After Fraser establishes his relationship with Ray Kowalski, what better
way to confuse him further than by throwing him more curves, i.e.
have other things be reversed? My ideas for reversals came from two
sources:
The first was an interview with Paul Gross in which he said that Paul
Haggis offered him the part of Fraser because "I don't think you
can do it." PG said he took the challenge, if for no other reason
than to prove PH wrong. My reversal for this is: after working so hard
(and being spectacularly successful) to establish Fraser's character,
how would PG handle a complete change in Fraser? Would he find it to
be a piece-of-cake or difficult and challenging?
The second came from the Live Chat on IRC dated 5.8.96. PG was asked
if The Dragon Lady (Inspector Margaret Thatcher, as played by Camilla
Scott) was a good kisser (referring to the 'train kiss' of All the
Queen's Horses episode) and he answered, "On what kind of scale?"
This struck me to be slightly condescending to the acting abilities of
Camilla Scott, who was outstanding in her own right on Due South. So,
I wanted PG to put his mouth where his money is.
(A reversal within a reversal.)
As clever as the stories were - solving convoluted crime cases, what
heightens drama is the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. The
relationship of Fraser and Thatcher provides a very fertile field. So,
let me tell you a story about that.....
This is a story of reversals and would fit in just after Mountie on
the Bounty.
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Due South, Alliance, and
whoever else legally claims them. No copyright infringement intended.
I claim copyright to the story itself in its entirety and it may not
be used or reproduced without permission, except for personal reading
pleasure. Any and all comments will be gratefully appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 1
I can do this, she thought, as she nervously smoothed the soft
folds of dusky-rose chiffon across her hips. Oh, damn. Maybe I should
have worn the other dress. More to the point, why, oh why, did
I choose this song? She glanced up as she heard the applause start.
From her position in the wings just off-stage right, she watched as a
man was taking his bows at center stage. All too quickly the Emcee emerged
from the opposite wing to take the microphone.
She faintly heard the Emcee drone, "Thanks, Eric. Ladies
and gentlemen, let's hear it for one of the upcoming tenors for
Chicago Light Opera: Mr. Eric Logan!! Take a bow, Eric." As the
applause waned and Logan exited the stage toward her, he hissed, "Break
a leg, darling."
"I'm not your dar....," she began to retort, but
stopped short as she heard the Emcee continue his patter with the audience.
"....I also want to thank all of you for coming tonight
and your contributions to help keep the Theater going. And it's just
great that all these people are donating their talent to our fund raiser.
Now, I want to present a lady with a beautiful voice. Here's Meg Thatcher."
She hurriedly adjusted the long scarf over her shoulders and
stepped onto the stage to polite applause. With a glance at the pianist
and a imperceptible sigh, she began her love ballad.
"....And do you know of my love, my Love, when....."
Good God, she thought. He isn't even here. Doesn't know I'm
doing this. Did I really read these lyrics carefully beforehand? She
closed her eyes to hide her embarrassment and lost herself in the music.
"....Can you feel my hunger....."
Meg looked out to the audience.
"....Do you belong to another....."
She almost missed a tremolo, as each seat in the darkened theater
now was occupied by the same man. Red serge. Dark hair. She could
not make out his features. Blink. Blink. Were her eyes playing tricks
on her?
"....How did I exist without you...."
How did I exist before you came into my life, she mused.
Empty. Meaningless. Going-through-the-motions. Why am I getting all
teary? God, I need to get a grip here.
"....And so if I ask, if I call, will you answer?"
Meg reached out her arms as if to draw him to her, "....I will
wait forever, my Love."
She ended with her eyes brimming with tears, arms still outstretched,
as the audience began a thunderous applause. With a slight nod to the
accompanist, she hurriedly left the stage before the Emcee reached his
microphone at stage left. In the wing Meg daubed her eyes, trying to
clear them, and bumped into a woman who was part of the throng of performers
and stage hands milling around.
"Wow! You vamp! You had every man in the audience aching
for you," the woman exclaimed as she caught Meg by the arm. "Were
you singing to your husband?"
Meg struggled to regain her composure and disengage from the
woman's touch. "I'm not married. The RCMP is my career."
"Oh, yes. The RCMP. The Program flier mentions that.
Tell me, does it pay well?" The woman paused slightly and then
went on, "Well, not that it matters. So, were you singing to your
boyfriend out there?" "No boyfriend."
"Come on! All Mounties are gorgeous! That red coat....The
wide stripe going up the leg....the stripe does go all the way
to the top, doesn't it? ....So, you must have some Mountie guy stashed
somewhere. Pretty thing like you ought to attract them like flies to
honey."
Thatcher was starting to get annoyed by this overbearing bitch.
What business was it of hers? "Afraid not." She began edging
toward the hallway. "Excuse me, but I've got to go now. Tell Vince
that I was happy to help out in the fund raising. I hope the benefit
has raised a lot of money for the Theatre."
As she walked back the deserted hallway to the dressing room
area, Meg could hear the throbbing on-stage music as other performers
were doing their bits. Thatcher approached the darkened office. Through
the window of the door, she saw the faint flickering of a flashlight
inside. This is strange, she observed. What's going on here? No lights?
Wait a minute! Is some Chicago low-life robbing the place?
She cautiously pushed the door open, slid inside, and crept
toward the light. At the far end of the room she was able to discern
the shadow of a man. The door to the wall safe was gaping open and the
man was stuffing its contents into a tattered gym bag.
Time to put all that RCMP training to the test, she thought
with determination. Meg came up behind him and then in a loud voice,
said, "What the hell do you think you are doing?"
The robber did not react as she expected he would. Instead,
he rammed his arms backwards and knocked the wind out of her.
Before she could recover, he turned on her. They began to scuffle: a
wild scene with each trying to grab the other and each trying to escape.
A lot of office space was used - walls, desks, file cabinets. He threw
her across a desk and her bare arms were scratched as they skidded over
the surface.
In the dim light Thatcher saw a paperweight which she picked
up to throw at him. He sneered in laughter as he easily deflected it
to skitter harmlessly across the floor. Damn this scarf, she panted
to herself. It's spoiling my aim. Oh, shit! The long free end of the
scarf was caught in the adjustment knob of a secretary chair. Try as
she could, Meg could not free herself, since she had so neatly wound
it around her neck before going on stage.
"Got ya now, you bitch!" the man hissed as he yanked
the scarf free. In the darkness, several sequins fell from the hem and
rolled to rest under a desk. He pulled the scarf tight around her neck,
grabbed her wrists and bound them with the scarf. Before she could call
out, he used the other free end to wind it across her mouth - a very
effective gag, indeed. He trussed her up like a calf at a rodeo. Grabbing
the loot-filled gym bag, the man pushed Meg toward the door. He checked
to see that no one was in the hallway and then manhandled her toward
a rear exit.
They burst out the door into the dimly lit, rain-slick alley.
As the larcenist pushed Thatcher toward his old, unwashed junker car,
she fell against the dirty car door, crumpled to the ground and soiled
her dress, arms, and face. He grabbed her and pulled her up.
"Get in there," he snarled and crammed the still
struggling Thatcher into the car. As he slammed the door shut, she flipped
the free end of the sequined scarf out of the door jamb. He had some
difficulty getting the car started but after several backfires and smoke
coming from the tailpipe, he finally was able to get it going.
The car sped off into the night: tires screaming, the scarf
bouncing over the wet pavement in rhythm to the potholes.
CHAPTER 2
With the headlights extinguished, he guided the car to a stop
behind an abandoned warehouse. He glanced up the road, saw no one around,
and slipped out of the car. As soon as he opened the passenger door,
Thatcher began to struggle but he roughly hauled her out and shoved
her into the warehouse.
In the shadowy interior the robber had his hands full. After
retying Meg's wrists in an arms-forward position with some rope he had
found, he tried to toss the long free end of the rope upwards toward
a ceiling beam and control her struggles at the same time.
"You sure screwed up my plans, lady."
What plans, you scumbag? Meg tried to say but it only came
out as unintelligible grunts from behind the gag. She could not get
free of him--he was holding the rope too tightly. She tried to stomp
on his feet but twisted her ankle instead. Damn these heels! Why couldn't
they have taught me the art of self-defence in anything but regulation-issue
Mountie boots?
"Don't fight it. You're gonna be here until I figure out
what to do with you," he warned her as he made another toss with
the rope. Thatcher saw her chance. "Ummmph!" She knee-ed
him in the crotch as he extended his body. You bastard! You want to
play hardball? How about me giving you some?
The man let out an agonized cry and doubled over in pain.
"You bitch! So that's the way you want to play it," he gasped
and slapped her face. She continued to struggle and move her head side-to-side;
the blow had slightly loosened the gag. Finally, he was able to throw
the rope over the rafter and strung Meg up so her feet barely touched
the cement floor. As he snubbed the rope off, the gag fell from her
mouth.
FRAASERRR!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fraser bolted upright in bed. His red longjohns, soaked
in sweat, pulled across his chest. As he wiped the sheen of perspiration
from his forehead with a sleeve, he glanced around his office. "What
was that?" he asked aloud. "Inspector?....Inspector?"
He looked at Diefenbaker lying by the desk. The wolf-dog was muttering
and whining to himself. "Inspector?" the Mountie called more
loudly. Hesitantly, he got out of the rumpled bed and, with the sweaty
longjohns pulling and straining around his body, he padded into the hallway.
"Inspector? " Fraser queried as he opened each door.
"Sir?" he called into the darkness of her office. Hearing
no reply, he shook his head in puzzlement and with a characteristic "Hmmm,"
returned to his room.
"For God's sake, settle down," he said to Dief who
was still muttering. "I must have been having a bad dream. You're
deaf! How could you possibly hear something I was dreaming? Can you
lip read dreams?" And then more to himself than Dief, "I'm
soaking wet! Got to get out of these," and tore the sodden longjohns
off. In the darkness he stood looking at the tangled sweaty bedsheets
and blankets as faint wisps of steam rose from his overheated body. Too
hot, he thought. He pulled the Hudson Bay blankets off and threw them
in the corner. Straightening the sheet, Fraser laid down on the cot,
extended his arms over his head and waited for his body to cool down.
"Son...."
"Oh, God! You know, dad," Fraser said angrily as
he scrambled to cover himself with the sheet, "I've got the right
to some privacy occasionally. Don't tell me you can lip read my
dreams, too."
"Of course you need privacy, son. But that's not important
right now. What is important is that Inspector Thatcher needs
you," the ghost of Robert Fraser replied as he gazed down at his
son.
"It was only a dream."
"No....no. I heard her. Quite distinctly as a matter
of fact. You know she doesn't ask much of you. She relies on you and
she is asking for your help. Just as she asked you to..." Fraser,
Senior paused to crack his neck, "...give her a leg over."
"Oh, right," Fraser retorted. "You really had
me convinced on that one. I listened to your ditherings and was so embarrassed
when she said she meant she wanted to adopt...I'm not going to put myself
in that situation again. I suggest you go find someone else's dreams
to eavesdrop on." He punched the pillow, rolled toward the wall
and added, "I'm going back to sleep."
"Hear me out, son. I am sure...."
"I'm ignoring you," Fraser said to the wall. "Son, listen to me!"
"I'm asleep now."
CHAPTER 3
Fraser, wearing his beloved dress reds, was filling
out some 10989B reports at his desk. Or at least, trying to. He scratched
out a few words and then stopped. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his jaw
and gazed unseeingly around the room. No evidence remained of the scene
last night: the bed was remade with the sheets so tightly drawn a Loonie
could bounce off it; the Bay blankets were neatly folded at the foot
of the cot.
He sighed and returned to the task at hand. He added a few
more words to the report, shuffled some papers to check references and
ran a hand through his hair. He pushed back his chair, arose, and with
much preoccupation began to pace the tiny room. He stopped and, with
hands behind his back, stared out the window. Finally, the siren of
a fire truck charging down the street interrupted his revere. Another
sigh. A few more words into the report.
"Oh, dear," Fraser said as he checked his watch.
He abruptly left the room to find Turnbull.
"Turnbull," Fraser asked the subordinate Mountie
who was diligently poring over paperwork at the hall desk, "do
you happen to know where Inspector Thatcher is? It's odd that she hasn't
come in today."
Turnbull looked up. "Oh, sir, I wouldn't presume to know
her--" "I'm not asking you to presume anything." "She never checks in with me. Does she check in with
you?" Turnbull went on enviously. "Which would be perfectly
understandable with your seniority. After all, I have only two service-year
stars and you have three and you've had so much more experience..."
Fraser's eyes began to glaze over. "...But since she is our superior,
I can't imagine why she would check in with anyone. On the other hand,
you would think that she is accountable to Ottawa--"
Fraser had to put a stop to the idiot's ramblings. "Turnbull,
I didn't want an expository. I just asked a simple question,"
and turned away to head back to his room. "Never mind," he
said over his shoulder.
Upon returning to his desk, Fraser valiantly tried to finish
the reports but could not concentrate. What is wrong with me
today? he thought with exasperation. He finally threw his pencil down
and picked up his Stetson. "Come on, Dief," he called, "let's
get out of here," and left the Consulate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep within the bowels of Precinct 27, Lieutenant Welsh was
having a hard time keeping his temper under control as he listened to
the caller prattle on.
"Yes, Ma'am. I understand your concern. I'll have a
couple of my detectives come right over." He paused as the voice
became more strident. He wiped his brow and looked with supplication
to the ceiling. God, he thought wearily, you'd think someone had bombed
the Sears Tower, or worse yet, the United Center...Wonder what this town
would be like without the Bulls? He reluctantly pulled himself back
to attend to the telephone caller.
"Yes, Ma'am, you already gave me the address. I wrote
it down. Chicago's best detectives work out of this precinct....Yes....Well,
don't touch anything else....No, you did the right thing. How could
you have called it in if you didn't pick up the phone?...Yes, Ma'am,
it's a travesty...Someone will be over shortly."
"Finally," the Lieutenant sighed in relief as he
hung up the phone. He gathered up his four pages of notes and went out
to the area of the squad room affectionately called the 'bullpen.' Let's
see. Who can I give this to so I can get some lunch?
"Hey, you two," Welsh called when he saw Huey and
Dewey come in. "Back from break now?" When they nodded affirmatively,
Welsh continued, "Good. Go check this out," and handed his
notes to Dewey. Huey glanced at them over Tom's shoulder. "OK, boss,
we're on our way."
As they left the squad room, they almost bumped into Fraser,
who for once, did not hold the door open. "Oh, sorry," Fraser
said absentmindedly to them as they brushed past.
Francesca saw him right away. Of course, she had ample notification
from Diefenbaker. The wolf always came to her first. Fraser was unaware
that she had a secret stash of Cheese Doodles in the desk. She quickly
slipped a handful to her favorite wolf and then joined Fraser as he walked
into the bullpen.
She took his arm and said, "Fraser! You know about color.
What do you think?"
"About what?" Fraser stopped to face her.
"The color," she replied as she tilted her head up
to him and ran her tongue over her lips to gloss up the lipstick. Frannie,
you're a shameless flirt, she thought to herself.
"Colour?"
"Yeah, the color. See?" For emphasis Francesca
raised her hands to her face to show the matching nail polish.
"Ah...."
"All you can say is 'Ah?' You know you drive
me crazy with all your 'Ahs.' Do you think it goes with this Civilian
Aid blue?" She pointed to the blouse she was wearing. "I've
got to do something to jazz up these disgusting, dull rags they make
me wear. I have problems with uniforms. They're so...regulation."
Fraser tried to concentrate. "Since red and blue are
primary colours, they do compliment each other," he answered faintly.
He scanned the personnel in the bullpen. "Would you excuse me,
Francesca? I have to talk to Ray."
He walked over to cubicle 7C where Stanley Ray Kowalski was
killing time by playing with a cheap toy at his desk. Damn! I almost
had it, he thought, as he lost again. He glanced up as the Mountie approached.
"How's it going, Frase?"
"I'm not sure," Fraser puzzled and scratched his
left eyebrow.
"Not sure? Since when have you not been sure about anything?
Your infestation bothering you again?" "Infestation?"
"Yeah, those eyebrow mites or whatever you keep goin' after."
"Ray, I assure you that I'm not infested. It's just a
mannerism I have when I am preoccupied or not in my Zen state of serenity."
"So, what's the problem?"
"Well, it's odd," Fraser began slowly. "No,
not exactly odd, but perhaps a little unusual that--"
"Fraser! Spit it out!!"
"Inspector Thatcher always comes to the Consulate by oh-nine-hundred."
He reached his hand up for another go-round with his eyebrow, but caught
himself. "Sorry....In any event, she hasn't come in yet today.
Not that she is so anal retentive that she always sticks to her schedule
and allows no deviation from--"
"Oh, for God's sake," Ray interjected with exasperation.
"What's your point?"
"My point is that she always has told me if she thought
she was going to be late...Maybe not why she would belate...But
that's another story. And then I had the strangest dream last night....."
Kowalski had been only partially listening until then. As
Fraser droned on, he walked over to him.
"....I must have been in deep REM sleep... you know?"
Ray nodded an ambivalent 'yes' and 'no.' What-the-hell
is this guy talking about? Logical Fraser? Weird dreams? Looks like
he may be losin' it. Needs to find his Zen thing-ey or whatever.
"I can't remember exactly what the dream was about, but
I distinctly heard the Inspector call out my name," Fraser continued
until he saw Kowalski reach out to grab him by the shoulders. Fraser
instinctively ducked the contact. "You're not going to hit me again,
are you, Ray?"
"Instincts, Fraser! You're not listening to your instincts.
Ever dream about her other times?"
"No...Well, that's not entirely true," Fraser began
to equivocate. "Once in a dream she was on this horse and...Ray,
I really don't want to go there."
"I bet you don't."
"However, last night, when I heard her call, I did get
up and look around the Consulate, but everyone had gone home. It was
quite late. She wasn't there...."
"Of course not! She's somewhere else and she calledto you. That's instinct, Fraser! Kick that logical brain of
yours into overdrive. The Ice Queen calls to you in a dream, obviously
needing you for something. Then she doesn't show up for work today. What's
the picture here?"
"Oh, dear! Do you really think she's in a predicament?
I can't imagine she would be in a situation she can't handle...She's
so resourceful. But her voice was so clear in the dream. Ray, it-woke-me-up."
The Mountie turned and started to wander out of the squad room. "Something
may have happened to her," he mumbled to himself.
"Fraser? Where are you going?"
"Back to the Consulate to check her daily schedule. Perhaps
she wrote down where she was going last night."
"OK, let's go." Kowalski grabbed his coat. "Dief!
Come on!"
Dief followed Fraser and Ray down the hall but stopped and
whined when Fraser turned left and Kowalski went right. Ray looked back.
"Fraser...Fraser......FRASER! This way!"
CHAPTER 4
Turnbull was still at his desk and still laboring over a mountain
of paperwork when the Mountie and Detective followed Diefenbaker into
the Consulate.
"Turnbull, has the Inspector come in yet?" Fraser
demanded.
"No, not yet. Is something wrong? Yikes! It's fourteen
hundred hours," he exclaimed as he looked at the grandfather clock
in the hall. "She's never this late. Good Lord! The Inspector--?"
Fraser tried to placate him. Might have an anxiety disorder,
he thought to himself. But with Turnbull, you never know. "Calm
down. We don't know yet." He started toward Thatcher's office.
"Where's her appointment book?"
"Oh, Sir. I wouldn't look in her Schedule Book. That's
her private affair." He reluctantly followed Fraser and Kowalski
into Meg's office.
Fraser quickly located her appointment book on the desk and
opened it to check the appropriate pages. "Nothing here about last
night...Just her Consular schedule yesterday. She may keep another personal
planner at her place for off-duty activities. She's much too organized
not to write things down."
"Where does she live?" Kowalski asked.
"Damn. I don't know. Turnbull, where are the personnel
files? I have to get the Inspector's address."
"Sir!" Turnbull nervously objected. "The Inspector
will be very angry if she learns you have been in those--"
Fraser calmed him down. "You don't have to worry about
getting your own gluteus maximus in a sling with the Inspector.
I'll take full responsibility. It's more germane to find out where the
Inspector was last night than be a stickler for protocol. Now, where
are they?"
"I don't think we should be doing this. Definitely not
regulation," Turnbull grumbled as he led Fraser and Ray to a file
cabinet in Thatcher's office.
Fraser pulled open the top drawer labeled 'Personnel' and began
scanning the folders by name. Each contained about 10 pages and had a
top sheet with the employee's current data, fingerprints, and photo.
When he got to his own file which by contrast was five centimeters thick
and stuffed with papers, Fraser pulled it out and quickly fanned through
it, speed reading.
"My word, Sir!" Turnbull exclaimed in astonishment.
"Yo, Fraser, you got quite a record. Lemme see,"
Kowalski said as he reached for the file.
"No, Ray, you can't see this. National security,"
Fraser warned and kept it beyond Kowalski's reach. "However, I
see it's accurate and up to date." He put his own file back and
continued the search for Thatcher's. "That's odd. I don't see Inspector
Thatcher's file here. It has to be somewhere. There must be some
record of her residence."
Fraser began to scan the room. "Some record."
"Somewhere," added Ray. "Wait a sec," interjected Turnbull. "I
distinctly recall now that the Inspector mentioned there was a 'special
file' somewhere. However, she made it quite clear it was to be opened
only in dire emergency."
"That's the ticket," Fraser encouraged. "Now,
think, Turnbull. Did she say where this file is?"
Turnbull thoughtfully cupped his face in his hand. "Let
me see...No, I can't recall."
"Think, man!" Kowalski's patience was thinning.
"I'm trying...I'm trying!" Turnbull looked around
the office and pointed to another file cabinet. "There! Maybe it's
there."
All three men went in lock-step to the file cabinet. Fraser
tried to open it, but it was securely locked.
Turnbull turned to Fraser. "Oh, heck. Do you think we
ought to break it open? But that would be damaging government
property..." He saw Ray yanking on the immovable drawers. "Stop!
I just remembered that the Inspector said the 'special file' was locked
up and that the key is in her desk."
They lock-stepped back to Thatcher's desk. Fraser slid open
the center pencil drawer, picked up a single key, and all moved as one
back to the locked cabinet. Fraser tried the key. It opened.
"Sort of like dŽjˆ vu all over again, huh, Fraser?
We're on another treasure hunt!" exclaimed Ray.
"Something like that," Fraser replied as he quickly
scanned the contents of the top two drawers. When he opened the third,
the only thing in it was Thatcher's personnel file. It was as equally
thick as Fraser's. He picked it up. "The mother lode, right, Fraser?"
"My word, she's been active, hasn't she, Sir?"
"Apparently," mused Fraser as he opened it to the
face page.
"Come on, Fraser. See what's inside. You read yours. How
about a quick peek at hers?"
"We're not on a scavenger hunt here, Ray. Just trying
to find out the Inspector's address. Anything else would be an invasion
of her privacy." Fraser pointed to Thatcher's photograph. "It
is a good likeness of her, though, don't you think? Ah, here it is.
She lives in one of those high rise condominiums on Lake Shore Drive.
Saddle up, Ray. "
CHAPTER 5
Ray was getting exasperated, as he and Fraser stood in the
middle of the condo lobby and tried to convince the building manager
to give them access to Thatcher's unit. "So, what you're saying
is that you won't let us in?"
"Of course not," the manager stated in his most official
sounding voice. "Our tenants pay a high price to maintain their
privacy."
"Sir, it is extremely important," Fraser urged.
"Nothing is that important!" Hoping to convince him, Fraser ventured, "She is
an Inspector with the RCMP and--"
"The what?"
"She's Canadian, you knuckle head...A Mountie...With the
Canadian Consulate," Kowalski retorted. This pompous ass was really
starting to piss him off.
"And she didn't come to work this morning," Fraser
added. The pompous ass was starting to piss him off, too, as if he already
didn't have enough on his mind.
"Yeah, and there is a missing person bulletin out on her,"
Ray said.
"Oh, really? And who filed that?" the manager sneered.
Fraser and Kowalski exchanged glances. "He did,"
they said in unison as they pointed to each other.
"Do you want to be mixed up in some sort of international
incident? Just because you want to stick to your piss-ant rules - whatever
they are? Does this mean anything?" Kowalski flashed his
badge.
The manager knew he was beaten. "OK, OK. Come on."
"Thank you kindly," Fraser offered as they stepped
into the elevator.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The manager swung the door inward to allow Fraser and Kowalski
entrance. "So, don't touch anything," he admonished as they
brushed past.
"Yeah, sure. Like we got a moving van pulled up in back
and are just waiting to cart all this crap off," Ray said as he
closed the door in the manager's face.
The two police officers paused to assess the situation:
hardwood floors, a soft leather sofa grouping in front of the fireplace,
teak tables and bookshelves, a number of carved Haida and Tlingit masks
on a wall, a grand piano with numerous sheets of music on it was in the
corner. The spacious living room had large picture windows that afforded
a spectacular view of Lake Michigan from the 17th floor. With studied
casual elegance it had a sleek but comfortable feel about it.
As Kowalski advanced into the living room, Fraser motioned
toward a hallway that obviously led tothe bedroom area. "I'll
check in here," the Mountie offered.
"Right. You do that, Fraser," Ray answered with a
hint of sarcasm.
Fraser admired the Native art work displayed on the walls
as he made his way to her bedroom. He entered and saw a pair of off-black
stockings, an elegant embroidered slip, and a black silk cocktail dress
with spaghetti straps strewn on the bed. He heard Ray picking out a
few notes of Heart and Soul on the living room piano. Wincing
with each clinker Ray played, Fraser went to the walk-in closet that
was open. One wall was filled with casual clothes: sweaters (each in
their individual container), slacks, and blazers. The opposite side
contained her shoe collection and formal wear. He picked up the sleeve
of a red silk suit and inhaled it deeply, then saw several red serge
uniforms on the third wall, along with some outfits he recognized from
her wearing them at the Consulate. He sleeve-smelled several of these
clothes and murmured, "Yes, she does live here."
Moving over to the king-sized bed, the Mountie smoothed his
hand across the brocade bedspread and picked up the petticoat, deeply
inhaled her scent, and absentmindedly carried it around as he looked
at the rest of the room. He finally ended up at her desk. When he saw
two leather books, he laid the slip down to pick up the top book since
a corner of a photograph sticking out caught his attention. He opened
it up to see it was a picture of himself in uniform: a duplicate of the
one in his personnel file. Puzzled by the photo, Fraser began reading:
"...and how I admire his intelligence, his incredible abilities
to solve cases. It all seems so easy for him. I walk such a thin line.
Trying to stay a step ahead of him as his superior -- but with far fewer
skills and even less courage. Why?? What am I afraid of? I just couldn't
go through with it when I asked him to become involved with 'having a
child.' Is he pretending he doesn't hear my messages? Or is he
just not interested?...."
"Oh, God," Fraser agonized aloud.
"....What does he do in his personal life -- go to
a sperm bank? I've never even seen him break
out into a hint of a sweat. Would I dare to get
personally involved with him? Damn these
rules and regulations! And damn Martin in
Calgary!! Imponderable questions..no answers...."
"Nothing out there. Have you found anything?" Ray
said as he came into the bedroom.
Startled, Fraser quickly put the journal down but it remained
open to the page he was reading and his picture landed beside the journal,
not in it. To cover his reaction to Meg's diary writings, he picked up
the slip he had laid on the desk and said, "Ah...er...I'm still
looking." "Whoa, Fraser. Who's on the scavenger hunt now?
I heard about you in drag at that Catholic girls' school. Grazing for
new clothes? Think they'll fit?"
"This? Er...I'm not doing anything. Ah, here it is!"
Fraser exclaimed as he dropped the slip back onto the desk and picked
up the matching leather daytimer to check the date. "She
was doing some sort of benefit at the Repertoire Theatre. It says 'Twenty-one
hundred hours.' Where is this place?" "Come on, it's not too far from here."
CHAPTER 6
As Fraser, Kowalski, and Dief walked down the hall of the Theater,
they heard loud voices and saw three people arguing in the business office.
"So, what did you want me to do?" said a thirtyish
woman dressed in a tie-dyed shirt liberally adorned with strings of beads,
faded jeans, and long dangling earrings.
"Jasmine," replied another woman in a business suit,
"we didn't really expect you to do anything, did we Earl?"
Earl thoughtfully stroked his chin. "No, Alice is right,
Jas. You weren't responsible for security around here. If anyone was,
it should've been me, since I do the books for the Theater."
Diefenbaker began his own smell investigation of the room as
the police officers interrupted the theater staff discussion. Kowalski
showed his badge and said, "Chicago PD. What's going on here?"
"We were robbed last night," Jasmine replied with
some exasperation.
"I called it in this morning," Alice explained.
"Two detectives already have been here. When the Captain...or maybe
he was a Colonel or Major or something, of the police station said that
he would send a couple of Chicago's finest detectives over to investigate,
he didn't say he was going to send two sets of detectives."
"Chicago's finest? What precinct is that?"
Ray asked himself under his breath. "Who were they? They leave
their--?"
Alice interrupted him, "--Business card? Yes, here it
is," and gave it to Kowalski.
Ray glanced at the card and turned in wonderment to Fraser.
"Huey and Dewey? Chicago's finest?? How the hell did the Ducks
get assigned to this case?"
"I don't know, Ray," Fraser said absentmindedly,
as he was concentrating on picking up clues. He turned to survey the
office and began a visual, walk-through assessment of the room while
Kowalski continued the interview.
"I'll catch up with them later to get your statements,"
Ray told the staff. "What all did they do while they were here?"
"Dusted for prints. Took ours, too," Earl volunteered.
"So, who was here last night? You were puttin' on some
kind of benefit?" Kowalski continued.
"We had many people donating--" Alice offered.
"--Was Margaret Thatcher one of them?"
"Yes, I think--" Alice began but was interrupted
this time by Fraser who had finished his walk-through assessment. "--Ray, the Inspector was in here," the
Mountie stated with agitation. "And something happened to her.
I can feel it...I can smell it."
"OK, OK, Fraser. Keep your lid on. I'll call the precinct
to see if they've gotten any ID on the prints yet. Just cool it,"
Ray said as he began dialing the precinct number on his cell phone.
"Lemme talk to either Huey or Dewey. No, Francesca, don't put me
on hold. OK.... ...Huey! I'm at the Theater with Fraser...Yeah, I
know it's your case. Do you have any results on the fingerprints yet?"
"If it's our case, why do you want to know?" Huey
retorted. This 'Ray' replacement is a pushy son of a bitch sometimes,
he thought.
"Because Fraser's boss is missing and we found out that
she was here last night."
"When we interviewed the staff, they didn't mention that."
"Well, Fraser is sure she was here in the office. Might
have interrupted the robbery and--"
Huey looked up to see Dewey come into the bullpen. "--Just
a sec. Here's Dewey with the results of the print check. I'll put you
on speaker." Pointing to the speaker phone, he called to Dewey,
"Ray's at the theater. Thatcher's missing. Fraser thinks she was
in the office. Tell him."
Welsh walked by on his way to his office, stopped and listened
in on the rest of the phone conversation.
"Ray? That you?" Dewey began. "The prints all
check out for the staff. The freshest set of prints on the safe are
of a Bobby Solvay. He's a part-time go-fer at the theater--"
Kowalski listened to that much of Dewey's report and then asked
the theater staff, "You know anything about Bobby Solvay?"
When they shook their heads 'no', he pressed them further, "Would
there be any reason for this broom pusher to be here in the office?"
"No reason at all. He did some work on the scenery,"
Jasmine answered.
"Bingo," Kowalski said and then asked Dewey over
the phone, "Who is this guy?"
"Has a fairly long rap sheet for car theft and petty robbery.
Currently on parole."
Fraser moved over next to Ray and listened intently to both
sides of the conversation as Kowalski continued with Dewey. "Any
other prints?"
"One complete right hand set on the paperweight, still
unidentified."
"Ask them where they found it," Fraser urged.
"You hear that?" Kowalski asked the detectives.
"It was on the floor by that desk in the corner,"
Huey replied.
Frowning and pulling on his earlobe, Fraser ventured, "She's
played women's softball; I remember that much. Probably used the paperweight
to try and hit him."
"Thatcher?" Welsh queried while he listened to the
phone conversation.
"Is that you, Leftenant?"
"Yeah. What's up?"
"Well, the Inspector evidently was here during the theft
last night, but she didn't come to the Consulate this morning. I don't
know where she is."
"Missing? Come on, people," Welsh exhorted his troops,
"get on this one!"
Fraser turned to Kowalski, "Ray, let me call the Consulate
and have her fingerprints faxed over. Shouldn't take more than five
minutes."
"Sure.....Huey? Fraser's gonna have Thatcher's prints
sent over. See if they match the paperweight."
Fraser dialed the Consulate. "Turnbull?...No, we haven't
found her yet. Now listen closely. I want you to get the Inspector's
file and... Turnbull! Just go back, get her file and fax her fingerprints
to the police station...Do it now, Turnbull."
As he handed the cell phone back to Ray, "That man is
thicker than two short boards," Fraser muttered in exasperation.
"Now, about this paperweight," he asked the staff, "before
today, where was it?"
"It's mine," Alice said. "I kept it on my desk
over there."
"Like that?" Fraser said as he placed it on the indicated
desk.
Alice replied, "No, it was more in the corner, like this,"
and moved it to another position.
"Thank you kindly." Fraser began a complete and sequential
reenactment of Meg's scuffle with Solvay. He started smelling and tasting
the door as Kowalski continued the questioning.
"So, when did you hire Solvay?" Ray asked and tried
to ignore Fraser licking a file cabinet.
"Couple of weeks ago," Alice answered, as her lip
began to curl involuntarily when she saw Fraser running his tongue over
a wall. "He just showed up and asked for a job."
"You didn't advertise for the opening?"
"Oh, that's so gross!" Jasmine could not
contain her disgust when she saw the Mountie lick his way across the
desk where Thatcher's arm had slid.
"Yeah, he does a lot of Gross stuff...Can't help it...He's
Canadian. So, what's you pay schedule like? Did Solvay fill out a W-2
form?"
"Yes, he did," Earl, the efficient CPA, answered.
"I'll get it for you."
Meanwhile, Fraser had picked up the paperweight from Alice's
desk and sighted it from where he 'saw' Thatcher throw it to where it
was found under the desk in the corner. He shook his head negatively
when he realized it was not a straight line. As he was working out the
geometry of the deflection, he bumped into Earl who was retrieving Solvay's
W-2 form from a file cabinet. "Oh, sorry. Excuse me," the
Mountie automatically said but remained in deep concentration.
Kowalski grabbed the W-2 form and scanned it quickly. "Says
here he lives at the Northridge Towers. Do you know about that place?
It's one of those upscale yuppie apartments. He couldn't have afforded
a day's worth of rent at this place on the minimum wage you were paying
him.
"I had no idea," Earl replied with dismay.
Ray was disgusted. "This is so phony." He
looked up to see only Fraser's rear-end stuck up in the air, since the
Mountie was completing his investigation of the floor on his hands and
knees by reaching under a desk. "Fraser! Mooning is so unMountie-like." Fraser jumped back to his feet and rejoined the group.
"Do any of you remember what Inspector Thatcher was wearing last
night?" he asked the Theater staff.
Despite her hippie attire, Jasmine was something of a clothes
hound and always made a point of noticing how others were dressed. "Sure.
She had a medium shade of pink dress on. It was organdy...No, check
that. It looked too soft for organdy. Must have been chiffon. Knee
length. Sleeveless, with a jewel neckline. Then she had a matching
scarf wound around her neck and the free ends hung down her back to the
hem."
"Any decoration? Beads or sequins?" Fraser persisted.
"The only jewelry she had on were pearl earring studs.
But I remember that the scarf had sequins on the ends."
"Like this?" Fraser opened his hand to show the sequins
he had found under the desk.
"Oh, yeah, that's it," Jasmine said as Kowalski's
cell phone rang.
"OK," Ray spoke into the phone. He disconnected
and addressed Fraser. "Print confirmation - they're Thatcher's."
"I know. She was here during the robbery and tried to
stop him."
"You mean she wasn't able to put up a good defense and
stop him? How do you know all this?"
"Freshness of the odour," the Mountie said automatically.
"It has a definitive half-life and--"
"--It's OK, Fraser, you don't have to explain it. I'll
take your word for it."
"What's important now is she was somehow overpowered and
taken hostage," Fraser said with great concern. "The trail
goes here...." He was lost in concentration as he smelled his way
out into the hallway.
Ray shook his head in puzzlement. He thanked the staff for
their information, then saw that Fraser was so preoccupied with following
Thatcher's odor that he had forgotten his Stetson. Half-life? he thought
as he picked up the hat. Does the Ice Queen have a scent? How can anything
frozen harder than a carp smell? Nah!
When Kowalski and Diefenbaker reached the back alley where
Solvay had parked the getaway car, Fraser already was surveying the area.
He noticed the residue from Solvay's car backfire and quickly threw himself
on the pavement to taste it directly.
"Oh shit, Fraser! I'm going to hurl. That is so completely
disgusting. Do you eat with that mouth, too?"
Ignoring Ray's criticism, the Mountie got back to his feet.
"He brought her here...See? Here's another sequin. She's good.
Very good."
"So why clean the streets with your tongue? We got a department
of sanitation to do that."
"Because if we have any hope of finding her, we need a
trail. Sequins alone may not be enough....His car uses leaded gas."
He began walking slowly in the direction the getaway car took. "Not
too many of them around anymore. And it is poorly tuned.. ..probably
running on 3 cylinders. The emissions here are the engine's unique combustion
signature: the unburned hydrocarbons and various lead compounds. And
that one cylinder not working makes it that much more unusual."
He glanced at Kowalski. "The trail is as clear as the strobe light
guide path at O'Hare International."
"So, do it. I'll get the car.
CHAPTER 7
In the darkness as Fraser and Dief tracked up to the warehouse,
Ray followed in the squad car. Fraser motioned that 'this is the place.'
Ray nodded and hand signaled back that he would park the car. Fraser
continued on toward a doorway and was deeply inhaling the air sifting
out of the door jamb when Kowalski joined him.
"She's in there, Fraser whispered. "Fresh scent.
Did you see the car?"
Ray cast him a quizzical side-long glance. "Don't know
what it looks like. Can you tell its color or make by the exhaust trail
it left? Or did you just bounce a reality check?"
Fraser mulled this over for a moment. "Right you are.
We have no way of knowing that."
This place is pretty deserted," Kowalski continued as
he scanned the area, "but there're a couple of cars around. He
may have parked it in back."
"So we don't know if Solvay is still in there...Or what
condition the Inspector is in. Does his rap sheet include any assault?"
"The Ducks didn't say....only mentioned car theft and
robbery."
"Well, t-take Dief and go around b-back. I'm going in,"
Fraser stuttered.
Ray gave the Mountie a hard look. "You OK, Frase?"
"Huh?"
"You're sorta up tight. Take a chill pill. We'll find
her." Kowalski motioned Diefenbaker to follow and with his gun
drawn, the detective disappeared into the mist as he rounded the corner
of the building.
Fraser cautiously opened the door and entered. As he crept
through a warren of dark rooms and storage areas, he continued to pick
up faint odours of the Inspector. Please God, he thought, let her be
OK...Don't let that son of a bitch Solvay hurt her....She doesn't deserve
that. If he's raped her, I swear I'll castrate him with a dull hunting
knife.
He stopped and sniffed the air. Dammit, I'm losing my touch,
he chided himself. Come on, Benton, concentrate! Just find her first.
You can deal with Solvay later. He had to retrace his steps back to
a hallway where he last smelled her scent. He picked up the trail again
and headed in a new direction.
Eventually he began to hear faint muffled sounds coming from
a large room ahead. He cautiously slid through the doorway and in the
faint light saw Thatcher across the room. Although she still was strung
up, she struggled furiously to release her wrists.
The Mountie looked around to check if Solvay was still there.
Not seeing him, Fraser called in a loud whisper, "Inspector?"
"Oh, thank God!" Meg sobbed when she saw him.
Fraser ran over to her and pulled out his boot knife. "Here,
hold still. I'll cut you down. Steady...." Face to face, he pressed
his body against hers. Putting his left arm around her waist to stop
her swinging motion, he reached up with his right hand to cut the rope
at her wrists.
"What has he done to you?" he demanded as she, with
the release, almost slid through his arms. He caught her and lowered
her to the floor.
"I'm so c-c-cold," Meg cried. She was shaking uncontrollably.
Fraser stood up and with the Inspector clinging to his thigh,
he ripped off his lanyard and Sam Browne and tossed them aside. Buttons
flew in every direction as he tore off the red tunic. "Here, put
this on," he offered as he draped it over her shoulders. He slid
to the floor behind her and enveloped her in his arms.
"You're safe now," Fraser reassured her as he bent
his head down to her ear. "Are you hurt? Did he do anything to
you?"
Seeking warmth, Meg burrowed her back deeper into his chest.
"N-n-no, nothing like that," she chattered. "Just t-t-tied
me up. What t-t-took you so long?"
"I didn't know where you were. How clever to lay the sequin
trail. You're so brave."
"N-n-not so brave as I s-s-should have been."
Tears formed mascara-stained rivers that coursed through the
dirt on her face and dripped onto his tunic. I can't let him see me
like this, Meg thought in desperation. The more she tried to get in control,
the harder she sobbed.
Fraser was increasingly concerned. In an effort to calm her,
he began smoothing her hair and gently turned her head to him so he could
wipe her tears away with his fingers. As he worked on one side, she
used the edge of the tunic on the other. "It's all right, now,"
he murmured. "You sure you're OK?"
Meg nodded, "Uh-huh," as her sobs quieted into sniffles.
As her tears slowed to a trickle, he saw the rope burns on
her wrist. Frowning, he raised her hand to bring the inside of her
wrist closer, almost allowing his lips to brush across the burns as he
examined them. Like hell you're OK, he thought in consternation. Oh,
Meg, what did the bastard do to you?
He glanced at her. She had turned sideways in his arms. With
her head tilted up to him, she seemed so receptive to having him kiss
her. As their eyes met, Fraser was drawn imperceptibly toward her mouth.
"Not now, son," his father's voice reverberated in
his head. "Don't do it. She's too vulnerable. Think of what she
has just been through. Oh, I know she wrote that she wants you...bad.
She's a good intellectual match for you, but if you take advantage of
her when she's not on an equal emotional footing right now...Well, it's
wrong, and you know it."
Fraser gave a small sigh. Understood, Dad, he acknowledged
with resignation. He gently laid Meg's head on his chest, wrapped his
arms more tightly around her, and stared out into the empty room. And
Meg, with her ear as close as possible, listened to his beating heart
as the tears silently began to flow again.
The mood was broken as both were startled by the loud report
of several gunshots outside.
"That must be Ray," Fraser explained. "He's
out back. Did Solvay just leave?"
"That's the rat's name?"
"Yes. Come on," Fraser urged her to her feet.
"He left me to hang here, just before you came in."
Thatcher was still weak and wobbly as Fraser held her hand, but she stopped
to pick up his Sam Browne and lanyard.
"Inspector, it's only a uniform. Come on!"
"Oh, all right! Screw the buttons," she said and
followed Fraser who headed back the same way he came in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fraser burst out the front door with Thatcher close behind.
However, she lagged behind more and more as Fraser ran toward the end
of the building, the way Ray had gone. He was within a meter of it when
Solvay, speeding in the junker, rounded the corner and roared past the
Mountie into the night.
Fraser could not stop running quickly enough and reached the
blind intersection at the moment Kowalski's squad car came careening
around, in hot pursuit after Solvay. The Mountie was hit -- hard enough
to spin him around and throw him into the brick wall of the warehouse.
As his head hit with a sickening thud, he slumped to the ground.
"Fraser!" Inspector Thatcher screamed. Grasping
at the sleeves of his tunic she still had over her shoulders, she ran
quickly to bend over the fallen Mountie. "Fraser! Fraser!! Oh,
my God!! Ray! You hit him! Come back!!" she implored the rapidly
disappearing car.
"Oh, jeez!" Ray had difficulty keeping up. "What
the hell was that? Fraser? Couldn't be....He was inside....Gotta get
Solvay. He can't outrun me in that heap." He looked in the rearview
mirror and saw Thatcher bending over Fraser.
In the back seat, Diefenbaker was carrying on, racing from
side to side, looking out the rear window and then at Kowalski, and barked
continuously. "Fraser? Ohmigod, it washim!"
Dief nudged his neck, as if to confirm this.
Ray looked ahead to rapidly fading red tail lights. "Solvay?"
Diefenbaker looked back and barked furiously.
Ray looked again into the rearview mirror. "Fraser?"
The wolf dog nudged Kowalski's neck and woofed loudly in the
detective's ear.
Ray cringed and yelled, "Stop it, you damned dog!"
as he slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse, and screamed back
to Fraser and Thatcher.
As soon as Ray opened the car door, Dief muscled his way out
ahead of him and ran to Fraser, who was lying face up on the ground.
A pool of blood oozed from under the Mountie's head. Dief growled when
he smelled it. He nuzzled Fraser to get up and licked his face. Meg,
after covering him with the tunic, had been checking vital signs.
"Stop, Diefenbaker! I don't know how badly he's hurt,"
Thatcher ordered. She tried to fend the dog off.
"Tell me I didn't kill him," Kowalski asked as he
squatted down to join the Inspector.
"He's still alive," Meg anxiously replied. "Has
a nasty head wound...see all the blood? Must have hit the wall hard."
Ray assessed the situation. "How about his neck?"
"I don't know. He hasn't moved." She was beside
herself with worry. Hang on, Benton, she agonized.
"Oh, jeez! I'll call nine-one-one," he said as he
dragged out his cell phone. "Wait a minute. He's moving his legs.
Fraser!! Fray-zure! Wake up!" Fraser groaned in his unconsciousness and started to move
his legs more. His arms moved enough to brush off the tunic.
"Look," Ray asked. "What do you want to do?
It'll take the paramedics about ten minutes to get here. This is good
if he has some kinda spinal injury. On the other hand, he is moving--"
"--and he might bleed to death with this head wound in
the meantime," Meg finished.
"Not so good. So, you call it: Nine-one-one or we take
him in the car?"
"Let's go. We should support his head as much as possible."
While Ray lifted Fraser up by the armpits and dragged him over
to the back door of the car, Thatcher picked up the tunic, lanyard, and
Sam Browne. "Careful," she admonished as she opened the door
for Ray and then went around to the other side. They had difficulty cramming
Fraser in. His continual moaning was not encouraging. Thatcher tried
to pull Fraser into the car and Ray tried pushing him in, but eventually
he was stretched out on the back seat with his head in Meg's lap. Thatcher
draped the tunic across him to keep him warm. As she cradled his head,
she brushed away her tears that splashed onto his face.
Ray called to Diefenbaker, who jumped into the front passenger
seat but, seeing Fraser in the back, he tried to leap over. "No,
Dief, stay here." Ray put his arm up to block the wolf. "You
can't help now." The wolf rested his muzzle on the top of the seat,
gazed at his wounded friend, and whined.
Kowalski glanced in the rearview mirror as he started the ignition. "You OK back there?"
Meg raised her tear-stained face. "Good, but he's still
unconscious. Go! Go!!"
CHAPTER 8
The Inspector, coffee cup in hand, paced the floor. They always
paint the walls such a puke green, she thought. And nothing worth reading
except three year old Readers Digest magazines. When do you suppose
the cleaning crew comes on shift? Probably have to bring in a hose to
scour the place out. She continued to walk the fifteen feet between
the lobby door and the Emergency Room suite.
"I can't imagine what's taking so long. They've been working
on him for almost two hours," she fretted as she passed Kowalski
more times than he could count.
"They probably have to do a bunch of tests," Ray
suggested as he rooted around in a pile of discarded wrappers from food
vending machines. "Stuff like that. Relax. He's in good hands."
He dove into the wrapper pile on the chair next to him and held up an
unopened package. "I got DingDongs here. You want one?"
"Couldn't stomach it. That junk food is terrible. And
this coffee is worse." She threw the cup into an overflowing garbage
container and resumed her pacing.
Kowalski took up his own offer on the DingDong and observed
Thatcher. She was a disaster: dirty, smeared make-up and her dress
was heavily stained with Fraser's blood from when she had supported his
head in her lap during the wild ride to the hospital.
"Good God, woman! You're a mess. Is this your Jackie
Kennedy impression?"
"What??" She stopped and tried to comprehend what
Ray meant. She didn't get it. "Oh, I don't care what I look like.....Finally!"
she said with relief as she looked through the windows of the ER door.
"Here's the doctor.....Doctor, How is he?"
"Several things," the physician began as he joined
the Inspector and Kowalski. "He regained consciousness shortly
after you brought him in. We stitched up his head wound. You see, the
scalp has a rich blood supply and, if the skin is broken, it looks like
the person is hemorrhaging but it is not as life-threatening as it appears."
"This is good. This is good," Ray commented. Despite
his apparent nonchalance, he was more than a little concerned about Fraser,
who had looked in tough shape. All Fraser's unconscious moaning and
groaning on the way to the hospital had been unnerving. Even on a bad
day, Fraser wouldn't have said 'Ouch' if someone was breakin' his arm,
he thought. No use gettin' Thatcher more upset than she already was.
What's up with those two? Fraser gettin' wigged out and then the control
freak Turbo-bitch losin' it. Go figure.
The doctor continued, "Since he regained consciousness,
we did an MRI, tested his reflexes, and there is no spinal injury. So,
while he was unconscious, his initial inertia can be explained by the
blow to his head. The bad part is that he has had a severe concussion--"
"Wouldn't be the first--" Ray confirmed.
"--Furthermore, he exhibits Dissociative Amnesia."
"So, what's this Dissoci-ta-tive thing-ey?"
"Just shut up, Detective. Let him explain."
"It's characterized by an inability to recall personal
information. He may have dissociated due to a traumatic event or if he
were under intense stress."
"See," Kowalski pointed out to Meg, "I told
you he was pretty wound up from the time we got to the theater until
he found you in the warehouse."
The physician shot Ray a hard look. "As I understand
it, you hit him with your car?"
"Uh, not exactly...I must have clipped him accidentally
and it threw him into the wall...er...Yeah, I hit him," he finished
sheepishly.
Meg sensed how guilty Ray was feeling. "How could you
have known he was coming?" she gently asked.
"Well, regardless of how the accident occurred,"
the doctor went on, "some of the symptoms of this type of amnesia
are the loss of personal memory, of course, and depression, impairment
at work or in interpersonal relationships, sometimes aggression, possibly
sexual dysfunction."
"So what you're saying is that he's clueless," Ray
said.
"Apparently."
Thatcher was aghast. "Forever?"
"Not necessarily," he assuaged her. "Often
times, Dissociative Amnesia lifts spontaneously. We don't know what can
trigger the return of memory in these types of cases."
Meg persisted, "How long?"
"Until it lifts? I wouldn't be concerned for two to three
weeks. That will give the brain a chance to heal from the concussion."
"I meant, how long will he be in hospital?"
"Oh, I think if he stays the rest of tonight. And tomorrow.
Barring any complications, he could be released the morning after that."
The Inspector was greatly relieved. "Thank you so much,
Doctor. Could we see him now?"
"He is being transported up to Room Five-Seventy-Three.
Give them a few moments to get him situated and then you can see him.
Now, I want to warn you that apparently he's undergone a complete character
change. The man you will see will not be as you know him."
"Thank you again, Doctor," Meg called to the physician
as he headed back into the ER.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kowalski peeked in the door. "Fraser?"
Thatcher pushed him the rest of the way into the room and over
Ray's shoulder saw the Mountie, dressed in a hospital gown, sitting up
in bed. The television was at full volume on an MTV type show and Fraser
tried to sing along, but was not very successful.
"Who're you? " Fraser asked Ray, as he concentrated
on tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. "Wait a sec. I can't seem
to get the beat on this song."
"Fraser??" Ray reiterated as he reached over, grabbed
the remote control out of Fraser's hand, and turned the television set
off.
"That's what they called me in the Emergency Room,"
Fraser giggled. "Don't have a clue why....Fraser....Benton Fraser.
Who would name a kid that? Benton?!" He began to chortle
and laugh uncontrollably. "Ben - Ton. Sounds like Chinese soup...."
Then he saw Meg standing behind Ray. "Who the hell are
you?" he asked her. "My God you're a mess!"
"Fraser, I'm Meg Thatcher. Don't you remember?"
"Thatcher....Thresher," he scoffed. "Looks
like you've been through a threshing machine," he giggled. "Ya
know, if you cleaned yourself up, you might be able to get off the streets,"
he leered at her, "if ya know what I mean," and winked suggestively.
"Oh, Fraser." The Inspector's eyes began to tear
up again. How could he say such things? "Don't you know me? Can't
you remember the warehouse?...." She had never seen him like
this - her Deputy Liaison Officer?
A comely nurse, carrying a medication dispenser, came into
the room. Fraser's eyes lit up. "Now here's a broad that knows
how to take care of herself. Honey, when do you get off shift? Want
to check out this mechanical bed for me?"
"I don't think so. Just take this pill."
"Your loss, darlin', " Fraser said when the nurse
handed him a glass of water and the medication.
As Fraser took the pill, Ray saw this as an opportunity to
pull Thatcher aside. Good thing Thatcher didn't see that, he
thought, as he watched Fraser trying to catch the arm of the nurse and
draw her to him. She deftly avoided the ploy and when she left, Fraser
turned the TV back on.
"Don't take it personally, Inspector. Fraser is really
out of it, just like the doctor said."
Dabbing her eyes, Meg agreed. "I know, I know. I just
hate to see him like this. I think we had better leave."
"What do you wanna do with him when he's released?"
"I guess you could bring him to the Consulate. I'll have
to check with Ottawa. They may want him sent back to Canada...He doesn't
have any family, does he?"
"Don't think so."
"That's my point. If Ottawa wants him back, where would
they put him? He hasn't anyone. Perhaps I can stave them off for two
or three weeks so maybe his memory will be triggered....Keep him at the
Consulate." She considered this option carefully. "OK, I
suppose I should take his uniform back," and gathered up his trousers
that had been laid over a chair, the folded long johns on the seat, and
his Mountie boots standing at attention. "His hat and tunic are
in your car. Can you give me a ride?"
"Sure. I can do that."
Having agreed on a plan of action, Thatcher and Kowalski turned
back to Fraser. Ray again had to turn off the blasting TV. "OK,
Fraser. We're going now."
"You, too, Threshing Machine?"
Meg started to say something but stopped. However, Kowalski
noticed the hurt showing in her face and mercifully drew Fraser's attention
away from her. "I'll be back tomorrow to see how you are doing."
"Whatever. Hope you bring a better looking broad than
this one," Fraser giggled as he reached for the TV remote when they
left.
CHAPTER 9
The sunlight streamed in the window and spread over Fraser's
hospital bed. Kowalski paced the floor, as he tried to explain the clues
of the case.
"So, I got the plate number of Solvay's getaway car.
They're running a check now."
"Getting away from what, Bob?" Fraser thoughtfully
scratched the day-old stubble on his chin.
"Ray," Kowalski corrected.
"Bob? Ray? Bob and Ray?"
"Getting away from me: Ray. He had taken Inspector
Thatcher hostage. You tracked him--"
"--Who's the Inspector? Thatcher? You mean Thresher! From
last night."
Ray was exasperated. "You really don't know anything
about this, do you? Look-it. Even if you can't remember, you do understand
about boss-flunky relationships, don't you?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Fraser responded doubtfully.
What the hell is this guy talking about?
"Well, the Inspector is your boss. And she is a control
freak...chain of command stuff."
"OoooKay...."
"So, if I were you, I'd lay off her. She's a time bomb
with a short fuse."
"Boom!" Fraser was delighted at his own joke.
This was the last straw for Kowalski. "Oh, jeez. Maybe
I should have just gone after Solvay and let Thatcher deal with you.
I figured you would be able to help me catch him later. You're no help
at all. I'm outta here."
"Boom!!" Fraser called to him as he left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kowalski was not in a good mood as he walked to the Nurses
Station. There's no reasoning with that guy, he thought. No more logic,
no more brains. Thatcher's gonna have her hands full, that's for sure.
"Lemme use your phone," he brusquely asked a nurse
who was trying to concentrate on charting amid the bustle of the Station.
"Sure," she answered pleasantly. "Is this about
that guy in Five-Seventy-Three?" Ray nodded as he began to dial.
"He's supposed to be a Mountie?"
"Supposed to be."
"That horny creep can't keep his hands off the nurses.
You know what he did this morning? He--"
Ray didn't want to hear it. "--Hey, Huey! What's the
skinny on Solvay's car?...Stolen? Why wasn't it reported stolen? ...Huh?
...Of course it's a stupid question. Who would bother to report that
piece of junk had been stolen? Stay on it."
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble, he thought. He looked up to see
Francesca swinging down the hall. Sashaying would have been a better
word for it. She was wearing her infamous and incredibly short leather
skirt. Didn't Welsh tell her to wear a longer shirt?
"Look, gotta go. I'll be back to the station in a bit."
Ray threw the phone towards its cradle and ran to intercept Francesca
before she entered Fraser's room.
"Frannie! I told you not to come."
"Ray, Ray, Ray." Francesca could be so maddeningly
condescending. "Fraser's my friend, too. If he's hurt and in the
hospital, I want to see him--"
"That's not Fraser in there."
"How bad can it be? And besides, you're not my brother.
You can't tell me what to do. Get out of my way." She pushed Kowalski
aside and went in. Ray shrugged, threw up his hands, and walked down
the hall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Francesca tentatively peeked around the door to see Fraser
lying in bed and staring vacantly at the ceiling. She had no way of
knowing that he was counting holes in the ceiling tile and wanted to
get an average. A good way to kill time between nurse visits.
"Fraser?"
"Huh?" Shit! I lost count, he fretted. Hello! Not
a nurse, but a babe, none the less!
"How're you doing, Frase? Ray said you were here."
"I'm OK, I guess," he said cautiously. He didn't
want to scare this one off. He opened out his arm to her and slowly
wet his lips in anticipation. "Come here."
Francesca quickly responded to his invitation. As she smoothed
his hair away from his scalp sutures, "Some kinda nasty cut you
have on your head. Does it hurt?" she asked innocently.
"It used to, but it doesn't, today," he replied softly.
When she began picking at imaginary lint on his hospital gown,
he reached out, put his arm around her waist and pulled her down to sit,
facing him, on the bed.
"Ray said he almost killed you," she continued as
she smoothed the sheets around him. He's coming on to me, she thought.
"Would that make a difference to you?"
"A difference? Of course it would!"
"How?" Fraser closed his hand over hers.
"Because I care." Her mind raced. He's actually
holding my hand! Sweet Mother of God! Finally!! "We've been
through a lot together. You've helped me..." She leaned toward
him slightly. "....I've helped you."
His eyes bored into hers. "Can you help me now?"
He drew her to him.
He pulled her down to his chest and began kissing her. Frannie
was slightly taken off guard by his blatant advances: she certainly
wasn't expecting this! Not that she minded, of course. She
had dreamed of this for three long years. When he felt her hesitate
slightly because of her surprise, he smoothly rolled her over onto her
back to pin her shoulders to the bed. Much better, he thought. You
can't resist now, my pretty bird, as Francesca willingly yielded to his
tongue.
He could feel her foot begin to stroke his leg through the
sheet. "Who are you?" he panted.
Francesca was lost in a world of liquid ecstasy. "It
doesn't matter, just kiss me," she murmured as she again drew him
into her mouth.
"FRASER!!"
Meg Thatcher threw the civilian clothes she had brought for
him in the general direction of the chair. His starched and ironed boxers
flew through the air like a frisbie. "FRASER!!! What are you doing?"
she demanded as she pried him off Francesca.
"Ouch!" Frannie yelped when Thatcher grabbed her
by the arm.
"You slut," Meg hissed as she hauled her off the
bed.
"Oh, no! Don't take her away!" Fraser implored.
Just when he was going to score, he thought in bewilderment.
The Inspector was beside herself with rage. "Didn't they
tell you he is not acting like himself?"
"He seemed to understand everything we talked about--"
Francesca tried to explain as she straightened her clothes.
"--He doesn't understand anything. Just get out. Get
out!!"
"Well, excuuuse me," Frannie retorted as she
turned on her heel and left in a huff.
Thatcher was livid as she turned on Fraser. "Well, that
was quite a scene, wasn't it?"
He was still trying to calm himself: Just when things were
getting hot, this bitch walks in and spoils it. "Why did you make
her leave? Because you're my boss?" He struggled to understand.
"That much you got right." Meg made a monumental
effort to keep the hurt from showing and look like she was in charge.
"Look, Fraser. I've called Ottawa and--"
"--Why do that? Who do you know there?"
"Just listen. You are a Canadian...A Mountie. At least
you *were*. I called Headquarters and told them what happened.
They wanted you sent back there as soon as you are discharged from hospital.
They finally agreed to let you stay at the Consulate--"
"--Consulate? What's a Consulate?" Fraser remained
clueless.
"The place where you work...You had come to Chicago on
the trail of your father's killers--"
Fraser was incredulous. "--My father is dead?"
"Yes, and you have remained attached to the Consulate
since then. My point is, there is a better chance of your memory being
triggered if you stay in familiar surroundings. I'm the RCMP Inspector
there, your superior."
"Inspector Thatcher."
"At least you remembered that much." She was confused.
If he could finally remember my name correctly, why couldn't he remember
about the Consulate and all the other things, she thought. "Ray
will be by tomorrow when you are discharged. I've brought you some clothes,"
she continued as she gathered them up to put them on the chair. "He'll
bring you to the Consulate. Do you understand?"
"I'm beginning to."
"I'll see you there," she called over her shoulder
as she left the room with relief.
CHAPTER 10
"OK, people. Let's get moving." Welsh trotted around
the bullpen. "The Inspector helped us find Ray and Fraser out in
the middle of Lake Superior. We owe her....big time. I want to know
everything about the bastard who abducted her: where he lives, where
he hangs out, what he has for breakfast, how many sheets of toilet paper....you
know the drill. He may still be in the area. Huey! What do you know
about the stolen car?"
"Not too much," the detective checked his notes.
"It was stolen from a guy named Frank James."
Welsh did a double take. "Now, that's ironic,
isn't it? And where does Frank James live?
"South Chicago. I have his address here."
"So get over there! Solvay may live in the area or be
familiar with it, because that's where the car was. He may still be
holed up somewhere."
"I'm on it, Chief."
"And find out if James was in on it," Welsh called
to him as he hustled out of the squad room.
Welsh tried to get a handle on the facts of the case. "You
say he is on parole?" he grilled Dewey.
"Yeah."
"Anyone talk with his parole officer yet?"
When Kowalski and Dewey shook their heads 'no,' Welsh exploded.
"Has everyone's brain stopped working around here? Solvay gave a
false address when he signed on at the theater. Ergo, he has been trying
to dead-end us. He isn't as smart as he thinks he is. His parole officer's
got his correct address. Dewey, pay P.O. Miller a visit."
"Ah, Lieutenant? What do you want me to do?" Ray
ventured.
"For right now, keep on Fraser's ass. From what you tell
me, the Inspector's gonna be hard put to keep Fraser's libido reined
in. She could use some help.... Francesca!" he called. "Where
the hell is she?"
"Left her at the hospital. She insisted on seeing him."
"Oh, for Christsakes! God help us all."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"....Yeah, you've been living here ever since that tenement
you had rented burned down last fall," Kowalski explained as he
followed Fraser into the Consulate.
"Nothing looks familiar," Fraser remarked as he gazed
around. He wore the clothes Meg had brought to the hospital the day
before. The Levi's were bunched around his boot tops, but for some
inexplicable reason the jeans had shrunk. Without a belt, they now rode
low on his hips and stretched tightly across his thighs. One could wonder
how he was able to pull them over the starched boxers. The plaid shirt,
with the top two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows,
was casually stuffed into his Levi's. Still unshaven. Tousled hair
completed the picture of Fraser: rugged and randy.
Their entrance interrupted the quiet ticking of the grandfather
clock in the hallway and Turnbull rose from his unending paperwork to
say, "Ah, Sir! It's good to see you back."
Hearing the commotion, Meg went to greet Fraser, as did Diefenbaker.
The wolf was glad to see his friend on any terms but when Meg saw the
'new' Fraser, she was not so sure.
"Yes. Well, I imagine you want to refamiliarize yourself--"
Meg began as she ushered him further into the hallway.
"--Fraser, I'm going back to the station," Ray interrupted.
He figured it was up to Thatcher from this point. "Call me if you
need anything."
Fraser nodded absentmindedly as he tried to concentrate on
Meg's tour of the Consulate. "This is my office," she continued.
"And our official greeter, Constable Turnbull.... " (who gave
Fraser the 'thumbs up' signal) "...Our meeting room, "she gestured,
"and the kitchen is back there."
"What's upstairs?"
"Bedrooms."
Fraser's eyes lit up.
Meg caught his look. "For visiting dignitaries,"
she warned. "Your room is back here," she continued as she
walked toward the back hallway. "Here we are..." She led
Fraser into his tiny room. It was as he had left it three days ago,
except for his soiled red tunic which she had hung on a hook by the door.
"So, this is where I've been hanging out?"
"You don't remember?"
"I feel like I'm lost in space. Are you sure you're
not some alien that has abducted me?" he teased her.
"No, Constable." She was not used to him acting
like this. So casual, so unserious. She knew she had to remain
firm and very professional with him. Keep him grounded. "Perhaps,
given enough time, your memory may return. Go through your personal
possessions here, such as they are. They might be triggers for you.Meanwhile, I have a lot of work to do. Feel free to come and ask,
should you need anything."
"I dunno. How can I know what I need if I don't know
who I am?" he said to her retreating back as she left, shaking her
head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Huey was not having much luck as he stood on the blustery corner
of Cosenza and Menomonee. The wind whipped Solvay's mug shot from his
hand. He chased after it and finally stepped on it to prevent its escape
but had to pry it free of the discarded chewing gum on the sidewalk.
A string of the gum remained attached to the paper as he held
it up to a man passing by. "Hey, have you seen this guy around
here?"
"Nah, I ain't seen him," the man answered and quickly
passed by.
Another man walked past the detective who tried to stop him.
"Sir! I'm trying to find this man. Have you seen him?"
Hardly breaking stride, this passerby barely glanced at the
mug shot before saying, "Sorry, can't say that I have," and
continued on his way.
What's with these people? Huey thought. Maybe it's my approach
technique. I'll try the 'courteous' one on her, as he stopped a woman,
carrying two shopping bags, who trundled along the sidewalk.
"Pardon me, ma'am. I'm with the Police Department. We're
working on a big case right now and I'm trying to find this man. Do
you recognize him?"
She set the shopping bags down to look at the photo closely.
"No, I don't. Does he live around here?
Huey was up-front with her. "We don't know, but he might."
"Well, everyone in the neighborhood always goes to Charlie's
diner for coffee and gossip. It's down one block on the left. You might
try there."
"Thank you, Ma'am, you've been a big help."
CHAPTER 11
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK.... As the clock in the entry hall continued, Fraser began to
look around his room by idly picking up a few things on his desk. Diefenbaker
watched him carefully and whined each time Fraser shook his head 'no,
I don't recognize this.' TICK....TOCK.... The Mountie eventually opened the closet door. Native chant
music flooded the room. However, Fraser neither could hear it nor see
that the back of the closet led into his father's 'office.' He examined
his meager clothing, took out a plaid shirt out and held it up for assessment.
TICK....TOCK....
"What could I have been thinking of when I got this?
Definitely not a babe magnet," he mused aloud. "Oh, the
hell with it. I'm getting hungry," he decided. "What's the
name of that dufus in the hallway? Turkey? Turnkey? Oh, yeah, Turnbull.
I'll ask him."
"So, what do you do for food around here?" Fraser
asked as he approached Turnbull's hallway desk. TICK....TOCK....
"Perhaps you should inquire of the Inspector." Turnbull
came up for air from under his mountainous paper work to motion toward
Thatcher's office.
Fraser wandered in there to find her working intently at her
lap top computer. Lounging in front of her desk, he tried to get her
attention. "Er....."
Continuing to work without looking up, "Yes?" she
asked.
"Er...well...." He hated this. Having to ask about
something he should know about.
"Yes, Constable?" Meg prodded as she looked up.
At least he is beginning to ask, instead of staying in his room
all day, she thought.
"I'm getting hungry. What's to eat?"
Good God! Does he think I'm his housekeeper? "I showed
you where the kitchen is. It's fully stocked. Go make yourself something.
I've never been responsible for putting food on your table before and
I'm not about to start."
"OK, OK, I just wondered." Fraser backed off from
her apparent anger. Instinctively he dropped his casual slouch and came
to reasonable attention.
"And by the way," Meg continued, "your wolf
has refused all the food Constable Turnbull and I offered him while you
were in hospital. Even Cheese Doodles. I understand that's his favourite.
You had better feed him, also."
"Uh-huh. I'll do that," Fraser said as he backed
out the door.
Thatcher returned to the lap top and silence descended again
on the Consulate, save for the click of the lap top keys, Turnbull rustling
his papers, and the louder TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK of the grandfather
clock.
Thatcher almost dumped the lap top onto the floor and Turnbull
flinched to send a pile of papers off his desk when a loud explosion
shattered the silence. She ran into the hallway to see Fraser coming
out of the kitchen. His shirt was covered with whitish lumps.
"Good God, Constable! What did you do?"
"I was only trying to microwave some potatoes and--"
"--Did you fork them first?"
He gave her a quizzical look. "Fork them? Can you do
that with potatoes?"
"Yes, fork them," she tried to explain. "You
know....stab them with a fork so they don't explode in the microwave."
He really is impossible. The kitchen must be a disaster. "Oh,
just go clean the place up....Yourself included," she retorted as
she went back to her office. "You're a mess."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"So, Miller is taking the day off?" Dewey flirted
with the file clerk.
"I don't think you could call it a vacation," she
tentatively smiled at him. "He's having an impacted wisdom tooth
pulled."
Dewey winced. "Ouch. But can you get me Bobby Solvay's
record anyway? I gotta find out where he lives. Big case at the 27th."
"Sure can." She went to a nearby desk, rifled through
some papers and brought back a heavy file. "Here it is."
Dewey glanced through the file and took some notes. "Thanks
a lot. I know that Miller will feel much better when you tell him Solvay's
involved in a robbery and hostage situation. Looks like he will be back
behind bars for a long time when we get him. Ciao!"
CHAPTER 12
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK....As Thatcher worked at her desk,
she glanced up as thuds and banging noises came from Fraser's room.
Puzzled, she followed the sounds through the back hallway and pushed
open his door. His room was a disaster and he was in the process of
finishing it off: his cot was overturned, the desk chair upended, the
desk had been swept clear, and all the storage boxes that had been piled
high atop cabinets were broken and scattered about the floor.
"Dammit!" Fraser had his back to the door and raged
as he smashed another box.
"Fraser?" Meg called tentatively.
"God damn it!!!"
"Fraser?" she said more forcefully.
"This friggin' room's a jail cell!" Fraser threw
another box against the wall.
"Constable! What are you doing?" She was
nonplused at his language; she never had heard him swear -- ever.
He heard her this time and turned to face her with eyes
blazing.
"What?!!"
"Get a hold of yourself....You're destroying government
property."
"I don't give a rat's ass! I can't stand it!!"
"Fraser, you really can't behave like this," Meg
said. She was becoming frightened of his behaviour. So violent.
So angry. Nothing ever had seemed to bother him like this before now.
She started to back out of the room. "Come on, get in control
of yourself. Straighten this place up. You have to live here, you know."
As Thatcher passed Constable Turnbull, he looked up to see
the consternation on her face. He shook his head sadly. He had heard
the exchange between the Inspector and Fraser and did not understand
his behaviour either.
She returned to her office to resume working. TICK.... TOCK....TICK....TOCK,
the clock inexorably ground on in the silence. Eventually, she heard
more noises coming from Fraser's room: nothing like him trashing the
place again, but softer, almost like something being torn or ripped.
When it stopped, she continued on the keyboard. There it is again, she
noted. More data entry. More intermittent tearing sounds interspersed
with the TICK....TOCK.... of the hallway clock punctuated the
silence. Meg laid her glasses down and listened closely. "Now
what is he doing?" Her curiosity aroused, she went again to Fraser's
room.
Fraser had his feet casually propped up on his desk and was
taping up the broken desk lamp with duct tape. All of the storage boxes
he had thrown and smashed were taped back into shape and restacked.
In fact, the entire room was a veritable patchwork of duct tape.
Thatcher surveyed the scene with astonishment. "I couldn't
identify the sound. I see you have repaired all the damage you caused."
"I cleaned the place up like you asked," Fraser responded.
"What I don't understand is why I'm getting such a kick out of this
duct tape. You ever listen to the sound it makes when you pull it off
the roll?"
"Fraser, all Canadians love duct tape. Carry on."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As they stood in the middle of a squalid room, Huey and Dewey
tried to get information about Solvay from the tenement's superintendent
[Red Green cameo role], but were not having much success.
"So you haven't seen much of him....?" Huey prodded.
"Naw. 'Course, I never pay much attention," the Super
explained as he scratched himself. "Too busy trying to keep things
goin' around here....Look at this place," he added and swept his
arm around the dingy room. "This ain't exactly the Ritz."
"Solvay ever have anyone over? Any visitors?"
"Don't think so. Sorta kept to himself, what I could
notice. Look, I gotta unplug a drain. Poke around, if you want,"
the Super offered as he left.
The detectives made a cursory inspection: the closet contained
only a rumpled shirt, the cheap bureau held a pair of socks, the kitchenette
cupboards were bare of dishes, the refrigerator contained a half-empty
bottle of ketchup and a cottage cheese container that emitted the rankest
of odors, and the bathroom was devoid of toilet articles.
The Ducks looked at each other. Dewey summed it up: "Another
big negatory. Welsh ain't gonna like this."
CHAPTER 13
Silence reigned in the Consulate as Meg continued to work.
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK. She occasionally looked up and listened
for any sound of Fraser. Hearing nothing, she returned to the lap top.
After numerous rounds of attentive listening, she mused aloud, "This
can't be good. He's got to be up to something," and went to investigate.
TICK....TOCK.
As Thatcher approached Fraser's room, she saw the door closed.
She quietly opened it and there was Fraser, facing the wall, on his cot.
He was curled into the fetal position with his top arm over his ear,
hand behind his head. She saw that he was convulsed with sobs, as he
writhed on his bed. A wave of tenderness and sadness coursed through
her. Oh, Fraser, she silently agonized. My fallen Mountie. She hesitantly
moved forward a step, but stopped. No, she decided, I can't go to him.
If he ever gets his memory back, he would feel so ashamed that I saw
him like this....Why is it that it's OK for women to cry but men have
to maintain that stiff upper lip? He's always makes himself appear so
strong....I know he has feelings, but he never shows them. TICK....TOCK.
She backed out of the room and silently closed the door. Outside his
room, Thatcher composed herself, took a breath and then tapped on the
door.
When Meg heard no answer, she tapped louder. "Fraser?
Fraser?....May I come in?"
She heard his muffled response, "Just a minute,"
and waited patiently. He finally opened the door and appeared semi-composed,
but Thatcher could see how puffy his eyes were, how emotionally ravaged
he was. "Yeah, come on in," he said as he walked back into
his room and turned to face her.
"I just was wondering how you are doing," she ventured.
"I'm fine, just fine."
"And I wanted to tell you that I'll be leaving for the
day." She looked at him closely. "Will you be all right?"
"No problem."
"Well, all right." There was not much more she could
say; she had given him opportunity to talk. "Don't be too hard
on yourself; it's your first day out of hospital. The doctor said these
things take time."
"Yeah, if I only had a brain."
"Well, take care. I'll see you tomorrow."
After Meg left, Fraser began to wander around his room again,
handling various objects. TICK....TOCK....TICK.... TOCK.
It seemed the hallway clock was even louder. He finally picked up a
volume of his father's diary and read:
"....So, there I was, a hundred kilometers from anywhere. The black
flies and mosquitoes in a feeding frenzy. I began to ask myself if it
was worth it: 'Mounties always get their man.' What kind of motto is
that? All I could think of was that Caroline was now dead. God, how
I missed her. I missed her quiet laughter....how her face would light
up when I came home...the way she..."
"This poor son of a bitch sounds like he was in worse
shape than I am," Fraser remarked.
His father's ghost appeared beside him. "Son! I was
just feeling a little sorry for myself." Fraser Senior pointed
to a page in the diary, "See there? Your mother just died....."
but Fraser could not see or hear him. He read a few more sentences and
then threw it into the wastebasket.
"Screw it," Fraser said, as he went to the closet
for his leather jacket. Of course, while the door was open, he could
not hear the chant music either. "This sucks. Come on, dog, let's
go for a walk."
His father called to him as he and Diefenbaker left, "Son!
It's just as lonely out there as in here! You can be lonely anywhere,
if you have a hole in your soul."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fraser and Dief walked a street in a seedy part of Chicago.
Occasionally the Mountie peered into windows of bars to see the 'good
times' people inside seemed to be having. He sadly moved on, having
to step around winos surreptitiously drinking from brown paper bags.
In the next block, two hookers watched his approach. The blonde
nudged the brunette. Fraser could not hear what they were discussing,
but each pointed to the other and finally the blonde nodded.
"Hey, big boy! How's it goin'?" the blonde greeted
him.
Fraser was slightly nonplused as he stopped. "You talking
to me?"
"You bet!" Nice dog you got there," she remarked
as Diefenbaker returned to Fraser's side and began to smell the hookers.
He wagged his tail. Maybe some female companionship would cheer his
friend up.
The brunette was impressed with the blonde's pick-up technique.
"You go, girl," she giggled.
"Yeah, he seems real friendly," the blonde continued.
"He wanted me to take him for a walk."
"Wanted to have a good time, then?"
"I think he just wanted to whizz."
"You lookin' for a good time?" The blonde hooker
moved closer to him. Her cheap perfume was almost overpowering.
Fraser backed away. "What do you mean?"
"You know, have a few drinks and stuff. My room is just
around the corner there," she gestured. "You wanna come up?"
"I guess so. I'm not doing anything else," Fraser
agreed and then stood there looking at her. She continued to look at
him. Diefenbaker wagged his tail harder. Finally, the blonde glanced
to the other hooker to silently pass the message between them: 'What's
up with this john?' They could not figure him out.
"So?" Fraser inquired.
"She's waiting for you to ask how much," the brunette
coached.
Fraser did not understand. "How much...?"
"How much you got on you," the blonde said.
"I dunno," Fraser replied as he patted the pockets
of his jacket and Levi's. "I don't have any money...Say, what's
this all about anyway?" He looked at her closely. "Are you
trying to rob me?"
The brunette cracked up. "Honey, what turnip truck did
you fall out of?"
The hookers began to laugh outright when Fraser said, "I
don't remember any turnip truck. I was just taking my dog for a walk."
"That's OK, honey, you just keep looking," the blonde
responded between gasps of laughter. "When you find it, climb on
and go back to Kansas."
Fraser really was confused. "Kansas? Why are you talking
in riddles?" Diefenbaker whined as the Mountie started to walk
away and muttered to himself, "My brain is beginning to hurt.
Dief, do you know what they...."
CHAPTER 14
Inspector Margaret Thatcher was surprised when she turned
the door handle to the Consulate. It swung open easily. She looked
elegant in the black dress with the spaghetti straps, the off-black stockings,
and black heels as she stepped inside. "Why isn't the door locked?
It's ten o'clock for heaven's sake!" The entry lights were on but
all the offices were dark. She looked around as she approached Turnbull's
desk. "Turnbull? Turnbull! Where are you?" she called.
"As soon as that moron sees it's five o'clock, he vanishes,"
she muttered. "I told him to stay and keep an eye on Fraser....Good
Lord!...Fraser?" She quickly walked back to Fraser's room and continued
to call his name but slowed up as she entered through the partially ajar
door. She did not want to come in on him like he was the last time.
"Fraser?...I thought he understood he was to stay here.
He was in such a state," she ruminated as she began to look around
his room. "Where could he have gone? Did he leave any clues?"
She handled various objects on his desk and when she picked
up a large canine tooth, she realized what it was and dropped it quickly.
"I don't even want to know how he got that," she exclaimed
in disgust.
She continued to rummage around until she did a double take
when she saw the diary Fraser had thrown in the wastebasket. She retrieved
it and as she opened it, her back was to the door. "Oh, my God!
This is his father's diary. Why would he throw...."
Jacket in hand, Fraser noisily banged the door against the
wall. Meg was startled, whirled around, and clasped the diary to her
breast. Fraser frowned and hesitated at the sight of her in his room.
He was still trying to figure out what those two women meant. Saying
nothing, he dropped the jacket to the floor and slowly advanced on Meg.
"Don't be angry, Fraser," Meg stammered. It looked
like he was stalking her and this was frightening. "I thought you
would be here....I decided to leave the reception early and come back
to see how you were doing."
He continued toward her with unwavering eyes. "Are you
angry? Fraser...?" She felt like a doe caught in headlights and
backed up as he not only reached her but invaded her personal space.
"No, I'm not angry. I believe this is mine." He
was so close to her that he took it from her trembling hands without
extending his arms. Fraser quickly slid his arms around her and impulsively
bent his head down to begin nuzzling her neck. Meg stood there shaking
in fear and surprise as he inhaled her scent deeply several times.
"What's that perfume you're wearing?" he murmured.
This was the last thing she expected him to say. Gathering
up her emotions, she could only reply, "The last time you asked
me, I told you that I loathed perfume...I still do."
"I think I remember that," he whispered as he inhaled.
He dropped further down into the bodice of her dress.
"Fraser!! What are you doing?" Meg mentally fought
for control. She could feel his moist breath on her skin.
"I'm looking for the hairpin...I recall I dropped it in
here somewhere," his muffled voice answered between deep breaths.
Before she could reply, Fraser came up for air with a look of comprehension
on his face. "Ohmigod! I do remember! We were handcuffed together
on that train. My sense of smell is returning!"
He released her and brought his father's diary, which he had
been holding, up to his nose. He deeply inhaled the cover and then opened
it to various pages and smelled them also. "The man who wrote this
was my father. Why would I throw it away?"
She thought he was asking a direct question. "I don't
kn......" but he prevented her from finishing her answer as he returned
to her neck for another deep sniff.
Fraser was so intent on rediscovering his extraordinary sense
of smell that he virtually pushed himself away from Meg and turned to
survey his room. He quickly began picking up random objects and inhaling
their odour. "Yes"..."Uh-huh"... or ... "I
remember that," he exclaimed with each thing he smelled. His movements
were so quick that Meg was wordless as he came back to her neck for further
inhales.
When he smelled the tooth and with a grin on his face, his
only comment was, "Oh, yes!" and returned to her neck. "It's
your pheromones," he explained. "They're my trigger."
He saw the Bay blankets on his cot and went over, picked one
up and smelled it. "HBC--Yellowknife! And, Diefenbaker, despite
my telling him not to, has been on my bed. He's a wolf, not a lap dog."
"Half-wolf, Fraser--"
"--Let me have another smell for reinforcement. I should
have picked up on that," he said as he returned to her neck.
Fraser continued to survey the room and saw his soiled tunic
hanging by the door. He retrieved it and sniffed the spots of mascara
and tears she left on it at the warehouse. As he returned to her, he
tentatively licked the spots and shook his head, 'No,' as in non-comprehension,
he could not 'read' it yet. He held the tunic in front of him.
Towering over her, he asked, "I think these are your tears,
but I'm not sure...Something happened, didn't it?"
"Yes," Meg answered quietly.
He looked keenly into her eyes. "Inspector?" He
searched her face. "Margaret?" he gently asked. "Meg?"
he whispered.
He lowered his arms down to his side and allowed the tunic
to brush the floor as he held it by the collar. The RCMP red serge now
was the only thing that stood between them.
"Oh, God, Meg. I remember now I told you I could not
erase from my memory the 'contact' we had on the roof of that train.
It's the taste of you. You are my trigger."
She was confused. "I am? For your taste? How can--"
"--I can't explain it. I remember that I was able to
track you to a warehouse or someplace....Your pheromones have triggered
the return of my sense of smell. I need you to help me get my taste
back...and maybe my full memory too."
"Full memory?"
"Oh, yes. Can't you see?"
"And then you will stop acting so weird?"
"Uh-huh."
"Back to the normal Fraser, Fraser?" she was still
skeptical.
Giving her his most beguiling look, he affirmed, "Uh-huh.
Trust me."
"Er...I don't know," she equivocated. "Full
memory?"
"Uh-huh."
She started to detect his own scent...the maleness of it.
Her doubt lessened as her own desire grew, but the slight nagging fear
remained. She made her decision. "Well....all right," and
tilted her head upward to receive him.
Fraser slowly released the tunic from his fingers and it crumpled
to the floor. He gathered her in his arms, pinning hers to her side,
and moved toward her mouth. He stopped, tantalizing close.
"You're sure?" he whispered.
When she imperceptibly nodded her assent, he gently took her
mouth in his. As his tongue sought entrance, she pulled back slightly,
but now he was totally in charge and would not be denied. His mouth
and body pursued her, pushing her, body-pinning her against the closet
door. She felt his hardness, smelled his musky odour. She opened her
mouth and he eagerly began to explore its inner depths.
The quiet TICK...TOCK....TICK...TOCK of the clock now sounded like the soothing CLICKITY....CLACK....CLICKITY....CLACK of train cars speeding on their way. Their tongues danced
an erotic tango. He drew her fluids into his mouth to savor her taste
and her tongue willingly followed.
"It's all right now, son. Let nature take its course,"
his father's voice called from the other side of the closet door.
Although Fraser now heard him, the rhythm of the tango was
not broken. He could feel Meg's hands clutching, grabbing the back of
his shirt, her nails scratching his skin through the thin cloth. Their
intimate dance went on....CLICKITY....CLACK and on.... CLICKITY....CLACK. He cupped her face in his hands and entered yet again.
He suddenly moaned and, as he slid his mouth across her cheek
to leave a trail of saliva, he slumped against her with a shudder. "Oh,
God...." he gasped.
Meg was reeling. She had difficulty coming back. "Fraser?"
He groaned again and she extracted her arms from his embrace but
his body held her pinned to the door. "Fraser?"
"Ohmigod, I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled his
face off her cheek to look at her. "I'm so sorry."
She searched his face. "Fraser, what's wrong?"
She had never seen him like this.
"Everything....everything's wrong."
"Why? What's going on?" She struggled to understand.
"Oh, Sir, I'm so sorry."
"Sir? You're calling me 'Sir' after a kiss like that?"
Fraser was on the verge of tears. "I have no excuse
for what I just did...No control....No control."
"Why do you think you need an excuse?"
"You don't know....How can you ever forgive me?...I can't
forgive myself." He lowered his eyes. He could not face her.
"I just kissed my self-respect good-bye. How could anyone respect
or trust me?"
"I don't understand...no self-respect for kissing me?"
"I lied to you."
"Lied?" Meg was incredulous.
Yes, lied. I was putting my own needs first...trying to regain
my sense of taste and my memory....And I asked you to trust me and--"
She reached up to cup his face in her hands and ran a finger
through the sweat on his forehead. "--Ahh, Fraser, you do
sweat."
"W-w-what?" He pulled back slightly from her touch.
"Fraser, I know you were in my condo for a very good reason.
I also know that you read something that you had no business reading
and--"
"--I didn't mean to....totally inadvertent....it matched
your day-timer."
"It's all right. It's really OK," she reassured
him as she draped her arms over his shoulders.
"No, it's not," he insisted. "What I am trying
to tell you is that while I had no memory, I did remember what
you wrote because, just now, when I asked you to trust me, and imposed
this...ah...this osculatory exercise on you, I was driven by more than
just regaining my sense of taste. I was remembering all the...er...ah....urges
I have been having since you and Ray took me to hospital. I was so wrong
to ask you to trust me. You can't trust me. No one ca--"
"--Fraser, don't do this. Please don't," she said
sadly.
"I am so totally disgusted with myself...so ashamed.
I've been acting like those American Presidents. What total disrespect
for you as a person and as my superior...for the RCMP code. Honesty
and integrity? God! I've disgraced the uniform. I have to resign...I
must--"
She put her index finger momentarily on his lips to stop him.
"--Fraser, do you think for one moment that the guilt is entirely
one-sided?"
"Of course I--"
"--Do you remember what else I wrote in my journal?"
He looked at her quizzically. "What are you talking about?"
"Martin. In Calgary."
"What do you mean?"
She looked up at him, searching for a sign of compassion and
possible understanding. "That man was my worst nightmare. I can
hardly talk about it," she began as her eyes brimmed with tears.
"I was new to the posting...not too sure of myself. He wouldn't
leave me alone. He made it quite clear that I was going nowhere in the
RCMP unless," she gulped, "....unless I accepted his advances.
I tried to avoid him for months. He finally cornered me...alone. I
fought him off but he warned me that I had better not say anything because
he would deny it."
The tears freely coursed down her face. "I couldn't take
it any more. I was so angry. I still am, and it happened more than
ten years ago. I filed a sexual harassment charge against him....I had
to. He tried to make it look like I was harassing him. It was
ghastly. You saw how thick my personnel file is?
Fraser had been listening intently and quickly nodded.
"That's why. As my superior, he tried to take advantage
of me to fulfill his own lust. Fraser, I'm no better."
He tightened his arms around her. "Oh, Meg, yes, you
are. Infinitely."
"No. No! Let me finish. You don't understand,"
she insisted as she tried to brush the tears aside. "What I wrote
in my journal about you was private....I never intended to let you know
about it. Yet, when you asked me if you could kiss me, I couldn't say
no...I wanted you...I've ached for you."
"Ummm."
"So, don't start taking on all of the guilt here. I used
you, too. Why do you think I came back tonight? Wearing *this*
dress? I knew you had seen it in my bedroom."
"You should have worn the red silk--"
"--You saw that one too?"
"Saw it. Smelled it."
"God! I feel so ashamed. I
think I used you and you think you used me. Tit for tat, Fras--....Benton,
I think we're even up on this."
Fraser heaved a deep sigh, laid her face again on his chest,
and rested his chin on her head while he pondered their dilemma. "It's
poison, isn't it?" he ventured after a while. "We're poison...
for each other."
She raised her face to look at him. "I don't know. I
really don't. But you can't resign....If you do, then I must, also.
It's only fair. And besides, too many people are relying on you....Look
at Ray. He desperately needs your help to find Solvay. I want that
bastard caught too. Will you do that for me? Please?"
He was again so close to her lips. "Yes...Yes, I will,"he
whispered, "but, how can we put this behind us? I won't be able
to forget your--"
"--I won't be able to forget either....But no one need
know how your memory was triggered to return. That's between you and
me, Benton." And with the hint of a twinkle in her eyes, she looked
deeply into his. "Welcome back...I've missed you...In the meantime,
how 'bout losing the five o'clock shadow and suiting up? You're on duty
for the rest of the night."
Fraser returned her gaze, smiled, and gently gave her a short,
sweet kiss. "Understood," he said softly.
EPILOGUE
Amid the usual intense activity of the bullpen, Lieutenant
Welsh conferred with his detectives. Pacing back and forth, he attempted
to understand the fruits of their investigation. "What's with this
guy Solvay?"
"Chief, all our leads evaporated," Dewey offered.
Fraser, wearing the freshly laundered red serge, interrupted
the discussion as he came into the squad room.
"Fraser--"
"--Hey, Constable, welcome back. We've--"
"--Nice to see you back, Constable," Welsh finished
for all of them. "We were just trying to figure out--"
"--You haven't found Solvay then?"
"Nope," Kowalski admitted.
Huey tried to bring Fraser up to speed on the case. "He
didn't spend much time in that dump of an apartment of his--"
"--And we don't think he had any accomplices in the Theater
heist," Dewey added.
Welsh topped it off. "The only thing we found out is
that a couple of hours ago, his getaway car was found abandoned in International
Falls and--"
"--Yes, it would take him about that long to drive there,"
Fraser pondered. "I imagine he would have wanted to obey all traffic
regulations, so he wouldn't call attention to himself."
Ray had difficulty keeping up with Fraser's thought process.
"So, if he didn't have any friends...Why would he head to Canada?
No connections, nothing. How're we gonna find him in that trackless
wilderness?"
"It's very logical, Ray. International Falls isn't a
very busy border crossing. He probably thought he could casually cross
into Canada on foot. He wouldn't try it in a stolen car."
"But why Canada?"
Fraser patiently explained, "Solvay escaped to Canada
because even the lowest, most vile thief knows how favourable the exchange
rate is on the American dollar. Once across the border, he will make
the exchange and end up with a fortune, by Canadian standards."
Kowalski liked this theory. "So, how to find him?
Fraser turned to Welsh. "Leftenant, I suggest someone
call the Consulate to get the phone numbers for the RCMP detachments
in Winnipeg and Thunder Bay. Fax Solvay's full description and mug
shot to them. They in turn will distribute the information appropriately
to banks and currency exchange centres. Solvay will be apprehended in
short order, I assure you."
"Thank you, Constable. As always, you come through.
Huey, Dewey, get on it."
As the group broke up, Ray suggested, " You want some
coffee? Tea? Come on, my treat," he offered as the two police
officers walked down the hall.
"Ya know, Frase, you're a real piece of work...I'm glad
you're back. You OK now?"
Fraser was more thoughtful than usual. "Yes, now...but
when I had the amnesia..." and flushed bright red as Francesca passed
them, "I did some terrible things..."
"Well, I didn't think so," she said under her breath.
"...Terrible things."
"So, did the Ice Queen find out?"
Fraser stopped abruptly to give him a hard look. "Ray,
she is notan Ice Queen," and resumed walking. As
they turned the corner, Kowalski put his arm over Fraser's shoulder.
"Yeah, women," Ray's disembodied voice said. "If
you ever figure them out, tell me. I got problems, too." Return to Due South Fiction Archive