant Nicolas Levensky strode into the consulate with an air of confidence not deserving of him. His unnaturally blond hair caught the sunlight and blinded the people across the street. He entered the consulate, his back straight, his head held high. His carriage seemed as false as his hair colour.
"Who's this fruitcake?" Ray whispered to Fraser.
"This is Sergeant Levensky," Fraser explained, "he tried to fire me that time when I blew up Alicia. I think he really appreciated it when I had my clan march played for him at three in the morning."
"Sergeant Levensky," Thatcher saluted. "We did not expect you to be this early."
"Whenever the security of our nation is at risk, my dear woman, I will be right on time to put an end to the strife."
Alexander had served himself some coffee. He chuckled to himself when he heard Levensky's cheesy pledge. The man had one for every occasion.
"Gather the men, Inspector," Levensky asked and compiled his report file.
Thatcher had everyone assembled for Levensky's lecture. He held up a sketch of the emblem Fergus had uncovered yesterday.
"This is the emblem used by a terrorist organization known as the Orangemen of America. Their main objective is keep Northern Ireland unified with Great Britain and their tactics employ the use of terrorism and the expunging of Irish culture such as it is in the New World."
Levensky held up another photograph. A man with a beard, stern and profusely
intimidating, appeared before the officers.
"This is the leader
of the organization, Jerry Winthorpe. He served in the Marines for twelve
years and was dismissed due to some "unnecessary roughness".
A month ago, this man organized a raid of the Canada-U.S. border."
The men laughed a little.
"Laugh as you may, gentlemen," Levensky scolded, "but three border guards were seriously wounded during the skirmish. Apparently, it was a front for smuggling arms out of the country. I have reason to believe that he was responsible for the explosion yesterday."
"He's now in the city?" Fergus asked.
"Yes," Levensky confirmed. "However, we have not, as of yet, received any word of him We are not sure as to why he is raiding this city."
"Maybe because he's a sad son-of-a..."
"That will be enough, Detective Vecchio!" Levensky snapped. "Our objective now should be to root him out."
Ray's cellular telephone went off. Despite Levensky's annoyance, Ray answered it. His face went pale.
"There's a bomb in the Kildare Pub just off Second," he said.
Ray got up animatedly to leave. Fraser turned to Thatcher.
"Permission to accompany him, sir?"
Thatcher, as always perplexed when he asked for anything, allowed him to go with Ray. Fergus, donning his Stetson bravely, fled out the door with Fraser and Ray.
"I think Jerry has struck again," Fergus remarked as he hopped into the Riv with Fraser and Ray.
"He's planning a city-wide bombing spree," Alexander surmised as he watched the Riv pull away.
"I'll be the judge of that!" Levensky cried. He turned to Thatcher. "I believe that madman is planning a city-wide bombing spree."
"I had no idea," Thatcher shook her head.
The telephone rang. Thatcher picked it up and answered it.
"There's a bomb in your consulate," the shadowy voice on the other end warned. "You have to find it before it goes off. You have twenty minutes. If you try to leave either through the doors or the windows the place will blow up. Happy hunting."
The voice ended its dreadful warning with a dead, blank tone. Thatcher trembled.
Alexander looked at her pale face.
"Is there something wrong, Inspector?"
"There's a bomb in this consulate. We have twenty minutes to find it."
As though struck with a hammer, Levensky quaked in terror.
"Oh my God! I have to get out of here!"
He tried to escape through the window but Thatcher pulled him back.
"If we try to leave the place will blow up! We have to find it."
"We can't find it! We don't have a prayer!" Levensky cried.
Alexander was sick of his defeatist whining. In an action that would otherwise have him court-martialled, he hit Levensky to calm him down. He faced Thatcher and Levensky.
"We can't panic. We are the bomb squad now. Everything depends on us. We'll have to split up and look for it. If you see any suspicious packages, don't touch them. If this man is as good as you say he is, Sergeant Levensky, anything we muck around with can kill us all."
Thatcher took her cellular telephone from her shoulder bag. She took another one from Turnbull's desk.
"Sergeant, you can look upstairs. I'll search the lower floors."
"I'll check the basement," he said as he grabbed a pair of pliers from a secret utility pocket in his jacket. "Happy hunting."
Levensky's hands trembled. Happy was not a word that should have been used.
Ray ran passed the yellow-ribbon barricade to the bomb squad tensely working on defusing the contraption that would destroy the Kildare Pub utterly.
"What do we have here?"
"We've got a doozy of a blaster," the head of the bomb squad chuckled. "There is the initial explosive attached to the door. Then there are a series of trip wires that lead up to the primary device which looks like a high-grade, C-4 explosive that can tear the guts out of that building, radiate a series of shockwaves that will quake the structures around it and send debris flying for miles around, probably killing all the bystanders here." He laughed. "I tell ya, there's never a dull moment in the bomb squad."
Ray gaped at him.
"How can you sleep at night?"
"Easy," he smiled, "alcohol."
Ray joined Fraser and Fergus.
"Mackie says there's an initial explosive around the door, some trip wires and big C-4 bomb in the middle."
Fergus smirked.
"Is that all?"
"Would you like Keanu Reeves to come out and spray you with champagne on a job well done?"
"Well, I was hoping Claudia Schiffer would," Fergus admitted.
"Enough of this," Fraser interrupted, "it is our job to assist the bomb squad in any way we can, Fergus."
Ray nudged Fraser.
"They're in."
Fraser became tense.
"What should we do?"
A member of the bomb squad ran up to the three men.
"Anyone here know how to diffuse a bomb? We need an extra set of hands."
Fergus removed his tunic and joined the man.
Mackie gave Fergus a vest and a pair of pliers.
"Mel was ready to cut this thing loose but, you know, his wife left him and his dog died, his mind just wasn't in it."
"Yes, I think I understand," Fergus nodded. "Show me what you want done."
Mackie pointed to the intricate maze of trip wires all over the floor.
"There's a timer on the main one. We have ten minutes."
Fergus nodded. Crouching down, he placed a wire gently between his forefinger and thumb and snipped the wire. He breathed out once. He did the same for the next wire. He was a metre before the main device. He snipped another wire. A loud beeping sound caused Fergus to jump. The timer on the main device blared out the mere seconds he had left. The wire he had just cut was a trick wire. Leaping backward, he ran out of the building screaming.
"Down!! Everybody down!! It's gonna blow!!"
The crowd screamed in terror. Some ran, others ducked and covered their heads protectively. Fergus, his head covered with his brawny arms, waited for the eardrum shattering blast of the bomb. Nothing happened. Fraser and Ray crawled to Fergus.
"Are you alright, Fergus?" Fraser asked.
Fergus nervously nodded. He chuckled. The chuckle soon poured into peals of laughter. Fraser and Ray looked at Fergus puzzledly. Rising from their secure places on the ground, Fraser and Ray walked slowly to the pub. A sudden gust of air hurled debris everywhere. Fraser lifted himself from the cement. A cut had formed on his forehead.
Fergus, in shock, scratched his head as he regarded the injured Fraser.
"Gee, I never expected that to happen."
Alexander opened the door to the basement and stepped into its dimly-lit vastness. Cobwebs hung like balls of old women's hair in the crannies. His flashlight shone into the narrowest of corners. He walked into a supplies' room. Crouching down, he peered at the bottom shelves. One cardboard box looked extremely out-of-place. It wasn't aged or damp the way the other boxes were. Sliding it out slowly from its niche, he examined it. He let out a sigh of relief. Talking the cellular telephone Thatcher had given him, he dialled her extension.
"Good news, Inspector, I've found it. In the basement."
Thatcher let out a gasp of shock.
"I would hardly call it good news, Constable."
"I would," he countered, "we have ten minutes to diffuse it. I think I can do it."
"I'll be right with you," she said.
Alexander shook his head.
"No, sir. Stay where you are."
"Nonsense, Constable. I'll join you shortly. Thatcher out."
Alexander exhaled. He could slug that woman.
Levensky searched the upper floor for the devious explosive. He opened up the cloakroom on the far end. An expulsion of violet vapour engulfed his face. He fell back unconscious.
Alexander arranged his pliers. Thatcher came into the supplies' room.
"What is it, Constable?"
"I have yet to open her, sir."
He cut away the box's face. Alexander looked at the mass of yellow wires that oozed out of it.
"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed.
Thatcher did not share his calm. She shivered.
"Is it bad?"
"As opposed to good?" Alexander fingered a solitary wire. "Whoever made this device put the wires all one separate colour. Anyone trying to diffuse would have to be extremely lucky not to blow themselves to bits."
"How lucky?" Thatcher asked nervously.
"The grace of God lucky," Alexander wiped the sweat from his
lip. "The waxed
individual must have had a diagram set out
so he wouldn't kill himself. I, on the other hand, don't have that luxury.
I'll have to guess."
Thatcher gaped at him.
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes, I do," he answered back tartly, "I've seen this a couple of times."
"A couple of times!" Thatcher echoed sarcastically.
"Would you rather do it? Would you rather have Levensky do it?"
Thatcher conceded to defeat.
"Do what you have to do- but be careful."
"I will."
Alexander slid on his back and prepared his hand.
"So where are you from, Thatcher?" Alexander asked.
"What kind of question is that?"
"If a man is convinced he will die, he'll find a way to do it, " Alexander explained, "We can't operate properly if we think we're going to die. Just work with me."
Thatcher became flaccid. Her features softened, her arms limp. She rested against the wall to brace herself against her buckling knees.
"Thunder Bay," she answered softly.
"Never been there," Alexander replied as he took a wire in his fingers, "I've been to Ottawa, though. That's close enough. I've always preferred the West, myself."
Jerking his hand with the pliers, he closed them around the wire. Thatcher held her breath.
"Pour the gin, Lydia, I'm on my way home."
Alexander cut the wire. Nothing. Pouring out a sigh of relief, Thatcher, her knees already rubber, fell against the wall.
"God must be English," she breathed.
"That's where you're wrong, Thatcher," Alexander smiled.
"No, that's where you're wrong."
Alexander and Thatcher turned around. Jerry Winthorpe pointed a Magnum at them.
"Today is the day to wear orange," he proclaimed.
Thatcher tried to strike him but he hit her with the butt of his revolver. Alexander tried to take him out.
"Not so fast, you mick Canuck hosehead. You're coming with me."
Ray gripped the steering wheel of the Riv tautly dabbing minute scratches that formed after the explosion.
"It was a set up," Fraser confirmed as he dabbed the blood from his cut.
"If that was a set-up," Ray queried, "then what is this guy planning to do next?"
Fergus rested his head on the backseat. He shot up.
"The consulate!" he cried. "Volvo!"
Ray swivelled his head around to Fergus incredulously.
"The guy was driving a Volvo?"
Fergus shook his head.
"We roll."
With that, Ray drove on.
Alexander carried Thatcher in his arms as Jerry nudged him along at gunpoint. They moved to the top floor in Thatcher's office. Levensky was already there, bound and woozy from the mist sprayed in his face.
"Put the broad down," Jerry ordered.
Alexander rested Thatcher on the floor.
"You're not going to get away with this."
Jerry cocked his gun.
"Why don't you shut up, paddy! When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you! Now on your knees next to that drivelling idiot!"
Alexander pursed his lips shut reluctantly, all the while trying to form a plan to overthrow the unhinged bigot who held him at gunpoint.
"So were the other bombings leading up to a major plan?"
Jerry seemed jittery. The astute Mountie was on to him.
"I am going to die anyway," Alexander reasoned, "you might as well tell me."
Jerry snickered.
"I guess you could say that." Jerry straddled the desk. "This Saint Patrick's Day will go off with a bang!"
Alexander went pale.
"You're planning to set off bombs during the parade!"
Jerry laughed.
"Quite brilliant, huh? Kill two birds with one stone."
Alexander scowled.
"You'll kill more than birds. Innocent people..."
Jerry pushed Alexander to the ground.
"Don't give me that moralistic crap, Mountie! You micks kill more people with your bombs and guns than I will today. And for what? For six counties that amount to nothing! For a sectarian culture that thrives on a poisoned vine!" Jerry huffed. "Pathetic!"
Alexander bit his lip.
"You're insane!"
Jerry cocked his gun and pointed it at his hostages.
"Insane, my Mountie friend, is the scourge of the Hibernian culture allowed to thrive in the Americas." Jerry waved his gun about. "I should kill now."
Levensky quickly rose to his knees. He pleaded with Jerry urgently.
"Oh, I don't think you're insane! In fact, I think you're fully competent!"
Alexander swivelled his head to him.
"Are you drunk?! The man is inciting a war!" Alexander flashed an angry look at Jerry. "A war that our ancestors left in the old world in hopes that their children would never have to see men gunned down or starving faces or the indignities of religious persecution. You're just opening old wounds."
Jerry fired his gun past their heads. Alexander and Levensky were on their knees at the mercy of the sadistic Orangeman.
"Oh God, please!" Levensky pleaded. "I don't want to die." He pointed at Alexander. "He's Irish- kill him!"
"You will all die before the day is through," Jerry promised and left the men to look out the window.
Levensky whispered to Alexander.
"Are you happy now?! You're little tirade will kill us all!"
"Look, sir," Alexander tried not to yell, "that man is insane. We must not deal with him but find a way of overpowering him and defusing those bombs before its too late. Are you agreed?"
Levensky grudgingly gave in.
"Alright then. But how?"
"I think I have a plan," Alexander uttered slyly.
Levensky grinned.
"Does it involve conking him on the head?"
Alexander became downcast.
"Not quite."
Alexander cast his glance to the cellular telephone Jerry carelessly threw on the floor.
"Sir, hand me that cell phone."
"Why?"
"Just do it, please! Quickly!"
Levensky leant over furtively to pick up the cell phone all the while
observing Jerry for the slightest movement. He clasped it in his fingers.
"Got it," he said and slid it into Alexander's waiting hand.
Alexander fiddled with a few numbers.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling for help," Alexander smiled.
Ray drove to the consulate full speed ahead, nearly running red lights. A buzzing sound in the glove compartment alerted him and he reached inside.
"Vecchio," he answered his cellular telephone.
Nothing. Annoyed, Ray disconnected the call and placed the phone away. The phone went off again. Ray answered it.
"Vecchio."
A series of beeps were emitted from the phone. Ray gaped at the phone.
"Who the hell is doing this?"
Fraser's brow furrowed. He leaned over.
"Ray, can you trace the call?"
Ray pressed a button.
"I can check the last telephone number."
Fraser nodded.
"Do that then."
Ray dialled in a code and looked at the monitor. He showed it to Fraser.
"Hey, isn't this the consulate's number?"
Fraser looked at it.
"It is." Fraser thought for a second. "Let the phone ring again and listen to what is on the other end."
The phone went off again. Fraser listened to it.
"That is an SOS call." He smiled. "Good, old Morse code!"
"Trouble?" Ray surmised.
"Precisely," Fraser confirmed.
Fraser pressed a few numbers.
"What are you doing?"
"Answering their call," Fraser replied.
Fraser's signal was answered.
"It's Alex. He and the others are being held hostage in the consulate by one man."
Ray's eyebrows were raised.
"You got all that from the phone?"
"Right, Ray."
Ray furrowed his brow.
"Okay, so the consulate's being held up. What do we do?"
"We save them," Fergus answered quite simply.
Ray scoffed and veered right en route to the consulate.
"Oh, yeah. We'll just save them. That's it. We'll just break in there because we're commandoes. Okay."
Fraser patted Ray on the shoulder.
"No," he smiled naively, "we're Mounties."
"Of course," Ray said softly, "what was I thinking?"
Alexander and Levensky waited. There was nothing more they could do at the moment. Alexander cast his gaze upon Thatcher. She was still unconscious. A pink welt shone above her right eyebrow. He looked at Jerry.
"What is your next plan?" Alexander asked.
Jerry approached Alexander and kicked him down.
"Never you mind, paddy!" Jerry looked out the window again. "The music will start soon."
Alexander picked himself up.
"We have to try to find out where the bombs are," he suggested quietly to Levensky.
"I don't think he will be any more forthcoming than what he is already," Levensky noted.
"He'll just get angry," Levensky continued. "He may even kill us. I say we wait this out. If your plan works then we have nothing to worry about."
"That's where you're wrong, sir," Alexander contradicted, "the clocks are ticking. We have to know where that bomb is."
A telephone cut off Alexander's quiet appeal. Jerry answered it.
"Are we happy?" Jerry asked to the unknown voice on the other end.
Jerry's broad grin signalled an affirmative. He put down the receiver. Jerry removed a briefcase from underneath Thatcher's desk. He opened it. Inside, a laptop was carefully tucked inside. He entered a program. A beeping sound later and Jerry turned it around.
"Know what this is?"
"Windows 95?" Levensky weakly put out.
"No," Jerry laughed. "It was the beginning of the end. The music has begun."
Jerry reached for his gun.
"I don't think I will let you stay for the party."
Jerry's hand waved over the desk. His Magnum was missing. He turned
his head slightly
left. Thatcher whacked Jerry in the back of the
head with his Magnum.
"Not so tough without your gun!"
Jerry crumpled to the floor. The music may have started but he wasn't going to hear it. With that, Thatcher collapsed in her chair, the blow to the head giving her a concussion. She looked to Alexander.
"I think I will take a trip back to Thunder Bay," she said with finality and lay her head on her desk.
Levensky stood full height.
"I'll say you've earned it, Inspector."
Thatcher didn't awake.
"Gee, I hope she's not dead," Levensky wished.
Alexander's head swivelled to Levensky at such an insensitive remark.
A series of heavy footsteps came to a thundering halt in the main office. Ray pointed his gun at the potential evildoer who may have waited to ambush him. Fraser and Fergus followed nearby.
"That gun is not of legal use in Canada!" Levensky cried to Ray.
"We may forget about it if you untie us!" Alexander offered.
Levensky agreed and Ray untied them.
Fraser inspected Thatcher. Alexander moved to her and tried to feel her pulse.
"She has a concussion," Fraser said.. "She needs medical attention."
Fergus looked down on Jerry who lay unconscious on the floor.
"What do we do with him?"
Alexander smiled.
"I have a cunning plan..."
Jerry opened his eyes slowly. Alexander and Levensky were standing about him. Two other Mounties and a thin, tall man grimaced at him.
Alexander leaned over.
"Hello, Jerry," he growled smugly. "Doesn't look like things will look up for you."
Jerry spat at him.
Ray grabbed Jerry's collar.
"You're gonna tell us where that other bomb is, Jerry, or I'll let the Canadians here get medieval on ya."
"You're an American," Jerry rasped. "Why are you collaborating with the enemy?"
" 'Cause I don't like you," Ray shot back.
"Give me five minutes with him," Levensky fingered a wrench. "I'll get him to talk."
"No," Fraser shook his head. "I thought of leaving him in the room with Anna, or handing him over to the persuasive fists of Fergus."
Fergus pounded his fist into his open palm.
"But I thought better of it," Fraser continued. He leaned over to Jerry. "I may settle this business the Highland way."
"And what is that?" Jerry spat. "A candyland thrashing? I can take that. I've been with the Marines. It doesn't scare me."
Fraser stood at full height. He turned to Ray.
"I'll need several feet of tarpaulin, medical sutures, the good, old-fashioned, nineteenth century ones, a rusty iron hook-" Fraser paused for dramatic effect, keeping his blue eyes on Jerry. "And Barbra Streisand's greatest hits."
"Alright! Alright!" Jerry cried in fear. "There's my partner, Hugh Jones...He is at the main parade. He's set the bomb under the leprechaun float. It'll go off in half an hour!"
Fraser beamed.
"I knew he'd talk!"
Ray agreed with a smile. He picked up his cellular telephone.
"Hey, Huey. Head down to the parade and look for the leprechaun float. There's a bomb on it. That's right. A bomb. Head down. We'll meet you there."
Ray disconnected the call.
"I say we finish the Chicago way."
Elaine tied her black hair back and wove through the spectators tensely.
"So this device is on the leprechaun float, huh?"
Huey nodded steadily all the while looking for the float. He got on his walkie-talkie.
"Where is the float, Howie?"
"A block away," the voice said.
Huey turned his walkie-talkie off.
"We walk."
Elaine and Huey turned back and cruised through the crowd and the blaring noise. Fraser and Alexander were on the opposite side of the street. They searched fervently for the float. Fergus and Ray sat two blocks away in the Riv.
A barrage of green papier-mache towered over the crowd. Elaine pointed to it.
"There it is!"
Elaine ran to it and leapt aboard. She peered through a small tear in the fabric under the tissue paper. A timer and wires were pasted flat against the surface.
"I found it," she called out in her headset.
Huey held onto the earpiece and nodded when he heard the news.
"We'll be right over, Elaine. Hold tight."
Elaine gulped. She waited nervously as someone approached to diffuse the bomb. She heard a rustle of paper. When she looked up she saw a furious fist pummel her way.
"Oh sh-"
The fist hit her in the head and she fell back. Fraser caught sight of the assault. Filled with righteous indignation over the maiming of the fair Elaine, Fraser rushed over.
Hugh Jones, Jerry's accomplice, pulled out his semiautomatic. Huey rushed up behind him and held his gun to his head.
"Don't even think about it!" Huey warned.
Ray ran up and pulled out his semiautomatic.
"It's over! Drop your weapon!"
Hugh surrendered and raised his arms.
Fraser picked Elaine up and brushed her off.
"You can't diffuse the bomb!" Hugh yelled.
Alexander approached the float.
"He's right. Jerry armed the thing."
Fraser pried the thing off the float.
"What are you doing?!" Ray cried.
"I'm going to end this thing!" Fraser answered.
Elaine spun her head to Fraser still nursing a bruise.
"Don't be a hero, Mountie-boy!" she pleaded.
Fraser became serious and anguished.
"It's too late."
With that, Fraser belted down the road, weaving in and out of crowds and floats to the harbour. He ran faster and faster as he saw the seconds tick away. The harbour was but a metre away. He flung the bomb from his person and into Lake Michigan.
"Oliver Cromwell, God to thee!"
Seconds later, an orange ball of flame sprung from the water. Fergus, who had followed Fraser down his desperate flight, looked at the destruction.
"Death to the Irish..." he began slowly smiling at his friend, "no more."
Evening set upon Chicago. Saint Patrick's day was slowly drawing to a close. The day that began with a scream was ending with the gulp of porter among friends. Strains of Danny Boy were heard in profusion at the Ben Bulben. It was at this fine pub that the brave officers who averted the tragedy sat at last to drink away the tension in peace.
"I hate Saint Patrick's day," Ray complained as he gulped his beer.
Huey scowled at him.
"Don't say that!"
"Why?" Ray scoffed. "You Irish?"
Huey stood proudly.
"Damn right!"
Fergus and Alexander offered their ale to one another.
"The parting glass, my friend?" Fergus asked.
"No," Alexander smiled.
They laughed and swallowed down their pints.
The door opened. Thatcher walked in slowly, unsurely, as if she were not aware of what to do. Alexander caught sight of her. He rose from his table and walked to her.
"Inspector Thatcher."
Thatcher nodded slowly.
"Is your head alright?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "A slight concussion."
Silence. It was uncomfortable but Alexander felt the impetus to get things moving.
"May I buy you a drink, sir?"
Thatcher shook her head.
"I...I can't drink anything. The medication they gave me at the hospital..."
Alexander smiled.
"Perhaps an orange juice?"
Thatcher smiled and accepted.
Fraser found that one beer was not alone to satisfy him. He pushed away the empty pint glasses. He turned to Elaine who joined him.
"You are such a squirrel..." he slurred.
"You mean fox," Elaine corrected him.
Fraser shrugged clumsily.
"Who is splitting hairs?"
Fraser could not keep his head steady. It fell to the table. Elaine rose, placed a few bills on the table and leaned over Fraser.
"Thanks, Mountie-boy," she whispered and kissed his forehead.
The Ben Bulben was shutting down for the evening. The revellers had all crawled home and the holy feast day was in its last hours. Ray, Fergus and Alexander waited. They finished off their coffees.
"Hell of a day," Ray muttered.
"I'll say," Fergus agreed. He cast his green eyes to Alexander.
"What about you and Inspector Cromwell?" he asked insinuatingly.
Alexander shot an angry glance at Fergus.
"It's Inspector Thatcher! And we were simply talking!"
Ray laughed at the little scuffle. He cast his head over the bar. He saw Fraser hunched over a table unconscious and drooling. He tiptoed over and lifted the man's head. His eyes widened and became bright.
"He is Sally MacLennan."
Alexander and Fergus caught his drift. They pitched Fraser over their shoulders.
"When Irish eyes are smiling!" they sang as they left the pub for unspeakable mischief.
Ray, Fergus and Alexander carried a tall figure with them to the waiting el-train.
"Sad to say I must be on my way, so buy me beer and whiskey 'cause I'm going far away," they belted out.
They stuffed Fraser on the el-train. Garbed in a wig of bright red curly hair, red lipstick, a green skirt and a t-shirt reading: Kiss me, I'm Irish, Fraser was sprawled out peacefully. The threesome laughed.
"I'd like to think I'd be returning if I can," they sang as they departed, "to the greatest little boozer and to Sally MacLennan!"
March 18, 1998
The conductor walked the boards inspecting his train for the early morning
run. A young woman was spread out on the seat. The conductor peered
in at her.
"Hey! You can't be in here!" he warned.
Fraser's eyes opened slowly and painfully. A pain throbbed in his head. He sat up rubbing his face and smearing lipstick. He looked at himself and slapped his forehead in disbelief.
"Not again!"