The Gift of Peace	   The Gift of Peace

 by Debbie Hann

  

 

 Disclaimer: Alliance, of course, owns them, except for a couple of
original characters. I'm just borrowing the group for a bit . . . I'll put
'em back. Really.

 Author's Notes: This story is probably the beta-ed-ist story in history,
but it wouldn't be the tale it is, or as good, without the help of some
wonderful people, so thank you to: Melanie, Jim, Lucky, Margaret, Lora,
and especially Jo, Ali, Kelly, and Courser. You all know why! 
And thank you to all you very kind people who kept asking where the HECK
this story was! <wg> Yeah, well, um, here it is at very long last. I'm
sorry it took me so long. And, yes, there will, eventually, be a 3rd
"Gifts" story -- Ray K's story -- but I'm not making ANY promises on the
timeline this time!! :)

 Story Notes: There's a number of brief mentions of episodes, but nothing
major . . . and, finally, the poem Fraser quotes is from
http://www.beautyworlds.com/inuit.htm 

 This story is a sequel to: The GIft of Joy 

 

 Chapter 1 

 Meg Thatcher stood in the doorway of her bedroom, one hand on the door,
and looked at Benton Fraser. 

 He stood by the living room window, looking out at the night. He was
trying to hide it, but she could see the tension and the confusion
reflected in the lines of his back. Instead of the normally smooth line of
his shoulders, she could see the pattern of his shirt being disrupted by
muscles that kept tensing and relaxing, as though if he didn't make a
constant effort to ease them, they would bunch back up of their own will.
He should have looked casual and relaxed in his jeans and flannel shirt,
but he didn't. Not any more. 

 Regret sliced through her again as she watched him shift his eyes from
the darkness down to his Stetson. With the crown held in his right hand,
and the brim in the other, he began rotating the hat through his left hand
in half-turns, keeping a steady rhythm. She could see his profile more
clearly now, and there were new brackets and creases around his mouth
where there hadn't been any only an hour before. The skin across his
cheekbones was also stretched more tautly than usual, adding to the
growing air of despair closing in around him. He'd been so happy and open
when he had picked her up at the airport. This man standing at her window
looked like an entirely different person. Why did it have to be this way? 

 "Fraser," she said softly. 

 The way his head jerked up, her voice could have been the echo of a
shotgun breaking into the silence. The brackets around his mouth became
whiter. "Fraser? You had been calling me Ben." 

 She felt a surge of gratitude that her arm was out of his sight behind
the door so that he couldn't see the way her fingernails where now digging
into her palm. Meg didn't know how to reply to that, not when everything
inside her was screaming at her to take him into her arms and hold him
tight. To never let him go. Ben. But she couldn't. So she said only, "I
think it would be better if you left now. I'll see you at work tomorrow." 

 "And that is-" 

 "And that is all I have to say, Constable," she interrupted, falling back
into the voice of command, not knowing what else to do. She had to get him
out of here. 

 "Is it something I did? Something that happened the other night?" The
mute appeal in his body language was just as wrenching as the tone of his
voice. 

 "It isn't you." She spoke quickly, rushing to cut him off before he said
anything more about the night before she had left for Ottawa, and
hurriedly halted her own thoughts before the memories broke through the
feeble barriers she'd managed to erect. "It's me. I just can't do this; it
wouldn't work. It won't." 

 She knew the words sounded as empty and trite to him as they did to her.
She was only making this worse by saying things like the polite lover's
lies people used when breaking up with someone. But there really wasn't
anything else to say. She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't do
that to either of them. 

 He looked at her searchingly, his gaze pointed, but what was behind his
eyes was flat, broken. "Won't you tell me why? Please." 

 She could hear the pain in his voice, confusion roughening the words, and
his plea almost shattered the remnants of her control. 

 "There isn't anything more to say. I simply think it's best if we end
this relationship before it goes any further. I'm sorry if you thought
there was something more between-" 

 "If I thought there was something between us?" he cut her off, his
fingers turning white around the brim of his Stetson. "I thought I knew
there was, Meg. Are you sure this is what you really want? Because I
don't. I love-" 

 "Don't, please. Don't say anything else. Please, just accept this. I
don't know what else there is to say to make you understand. I tried to
make you understand in the car, but you wouldn't listen." 

 Blotches of color stained his cheeks as she cut off his declaration, but
he didn't say anything else as he jammed his hat on his head with hands
that shook slightly. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he dragged his
eyes from her. He didn't stumble as he walked towards the door, but she
was left with the impression that the confident rhythm of his stride was
broken. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, he tried one last time,
but kept his eyes locked on the door. "Is this really how it is going to
end between us?" 

 "Yes." There was no other answer so she added nothing to the stark word. 

 For a moment she thought he might turn back and protest again, but in the
end his own internal code of chivalry prevented him from contradicting
her. As she had known it would. Closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to
see him walk out the door for the last time, she waited for him to leave.
A moment later, she heard the soft click of the latch punctuate his
reminder; "Lock your door." 

 Then he was gone. 

 She sank to the floor and looked down at her palm in surprise. There were
four angry marks gouged into it.  

 Chapter 2 

 Benton Fraser sat on the edge of his cot at the Consulate, his elbows
digging into his knees and his face cupped in his hands. Although he
wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten back here, he was fairly certain
he'd walked. He hoped so; he hated to think that he might have driven in
this state. 

 As he sat there thinking, or rather not thinking, just fixated on her
telling him it was over, he tried to tell himself that he needed to lie
down, to go to bed. He had been repeating 'things will look better with
the light of day' like a mantra, trying to find something to hold on to,
but it hadn't been working; he didn't see how things could be better.
Images of ice and frozen landscapes had always appealed to him; they had
been what he was drawn to and loved. But now, as he looked at his own
internal landscape, he felt like his heart, or maybe his soul, had been
buried deep inside the ice floes around Great Bear Lake. He couldn't help
but be distantly appalled at how frozen he felt. How jagged. It felt like
his insides had frozen over suddenly like waves sometimes do on the lake,
the ice catching them in place, motionless shapes, icy reminders of a
warmer past. 

 The evening had started out so well. Even now, as immobile as he felt, he
could still remember the excitement and hope he'd felt while driving to
the airport to pick up Meg. She had flown to Ottawa for a RCMP management
conference two days ago, and he had been rather amused at his eagerness to
see her. Now, however, the anticipation of seeing her again was completely
different. Evidently, all he could look forward to was seeing the
inspector, not the woman he had gotten to know over the past few weeks. 

 Thinking back over those weeks, it was clear the incident in the
consulate's kitchen at Francesca and Turnbull's reception had changed
everything. Once everyone else had gone home, he and Meg had sat in the
kitchen having coffee and talking into the early morning hours. After
several lingering kisses in the foyer, each one longer than the last, she
had finally left somewhere around 4:30 a.m. Luckily the next day had been
a Sunday and neither of them had had to report to work; otherwise their
duties might have seriously suffered. 

 Before she'd arrived that Monday morning, he'd slipped out of the
consulate to go the precinct and ask both Rays for the name of an
appropriate restaurant for his first official date with Meg. Even knowing
the ribbing he would have to endure hadn't deterred him from asking for
suggestions because he had known both of his friends would be happy for
him. 

 Both men had been in one of the interrogation rooms; Kowalski was filling
Vecchio in on the cases he had worked on while Vecchio was undercover, and
they were deep in the details of the incident involving the Robert
Mackenzie. When they had seen Fraser stick his head in the door, however,
all serious talk had ended immediately, and they had both tossed down
their pens and grinned up at him. 

 Kowalski had tipped his chair back, folded his arms over his head, and
said, "Hey, Fraz-ure," drawing out his name. "So, how was the rest of your
weekend?" 

 Talking to Kowalski but keeping his eyes on Fraser, Ray Vecchio had said,
"Think we oughtta do a hickey check? You know those Canadians; she
might've left teeth marks." 

 The blond cop had hooted with laughter at the rising blush on Fraser's
face. "Yeah, Fraze, did she need anymore first aid? You didn't have ta'
perform CPR on 'er, or anything, didja?" 

 Trying to put an end to the teasing, but knowing it wouldn't work, he had
replied, "The rest of my weekend was quite satisfactory, thank you for
asking. If you're both finished, could I please ask for some advice?" 

 The idea of Benton Fraser actually asking for advice had been enough to
make the front legs of Kowalski's chair hit the floor with a bang. Vecchio
had spoken first though, his words flowing out in a silky drawl. "Yeah,
Benny; kissing on the first date is fine." 

 "Thank you, Ray, I'm glad you approve." Fraser let him chew on that for a
moment before continuing, "I need a recommendation for a restaurant to
take Inspector Thatcher to for dinner." 

 "You mean you two are going to go out in public? Be seen together where
someone else could see you? Actually eat together?" Vecchio slapped his
hands to his face, mimicking shock perfectly. 

 Cocking his head at the Italian cop, he had replied, "Yes, Ray, I believe
it is commonly called 'a date.'" 

 "Unreal," Kowalski broke in. "I didn't think you'd ever get ta' date the
Ice Queen." 

 "She is not an Ice Queen, Ray." 

 "Yeah, I guess you would know a little bit more about that, wouldn't ya,
Benny?" Vecchio shot back. 

 He had just looked at both of his friends, waiting, and both had looked
abashed seconds later. 

 "Sorry, Fraze. Uh, restaurants. I'd tell ya' Stella an' mine favorite,
but I don't think ya' want that kinda karma." 

 "Are you looking for atmosphere, Benny, good food, or just a nice place?"


 "I don't know, Ray," he replied, feeling slightly out of his depth. "I
just want to take her out for a meal at a nice restaurant." 

 After some debate, they had settled on a quiet French restaurant called
Chanticleer, and he had deflected further comment by turning the
conversation back to the cases he and Ray Kowalski had worked on while
Vecchio was gone. 

 The night he and Meg had eaten at the restaurant, they lingered so long,
the maitre d' had hovered until they'd finally taken the hint and gone
home. That evening had brought about an ease in each other's company that
had only been fleeting before, Fraser thought, continuing to examine the
last few weeks. The night at Chanticleer had been followed by several
others that were less formal, but no less meaningful. They might have
worked together for three years, but there was still a great deal about
each other's lives that they didn't know. As they both had lowered their
emotional barriers, he had become more and more entranced with the person
she began revealing to him. He had known about her quick mind, but she had
an avid wit, she had traveled across Africa while attending college in
Paris, she enjoyed Monty Python, and she even loved to play hockey,
although she'd had to content herself with just watching pro games lately.


 They had attended a hockey game together, but in the days after their
first few dates, two contingents of ambassadors and administrators had
visited Chicago, one right after the other, so their time together had
been limited. Nonetheless, for the first time in his life he had been
almost giddy with happiness. Ray and Ray had teased him about glowing, but
he felt like he was. With Victoria, he had been irresistibly drawn to her,
but by getting to know Meg, he now realized for the first time how little
Victoria had given back to him. She had pulled emotions out of him, but
offered little of herself in exchange. The growing intimacy between
himself and Meg Thatcher, in contrast, had only cemented his feelings that
whatever it was that he had felt for Victoria, it had been far closer to
obsession than love. He had been looking for a way to fill up his heart,
to draw her in and stop up the holes he thought had always existed inside
him. But with Meg, he felt like he was opening himself up, letting his
emotions and feelings expand, and they were filling up the emptiness. This
was not a drawing in, it was a release, and it was the most incredibly
freeing experience he had ever had. 

 Then, a couple days after the hockey game, and four days ago, she had
gotten a message requesting her presence at the conference in Ottawa for
that weekend with only one day's notice. It had meant that their plans to
go out to Oak Park and visit Frank Lloyd Wright's home had had to be
postponed, but he hadn't minded, especially since she had rushed through
her packing that night so that they could go to dinner together. When he
had arrived at her townhouse to pick her up, however, she had looked so
tired, he had tried to cancel for the evening. She had suggested pizza and
watching a movie on her VCR instead. 

 Perfectly content to spend time with her any way he could, he had
accepted with alacrity. Going through her tape collection, which included
movies as varied as Die Hard, The Stratford Festival's The Mikado - they
had talked briefly about the outstanding performance by the actor who
played Pooh Bah - and Arsenic and Old Lace, he had settled on The Cutting
Edge. He hadn't seen it, but the idea of a love story between a figure
skater and a hockey player sounded appealing. 

 Chapter 3 

 As he sat in his room on his cot, Fraser finally collapsed on his side,
keeping his hands over his face and curling up his legs as he thought
about what had come next. They hadn't ended up watching very much of the
movie. Ensconced on the couch, they had soon moved from sitting facing
each other, feet tangling, to her snuggled up against his chest between
the bow of his legs. He had been so aware of the weight of her body
against his chest, he'd quickly given up on watching the movie and savored
her warmth against him. Fraser wasn't sure how long they sat like that,
but he had eventually been unable to resist the curve of her neck and the
edge of her hair giving way to the slope of skin. 

 Moving only his head, he began whispering kisses across her nape. Her
gasp had seemed to push her head back, and given access to the front of
her neck as her head fell against his shoulder, he continued the path of
kisses around her collarbone. When he felt her lean up to nuzzle and lick
his earlobe, his groan had shaken through both of them. 

 It was easy to recall the feel of her lips beneath his, the increasing
ferocity of their kisses, the welcome slide of their mouths, as he wrapped
his arms around her and turned them both on their sides so they were lying
on the couch. As he mapped her face and neck with kisses and small darts
of his tongue, she had burrowed her free hand beneath his flannel and
undershirt. The score of her fingernails against his chest made it feel
like all the blood in his body had rushed to the surface of his skin,
enflaming him and making him pant in need. Groaning again, and capturing
her smaller hands with his, he had felt compelled to ask, "Are you sure?" 

 In answer, she had wrapped one of her legs over his hips and pulled him
close, grinding their hips together and simultaneously ratcheting up their
desire. Just in case she hadn't been clear enough, between deep, sliding
kisses, she had said, "Yes. Oh, yes." The little puffs of air from her
words landed against his lips, and he had licked his lips, savoring the
caress of her words. 

 Rolling her beneath him, he began gently rocking his hips against her,
glorying in the pressure; pulling her blouse out of her jeans, he'd
started trailing another line of kisses, this time up her abdomen. He
hadn't gotten very far above her lower ribs, however, before she had
tangled her fingers in his hair and lifted his head. His moue of
disappointment had vanished, however, when she said, "Bedroom. Now, Ben.
Please." With one last roll of his hips, he pushed himself off her and
bent down to pick her up. She, however, had had other ideas. 

 Dodging his hands, she had flashed him a saucy grin and danced out ahead
of him. Walking backwards towards her bedroom, she reached down and peeled
off first one sock, and then the other, dropping them randomly as she
continued back. Smiling into his eyes, she had lowered her hands to the
button of her jeans, and undone it. She must have read his intention of
rushing forward and sweeping her off her feet on his face, because she
shook her head slowly and removed her hands from the zipper. Seeing that
he understood, she dropped her pace towards the door to her room and moved
her hands again, this time to the buttons on her blouse. Toying with the
lowest button for a moment, she had undone it slowly. The heat pooling
below his belt had exploded again, making his skin feel like it was
catching fire. But as he had eased forward a few paces, she had countered
him by backing away, undoing one button and then another, lingering
between each. Tantalizing glimpses of skin and a lacy lavender bra had
teased him. Suddenly, she stopped backing up, and rapidly undoing the last
two buttons, had slipped the blouse off her shoulders and turned around in
the same smooth motion. Flashing him a teasing smile over her shoulder,
she dropped her blouse and slipped into the bedroom. 

 Quickly closing to where she dropped her blouse, he had reached for it
almost without thought and still been able to feel her warmth, but his
distraction, pleasant though it had been, robbed him of the sight of her
slipping off her bra and leaving it gently swaying on the doorknob. Her
call of "Oh, Constable . . ." got his legs moving once again, and he had
almost run into the bedroom, only to come to a complete stop at the sight
that greeted him on the bed. 

 She had been lying on the bed supine, bathed in the glow of the small
lamp on her bedroom table, leaning up on her elbows. Her jeans were gone,
but any regret he felt vanished when she had smiled beckoningly, and
sending a meaningful glance down her body at her panties, assured him, "I
left something for you, but I think you're a trifle over dressed, Ben." 

 He could still feel her use of his first name, so rare in his life,
licking at him, and the urgency in the way he had frantically undone his
jeans. The fact that he had been removing his pants most of his life
hadn't seemed to matter as the legs got twisted around his feet, but her
husky laughter had motivated him to solve the problem quickly. He sent his
pants sailing across the room with a kick. Both of his shirts went flying
in the other direction. He hadn't even heard his voice in his head
castigating him for his messiness, he had been so intent on getting to Meg
and being able to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. Clad only in his
underwear, he had moved lithely towards the bed. 

 "I always had you figured for a boxer-man." He could hear her voice
echoing in his head. 

 "Oh, did you now?" he remembered responding. 

 Placing one knee on the bed, he had framed her with his arms, keeping
them straight at the shoulder, but bowing his elbows as he slowly lowered
himself over her. "What else did you figure about me?" 

 "Well, I figured you'd be pretty good at this kind of thing." 

 "Hmmm," he had sighed back, nuzzling the side of her breast. He
remembered feeling, rather than seeing, the muscles in her neck clench.
"Allow me to see if I can exceed your expectations." 

 Perhaps he hadn't. Maybe that was why she had acted like the way she had
tonight. 

 Yet later, she had clung to him as he ran the backs of his fingers from
the hollow at her neck, to the hollow where her leg joined her hip, and
back, as they lay on their sides, bodies quiescent, cooling in the pool of
yellow light from the lamp. Furthermore, when he had reached down to cover
them up with the sheet, she had wrapped her arms around him again and run
her tongue along his collarbone. 

 Besides that, he could still hear her next words, some time later. "I was
right." 

 "About what?" 

 "You are very, very good at this kind of thing. However, I believe I need
to repeat the experiment to verify the data." 

 "Ah," he had pretended to consider her idea while running his thumb along
her lower lip. "To test your hypothesis. I understand." Exerting just
enough pressure to part her lips with his thumb, he had savored the touch
of her tongue against his skin and then began trailing his index finger
down her chin and neck. "I commend your dedication." 

 Laughing a little breathlessly as he had run his fingertips up and down
her body, she replied, "Anything for science." Those were the last
complete words either of them had said for a long time. 

 The creaking of the cot made him realize that he was rocking back and
forth trying to ease the pain of the memories. Stopping himself by
clenching the metal pole on the edge of the cot, he lost himself in the
memories again. He could still feel her touch on his skin. 

 Oh, God. What had happened in Ottawa? They had been so close the night
before she had left. He had even driven her to the airport the next
morning and left her with a lingering kiss outside the gate. 

 Oh, God. His mind leapt in a new direction, casting about for any
explanation for what had happened to change her mind, to make her break up
with him. What if she had been attacked? His whole body tensed. 

 Oh, God. That might explain it. When she had gotten off the plane this
evening, her movements had seemed disconnected, almost clumsy. That hadn't
fully registered in his mind until now, however. He had been so eager to
see her and hold her again that he had had to hold himself physically back
from pushing through the throng of other people waiting for loved ones.
Even knowing all his feelings must've been shining out of his eyes, he had
held her gaze as she came closer and smiled into her eyes. 

 As soon as she came closer, though, he had known something was wrong. She
hadn't smiled back, and she had been looking at the bridge of his nose,
not his eyes. And her eyes were not shining or even moving. She looked
tired, but it was more than that. She looked . . . broken. It was as if
something that had been there before the trip had been removed, and, now,
she was missing something integral . . . some piece of herself. He could
see that lack reflected in her eyes, and it hurt to see it. Immediately
concerned and alert, he had reached for her carry-on, and wrapping his arm
around her shoulders, asked, "What is it? Are you all right?" 

 For a moment she had seemed to lean against him, but then she had
straightened and shrugged his arm off. "Yes, I'm fine. But we need to
talk." 

 The chill enclosing him begun spreading at that moment, growing until it
was immobilizing his entire being as it did now. 

 Chapter 4 

 Standing there in the rush of people, Fraser, afraid of what she was
going to say next at some innate level, had said, "All right; let's go get
something to eat-" 

 "No." The stark word had been only slightly softened as she continued.
"Thank you, but I just want to go back home." 

 He vaguely remembered nodding jerkily, and then feeling his legs moving
as he guided her out to where he'd left the Consulate's car. She had
responded in monosyllables to his questions about her trip and the
conference, so he lapsed into silence, and tried to concentrate on driving
rather than the rising dread he was feeling. 

 She hadn't spoken again until they pulled up to her townhouse. Then,
looking towards him, still avoiding looking directly at him, she began to
speak. "We have had some nice times together, and you know how much I
value you as a member of my staff, but I think it would be best if that is
where we kept our relationship, at work, and sever this more personal
relationship." 

 Nice? Had she really said the time they had spent together was nice?
Thinking back over their conversations and the things they had done over
the past three weeks, the last word he would have chosen was "nice."
Dwelling on her word choice, however, had only been a temporary measure to
deflect having to process the rest of her words. Moving his hands from the
steering wheel, he had put both his hands flat on his thighs, spreading
the fingers evenly and pressing down, turning his knuckles white. "I don't
understand. What happened? What changed? We have been-" 

 "Yes, we have been, but now it is time to stop." Her tone gave little
room for doubt about her meaning. 

 "I see." He tried to answer in the same calm tone, but he could hear the
shock and confusion in his words. 

 Meg moved her hand to the door handle, "Yes, well, thank you for
understanding, and for the ride from the airport." 

 Despite what she had just finished telling him, the fact that she was
thanking him like some sort of lackey ferrying her around made the blood
drain from his face. It felt like it was following his heart all the way
to his feet. 

 "I would like to talk about this," he finally managed to say through the
growing cold taking over his insides. 

 He hadn't acknowledged her reply that there wasn't anything more to talk
about, and got out of the sedan, grabbed her bag from the back seat, and
walking around the car, opened the door on her side. She just sat there
for multiple heartbeats, but then she had looked up at him. And there it
was again. Her eyes looked flat and shadowed. He waited. 

 Eventually she had decided that there was no way that he was going to
leave without talking to her, so she had gotten out of the car and
preceded him up the walkway. Once inside, they had gone another round like
the exchange in the car, getting nowhere. At one point she had yelled at
him and stormed away. He didn't know what she had said; the ice seemed to
have closed up his ears and all he had been able to do is sit there and
watch her mouth move. Ironically, it had been the first time her eyes had
looked like there was still something alive behind them. The slamming of
her bedroom door had jolted him back to reality, and as the echo of the
noise faded, he got up and walked to the window, staring out at the
blackness. A few minutes later she had opened the door back up and asked
him to leave. 

 And now he was here. Alone. He felt like his love for her he had expanded
him so much inside that there was no going back, that without her, his
feelings were going to retract again. Only this time, there was going to
be far more space left than when Victoria had decimated his life, and
without the support of his emotions, everything was going to collapse in
on itself. Cave in. And he didn't know what to do about it. Or how to stop
it. Suddenly he needed someone to hold him, to touch him, to ground him in
reality. But there wasn't anyone here. 

 Diefenbaker. 

 What about Dief? He could lose himself in Dief's long fur and feel the
living, breathing body beneath it. Opening his eyes he looked around for
the wolf, but he didn't see him. Where was he? Oh, yes, Ray Kowalski had
him, was keeping him so that he and Meg would be able to have dinner
alone. A mirthless laugh echoed inside him. At least he didn't have to go
and pick the wolf up; Ray had joked that he would be more than happy to
keep the wolf overnight just in case Fraser was otherwise occupied for the
evening. He didn't even need to call; if Fraser didn't show up to pick
Dief up, Ray would keep him until the morning. No problem. 

 Rolling his head, he realized that his pillow was wet. Oh, God. What was
he going to do?  

 The next morning . . . 

 Fraser walked into the Precinct and looked around for his friends, human
and lupine. Scanning the room, he didn't see the two Rays or Dief
anywhere. 

 In his distraction, he missed Lt. Welsh looking at him and frowning in
concern. The Constable looked terrible. His uniform was neat and his hair
carefully groomed as usual, but Welsh didn't think he had ever seen Fraser
look so pale, not even when he was lying on the train platform after he'd
been shot. Stranger still was the lack of alertness normally so much a
part of the Canadian. Fraser hadn't even acknowledged him before walking
towards the interrogation rooms where Vecchio and Kowalski were catching
up on the last few cases that had happened while Vecchio was undercover
with the Mob. Not wanting to intrude, Welsh didn't follow Fraser. He'd ask
one of the Rays in a few minutes. 

 This time when Fraser opened the door to the interrogation room, both
detectives looked up, but instead of grinning, both jumped to their feet,
immediately alarmed at the way Fraser looked. 

 "Jeezus, Fraze, what is it?" 

 "Benny? Is it Ma? Frannie? Ren?" 

 When Fraser didn't answer right away, or even acknowledge Dief's whine of
concern, Kowalski spoke again, "Ben?" 

 "Don't!" Both detectives' eyes widened at the tone. "I would prefer if
you didn't call me that, Ray. And, no, Ray," he assured the
Italian-American, ignoring the looks on both men's faces, "your family is
fine to the best of my knowledge. I am simply here to pick up
Diefenbaker." 

 "Don't shit us, Benny. Something is wrong. I haven't seen that look in
your eyes since you were in the hospital after getting shot. Did something
happen to Thatcher?" 

 Something flickered in the back of Fraser's eyes, but then it was gone.
"Not as far as I know." 

 "Did you guys have a fight, or sumthin'?" Kowalski asked, trying to
imagine Fraser fighting with anyone as he walked towards Fraser and
gripped the Mountie's shoulder. 

 Fraser turned his head to look at the blond Ray, and smiled a travesty of
a smile. "It appears so, Ray. Inspector Thatcher and I will no longer be
seeing each other outside the Consulate." 

 He stepped out from under his friend's hand; after desperately needing
someone to touch him last night, he now felt like if someone touched him,
his outside would shatter and fall into his empty inside. Then he would
have nothing left. 

 Seeing the questions that they were about to ask, Fraser cut them off.
"Thank you both for your concern, but I am fine. I do, however, need to
get back to the Consulate, so Dief and I need to be on our way.
Diefenbaker?" he said, walking towards the door. 

 "Benny, you are not walking out that door until you tell us what the hell
is going on." Fear for his friend made Vecchio's voice belligerent. 

 "There's nothing to tell. The inspector expressed concerns about a
personal relationship conflicting with our professional one, and so she
feels it is in both of our best interests to stop seeing each other. End
of story." 

 "Christ, Fraze, I'm sorry," Kowalski swore. 

 "Yeah, me too, Benny; is there anything we can do for you?" Vecchio
started to step forward, only to stop at the haunted look that flashed in
his friend's eyes. 

 "No, thank you, both." The Mountie's tone carried a finality neither of
his friends had heard before. "I am fine. Or I will be. But as I said,
Diefenbaker and I must go." 

 "We'll come by later, Fraze. Maybe we can go and get sumthin' ta' eat."
Kowalski offered. 

 "I will see you both later then." Fraser knew his two friends were
staring at his retreating back in concern, but he just didn't have the
words to reassure them, or Dief, who was still whining in inquiry. As they
walked out of the police department, Fraser said, "No, Diefenbaker, there
is nothing more to be said. I do not want you bothering the inspector."
The wolf retreated into offended silence, and as they walked back to the
Consulate, Fraser thought about the last thing he needed to do before
trying to find a way to live and function with this emptiness inside him.
He needed to ask Margaret Thatcher a question.	

 Chapter 5 

 "What the hell did she do to him?" Ray Vecchio asked across the scarred
table. 

 "Whatever it was, it's bad. I've never seen him like that; he's like a
zombie, or sumthin.'" Kowalski replied as he paced. 

 "I haven't seen him like that since Victoria." Vecchio seemed to be
talking halfway to himself, lost in his memories of how Victoria had
almost destroyed his friend, and their friendship. "But even then, I never
heard that tone from him before." 

 "We gotta do something, help 'im. Let's go ask Welsh if we can duck out
and run over to the Consulate. No way I'm lettin' this go the way he's
looking. Did you see the way he wouldn't let me touch him?" 

 The reminder made both men move. Jerking open the door, Vecchio let his
partner spring past him. Ray followed tight on his heels, and they headed
towards the main room, their minds full of the look in their friend's
eyes, and how different it was from the glow of the last few weeks. 

 Welsh was still standing in the middle of the room talking to some of the
other detectives when he caught sight of the two men bearing down on him.
Seeing the looks on their faces, he broke off his conversation, issuing
some terse orders. Looking back at the two detectives stalking towards
him, he preempted whatever they were going to say. "My office. Both of
you." 

 The blinds on the door rattled as he turned to his face two men. "What's
wrong with Fraser? Something happen at the Consulate? He didn't even say
good morning." The Canadian might be a little strange, but he was a good
cop, and a friend. 

 "No, sir, not exactly," Vecchio started. 

 "Whadda say you tell me what it is, exactly," Welsh broke in impatiently,
his tone demanding. 

 "Just getting to that, sir. It seems that Inspector Thatcher has broken
it off with Fraser." 

 "Why'd she do that?" Welsh demanded. "I've never seen either of them so
happy. They held hands during that movie we went ta' see the other night."


 "We dunno, L.T., but Fraze is hurt bad. He even snapped at the two of us.
We gotta do something, sir." Kowalski ran a hand through his spiky hair. 

 "Kowalski's right. We wanna run over there, sir. Just for a few minutes,
then we'll get back to the files." 

 "An' do what, Detective? Scold her harshly? Beat her up for hurting your
friend?" Welsh softened his rebuke with a slight smile. "Now, I know I
can't order you to do things in your personal life, but I think you ought
to give them a few days. Let 'em cool off." 

 Kowalski started pacing in front of the desk; his best friend was
hurtin', he had to move, had to do something. "L.T., you didn't see his
eyes. I've never seen him looking so . . . blank, so unfocused. It was
like he lost his Mountie veneer, or somethin.'" 

 "I understand, Ray, and I agree Red looked bad, but they're both adults;
I think you should give them some time to work this out on their own." 

 Kowalski started to open his mouth with a retort, but Vecchio cut him
off. "Maybe he's right, man. Maybe they just need some space, some time to
themselves." 

 The blond cop didn't look convinced. "Didn't ever work for Stella an' me.
But, then, neither of us is Fraser." 

 The small joke broke some of the tension, but their smiles faded quickly.
Vecchio was the first to speak. "All right. We'll give them a couple
days." He looked determinedly at his commanding officer. "But if he
doesn't lose that look in his eyes, I'm gonna rain all over her body." 

 The three men talked for a few minutes about the old cases the two
detectives were reviewing, but none of them forgot how pale Fraser's face
had looked against the red serge of his uniform.  

 She was sitting at her desk, trying to write a report through burning
eyes, when she heard the firm rap on her door. Oh, God. She knew that
knock. Well, she had to face him sometime. "Come in." Fascinating how much
effort it could take to raise your voice. 

 He walked towards her desk, coming to rest at complete attention. She
made herself look at his face. Grabbing the arms of her chair was the only
way she stopped herself from jumping up and reacting to the white face and
blank eyes. "Yes, Constable Fraser? 

 His eyes were fixed on some point behind and over her head; his voice was
just as rigid. "Sir, I know you said there was nothing more to say on the
subject of our personal relationship, but I have a final question, and
then I will not bring it up again." 

 "I don't think-" 

 "I do." 

 His aggressiveness and resolute tone shocked her so much she fell silent.
'Well, what did you expect, Margaret? You can only push someone so far
before they begin to push back,' she told herself. 

 "Did something happen to you in Ottawa?" he continued, lowering his eyes
to look at her for the first time. "Where you attacked or assaulted in
some way?" 

 "No-" 

 "Do you give me your word?" he demanded, searching her face for the
truth. 

 "I give you my word as an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police
that I was not physically assaulted while I was away." 

 "Thank you. May I be dismissed, sir?" 

 Oh, God. She wished she could reach out to him, thank him for his
concern, tell him how much it meant to her that he had asked that question
even after she had hurt him. But that wasn't possible. "Dismissed,
Constable." 

 Turning on his heel, he walked to the door with measured, military
precision and quietly shut the door. She had never noticed how much this
latch sounded like her door at home. But then again, neither sound had
been imprinted on her soul before.  

 Chapter 6 

 Renfield Turnbull looked at the two closed doors at opposite ends of the
hallway. It wasn't at all unusual for the inspector's door to be shut, but
Fraser almost never shut his door during the day, only at night or while
he was changing. But this had been going on for four days. When Turnbull
arrived at work Monday morning, he'd expected Inspector Thatcher to return
full of new management protocols to brief him on, but instead he'd been
greeted by a tightly shut door, and no briefings at all. She had even
turned down his offer of coffee, and it had been that special mocha blend
she liked so much. But Monday had only gotten stranger when he'd gone to
tell Fraser that a Mr. Johanssen was here to see about his passport. The
other Constable had asked him to take care of it. That had never happened
before. Constable Fraser always handled passport requests. 

 Now it was Thursday, and he had barely seen either of his superior
officers all week. Standing in the hallway, Ren was filled with
indecision. He didn't want to intrude or overstep any boundaries, but
Inspector Thatcher still hadn't briefed him, and the few times he had seen
her, she looked like she hadn't slept in days. Fraser looked even worse;
he had dark circles under his eyes, and this morning, it looked like he
had actually nicked himself shaving. Since he and Francesca had gotten
married and Fraser had helped with the reception, he and Fraser had been
getting closer; Fraser was even teaching him wood carving. Ren liked to
think that the calm he had found since being married to Francesca had
given Fraser and him a connection that they were building on; he
considered Fraser his friend, but he knew the other man was still a very
private person. 

 'What will he think if I ask him what's wrong?' Ren thought, worrying his
lower lip with his teeth. 

 Turnbull looked back towards the Inspector's door, his thoughts shifting
to her. It would be more difficult to inquire after her well-being, but he
was no less worried about her. This morning, he had even brought her one
of the special apricot croissants she was so fond of, but when he had gone
in to empty the trash, it had still been lying there on her desk, off to
the side and untouched. 

 Ren had watched his two co-workers over the last few weeks; they had been
very careful to keep things completely professional at work. To the best
of his knowledge, none of the other staff even knew they were seeing each
other. The only way he'd known for sure that they were dating was that he
socialized with them outside work. 

 Granted, he'd gotten a small clue something might've been going on the
Monday after the reception when he'd seen them leaving work together. He
had stayed late finishing up some requisition orders, and the three of
them had ended up leaving at the same time. 

 As they walked out the door, Inspector Thatcher said him, "We'll be at
Chanticleer," making it clear that they were going together. He'd found
that very interesting since everyone knew it was a fancy restaurant, and
there were no pressing matters Fraser and the inspector needed to discuss
over a working dinner. 

 He had rushed home to tell Francesca. They spent part of dinner
speculating about how Fraser and Thatcher would work an Inuit tale into
their wedding. Francesca had even claimed to know all along that Meg, as
she called her now, had had "the hots" for Fraser for a long time.
Turnbull was a little less certain about that, but whether or not it was
true, over the last couple weeks, both of his superior officers had been
happier, more open, even at work. 

 Not that they had ever been physically demonstrative during working
hours, or even referred to their relationship in the most oblique of
terms; they would never have put their co-workers in such a difficult
position. Still, when the large group of the Vecchio extended family had
gone to see a movie together, the two had held hands in the darkened
theater, and Fraser started bringing Inspector Thatcher to Ma's house for
Sunday dinner. The family all knew something was going on, even if only
the two Rays were giving Fraser a hard time about it. 

 But now something else was going on. They were not only not leaving
together in the evenings, Fraser and Thatcher had hardly left their
offices for the past four days; he had only seen Fraser go into the
Inspector's office once, and she had not taken any forms or questions to
Fraser's office at all. Whatever had happened, it did not seem to bode
well for their relationship. Now, Turnbull stood in the hallway of the
Consulate, rubbing a hand across the polished wood of the banister and
trying to decide what to do about the fact that two people who he counted
among his closest friends were obviously very unhappy. 

 He had nearly decided to go and talk to Fraser when Inspector Thatcher's
door suddenly opened. She started to see Turnbull so close. "Ah, Turnbull,
could you please go and get Constable Fraser. I need to talk to both of
you in my office." 

 "Yes, ma'am, right away. May I bring you a cup of coffee?" he asked in
concern. She really didn't look well. 

 Meg Thatcher smiled wanly. "No, thank you, Turnbull." 

 She turned back to walk towards her desk, and after watching for a
moment, he strode down the hallway to Fraser's office. "Sir?" he called,
knocking gently. "Inspector Thatcher would like to see us in her office." 

 There was silence from the room and then the door opened with a sudden
jerk. "She wants to see me?" Fraser demanded. 

 Startled at such intensity coming from the normally calm man, Turnbull
stammered back, "Yes, sir, she, uh, wants both of us. I don't know why." 

 Fraser seemed to pull back into himself, and the stormy look in his eyes
vanished behind icy blue. "I will be right there, Turnbull." 

 "Yes, sir." 

 Turnbull started to turn away, but stopped and looked back, deciding to
go through with his decision of a moment ago. "Constable Fraser? Are you
alright?" he asked, voice full of concern. 

 When Fraser didn't answer immediately, Turnbull went on, realizing that
he might have offended the other man. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
intrude; you just seem, well, distressed." Turnbull waited breathlessly
for an answer. 

 "Yes, Turnbull, I am fine. Thank you for asking." He stepped through the
doorway. "Shall we go?" 

 "Of course." Turnbull stepped aside so that Fraser could walk in front of
him. "Ah, sir? Do you wish to take a notepad along with you?" 

 Fraser came to a dead stop. "Yes. Thank you." 

 As Fraser went back into his office, Turnbull watched him from the
hallway. Fraser never forgot things. This was serious. 'I have to do
something,' Turnbull thought, worrisome as the idea was. Now wasn't the
time to ponder this, however; they had to go see their commanding officer.


 After Fraser rejoined him, this time armed with notebook and pen, they
walked to Thatcher's office and stood at attention in front of her desk. 

 "At ease, gentlemen, please." As he shifted out of attention, out of the
corner of his eye Turnbull could see that while Fraser had separated his
feet, he kept his arms locked behind him. Pulling his full attention back
to the front, Turnbull listened as his boss went on. "I just received word
that Minister Cloutier will be coming into town next week, so I will
expect you to make sure that everything is shining, polished, and
shipshape before he arrives. Please brief the rest of the staff. Also,
make sure that all paperwork is up to date, and that you have your best
uniforms ready. As you both know, he has been a significant force in my
life, so I will expect nothing short of perfection. Any questions?" 

 Neither man said anything. Turnbull had planned to ask about what kind of
food the Minister enjoyed, but he was so surprised that Fraser didn't have
any questions, he forgot to ask. Fraser always had questions. 

 "No questions? Very well. Dismissed." 

 As Turnbull turned to follow Fraser out of the room, he watched Inspector
Thatcher out of his peripheral vision; she was watching Fraser's back as
he walked out of the room. He realized with a mental start that that was
the first time she had looked directly at the other man. 

 Oh, dear. Clearly something had happened. 

 Glancing back at his superior officer once more as he walked towards the
door, Turnbull caught sight of the small plate off to the side of her
desk. Slipping back, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive way, he reached
out to whisk the plate and its forgotten croissant out of her way, but
stopped mid-whisk. 

 His eyes rounding slightly in dismay, he took in what used to be a
beautifully rounded crescent brushed with an apricot glaze. The gentle
slope of brown pastry was no more. All that remained was a complete
disarray of torn and scattered croissant pieces. 

 Judging by the size of the piles, she hadn't eaten any of it, just torn
it up. Some of the pieces were even balled up, others smooshed flat. It
was a crushed croissant, a dilapidated delicacy . . . a, well, he couldn't
think of one for pastry, but still, apricot croissants were her favorite,
and for her to tear it up like this . . . 

 "Was there something more, Constable?" 

 Inspector Thatcher's voice cracked across jumbled thoughts and he jerked
his still extended arm back to his side feeling even more foolish than
usual. 

 "No, sir; I was just going to clear this plate for you." 

 Shifting her eyes from his face to the plate, he was surprised to see a
slight blush dust her cheeks. "Yes, well, thank you for bringing it for
me. I just . . . I wasn't very hungry this morning." 

 "I quite understand, sir. May I?" 

 She nodded her permission, so grabbing the plate, he left the room as
quickly as he could without leaving a trail of crumbs. Standing in the
hallway once again, staring at the croissant remains, his fears that
something had happened between Fraser and Inspector Thatcher reached new
heights. 

 As he walked to the kitchen to throw the croissant away, he decided he'd
better call Francesca at work; maybe one of the Rays would know what was
wrong. Come to think of it, Francesca had said that they had both been
acting strangely for the last few days, and even Lt. Welsh seemed out of
sorts. Maybe they knew what had happened. 

 But which phone could he use? Walking back to the hallway, he decided he
could hardly ask Fraser or Inspector Thatcher to leave their offices so he
could make a phone call about them. And the phone at the desk in the main
entryway wouldn't work either since it would be too easy to be overheard.
Actually, he thought as he straightened some pamphlets ("Your Government
and You" and "Welcome to Canada") on the desk there in the hall, being
overheard was a problem for any of the phones; just because they hadn't
been leaving their offices didn't mean his two superiors wouldn't. 

 He briefly considered using the phone in the Regal Suite, but the thought
seemed almost sacrilegious. 'No,' he mused, 'perhaps it would be better to
go to the Precinct in person.' Glancing at his watch decided the question
for him: twenty minutes to twelve. He would go there rather than calling
and talk to everyone there. There had to be something they could do to
help their friends. 

 Chapter 7 

 Turnbull killed the twenty minutes straightening the desk, refilling the
paperclip tray and the staplers, and checking the paper supply in the
printers and copy machine. He told himself that he couldn't very well
start a whole new project in such a short time, and besides, it was a good
start on following the Inspector's orders about getting everything
shipshape. 

 At 12 o'clock on the dot, after tapping on the Inspector's door to tell
her he was stepping out to run some errands, he clattered down the steps
and set his hat firmly on his head. He didn't appreciate how furtive he
was feeling until he reached the bottom of the stairs and realized that he
was humming the Mission Impossible theme under his breath. With a small
huff of laughter, he turned to walk down the sidewalk, but as he started
towards the Precinct, he changed his mind and decided to take a taxi
instead. That way he would have more time to talk to everyone, and if
things were able to be resolved quickly, perhaps Francesca and he could
have lunch together. 

 Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, he unconsciously caressed his
wedding band with his thumb as he thought about the possibility of even
going back to the apartment for sandwiches or something. He felt the tops
of his ears turning pink at the thought of "or something," but he let his
mind follow that pleasant train of thought for the rest of the ride to the
police department. 

 As he got out of the taxi, however, he pulled his mind back to the matter
at hand. The usual hubbub and noise greeted him as he strode down the
hallway, and he made sure to nod and smile at several faces he recognized
from the reception. Just before he got to the swinging doors into the
bullpen, Doreen from Parking came out the other corridor. 'Good Heavens, I
don't have time for this; she can talk the hind leg off a musk ox!' 

 "Hey, Ren, good to see you," she said around her gum. Not giving him a
chance to answer, she went quickly on. "You know, I've been trying to
remember to ask you an' Frannie what did you do with that little boat
thing from the candle ceremony?" 

 "The kayak, you mean?" he replied, trying to be polite and not let his
urgency about his friends show. "Francesca and I have put it on the mantle
of our new apartment. It looks very nice there with the candles in it."
This time it was he who didn't let her speak. "I'm sorry, I really must
speak to Francesca; please excuse me." Not even waiting to see her
reaction, he continued down the hallway and the double doors. 

 Pleased to see Francesca sitting at her desk, he walked the last few
steps towards his wife. "Good afternoon, Francesca." 

 Her eyes swept up from her computer, and delight spread across her face
as she caught sight of him. Jumping up and coming around her desk, she
gave him a quick kiss and a hug. "Renny! You here to rescue me?" 

 "Do you need rescuing?" 

 "By you? Any time!" she replied with a final squeeze. Letting go and
walking back around her desk, she continued, "It's been a long week and
it's only part way through. Ray and my brother have, like, wasps up their
butts or something, Welsh is growling, and I haven't even had Fraser here
to break up all the bitching." 

 "Well, as a matter of fact, that is why I am here." 

 "For bitching?" She grinned. "I can do that for ya' at home, sweetie." 

 He smiled down at her, "No, Francesca, about Constable Fraser. I'm quite
concerned about him. He and Inspector Thatcher seem to be having some sort
of problem, and I thought your brother and Ray might know what it is.
Didn't you tell me that they had been rather out of sorts? Perhaps all
their moods are connected." 

 "A problem? Oh, no, did they have a fight or somethin'?" Frannie was
dismayed at the thought of the two having problems. 

 "I don't know, but I think so. They've only talked once this week. Are
Ray and Ray around?" 

 "Yeah, I think they're in Welsh's office. Let's go see." 

 As they walked over to the office at the back of the room, Frannie
started thinking about the implications of Fraser and Meg splitting up.
She thought of Fraser as another brother, and the thought of him being
hurt made her insides clench, especially since she knew how deeply he felt
things. 

 Involving him in the wedding had really driven that idea home to her;
dismissing his sometimes awkward exterior by thinking it meant he didn't
have feelings, or maybe that he didn't feel things deeply was a better way
to say it, was a mistake. He had been incredibly touched at being included
in the ceremony at the reception, and he had poured his whole focus into
finding the perfect Inuit tale for them. The fact that he was quiet and
didn't display his emotions for everyone to see made the last few weeks
even more striking; since he had started dating Meg, he had been opening
up and letting his friends behind his formality more often. And Meg had
been softening too. 

 She and Meg had been slowly building on the friendship that had started
while improvising decorations for the reception. The fact that she was her
husband's superior officer concerned Meg more than it did her, but from
what Frannie could see, the other woman needed more friends, especially
female ones, here in Chicago. So she wasn't letting Meg put barriers back
up between them and was forging ahead in a typically
Frannie-all-speed-ahead way. 

 They had met for lunch several times, at first mostly by Frannie's
instigation, but the last couple times by Meg's, and after she and Ren had
moved into the new apartment, the other woman had been helping her
decorate room by room. They'd even talked about it before dinner at Ma's. 

 While Meg still seemed rather overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the
group that gathered at Ma's for Sunday dinner, last week she had brought a
huge salad. She'd even joined in with all the women in the kitchen,
laughing at the off-color jokes and the teasing that always went on while
putting the final touches on dinner. 

 She'd really been loosening up around them, and Benton looked happier
than she had ever seen him, but if they were going to split up, Frannie
didn't know what she was going to do. Her first thought was to rush to
Benton's aide and shield him from being hurt, but now she knew Meg and
liked her too. 

 'Man, I hope this doesn't mean we're going to have to choose sides,' she
thought to herself. She would really miss the growing friendship with Meg,
but there was no way she was going to abandon Benton and risk hurting him
even more. 

 She pushed her worries aside, however, as she and Ren came to a stop in
front of Lt. Welsh's door. Looking through the window, she could see Welsh
sitting behind his desk, his elbows skewed out on either side of his head
and his hands locked behind his head. He was talking to her brother and
the other Ray, who was pacing between the couch and the chair her brother
was slouched in right in front of the desk. They didn't seem to be super
busy, however, so she went ahead and knocked. Welsh looked up in response
to her tap on the glass and motioned her inside. 

 Chapter 8 

 "Hey, sir?" she said to her boss as she motioned her husband forward with
her hand, "Ren was wondering if he could talk to Ray and Ray." 

 "Hello, Turnbull," Welsh replied, lowering his arms. "We're kind of in
the middle of talking about a case here; could this wait until later?" 

 Ren looked rather crestfallen, but he understood that duty had to come
first. "Yes, of course, sir. It was, really, a personal matter, sir, and
undoubtedly you are right that after hours would be a more appropriate
time to discuss such matters; I'm just worried about Constable Fraser, and
thought . . ." 

 Welsh had been about to cut off Turnbull's widening stream of words, but
he stopped mid-thought when the Canadian mentioned Fraser. 

 Ray Vecchio, however, spoke first; hearing Fraser's name, he whipped
around in his chair, his arms becoming rigid on the armrests. "What about
Fraser?" he demanded. 

 Looking to Welsh for permission to proceed, Ren suddenly found himself
the focus of three very intense pairs of male eyes, as well as Francesca's
behind him. Having their eyes drill into him made him feel completely
self-conscious, and he had to stop himself from starting to say that it
really wasn't important. It was important. He could do this; he was a
Mountie. 

 Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he said, "I'm quite worried
about him, and about Inspector Thatcher. They both seem to be unhappy, and
while they have not been derelict in their duties, they have been lacking
a certain amount of . . . focus this week. Constable Fraser has even been
having me handle all passport applications," he went on, shock evident in
his voice, "so I was wondering if any of you, perhaps, knew what was going
on with them." 

 "I knew it!" Ray Kowalski exploded, "I knew it! Things aren't gettin'
better between them. Us givin' them a cooling off period didn't do squat."


 "Ah," Turnbull said quietly, "so something did happen." 

 "Yeah," Vecchio replied, "Benny came by Monday and told us that she had
broken it off between them." 

 "An' he looked like someone had scraped out his insides with a spoon,"
Kowalski bit out, his voice filled with anger. "What the hell did she do
to him?" he demanded of Turnbull. 

 "I'm sure I don't know, Detective Kowalski," Turnbull stammered, going
rather pale at having the waves of frustration and anger rising off the
blond cop being directed at him. 

 Kowalski blinked and backed off, realizing that yelling at this Mountie
wasn't going to help the other one. He ran his hand through his hair, and
lowered his arm with an apologetic sweep. "Sorry, Ren," he said in a
quieter tone. "It's just that I've never seen him so happy, you know? I
wanted this for him. And it sucks to see him like this." 

 "I quite agree, Ray," Turnbull replied and turned back to the other
people in the room. "I don't know what to do about this. They had been
being quite careful to keep their private lives and working relationship
separate, so I don't wish to intrude, and it is, after all, their lives,
but there must be something we can do to help. Why even Minister Bennett
noted how happy Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser were looking. He
happened to see them last week in a restaurant, he told me, while he was
here with the trade delegation. He seemed quite tickled that they were so
intent on each other and holding hands around a centerpiece that they
never even saw him. The Minister has known the Inspector for years, so he
was quite happy for her." Ren shook his head sadly. "He'll be most
disappointed to learn that things didn't work out for her." 

 Vecchio snorted, "Didn't work out for her? Yeah, right. Far as I can see
this is all her fault." 

 Welsh signaled a time-out with his hands; he knew the makings of a
full-scale war when he saw them. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, let's not focus on
blame here. Let's focus on solutions." Seeing them all back off a bit,
though Vecchio still looked mulish, he continued, "Now, we know what
Fraser has told you," he said to his two detectives, "and now we have some
additional information from Constable Turnbull. How are we going to go
about gathering more information an' get ta' the bottom of this?" 

 "Well," Frannie started, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I can talk ta'
Meg, see what I can find out from her." 

 Ray turned to his sister. "That's nice and all, Frannie, but we gave the
nice stuff a chance for a few days, and now I think we need to start with
some more head-on confrontation." 

 Kowalski threw out his arms, the gesture moving his whole upper body, and
grinned fiercely despite his simmering anger. "Head-on confrontation? Hey,
I'm Mr. Head-on." 

 "Whadda say we tag-team 'em?" Vecchio replied to his partner. 

 "Tag team?" Frannie interjected, "This isn't some kind of battalion relay
or something." 

 All four men turned confused eyes on her, but Turnbull solved it first,
"I believe you mean 'baton,' Francesca." 

 "Baton, button, battalion, whatever, the point is brute force isn't
always the answer," she shot back, mostly at her brother. 

 "Tell you what, Frannie, we'll try it our way," he countered, bringing
his hands up to his chest, and then shifting them to point at her, "and
then you can have a shot at your way if we can't get anything from them."
His tone made it clear he didn't think that was going to be necessary. 

 Not giving her time to continue her side of the argument, he went on,
"It's lunchtime, let's see if we can hit 'em now. Ren, did either of them
have lunch appointments or anything?" 

 Turnbull mentally reviewed his superior officers' schedule books, "No,
Ray, neither of them do, although Inspector Thatcher does have a 2:30
meeting in her office." 

 "Plenty of time," Ray smiled back; it was good to be doing something - he
hadn't been able to get the defeated look on Benny's face out of his mind.
Turning once again to his partner, he asked, "You want Fraser or
Thatcher?" 

 "You better take Thatcher; I don't wanna have to worry about gett'n close
to popping her one." They had seen Fraser a few times over the last couple
days, gone out to dinner, the Mountie had helped them with a case
yesterday, and his friend was still looking pale and damaged. 

 Welsh rolled his eyes, but they all listened intently as Ray Vecchio
started outlining his plan for helping their friends, all other work
forgotten for the moment.  

 Chapter 9 

 Ray Vecchio charged up the Consulate steps, his long trench coat swirling
and flapping behind him. If he had been able to see himself, he would have
been amused at the way it gave him an air of an avenging angel. 

 As it was though, he was not amused. He was pissed. Pissed in a big way.
As he reached for the doorknob, he made himself stop for a moment; if he
didn't get control, he was going to be channeling Armando Langostini, and
as angry as he was with the Dragon Lady, that wasn't the way to start out.
'Maybe pull out the big guns later,' he told himself with a mental smirk.
But he didn't tamp his anger down all the way; she had hurt his friend,
hurt him a lot. 

 No one hurt Ray Vecchio's friends and got away with it. 

 The carpet felt lush under his feet. Walking along the hallway to her
office, he realized that the last time he'd been here was for the
reception. He remembered the look in Benny's eyes the Monday after the
party; he'd looked like a little boy who'd gotten a present he hadn't
expected and didn't quite know what to do with. Ray didn't think he'd ever
seen the Mountie smile so much. The memories made his anger ratchet up
again, and increasing his pace, he got to Thatcher's office, pounded twice
quickly, and stalked in without waiting for an answer. 

 She looked up in shock at the sudden interruption. "What-You have no
right to barge . . ." 

 "I got every right, lady. I got the right of a friend. And I thought we
were becoming friends too; I liked you, thought you were good for Benny.
But not any more. Do you have any idea what he's going through?" he yelled
back, putting his hands flat on her desk and leaning forward towards her. 

 She swallowed heavily. "I didn't mean to hurt-" 

 "You didn't mean to hurt him? Oh, well, that's big of you. That makes
everything just peachy! What the hell did you think would happen if you
broke off your relationship with him?" When she didn't say anything, he
went on, his voice packed with all his built-up frustration. "He's been
mostly in love with you forever, since way before I left, since before
that train thing. And I always thought you felt the same way about him.
But maybe I had it wrong. Maybe you were just playing with him, seeing how
far it would go. Is that it?" 

 "No!" The anger in her voice shocked Ray into silence. "No, that's not
how it was. I was not playing games with him. I-I thought it would work
out. I care-cared for him. But then I saw that it just wouldn't work. That
we couldn't combine a working relationship and a personal one." 

 "So one of you finds a different job," he countered. "Or you find some
other way around it. You don't just break it off." 

 She sank back down into her chair and broke eye contact with him. "That
wasn't possible," she said quietly. "This was the best way." 

 The fact that she backed off surprised Ray and left him feeling suddenly
deflated. He'd been expecting more of a knock-down-drag-out screaming
match. Standing there, he straightened from leaning over her desk and
really looked at her for the first time. She looked as bad as Benny.
Clothes nice, hair combed, but her face was pale, and he didn't know if
he'd ever seen rings that dark under someone's eyes. And it even looked
like she had tried to cover them with make-up. Turnbull was right; both of
them were hurting. 'Well, crap.' It was harder to stay angry with her now.
"The best way? I don't think so. Fraser is walking around like a broken
doll, you look like crap. This is what you want? This is better than the
last couple weeks?" 

 She looked back up and smiled slightly, but it wasn't a nice smile. He
felt his heart clench in response. 

 "Better? I don't know about that. But this is how it is now. And how it's
going to stay." 

 Her tone was flat, but something in it grated against his skin. Something
was going on here; she wasn't telling him everything. He was sure of it.
"What's going on, Meg?" He softened his voice again; confusion was warring
with anger, and confusion was winning. "What happened? Are you sure this
is what you want?" 

 "This is how it is, Ray," she said again, tacitly ignoring his questions.
Abruptly, a mask slid across her face, and the vulnerability he thought he
had been seeing for the last few moments was gone. "Now, if you have
finished cross-examining me, Detective, I have work to do." 

 "Don't do this." 

 "It's done." The finality in her voice was very clear. She picked up the
papers on her desk. "If you will excuse me?" 

 He stepped back. "This isn't finished." 

 "Yes, it is. Good bye." She looked determinedly back down at her
paperwork. 

 "Meg?" 

 She ignored him. He started backing towards the door, deciding to let it
go for the moment. 'Better go find Ray,' he thought, 'and see what he had
found out.' His anger was gone now, confusion and sadness in their place.
He was just about to walk out the door when her voice reached him again. 

 "Ray? He's lucky to have you as a friend." 

 He stopped and looked back, but she had already slipped into the small
bathroom at the side of her office. He walked towards the Consulate's
front door, confusion now having completely overtaken anger. She was
thanking him for being Benny's friend? That hadn't gone like he'd
expected. 

 'Better find Ray,' he told himself again; 'see if he got anything out of
Fraser.' 

 Digging out his keys, he got in the Riv and made his way back to the
Precinct.  

 Ray Kowalski pulled away from the curb in front of the Consulate, the GTO
running smoothly. Which was more than he could say for his thoughts. He'd
just dropped Fraser back at the Consulate, and if he thought he had been
confused about what was going on with his friend before, that was nothing
to what he felt now. 

 Ray had left the Precinct according to plan, and shanghaied Fraser during
his lunch hour, telling the Mountie he really needed some advice about
buying camping gear for his nephew's birthday. He took it as a sign of how
out of it the Mountie was that he hadn't said anything when the first
thing they'd looked at in the store was a kayak Ray couldn't even lift,
let alone a twelve year old. But it had served the purpose; he'd gotten
Fraser out of the way long enough that Vecchio ought to have had more than
enough time to go medieval on Thatcher's ass. He would have liked to have
seen that, but it probably was better that he wasn't there. What was that
phrase Stella had always been using? Oh, yeah, he was "feeling a great
deal of animosity" for Margaret Thatcher. 

 He hoped his partner had had more luck getting info out of Thatcher than
he had out of Fraze. The Mountie hadn't wanted to discuss it, and no one
could be stubborn like Fraser. That wasn't anything new, really, but what
was scary was the way Fraze had seemed to have just shut off his emotions.
Damn, this sucked. 

 'Gotta talk to Ray, see what he had found out.'  

 Chapter 10 

 The conspirators gathered back in Welsh's office, Turnbull having called
the Consulate to say he was taking an extra hour of personal time for
lunch, waiting for Ray Kowalski to come back. 

 The grim look the blond detective wore when he walked in was reflected on
the faces of the others in the office. 

 "You find out anything?" he asked his partner without preamble. 

 "All I found out is she can be as stubborn as Fraser, which we already
knew, and that she looks as bad as he does." 

 Kowalski made an expression of disgust. "Fraze still isn't talking. He
wouldn't even talk about her. Even told me not to be a Nosey-Parker." Ray
put his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the tight muscles of his
bowed head. "Only Fraser would say it that way." He looked up and glanced
at the others before adding, "But the look in his eyes when he said it- "
Kowalski's voice trailed off. 

 "Clearly this is not a quick-fix problem," Welsh put in. 

 "There's gotta be something we can do, L.T. Fraze has helped me - us -
out too many times for us to just give up this easily." 

 "I'm with Ray," Vecchio added emphatically. 

 Frannie decided it was time for her to speak, so, hands on her hips, she
stepped forward. "I'm not gonna say I told you so, but how about letting
me have a shot at Meg?" 

 "What are you gonna do, Frannie?" Kowalski asked. 

 "Just watch," she replied, confident that her approach would be far more
successful than the male thinking that had been going on. 

 She walked around Welsh's desk, and after asking for permission with a
questioning look, picked up the phone and dialed the direct line to Meg's
office. 

 Twisting the phone cord tightly around her finger, she waited to hear Meg
identify herself. Keeping her voice deliberately light, and not wanting to
let her concern show, she replied, "Hey, Meg! It's me, Frannie. Remember
how you and I were talking about going shopping for stuff for the new
kitchen? Uh huh, yeah, I'm still going with daisies . . . yeah, I think
it'll look great. Well, Ren is going to go have a night out with the boys
tonight, so I thought tonight would be a great night to go do it. You
know, girl stuff: mall crawl, some dinner, and then kitchen stuff." 

 Ignoring Meg's sputtering about being tired, Frannie rushed on. "So I
thought, like 5:30, and then we could do dinner. I'll pick you up. Oops!"
she said, cutting Meg off entirely, and not letting her say no, "sorry,
gotta go! Welsh is bellowing! I'll pick ya' up at 5:30." She hung up
quickly, wearing a smug smile; Canadian politeness was so easy to get
around! Turning back to the men, she said, "Piece of cake." 

 "'Bellowing,' Francesca?" Welsh asked, raising an eyebrow and looking up
at her from his chair. 

 "Yeah, well, had ta' make it realistic, sir," she replied with a cheeky
grin. 

 Ray stood with his arms crossed, looking at his sister; "Very nice,
Frannie; not even Ma could'a done better." 

 "Thanks, Ray," she replied with another satisfied smile. "I figure I
oughtta be able to keep her out for a couple hours. More than enough time
to plumb her for information." 

 "Pump, Frannie." 

 "What?" Frannie asked the blond cop. 

 Welsh gestured with his hands, setting out the two definitions. "You
plumb depths, Francesca; you pump someone for information." 

 "Whatever," she replied, waving her hand as she left the room. Men. They
could be so bull-headed.  

 Margaret Thatcher hung the phone back up and covered her eyes with her
other hand. 

 She'd barely slept in the last week, waves of misery seemed to bombard
her constantly, and now she had Francesca Turnbull to contend with. 

 Over last few weeks, she had discovered that her perception that
Francesca Vecchio Turnbull was nothing more than a ball of fluff had been
quite wrong. As chatty and impulsive as the Italian woman could be, she
was also vibrant, funny, and loyal. She had also apparently decided that
Meg was her friend, and had plunged herself into friendship with the same
enthusiasm she did everything else. 

 Meg didn't have many close female friends; they were mostly compatriots
or fellow committee members. Having someone to gossip with a little, and
to go shopping with had been quite . . . fun . . . enlightening even.
Shopping with Frannie and her breezy assurance gave a whole new meaning to
the words "bargain hunting." It was also clear to see where the woman had
gotten her easy way of talking and touching; Mrs. Vecchio was the same
way. Actually, Mrs. Vecchio reminded her of the ultimate involved mother
with Italian expressiveness mixed in, along with the self-sufficiency that
came from raising several children mostly alone. 

 Sitting there in her office, Meg wondered if Frannie knew what had
happened between her and Ben. 'Fraser,' she thought to herself, 'better to
call him Fraser.' Would the fact that she would no longer be seeing Fraser
outside the office mean Frannie would break off their friendship? She was
sure it meant that there would be no more Sunday night dinners at the
Vecchios. They were Ben's family, and her being there wouldn't be fair to
him. 

 She sighed deeply, rubbing her fingers across her forehead. 'Am I up to
this?' she asked herself. Frannie, especially in a mall, was a force to be
reckoned with. Besides, after Ray Vecchio's visit a while ago, she was
feeling pretty drained. 

 Then again, maybe going out would be good. Maybe she could tire herself
out enough that she would sleep tonight. 

 Still, would she be able to hide what was going on? Maybe Frannie already
knew. After all, Turnbull was far more observant than people might think,
and Fraser had been at the Precinct yesterday or the day before. 

 Hiding in her office wallowing in self-pity wasn't doing her any good,
however. After all, if this is how things were going to be from now on, it
was better to get on with it. 'Start moving forward,' she told herself.
Maybe she would eventually have enough distance from all this that she
could examine things more dispassionately and decide what to do next.  

 Chapter 11 

 The next morning, Francesca walked into the Precinct with the same
expression her brother and his partner had come back with yesterday after
their respective forays with Meg and Fraser. She went straight to Welsh's
office where the three cops waited for her. Ren hadn't come in with her
since they had talked about what she found out from Meg last night. He had
been as frustrated as she was. 

 "So what's the scoop, Frannie?" Ray Kowalski cut right to the chase. 

 Frannie tossed her purse on a free chair, not paying attention as it
slumped to the floor. "I tried to get her to talk all through dinner, all
through the Home Fashions departments at three stores, nothing! Even
dragging her into that really nice lingerie store in the mall didn't make
her talk," she continued with spreading her arms wide in an expressive
shrug. 

 "You took the Dragon Lady into a lingerie store?" her brother asked her
incredulously. 

 "Hey, I was desperate, ok? By then I was willing to do anything to get a
response out of her that didn't involve one syllable or something to do
with decorating a kitchen." 

 "Did it work?" Welsh asked. 

 "Nope. In fact, it backfired in a big way. She caught sight of this
really nice red lacy thing, and I thought she looked really interested for
like two seconds, and then she slammed down a Mountie mask that would'a
put Fraser at his most polite to shame." 

 "So you couldn't get her to talk either," Kowalski asked. 

 "She wouldn't talk about him, the last few weeks, nothing. Hell, she
wouldn't even talk about work. I tried asking her how Ottawa was, and all
she said was the weather was 'most pleasant.' That's a direct quote! 'Most
pleasant!' What kinda answer is that?" Frannie demanded. 

 The three men didn't know either. 

 "She seems really, really sad, though. I don't get why if this is making
her this unhappy she broke up with him. Or doesn't tell him it was a
mistake, or something like that." 

 "Maybe she figures Mounties don't make mistakes." Vecchio's flat
statement was tinged with anger. He wasn't as angry as he had been with
her, but frustration with the situation overwhelmed him. That always
brought out the worst in him. 

 "I don't know, but I even tried some of Ma's favorite guilt techniques,
but she didn't break." 

 Ray Kowalski spoke up again, "Neither of them are talk'n, we tried
subtle, we tried head-on. I'm afraid if we try push'n Fraser any more he's
gonna to back away from us totally. Even mentioning her name makes him
clam up." 

 The four friends looked at each other, none of them knowing what to say
or do next. They were already interfering in private matters, and how ever
much they wanted to help, there was only so much they could do. It was
just so damned maddening. Ray Vecchio couldn't shake the feeling that
there was something weird going on. He hadn't been able to get it out of
her, and neither had Frannie, but he couldn't think of anything else to
add. 

 "Well, people," Welsh said finally, "I think we have done everything we
can for the moment. Better leave them alone again. Maybe they'll come up
with a way to solve this . . . what ever it is between them." His chair
creaked as he shifted. 

 "Yeah, L.T., doesn't look like we gotta choice but ta' let it drop fer
now." The wiry cop changed the subject and started pacing again to
distract himself. "We got work to do on the Sabatini case anyway. Thought
we could bring Fraze along fer the search this afternoon." 

 "Good idea, Kowalski," his boss replied. "I can't believe I'm saying
this, but I've kinda missed having the Mountie around. The least we can do
is keep him busy." He looked around at his people. "Let's not let him get
away from us, folks."  

 A couple weeks later . . . 

 Ren Turnbull unlocked the door to his apartment and was greeted by
mouthwatering smells coming from the kitchen. He could hear Frannie
rattling around with pots and pans, so he called loudly, "I'm home,
sweetheart." 

 Her voice drifted out from the other room. "Dinner's almost ready!" 

 "It smells wonderful; just let me change." 

 Walking into the bedroom, he noticed that the living room seemed neater
than usual. The afghan was folded with military precision, which was
interesting since he didn't remember leaving it on the back of the couch.
Stripping off his tunic and proceeding into the bathroom, he caught sight
of the counter. 

 'Oh, my.' 

 In their first couple days of married life, he and Francesca had come to
an agreement; cleaning and having things spic-and-span was important to
him, so he was in charge of keeping things neat. In exchange for this,
Francesca would do her best not to leave clutter around, and she could
keep her dresser, closet, and bathroom counter whatever way she wanted.
They had even gotten an apartment with a double sink in the bathroom so
that they could each have their own space, and he could do things like
crimp his toothpaste tube, and she could squeeze hers from the middle. 

 But now the entire counter was cleared off. Her hairspray bottle stood
upright and it was capped. The cords of her curling iron and hair dryer
rested coiled up and tied back with the little hair twisty things she
used. Her brushes and makeup weren't scattered across her part of the
counter, let alone making forays into his territory. 

 Oh, my. 

 What was going on here? 

 After washing off his hands, he walked into the bedroom to put on a
comfortable shirt. Slipping it over his head, he looked around. The bed
was made, but he had done that this morning, nothing unusual there. Then
he caught sight of her dresser. All of her earrings and necklaces were put
away, and the little statue he had given her for their one-month
anniversary of two cats frolicking with a ball of yarn sat in the exact
center of the doily, which was in the exact center of the dresser. 

 Really concerned now, he walked quickly to the kitchen and asked, "All
right, Francesca, what's wrong?" before he had even fully come to a stop. 

 She looked up from stirring the pasta and leaned up to kiss him. "Wrong?
Something has to be wrong for me to cook my husband dinner?" 

 Kissing her back, he cocked an eyebrow. "No, something needs to be wrong
for you to clean and straighten." 

 "I just wanted to have everything nice and neat for you because I know
how important that is to you." 

 "Mmhumm." 

 She could tell he didn't believe her. "I just wanted to let you know how
much I love you." 

 There was something else going on; her voice sounded too thin and
scratchy. He took the spoon out of her hand and put his arms around her.
"You don't need to clean the apartment to tell me you love me. I know you
do. Now, please, what's wrong?" 

 Her voice was muffled against his chest but he could still hear her. "I
just needed to show you how wonderful you are and how happy you make me.
I'm so lucky I found you, an' I'm so sad for Fraser and Meg; they don't
have this. Fraser came by the Precinct today, and he's still so stiff,
like he used to be ages ago, and Meg and I had lunch, and she's so quiet."


 She lifted her face and had tears her eyes. "They aren't going to get
back together, are they?" 

 He wiped the tears away, feeling his heart echo his wife's emotions. "No,
it doesn't look that way. They're the same way at work, and even after
work." 

 "They're both completely closed off; they're still friendly and all, but
they've put all sorts of shields up." 

 "Well, we won't let them engage their cloaking devices, Francesca," he
answered with a smile, cupping her face in hands. "They are our friends
and we won't let them close themselves out of our lives." 

 Through a watery chuckle, she smiled back at him. "I knew it was a
mistake getting you into Star Trek." 

 Letting her go, he urged, "Let's eat dinner; it smells delicious." As
they served themselves, he went on, "And then after dinner we can cuddle
on the couch and hold each other." He grinned at her, nudging her with his
hip, trying to cheer her up. "And maybe we can watch some more of your
Next Generation tapes. I really like Data, and Guinan is wonderful . . ." 

 But not even Frannie's special gnocchi or Data's antics were enough to
make their sadness for their friends vanish entirely.  

 Chapter 12 

 Benton Fraser lay on his back on his cot, hands resting on his chest. The
growing darkness outside had long ago made the room dim, and his desk and
the filing cabinets were little more than dark masses huddled against the
walls. He was trying to drift and ignore the noises from down the hallway.
Turnbull and the rest of the staff had left over an hour ago, and he and
Inspector Thatcher were the only ones left in the building. She had been
working late, sometimes until after ten, and then coming back before seven
a.m., more and more often since returning from Ottawa, and . . . He
quashed the rest of that thought. He had already examined their entire
conversation that night in excruciating detail, and had a feeling that the
texture of the wood grain of her door under his fingertips would stay with
him as long as the tone of her voice saying it was over. 

 Staring up at the ceiling, he tried to concentrate of Dief's gentle
snores, or on the ridges and valleys of the acoustic flocking on the
ceiling, but his thoughts kept circling back to one central question. What
should he do? Applying for a transfer was the obvious thing to do, to get
away from her, and the memories of her, and the places of her. But
transferring to another city meant all of the downsides of urban living
made worse by the fact that his friends - and family, they were his family
now - would not be there. He would miss Ma and Francesca, his
mostly-sister, and Turnbull. It was still strange to think of him as an
almost brother-in-law. And, of course, both Rays. They were his best
friends. And now that Ray Vecchio was back, and the two cops were working
together as partners, he didn't even want to contemplate his life without
them. 

 It was such a relief that the two of them, so different and yet so
similar, had hit it off after some initial tension. They made a great
team, the finesse and the energy, urbane charm and in-your- face
intensity, melded by an equal measure of dogged determination and
intelligence from both men. Being able to work with them, no matter how
informally, was one of the few things that he had been able to hold onto
in the last couple weeks. No, leaving his final pieces of mooring behind
was not a good idea. 

 Which further complicated his other option: transferring back up north.
Not that he knew if he would even be welcome back home. But besides still
having to leave all of his friends, he found the thought of living in the
snow and the cold unappealing. 'How ironic,' he thought, 'a Fraser who
doesn't want to be in the wilderness.' 

 Thinking of living back up in the far north, he could only see the
desolation and the loneliness, not the stark beauty he had always loved.
And the thought of the open wilderness, with its lonely vastness, made him
almost afraid now. He couldn't shake the idea that the cold and emptiness
would enter the hollow place he now had inside, and that nature's
emptiness would fill him. Fill him up with cold nothingness, forever
extinguishing any possible chance of opening himself up again. Killing the
last of his hope. 

 He did still have some hope now, after some time to think about how he
felt. The desolation of those first few days was somewhat muted now. After
all, he still felt friendship for Ray and Ray and the rest, still cared
about them. He hadn't lost all of his emotions and capability to feel.
Just parts. 

 The sound of a filing cabinet drawer sliding closed brought him back to
the present with a start. Suddenly the fact that he was here, alone with
Margaret Thatcher, but unable to approach her, let alone touch her,
overwhelmed him. 

 He had to get out. 

 Now. 

 Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he thrust his feet into his
boots and began lacing them. Where to go? He felt like he had been living
in the park the last few days. The Vecchios and the Turnbulls were out.
Too many people, too much noise. 

 'Ray! Ray Kowalski,' he thought suddenly. 

 Ray had invited him over for a movie and some Chinese tonight, the latest
in a series of invitations both Rays kept extending, hoping to draw him
out of his shell. He had turned Ray's offer down, but now staying here any
longer was just untenable. Lunging for the phone on his desk, Fraser
called Kowalski and found, to his relief, that Ray's offer was still open.
Slipping his leather jacket on over his jeans and flannel, he grabbed his
hat, and invited Dief to come along. 

 Side by side, man and wolf strode down the hallway, the eyes of both
fixed on the front door, pointedly not looking to the side. To her office.
It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it had one flaw. Her door stood open. 

 "Fraser?" 

 He almost kept walking. It was after hours; he didn't have to maintain a
professional demeanor now as he did while working. But he stopped. Taking
a step back, he stood in the doorway. "Sir?" 

 "Are you leaving? Is something wrong?" 

 Only the emptiness inside him prevented a sarcastic answer. It seemed
that it was too wide for the sarcasm to seep across. "Nothing is wrong.
I'm simply going out for the evening." 

 "Ah. I see. Well, have a good evening." 

 "Thank you, I shall. I'll lock the door. You will call a taxi, won't
you?" he heard himself asking; clearly old habits were hard to break. 

 She smiled slightly. "Yes, thank you. I'll be fine." She couldn't believe
he had asked that, had noticed she hadn't driven in today, yet it was so
like him. She wished she could tell him how proud she was of him, of the
fact that he had not allowed the hurt she had caused him to sever the
kindness in him. But he clearly did not want to be there in the doorway
talking to her. Best to let him go. "Good night." 

 "Good night." He walked to the door and out into the night, his wolf at
his side. 

 Back in her office, Meg Thatcher sank back down behind her desk. Now the
building was completely quiet. While he was here, she was able to hear an
occasional movement, although it had taken her a couple days to realize
that the snoring she sometimes heard was from the wolf, not the man. Well,
not much point in staying now; Fraser was gone. 

 It really hadn't been fair of her to stop him. "You are playing games,
Margaret," she said out loud. "He doesn't deserve that." 

 'You're also talking to yourself,' she chided herself silently. 

 She had started staying late in part because she couldn't sleep, but
mostly because it gave her a chance to be near him. She was almost
enjoying the torture of being so close to him, and alone in the building,
but not being able to go to him and talk to him, let alone touch him. She
felt like the pain was nothing more than she deserved. 

 Seeing him walk by, however, had been an irresistible chance to hear his
voice, no matter how briefly. She sighed deeply as she packed her
briefcase and thought about the empty bed waiting for her at home. The bed
where they had . . . 'Damn.' Setting her briefcase down, she sat back
down; 'maybe just one more report.'  

 Chapter 13 

 The two men sat at a table littered with open containers from the Chinese
food the Mountie had picked up on his way over; it was part of a
well-established pattern: Ray ordered, Fraser picked up. Fraser watched
his friend mix sweet and sour pork, lo mein, and fried rice together. It
never ceased to amaze him the combinations Ray Kowalski could come up
with. Personally, Fraser preferred to keep the dishes separate and savor
the unique taste of each one, but to each their own. 

 But then again, perhaps it would be a good idea to try new things. A bit
hesitantly, as if he somehow expected someone to bark at him, Fraser
picked up a piece of sweet and sour pork and some lo mein noodles with his
chopsticks and tried it. Interesting. Feeling a bit more daring, he tried
a piece of kung pao chicken and some lo mein noodles. That was better; he
liked the way the flavor of the chicken and the noodles combined. No
wonder Ray did this. 

 Feeling emboldened by his small experiment, he laid chopsticks across his
rice bowl, and taking a sip of water, he started to speak. "Ray, I've been
thinking." 

 "Really, Fraze? That the funny noise I've been hearing?" 

 "The noise of synapses firing is undetectable, Ray." 

 Ray rolled his eyes. "It was a joke, buddy." 

 "Ah. As I was saying, I have been thinking that perhaps I need to make
some changes." He took a deep breath; he wasn't sure why this was so
difficult. "I think it's time I find an apartment." He had been looking
down at his plate toying with his chopsticks, but now he looked up at his
friend. 

 Meeting his eyes, Ray felt an immediate jolt of recognition. He knew that
look, that uncertainty. He remembered feeling that way. Feeling the need
to escape the memories and the associations of the woman he loved, but
feeling like no matter what he did, the memories would linger on him and
his skin forever, permanently imprinted; he could see the same imprints
reflected in his friend's eyes. Ray knew what it was like to have his mind
in that loop, picking apart every last detail of conversations and fights,
looking for some definite answer of what had gone wrong, and where, and
why. He had spent days examining every word, every gesture, looking for
things he could have changed so that she might have stayed. And he also
remembered coming to the realization that she wasn't coming back, and
knowing that changing some things was the only way he could break the
feedback loop his brain had been caught in. Oh, yeah, he knew that look. 

 "I think that's a great idea, Fraze," he finally said, his voice as
encouraging as he could make it. 

 Ray put his chopsticks down and leaned forward on his forearms. He would
have liked to put his hand on Fraser's arm, but he didn't want to make his
friend uncomfortable; he still remembered the flinch from the last time he
had tried touching Fraser. 

 "Uh, ya' know, I got an idea. Why doncha stay here?" Ray watched the
Mountie's eyes widen, and he spoke faster. "You know I've got that other
room. It's small, and at the moment it's full of crap I've never unpacked,
but no reason we can't move the boxes. I mean, no one's using it; I only
got a two bedroom in case my brother's kid ever decided he wanted to visit
his Uncle Ray, and considering how he's turn'n out, I'd rather have you,
Fraze," he went on with a grin. "We can shove the boxes in the hall
closet, you can throw down yer bedroll until you getta bed, and yer set.
'Sides, it'd give me an' Dief a chance to bond over Fruit Loops." 

 "Are you sure about this, Ray?" 

 "Yep." He grinned again. "Long as you don't touch my Smarties, and you
and the furball, there, don't start howl'n at dawn, it's copasetic with
me. 'Course, you'll have to put up with the mess and with me cranking the
music when I first get home at night." 

 "Dief and I can always go for a walk, Ray." 

 Ray felt his grin get even wider. Fraser had actually smiled with that
comment. It was a small smile, but it was the first time the Mountie had
had a real facial expression in what seemed like years. 'All right!' He
suddenly felt great. "Whadda say we go and get yer stuff now, getcha
settled in t'night. You know, pitter-patter, let's get at 'er. We could
even stop at that gelato place ya' like on the way back ta' celebrate us
becomin' roommates." 

 "That sounds like an excellent idea, Ray."  

 Chapter 14 

 Ray was talking animatedly about last night's Bulls game as they entered
the Consulate. At first it seemed like no one else was there, but then,
almost simultaneously, they realized that the light was still on in
Thatcher's office. Fraser's steps slowed, but they continued making their
way down the hallway. Reaching her office doorway, Ray looked and in saw
her looking up at them, clearly surprised into pausing while packing her
briefcase. 

 'Damn,' he thought, 'two more minutes and we woulda missed her.' He
looked back at Fraser; he seemed even more uncomfortable than he had a
moment ago when they had realized she was there. 'Crap.' "Hey, Fraze, why
doncha go get yer stuff," Ray turned again to face the Ice Queen. "An'
I'll stay here an' keep Meg company." 

 Ray didn't turn his head while Fraser answered and escaped to his office;
he kept his eyes locked on Thatcher. "Yes, good, Ray. I'll be right back."


 Ray grinned toothily at the woman across the office, laughing mentally
that he must've been taking lessons from Dief. 

 "So, how ya' been, Meg?" he asked, calling her that deliberately, hoping
it would rub her the wrong way; she had asked him to call her 'Meg' while
they were away from the office, and this seemed like a great chance to
push it. 

 "Fine, Detective Kowalski." They lapsed into silence, neither knowing
what to say; Ray wanted to give her a hard time, but Fraser was just down
the hall, and he didn't want to distress his friend. Meg just didn't know
what to say. 

 "Have you been having a good evening?" she tried finally. 

 "Yeah, had some great Chinese, and next up we got gelatto an' then Rear
Window. Fraze has never seen it. Can you believe it? A classic like that?"


 "I'm afraid I haven't seen it either." 

 "You're kidding, right? What is it about you Canadians? It's one of
Hitchcock's best!" Ray launched into a detailed plot summary, partly
because he didn't want to just want to stand there and stare at her, but
mostly so he could have a shot at annoying her. 

 Down the hall, Fraser started gathering up his things, fitting his
shaving kit into its case and opening the filing cabinet to get his sweats
and jeans. Needing to grab his hanging clothes, he opened the closet and
jumped slightly. "Hello, Dad." 

 "Hello, Son. Going on a trip?" 

 "No, I'm moving out. Ray has offered to let me live in his spare room." 

 Bob Fraser looked at his son. "But I just got this place," he gestured
with his thumb over his shoulder, "decorated the way I like it." 

 "I'll still be working here, Dad. I'll just be living somewhere else.
Don't you think it's time?" 

 "I wouldn't know about that, Son. Is there a closet in this new place of
yours?" 

 The younger Mountie shut his eyes. "Yes, Ray's spare room has a closet
that you can appropriate." 

 "Are you sure you know what you're doing, Benton?" 

 "No, I'm not sure I do, but it feels good to be doing something," Fraser
said as he went back to sliding clothes into the duffel. 

 "Well, sometimes that's what you need to do, son: take that first step." 

 His father's tone made him pause for a moment. Was he talking just about
moving out? Turning his head to ask his father what kind of first step he
was talking about, Fraser discovered he had vanished. 

 "Cryptic messages, decorating, he gets more unhinged every time I see
him," Ben muttered, grabbing the last of his hanging clothes and setting
them on the desk. Maybe if he hurried he could get the cot collapsed
before his father decided to come back. 

 ". . . and Grace Kelly is gorgeous. So that's what we're gonna do soon as
Fraze is all packed." He watched in fascination as her entire body seemed
to seize. 

 "Packed? What is he packing?" she asked intensely after a moment. 

 "All his stuff. He's movin' in with me." His self-estimation went up a
notch; he really had found a way to get to her, though she was trying to
hide it. Not doing a real great job though. 

 She blanched and had to put her hand on her desk to keep herself from
swaying at the thought. Realizing what she was revealing, she straightened
determinedly. "I see." What more could she say? After all that had
happened, she could hardly beg Fraser to stay. However much she wanted to.


 Before Ray could say anything else, however, Fraser came back with his
backpack on his back, bedroll in one hand, and some uniforms in the other.
"Ray," he said, "would you mind grabbing my cot? I collapsed it, and it's
leaning by the door." 

 "Yeah, sure, Fraze." Walking down the hallway, he decided to give them a
minute's privacy and use the bathroom or something. Turning back around as
he moved down the hallway, he said, "Gimme a sec, I gotta avail myself of
the facilities." 

 The two Canadians stared at each other. After a moment, Meg spoke,
"Detective Kowalski tells me that you are moving out. I hadn't thought,"
she paused infinitesimally. "That is, I hadn't realized that you were
thinking about doing that." 

 Drawing on the emptiness inside him to keep his voice distant and
impersonal, Fraser replied in a cool, even tone, rebuffing her attempt to
be more personal. "I think it is time, sir. It is no longer appropriate
for me to stay here, and Ray has been gracious enough to offer me the use
of his second room. I will, of course, fill out all the requisite change
of address forms first thing in the morning." 

 If she had had the energy, she would have smiled at how effectively he
slipped into officialese. "Very well, Constable; do you need any help
moving your things?" 

 "No, Ray and I can easily handle it. Anything I may have missed I will
take with me tomorrow." 

 "Very well," she said again, for lack of anything better to say. "Fraser,
I-" 

 But at that moment Ray banged the cot against the wall as he moved down
the hallway. "Damn, sorry, Fraze. No damage though," he said with a grin.
"I think the gouge goes well with the wood grain." 

 "Gouge?" Inspector Thatcher gasped. 

 "He's joking, sir," Fraser replied. Looking back at his friend, Fraser
went on. "Shall we go, Ray? We still need to move the boxes into the
closet." 

 "Yeah, sure, buddy. Later, Meg; have a good night," he prodded one last
time. Judging by the look of her, she hadn't been having too many good
nights lately. Yeah, well, that was her fault. Coulda been different as
far as he could see. But it was time to get Fraser out of here. 

 "Come on, furball, let's motor." Dief walked to the door as Ray waited
for Fraser to walk in front of him, and carefully navigating the doorway
with the unwieldy cot, they left. 

 Chapter 15 

 For the woman they left behind, she was struck once again with what a
final sound a closing door made. She abandoned her preparations to leave
and sat back down in her chair. He had really left. He was really moving
out. She felt almost as if her last real connection with him had just been
cut. 

 Oh, she would still be able to see him during regular working hours, but
having him here after the end of the official workday was different. She
had gotten very adept at imagining that she was in an office in her own
house, that he was just down the hall in another room, maybe reading a
book, or doing his own work. Imagining that things were good between them,
that as soon as she was done with her work, she would be able to walk down
the hall and join him, run her hands down his shoulders, or rub his back,
or sit on his lap, and feel his arms around her. 

 At times the memory of how it had felt to lie in his arms was so vivid,
it felt like she had been in them just last night. It might have been just
the one night, and she hated resorting to clichs, but it had been the most
incredible night of her life. Just the memory took her breath away. 

 That he was gentle had hardly been a surprise, but she hadn't been
expecting the feeling of comfort and peace she felt lying tucked against
his chest, her arms locked around him, holding him against her body as
tightly as he was holding her. Considering the intensity with which he
approached his work, she also should have expected the potent feeling of
having his whole focus centered on her and her responses. It had been a
heady thing having him intent solely on pleasing her. 

 She remembered waking up at some point during the night and being glad
they had never gotten around to shutting off the bedside light since it
had meant she could see him clearly as she slowly came awake. The glow of
the lamp had cast a golden halo around him, and his hair seemed curlier,
as if it relaxed slightly when he slept. 

 His wavy curls beckoned to her fingers, so lifting the arm not tucked
between them, she ran her splayed fingers gently through his hair. The
strands had drifted through them, tickling the sensitive skin between her
fingers. She had been so intent on playing with his hair it had taken
several moments to realize that he had opened his eyes. 

 Smiling sheepishly, she had met his eyes, and started to apologize for
waking him when he had reached up and put her hand back. "Don't stop," he
said softly. 

 She hadn't seen any point in turning down an invitation like that, so she
went back to ruffling and channeling his hair. Stroking her hand along the
side of his head, she ran her hand deeper into his hair, and began rubbing
his scalp rhythmically. 

 Eventually, she had curled her fingers around his ear for several stokes,
then moved along his jaw line, finding the line of contrast between the
soft silkiness of his skin and the slight rasp of his beard. Liking the
scratchy feel beneath her palm, she had moved her hand back and forth
along his cheek. But having her fingers that close to his lips had been
irresistible, so she ran the pad of her thumb over his lips several times.
On her third or fourth pass with her thumb, he had pursed his lips and
kissed it, his lips feeling warm against her skin. Lifting her gaze from
his lips to his eyes, she had watched as he smiled at her, his eyes
caressing her face, and flicked the tip of her thumb with his tongue.
Still holding her eyes, he shifted over to lie on his back, and easing his
arm out from under her, had raised both arms over his head, resting them
on the pillow. He lay there, quiescent and waiting, telling her without
words that she could do as she pleased. 

 Oh, and she had pleased, she thought, running her finger along the edge
of her desk. Pressing her index finger down harder along the wooden edge,
she thought back to leaning up on one elbow and moving her hand down to
continue tracing a path down his body. After blazing a whole series of
paths and side trails all up and down his body, she began following her
stroking fingers with her lips. Being able to nuzzle and lick and kiss
wherever she desired had made her heart swell. She had wanted to meet his
trust with equal recompense, and his soft sounds as her mouth had grown
bolder had only inspired her to become even more adventuresome and elicit
more breathless moans from him. 

 Eventually she had worked her way down one of his legs and up the other,
lingering just above his knees, ending up at the incredibly beautiful line
where his stomach met his hip; his tight muscles formed a channel there
perfect for running her tongue along. The joint was her favorite part of
the male body, and Fraser's was particularly beautiful; she couldn't stop
lavishing attention on it. At one point he had moved restlessly, trying to
urge her to end the torment, but he hadn't stopped her. He hadn't tried to
take over or make her move faster; he had let her dictate their
lovemaking. She wondered if he had known how wanted that made her feel. In
silent gratitude, she had doubled her efforts at pleasing him, and through
that, had redoubled her own pleasure. 

 Returning to the memory of what she had done next, she remembered briefly
running her fingers through the thatch of hair just below where she had
been focusing, savoring the contrast between that springy hair and the
soft waves on his head. 

 She'd happened to look up just then, and the look on his face had drawn
her back up his body. His mouth had been slack as he sighed and wet his
lips with small darts of his tongue; the flush rising up his neck and
gracing his cheeks had made his eyes look even bluer as he opened them to
see what had interrupted her. The questioning look in his eyes had
demanded an answer, so she had leaned up and kissed him on the lips, a
deep, lingering kiss that had swept both of them down in a maelstrom of
heat. By the time they'd broken the kiss, her sighs were echoing his.
Framing his face with her hands, she had swung her leg over his hips,
settling over him, groaning breathlessly as she savored the full body
contact. 

 His hands, still resting above his head, had been clinched into tight
fists as he fought for control, but that hadn't been what she wanted any
longer; she wanted to feel his hands on her skin. "That's an awful waste
of your hands, Ben," she sighed, breathless. "I want your arms around me."


 The feel of his arms around her, and of his hands kneading her back, had
compelled a whole series of gasps out of her, and she rocked against him
in cadence with the movements of his hands. He surrounded her with his
arms, cradling her against him, but she hadn't felt trapped by him. As
they lay there rocking against each other, she had felt the most
incredible sense of rightness combined with urgency that her heart had
beat even faster and her hands had squeezed him tighter, trying to tell
him without words how she felt. 

 That sense of utter belonging and rightness had been just as deep later
as she had lain sprawled across his chest, feeling his breathing ease and
slow under her. He had kept his arms around her, though, and his legs
tangled with hers, one hand lost in her hair, the other splayed against
her lower back. She vaguely recalled being able to feel the hair on his
legs tickling hers, but that was a negligible matter since she mostly
remembered feeling more at peace than she had ever felt before. 

 Making love with Ben had not been a contest. Not like it had been with
some of the few men she had been involved with. Some had seemed to see
getting her into bed as a challenge, a macho quest to get beyond the Ice
Queen exterior. She knew what people called her, and even acknowledged
some truth in the accusation, but that hadn't made their behavior any less
insulting. Or less hurtful. 

 There hadn't been any need to retreat from Ben, however. He had not been
trying to dominate or conquer her. Instead, he had been meeting her as an
equal. A partner. 

 The memory of how full her heart had felt pulled her back to the present
since that feeling contrasted so starkly with how she felt now. The gift
of being in his arms, of feeling that peaceful, was gone. Even if she was
able to go to him and tell him how much she loved him, how much he meant
to her, there was no guarantee that he would even want to take her back.
Not after the way she had taken herself away and ripped the peace between
them apart, pushing him away. 

 Now, however, he was retreating further away from her. 

 "Go home, Margaret," she told herself, her voice breaking into the still
room, sounding strained and thin to her own ears. 

 'I wonder if it sounded as bad to Ray Kowalski?' she thought with an
almost wry smile. 

 Starting to fit some more files into her briefcase, she realized there
wasn't any point to it; she wasn't going to get any more work done
tonight. She was feeling too emotionally drained to be able to focus on
work. Best to go home and try to sleep. If she were lucky, maybe she would
be able to lie in bed where they had made love and dream about being in
his arms again and feel the peace she had lost.  

 Chapter 16 

 A couple months later... 

 Constable Benton Fraser had a bit of a spring in his step as he strode up
the walk towards the Consulate, hearing the GTO's motor fade into the
distance. That was one of the nicest things about living at Ray's
apartment; they rode to work together almost every day. 

 It was a particularly beautiful morning, the sky was clear, the air
brisk, and it was a Friday. Even better, he and his two best friends were
working only half a day so they could go to an early afternoon hockey
game. Ray Vecchio had somehow gotten the three of them special passes to
be able to see the teams practice, so they were making a whole afternoon
of it. Striding up the steps, he skipped every other one, just to work his
quads. 

 Stopping on the stoop, Dief frisking around his feet, he unlocked the
door, thinking about the game; it was the Leafs versus the Blackhawks, and
he was secretly looking forward to needling his friends by rooting for the
Toronto team. Pushing the door open, he thought about how much fun it was
going to be to stare blankly when Ray Kowalski started in with his "Leafs
suck" litany . . . and almost tripped over a brief case. Regaining his
balance, he looked down in confusion at the slim leather case lying in the
hallway, distantly hearing Dief whine his concern. Even without seeing the
monogram or hearing Dief's query, he knew it was Meg's. 

 Why was it lying in the hallway? 

 No sooner had he formed the question than his growing sense of alarm was
heightened as the sound of someone retching violently reached him. The
sound carried clearly through the open door of the inspector's office.
Turning his head, Fraser could see a purse lying just inside the office,
the strap forming a distorted ring into which the purse's contents had
spilled. Without even thinking, he motioned for Dief to stay in the
hallway and strode rapidly into her office, slipping off his jacket and
throwing it at one of the chairs so that he would be more able to help. 

 The weeks of distance and reserve he had built up and maintained so
carefully crumbled instantaneously as he ran towards the small bathroom
off to the side of Meg's office and saw her huddled and shaking over the
toilet, straining to breathe between the heaves racking her body. One shoe
lay halfway off her foot, splayed to the side, and even from the doorway
he could see the shocking paleness of her skin. He didn't even think she
was fully aware of him as he fell to his knees beside her and put his arm
across her back, holding her against him, supporting and silently
comforting her shaking body. Pain and worry racked his body as more
shaking racked hers. 

 Finally the latest spasm passed and she relaxed, resting her head against
the arm she had propped against the bowl. Knowing she wasn't up to rising,
let alone lifting her head, he reached over to the sink with his free hand
and grabbed one of the small decorative napkins she kept there. Wetting
it, he gently wiped her face while she kept her eyes closed. Tossing the
damp paper in the trash, he kept her tucked against his chest and reached
back up for the glass on the counter. Filling it as quickly as he could,
he brought water back down to her. 

 Opening her eyes, she raised up slightly. Croaking, "Thank you," she took
a sip from the glass he held and leaned against him. 

 "Rinse and spit," he said softly, and when she did, he let her hold the
glass and flushed the toilet. 

 Giving her more time to regain her breath, he kept his arm around her as
he watched her sip the water slowly. In the back of his mind he was aware
of the feel of having her in his arms again, of the press of her weight
against his chest, but his thoughts were spinning wildly as he absorbed
how sick she looked and ran through a list of what could be wrong . . .
flu? . . . maybe . . . cancer? He realized now she had lost an alarming
amount of weight and he could see dark circles ringing her eyes . . .
Dengue Fever? He abruptly terminated his mental list, realizing how
ludicrous he was being. But that didn't change the fact that as he thought
back over the last few days, weeks maybe, she had been looking ill and
tired. 'Please don't let it be something serious,' he thought almost
desperately. The thought that something was gravely wrong with her almost
made him throw up despite the weeks of distance separating them. 

 "I think I can stand," he heard her say almost inaudibly as she set the
glass on the floor and pulled him back from his worry. He didn't let go as
they rose together, and was immediately thankful that he had brought his
other arm up, because almost as soon as they both straightened, he could
feel her sway. Reacting instinctively again, he scooped her up in his
arms. Turning, and ignoring her protests that she could walk, he cradled
her against his chest and walked towards the couch in her office. 

 Laying her down carefully, he sat next to her hip, halfway on the couch,
and felt her forehead. No fever. Concern roiling insides him, he couldn't
decide if that was a good sign or not. "How long have you been sick? Have
you seen a doctor?" He tried to keep his voice dispassionate, but the
words flooded out intensely despite his best efforts. 

 "I'm not sick." Seeing his highly skeptical look, and realizing how
ludicrous that statement must sound considering what had just happened,
she went on, trying to find the balance between reassuring him and not
revealing too much. "Yes, I've seen a doctor. Now, if you would please let
me up, we can start our day." 

 "Sir, perhaps you should go back to the doctor." The gentle hand
smoothing her hair sat in contrast to his formal way of addressing her.
"You've been looking increasingly worse over the last week, and you came
very close to fainting just now. Has your doctor been able to determine
what's wrong?" 

 She could see the worry in his face, clouding his eyes, and being this
close to him made her even more aware of how long it had been since the
last time they had touched. Wishing she knew what she should do and say,
she looked up at him and searched his face. She could tell him the truth
and remove the barriers between them, but so much was at stake, and the
consequences . . . Suddenly her eyes were burning with unshed tears and
she blinked rapidly trying to hide them. 

 His perceptive eyes weren't fooled, of course; she could see his eyes
sharpen with concern. With a soothing touch on her arm, he softly asked,
"Is it bad, Meg? Is there something I can do to help you?" 

 Pushing herself up to more of a sitting position as a swell of emotion
rose in her throat, she felt a few tears spill over and slip down her
cheeks. Suddenly she was filled with relief. This was her chance to tell
him what was going on; she didn't usually believe in signs, but surely the
fact that he had been the one to find her this morning meant something.
Meant that she should tell him. Well, at the very least it was an opening,
and she was going to seize it with both hands. She leaned forward a bit
more, put her hand on his knee, and searched for the words to bridge the
gaps between them. 

 "There are things I need to tell you. That I need to explain, but first,
there's something else." 

 She stopped and took a deep breath. How to start? What to say? This was
definitely not the way she had ever envisioned this conversation
happening. She remembered being a young girl and thinking that this would
be one of the most wildly romantic moments of her life: she would tell the
man of her dreams, and he would sweep her up, filled with joy, and they'd
ride away on a white horse or his fabulous car or something. Having this
happen in an office and being estranged from the man she loved was hardly
the stuff that dreams were made of. Then again, this was reality, not some
schoolgirl fantasy, and, hopefully, this would be the first step towards
fixing things between them. They would have a lot to talk about and work
through, but the only way to something happier was to start talking now. 

 "I'm not sick. Well, I mean, I was being sick, but there is really
nothing wrong with me." The look of confusion on his face only got worse
as she talked in circles. Stopping the flow of words, she got a hold on
herself. She could do this - she could find the words. Looking back up at
him, she smiling slightly at the concern on his face. He was such an
incredible man. Finally, she went on in a rush of words, blurting it out.
"It's just morning sickness; I'm pregnant." 

 The reaction she got didn't match her dream; it didn't even come close.
He didn't even smile back. "I see." 

 Wanting to make sure he understood, she went on quickly, "It's your baby,
Ben. It happened that night, right before I went to . . ." She stuttered
to a stop at the look on his face. Confusion and concern were quickly
being replaced by something that looked more like . . . betrayal than
happiness. 

 "I see," he said again in that same cold tone and got up from the couch
abruptly. "And if I hadn't found you this morning, were you ever planning
on telling me?" 

 She felt like she owed him an honest answer. "I, yes, I think so, I mean,
yes. Yes. You see, I just found out for sure myself yesterday afternoon." 

 Feeling like she could almost hear him processing this new piece of
information, she decided to let him have a minute to absorb the fact that
he was going to be a father. After all, it had taken a while for it to
sink in that she was going to be a mother. Actually, she still wasn't sure
it had. Small bubbles of joy echoed up in side her; she was having a baby,
and now she was telling the man she loved about it. 

 But then the last remnants of his caring concern iced over into a blank
mask. "Thank you for informing me, sir. I hope you will be very happy.
Will I be allowed to be part of the child's life, or is my role completely
finished in your eyes?" 

 "What?" she asked in shock, all happiness at the news and finally being
able to have a real conversation with him dissolving. "Involved? Yes, of
course you can be involved; I have been hoping you would want to be. But I
wasn't sure-" 

 "May I suggest that should you decide to do this again, that you inform
the prospective father beforehand? That way you won't have to go through
all the messy pretending again." 

 His sarcasm cut through her confusion as it began to dawn on her what he
meant and the terrible coldness of his voice chilled her. She tried to
form words to deny his accusations, but nothing would come out. Then pain
at the thought that he evidently thought her capable of such perfidy
lanced through her and galvanized her words. "Fraser, Ben," she started,
holding out her hand in mute appeal. 

 "No, no," he held up his hand, halting her words. "You needn't explain.
After all, I did indicate that I would be interested in helping you have a
child. Now you have what you wanted." He continued backing away from her
as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough. The look in his eyes made
her chest ache. "I realize that I am rather late with my request, but I
would like to take the morning off as well as the afternoon. I believe I
have more than enough personal leave time accrued." 

 Still reeling from the shock of losing her chance to make things right
between them, to explain what had been going on, she nodded mutely. 

 "Understood. Good day, Inspector." Once again retreating into military
exactness, he spun on his heel, grabbed his jacket, and marched out of the
room. Stepping around her brief case, which still lay in the hallway, he
continued right back out of the Consulate, his wolf at his heels. 

 Well, wasn't this ironic. Here she was, trapped by one man objectifying
her, using and manipulating her for his own devices, and now Fraser was
accusing her of doing the very same thing to him. 

 'Where's Alannis Morisette when you need her?' she thought with a giggle
tinged with hysteria. No, she couldn't slip into hysteria now, or a crying
jag, she told herself sternly. Wiping the tear tracks from her face, she
sat up straight and squared her shoulders. She was a Mountie, and she had
to keep working on finding a way to keep this baby safe. And how to keep
Ben safe.  

 Chapter 17 

 Fraser felt Dief brush against his leg, pushing him to the side. Abruptly
coming back to himself, and he jerked with the realization that the wolf
had been guiding him along, not letting him run into anything, or get
himself run over, for quite a while. This time Dief had been pushing him
around a fire hydrant that he hadn't even been aware of, bright yellow
color not withstanding. 

 He stopped and looked around, getting his bearings. Oh, he wasn't very
far from the apartment. Looking at the street signs, he realized there was
a small park just around the corner. Hopefully it would be mostly deserted
this time of the morning since schools hadn't let out yet. 

 "Thank you, Diefenbaker; I am more alert now. I appreciate your concern."


 Dief barked. "No, I wouldn't doubt that I stepped off the curb too soon
three lights back. The Inspector's news took me by surprise." 

 Dief cocked his head and barked again. "Thank you, Dief, but I'm not
really to talk about it yet," he said with as much dignity as he could
muster in the midst of his chaotic thoughts. "But yes, I'm headed towards
the park." 

 Hearing his hopes confirmed, Dief ran ahead a couple steps and then
turned around to wait for Fraser, the expression on the wolf's face
clearly saying, "Hurry up!" His packmate seemed better now, and Dief knew
this park; there might be children to play with on the slide, and there
was a generous hot dog vendor. 

 A few minutes later, Fraser sat on a bench under some trees and watched
the wolf scamper over to the slide. Recognizing the few people by the
slide and seeing that no one was alarmed by the presence of the wolf,
Fraser moved his focus back inward. 

 Pregnant. Meg was pregnant with his child. 

 He didn't know if most men imagined finding out that they were going to
be fathers, he only knew that he had. There had been a great deal of time
to think in the places he'd grown up and at some of the places he had been
stationed, especially the more isolated ones where the nearest neighbors
were herds of caribou, so he'd done quite a bit of imagining and dreaming
about having his own family. 

 He had always known he had wanted children; several, really, so they
wouldn't have to endure the solitary existence that he had growing up. The
magic of knowing he had helped create a new life, and the thought of being
able to help mold that life, of teaching them, learning from them,
fascinated him. 

 Which wasn't to say that it wasn't simultaneously quite a daunting
thought, but then all great challenges are, when one first starts out. 

 He had thought about how happy he and his wife would be, how they would
sit and plan. About holding her and being able to put his hands against
her abdomen and know that their baby was there, growing beneath his palms.
About how it would be to feel the baby move and kick. He had even studied
midwifery, wanting to be prepared for all eventualities. And the knowledge
had come in handy several times, although not, of course, with his own
children. 

 None of his imaginings or knowledge had prepared him for today, however. 

 He was going to be a father, but finding out had not been a happy
telling. There hadn't been any hugging or holding or even any planning and
hoping about the future. Hell, he wasn't even married to her. 

 Well, at least now he knew why she had decided to break off the
relationship. In her eyes, he must have served his purpose, and apparently
she had decided she no longer needed him. 

 He remembered the day many months ago when he had thought she was asking
him to father her child. He had been deeply shocked, but had thought that
perhaps it would be a chance to let the feelings he had been harboring for
her, that he had been meticulously suppressing, free and see where they
would develop. 

 Of course, the embarrassment he had felt when she had said she meant
adoption, not another route, was also inexorably linked to the memory of
that day. At the time it seemed like she was trying to let him down as
easily as possible and spare them both any more discomfort, but maybe he
had planted the seed of an idea in her mind. 

 He had done some research and helped her fill out adoption forms, but
hadn't known if she had decided to take the next step. Now, however, it
seemed clear that the way he had revealed his feelings at Francesca and
Ren's reception had given her a whole new set of options. 

 There had been moments of attraction between them before, on the train,
for example, and times when they had found a powerful link of teamwork
that had been heightened by awareness, like while they were caught in the
egg incubator. After the reception, however, he had felt so sure that the
feelings between them were mutual. 

 Given the last couple months, however, it appeared that he had, yet
again, fallen neatly into a woman's plans for him. Meg, however, had
proved to be the more insidious of the two women of his past. He had
experienced misgivings about Victoria and knew even as he was on the verge
of betraying all his ideals that what he was doing was wrong, but there
hadn't been any of that with Margaret Thatcher. 

 With her, everything had seemed so right and so clear. They shared a
common love of their job and country, and many other interests. There had
been differences between them too, things that would have kept them
individuals within being a couple, and things they could have taught each
other. While he was all too aware that Meg was his superior officer, he
felt sure that they could have found a way to resolve that conflict. He
only knew he had never felt so at peace with himself and his future in the
few short weeks that they had been together, and had thought she had felt
the same peace and clarity. 

 Evidently not. 

 He would never have thought that she would have been quite so . . .
mercenary, or at least so heartless, to manipulate him like this. To use
him and then discard him. 

 'What is it about me that makes people think I don't have any emotions at
all?' he asked himself. 'To think that they can just use me. Don't they
think I'll notice?' 

 Denny Scarpa hadn't seemed to think he would, neither had Frank Zuko when
the mobster had bought all that furniture and pushed it on him. There were
countless other examples. And now Meg . . . he still couldn't quite bring
himself to call her Inspector Thatcher in his head most of the time . . .
Meg had used him to get what she had wanted, evidently without regard for
how he felt about her or about having a baby. 

 What was he going to do about this? What could he do? 

 "Hello, Son." 

 "Great Scot, Dad!" Fraser started violently. "You could give a body some
warning." 

 "What would you have me do, tie a cowbell around my neck? I've been
sitting here for several minutes; you were the one lost in thought." He
adjusted his lanyard, waiting for some sort of response from Benton. Not
seeing one coming, the older Mountie went on. "So she finally told you,
did she?" 

 "Told me?" Fraser whipped his head back around to look at his father.
"You mean you knew? How?" 

 Bob Fraser gestured vaguely in front of himself. "Well, you know, there
are ways. After all, the baby is part of the Fraser . . . spirit . . .
lifeline . . . something, I don't know. Knew almost instantly, actually.
That was a bit odd, let me tell you! To know what your son was up to, as
it were . . ." 

 "And you didn't tell me?" Fraser demanded incredulously, breaking in and
ignoring those last couple comments. "What, you didn't think it
important?" 

 "There are rules, Benton. There is some knowledge we just can't pass on.
Had to find out for yourself." 

 "Ha! Well, I certainly found out." 

 "I'm proud of you, Son; I hadn't been quite sure you knew how to use it."


 "Use it? How delicate, Dad." If sarcasm had been visible, Fraser's words
would have covered his father with a blanket of it. "I know how to 'use
it,' as you put it, just fine, thank you very much." 

 "Well, it certainly took you long enough. I thought I'd never have
grandchildren." 

 Fraser rounded on his father and put his arm on the back of the bench.
"Gee, Dad, if I had known you just wanted grandchildren I could have
gotten you those! Funny how I figured you would want a daughter-in-law to
go with them." 

 "Don't you take that tone with me, Benton Robert Fraser! You know
perfectly well what I mean." 

 "Fine, Dad, I'm sorry, but what tone do you expect me to take? I'm
feeling rather used here." He made a conscious effort to relax his
muscles, all of which seemed to have tensed simultaneously. 

 "Used? Why would you feel used?" 

 Fraser wondered how long his father had practiced to match that scathing
expression and tone. "You know, if you are going to intrude in my life,
you could try to stay a little more current." 

 "What's that supposed to mean?" 

 "Well, you know that she is pregnant with my child, but you don't know
she doesn't want anything to do with me?" 

 "Doesn't want anything to do with you? What gave you that idea?" 

 Fraser sat looking at his father in complete disbelief for a moment,
dropped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. All
the fight seemed to leech out of his voice leaving just the pain behind.
"The fact that she basically threw me out of her home, and that she
limited our relationship to a purely professional one seemed like fairly
large clues to me." 

 Bob Fraser looked out over the park, a distant look in his eyes. "Once
when your mother and I had a fight, and she wouldn't talk to me, I locked
us in a old shed; wouldn't let her out. Took three days for Caroline to
talk to me." The far off look was replaced by a definite glint. "Although
after that it was two more days before she let me out of that shed," he
went on. 

 Time to bring his father back to the present. "Good to know, Dad, but
this goes beyond a fight. She used me." 

 "Asked her that, did you?" 

 "Isn't it pretty clear? She wanted a baby, and now she is going to have
one, so she no longer needs me around." 

 "She doesn't seem very happy about being successful with this scheme you
say she has perpetrated." 

 The younger Mountie considered that for a moment. She had been looking
rather drawn and . . . hollow over the past few weeks. He had been so
absorbed in his own feelings of emptiness, he hadn't really noticed. 

 But then he realized what it was. Morning sickness. That was why she had
been looking so pale and down. "That's morning sickness," he told his
father; "she's still in her first trimester." 

 This time the father stared at the son. "I see. So nothing strikes you as
odd about this situation?" 

 "Are you being deliberately arbitrary, or do you just enjoy the Socratic
method?" 

 "I'm just concerned that you don't seem to have asked this woman any
questions. You seem to have run away without saying anything. Where is
your Mountie fortitude? The Fraser curiosity?" His gesture carried the
same impatience as his words. 

 "I needed to get away and get my thoughts in order," the son replied
defensively. 

 "I expect you to do your duty by her and this baby." 

 "Thanks for the support, Dad." Fraser said wearily, shutting his eyes. 

 When he opened them his father was gone. That seemed to be his pattern
over the last few months. Drop in, rile him with questions, and then
disappear. The occasionally helpful stories and anecdotes had all but
disappeared. 

 He hoped he would be more helpful to his son or daughter. 

 Which brought back the matter at hand. He was, in fact, going to be a
father in the not too distant future. 

 His father was right about one thing; he needed to talk to Meg about
this. He had been wondering the last few weeks if she was thinking about
transferring soon. The idea had been filling him with relief. If she went
away, he wouldn't have to see her everyday and be constantly reminded
about what they'd had so briefly. Now, however, the idea of her going away
worried him. It would make it that much harder to see the baby. 

 Sitting there in the park, watching a few toddlers play on the climbing
toys and swings, he renewed his vow to himself that he would not be an
absentee father. He would do everything he could to see his child as often
as possible; this child would not get to know him through journal entries
after it was too late. If that meant following Meg Thatcher when she
changed assignments, then that's what he would do. 

 He wondered where she was thinking about going. Maybe to Ottawa. That was
where Henri Cloutier was, and considering the number of times the man had
visited the Consulate over the last two months, Fraser had to believe the
Legal Attach was encouraging her to transfer, and maybe even helping her
obtain a new position. 

 The man still made his flesh crawl, and he had been doing everything he
could to be out or unavailable while the man was in the Consulate and
city. Actually, he had been rather surprised how welcoming Inspector
Thatcher had been to Cloutier. She seemed to have gotten over her
frustration with the man and his tactics; Fraser wouldn't have thought
that was possible. Then again, this was just further evidence that she
wasn't the person he thought he had gotten to know. 

 Still, she was the mother of his child, and as such, deserved to be
treated with respect. 

 The sound of someone talking loudly drew him out of his reverie, and he
realized that the park was full of people talking and laughing. Looking at
his watch, he realized it was lunchtime. He had been sitting here in the
park for a couple hours, and between that and the walk over here, the
morning was gone. 

 Good Heavens, he was supposed to meet Ray and Ray at the apartment at
12:30. He would have just enough time to get home and change. 

 He walked over to the sandpit to retrieve Dief, and after luring him away
from the hot dog vender, they strode quickly towards the apartment he
shared with Ray Kowalski. 

 Measured strides quickly ate up the distance to the building, and
rounding the corner, he still hadn't decided what to tell his friends. He
didn't know what to say. Should he tell them or remain quiet for a while
longer? This was hardly something that could be hidden for very long, but
he still didn't know how he felt about all this. So many ideas swirled in
his head, he couldn't find a clear path through them or a way to organize
them. In counterpoint to his confusion, the sound of his boots against the
steps echoed in the stairwell and seemed to be chanting De-cide, De-cide
over and over again as he pounded up the levels. 

 Finally, just before reaching the floor of his and Ray's apartment, he
decided that for the moment it was better not to tell his two friends
about this latest development until he had more information. And besides,
he didn't feel up to talking about it; emotions he had thought shriveled
and lacking were swirling around inside of him buffeting his insides, and
he felt like the equanimity he'd found over the last few weeks was
completely gone. 

 At least this time he didn't feel frozen. He felt confused and hurt and .
. . sorrowful at how things were turning out. 

 Reaching the door out of the stairwell, he squared his shoulders, tucked
all those feelings up inside himself, and turned his mind to the hockey
game. He could do this; he was a Mountie.  

 Chapter 18 

 "Joe's Eats may look plain, but the food here is great. Ange and I used
to come here after Bulls games every once in a while. They have a cherry
pie that'll make you glad you were born." Ray Vecchio's voice was rather
raspy from having shouted himself hoarse at the hockey game. 

 So was Ray Kowalski's. The Hawks had come really close to winning, and
there'd been several calls that proved that blind refs cursed all sports.
He let Fraser walk in front of him as they filed through the glass doors
and as he followed, felt the warm air hit them like a perp hitting a
table. Fraze didn't even say "Thank you kindly" for holding the door. 

 'Crap, the Mountie really is back in marionette mode.' He'd been doing so
well the last few weeks; this morning when Fraze had gotten out of the
car, he had been talkative and looking forward to the game. 

 It hadn't taken Ray and him very long after walking into the apartment to
figure out that something had happened to the Mountie. To start with,
Fraser was just sitting there on the couch staring to space, not fussing
around picking things up or reading one of his ever-present books, just
sitting. Fraze had tried to be enthusiastic as they gathered their stuff
up, but that empty look in his eyes was back, and his movements were too
careful . . . too stiff. Had he really thought they wouldn't notice?
Please. They might not be Mounties, but even Chicago flatfoots could fit
pieces that big together. 

 He and Ray hadn't said anything out loud, but all it had taken was a
look, one of those partner ones, where they knew exactly what the other
was thinking. Something had made Fraser backslide, and they were going to
find out what was going on with their friend, no matter what it took. 

 They'd given Fraser the chance to tell them in his own time during the
game, but the Most Stubborn Man in the World had switched between
pretending to be absorbed in the game and talking about hockey statistics
until Ray had wanted to stuff a puck in his mouth. 

 Now they were at the restaurant, and as they slid into a booth, the cops
exchanged another look that didn't need words. The time had come to figure
out what was going on. 

 Fraser seemed to have tuned them out again, so they abandoned their
attempts at conversation and decided to make a point. Kowalski went first.


 "Yeah, and then hobgoblins came up from the sewer, an' joining forces
with those guys from the Musical Ride, they invaded the U.S. an' have
turned us all into sex slaves." 

 "I hear they're heading to Peru next, Benny." 

 Fraser blinked at hearing his name. "I hadn't realized that you wanted to
travel in South America, Ray." 

 "Ok, that's it," Vecchio said, leaning forward and slamming his hands on
the table. "You didn't really pay attention to the game, we had to remind
you to stand up for the national anthems, and now you aren't even
pretending to follow the conversation, Benny! You wanna tell us what the
hell is going on, or are we going to have to beat it out of you?" 

 'Oh, dear.' Clearly he was not being successful concealing his feelings.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Ray." 

 "Now you're lying, Fraser?" He was tempted to pound on the table again
but forced himself to lower his voice. "We're your friends; we know when
something's bugging you." 

 "Yeah, you didn't even do that Mountie quiet gloating thing when the
Leafs won." 

 "I don't gloat, Ray." 

 "Yeah, uh huh, sure, Fraze." 

 Fraser opened his mouth to retort again, but Vecchio cut him off; "You
aren't going ta' wiggle out of this or distract us talking about Mountie
Manners, Benny. Now, what the hell is going on?" 

 Fraser looked back and forth between his two friend's faces. He could
tell by their expressions that they weren't going to rest until they knew
what was preoccupying him, and more obfuscation would only make them
angrier. He decided to give in. 

 "I received some . . . startling news today." He hesitated again but the
support and concern on his friend's faces broke through his self-imposed
reserve and the secret came out in a flood of words. "Inspector Thatcher -
Meg - is going to have a baby. She's pregnant with my child." 

 "Jesus," Ray Vecchio breathed. The two cops looked at each other again.
They had thought that maybe the two had a confrontation or something, not
something like this. 

 After a moment, Kowalski asked gently, "Uh, Fraze, are we happy about
this?" 

 "I don't know, Ray. I've always wanted children," Fraser said to the
table, "but these circumstances are . . . hardly ideal." 

 "So I guess this means Mounties aren't always prepared, huh, Fraser? 

 "Christ, Stanley! Way to be supportive!" 

 Kowalski looked at his friends with a look that somehow simultaneously
carried a glare for Vecchio for calling him Stanley and an apology for
Fraser. "Sorry, Fraze, I was just trying to lighten the moment." 

 "I appreciate the effort, Ray," Fraser replied. "But it would seem that
you are correct; we were not prepared for all eventualities that night." 

 "I hadn't realized that you and she had . . ." 

 On top of his father's earlier comments, this was suddenly just too much.
"I am a fully functional adult male, Ray!" 

 Faint color bloomed high on Vecchio's cheeks as he made an apologetic
gesture with his hand. "Benny, that didn't come out the way I meant it.
Really." 

 Fraser covered his face with his hands, rubbing his fingers hard against
his forehead. "I know, Ray, I'm sorry, too; it's just . . . well, the
shock of learning about my impending fatherhood." 

 "Yeah, that'd be a shock to anyone, Fraze, especially considering
everything that's been going on between the two of you." Kowalski said
sympathetically. "I'm not sure how I'da dealt with it." 

 "Do you know what you're going to do, Benny?" 

 "No, Ray, I haven't the foggiest idea. I left before I thought to ask her
anything. I needed to take a walk, get my thoughts in order." He reached
down and started rotating his fork by the handle, supporting it with his
finger pressing into the tines. "I think the Inspector is going to be
transferring soon, however, which will only further complicate matters." 

 "She's leaving?" the blond cop asked. 

 "I can only assume so, Ray. Henri Cloutier has come to town several times
in the past couple months, and I know he has, in the past, been a mentor
for her. From what I can gather, they seem to have solved the problems
they had concerning conduct, and I believe he is helping her find a new
position." 

 "That's really weird, Benny." 

 "You know that if there's anything we c'n do, we wanna help, right?" 

 Fraser looked back and forth between his friends as Vecchio nodded
agreement to the other Ray's assurances and smiled. "I'm honored to count
both of you as my friends." 

 Ray Kowalski ducked his head in embarrassment. "Aw, come on, Fraze.
Besides, it's not everyday a guy finds out he's gonna be an uncle!" His
grin captured all of his excitement. 

 "Yep, this kid is going to have two uncles all ready to teach him or her
about real sports, not stuff like that housekeeping on ice you and Ren are
so into," Vecchio supplied with a cocky grin of his own. 

 Fraser raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Any child of mine will be quite
aware of the harmonious union between brooms and ice." 

 The two Rays continued teasing Fraser about strange Canadian customs,
like when he was going to start the baby on pemmican, and their jokes
helped the Mountie push the cold back again; he soon felt warmer than he
had all day. At least he knew now that no matter what happened he would
have the support of his friends.  

 Chapter 19 

 'Feels like the timing belt needs to be adjusted,' Ray Vecchio thought in
the back of his head. 

 He had been driving around aimlessly since dropping Kowalski and Fraser
off at their apartment, too antsy to go home. At least they'd gotten Benny
looking better, he reflected while turning right rather than waiting at a
red light. By the time they had gotten to their cherry pie, Fraser's eyes
were coming alive again and they had been able to distract him from his
other troubles with some facts from a case they were working on at the
moment. 

 Fraser might have been feeling better, but Ray felt like his anger had
been turned up to simmer again, and he couldn't get Meg Thatcher out of
his mind. How could she have done this to his friend? Using him to get
pregnant had been incredibly . . . cruel considering how Benny felt about
her. She clearly didn't know the man very well if she thought Fraser
wouldn't care or be interested. 

 Pulling his attention back to the street for the first time in a while,
Ray suddenly realized that he was two buildings away from the Canadian
Consulate. 'Way to go, subconscious,' he thought with a small laugh. 

 He was just about to continue driving by when he realized that the only
car out front belonged to Inspector Margaret Thatcher, the Dragon Lady
herself. 

 Not giving himself time to think it over, he yanked the steering wheel to
the side, and throwing the car into park, got out. He didn't know what he
was going to say to her, but he was superstitious enough to think the
coincidence of them both being here at the same time was some kind of sign
telling him to go talk to her. 

 He was surprised to find the front door unlocked; it should've been
locked, especially since she was here alone. The lush carpet once again
muffled his footsteps as he stalked down the hallway, and he was just
about to round the door into her office when he heard her voice drift out
through the open door. 

 The panic in it made him stop cold. 

 There was so much misery in her words he was surprised she could even
talk. 

 "No, don't do that! There isn't any need to do that." 

 There was a pause, but Ray didn't move. 

 "Henri, sir, please, I broke it off just like you told me to, we have no
personal contact. I'm doing everything you want." 

 Every single cop instinct inside Detective Raymond Vecchio slammed into
complete and total alert, and all the hair on the back of his neck felt
like it had gone to military attention. He didn't have time to reach any
conclusions, however, as she went on. 

 "No, as I have told you, and as you have observed on your visits, I see
him only during office hours. Constable Fraser has moved out of the
Consulate, so we spend time together only while working, and even then I
have been interacting with him as little as possible, just as you told me
to." Her voice sounded less tinny, but rivers of pain still ran through
it. 

 Another pause. 

 "No, I told you I would do whatever you want, just don't send that
information to Internal Affairs, it could ruin his career." 

 The plea in her voice made Ray's skin feel raw. 

 'Holy Shit! She's being blackmailed,' his mind screamed at him. Ray
almost walked into the room to intervene, but he wasn't sure what that
would accomplish - in fact, it would probably make things worse. They were
going to need to gather evidence against who ever the hell it was that was
doing this to her. 

 'What had she called him? Henri?' 

 'Who the . . . Oh, Christ! It's that bastard Cloutier,' he suddenly
realized; Fraser had told him about that guy. The sound of her voice
pulled him from his racing thoughts again. 

 "Yes, sir, I will start the transfer papers in motion first thing Monday
morning. Will that be enough for you not to hand over those records?"
Pause. "Very well, I will fax the preliminary request in Monday morning."
She paused again. "Thank you." 

 "Bastard!" Ray heard her say as she placed the handset back in its
cradle. 

 Afraid that she would walk out of her office, he began moving away from
her door. Putting everything he had ever learned about moving silently to
work, he eased back down the hallway, opened the front door so quietly it
barely whispered against the carpet, and slipped back outside. The hundred
feet to the Riv felt like a mile while he worried that she would look out
a window and discover that he had been there. 

 Forcing himself to pull over at the next corner, he sat for a moment to
collect his thoughts. He had to tell Fraser and Ray; they had to come up
with a plan to stop Cloutier and bust him. He also bet Ren would want to
help take this asshole down. Hell, he might have some really useful
contacts up in the Great White North. God knows he seemed to know everyone
up there. 

 Jerking his cell phone open, he punched in the number for his sister and
Ren's apartment and put the phone to his ear as he roared away from the
curb. 

 Luckily Ren answered the phone; he didn't feel like trying to explain
this to his sister. "Ren, get your ass over to Kowalski's apartment," he
said, barely giving his brother-in-law time to say hello. "I know what's
going on with Thatcher. I'm on my way over there now; I oughtta be there
in less than ten minutes." He paused to hear Turnbull's reply. "Yeah, ok,
see you in about fifteen." 

 Tossing the phone on the seat, Ray Vecchio concentrated on driving as
quickly as he could without slamming the Riv into someone else. He simply
ignored the blaring horns behind him as the sped through a light so yellow
is was almost orange. He had to get to Benny and tell him what was going
on.  

 Chapter 20 

 Setting down his phone, Henri Cloutier leaned back in his chair wearing a
smile. He liked to think of it as his benevolently smug smile and used it
with practiced ease when he had bested someone. 

 He didn't know that most people on the receiving end of that smile
thought it was . . . oily. 

 As he sat there fingering his lower lip, the smile turned even more
gloating. 

 He had been right; using Constable Fraser to get to her had been a stroke
of genius. The panic in her voice every time he threatened the man was
truly inspiring. Finally, after all these years, he had Margaret Thatcher
right where he wanted her. 

 She was going to be his. This time she was not going to escape him by
transferring to another assignment. 

 He remembered the first time he'd ever seen her, a bright-faced cadet at
the Academy. Even then she had shown incredible promise; he had seen it
immediately while visiting as a guest lecturer. Meg had sat in class,
diligently taking notes, so earnest, so young. Asking insightful
questions, she had been as bright as she was lovely, and he had wanted her
immediately. Too bad she slipped out in a group of her classmates before
he had gotten a chance to speak to her. 

 He hadn't ever forgotten her, though, and several years later, when she
received another promotion, they had been attached to the same office. A
very competent officer, still very beautiful, had replaced the young
cadet, and the cool faade she had developed only made him more eager to
get behind the mask and possess the woman. 

 He had tried late night dinners and requiring her to work late; he had
even chased her around the desk once or twice, but somehow she had always
managed to just elude him, dancing the thin line between rebuffing him and
not offending him. Watching her squirm and come up with excuses was so
diverting he had let her get away with it, not escalating his pursuit,
just enjoying the cat and mouse game they were playing. After all, he had
thought, he was going to win in the end. 

 Coming in one Monday morning and discovering that she had managed to
escape him and transfer out had been quite upsetting. He still wasn't
entirely sure how she had done it. To say that he had been displeased had
been an understatement. The office clerk who had filed the paperwork was
now working in the mailroom; he had seen to that. 

 He hadn't intended to let things rest between them, and had been planning
on following her to her new post and remaining until he got what he
wanted. That was one of the best things about being a legal attach; he
could go where he wanted and stay as long as he wanted, calling it an
"internal review." People were so afraid of that phrase they didn't
question him. Once again, however, other matters had claimed his
attention. One of the people from that incident was now working as a
security guard in a toy factory. One did not cross Henri Cloutier and not
face the consequences. 

 Still, Henri reflected, it wasn't too long after she had accepted the
charge of the Chicago Consulate that he had begun actively pursuing her
again. She had been proving quite a challenge . . . which, of course,
would make the reward all the sweeter. 

 He had made sure to be assigned to the case involving Constable Fraser
and that egg man. Her efforts to make him believe she was dating Constable
Fraser were rather disappointing; he had believed her at first, but had
soon seen through the ruse. He'd expected more from her. Her attentions to
the man, as unbelievable as they might have been, however, had been enough
to incur his wrath for both of them. Fraser was everything Cloutier
despised; stalwart, handsome, and scrupulously honest. People like that
made it harder for all the rest of the force. Besides, they required so
much more energy to manipulate. 

 The pencil in Cloutier's hand snapped as he thought about the
commendation that he had been forced to give Constable Fraser after that
incident. His superior officer and that obsequious Meers had somehow found
out about the case and Fraser's actions and had "stopped by" to review the
report. Both had been so pleased at the way Fraser had resolved the case
there had been no way he could have gotten around the commendation for the
Constable. That was something else that needed to be repaid in the not too
distant future. 

 Tossing the broken pieces of pencil across his desk, Cloutier smoothed
his features. He was Henri Cloutier, after all. He was going to win.
Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out the mirror he kept there,
checking his hair as he thought about what had come next. 

 His disappointment in little Meg had dampened his ardor for her for a
time, but, since she clearly had not been seeing Fraser, and there was no
one else in her life, he took solace from the thought that while he didn't
have her, no one else did either. She was, after all, his. She just needed
to recognize that fact. To punish her for her failure to learn that, he
made sure that she stayed in Chicago and was kept at the bottom of
promotion lists. She had to learn. 

 Once again, however, other matters had distracted him, and in the time
between the egg incident and this most recent chapter in his quest to
conquer Margaret Thatcher, he had relearned the joy a little bit of
information and some well-placed threats could bring. 

 Yet the time he had allowed her away from him had clearly not taught her
the lesson of whom she belonged to. In fact, he now realized he had
neglected her for too long. The standoffish exterior she had used to put
him off had softened, and she had begun to think of other men again. That
was simply not acceptable. 

 When that fool Bennett had come back from Chicago full of information
about seeing her in a restaurant looking happy and content and holding
hands with that cardboard cutout Mountie, Henri discovered that stronger
measures were needed with his Margaret. She had to learn. 

 This time he had a whole new set of skills at his disposal. 

 It really wasn't hard, when one knew where too look, he thought to
himself. It was just a matter of gathering small bits of information and
putting them to use. 

 He had already had the pictures of his Meg. They were part of his private
collection, but they wouldn't have been enough. She could have just
dismissed those as a youthful indiscretion. After all, the pictures were
tastefully done, and it had been before she had entered the RCMP Academy.
They had, however, been a beginning. 

 The real power, though, had come from looking into Constable Benton R.
Fraser's background. And into a bit of Sergeant Robert Fraser's. He
glanced across the room to the hidden safe where he kept all his little
secrets. Yes, he had made sure to straighten the painting, good. 

 Actually, all it had taken to make her see his point was the number of a
certain account in the Territorial Trust and a few references to some
withdrawals and the incident with the dam. After that she had understood
that he had the power to ruin Fraser's career and reputation, as well as
his dead father's. 

 The look on her face when she had realized what he was doing and her
defense of the Constable were enough to make him determined to make this
as painful as possible for her, to draw it out for as long as he could.
These last couple months of making her stay in Chicago but not go near her
subordinate had been quite satisfying. It was her turn to suffer as he had
been doing for so long. She had to learn. 

 A couple more bits of information had her believing he had a whole
network of spies, and she was now so afraid that he would release the
information about her ex-lover she barely went near the man even during
working hours. At long last she understood the true nature of their
relationship. 

 She was meant for him, and him only. 

 When he had dropped in for a visit a week ago, however, he had seen how
pale and drawn she was looking; seeing the bloom fading from his rose was
not what he wanted, he thought with a chuckle. On the other hand, his
approach was finally getting results. After thinking about it for a week,
he had decided to end the torment of being able to see the man she thought
she wanted, so he had called her tonight to tell her he had decided he
wanted her up in Ottawa again, working directly for him this time. 

 Running his fingers through his carefully coiffed hair one more time, he
slid the mirror back into its special case in the drawer. Things were
going quite well if he did say so himself. Soon he would have his Meg back
with him, and he had no doubt that this time she would have learned her
lesson. 

 The only question remaining was when to speak to Internal Affairs about
Constable Fraser.  

 Chapter 21 

 Ray Vecchio pounded on Ray Kowalski's door, not pausing after a polite
three knocks, but keeping up a continuous pounding. 

 Kowalski jerked open the door, a belligerent look on his face, and his
free hand full of a bowl of Rice Crispies. "This better be good, Vecchio.
Yer interrupting me catching up on X-Files." 

 Vecchio didn't reply but pushed past his partner. Looking around, he
quickly took in the ratty sweats Kowalski had on, the dim room lit only by
the TV, and the fact that Fraser wasn't visible. 

 "Where's Fraser?" he demanded. 

 "Well, good to see you too, man," Ray replied, swinging the door closed.
"What's with you?" he went on, making his own survey and becoming a little
worried at the frantic look around the other man's eyes. 

 "Where the hell is he?" Vecchio went on, his voice becoming sharper. 

 Setting down his bowl of cereal and flipping on a lamp, Kowalski said,
"He's out tak'n Dief for a walk. You wanna tell me what the hell has you
so riled up? Or are we gonna keep asking each other a bunch of stupid
questions and not answering them?" 

 Vecchio threw himself into a chair. "Of course, I bust my ass to get over
here, and the Mountie's out walking his wolf." Seeing his partner getting
angrier, he decided he had better answer some of the questions. "I found
out why Thatcher broke it off with Benny. She's being blackmailed by some
Canadian skirt chasing asshole, and we gotta tell Fraser so we can get
this bastard." 

 "Blackmailed?" Disbelief made the other man's voice loud. He collapsed
against the close end of the couch and threw one leg over the arm. Shock
made him blurt the first thing that came to mind. "That isn't very
Canadian of him." The happy jingle pouring out the TV speakers grated in
the midst of his racing thoughts, and he clicked it off with an impatient
flick of the remote. 

 "This guy's a grade-A creep. He was the legal puke with that whole egg
incident . . ." Vecchio had just finished telling the other Ray about that
case when there was another knock at the door. 

 Kowalski looked up in confusion as he got up. "That can't be Fraze; he
has a key." 

 "Nah, it's probably Ren; I called him on my way over. Thought he could be
useful to this pow-wow." 

 Ray grunted as he walked to the door. "Good thinking: Canadian contacts."


 Opening the door, he discovered Ray was only partially correct; it was
Turnbull, but it was also Frannie. 

 As the two walked into the apartment, Ray Vecchio looked up and caught
sight of his sister. 

 "What're you doing here?" 

 "You really think you can call my husband with a cryptic message like
that and demand that he get over here right now and I'm not going to
notice?" 

 Ray started to retort, but Frannie cut him off. "Ray, deal with it and
grow, ok? You have something to say that concerns people who are my
friends too, and there's no way I'm leaving, got it?" 

 "Yeah, I got it, Frannie," he tried, still trying to find a way to get
her out of here. "It's just that we're dealing with a major creep here,
ok? I don't want you involved." 

 Frannie walked over to her brother and put her hands on his shoulders.
"Ray, I'm married to a cop, you're a cop, my two adopted brothers are
cops, I work in a police station. I've been around creeps and heard you
all talk about them, but I'm a big girl now, ok? Able to make my own
decisions and even tie my own shoes. And I decide to be here. Now, we've
got things to talk about," she finished firmly. 

 The other Ray and Ren stood there watching the siblings, feeling like
they were privy to an important moment. As always, however, Ray Kowalski
couldn't resist the chance to be a smart-ass. 

 "Nice Brady Bunch moment there, guys." 

 "Ray?" Frannie asked with an overly sweet smile. 

 "Yeah, Frannie?" 

 "Get hosed." They grinned at each other. Turning away after a moment,
however, Frannie got down to business. "So, we gonna find out what this is
all about this year?" 

 "Yeah, but why don't we wait for Benny to get back. He should be back any
minute, right, Ray?" 

 "He's usually gone about an hour, and it's been about that." 

 "Oh, and I invited Welsh over, too," Vecchio said, turning to Kowalski.
"I figured some brass might come in handy." 

 They all sat down and tried to contain their impatience while they
waited. The two Rays killed the time telling Ren about the hockey game
they'd seen today - God, was it really only a few hours ago? - and Ray
Kowalski was about to tell Ren and Frannie what Fraser had told them at
dinner, only to remember just in time that the Mountie hadn't said they
could tell anyone else. 

 Luckily, just as the conversation ground to a halt, they heard a key in
the lock. 

 "Fraze! Great, you're back." Kowalski leapt up in welcome. 

 Fraser almost tripped over Dief as he walked in the door and caught sight
of the group starting at him. Trying to cover his discomfort, Fraser shut
the door behind him and took off his hat. "Why, hello, everyone! What a
surprise! I hadn't known-" he sputtered. 

 "Benny, it's kinda an impromptu kind of thing, OK? Come over here and sit
down, we gotta talk." 

 Fraser tossed his hat over to the hat rack. The hat, of course, landed
perfectly, but Fraser didn't pay attention. "Is everyone alright?" he
asked looking around the group. 

 "We're all fine," Frannie assured him, "but Ray called us all over here
saying he needed to talk to us." 

 Fraser sat down in the available chair, and looking at Ray Vecchio, said,
"I'm listening." 

 "Ok," the mostly bald cop started. "An hour ago, I was driving around-"
only to be interrupted by yet another knock. He glanced at his watch.
"That'll be Welsh," he said as Frannie got up to answer the door. 

 "Greatness," Kowalski said from his end of the couch. "Now we only need
to go through it once." 

 "You haven't started yet?" Welsh said as he walked toward the group
around the coffee table and heard Ray's comment. 

 "No, sir, I was about to; Fraser just got here." 

 "Tell us what, Ray?" Fraser's words held more worried curiosity than they
had a moment ago. 

 Ray turned to his friend and held Fraser's gaze. He concentrated on
focusing in on the Mountie; maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to have
everyone here. Too late now. 

 "Well, Benny, like I was saying, a while ago I was driving around
thinking about what you told us . . ." The fleeting panic on his friend's
face made Ray change his mind mid-sentence, eliminating any reference to
Meg being pregnant. "Ah, well, you know, dinner, and all of a sudden I
found myself in front of the Consulate. I thought I'd go in and, uh, check
on Thatcher, but when I let myself in, I heard her talking on the phone."
The Italian detective's gestures stopped as he got to the heart of the
matter. "Benny," he declared, leaning forward in his seat, "it sounds like
she's being blackmailed." 

 All the color drained from the Mountie's face, and he seemed unable to
speak, so Frannie stepped in, exclaiming, "With what? The only person I
know who is more honest than Meg is Benton!" 

 Ray glanced in semi-annoyance at his sister for a moment, but then he
focused back in on the Mountie, locking his gaze as though trying to give
Fraser an anchor for the coming shock. "I don't know, and granted I only
heard her part of the conversation, but it sounds like the guy
blackmailing her has something on you, Benny. She said something about the
information destroying your career." 

 Fraser leapt up out of his seat, breathing heavily. "What? Are you sure
that's what she said?" 

 Ray stood up too. "Yeah, but Benny, there's more." He continued staring
directly into his friend's eyes. "I heard her say, 'I broke it off just
like you told me to.' The guy blackmailing her forced her to break it off
with you." 

 As quickly as he had jumped up, the Mountie collapsed back into his
chair. "Oh, my God. What-Who-You're sure about this, Ray?" 

 "Heard it with my own two ears, Fraser." 

 No one else said a word as the shock soaked in. 

 Chapter 22 

 Fraser jerked to his feet again, starting to walk to towards the door.
"I, ah, I don't-I have to go to her, help her." 

 Harding Welsh got to Fraser first; putting his hands gently on the
Mountie's shoulders, he forced Fraser to look at him. "Constable, Benton,
the best way we can help is by putting a stop to this. Going to her now
might spook this bastard and put her in more danger. That's why Ray called
us all here. We're going to put our heads together and figure out a way to
put an end to this. Alright?" he asked, gently turning the man around and
guiding him back to his seat. "Francesca, would you mind going and getting
Fraser a glass of water?" He waved one hand in a rather characteristically
Welsh gesture as he walked Fraser around the couch. 

 "I got it, L.T.," Ray Kowalski replied, vaulting himself over the back of
the couch. He returned quickly with several bottles of water. "Thought we
could all use some," he offered. 

 Frannie took hers with a shaking hand. "This is unbelievable. Why would
someone do this?" 

 Welsh waited for Fraser to drink some of the water and get some of his
color back. "You get any clue of who was doing this, Ray?" 

 "Yeah, and here's the final shock for the evening, Benny. I heard her
call the guy she was talking to 'Henri--'" 

 "Henri?" 

 "Yeah, Benny and who's the Henri we all know and love?" 

 "Cloutier." The venom in the Mountie's voice surprised even Ray, who knew
how reprehensible Fraser had found the Attach. 

 "Yep. Now, the way I see it, we gotta find a way to figure out what he's
using as leverage. The question is, how do we do that?" 

 Turnbull found his voice. Speaking quietly but with great intensity, he
said, "The more I hear about Henri Cloutier, the more convinced I am that
the man is . . . wicked. A friend of mine from the Academy is Cloutier's
assistant; he is making Mark's life a living nightmare, making him work
ungodly hours, constantly demanding and criticizing and belittling." 

 "Oh, yeah, Renny, you told me about him," Francesca broke in excitedly.
"He's the one whose been getting those, uh, whatda call 'em, constant
headache things." She flapped her hand in the air trying to come up with
the word. 

 Turnbull broke Fraser's gaze and turned so that he could look at his
wife. "Yes, Francesca, migraines, exactly," he went on looking at the
group as a whole. "I'm very worried that Mark might have a nervous
breakdown." 

 Kowalski broke in, "Ren, I'm sorry about your friend, but ya' wanna cut
ta the chase?" 

 "I was thinking that perhaps Mark might have seen something in the office
or know something." 

 "Right," Francesca said, with a decisive gesture. "Who knows more about
what goes on in an office than a secretary?" 

 "Good point," Welsh conceded. "So how do we got a hold of this guy?" 

 "Well, sir, it's 8:30 here, which makes it 9:30 in Ottawa, but given his
working pattern over the last several months, Mark may still be in the
office attempting to complete his work. I suggest I call him," he went on,
reaching for his wallet and flipping through the odd bits of paper until
he found his phone list. 

 "What are you going to say, Turnbull?" 

 Turnbull turned to the other Mountie. "Fraser, don't I remember that it
was Cloutier who called the inspector about the management conference she
went to in Ottawa?" 

 "Yes; he called the day before the conference to tell her that she had to
attend." 

 "And that's when all of this started." Fraser nodded. "What if it wasn't
a conference?" 

 While they all chewed on that, Ren reached for the phone and dialed his
friend's work number. "I believe I have come up with a way to start
gathering information. I hope he hasn't turned off the phone tonight; he
doesn't usually, but-Mark! Hi . . no, everything is just fine here . . .
yes, married life is quite delightful . . . no, actually, I'm not at home,
I'm working on a problem that I think you might be able to help me with .
. . yes, well, Inspector Thatcher didn't complete her 6782-J form from a
couple months ago, and I'm trying get the paperwork in for this quarter
all completed, and I was wondering if you had the conference code so I
know who to bill for the hours . . . no, not that one, this was just a
couple months ago . . . right, it was a Friday . . . there wasn't a
conference that weekend? Oh, I must have misunderstood what she said . . .
uh, huh . . . a couple hours? Got it. Okay, so I'll just code it to Legal
then . . . thank you, Mark, this helps a great deal . . . how are you
doing? Yes, of course, I don't want to keep you . . . yes, next time I'm
up there I will . . . Alright, talk to you soon . . ." 

 Hanging up the phone, Turnbull looked up from the small note pad he had
been taking notes on and looked at Fraser. "There wasn't a management
conference that weekend. In fact, there wasn't any kind of conference that
weekend. He looked at the master calendar. He does, however, remember
Inspector Thatcher coming in that Friday morning and meeting with
Cloutier; they met for a less than an hour, and when she left she seemed
quite unsettled. Cloutier, however, gave Mark the rest of the afternoon
off and was quite jovial after she left." 

 "He's quite sure of that?" Fraser demanded. 

 "Yes, he remembers because that was the last time he had any time off,
and since then, Cloutier has been walking around gloating more than
usual." 

 "Nice job, Turnbull," Ray Kowalski said with a small smile; "we're gonna
get ya' ta' dissemble yet!" 

 "Why, thank you, Ray," Turnbull said, visibly swelling with pride. "It is
my very great pleasure to be able to be of service. " 

 Frannie grabbed his hand and held it, beaming proudly at him, and Ren
basked in the glow of their approval for a moment. 

 Then a different thought marred his face. Speaking as the idea formed in
his mind, he asked, "What do we do next? I'm afraid I don't have any more
contacts in the Legal Department or Cloutier's office." 

 Fraser pulled himself from his racing thoughts. "What happens next is
that I go to Ottawa." 

 "Nice try, Benny," Vecchio said immediately. "There's no way we," he
continued, gesturing to his partner, "are gonna let you go alone." 

 "You want to go with me?" Fraser asked; the idea hadn't even occurred to
him. 

 "Does a Mountie wear a Stetson, Fraze?" 

 "But-" Fraser began. 

 "No buts, Fraze; there's no way we're gonna let you near that jerk
without back up. You got that, you crazy Mountie?" Kowalski's bracelet
swung wildly each time he pointed his finger at Fraser in emphasis. 

 "I got it, Ray, and thank you, but I don't know how long this is going to
take, and I may be gone for several days, at the very least, while I try
to gather information on Cloutier." 

 Ray Vecchio grinned and turned towards his commanding officer. "Oh, I
think we might be able to swing some time off." 

 Welsh leaned forward, and resting one elbow on his knee, rubbed his nose
with the other hand. "I think we can arrange something; you two cleared
the Robert's homicide this week, and except for that jewelry heist, you
got anything hot working?" 

 "No, sir, just the jewelry," Ray replied. 

 "Alright, Longman and Alvarez can take that one over for the moment, and
if need be, Huey and Dewey can cover for you for a couple days. You both
have the weekend off, right?" Seeing his two detectives nod, he went on,
"That's handy. Ok, here's what I'm gonna do: I'll fill out the paperwork
for a few vacation days for both of you, but I'm not gonna file it until
we see how this all is panning out. I mean, this could all turn out to be
some sort of misunderstanding and you all could be back Monday morning."
Seeing both Rays about to protest, he held up his hand. "I don't think
it's nothing either. On the other hand, if this is gonna rip open a huge
ol' can of worms like I think it is, maybe, and this is large maybe, we
can turn this into an inter-agency investigation or something so that you
won't have to use up vacation time. We'll have to see." 

 "I don't know what to say, Lieutenant," Fraser said, shocked at the man's
generosity. 

 "You don't say anything, Constable, you do something. Let's figure out
what the hell is going on and put a stop to it. Do you think Thatcher will
grant you some time off if you need it?" 

 Fraser simply nodded, so Welsh went on, "Now, it seems to me that the
next question is how are you gonna get to Ottawa." 

 "Damn," Vecchio said, rubbing his hand along his close-cropped hair.
"This is really late to get an early flight tomorrow morning. Who wants to
start calling?" he finished, looking up at his sister hopefully. 

 She started to reply when Ren squeezed her hand and cleared his throat.
"Ah, I may be able to help there as well." 

 "What, you know someone at Air Canada, or something, Ren?" 

 "No, Ray," Turnbull answered his brother-in-law as a light blush began
spreading over his cheeks. "I may have access to a private plane." 

 "Yer kiddin' me, right, Ren?" Kowalski asked. 

 The blush on Turnbull's face got darker. "No, I'm quite serious. My
father's firm owns the plane, and if it's free, we might be able to use
it." 

 "But I thought your dad was dead." Shock sometimes made Ray Vecchio a
little slow. 

 "Oh, he is, but my father's former partner is also my godfather, and he
and I are quite close. In fact, it was Uncle Bob who encouraged me to
follow my dreams and join the RCMP rather than go to business school as my
father wanted me to." Realizing he was drifting off topic, Ren brought his
thoughts back to the matter at hand. "At any rate, since I am,
technically, still one of the members of the board, I'm entitled to use
the plane. Shall I call Uncle Bob?" 

 In answer, Kowalski pushed the phone closer to Ren. "Well, aren't you
full o' surprises t'night?" 

 Chapter 23 

 The friends all sat in silence as Turnbull dialed and waited to be
connected. 

 "Hello, Uncle Bob, it's Renfield . . . yes, thank you . . . Yes,
Francesca and I were disappointed that you weren't able to join us at the
reception. Was Brazil pleasant? . . .Good, I'm glad you enjoyed it . . .
well, Uncle Bob, the reason I'm calling is that a friend of mine has an
emergency situation in Ottawa . . ." A moment later he threw a slightly
panicked look up at Fraser before he continued, "Well, it might be
serious, sir; we don't know yet, but it would be a great help if we could
get up there as quickly as possible to sort things out, so I was wondering
if the plane is in use this weekend?" Another pause. "That would be
wonderful, Uncle Bob . . . yes, there will be four of us, another
Constable and two others . . . Yes, sir, we can be at the airport at seven
tomorrow morning . . . no, I don't know yet when we will need the plane to
get back to Chicago . . . thank you. Yes, I'll let you know as soon as
possible . . . Why, thank you, sir, yes, that might come in useful as well
. . . Actually, Francesca and I were thinking that we might come up at New
Year's to visit . . . oh, yes, I will be sure to bring her by so that you
and Aunt Doris can meet her . . . Yes, talk to you soon, thank you again."


 "Four, Constable Turnbull?" Fraser asked. 

 "Yes, sir," he replied, looking calmly into Fraser's face, although his
hands tightened on his thighs. 

 "You do realize that I don't know what we are facing, and that being
associated with this . . . expedition might be deleterious to your
career." 

 "Quite honestly, sir, I don't care. This man needs to be stopped, and I
want to help. Besides which, I have contacts in Ottawa that might prove
useful." 

 Fraser smiled slightly. "I'm sure you do, Renfield. Thank you." 

 "Just call us the Four Musketeers," Kowalski broke in, his cockiness
returning now that action was being taken. "So, Aramis," he went on,
turning to Fraser, "what're we gonna do once we get to the Mountie Mother
Lode?" 

 Fraser cocked an eyebrow at the phrase Ray Kowalski had just attached to
RCMP headquarters, but made no comment. "I believe we should begin by
talking to Superintendent Meers. He's helped me in the past, and,
hopefully, he will be able to again. I think he will be a good place to
start." 

 Dief barked and trotted around the coffee table to sit in front of
Fraser. "Thank you, Diefenbaker; I very much appreciate the offer of your
assistance, but you know how much short flights bother your ears. Besides,
you don't really like small planes." Dief whined. "Yes, of course I'll be
careful." Fraser looked up and caught Francesca's eye. Seeing her nod, he
turned back to the wolf. "Actually, Dief, it would be quite helpful if you
would stay here with Francesca and help her keep an eye on Meg for us." 

 The wolf only seemed partially appeased, so Frannie chimed in, "Yeah,
Dief, we can take her out to lunch or something. And besides, if you stay
with me, I bet we can get Ma to make a batch of meatballs just for you."
She winked at Fraser over Dief's back. 

 Ray Kowalski could have sworn that the wolf had a smile on his face as
Dief walked over to Frannie, put his head down on her knee, and allowed
himself to be scratched between the ears. It might not be as good as going
to Ottawa and getting to be in the thick of things, but the promise of a
plate of meatballs was enough to placate Dief for now.	

 About an hour later, everything was arranged; Francesca would drive them
to the airport tomorrow morning. They were all going to meet here at Ray
and Fraser's apartment at 5:30 a.m. so they would have plenty of time to
make it to the airport. The two cops had also agreed to call Lt. Welsh as
soon as they got a feel for how long they were going to be, or as soon as
there were any developments, large or small. 

 Now the two Rays and their Canadian friend sat in the living room lost in
thought about what was coming next; the other three had gone home. Dief,
bored with the long silences, had retreated to Ray's room, where he was
probably stretched out on the bed. He adopted it as his own every chance
he got. 

 Fraser muttered something that neither cop caught. 

 "What was that, Fraze?" 

 Shifting his gaze away from the spot in space that had been consuming it,
Fraser said, "What Ray? Oh, it was . . ." he stopped, seeing his friends
weren't going to let him get away with saying it was nothing. "I," he
sighed deeply; "I was thinking that I should have known that something was
wrong with Meg." It seemed . . . safer, better to call her that now; it
made him feel closer to her. He wished he could go to her and hold her and
ask her what was going on, but he wasn't sure he had the words, even if
that were possible. 

 Ray Vecchio shook his head forcefully. "Really, Benny? And how were you
supposed to know? She didn't tell you. In fact, she told you the opposite,
that there was nothing wrong." 

 "Yes, but I'm a trained observer; I should be able to recognize cues from
body language and tone that indicate someone isn't being entirely
truthful." 

 "She's had the same training you have; she knows how to be convincing,
and it looks like she had some pretty powerful motivation, doesn't it,
buddy?" 

 He shook his head, denying his friend's words, and leaning his head back
in the chair, closed his eyes. 'You should have seen it,' the little voice
inside him whispered again and again, drowning out what Ray was trying to
say. 'I claimed to love her,' he told himself, 'I do love her, yet I
didn't push, I didn't ask enough questions, I didn't do everything I could
have.' 

 Opening his eyes, but still staring at the ceiling, he said quietly,
halfway to himself, "Right after she ended things, I asked her if she had
been attacked or assaulted while she was away. Looking back it's so
clear." He lifted his head to look at his friends, but quickly let it drop
again, unable to bear their scrutiny. "She told me she had not been
physically assaulted. But I didn't hear it, I didn't see that she could
have been hurt psychologically." 

 Neither Ray was going to sit by and let Fraser get lost in
self-flagellation like this. Vecchio decided it was time to take a head-on
approach again. 

 "Benny, Benny, Benny, BENNY! Look at me." 

 The Mountie finally dragged his eyes down from the ceiling, his eyes a
sea of misery. 

 Staring at Fraser with all the intensity he could muster he said, "You
didn't see it because she didn't want you to see it. Yeah, hindsight is
20/20, but, Benny, you're only human. You aren't Super Mountie, able to
leap small buildings in a single bound, and deflect bullets with just your
Stetson. As much as you know, you can't know everything, and beating
yourself up about it isn't going to help us get this bastard." 

 "That may be true, Ray, but how am I ever going to make this up to her?" 

 Kowalski jumped in to answer this one. "Fraze, Ben, you're gonna make it
up to her by taking this dickweed down, and then by spending the rest of
your lives work'n on makin' her happy." 

 Their words seemed to finally soak in through Fraser's haze of
self-recrimination, and he started nodding slowly. "You're both right.
Wallowing in self-pity is neither productive nor helpful. First we have to
do something about Cloutier, then I can worry about . . . what is going to
come next." 

 The three men went back to planning what they were going to do over the
next couple days, and both cops were pleased to note that their friend's
eyes were now lit by determination, not glazed with pain or sadness as
they had been for so many weeks.  

 Chapter 24 

 "Francesca? Where's my ditty bag?" Turnbull asked from inside his clothes
closet. That's where he used to keep it at his old apartment. But it
wasn't there now. 

 "It's in the hall closet, honey, with the rest of the luggage," she
called from the bathroom. 

 "Ah." He went and found it and coming back to the bedroom, began packing
all the toiletries he had set out on the bed. In neat rows, classified by
use, of course. 

 Hearing the water running in the sink, he waited before continuing their
conversation. The water stopped, and he heard the three taps of her
toothbrush against the edge of the sink. As her toothbrush rattled against
the porcelain of the holder, he went on, "So I'll call you as soon as we
get an idea of how long we're going to be gone." 

 Slipping the last of his clothes and the ditty bag into his duffel, he
zipped it up and turned to set the bag beside the dresser, out of the way
should either of them have to get up in the middle of the night, and
stopped mid-turn. 

 "I'll miss you," she said from where she stood in the doorway, leaning
against the jam, dressed in a filmy white gown that floated and flowed
around her legs from where it was gathered below her breasts. 

 The dim glow of the nightlight in the bathroom cast just far enough to
backlight the dress and illuminate the curves of her body, but wasn't
bright enough give him more than shadowy impressions of breast, waist,
hip, calf. Glimpses of her silhouette under the shifting translucence
tantalized, but definitely didn't satisfy. 

 "And I, you," he said, dropping the bag and walking slowly towards her.
"The diaphanous quality of that gown is quite enticing." 

 "Ooh, I love it when you use five-dollar words, Renny," she whispered and
smoothed her hands down her sides, dragging the nightie against herself,
teasing him, and then letting go so that the relief of her body was once
again lost in the filmy material. 

 "Gossamer comes to mind as well." 

 "Does it now?" she replied as he reached her and swept her up in his
arms, the satiny cloth ghosting between their bodies. 

 "How do you feel about ethereal?" he asked between kisses as he lowered
her onto the bed. 

 "I'm feeling pretty ethereal right now . . . how about anchoring me down,
Mountie?" 

 "I think that can be arranged."  

 "So, Ren." The engine noise made Ray Kowalski have to raise his voice a
bit, but he figured he could deal. After all, he had a seat that was more
comfy than the one he had in his living room, that swiveled around, and
that had a beauty view of the big screen TV up in front. The cabin was
finished all in leather and real wood paneling, and the carpet was nice
and squishy. He had as much spicy tomato juice as he wanted, and some of
those really good honey glazed peanuts -- not the ones from a bag. The
flight crew was friendly, efficient, and quick, and this chair even had a
really nice footrest that swung down. There was even a phone for each seat
just in case they decided that they just had to make a call. He'd thought
about calling his big-shot brother in Arizona, but decided that was a
little too petty. Too bad, though; woulda been fun imagining his face.
"Dunno if I'm gonna be able to go back to coach ever again." 

 "Yeah, the only way to fly, man," Vecchio said, tipping the seat back
some more. 

 Even Fraser looked comfortable in his seat, which he had reclined
slightly. 

 "This is pretty posh, Ren," Kowalski went on. "How come you never told us
about all this? You rich or something?" 

 "No, Ray, not at the moment," Turnbull replied quietly. 

 Ray Vecchio brought his seat to upright with a jerk. "'Not at the
moment?' What's that mean?" 

 "Well, my father was quite successful, and his firm has remained so after
his death, so I assume the trust fund my father set up in my name has
continued to grow, but I don't have access to it until I'm 35." He
hesitated. "So, while I'll have the money in the future, I don't have it
now." 

 "Frannie know about this?" 

 "Yes, of course I told her. It just isn't something I speak of often
because I never wanted the money in the first place." His voice dropped
again. "I would've been far happier if my father had ever given me his
approval, but I was a great disappointment to him. You see, my father
didn't consider me . . . capable of handling the money, so he put it the
fund and told me that maybe by the time I was 35, I would have come to my
senses and grown up." Pain was evident in Ren's voice, but then he shook
himself. "I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt me, and besides he was quite
upset at the time; I had just told him I was going to join the RCMP. He .
. . he didn't support that decision." 

 Ray Kowalski didn't have the best relationship with his father, though it
was getting better, but his dad hadn't ever said crap like that to him.
Ren might be a little goofy sometimes, but he was a good guy. Besides, he
had some great ideas about how to get info against this slime ball
Cloutier, and there was no doubt that this airplane thing was choice.
"Hey, don't feel like yer alone in that; my dad didn't want me ta' be a
cop either." 

 "My dad hated cops," Vecchio put in, and then continued as another
thought occurred to him; "you know, I never thought about it like this
before, but of the four of us, you're the only one whose father wanted him
to be cop, Benny." 

 "Actually, Ray, I'm not sure my father wanted me to join the RCMP. He
never said." 

 "Oh, it was fine with me, Son; I was proud you wanted to follow in your
old man's footsteps. Of course, I'm more proud of you now that you are
finally taking steps to find out what is going on with your Meg." 

 Fraser turned his head slowly, only to find his father sitting next to
him in the seat closer to the window. He was dressed in the full uniform,
unlike his son, who was dressed as a civilian in jeans and a sweater,
although Bob Fraser did have his hat in his lap since he discovered it got
in the way of leaning back in the seat. 

 "Knew about that, too, did you?" Fraser replied, sotto voice. 

 "Much of it, son, much of it. Keep up the good work, Benton; go get your
man. That's the spirit. I'm going forward to check out the cockpit. Always
wanted to see one of those." He vanished as quickly as he'd come. 

 "Hey Fraze? What's up? Yer staring out the window mumbling to yerself.
There a gremlin on the wing or something?" 

 Fraser's head whipped around, looking a bit like a deer caught in the
headlights until he stammered something about seeing a bird he was trying
to classify, wincing at the impossibility of a bird at this altitude. 

 "Ah, maybe it was a pemmican with wings, Fraze," Kowalski replied with
his usual unrepentant grin. 

 "That's hardly likely, Ray." 

 "Hey, we're in Canadian airspace; you never know what yer gonna see." 

 Fraser decided, yet again, it was better to simply ignore his friend's
irreverent sense of humor, and asked Turnbull a question. "You said your
father was part of a successful firm, Ren. I had never made the connection
to Ottawa; was your father the 'Turnbull' in Turnbull and O'Connell?" 

 "Yes, sir, the man I called last night was Bob O'Connell." 

 "Wow, you mean you gotta company with yer name in it, Ren?" 

 "Yes, Ray, there is even a building with the company name in big letters
in downtown Ottawa." 

 "Cool." 

 "So does this mean you got a pad in Ottawa, Ren?" Vecchio asked. 

 "That's right, I forgot to tell you, didn't I?" Sheepish was the only way
to describe his expression. 

 "You mean there's more, Ren?" 

 "My uncle also offered us the use of the company suite at the Westin." 

 "You just forgot to tell us that, Renfield?" Fraser asked incredulously. 

 "Well, after deciding that we were going to wing it once we got to Ottawa
and talked to Superintendent Meers, I thought I would present it as an
option after we arrived." 

 "I like yer options, Ren, ol' boy." 

 "Yeah, tell us more about this godfather of yours, Turnbull," Vecchio
said with a smile. 

 Chapter 25 

 The group of friends continued talking for the rest of the short flight,
thanked the flight crew, enjoyed not having to wait by a luggage carousel,
and walked outside to get a cab. They had decided to go directly to the
hotel, since they now knew they definitely had one, and call Meers from
there. 

 "Aw, geez, they still don't have it right," Ray Kowalski said, looking
out the window as they drove through the streets of downtown Ottawa. 

 "They don't have what right, Ray?" Turnbull asked, ready to defend his
beloved native soil. 

 "The ground's the same color as at home; on maps, everything is a
different color in Canada." 

 It took several moments for the blond cop's words to penetrate, so when
the two Chicago cops dissolved into laughter against the taxi seats, Ren
could only look helplessly at his countryman. 

 "They do amuse themselves, don't they?" Fraser asked dryly. 

 That sent both Rays into another gale of laughter, and they were still
wiping tears from their eyes when they pulled up in front of their hotel.
The view of the tall hotel tower right on the edge of the river silenced
them, however. 

 The hotel staff became very eager to please when Turnbull identified
himself at the main desk. The assistant manager herself checked them in.
After assuring them that Mr. O'Connell had called and that the suite was
ready, she inquired after any special needs they might have and turned
them over to an equally solicitous bellman. 

 The two detectives managed to keep quiet as the bellman showed them
around the rooms, but as soon as the man left, their grins turned into
hoots of delight. 

 "My God! Get a load of this place! A double suite, a balcony," Vecchio's
voice became hollow as it echoed off the bathroom walls off to the right
of the common room, "a sunken Jacuzzi tub! I didn't even have it this good
when I was playing the Bookman." He reentered the large living room that
connected the two bedrooms where Fraser and Turnbull still stood. "This is
incredible." 

 Ray Kowalski was doing some exploring of his own. "Oooh, look, Ray, we
got ourselves a 'complementary personal refreshment center' according to
this note," he said from behind a full bar as he pulled open some of the
cupboards. Yanking out a bottle of macadamia nuts, he opened the
container, scooped out a handful, and popped a couple in his mouth. 

 Chewing happily, he tossed his bag over his shoulder and headed towards
the left-hand bedroom. The two Mounties and Ray watched through the open
double doors as he threw himself and his bag on one of the two queen-sized
beds. "This is a great bed. All in all, Ren," he said leaning up on his
elbows, "I think we should always travel together!" 

 Leaving his bag on the bed, he got back up and walked back to the living
room. "Jeez, I feel like we're at camp or sumthin.' How're we gonna bunk
up?" he asked with a grin. 

 "Well, it looks like you've already adopted that room, Ray," Vecchio
replied, "and since you'n Benny are roommates, whadda say you guys take
that room, and Ren and I'll take the other one?" He turned to Ren with a
grin of his own. "This way I can tell you all sorts of Frannie stories." 

 Turnbull managed to look curious and worried at the same time as he
agreed. 

 Fraser spoke for the first time since entering the room, although he was
smiling at both of his friends' exuberance. "That sounds like a perfectly
good plan, Ray. If that is settled, may I suggest that we get to the
matter at hand and I'll call Superintendent Meers?" 

 The reminder sobered both cops. It had been great escaping into easy
camaraderie and silliness the last few hours, but Fraser was right; it was
time to get serious. 

 "Sounds like a plan, Fraze," Kowalski replied, dusting the remnants of
salt from the nuts off of his hands. "We got ourselves a weasel to catch."


 After tossing all their bags into their respective rooms, the men
arranged themselves around a coffee table in the living room. Turnbull set
the phone in front of Fraser. After meeting each of his friends' eyes,
Fraser took a deep breath and picked up the phone. 

 He wasn't sure the superintendent would be working on a Saturday, but it
seemed like a good place to start, especially since it was the only number
he had for the man he was sure was current. 

 Incredibly, luck seemed to be with him, and a friendly sounding secretary
asked him to hold while he checked if her boss was available. 

 He heard the jovial voice come on the line. "Benton! You just managed to
catch me. I just stopped by for a minute to handle some paperwork. How are
you?" 

 "Um, I'm just fine, sir." Relief at finding the man so quickly washed
over him, and he had to pause for a moment to regain his focus. "Actually,
I was calling to see if it would be possible to see you about a matter of
some importance." 

 "A matter-what's wrong? Where are you?" His good-humored tone a moment
ago changed into concern. 

 "I'm here in Ottawa, sir, and nothing is immediately wrong; I just have
some concerns and information that I feel you need to hear." 

 "It must have been pretty important to bring you all the way up to
Ottawa." 

 "Yes, sir, it is. Would it be possible for me to see you?" 

 "What's this all about, Benton?" 

 Fraser considered for a moment, not thrilled with the idea of talking
about this over the phone, but no one had known they were coming, and even
he hadn't know they were going to be staying here until they were most of
the way to Ottawa. Leaning back against the couch, he went on, "It
concerns Legal Attach Henri Cloutier and some apparent blackmail." 

 "Cloutier?" Meers asked, a shocked taking over from the worry shading his
town a moment ago. 

 "Yes, Superintendent, I have some informa-" 

 "Stop, Benton. I want you to hang up the phone and call me back at this
number: 555-4569. Did you get that?" Hearing Fraser's affirmative, Meers
went on. "That's a secure line. Where are you calling from?" 

 "The Westin Hotel, sir." 

 "Did anyone know you were going to be staying there?" 

 "No, we didn't even know until we were in flight on our way here." 

 "We?" Meers demanded. 

 "Yes, sir, I have three friends with me, another RCMP officer, Constable
Renfield Turnbull, and two police officers from Chicago, Detectives Ray
Vecchio and Ray Kowalski. I have worked with all three of them for quite
some time, and I trust them all implicitly," Fraser assured the other man.


 "This really must be important for you to have dragged two Americans up
here with you." 

 "Yes, sir, I believe it is." 

 "Never mind about the phone number. The Westin is the one over by the
water, on what . . . Colonial Way Road, correct?" Barely waiting for
Fraser to confirm that fact, he asked for the room number, and getting it,
went on. "I think we better do this in person. Let me just grab a few
files, and I'll be right over. See you in few minutes." 

 Fraser jerked the phone away from his ear; the sound of Meers' phone
slamming against the cradle was so loud the other three men could hear it
clearly. 

 Raising slightly dazed eyes to his three friends, Fraser told them,
"Superintendent Meers is on his way over from his office." He recapped the
conversation, which didn't take very long, and ended by reiterating that
the man would be joining them shortly. 

 "Whoa, Benny! What have we got ourselves in the middle of? This sounds
awfully cloak-and-dagger." 

 "I don't know Ray. We will have to wait to see what the Superintendent
has in the files he's bringing with him. If I had to hazard a guess, I
would say that there is already an investigation underway concerning
Cloutier." 

 "You're sure you can trust this guy, Fraze?" 

 "Yes, I've known him for many years. He knew my father as well, and
Superintendent Meers helped me find a posting after the trial concerning
the dam." 

 Turnbull and Kowalski had never heard the unabridged story of why Fraser
had first come to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father, or
why he had chosen to stay. This seemed like a good time for explaining, so
Fraser and Vecchio spent a few minutes retelling parts of the story. Ray
was just coming to the part about the guys in white storming the cabin
when there was knock at the door. 

 Chapter 26 

 Ray Vecchio jumped up and strode to the door. He checked the peephole to
make sure there was just one guy, then opened the door, meeting Meers with
hard eyes. 

 Ray still remembered how the RCMP treated Benny after his friend had
turned in Gerrard and the rest. He couldn't quite get past the feeling
that Fraser's superiors had abandoned the Mountie rather than treating him
with the respect he deserved for choosing to turn his father's killer in
at the risk of his dead father's reputation. He knew all about the code of
not turning in your own, and it wasn't that he minded having Benny in
Chicago, he just didn't like the way they had treated his friend. 

 "Hello. I'm Jonathon Meers. Is Benton here?" He kept his voice as neutral
as possible in light of the look he was getting. 

 Ray opened the door wide enough to let the man step through. "Ray
Vecchio, Chicago P.D. How do we know you aren't wearing a wire to entrap
Fraser or something?" 

 "Ray!" Fraser rebuked gently. "I told you that we could trust the
superintendent." Turning to the older man, he walked towards him and held
out his hand. "It's good to see you, sir." 

 Shaking Fraser's hand, Meers greeted him. "Benton, it's been a long time.
I'm pleased to see that you have been spending your time finding loyal
friends," he said with a slight smile at Ray. 

 Turning back to Vecchio, it wasn't hard to read the continuing hostility
on the man's face. Shifting to look at the wiry blond man who was also
standing, watching him just as warily, Meers decided to try to diffuse
their concerns immediately. "I assure you that I am not trying to entrap
Benton into anything. In fact, as impolitic as it is to say, I dislike
Henri Cloutier as much as you all appear to. If you have any information
that can take him down, I'm eager to hear it, but if you like, you can
search me," he finished, holding his arms out to the sides in invitation. 

 Mollified by the man's assurances, Ray Vecchio pulled back a bit from his
confrontation mode. "Nah, it's just things have been pretty weird the last
few days, and all that talk about secure lines and did anyone know we were
here seemed a little . . . hinky." 

 "I understand, and I'll do my best to explain." Turning back to Fraser,
Meers went on. "First though, please introduce me to your friends." 

 "You've already met Ray Vecchio," Fraser replied, then gestured to the
blond cop, "and this is Ray Kowalski, both of the Chicago Police
Department." 

 "Two Rays; that must get confusing." 

 "Only occasionally, sir. And this is Constable Renfield Turnbull. He
works with me at the Consulate." 

 Turnbull straightened his back even further hearing Fraser say he worked
"with" Fraser, not "for" him, nodding respectfully, not saluting since
they were out of uniform. "Pleased to meet you, sir." 

 "Likewise, Constable." Meers looked at Benton's three friends, privately
amused at how three such different looking men all had assumed the same
protective stance around the tall, dark- haired Mountie, forming a
semi-circle around their friend. They weren't hostile, just guarded.
Meers, however, was too eager to hear what information these men brought
from Chicago to become completely distracted, so he gestured to the chairs
arranged around the coffee table. "Shall we sit down?" 

 "Oh, yes, of course," Fraser stepped to the side to let Meers walk in
front of him. 

 As the five men walked towards the sitting area, Ren couldn't help but
play host. "May I get you something to drink, sir? I believe we have a
full bar here, as well as soft drinks." 

 "A glass of water would be very nice, Constable, thank you." 

 "Yeah, that sounds good, Ren, I'll help you," Ray Vecchio stepped towards
the bar with Ren and helped get everyone a round of water; Ray wanted
another minute to study the older man and the bar provided a good vantage
point. Meers seemed to be on the up-and-up, and Ray felt some of his
anxiety ease. The hard look in his eyes softened. He remained watchful,
however, as he carried water glasses to the seating area. 'Maybe now we'll
get some more information,' he thought. 

 After Ren and Ray had settled in chairs next to the other three,
Superintendent Meers pulled some files out of the briefcase he had set by
his chair. He was about to speak when the sight of an envelope made Ray
Kowalski remember something. 

 "Oh, Superintendent Meers, our Lieutenant sent along a kinda letter of
introduction," he said reaching into his inside jacket pocket. "He thought
if there was something going on, you might like to know a little bit about
us and that we aren't impersonating police officers, or somethin, and
since it looks like somethin' is going on . . .'" he finished, handing
over an envelope embossed with the Chicago P.D. seal. 

 Meers took the letter with a thank you and pulled out a pair of glasses
from his own jacket pocket. Tearing open the envelope and scanning the
letter, he raised his eyes to the two detectives when he finished. "Your
Lieutenant thinks very highly of you both." 

 "We think very highly of him," Kowalski answered evenly, smoothing the
edge of his sports coat against his jeans. 

 "I appreciate the letter, gentlemen; it's good to have another assurance
that you both can be trusted, because while I trust Fraser's word, what we
are about to talk about is a very sensitive matter. Before I show you what
I have, however, I would like to hear what brings you here." 

 Fraser cleared his throat. "Since it was Detective Vecchio who actually
overheard the conversation, I think it would be best for him to begin this
discussion." 

 "Sure, Benny," Ray replied. He had thought about what he was going to
say. In fact, he had been thinking about it since they had decided to come
to Ottawa. Maybe if he chose his words carefully, he could protect his
friend a little . . . and Meg, he admitted to himself. He wanted to
protect her too. His feelings for the woman had gone through a decided
change over the last 18 hours. 

 He recapped what he had heard on the phone, making sure to emphasize the
panic and pain he'd heard clouding Meg Thatcher's voice. "After agreeing
to send in her request for a transfer on Monday, she hung up and I got out
of there. There's no way I wanted her to find me there. Then I called
Ren," he finished, gesturing to the Mountie. "We all gathered at Fraser
and Ray's apartment, and I told them all about what I'd heard." 

 "And you are quite sure she called him 'Henri?'" The superintendent had
been listening intently, his eyes boring into Ray as if by staring hard
enough he would be able to measure the truth in his words. 

 "Yeah, I know it was 'Henri' because I had to kind of translate it in my
head, you know? Process it, change it into 'Henry,' and then figure out
why that name twigged a memory. His name was fresh in my mind because
Fraser had mentioned him several times over the last few weeks as being at
the Consulate, and his name had come up at dinner, earlier last night." 

 Before Meers could ask any more questions, Fraser spoke up. "Finish the
rest of it, Ray." 

 "The rest? There's more?" Meers demanded. 

 Fraser decided to take over from his friend; he appreciated Ray's
loyalty, misguided though it was, but this was the time to be completely
honest. He had known all along that he and Meg had been at least bending
regulations, if not breaking them. "In addition to Ray hearing Inspector
Thatcher express concern that the information Cloutier seems to have would
effect on my career, he also evidently forced her to end her relationship
with me." He met Meers' eyes squarely, not flinching from revealing the
truth, although a faint blush spread high on his cheekbones. "We had begun
seeing each other outside the office, in a purely personal way." 

 "'A purely personal way,' Constable?" 

 The blush deepened. "Yes, sir. We were dating." 

 "I see." The older officer looked at Fraser, knowing the younger man was
braced for a rebuke. This wasn't the time, however. "Were?" 

 "Yes, sir, she broke it off approximately two and a half months ago." He
turned to Ray. 

 He smiled a bit sheepishly in apology to both men; "Yeah, I heard her say
'I broke it off with him just like you told me to,' sorry." 

 "I'm glad you were both honest with me, but let's set that issue aside
for the moment, Benton, and focus on the other matter." Looking at the
group as a whole, he summed up the conversation. "Going by what Detective
Vecchio overheard, it appears that Cloutier is blackmailing Thatcher at
least with information about Fraser, maybe with something more, and that
he has also used this information to extort her into breaking off a
personal relationship and into transferring positions. Is that
everything?" 

 "Actually, sir, there is another piece of information that galvanized us
into coming here and further convinced us that Ray hadn't misunderstood
what he overheard. Turnbull?" 

 The younger Mountie met Fraser's gaze, not letting his worry show in the
face of Fraser's confidence in him. This was not the time to let his fears
about his abilities overwhelm him, he told himself firmly. Turning to
Meers, he described calling his friend Mark and learning about the fact
that there wasn't a conference the weekend the inspector went away. 

 "That's all we know at this point, sir, but we thought the evidence
compelling enough to warrant further investigation, so we came here,"
Fraser added after Turnbull finished. 

 Meers sighed deeply as he began speaking. "All of your information is
very interesting to me for several reasons. First of all, let me start by
telling you that Internal Affairs and I have had our eye on Henri Cloutier
for quite some time, but we have never been able to pin anything solid on
him. He always seems to know we are looking into his dealings, to be one
step in front of us. That is why I was so concerned about who knew you
were here, Detective Vecchio. Cloutier clearly has informants in a variety
of different departments, and if word that you were here had gotten back
to him, he might have been able to cover something up." 

 Passing his gaze from face to face, he looked directly at each of the
four men in front of him, his expression growing more serious as he went
on. "I've already said this information was sensitive; now I must request
that you not reveal the information you are about to hear to anyone
without my authorization. Is that clear?" Gaining assent from the four
younger men, Meers squared the stack of file folders, fidgeting slightly,
as he went on. 

 Chapter 27 

 "Let's start with my involvement in this case." Meers opened the top
folder of the stack he had brought, and grabbing the first piece of paper
in the file, a picture. He turned it around and set it on the table so
they could all see it. "Janice Tilannon - she was my secretary many years
ago. We served our first assignment together." A fleeting smile curved his
lips at the memory, but it disappeared immediately. "A few years ago,
while working with Henri Cloutier, she killed herself. Her sister came to
see me a couple days after her death, knowing Janice and I had been
friends; it seems that in the weeks before she died, Janice had been
becoming more and more depressed again - she had struggled with it for
years. She had lost weight, not been sleeping, avoiding her family." He
paused to take a sip of water. "Finally, her sister cornered her and she
admitted that someone had found out about an affair she had many years
before. She had gotten pregnant and had an abortion, but never told her
husband, who by this time was a deputy minister. Evidently, the person who
had found out was also blackmailing her about it, and while she wouldn't
say who it was, the sister got the idea that it was someone at work,
probably her boss, Henri Cloutier." 

 He picked the picture back up, and turning it around, looked down at it.
"She was one of my favorite people in the world, but there was nothing I
could do, then. We had only the vaguest of suspicions, no proof, nothing
solid. But her death started me watching Cloutier. If I wasn't going to be
able to get him for what he had done to Janice, I was going to get him for
something else. It proved to be both harder and easier than I thought it
would be." 

 "His office has one of the highest turnover rates of any office in the
administrative section of the RCMP, especially for women. While there have
been rumors of misconduct, whispers of harassment, things like that, no
one has ever been willing to report anything or even speak to me, let
alone IA." 

 "There was one man who I thought might be willing to talk on the record
about the allegations of harassment, Bill Michaels. He worked in
Cloutier's office and Cloutier had him demoted. Michaels ended up leaving
the force and is now working as a security guard in a toy factory.
Cloutier said it was because the man wasn't up to the job, but when I
talked to Michaels, I thought something more was going on. Yet again,
however, there was nothing concrete, nothing we could hang an inquiry on."


 He opened the next file down. "Then there are Cloutier's business
dealings. He has been involved, although he has been able to downplay that
fact, in several odd business dealings, including a development scheme for
a set of condos that fell through. A large group of people lost their
life's savings, but once again, there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute
him. Although, we were able to put several of his more overt partners in
jail." His grim smile reflected his satisfaction about that. 

 "Finally," he continued, switching files again while the other men traded
the papers Meers was handing around. "He seems to have some high-ranking
contacts somewhere, probably the Ministry of the Treasury. He's very
careful about it, but is either the luckiest bastard in the country, or he
has some inside information. On several occasions, he has acquired sizable
blocks of stock in a company months before the company receives a
government contract. He was also part owner of a large tract of land
slated for development. The government paid out a huge amount of money to
buy the land - it lay right in the path of the main road for the
development." 

 The two Mounties and two cops had been sitting quietly absorbing this
wave of information, but finally Ray Kowalski couldn't stand it any
longer. "You know, there are times when I hate the fact that we always
gotta have a whole trail of concrete evidence." 

 Meers smiled another grim smile. "He's always been able to cover his
tracks just enough that we can't quite make a case against him; we're
missing a corroborating witness or that bit of information that connects
things together and shows cause and effect," he answered, making hand
gestures connecting the dots. "He also has some powerful friends in this
government and in the RCMP, which as hard as it is to take, means he is
even more difficult to touch." 

 The older Mountie shook his head. "But I want him, gentlemen. And now,
with this information you brought me, perhaps we will be able to make
something stick. All we need to do is get Inspector Thatcher to-" 

 Meers' voice faded in Fraser's ears as his mind raced, torn by
conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he knew Margaret Thatcher was a
competent, capable officer - it was one of the things he admired most
about her and that had always drawn him to her. On the other hand, she had
been under a huge amount of stress the past couple months. Stress that he
felt largely responsible for - after all, he was the wedge Cloutier had
been using against her - and he wanted to shield her from any more stress
and pain. Meg was pregnant, with his child, and his paternal instincts
cried protested wildly at the thought of putting them in a situation
fraught with danger, even though a more logical part of him could hear
Meg's crisp protest that she was perfectly capable of taking care of
herself. Where did his duty lie? In regulations and logic or in protecting
the woman he loved? 

 Of course, the thought of Meg raised a whole different set of questions
in his mind. Pondering how she was going to react to him and his friends
coming to Ottawa to pursue Cloutier without telling her had consumed much
of his mind on the trip up here, and he still didn't have a good feel for
what she was going to do. But he did know that he didn't want to bring her
into this right now, before they knew fully what was going on, before they
knew what they could do. No, it was better to leave her out of this for
now. But how to convince the others? 

 "Sir? I think perhaps it would be best to leave Inspector Thatcher out of
this for the moment." Seeing Meers raise an eyebrow, he went on, forcing
himself to retain the cool faade of logic, to suppress the pull of his
emotions. "I believe we will have a much greater chance of catching
Cloutier if she remains in place, as if nothing has changed. It will keep
him feeling secure, whereas if she suddenly came to Ottawa, he would have
far more notice that something had changed." 

 Both Ray's remained silent, sensing that their friend needed to say this
on his own. Ren didn't speak either, lost as he was in his own thoughts. 

 Meers sighed again, forced to yield to Fraser's logic and abandon his
desire for an immediate solution with Cloutier. "Yes, you are, of course,
correct, Benton. We'll have a far greater chance of gathering more solid
information to make the charges stick, however much I would like to end
things now." 

 "What we need is to get into the man's office," Ray Vecchio said in his
no-nonsense cop tone, the one that always worked well on suspects. "When I
was undercover with the Mob, the thing that always blew my mind was the
arrogance of so many of those guys. They were so convinced that no one
could touch them, that they were infallible, they kept records at their
houses and offices. I'll betcha that a guy arrogant enough to pull off
some of the crap Cloutier's been pulling is arrogant enough to keep his
stuff at his office so he can savor and gloat over it." 

 "An interesting analysis, Ray." Fraser answered. 

 Turnbull cleared his throat, the first noise he had made since dropping
his pencil a few minutes ago. "May I make a suggestion, sirs?" 

 "Oh, yeah, sure, Ren," Kowalski interjected with another one of his quick
grins. "We like your suggestions." 

 "I believe I mentioned knowing Cloutier's secretary, Mark Buckman.
Cloutier treats him, and the paralegals, like lackeys. I wonder if we
might find a way to exploit that?" 

 "Do you think your friend might be able to gather information for us?"
Meers' interest in this idea showed on his face. 

 Worry warped Turnbull's face and he drew his eyebrows down to a point.
"I-I don't know, sir; he has been under a great deal of stress and is
having trouble dealing with it. I think adding to his worries would make
things even worse for him. He is also very afraid of his boss, so I don't
think he would be effective. Actually, I was thinking of something he said
one of the last times I talked to him. Mark was talking about leaving and
about the kind of life his replacement would have. What if one of us was
his replacement?" 

 "So yer thinkin' an undercover kinda thing, Ren?" 

 "Yes, Ray." 

 "You have someone in mind, Ren?" Vecchio asked with feigned innocence.
Perhaps this wasn't the best time to tease his brother-in-law a bit, but
he thought he knew where Turnbull was going with this. 

 "Well, yes, you see," Ren fumbled, his desire to help jumbling up with
his concerns about his abilities. He knew what many people thought of him.
Maybe this time it could be an asset. "Since secrecy is obviously an
issue, it seems logical that this idea be executed by one of us." 

 He gestured to the two detectives. "I don't know the legalities of one of
you going undercover in another country, but I can only assume it would be
quite complicated, and time is of the essence." Turning to Fraser he
continued, "You can't go, sir, since you are not only involved, but
Cloutier would never trust you anywhere near his office. And,
Superintendent, you can hardly go undercover as a secretary." 

 Reaching up with one hand, he rubbed his eyebrow, unconsciously imitating
the preferred nervous tic of the man he idolized. "That would seem to, uh,
well, leave me." Clasping his hands and letting them hang down between his
knees, he looked down at them, unable to meet the other men's eyes as he
went on. "I know I have quite a reputation for being a fool, but I think
that will work to our advantage this time. The more of an imbecile he
thinks I am, the less likely he is to see me as a threat." 

 The three friends looked at each other quickly, none of them happy with
the way Ren was characterizing himself. Whatever they had thought of him
in the past, there was no getting past how helpful he had been recently,
or how effective his ideas had been. They had to say something. 

 Fraser took it upon himself; "Renfield, you are a fine officer, and I'm
very impressed with your thinking, and your plan." 

 When Ren's eyes skittered up from his hands, all Ray Kowalski could think
was that the look in the younger Mountie's eyes was what he had always
figured Bambi would look like in person. "Yeah, beauty idea, eh," he
supplied, gently mocking Ren to tease him out of his shyness. 

 "Your vowels need to be flatter if you are going to attempt Canadianisms,
Ray, but thank you all the same," Ren replied, looking a bit surprised at
the fact that he had retorted, but the doe-eyed look in his eyes
disappeared, so Ray figured he had been successful. 

 Meers sat back and watched the four men interact, impressed with the way
they supported each other. He had seen the two Americans and Fraser
communicate just by looking at each other, and the teamwork and trust that
kind of connection took was no small thing, nor was it common. Constable
Turnbull might be the junior member of the group, but he was obviously
being brought along carefully and gently encouraged. 'Subtle,' he thought,
'very subtle; I wonder if they fully realize what they're doing?' 

 The concern he had felt since finding out what had brought them here both
eased and increased - with this group of men working with him, this could
be it. This could finally be the time Henri Cloutier's own personal empire
fell. A sense of certainty calmed part of his tension, even as he felt
some anxiety increase as excitement at the thought of catching Cloutier
and finally getting to watch him be punished. 

 "I must agree with Constable Fraser," he said out loud. "That's a fine
idea, son. Good thinking. The next step is to put things in motion." He
addressed his next comment to the two Chicago detectives. "I take it you
are both committed to helping?" 

 "Damned straight," they both said at the same time. 

 "Good. Now, it seems to me that since Cloutier has traveled to Chicago
several times in the last couple months, some of this extortion must have
taken place there, despite the fact that the phone call that brought you
here technically took place on Canadian soil. Therefore," he went on, his
voice growing more and more ponderous although his eyes were sparking with
humor. "It seems to me that what is called for is an inter-agency,
inter-country task force to address these concerns, don't you agree?" 

 "Oh, yeah, sir, I think that's a must to fully address the issues at
hand," Kowalski replied, matching the mock formality. He liked this guy. 

 "Right you are, Detective Kowalski. I will call your Lieutenant in a bit.
For the moment, let's make a list of the things we are going to need.
There are certain advantages to having achieved the rank of
Superintendent; it'll be good to put them to use. Now . . ." 

 Over the next several hours, they planned and made lists, strategized and
deliberated. 

 When they called Lt. Welsh back in Chicago, the frequently gruff man had
been only too delighted to help organize the inter-agency taskforce from
his end, and once the plan had been explained to him, his only response to
his men had been to say: 

 "You two don't need me to tell you how to run an undercover op. Get to
it." 

 After setting up times for his men to check in, he had agreed to call
Inspector Thatcher and feed her the cover story they constructed to cover
the two Mounties and two cops' absences. 

 By the time they had talked things through and reached a stopping point,
it was almost dinnertime. Meers left to go home; he and his wife were
having guests over for dinner. 

 The four friends ordered room service and settled in to watch TV. After a
spirited debate about the relative merits of their viewing options, they
decided, in honor of Ren and his ideas, to start with a curling match.
Later, Kowalski blew iced tea out his nose during The Red Green Show, and
then they topped off their evening with hockey. Luckily the game featured
a team from both sides of the border, so there was plenty to keep the
debate going, from which national anthem was better, to Zamboni
techniques. 

 Both Rays focused on keeping a constant stream of words going, knowing
keeping Fraser distracted was the best way to stop him from brooding.
Besides, it was fun to rile both of the Mounties. 

 The next morning, after eating their way through the rather extensive
buffet at one of the hotel's restaurants, Meers returned and they put the
first part of their plan into effect. 

 It was time for Turnbull to make yet another phone call. 

 Chapter 28 

 "You know, Ren, seems like all we've been doin' the last couple days is
listening to you chit-chat on the phone. You always spend this much time
on d'phone?" Kowalski had one foot propped up on the coffee table and both
of his hands were occupied twisting and contorting a straw. 

 "Yeah, is this another one of those Canadian things, Ren? Then again,
this may answer what my sister sees in you." Vecchio's tone perfectly
captured the essence of an epiphany. "No one can talk on the phone like
Frannie, Princess of the Busy Signal." 

 Feeling rather bold, Ren decided to push back for once. "You know, Ray, I
don't think that's all your sister sees in me," he replied archly and with
a knowing smile. 

 "Yeah, yeah, yeah, make your phone call, Mountie Smartass." 

 "Are they always like this?" Meers asked Fraser, who was sitting on the
couch watching his friends and building geometric shapes out of the pile
of straws Kowalski had found. 

 "Quite frequently, sir, although they really are quite proficient
detectives." 

 "Thank you kindly, Benny," Vecchio replied, smirking as Ren started to
dial. 

 Turnbull's friendly tone cut off anything else Vecchio might've said.
"Good morning, Mark." 

 "Here we go again," Kowalski stuck in, sotto voce. 

 "Actually, Mark, I'm in Ottawa . . . well, I didn't know I was going to
be . . . yes, I would very much like to get together . . . I'm staying at
the Westin here in downtown, could you maybe come here? They have a very
nice restaurant and we could have lunch . . . I have a few friends here
from Chicago with me . . . no, unfortunately, not Francesca this time . .
. no, no, not intruding, not at all. In fact," Turnbull looked up through
his eyelashes at the other men "they're looking forward to meeting you . .
." 

 After hashing out a few more details and giving Mark the room number, Ren
disconnected the call, and informed the others that Mark would be arriving
in about an hour. The five men in the hotel room then went back to
waiting.  

 When Mark Buckman arrived, Ren noticed his pallor wasn't particularly
vigorous, and dark circles underlined his eyes, making his blue eyes look
pale and washed out. A few minutes later, his face had lost all color, the
dark circles now seemed to swallow his eyes, and he was shaking. Despite
the fact that he looked like a still looked like the defenseman he was on
the academy's hockey team, the couch seemed to swallow him. 

 "I-I had no idea," Mark replied in a quivering voice after they told him
about his boss. "I mean, I've never thought he was a . . . pleasant man,
but I didn't know he was blackmailing people." He looked up at the
Superintendent. "But it doesn't surprise me, sir. He very much enjoys
being in control and . . . dominating people. I've never seen someone take
so much pleasure in crushing someone's ideas or proving someone wrong, or
at least what he thinks is wrong. His attitude makes it very difficult to
work with him." 

 "Yes, I would imagine it does, Constable." Meers had been a little
concerned about telling Buckman what was going on, afraid that he was
perhaps, despite Turnbulls assurances, involved in Cloutier's schemes. It
had only taken a few minutes for Buckman's guileless demeanor to disabuse
him of any fears in that quarter. 

 The young Mountie had been excited to see his friend, and pleased to be
introduced to Turnbull's companions. A few minutes later, when the
conversation had turned to the matters at hand, the shock and concern
eclipsed his exuberance, making it abundantly clear that he didn't know
anything about Cloutier's machinations. Meers had been able to see that
even without thirty years on the force. 

 The superintendent asked another question, moderating his voice to be as
gentle as possible; he didn't want to cause the young Constable any more
pain, since working for Cloutier was clearly painful enough. 

 "We do believe you that you don't know anything about Cloutier's illegal
activity, but we would like you to think back over the last few months,
now that you know that something was going on, and see if that tweaks any
memories, or if something he did or you saw suddenly makes sense." 

 "I told Turnbull about Inspector Thatcher coming to Ottawa several months
ago, but I can't think of anything else at the moment, sir." The worry in
his voice was painful to hear. Meers wondered how timid the man had been
before and how much of his reaction was from being browbeaten by Cloutier.


 "Take your time, Mark," Fraser urged, tuning out the man sitting beside
him; Ray Kowalski appeared ready to burst with impatience. 

 "Sir, are you going to arrest him?" A thread of hope flitted through his
worry. 

 "We're going to do our very best to, Mark," Meers went on. "In fact,
that's one of the reasons Turnbull asked you here today. We intend to
stage an undercover operation to catch him, and we need some help from
you." 

 "I'll do whatever you need me to, sir." He raised his chin and smiled,
his eyes looking far less washed out. Clearly Cloutier hadn't managed to
crush the man completely. 

 "What we plan is for Turnbull to go undercover in your position.
Officially, you are going to have a personal emergency and will be out of
town for an undetermined time. Luckily, this is a busy time for your
department. We intend to use that as cover for needing to move personnel.
Turnbull's cover story will be that you recommended him based on your
longstanding relationship with him since your Academy days." 

 Mark pondered the plan for a moment or two before answering. "I think
that sounds logical, sir, but I think Cloutier would demand that one of
the paralegals, a woman named Carol Jessup, take my place. She is,
however, about to go out on maternity leave, and uh, I believe, as eager
as I am to leave." He blushed a bit at the indiscretion. "Do you think it
might also be possible to arrange for her to be out of the office? That
way, I think Ren would have more unlimited access since the two people who
know the most about the way Cloutier handles things would be gone." 

 Meers looked pleased. "Good suggestion, Constable Buckman; anything we
can do to give Turnbull more access to Cloutier's office will help." 

 Nearly thirty minutes into Mark's discussion of the layout of the office
and some of Cloutier's habits, Mark suddenly remembered something. 

 "A few weeks ago, I was in Mr. Cloutier's office taking dictation. As I
was leaving, I noticed that the painting he hangs near his desk wasn't
straight. It's a rather pretty landscape, from the early days of the Group
of Seven, I believe, and the use of color and texture . . ." 

 "What was the significance of the painting, Mark?" Fraser broke in as the
younger Constable drew a breath. It wasn't difficult to see why he'd
become friends with Turnbull. 

 "Well, you see, when I reached out to straighten the painting, Mr.
Cloutier yelled, rather loudly actually, and told me to never touch that
painting, and that if he wanted me to straighten the painting, he would
have told me to. I was rather startled at the ferocity of his reaction,
but I'd come to accept his flights of . . . anger." He drew a more shaky
breath this time, and he seemed to shrink in on himself again, retreating
from the memory of his boss. "But now with this information you've given
me, I wonder if there wasn't something more to it. You see, several months
before, a man came to do some work in his office. Cloutier said the man
was repairing a broken light fixture, but what he didn't know is that I
talked to the man, and he told me he was putting in a safe. Perhaps that's
where the safe is." 

 "It can't be that easy," Vecchio spoke up, his tone a mix of disbelief
and desire as he tapped his fingers against the glass top of the coffee
table to emphasize his words. "I mean, that's totally obvious." 

 "Perhaps so, Ray, but to paraphrase what you said yesterday, 'pride goeth
before a fall.'" Fraser looked at his friend, trying to counter the
pessimism that frustration and impatience always made worse in Vecchio.
Before he would go on, however, Kowalski broke in, his rapid tumble of
words reflecting the blond cop's coping mechanism against frustration. 

 "That's kinda D-U-M, dumb, you know, I mean if he's gonna keep stuff, and
keep stuff at the office, you'd think he'd be a little more creative." He
leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "That'd be the first place
I'd look if I was look'n for a safe." Disgust was very apparent in
Kowalski's voice. 

 "I'll take easy," Meers' voice was thoughtful. "I just want to put an end
to this man's wake of destruction." 

 "Yeah, I hear that," Kowalski muttered. 

 Chapter 29 

 Picking up a new straw to twist and mutilate, the blond cop watched the
men around him discuss the plan. Wrapping the straw tightly around his
finger and then letting it spring loose again, he slid his eyes over to
Mark. Here was a big, hulking guy; he looked like he could play linebacker
for Christ's sake, but the smallest mention of Cloutier's name was making
him shaky and withdrawn. As much as he wanted to help put his boss away,
Ray could tell that the idea of going against Cloutier terrified Mark on
some deep level that made Ray cringe to thing about. Stella had done her
share of flaying him alive, but that was nothing compared to the lashing
this Constable must've been getting on nearly a daily basis. Ray was only
just now beginning to recover from being constantly reminded what a
disappointment he was to his wife as a husband and human. Thinking of that
made him wonder how long it was going to take Mark to recover from the
damage his boss had inflicted, and how much of the scarring was so deep
that it would never heal. 

 Torquing the straw around two fingers and holding it tight, watching the
tip of his finger turn bright red, Ray exhaled in a rush, thinking about
Meg being at the mercy of this slime ball. After all, if Cloutier was
capable of doing this to a guy who must outweigh him by forty pounds and
have several inches on him, Kowalski didn't wanna think about what the
legal attach might have done, or worse, might yet do, to the inspector.
'As if blackmail wasn't enough,' Ray thought to himself. 

 He wondered how all this was going to go down. One thing he knew for
sure, Cloutier was a complete bastard, and he'd give a hell of a lot of
see a confrontation between the Ice Queen and this weasel. Oh, yeah, he'd
pay big money for that show. Comforted by the image of her tearing
Cloutier down with that razor-sharp tongue of hers, Ray returned to the
present and the on-going discussion. 

 Once the group finished laying out the plan, they began to think about
the best way to get Mark out of the city without arousing suspicion. In
the end, they decided Meers would take care of the paperwork -- Mark would
simply leave the hotel, go home to pack, and leave the city and go to his
family's farm. 

 The relief radiating off Mark was beyond palpable. He was escaping the
horrendous reality he had been living in with most of his self intact, and
his spirit not fully broken. The fact that at the same time he was
escaping, he was also helping ensure no one else would be put through what
he had been through made his relief all the sweeter. 

 'And more honorable,' he thought as he sat there surrounded by these men.
He knew he wasn't running away -- he was fighting back. It felt absolutely
wonderful after living so long under Cloutier's oppression. 

 Determined to find a way to repay these men for what they were doing for
him, he wracked his mind for any further information that might help.
Thinking about the day to day situation in the office led him to another
idea. While the other four men talked about procuring equipment, Mark
leaned towards his friend, his voice full of concern. 

 "Ren? You will be careful, won't you?" 

 Ray Kowalski's ears picked up the quiet words, and seeing the worry on
Mark's face, spoke up. "Oh, yeah; he'll be careful. We'll make him, cuz
Frannie'll kill us if we let anything happen to him." 

 The quip surprised a laugh out of Mark, as did the slight blush on
Turnbull's face. 

 As Mark finished going over a few more details about the duties Turnbull
would be taking on, Fraser stiffened and looked up. 

 "I just realized that with Turnbull and me gone, that leaves the
Consulate and Inspector Thatcher seriously understaffed." 

 His stomach constricted at the thought of her being alone and even more
isolated. As strong a woman as she was, the last few weeks had taken their
toll, and he hated the idea of her being alone with her fatigue and
morning sickness and worry. Now that he knew part of what had made her end
their relationship, his feelings had swung back, and the thought of being
separated from her made his stomach clench tighter. 

 He felt trapped in a large Gordian knot. He couldn't go to her and tell
her that he knew she was being blackmailed, or even that he was working to
catch their tormenter. He couldn't tell her how he felt about her and the
baby. Nor could he tell her how very much he wanted to be with her and
hold her and their child. 

 A wave of fear buffeted him, wrenching the knots even tighter; what if
she'd stopped loving him? What if the distance he had helped push between
them had pushed her too far away? What if even after this was all over,
and the blackmail stopped, they couldn't resurrect their relationship? 

 He caught his breath, knowing the five men sitting around him were
watching him; he could see Meers' mouth moving, and knew the
superintendent was answering his statement about Meg. This wasn't the time
to dwell on these questions or get lost in confusion. He had to do
everything in his power to help her, and for the moment, that meant doing
exactly what he was doing, and arranging for her to have help back in
Chicago. 

 "I'm sorry, sir?" he had to ask, having missed Meers' reply. "Could you
please repeat that, please?" 

 Meers looked at him a little strangely, but repeated, "I said you're
quite right, Benton. I will arrange for a Constable from my office to fly
down tonight and take Turnbull's place. In fact, I'll write a letter to
Thatcher explaining the matter. I can't send two replacements, of course,
since that would give away that I know you aren't there, but I know just
the man for the job. Constable Roberts does excellent work, and he's
completely trustworthy." 

 "Thank you, sir." Fraser stopped himself from saying any more, afraid
that if he went on, he would expose far more of himself than he wanted.
Sitting back, he forced himself to relax into the cushions. 

 Both Rays sat back deeper into the couch and relaxed a bit too; Fraser
was back. They both had seen him retreat into himself after realizing
Thatcher was going to be alone in Chicago, and had immediately known the
Mountie was beating himself up again. Kowalski had been on the verge of
offering to go back to Chicago and keep an eye on Meg when Fraser blinked
and seemed to pull himself back together. 

 Looking at Ren, Meers, and Mark, Kowalski didn't think they'd noticed
Fraser's momentary distraction, but watching his friend, the blond cop
renewed his mental vow to keep a close eye on Fraser and make sure he
wasn't doing the famous Fraser flagellation thing. 

 'Best way to do that,' he thought firmly, 'is to keep the Mountie
occupied.' 

 "Sounds like a good plan," he jumped in, not fully sure what he was going
to say. Leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees, he
continued; after all, winging it was one of the things he did best. "An'
Frannie is gonna be around too, and you know Dief'll wanna help, Fraze, so
looks like we got that covered. Now whadda say we finish getting Mark,
here, squared away, and then we can work out where you and I and Ray are
gonna be while Ren is playing Secret Agent Man. Maybe we can even have
Frannie drop Dief off at the Consulate to keep an eye on Meg." 

 As always, Kowalski's flood of words distracted Fraser from his
introspection, and the six men continued planning what they were going to
be doing over the next several days.  

 That night . . . 

 Some ghost of a noise disturbed Ray Kowalski, and he rolled over to try
and figure out what had woken him up. Coming further awake, he realized he
wasn't in his own bed. Sheets were wrong. 'Where-oh, yeah, Ottawa. Got
it.' 

 Leaning up on one elbow, he could see Fraser standing next to one of the
windows. The Mountie's right shoulder was lost in the folds of the
curtain, as was most of his right side. His right foot was crossed over
the left, parallel with his leg, toes resting on the floor; his arms were
crossed against his chest in a way the seemed halfway between protective
and aggressive. The light of the waxing moon shone through an opening in
the curtains, casting just enough light to illuminate Fraser's face and
chest and give him an unearthly glow. 

 Lying there looking at his friend, Kowalski felt like if the scene were a
painting, it would be called something like Solitary Mountie. The thought
didn't please Ray. Fraser wasn't alone; he had his friends, and Ray wasn't
going to let him forget it. 

 "We're gonna get him, Ben." 

 "Yes, we are." 

 Ray had to smile a little at the absolute certainty filling that simple
sentence. 

 "Can't sleep?" he asked his friend. 'Way to go, Kowalski,' he told
himself as soon as the words left his mouth, 'way to ask the obvious.' 

 "I'm a bit restless," Fraser admitted quietly. "I just wish I was the one
going into Cloutier's office." 

 Propping both his arms up on his bent knees, Ray shook his head. "You
know you can't, Fraze. It's dicey enough using Turnbull; you know there's
no way he'd buy you as his innocent secretary. The guy's sick, not
stupid." 

 Fraser turned his head to look at Ray, the movement throwing his profile
into deeper contrast. "I know. I'm just . . ." 

 "It's ok to be worried, you know, Fraze. It doesn't make you any less of
a person, or somethin.' An' I don't think they're gonna take away your
Stetson for it," he finished with another smile, hoping these were the
right words. After all, it wasn't everyday he encountered this side of his
friend. 

 "I suppose you're right, Ray." 

 "Aren't I always?" he replied, grinning wider at Fraser's raised eyebrow.
"Come on, go back to bed and go to sleep. Something tells me we're gonna
need it these next few days." He followed his own suggestion and lay back
down, pulling the covers back over his chest and burrowing a bit. 

 He watched the Mountie nod slightly before walking over to the other bed.
Fraser stretched out on his back, arms resting on his chest, but instead
of closing his eyes, he stared up at the ceiling without blinking. Seeing
that his friend was going along with his suggestion to humor him and
didn't really mean to sleep, Ray decided that more drastic measures were
needed. 

 "We could tell ghost stories," Ray suggested, his grin a bright curve in
the dark room. "Know any more stories about Looouuuuuu Skagnetti?" He drew
the name out the way Fraser had that night in the park. 

 Fraser chuckled and turned his head to look at Ray. "I think it's your
turn to come up with a story." 

 "Huh, yeah, well, I guess I could do that." He thought for a moment.
"Once upon a time, there was a dragon named Fred. Now Fred wasn't a happy
dragon, cuz his maiden devouring license had been revoked." 

 "His maiden devouring license?" 

 "Hey, who's tellin' this story?" Clearly the Mountie didn't know Stan
Freberg. 

 "Yes, of course, Ray. I apologize. Proceed." 

 Ray could hear the suppressed amusement in Fraser's voice and almost lost
it himself, but he regained control and continued. "All right then." He
cleared his throat ostentatiously. "Now, like I said, Fred was not happy.
He couldn't even make a decent flame spurt anymore and his super-scary,
bone-shaking roars, had, frankly not even been bone wiggling lately. He'd
heard the others whispering and knew there was even talk of throwing him
out of the union. Finally, after a lot of pondering and smoke rings and
scale polishing, he decided he'd better pack up and look for another line
of work. So he packed up his toothbrush and his picture of his mom, threw
'em in his duffel, and set off for the city." 

 Ray turned his head to look at his friend, and saw that one of Fraser's
hands had slipped off his chest, and that his mouth was slack as he
breathed deeply. The Mountie had fallen asleep. 

 'Huh,' he thought to himself with another grin, 'who knew that a story
about a dragon would be an Inuit tale.' Feeling pleased with himself, Ray
turned to his side, pulled the covers up to his ears so that the only
thing really visible was the top of his hair, and closed his eyes. 

 Soon, the only sounds in the room were deep breathing and an occasional
snuffle breaking the cadence.  

 Chapter 30 

 Margaret Thatcher, Inspector, RCMP, worried the cuticle of her middle
finger with the pad of her thumb, and sat watching the clock. The clock
she kept on her desk ticked away happily in its crystal housing, clearly
showed the time. Checking it against her watch for the seventeenth time
proved, yet again, it was accurate. 

 10:02:32. 

 10:02:33. 

 10:02:34. 

 Where was he? 

 10:02:37. 

 He was over two hours late. 

 She hadn't noticed at first. Coming in to find Constable Turnbull gone
and Constable Roberts in his place had been a jarring start to the week,
especially when all she had wanted to do was curl up with a handful of
crackers and some club soda and not move until the rolling waves of nausea
had passed. 

 There had been things to do, however. So, as enticing as the corner of
the couch in her office had been, she hadn't allowed herself to sit down,
but had gotten Roberts settled and oriented. While it was extremely
generous of Ottawa to send someone while Turnbull was on this emergency
assignment, getting Roberts squared away ate up over an hour since he
needed to be shown around the entire Consulate and have his duties
explained to him. She'd never realized just how much Turnbull actually
did. 

 In the midst off all of that, she didn't notice Fraser hadn't come in
until about 9:30 when she walked to the conference room for a scheduling
meeting. He hadn't been waiting. 

 She waited for him for five minutes, getting her notes in order,
organizing her thoughts, and then she got up and walked to his office. The
door had been closed, though that really wasn't unusual anymore. Knocking,
however, had yielded nothing, no movement, no rustling, no opened door.
Rapping insistently one last time, she thrust open the door. Empty, lights
off. 

 It finally hit her that he wasn't there. The fear and pain inside her had
spiked in the seconds between seeing that all of his things were gone and
recalling that he had moved out weeks ago. 

 In the thirty-four minutes and thirty-one seconds since then, her
emotions had ranged from disbelief, to worry, to anger, and back to
disbelief. Hurt lurked in the back of her mind, but she refused to let it
reach the surface. 

 She couldn't believe he hadn't reported for duty. That wasn't like him.
But then, the news she gave him Friday morning had been rather unsettling.


 She had expected him to show up at her door all weekend long, or at least
to call, but she hadn't heard from him at all. Sitting there at her desk,
she wondered if he was playing some sort of game with her just to see what
she would do. But game playing wasn't like Fraser. 

 Neither was falling to report to work without even a call. 

 Disbelief rolled into worry again and her thoughts took flight. Perhaps
he was sick. But then, he shared an apartment with Ray Kowalski. Surely
Kowalski would have called if Ben were too ill to come in to work. Maybe
something had happened after Ray left for the day. Maybe Fraser had
slipped and fallen in the bathroom. She remembered hearing somewhere that
a huge percentage of accidents in the home happened in bathrooms. An image
of him lying still and pale on a bathroom rug flashed in her mind, taking
root and holding her immobile for a moment. 

 Anger flooded back, submerging her worry and the vivid images. How dare
he make her feel this way and put her through this! Judging by his
reaction, he thought she had gotten pregnant deliberately, and maybe he
wasn't thrilled about becoming a father, and Lord knew she had hurt him,
but that was no reason to act this way. This wasn't the time for a
tantrum; he had responsibilities. 

 Oh, God, so did she. 

 She put her hand to her rolling stomach, knowing it was only partially
morning sickness making her stomach feel it was running through an entire
instruction manual on knots. At least she hadn't thrown up this morning.
That had helped, but she found morning sickness tedious from another
perspective besides the obvious; it sapped too much of her concentration
and blurred her focus. Focus she really needed to come up with a way to
protect this baby and Ben. 

 If it had just been the pictures Cloutier was holding over her head, she
would have told him to go to hell. It would have been easy - the pictures
had been taken while she was at the Sorbonne, long before she had joined
the RCMP, and they were art, damn it, not something prurient. She might
not want them published in McLean's, but she hadn't done anything wrong.
Yes, she had been nude in some of them, but the black-and-white photos
played with light and shadows; she was still amazed at the way Jacques had
made her look so airy and ethereal. And now Jacques was a world famous
photographer. No, she had absolutely nothing to apologize for or feel
ashamed about. 

 She remembered saying something to that effect in Cloutier's office,
using her most withering voice to express her contempt for what he was
doing and how pitiful she found his attempt at making her feel ashamed and
threatened. 

 But he had other information besides the pictures. The bastard had
information about Ben and his father. 

 Chapter 31 

 The second folder Cloutier had opened that day in his office made her
sink back down in her chair and swallow the biting and succinct retort
she'd been about to throw at him describing where he could put his
blackmail attempt and the relative darkness of said place. 

 The folder contained photocopies of deposit slips and bankbooks. She
recognized the Territorial Trust logo even though it was across the desk
and upside down. He had read the number of an account out loud. Then he
paused, waiting to see what she would do next. She had waited too, leery
of his intentions as she tried to contain her anger. 

 Finally, after several heartbeats of silence, he began talking about the
"last of a dying breed" and the honor of the RCMP. The first mention of
Ben and his father had come moments later. 

 Anger lurched into her throat, sweeping away the contempt she'd been
feeling. Cloutier looked at her, his mouth twisted into a sneering smile
at her expression. The sheer confidence he radiated quickly turned her
anger to shock. With the realization that he wasn't joking, her mind
froze. 

 She had only heard about Sergeant Robert Fraser, not met him, but
everyone knew that he embodied the ultimate image of the traditional
wilderness Mountie: rugged, individualistic, brave, strong, loyal. He'd
lived and breathed his job, totally committed to upholding the ideals of
the RCMP. Most thought Ben Fraser had been cast in the same mold. Being a
Mountie, simply put, is what Ben was. No matter how frustrating and obtuse
the man could be, he remained as deeply committed to his duty as his dead
father. 

 As was she. But as committed as she was, Ben's allegiance lived at a
visceral level even she found unfathomable at times. 

 The thought of something threatening his position, and, therefore, his
being, was just as unfathomable. 

 Which explained why it had taken so long to finally realize that Cloutier
was threatening something so important to someone she loved. 

 She'd heard about the existence of a bank account before. Word got out
during the scandal and trial about the dam business that Bob Fraser had a
bank account full of hush money. There were people who felt it proved the
dead Mountie was a fraud, but most people had seen the account as another
last-ditch effort by a group of people desperate enough to kill the man.
She hadn't really thought all that much about it at the time. She'd been
busy with her assignment, and besides, it was glaringly obvious how
corrupt those officials were. 

 Henri Cloutier had clearly thought about it, however. She could still
hear the smug tone in his voice, miles thick, as he rifled through the
bank records in the files, musing idly how surprised he was that not only
had Bob Fraser made withdrawals, but that after his father's death, his
son had too. Odd, he said, he had thought better of the boy, heard he was
so honest. 

 She couldn't believe Ben would have ever touched the dirty money and
demanded to see the records, striving to put contempt back into her voice.
This time his voice had dripped with arch amusement. 

 "Oh, no, my dear. Perhaps, after you have met my demands, I will share my
little bits of information with you, but at the moment, I couldn't let you
touch them. Accidents do happen you know, and I worked so hard to find
these treasures." He had fanned through the slips again before closing the
folder and resting his hands on his desk, smiling that shark's smirk at
her. 

 "And what exactly are your demands?" She asked, trying for calm but not
achieving it, hating the shaky threads in her voice. Self-protectively,
she crossed her arms against her stomach. 

 "Excellent negotiation technique, Meggy: clear, direct, to the point. I
shall be just as direct. I want you. You have always been mine, and it's
time you admitted it." 

 "I belong to no one," she declared icily. Her hands clenched against the
arms of the chair so tightly she was later surprised not to find the nap
of the fabric imprinted in her skin. 

 "Oh, but you do, my dear, you do. With these bits of information," he
waved a desultory hand, "I own you." 

 "What exactly do you want?" She forced the words out between lips that
felt petrified. 

 "Well, eventually, you will be working here with me. I don't know that we
will live together, must keep up appearances, you know, but I do look
forward to the day when I'll be able to see you all the time. For now,
however, you are going to go back to Chicago and break it off with that
Lothario you have been seeing." 

 Mind reeling from the shock, she grasped at any possible options to stop
him. Attempting to wave her own hand desultorily, she had tried bluffing.
"Been seeing? He's just a little diversion, something to occupy my time."
Unfortunately, she'd immediately seen he didn't believe her. The fright
holding her captive had consumed too much of her control for her to make
the bluff convincing. 

 "Really, my dear, I expect better from you." He clasped his hands and
leaned forward across the desk, his weight on his forearms. "He certainly
seems to care quite a bit about you. I'd even go so far as to say he loves
you. But how much will he love you when he finds out you have been the
ruination of his career? Hmmm, Meg?" His feigned sympathy made her flesh
crawl. "Being a Mountie is, oh, so important to him, and if you don't do
as I've asked, I will turn these little slips of paper, so damning really,
to Internal Affairs. His father's reputation will be forever ruined, and
if you thought he had been exiled before, just think of what a pariah he
would be if the world found out the great Benton Fraser had dabbled with
bribe money? Hmmm? There wouldn't be a place far enough away they could
send him. In fact, I think it very possible that they would throw him out
of the force all together. He wouldn't be very happy about that, now would
he?" 

 "You're mad!" The fact that he'd immobilized her mind so easily and
reduced her to such clichs was another offence she would repay him for
some day. 

 "Now, now, Meg, it's hardly wise to antagonize me," he countered, raising
an eyebrow. Smoothing his face, he took on a preemptory tone. "This is
what you are going to do. You will go back to Chicago and tell him it's
over. There will be no more intimate dinners with you sitting holding
hands around the centerpieces and staring into each other's eyes." 

 She had stared at him in shock. It had been that detail that convinced
her he was completely serious. There was no way he could have known about
that dinner if he hadn't been watching her and Ben. She wondered how many
people he had watching them. It was that fear that continued to keep her
away from Ben and not go to him for help. She was afraid that by the time
she explained everything to Ben and they decided what to do, Cloutier
would have already found out and released the information about Ben. 

 She remembered sitting in the chair, looking down at her hands and trying
to decide what shade of white would come closest to the color her face
must have been. Rice paper maybe, or that white color of dead flesh around
a wound. That was how she had felt, wounded, dying around the edges as she
realized that for the moment, she had no choice. She had to do what he
demanded. She couldn't jeopardize Ben's career. It meant too much to him.
It was what he was. She couldn't destroy that, not when she had the power
to protect him. The idea that Ben had done something unethical was
anathema, but she hadn't had anything to maneuver with. 

 She had forced herself to speak and agree to the terms Cloutier demanded.
The burning resentment she felt at having to give in only deepened the
waves of confusion and fear buffeting her from all sides. 

 After spending more time gloating, he had let her go with a final warning
about the seriousness of his intentions, telling her again he expected her
to break things off with Fraser as soon as she got back to Chicago. He
would know if she didn't, he assured her, and he would contact her within
a few days to let her know what he wanted her to do next. As long as she
kept her end of the bargain, the information he had about Ben and her
would remain in his office. 

 The thought of rushing back to Chicago crossed her mind, but she had felt
too frozen and betrayed to do anything but move on autopilot back to her
hotel. The contrast between the haze of happy contentment she'd been lost
in when she walked into his office and the overwhelming loss and anguish
she'd felt as she left made her shock seem even more obscene. In the end,
she spent the rest of the weekend there to keep up the fiction that she
was away at a conference. Mostly, she had stared at the TV wondering what
she was going to do without Ben in her life. It had already felt like her
heart had been lacerated. 

 Oddly, that weekend in Ottawa had been even worse than actually lying and
telling Ben she no longer wanted a relationship with him. By the time
she'd returned to Chicago, her emotions were so blunted and deadened she
had gone back to running on autopilot. Alone in that hotel room, however,
her fears and pain were raw and jagged. The mental image of stark white
Kleenex scattered across the navy-blue bedspread, so many of them they
created peaks and valleys, brought back the shame of being reduced to a
tear-sodden lump in her bed. The memories still made her writhe with
resentment. 

 Any half-formed ideas about telling Ben the truth died when she had
walked down to the lobby Sunday afternoon and found Cloutier waiting for
her. He had taken her bags and driven her to the airport. 

 He hadn't said much, but his mere presence proved intimidating enough.
The brush of his lips on her cheek felt like a mark branding her a
betrayer, but she didn't know what else she could do. Or how she could
escape. Or how else to protect Ben. 

 A couple weeks later, after she had learned to deal with not only her own
pain, but also with Ben's and the burden of knowing she had caused it, her
mind started working again. She called a childhood friend who now worked
for the Bank of Canada, the parent company of Territorial Trust. Adriana
had done some discrete checking. She confirmed that the account number
Cloutier read to her had, in fact, belonged to Robert Fraser, deceased,
and that Benton R. Fraser was listed as next of kin, so he could have
accessed the account after his father died. Unfortunately, the account had
been frozen and classified, so Adriana hadn't been able to get copies of
any activity. Meg still wouldn't believe Ben would have touched the money,
but with his name on the account, and with Cloutier holding a stack of
withdrawal slips, she didn't know what else she could do. 

 Then she'd gotten an idea. She might not be able to gather more
information about the account and Ben's involvement with it, but maybe
there was another option; she could fight back using some of the same
tools Cloutier was using against her. She was a Mountie - she could find a
way out of this. 

 For years she'd heard rumors about him and what happened to people who
got in his way or angered him. For example, Ian Felts, the file clerk who
had helped her push the paperwork for her transfer through, had suddenly
been demoted to the mailroom right after she left. When she had written to
him about it, puzzled since he was so good at his job, he had dodged her
questions, making it very clear he wasn't interested in continuing their
correspondence. She'd located him again a few weeks ago, however, still
working in the mailroom. At first when they'd talked over the phone, he'd
been extremely reluctant to discuss what had happened. After she had
dropped some subtle hints that she was investigating Cloutier for possible
criminal action, however, he had slowly opened up and told her about being
demoted for helping her get a transfer. 

 The weight of the guilt she felt about Ian hit her like another blow, yet
it had also made her even more determined to gather enough evidence to
take to headquarters and stop Cloutier from ever victimizing anyone else
ever again. 

 Having made the decision to help, Ian gave her the names of a few other
people who had suddenly disappeared from Cloutier's command, and since she
couldn't go to Canada without alerting Cloutier, she'd quietly contacted
several friends who were helping track them down. The support she'd gotten
from her friends and fellow officers had made all the difference the last
few weeks of wanting to go to Ben but knowing she couldn't yet. 

 That was one of the very worst parts of all of this. The waiting, the
interminable waiting. Secrecy and moving slowly were absolutely necessary,
but knowing that didn't make the waiting any easier. She felt exposed,
vulnerable, and ineffectual. All her years in the RCMP, all her firmly
held beliefs about the power of women and their abilities, and Cloutier
had still been able to make her whole life come crumbling down. Still, she
was a Mountie. She would get through this. She was a Mountie. The words
had become a mantra the last few months. 

 Sitting there at her desk wondering why Fraser hadn't arrived, she
wondered if this kind of feeling of helplessness and isolation came close
to what women in abusive marriages went through. The sense of
powerlessness must be similar. She hated this feeling of being boxed in
and controlled, and despised it even more since she had worked for years
proving how capable she was in what so many thought of as a male-only
club. 

 That bastard wanted to take that all away from her, Ben, her
independence, her identity, and wanted her up in Ottawa. She would find a
way to stop him, however. She would: she was a Mountie not a shrinking
violet. 

 For the moment, however, the forms requesting a transfer were filled out
and sitting on her desk, ready to be faxed - although she and a contact in
Human Resources had arranged for them to be "lost" - and she didn't even
have the option of trying to talk to Ben and tell him what was happening. 

 Which brought her back to the question of where Ben was. 

 Chapter 32 

 Another wave of anger flashed through Meg burning away the worry. She had
decided this weekend while sitting at home, trying to decide whether to
call Ben or give him more time to process the idea of his impending
fatherhood, that she would tell Fraser the truth about why she had ended
their relationship. Then they could figure out a way to deal with the
blackmail. After all, he would know more about the bank account and would
undoubtedly have ideas about what they could do to end Cloutier's control
over them. Hell, maybe he even had proof that he'd never touched the
money; she still didn't believe he had. 

 Now there wasn't even the option of talking to Ben. She wondered how long
she could stall before having to file a report that Constable Benton
Fraser was AWOL. Duty demanded that she follow regulations, and she would
not allow her personal feelings for Fraser to stop her from doing her
duty. Not only would that go against her own ideals, but when she and
Fraser decided to pursue their relationship, they vowed to do everything
in their power to keep their personal and professional relationships
separate. He was late and derelict in his duties. 

 'What choice do I have?' She asked herself, wondering where to find the
necessary forms. Turnbull would know. 

 10:23. 

 She'd wait until eleven and then she would have to fill out the forms if
she hadn't heard from him. 

 In the midst of this decision, her stomach growled. Lighter thoughts
interrupted the more upsetting ones. 'Yeah, I've got the message, baby,'
she thought with a slight smile; today's encounter with just how maddening
nausea could be was over, and now almost anything sounded appetizing.
Maybe something remained from Friday when Turnbull cooked lunch; Fraser
hadn't been there, so maybe there were leftovers. 

 The casters on her chair snicked across the surface of the hard plastic
covering the carpet beneath her desk as she rose to go scavenge for
something to eat to hold her over until lunch. Before she circumnavigated
her desk, however, the phone rang, breaking the silence. 

 "Inspector Thatcher," she said, pleased with the crisp tone of her voice.


 "Good Morning, Inspector; Harding Welsh, here." 

 "Good Morning, Lieutenant." Meg tried to moderate her voice and not let
the worry crease her crisp tone. If Welsh was calling, maybe something
serious had happened to Fraser. "What can I do for you this morning?" 

 "Sorry I wasn't able call sooner but it's a zoo here. We've had the
proverbial fan gettin' hit from all sides this morning." A faint buzz on
the line filled the silence as he paused. 

 Welsh leaned back in his chair and wondered what she was thinking. She
was too good a commanding officer not to have noticed that Fraser wasn't
there, but she was also good enough not to give her thoughts away. 

 "At any rate, I'm sorry it took me this long to contact you, especially
since it involves the deployment of your Liaison Officer." 

 "Fraser? You know where he is?" This time she wasn't as successful at
disguising her anxiety. 

 Not wanting to draw this out any further and worry her more, he slipped
smoothly into the story he and the group in Ottawa created to cover Fraser
and the Rays' absence. "Yeah, he's with my two detectives. Friday
afternoon, the three went to a hockey game and Vecchio recognized a couple
guys from being undercover in Vegas. Your constable and my detectives
followed them, just to check out what was goin' on. Unfortunately, one of
these guys caught sight of Vecchio and took him for the Bookman. It was
one of those spontaneous serendipity things - looks like they've landed in
the middle of something big, drugs, guns, but they needed to be in place
right then, so Vecchio jumped on it, and Kowalski and Fraser are posing as
his bodyguards. At the moment, they're waiting out a buyer. Fraser was
concerned about authorization for this, so I told him I would call you and
clear things with you. Wish we coulda given you some prior notice before
we commandeered your officer, but this was just too good an opportunity to
pass up." 

 "You're telling me Fraser is undercover in a sting operation with the
Mob?" 

 "Yep. The goombas they made this connection with expect the original
buyer to call this week, so it should only be a few days. Can you spare
Constable Fraser for that long? He's being a great help to us; I want you
to know that." 

 'Put like that,' Meg thought, 'makes it hard to say no! What, I should
say: no, I want my officer out now, despite the fact pulling him out could
endanger two detectives and jeopardize an investigation that could save
lives, just because I need to talk to him about our personal lives?' 

 Quashing those thoughts, Meg Thatcher answered. "This sounds like quite
an opportunity, and Constable Fraser is, after all, the liaison officer.
I'm glad you called when you did, Lt..; I was beginning become concerned
about Fraser's whereabouts." 

 'Yeah, I'll bet!' Welsh thought to himself. 

 Out loud, he finished the cover story. "Looks like it's a good thing
Armando Langostini disappeared rather than having his cover blown; these
guys think he's another buyer, and they're all excited because they think
they're gonna have a bidding war on their hands." Amusement rippled
through his words. 

 "Will you be talking to them again soon?" She winced at her tone, afraid
it sounded like she was whining. 

 "They're going to be checking in at least once a day; I'll be sure to
keep you posted." He clicked his ballpoint pen repeatedly, betraying
slight discomfort; he knew why they were doing what they were doing, but
feeding her this story wasn't easy. 

 "Thank you, I would appreciate that. Do you have a safe number set up?
Would using a Consulate number as the safe line be helpful?" 

 'Damn,' Welsh thought to himself, 'she had to ask that! Yeah, well, she
didn't get that job by being stupid,' "That's a very generous offer, but
we're using my home phone number," he temporized, "so I think we got it
covered. If something changes, however, I'll keep you in mind." 

 "Yes, please do," Meg replied, slipping into a more formal tone to mask
her concern for Fraser. 

 Eager to stop the conversation before she asked something he didn't have
a good answer for, Welsh ended the call, once again assuring her he would
keep her posted. 

 As Welsh leaned back in his chair, reminding himself once again to bring
some WD-40 for it from home, pondering what he had just done, Meg sank
down in her own chair, not hearing it creak. 

 She sat there feeling rather bemused; as glad as she was that Ben hadn't
left without a word, any relief she felt about knowing where he was
tempered by new concerns. Now her decision to tell Ben about Cloutier
would have to wait. The sinking feeling of being trapped seeped back in,
bringing home how much she had been counting on the lifeline of telling
Fraser what had been going on. Yet even those fears were overshadowed by
her concern for his safety. He was undercover on a mob case: what happened
if he couldn't handle himself? 

 Slamming thoughts like that to a stop, she got a hold on herself. Of
course he could take care of himself! He was Benton Fraser, RCMP. 

 That was no little thing, she told herself firmly, standing up and
squaring her shoulders. Mounties got on with things. Feeling better, she
went in search of something to eat. 

 Chapter 33  

 Constable Renfield Thomas Turnbull sat at his (temporary, thank Heavens)
desk forcing himself to count to 1000 very slowly. 649 . . . 650 . . . 651
. . . 

 He wished he had learned how to fidget, but his father had always
demanded absolute stillness from him. Wiggling of any kind was completely
unacceptable; only babies fidgeted, certainly not any child carrying the
Turnbull name. The lesson had been so firmly entrenched that even now,
when fidgeting would be appropriate, logical even, he couldn't bring
himself to do it. So he sat, hands clasped and resting on the desk in
front of him, feet flat on the floor in the leg well. 

 'Perhaps Ray Kowalski will give me lessons,' he thought with a small
smile. 

 He took a mental lunge at that distraction and willed his mind to wander
back over the last few days and his evolving relationship with the two
Rays and Fraser. 

 Anything to take his mind off what was coming next and the fact that he
was all alone. 

 All the computer screens were dark, the screen-savers having given way to
"sleep mode," and even the hum of the copy machine had gone quiet. The
silence seemed to hem in at him from all sides, amplifying his fears that
every sound was Cloutier returning for some item he'd forgotten for the
dinner that he was attending this evening. 

 Sitting there in the pool of light from his desk lamp, listening,
waiting, Turnbull pushed the growing count to the back of his mind (702 .
. . 703 . . .) and consciously turned his thoughts to the men he was
working with. This feeling of being . . . needed . . . included, was
stunningly delightful. He'd known they were friends before; since he and
Francesca had married, especially, they had been including him in their
activities and making him feel welcome, not letting him retreat behind his
bumbling fool mask. Over the past few days, however, their growing
friendship seemed to have solidified into something much more tangible. 

 Like the fact that while both Rays had been keeping up an almost constant
stream of teasing and ribbing, these jokes included him in their club
instead of making fun of him. He'd never realized how important small
changes in tone and gestures could be, but for such subtle changes, they
surely made a world of difference. He wasn't an incapable lump to them
anymore, good for dusting and phone calls but nothing more important. 

 They were teaching him, not telling him, Turnbull suddenly realized,
feeling the warmth of the thought trickle through him. And he was
learning, not hiding. 

 He was finally part of a team, a real team. Not just a peripheral member
where others included him because they feared his rich father or wanted
the things his money could get them, like some of his "friends" from
school. Which wasn't to say Fraser and Ray and Ray hadn't enjoyed the
flight up here or didn't appreciate the hotel rooms, but he was more than
just a wallet or a means to an end to these men. Why, even Superintendent
Meers asked for his input and opinions. 

 He knew he had a great deal to learn before he could ever truly be in the
same league as his friends. Still, he didn't have the words to describe
the way he felt at being allowed to learn from them, rather than just
patted on the head and immediately dismissed. 

 The differences that surprised him the most, however, came from Constable
Fraser. The great Constable Fraser, legendary Mountie, had put his trust
in him, Turnbull, infamous Mountie. This operation clearly had long-range
repercussions for Fraser, yet he had entrusted a man who had once gotten
his hand stuck in a vase to help him. 

 Turnbull put a stop to that memory immediately; dwelling on his past
wouldn't do any good. He'd come a long way since then, and he no longer
distrusted his abilities so much that he turned himself into a parody. 

 Turning his thoughts back to the present situation, Turnbull couldn't
imagine what kind of information Cloutier had on Fraser, but he supposed
there was a dim possibility that whatever it was would prove to be
damaging to his superior's career. Though what a man as scrupulously
honorable as Fraser might have done boggled the imagination. 

 Of course, the issue of Fraser's future with Inspector Thatcher also
loomed large. The fact that he was being allowed to help Fraser, his idol,
with such vital matters made him feel so proud it was almost enough to
drown out the lingering remnants of his father's voice, and the voices of
his past bosses, telling him he would never amount to anything. It had
even helped him keep an even keel through Cloutier's browbeating and
bullying. 

 Suddenly, the weight of the responsibility of what he was about to do
came rushing back and took his stomach hostage again, jerking him away
from his bemusement at being a useful part of a team and the warmth of
friendship. So much rested on him: careers, relationships, love,
friendship. 

 Great Scot! 

 Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he re-focused on the numbers. 888
. . . 889 . . . and slipped his hand into his pocket. 

 Not sure if the object was comforting or ominous, he ran his fingers
along the edges of the small transceiver. 

 The others were waiting on the other end of the device, poised to listen
and guide him through searching Cloutier's office and finding and opening
the safe. Turnbull pictured them grouped around the receiver and recording
equipment waiting for him to make contact, and suddenly he didn't feel so
alone. 

 Fingering the small device, no bigger than a pack of cards, Turnbull also
decided to take comfort in its solid feel in his pocket. He remembered
every word of the short briefing they had all undergone about these
listening devices, and under his thumb he could feel the two buttons and
tell them apart easily. 

 Square and bumpy for two-way communication, round and ridged for
transmitting only. 

 Just under the collar of his tunic, a small microphone nestled against
his skin to make talking to the rest of the team easier. Yet, even if he
removed the mic, the transceiver was still powerful enough to pick up his
words and beam them to the receiver. It could even switch on the recording
equipment remotely. That something so small could be so powerful had
fascinated him. The quality of the signal and the technology
Superintendent Meers had obtained for them also impressed him, but then,
this was, after all, the RCMP. 

 Giving the small box a gentle pat, Turnbull allowed himself a small
chuckle at Ray Kowalski's running comments during the briefing. After a
couple rounds of shocked reactions that they actually had things like
advanced electronics, let alone electricity, up in The Great Frozen North,
the energetic cop began tossing out code names for Turnbull to use during
the operation. 

 He'd thought of "Maple Leaf" first, but Ray Vecchio got into the act and
pointed out that the Leafs sucked, so that eliminated that codename. They
also rejected "ratatouille" for being too difficult to say. After several
more attempts (which had mostly comprised of allusions to snow, igloos, or
ice), Kowalski had delightedly struck on "Cowboy." 

 Chortling with delight, he worked on names for himself and the rest of
the team back at the listening post in a small room off of Meers' office,
when Fraser had pointed out that using "Turnbull" instead of some code
name would have the added advantage, should he be overheard, of allowing
Turnbull to cover his activities by saying he was just talking to himself.


 Conceding the point, Kowalski had reluctantly given up "Cowboy," despite
the fact that he had been looking forward to the listening post being the
"Chuck Wagon" and getting to say things like "giddy-up" and "let's get
this cattle drive goin,'" and "skeedaddle." 

 Vecchio had consoled him by assuring him that should the occasion come
up, Kowalski could, in fact, say "skeedaddle." 

 But, that was neither here nor there. His musings had distracted him from
the fact that his count had reached 1015 . . . over the ten-minute margin
they all agreed upon. It didn't look like Cloutier would be coming back
for the evening; the reception he was attending had begun, and as far as
Turnbull could tell, the legal attach never passed up a meal, especially
when he didn't have to pay for it. 

 It was, in fact, time to get this cattle drive going. 

 Chapter 34 

 Quickly checking to make sure the small microphone hidden in his collar
hadn't gotten dislodged - he'd recently realized he had begun imitating
Fraser's neck-cracks when nervous - Turnbull stood up, pushed his chair
in, and stuck his hand back into his pocket. Drawing out a small earpiece,
he slipped it into his ear, making sure it was flush with the inner-shell
of his ear. Deciding it was properly seated and unlikely to fall out, he
stuck his hand back into his pocket. Searching and finding the square,
bumpy button on the small transceiver, he keyed it. 

 Since he'd already locked the door into the reception area, where his
desk and several others stood, Ren proceeded directly to the double doors
leading to Cloutier's office as he spoke quietly into the mic, his voice
hardly shaking at all. 

 "Turnbull to Red Leader, radio check, over." 

 "Turnbull, this is Red Leader. Roger, loud and clear," Meers voice
returned in his ear. 

 Ren's feelings of relief that the first part of the plan had worked
heightened as he heard Kowalski's voice in the background muttering that
he felt like there should be X-Wings and Darth Vader with all this talk
about Red Leader. His tension level dropped a bit more when he heard
Fraser's confused "What, Ray?" and realized he understood something Fraser
didn't. The realization made him smile slightly. 

 The doorknobs felt cold underneath his hands as he opened the doors. "I'm
inside the office," he said, stepping over the threshold, happy the lush
carpet muffled his steps. 

 This was only the second time he had been inside this room, despite his
role as Cloutier's personal secretary and the fact that he had been there
three full days. His doofus Mountie act, perfected over years of hiding
and defense mechanisms, had convinced Cloutier that he was a marginally
functional oaf before Monday ended. While that contained the blessing of
Cloutier dismissing him as unthreatening, it also meant he hadn't had much
of a chance to familiarize himself with the room. 

 It was a fairly large office, especially for a man of only moderately
high rank. Inset bookcases full of leather bound books framed the heavy
double doors, and a couch a few feet inside the door had its back against
a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. In front of the couch, a small
glass-topped coffee table with some sort of metallic object d'art was
framed by two armchairs across from the couch, creating an intimate
seating area. Further along the wall of windows, a sliding door lead out
to a small balcony overlooking the city. The city lights shone against the
darkness, but Turnbull didn't let them distract him from his survey of the
room. 

 The wall opposite the windows emphasized Cloutier - his position, rank,
ego, and personality. Except for a low credenza with a plant and another
object d'art and slender lamp near the bookcases, the vast majority of the
wall was full of diplomas, honorary degrees, certificates of achievement
and commendations, as well as a number of photographs of the man himself
with a wide variety of dignitaries and celebrities, including the present
Prime Minister, as well as several past ones. 

 Ren had been keeping up a running description of the room so the others
would have a picture of what he was dealing with, but he kept a number of
acerbic comments about Cloutier's more than healthy opinion of himself to
himself. 

 The rest of the wall was taken up by a large landscape, just as Mark had
described it, which hung almost parallel with Cloutier's desk, which was
set away from the remaining wall and straight ahead from the door. 

 A door off to the left behind the desk led to a small, private bathroom,
and between the door and the sliding door to the balcony, Cloutier had
hung an imposing landscape of the Canadian Rockies with a fort in the
foreground and the flag waving proudly in the invisible wind. 

 All in all, it was an office that emphasized Cloutier's presence, from
the brag wall to the large imposing desk, complete with a large,
high-backed chair, and two much smaller chairs sitting in front of it. 

 "He left all sorts of papers out on his desk," Ren went on as he walked
further into the room. "And his computer is off," he finished, not seeing
any of lights gleaming on the tower or monitor, both of which sat on an
extension of the desk that formed an elbow off to the left. 

 "Check the landscape, Constable," Meers' voice directed, following the
plan of attack they had discussed. They had all decided their first step
would be locating the safe, and then, should the search prove fruitless or
the safe turn out to be empty, they would move on to files in the desk.
The point of tonight's mission wasn't to find everything possible, just to
find enough to obtain an arrest warrant and a search warrant to extend the
investigation beyond Cloutier's office. 

 "Yes, sir," Turnbull replied, heading left toward the painting. "I'm
starting with the edge closest to the door," he reported, sliding his hand
along the frame looking for a latch of some kind but not finding one. The
bottom of the frame didn't yield one either. "Ah! I found it! The side
closest to the back wall. There isn't a latch, but pulling opened it. Just
a moment; let me swing the painting . . . yes, alright, I found the safe!"
Excited utterances filled his ear for a moment before Meers quieted them
with a question about what kind of safe it was. 

 "It's a Sargent and Greenleaf, sir." 

 "When you care enough to send the very best," Turnbull heard his
brother-in-law mutter and grinned at the characteristic sarcasm. 

 "Excellent," Meers praised, apparently ignoring Ray's quip. "That means
we know the proper sequence of actions to dial the combination correctly.
Now all we need is the combination." 

 "Check the slidy-shelf thing on his desk first," Ray Kowalski's excited
voice sang across the connection. 

 "Right you are, Ray." Walking around the computer part of the desk, Ren
realized that Fraser hadn't said anything since that one comment as he
walked into the room, and wondered if the other Constable would to take a
more active role now that the preliminary survey of the room was
completed. Perhaps the action would draw him out. 

 The relative inactivity of the last several days as they had waited for
the necessary paperwork and for a chance to search the office had clearly
taken a toll on Constable Fraser. The air of calm usually surrounding the
Mountie was fraying around the edges, and there had been several times
over the last few days when his frustration at not being able to act had
spilled over. He had actually snapped at Ray Kowalski, who had folded his
arms and pushed right back, teasing him out of his mood. Since then, both
Rays had concentrated even harder on keeping Fraser occupied, setting him
on some of the more tedious paperwork, but it was clear how very
frustrated Fraser was at not only having to wait, but at not being the one
who would eventually act. Ren was almost happy he had been working in
Cloutier's office during the days, rather than stuck in the small room
next to Meers' office they had set up as a command post, watching Fraser
pace while he waited, impatience billowing off of him. 

 Of course, he supposed he would be feeling the same way if Francesca were
involved, especially if the bastard he was waiting to arrest had separated
them for months and terrorized her. Just being away from Francesca the
last few days was difficult enough, not matter how necessary. Having to
live through an enforced separation without the solace of knowing she
waited for him back home wasn't something Ren wanted to contemplate. 

 'And you really shouldn't be contemplating it now,' he told himself
sternly as he came to rest behind Cloutier's desk. Wanting to disturb as
few things as possible, Turnbull bypassed the high-backed chair and
continued standing instead. Gingerly sliding his fingers into the
handhold, he slid the shelf out all the way. Nothing but a wooden surface.


 Knowing the other men were silently echoing his mental "damn," he
continued. "Nothing here except some tape residue," he continued, running
his gloved fingertips across the slick surface, "where a note card
might've lain, but there's nothing here now. Let me check underneath."
Dropping to his knees and inspecting the underside of the slide-out shelf
didn't reveal a combination either. 

 A moment later, Turnbull reported again. "The shelf on the other side
doesn't have anything either." 

 "All right, Turnbull, check the drawer over the leg well next," Meers
directed him, feeling a little claustrophobic at the way the three men
waiting with him loomed over him. He did his best to filter the mounting
tension from his voice, however, not wanting to escalate Turnbull's
stress. 

 "Yes, sir," Turnbull replied, reaching out to open the wide drawer, still
on his knees. He paused, however, before opening it. "You know, sirs, I
read an article in a criminology journal a while back that I'm only just
now recalling. The author, a sheriff in Arizona, I believe, discussed some
of the places he had found passwords and the like while searching
suspects' houses. He mentioned a growing number of people were hiding the
information on the underside of their keyboards." The four men listening
to him didn't reply as they heard him get up and take a step on the hard
plastic chair mat. 

 "Good Lord!" They heard Turnbull breathe. 

 "What! What did you find?" Fraser's excited voice broke out before Meers
had the chance to say anything. 

 Looking down at the inverted keyboard in his hands, Turnbull spoke.
"Gentlemen, not only have we found the safe combination, but we are the
proud possessors of Cloutier's Visa and Master numbers, his ATM pin
number, as well as several bank account numbers. He even labeled them,"
Turnbull finished in a dumbfounded voice. "And to think the man called me
an idiot!" 

 Chapter 35 

 "All right!" Turnbull heard Ray Kowalski shout, punctuated by the loud
clap of hands, undoubtedly the two Rays high-fiving each other. 

 "Well done, son," Meers' voice broke through the American's exuberance.
"Take down all those numbers. Well," he said, leaning back in his chair
and making the leather creak, "this should make things easier," a smile
coloring his voice. 

 "Yes," Fraser's voice cut across impatiently. "Are you finished writing
down the numbers, Turnbull?" 

 Since he had barely had a chance to pull the small notebook out of his
pocket, Turnbull blinked a moment before replying, "No, sir, not yet; if I
might have a moment longer." An undercurrent of worry and apprehension
underlined the words. 

 Across the building from Turnbull, in the small listening room, Vecchio
leaned forward and put his hand on Fraser's shoulder, letting it rest
there for a moment. "Give him a minute, Benny, not everyone can take notes
at the speed of light like you can." 

 Turnbull raced through transcribing the numbers, feeling the sighs Fraser
made pushing him along, demanding without words that he move faster. He
cursed as he dropped his pencil once, but finished as quickly as he could.
Finally, after checking the numbers three times for errors - he knew his
slight dyslexia always got worse when he was rushed or under pressure - he
reported that he was finished. 

 "Good," Meers' calm voice came back to him. "Let's find out what he has
in that safe. What's the combination, Turnbull?" 

 "25-16-45," he supplied, making sure the keyboard was back in its proper
position before walking towards the safe. 

 "Tell us when you're ready, Turnbull." 

 "Alright, I have the painting open again and I'm staring at the dial." 

 "Here's the sequence: five turns left, stop at the first number, right
past the first number two times, stop at the second number, left past the
second number once, stop at the third number, turn to zero and open." 

 Hearing the sudden rush of words, Turnbull felt trickles of panic rising
up inside him. He'd never been good at following detailed directions like
this. What in the world had made him think himself capable of this? Caught
up in his thoughts, it took a moment for him to register Ray Kowalski's
voice. 

 "Christ on a crutch, who the hell writes these directions? Gotta be one
of those Sanskrit guys or something." 

 Gratitude swept through Turnbull, pushing the panic back to manageable
levels. He wasn't the only one who found the directions confusing. Thank
goodness for Kowalski and his slightly odd way of looking at things.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he asked Meers to repeat
the first step. 

 "Five turns to the left." 

 One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . all right, there's
the 25 . . ." 

 "Now right past it two times," Meers prompted. 

 Ren focused so hard on turning past 25 that he didn't realize he'd
skipped 16 for the third time until the 25 came into view again. "Oh,
dear," he whispered, feeling his heart sink through the floor and wishing
he could follow it. 

 "What's wrong, Turnbull?" Meers asked, concern strong in his voice as he
worried that someone might've found Turnbull. 

 "I'm afraid I went past the 16," he said, sounding winded. 

 "Ah, well, then we'll do it again," Meers consoled him; "we've got time.
Spin the dial several times to clear it." They could just barely hear the
sound of the spinning dial as they waited for Ren to get ready to try
again. "Ready?" Meers asked after a moment. 

 Loosening his clenched teeth with an effort, Ren assured them he was
ready. 

 "This time try to FOCUS, Turnbull," Fraser's voice came searing across
the connection. 

 The vacuum of silence in both rooms hung, frozen, for a heartbeat, then
twin gasps sounded across the connection as Ray Kowalski's quickly drawn
breath echoed Ren's painful gasp. Vecchio's jaw dropped as Meers whipped
around in his seat to stare at the tall Mountie. 

 "Constable Fraser!" Meers' voice cracked, filled with anger. "If you
can't control yourself, you'll leave. Do I make myself clear?" 

 Fraser snapped up like a mechanical doll, jerking to attention. "Yes,
sir," he answered immediately, a formal mask slipping into place covering
both his frustration and his growing sense of what he'd just done, the
damage he might've just inflicted. 

 Seeing his friend retreat, Kowalski pounced. "Jeezus, Ben! What the hell
was that? That was just stupid! And you don't do stupid, you dumb Mountie,
stubborn, yes, annoying, yes, but not stupid!" He got right up into
Fraser's face, determined to get Ben to fix this. 

 Across the building in Cloutier's dim office, his hands resting just
inside the safe cabinet, Ren felt the old waves of fear and panic coming
back, higher than ever. He had messed up so badly even Constable Fraser
had commented on it - just like that summer his father had tried teaching
him how to sail their boat on the lake, his yells of "Focus, goddamn, it!
Pay attention!" rising above the sound of the water against the hull. He
hadn't been able to focus properly then, and he couldn't focus now. The
fact that Fraser's words echoed his father's only proved that. He really
was a fool to think that he could be worthy of being part of a team with
these men. When would he learn? He really should've grasped the lesson by
now. Then again, it just proved how incapable of complex thought he really
was - he couldn't even learn such a simple lesson no matter how many times
it presented itself. Feeling heartily ashamed, Ren hung his head as he
answered Kowalski. 

 "No, Ray, it's all right; Constable Fraser has certainly made a valid
point; my focus is clearly lacking. I believe it would be best if one of
you took over . . ." 

 Wincing at the tone in Turnbull's voice, a tone he hadn't heard in
months, and never this deeply imbedded, Fraser rushed to mitigate the pain
he had caused. "Constable Turnbull! You will stop that line of thinking
right now." He rushed ahead, not letting Ren say anything. "You are going
to stay and finish this job. You are doing excellent work and cannot allow
my unacceptable behavior to interfere with the commission of your duty.
Besides, Turnbull," Fraser's voice softened as he worked to find the
correct words, "I want you to stay." 

 "Are you quite sure, sir?" The timid note still lurked in his words, but
hope seemed to be gaining a stronger foothold. Fraser did seem sincere. 

 "Completely, Constable. You are part of this team, Ren, and it is I who
am in the wrong here. I apologize for my unfair and unjustified comment." 

 There was a moment of silence while a Mountie at each end of the
connection lost some of the hectic color staining his cheeks. 

 Meers sat back and watched the younger men taking care of the problem,
his fascination with their group dynamic growing. Both Kowalski and
Vecchio looked pleased at the apology. There were few things better than a
team close enough that the members could upbraid each other when one of
them had screwed up. Fraser still looked concerned and shocked, his shame
at his actions having made him back off and take a hard look at his
behavior and attitude. 

 The younger Mountie spoke again. "I also apologize to the three of you.
It will not happen again." 

 "Understood, Benny." Vecchio gently smirked while the other two nodded. 

 Speaking across the comlink, Meers spoke to Ren. "Are you ready to
proceed, Constable Turnbull?" Before Turnbull had a chance to answer,
Kowalski's voice piped up. 

 "Yeah, we're all real eager to see what's in there. 'Specially Fraze," he
said, grinning at his friend, trying to diffuse the last of the tension.
"He just loves safes." 

 Ray Vecchio snorted. "Yeah, Ren, when you get back here, remind me to
tell you about how much Benny loves safes. Especially big ones. In banks."


 "Really, Ray," Turnbull heard Fraser say, "that was a necessary . . ." 

 "Oh, no, Ren! Fraze is going to launch into an explanation! Quick! Try
the combination again." Kowalski's voice came across on a trail of
laughter. 

 Smiling in spite of himself, Ren felt a bit more of his confidence seep
back; these men had defended him and were now giving him their vote of
confidence. "Oh, dear, we can't have that," he heard himself say. Casting
off the fears he felt crowding him like people in an over packed elevator,
he let their strength buoy him up again and felt more balanced. "All
right, five turns left, and then the first number, isn't that correct?" 

 "Affirmative, Constable." The subtle thread of approval warmed Turnbull. 

 A few moments later, during which Turnbull felt each heartbeat throb
through his body as he focused every ounce of his mind on getting the
combination right this time, Turnbull swung the dial around to zero.
Mentally whispering a prayer, he put his hand to the cool metal of the
handle. 

 It gave. 

 Four men huddled around a small table heard a small whisper of movement. 

 Then an excited gasp. 

 Another whisper of movement. 

 "There's a whole stack of manila folders!" 

 This time there was a rustling slide of paper against paper. 

 "There must be twenty folders here. They're all labeled with names."
Another sound of paper sliding against paper. "I believe we've found what
we're looking for! Along with all the others, here's a folder labeled
'Benton Fraser.'" An instant later, "And here's another one called 'Meg
Thatcher.'" 

 Chapter 36 

 Standing surrounded by his two best friends and Inspector Meers, Fraser
felt relief surge through him, knowing that the men helping him echoed
those feelings. They had found something. Progress. They were going to
succeed. Soon he could go to Meg and help her. 

 What would he have done without his friends? Considering how out of
control he had been just a few minutes ago, Fraser feared he would've been
adrift. The full-bodied rage he felt towards Cloutier would've consumed so
much of his mind that he could picture himself blazing up here, without
though for any consequences, to confront the man who had inflicted so much
pain on Meg and on himself. Interesting how, after spending so many months
frozen inside, his emotions trapped below a layer of pain and ice that
felt impenetrable, all his emotions were suddenly swelling and teaming
just below the surface. Clearly a thaw had come. But like any thaw, this
flood could cause disastrous results. 

 He could not allow them to spill out again, rushing forth in a flood. His
careless words had caused pain. That was unacceptable. Thank goodness for
his friends. Their reactions - anger and pain alike - had cut through the
noise of his rushing emotions and pulled him back from getting swept away
in them. 

 Luckily, he didn't have to go this alone. His life had changed so much in
the last few years. In the last few months. And now he was getting closer
to ending this frozen period. 

 So, standing there amongst his friends, he sighed in relief, relief that
they had found something, relief that he wasn't alone, relief that he was
coming alive again. 

 He smiled, leaning forward slightly to speak into the mic. "Good work,
Constable Turnbull. You did it." A shy "thank you, sir" came back across
the connection as Fraser looked up at the two cops. Eyes full of
enthusiasm and determination to keep pushing forward matched both their
grins. 

 Turning at the same time, all three men looked at Meers. The older man
looked back at the three men with a small smile of his own. 

 "All right, Constable," he said, turning back to the mic. "We only have
about another hour and a half before the cleaning crew reaches the office.
Don't take the time to tell us about the files now; I want you to
photocopy as many of the files as you can in the next hour and then get
out of there. We don't want to have you in there any closer to the
cleaning crew's arrival than necessary." 

 "Yes, sir, I understand." 

 "Good. Get to work, Turnbull. We'll see you in about an hour." 

 The quiet assurance in the commanding officer's voice made Turnbull feel
good. "See you in about an hour." 

 "Hey, Ren," Kowalski's voice jumped in just before Turnbull signed off.
"Have fun wrastling that copy machine." 

 A small laugh broke Turnbull's reply. "Affirmative. Cowboy, over and
out." Ren heard some laughter and what sounded like part of a "yee-haw" as
he keyed the off button on the transceiver. 

 He stood there for a moment considering his next step while he removed
the earpiece and slipped it into his pocket. The copy machine was in the
other room, so it was probably more expedient to carry the files in there.
Luckily the machine had a sheet feeder, so he would be able to finish far
more quickly than if he'd had to do each page manually. Everything would
be fine as long as the copy machine didn't suddenly decide it to be
contrary like it had yesterday when it'd eaten a document. Yesterday he'd
wished he had one of the horses Mounties were so famous for riding so he
could get the horse to kick the damned machine into submission. Or maybe
even further. 

 Turnbull pushed the safe door mostly closed, but was careful not to shut
in completely. After moving the painting back into place, he loped quickly
to the other room, trying to balance the need for moving quickly with the
absolute necessity of not dropping the files and mixing them up. That idea
was just too horrifying to contemplate, so his mind skittered away from
the image of papers flying everywhere. 

 Setting the folders on the small table next to the copy machine, he
checked the paper supply - all trays full - and did a quick check of the
control panel of the machine. Happily he didn't have to worry about
stapling, collating, or sorting, so he ignored most of the options on an
LCD display so complicated it looked like something from Star Trek: The
Next Generation. 

 Grabbing the top folder, he extracted the contents - they looked like
some sort of records from a drug treatment center - slid them into the
sheet feeder, and pressed "copy." As the copy machine sprang to life and
sucked in the pages with a quiet, rhythmic "phflllump, phflllump" Turnbull
stepped over to his desk. He opened a drawer, pulling out a stack of
manila folders. 

 Stepping back to the copier, he read the name off the folder he'd
temporarily emptied and wrote it onto one of the fresh folders he'd just
grabbed from the drawer. "Jackson Collard," he whispered as he wrote,
wondering where he's heard the name before. The copy machine stopped and
he scooped up the copies, put them in his new folder, and replaced the
originals in their folder. As he moved to repeat the process with the next
file in the stack, he suddenly placed the name. Jack Collard ran one of
the largest lumber mills in the country. Clearly one of the connections
Meers had spoken of. 

 Keeping up with the copier and transcribing any additional information
written on Cloutier's folders didn't give Ren much time to look at the
contents of the folders. Even if he did have the time, he needed to work
as quickly as possible and not dilly-dally, but he caught enough glimpses
to see papers and forms from banks, hospitals, and private investigators,
as well as rap sheets, stock certificates, and school records. The
butterflies that had taken up residence in his insides as the time for
this operation loomed closer switched from hockey to rugby as he thought
of the pain and suffering these folders represented and the corrupt excuse
for a man who had gathered all of them together. 

 Opening the file labeled "Benton Fraser" gave him pause, but he resisted
the urge to read through the papers as they came out of the machine.
Checking to make sure all the pages had copied clearly and completely,
however, allowed him to see that most were bank records from Territorial
Trust, and that the first sheet in the folder also had Fraser's father's
name and an account number, as well as some other information and dates. 

 Not allowing himself to speculate about what he had just seen, Ren moved
on to the next folder, this one labeled "Siobhan Kelly." 'Good Lord!' She
was a superintendent in the force he'd heard about but never seen. Her
folder mostly contained pictures, however, so he soon saw far more of her
than he ever wanted to; the photographs couldn't be run through the feeder
and he could avert his eyes only so far as he worked. Feeling like he must
be as red as his uniform, he closed the lid on the last of the pictures, a
particularly explicit shot of the Superintendent and another woman. 

 "Thank God, I'm mostly finished," he muttered wishing he could take a
shower and wash away the dirty feeling that seemed to radiate out
Cloutier's horde of information, sticking all over him. 

 He opened the next folder, relieved beyond words that there were only two
left after this one. More pictures. Picking the first one up to slide it
under the lid before he labeled the folder to put the copies in, he
dropped it so quickly, it almost flew behind the machine. Catching it
hastily with his fingertips, he looked again. A young Meg Thatcher stared
back up at him. 

 "My God," Ren gasped in awe. Her hair had been much longer then, reaching
down below the middle of her back. She sat in a three-quarters view, her
knees drawn up against her chest, her cheek resting against her knees so
that her face was turned towards the camera. A ghost of a smile graced her
face, hinting at secrets that made the viewer desperately wanted to know
what they were. She wasn't wearing anything, but neither could anything
explicit be seen. The photographer had somehow captured both innocence and
sensuality and used black and white film to create shadows and shading
that only increased her allure. It was a magnificent picture. 

 So were the others, he noted as he photocopied the first one. The
photographer seemed to have been influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite painters
considering the magical and mythic motifs; in one of them she even wore
fairy wings as she lay by a brook, her hand dabbling in the water. She
wasn't nude in all of them, but even the ones where she was, her body was
only hinted at, not shown explicitly. 

 Finally he shook himself and forced himself to photocopy the pictures
rather than study them, although even the degraded quality of the copies
was insufficient to mar the allure of the pictures. Returning to reality
made him blush slightly as he realized who had had been staring at. His
opinion of Cloutier sank even further as he realized the man was using
these pieces of art to hurt rather than to enjoy. 

 A quick glance at his watch told him he had more than enough time before
the cleaning crew arrived, but he suddenly felt an urgent need to escape
this office and return to the relative safety of Meer's office. The air in
this office seemed to be closing in on him. Maybe it was just Cloutier's
lingering cologne, but Turnbull didn't care. He'd spent enough time in the
bastard's office. 

 Happily neither of the remaining folders contained any pictures or odd
shaped papers, so he was able to send them through the feeder and finish
quickly. Setting the stack of folders now full of copied documents on his
desk, he returned the last of the originals to their folder, taking extra
care to put them back just as he'd found them with the edges of the first
two sheets crushed and folded a bit. 

 As he walked Cloutier's folders back into his office, he also checked to
make sure he'd put them all back in their original order. Yes, excellent,
all were in alphabetical order, except for two Cloutier had alphabetized
incorrectly. Almost tripping in haste, Turnbull fit the stack into the
safe and shut it with an emphatic snap. Clearing the dial, he shut the
painting and made sure it latched properly. 

 Sighing in relief, he hurried out of Cloutier's office shutting the door
behind him emphatically. He looked at his watch as he strode back to his
desk. It'd taken him only 45 minutes to make the photocopies. It had felt
like far longer. 

 Grabbing his backpack from where it leaned against the side of his desk,
he shoved his booty into the pack and rejoiced at the sound of the zipper
sealing them safely inside. Looking back over the area around the copy
machine after stowing the files, he scanned the area for any papers he
might've missed in his haste. Relieved not to see any, he was slipping the
backpack on and straightening his desk when he froze at the sound of a key
in the door. 

 'Good Lord! The cleaning crew is over 45 minutes early.' Turnbull turned
to greet the crew and his whole mind seized once again. Only one figure
stood in the doorway fumbling to get his key out of the door. 

 'What do I do? What do I do?' The single question screamed across his
mind eliminating any other thoughts. "Minister Cloutier," he stuttered,
trying to temporize. "Good-good evening, sir." 

 Cloutier's head whipped up from squinting at the lock. The motion made
him stagger slightly. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. 

 Trying to shake the deer in the headlights of an on-rushing train feeling
holding him captive, Turnbull forced himself to speak again. "I-I was just
finishing up for the night, sir. I just completed the, uh, the last of the
requisition forms for the office supplies for the next quarter and the
J-2-22 forms . . ." His voice trailed off as he watched Cloutier looking
around the office suspiciously. 

 Cloutier didn't see anything amiss but challenged Turnbull anyway. "Why
did you have the door locked if you're still here?" 

 "Well, sir," Turnbull quickly allowed his old defense mechanism to come
to the forefront, using it as a different kind of shield this time.
"Regulations require all doors be secured at the end of the work day in
accordance with the safety guidelines, so the instant quitting time
arrived, I locked all doors so that the office would be in compliance. As
it says in Sub-paragraph 32 of Section B of the safety regulations," Ren
continued, making it up as he went. 

 "That's enough, for God's sake," Cloutier cut him off. "You do run on,
don't you?" he said with scorn. Seeing the man standing in front of him
just blink at the insult, he lost interest and turned towards his office.
"So, you said you were leaving: leave." 

 Doing his best to mask his relief, Turnbull eased himself out the door,
trying to be as obsequious as possible. "Yes, sir. Good night, sir. See
you tomorrow, sir." He saw Cloutier wave a dismissive hand as he darted
out the door, but he didn't wait around so see anything else. Not allowing
himself to give into the urge to collapse against one of the walls, Ren
focused on moving down the hallway as quickly as possible. His sole
mission now was getting to the rest of his team post haste. 

 Charging down the hallway towards the building that housed Meers' office,
he felt earthquakes of relief roll through his body. He'd done it. He'd
not only completed the assignment, he'd dealt with an unplanned event and
still managed to get away. Striding along, he found the combination of
fighting to still his heart while fighting the urge to beam most curious.
A most interesting sensation. 

 He wondered what his father would think. Turning down the last hallway
before Meers' office, he almost came to a dead stop as he realized it
didn't really matter to him what his father would've thought. He knew what
he thought, what Francesca would think, and what his friends would think.
The shakes quieted and, feeling more pride in himself than he ever had
before, he strode down the hallway to Meers' office to complete his
mission. 

 Back in his office, Henri Cloutier sat at his desk, searching for his
house keys, feeling the pleasant haze from an excellent Bordeaux deepen
with the pleasure of having seen fear in his new secretary's eyes.
'Nothing like having your employees tremble when you get near them,' he
thought with a chuckle, recalling the relief he'd seen in the other man's
eyes as he'd dismissed him. Finding his keys, he left for the evening,
still feeling immensely pleased with himself and his power.  

 Chapter 37 

 While Turnbull stood in front of the copy machine madly transferring
files, Superintendent Meers got up from his folding chair in the austere
little room set up as their listening post. He didn't know the original
purpose of the small adjunct space next to his office, but it had
definitely come in handy for this operation, especially since it connected
to both his office and the hallway. That made for easy coming and going as
his four visitors tried to keep as low a profile as possible. He was sure
his staff knew something was going on, but they were circumspect enough to
obey his edict to stay away from the room for a few days. 

 He and his people usually used the space for storage, so boxes of office
supplies lined the walls, creating pyramids and towers. Actually, he had
learned a great deal about office supplies over the last few days while
retrieving things people needed. Who knew there were so many different
kinds of pen thickness and types of address labels? 

 Idly musing over this idea, Meers moved around a long table, the only
large piece of furniture besides the desk holding the listening equipment,
and a remnant of the time his people had used the area as an overflow
workspace. Stepping around the end of the table, he walked toward his
office. Pausing next to the connecting door, Meers asked Fraser to step
inside with him. 

 Fraser rose to follow, not so much reluctantly as with careful
deliberation, leaving the two American cops to man the listening equipment
in case Turnbull called in. The look on Fraser's face told Meers that the
dark haired Mountie knew the reason behind the summons, although the Rays
looked more puzzled and a bit concerned. He did like these two brash
Americans. With their mix of intelligence, loyalty, and friendship, they
made formidable allies. 

 Ending his reflections to focus on the matter at hand, Meers shut the
door to the small room next to his office and walked across to his desk.
The adjoining room's simplicity contrasted strongly with the cozy feeling
he had worked hard to achieve here in his office. It wasn't ornate or
fussy, but the warm tones he and his wife had chosen, and deliberate
furniture choices like a less massive desk than usual, gave the room a
less imposing feel than many of his peers' offices. He liked it this way;
why stand on stringent formality when a more relaxed atmosphere was far
more pleasant? 

 Not that the man in his office seemed to be enjoying, or even absorbing,
the casual ambiance at the moment. Fraser had already positioned himself
in front of the desk, facing a window with a view of the quad, a view that
couldn't be seen at the moment with the curtains drawn. 

 Fraser seemed just as closed off; he stood at precise, military
attention, his whole body rigid, his face impassive. 

 "Fraser, please, have a seat," Meers requested as he sat down in his own
chair and rolled beneath the leg well. "We're here to talk some issues
through, but this is not a tribunal or a court marital. Please, relax." 

 Fraser followed directions and sat in one of the chairs set in front of
the desk, but any relaxation of his military posture was so infinitesimal
as to be imperceptible. Even though he couldn't see them, Meers was sure
even his feet were pointing straight ahead at complete attention. 

 Sighing slightly, Meers decided to try and break the tension with a joke.
"Well, son, I never thought I'd see the day when a Fraser would knowingly
break a regulation," he said with a slight smile that just hinted at
dimples. 

 Fraser jerked as if Meers had struck him. He could tell from Meers' body
language that he was teasing, but he didn't understand the source of the
amusement, and wasn't exactly sure if it was a good thing if he, indeed,
was that source. Struggling to speak through a growing sense of mortified
embarrassment and the fear that he had disappointed his superior officer,
he fumbled for words. "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. That is . . ." 

 Seeing that his attempt at humor had seriously backfired, Meers rushed to
reassure the younger man. "Benton." He waited until Fraser raised his eyes
from the folds of the curtains and met his across the desk. "That was an
ill-timed remark. Let's begin again, shall we?" 

 "Very well, Sir." Fraser squared his shoulders. 

 "I'm sure, knowing you as I do, that you were very careful to be
circumspect about your relationship with Inspector Thatcher." His voice
was firm, but kind, despite the fact that he had wiped away any traces of
humor from his tone. Pursing his lips, his face took on an almost
avuncular expression, as if he truly regretted the necessity of this
particular conversation. "That doesn't change the fact that fraternization
within a command is against regulations." He swiveled his chair to the
side and gazed at the wall, which was taken up mostly by bookcases he had
brought from home, and a very few pictures, mostly of family. Meers spent
a moment reflecting on the marked contrast of his wall to Turnbull's
description of the one in Cloutier's office. 

 "Yes, sir; I can offer no excuse." 

 Turning his chair to face forward again, the gray haired man looked at
Fraser. "Well, Constable, that is one of the reasons I have such great
respect for you; you don't try to hide behind excuses and prevarication."
He paused for a moment, looking down at the pad of paper beneath his hand.
"Still, I need to ask you some questions. First of all, to the best of
your knowledge is anyone at the Consulate aware of your relationship with
Inspector Thatcher?" 

 "Other than Constable Turnbull, sir, as far as I know, no one else from
the office is aware that we had begun seeing each other. He became aware
of the relationship, I believe, simply because he is part of the circle in
which Inspector Thatcher and I socialized during non-working hours." 

 Meers nodded; that was one of the easier questions he had to ask. He
would, of course, be talking to the staff in Chicago as part of his
investigation. Leaning forward on his forearms and balancing his pen
between his hands, he posed the next question. This one was harder, but he
kept his voice even. "Did she in any way pressure you into the
relationship? Use her position as your commanding officer to harass or
compel you?" 

 The infinitesimal amount Fraser had relaxed disappeared in a sudden
lurch. "No, sir!" He met the older man's eyes squarely, his gaze demanding
that Meers believe what he was saying. "Our relationship sprang from
mutual regard for each other. At no time did the inspector harass or force
me into anything." 

 After jotting some notes, Meers looked up again. "By the same token, you
do not believe she would have any interest or cause in bringing harassment
charges against you?" 

 A curious look flashed across the younger Mountie's face and disappeared
before it fully formed. He paused before answering. "Sir, as I have said,
our relationship was mutual, and was not, well, not a sudden development.
We had . . . been aware of each other for a not inconsiderable amount of
time. After we began," he cleared his throat, "dating, and talked more, it
became clear that we had both harbored feelings for the other for quite a
while. However, because of the very issues you reference, those being rank
and professionalism, we never acted upon those feelings, instead letting
them lie nascent. The night of Renfield and Francesca Turnbull's
reception, however, our feelings, uh . . . overtook us. Not knowing where
they would take us, we resolved to keep our relationship strictly separate
from work so as to not exacerbate the inappropriateness of our actions. As
I have said, I believe we were successful. We had not yet, ah, come to a
decision about what to do about the situation when she was called to
Ottawa." 

 "Then, when the inspector returned and ended our personal relationship,
she cited the personal/professional conflict as her reason, and I accepted
that." Fraser felt himself rambling on and retreating behind sentences
stuffed with ponderous words, yet he couldn't seem to stop the flood
coming out of his mouth. 

 The man sitting across from him studied Fraser closely, concentrating on
the younger Mountie's words. Meers was relieved to hear that they had
given thought to the possible consequence of their actions. That would
make things easier. Leaning back in his comfortably padded chair, Meers
watched Fraser, pleased that the lack of clutter and overhead lighting
allowed him a clear, unobstructed view. He waited patiently while Fraser
took several deep breaths. The bright overhead lights didn't allow any
shadows that might have shielded the other man's emotions. He looked
rather drawn and weary, and the harsh light on the strong face seemed to
accentuate the pain Meers could hear in his words. 

 Trying to regain his focus, Fraser breathed deeply again and continued.
"I was . . . well, sorely saddened and upset, but I accepted her decision,
and at no time attempted to compel her to continue a relationship she said
she no longer desired. In light of the information Ray Vecchio overheard
last Friday, I now believe the only harassment and pressure has come from
Cloutier, not from myself or from Inspector Thatcher." 

 "I understand, Fraser." He took a deep breath of his own, feeling
relieved to have his suspicions confirmed, then smiled at the younger man.
"Thank you for the completeness of your answer." He put his pen down on
the leather blotter. "You understand that I cannot make a decision about
any possible action or reprimands until I have spoken to Inspector
Thatcher, your co-workers in Chicago, and some of our superiors?" 

 "I do understand that, sir." 

 "You also understand that there will be consequences of some kind?"
Seeing Fraser nod, Meers went on. "All right, then." They talked for a few
more minutes about some of those possible repercussions and consequences
before the Superintendent said, "I think we're all finished here." He
smiled. "I need to work on some paperwork, but why don't you go back and
wait with your friends. Come and get me when Turnbull returns." 

 "Very well, sir. Thank you." Fraser replied, rising and turning with
precision. Meers watched Fraser cross the carpet his wife had chosen with
deliberate steps, feeling more and more sure that the ideas taking shape
in his mind were the proper course for a resolution to this situation. 

 "Oh, a final question, Fraser," Meers called. Fraser turned back, his
hand on the doorknob. "I'm curious; how were you and your friends able to
obtain the suite at the Westin on your salaries?" 

 Fraser frowned a bit in confusion at the non sequitor. "Constable
Turnbull's father was part of Turnbull and O'Connell. Mr. O'Connell
offered the use of the suite when Turnbull called to ask if we might use
the company plane as getting up here quickly was a prime concern." 

 "Ah! Then you also arrived in style," Meers replied, very amused at the
mental image of the four men on a private plane. "Thank you, Constable, I
will make a note of that so that there can be no question of any
impropriety," he finished, soothing Fraser's confusion. 

 "Thank you again, sir," Fraser said quietly. Meers waved him away with a
friendly gesture as Fraser slipped out the door. His friends looked up as
he moved towards them. 

 "What was that all about, Benny?" 

 Fraser sat down in a free chair next to the listening equipment. Relief
that Meers and his superiors were not drumming him out of the force out of
hand warred with clamoring emotions at his uncertain future - professional
and personal. 

 "Superintendent Meers took the opportunity of this lull to begin
discussing the fraternization issue." 

 "They gonna throw you in the brig, Benny?" Vecchio asked, trying to
conceal his worry behind impertinence. 

 "That would only apply were I in the Navy, Ray. The RCMP does not have a
naval arm." 

 "Yeah, yeah, but what did he say?" Ray Vecchio shot back. 

 Fraser summarized the conversation, ending with the part where Meers had
mentioned that one of them would likely need to transfer if he and Meg
chose to continue their relationship. 

 "You mean one of you would have to transfer out of Chicago, Fraze? That
would suck!" Kowalski spoke up. 

 "Yes, it would, indeed, ah, 'suck,' Ray. On the other hand, Meg and I
knew that we would have to make some changes if we were going to further
our relationship; we just never got that chance. Still, as Meers said,
there is no point in dwelling on it now; nothing will be resolved until
the investigation has been completed and Meg and I have a chance to
discuss things." 

 Ray Kowalski huffed in semi-amusement. "Yeah, right. That's kinda like
'stand in the corner and don't think of elephants.'" 

 "A very apt comparison," Fraser answered ruefully. As he opened his mouth
to go on, however, the door to the hallway opened and Turnbull slipped
into the room. 

 Chapter 38 

 In their excitement at seeing Ren, both Rays overlooked the flush high on
the Mountie's cheeks. They both pulled Turnbull into the room spouting
congratulations and slapping him on the back. Kowalski even started in on
a chorus of Secret Agent Man! Fraser, however, not carried away by the
same exuberance, took in the riot of color on Turnbull's face and the fact
that the rest of his face seemed paler than usual. 

 Quelling a second verse of the song with a pointed stare, Fraser frowned
a bit in concern. "Renfield, are you alright? Did something happen?" 

 Turnbull nodded rapidly, not having quite regained his breath from his
mad dash out of the office. "Yes," he said around gasps, "yes. I had just
secured the files in my backpack when Cloutier came back!" 

 "Holy shit," Kowalski yelped and gaped at Ren, as did Vecchio. 

 "Language, Ray," Fraser reproved him. 

 "Oh, come on, Fraze," the blond cop replied, rounding on Fraser. "If
there was ever a time for 'holy shit' that was it!" 

 "Well, perhaps, Ray, but . . ." Fraser began, only to abruptly realize
that the whole issue of the proper use of the vernacular was hardly
timely, or germane. "Never mind that. Tell us what happened, Ren." 

 "I was just slipping my backpack on," Turnbull began and launched into
what had happened. 

 When he had finished, Ray Kowalski's quick mind responded first. "Now
that was quick thinking, Ren. Smooth, buddy, smooth! An' you got away and
the bastard is clueless." 

 "Yeah," Vecchio put in. "You're getting good at the misdirection thing!"
His smile matched the other Ray's as he slapped his brother-in-law on the
back. "Couldn'ta done it better myself. Hell, Frannie couldn't of done
better - even that time Ma caught her kissing Tommy Musello on the side of
the house . . ." Seeing the inquiring look materializing on Ren's face,
Ray hastened to add, "She was like, ten." 

 "Ah, I see," he nodded. 

 Fraser smiled out of the side of his mouth. "Sub-paragraph 32 of Section
B of the safety codes? I believe that concerns the proper procedure for
shoeing a horse." Three heads turned towards Fraser in a start of
surprise, and then four different laughs melded together into a huge mass
of happiness and relief. 

 "Only you," Ray Kowalski gasped out around guffaws. "Only you would know
that, you freak!" 

 The sound of four men shaking with belly laughs drew Meers out of his
office, and he soon joined in the laughter and congratulations. Wiping a
few tears from his eyes, he launched into a story about his first
undercover assignment when an elderly woman armed with a pink grapefruit
had accosted him. That story got the other three going, and soon Ray
Vecchio started talking about the time Fraser had gone undercover as a
woman at the girl's school. 

 As he stood there listening to the war stories with half an ear, thoughts
that had been bothering Ren came percolating back to the top, bursting up
and shading the present. His feelings of loyalty and friendship warred
with everything he had been taught about personal involvement in a case
and the chain of evidence. He didn't want to jeopardize the case against
Cloutier, but what should he do about Constable Fraser's and Inspector
Thatcher's files? Could Fraser see either of them? He knew he needed to
hand the whole stack to Meers, but after that, who would be able to see
what? The idea of everyone gawking at the pictures of Inspector Thatcher
made him very uncomfortable. 

 Then again, perhaps leaving hers in the pile with the others would be the
best course of action, since he in no way wished to imply that anyone
deserved special favors. After all, every one of the folders represented
something in the life of a person that they would rather not be generally
known - why should the rest of his team be able to look at all of those
files, but not the Inspector's or Fraser's? He was still tossing these
ideas back and forth in his head, weighing the different sides, when
everyone finally regained control from their jaunt down memory lane and
got back on task. 

 Ren swung his pack off his back and lifted it onto the table. Avoiding
the eyes of the men around him, he fiddled with the metallic pull-tabs on
the zipper as he hesitated. The sound they made hitting each other seemed
loud in the silence. "I was wondering . . . well, I know this isn't my
decision since I am not the ranking officer, but . . ." He shook his head
at his ineffectual attempts to communicate. Skewing a look over to Fraser,
he dropped his gaze, then looked to Meers for guidance. 

 "I believe I know what Constable Turnbull is getting at." Fraser locked
his hands behind his back. "I have nothing to hide from any of you, so I
don't have a problem with any of you seeing the contents of the file
Cloutier gathered on me." His friends remained silent as they read his
expression and saw that he had something more to say. "As for . . . Meg's
file, I've given this a great deal of thought; perhaps it would be best
for Superintendent Meers to handle it. I don't feel that it would be
appropriate for me to see her folder until such time as she decides to
show me the contents of the file, whatever they may be." 

 "Yeah," Kowalski agreed. "I don't need ta' see either. None of my
business, as she'd definitely be the first to tell me." He crossed his
arms across his chest and propped his rear against the table, turning to
look at Vecchio who nodded his agreement. 

 "Sounds good to me," Vecchio said. 

 Meers made his final decision. "I don't need to tell any of you the
potential difficulties of having one of the alleged victims and his
friends being involved in this investigation. When I spoke to my superiors
about this, however, we decided to take advantage of this unique chance to
place someone undercover, despite the risk of problems from conflict of
interest. This permission was given, in spite of this, contingent on the
understanding that everything possible would be done to maintain the chain
of evidence. Therefore," he went on, turning to Turnbull. "For the record,
Constable Turnbull; did you in anyway alter any of the contents of the
files and documents you photocopied?" 

 Turnbull snapped to attention. "No, sir!" 

 "Did you photocopy all the material in each folder, particularly those
files concerning Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser?" 

 "Sir, I photocopied all documents and papers in each folder faithfully. I
did not leave anything out, nor did I add anything to Inspector
Thatcher's, Constable Fraser's, or any of the other files." 

 "Very well, Turnbull. Thank you." He paused for a moment. "As to the
issue of Inspector Thatcher's file; Constable Turnbull, you will not
discuss the contents of Inspector Thatcher's file with anyone other than
myself." He turned to the other men. "Neither will any of you ask
Constable Turnbull about that folder and its contents, or examine them
without my explicit permission, is that understood?" 

 Getting confirmation from all the younger men, he moved on to the next
subject, this time focusing on Fraser. "Fraser, you will be allowed to
view your file, but at no time will you examine the folder and its
contents outside of my presence. The same goes for the rest of you;
clear?" Another chorus of "yes" and "understood" answered Meers' question.
"I will keep the folders in the payroll safe in my office." He softened
his demeanor with a small smile. "You won't find the combinations to this
safe on the underside of my keyboard." The answering smiles he received
provided a nice transition away from such procedural matters. 

 "All right," Meers clapped his hands. "Shall we take a look at what
you've brought us, Turnbull?" He motioned for Ren to pull the files out of
his bag. 

 Fraser stood staring at Ren and the backpack without really seeing them.
For a moment, it was all he could do. His friends' solidarity about not
looking at Meg's folder had surprised him. He'd known these men were his
friends, but he wasn't sure he'd ever fully realized just how far they
would go to support him. The realization was a humbling one, and he found
himself wondering just how he'd managed to inspire such loyalty and
support. Astonishing. 

 He watched as Turnbull separated two folders and handed them to Meers
before setting the rest of the stack on the table. Meers looked at the two
folders before selecting one; Fraser stood close enough to be able to read
his name on it clearly. 

 The superintendent leafed through the file briefly before flipping it
closed and looking at Fraser. "There are some dates in here that you will
need to identify, Constable; since I will be with you the entire time, I
am going to flex the rules we are already bending and allow you to view
the information first hand now that I've verified the contents." 

 Fraser's eyes widened as he reached out and took the folder
automatically. He hadn't expected to even be allowed to touch the folder.
"Thank you, sir," he said, bemused. 

 It looked like any of the thousands of manila folders that had passed
through his hands over the years. It didn't feel different. It wasn't even
particularly thick. Holding it in his hands, the whole matter seemed
rather surreal - holding a folder was so normal, but there was definitely
nothing normal about this folder. 

 Sliding into the chair next to where Kowalski stood against the table,
Fraser continued looking down at the folder, pausing. Resting his hands on
it for a moment, he allowed himself a last bit of speculation about what
kind of material it contained. He had been thinking about what Cloutier
could've possibly found on him for several days now, and he still couldn't
decide what it could be. The only prank he participated in at the Academy
had been replacing the rival team's practice pucks with ones made of
Jell-O right before the playoffs. The only thing scandalous about that was
the fact that, despite his best efforts, the color of the Jell-O hadn't
been quite right. Hardly the stuff of blackmail. 

 He looked up at Ray Kowalski fleetingly, and then stopped stalling.
Lifting his left hand, he opened the file to find out what Cloutier was
holding over his and Meg's heads. 

 Chapter 39 

 The page resting at the top of the stack of papers in the file confused
Fraser. He picked it up to examine it more closely, scanning the list of
dates and names. He recognized his parent's wedding anniversary, the names
and dates of his father's early postings, and his own birth date. All of
the dates had been crossed out - some of them rather violently, with dark,
repeated lines. One of the few things not crossed out rang a bell in the
back of his head, but it took him a moment to recognize it as the number
of the bank account the dam officials had set up to try to discredit his
father. He should've been able to identify the number more quickly, but he
had never had anything to do with the account and had turned all records
of it back over to the RCMP for their investigation. 

 As Fraser sat there trying to remember what the number was, Ray Kowalski
watched his friend closely. The last several months had really hammered
home to Ray how protective he was of Fraser. Sharing an apartment had
deepened their friendship and cemented his feelings that Fraser was far
more of a true brother than his own had ever been. So, as he leaned
against the table next to his friend, it wasn't his intention to peek at
the folder before Fraser had a chance to look at it, but his concern for
the Mountie made him scrutinize Fraser. One of his glances studying the
tension in his friend's face and body drifted a bit, however, and what he
saw made him very, very curious. 

 Pushing away from the table and turning around, Ray looked more closely
at the papers under the sheet Fraser held. No, he had read the form
correctly. Right there, in the box labeled "Account Holder" was the name
Henri Cloutier. 

 'What the hell?' 

 Reaching down, he grabbed the first sheet. "Fraze, look at this!" 

 Fraser looked up, pulling himself to the present. "What, Ray?" He cocked
his head to look at the page in Ray's hand. 

 "Why're Cloutier's bank records in a file with your name on it?" 

 "Cloutier's records?" Fraser asked blankly. "That can't be right," he
started, his eyes automatically moving to verify his denial. But it was.
In fact, as he shifted his focus to the stack of papers he hadn't looked
at yet, he thumbed through them, looking at the "Account Holder" box. 

 All of them said "Henri Cloutier." 

 "I don't get it," the blond cop said, resting his hands flat on the
table. He and Fraser continued flipping through the papers, ignoring the
other men in the room, although all three of them had stopped sorting the
other files and were listening intently. 

 Forcing himself to think logically and linearly, Fraser tried to work
with what he knew. "He has my father's account number," he muttered. "But
why did he put his own records in my folder?" He checked the account
number on the sheets with Cloutier's name. Yes, it was completely
different from the one bearing his father's name. In fact, the only
similarity he could see was the fact that they were from the same bank,
Territorial Trust. 

 Then his eyes caught sight of a date and the pieces clicked into place. 

 Grasping the whole pile, Fraser began arranging the papers by the dates
in the upper right-hand corner of the page. Ray Kowalski watched silently,
as did the other men who now stood around to the other side of the table,
waiting. 

 Tapping a finger on each page, Fraser checked to make sure he had them in
order. "Cloutier opened this account less than two weeks before he called
Meg to Ottawa and this whole mess started." He studied the papers again,
feeling Ray's eyes follow along. "Cloutier opened the account with $500,"
Fraser thought out loud. "The next day, he withdrew $250." He moved his
hand to the next paper. "Two days after that, deposited $250." Tracing the
trail of papers he'd arranged in rows, he and Ray traced several days
worth of the same transactions over and over. Always $250, always a cycle
of withdrawal and deposit. 

 Fraser looked up at the man standing next to him and watched Ray
Kowalski's eyes, wanting to see if he reached the same hypothesis he had. 

 "He's doing the same thing over and over." This time Kowalski was the one
doing the muttering. "Why would you open an account and do the same thing
over and over?" He ran his eyes over the papers. 'There sure are a lot of
them,' Ray thought. The way Fraser had arranged them, they looked a little
like stepping stones forming a path. Path. Trail! He pushed himself up
suddenly, sweeping his hand in the air over the table. "The bastard's
creating a paper trail. A damned paper trail! But why? I still don't get
why." 

 "I believe this is why," Fraser replied, picking up the first sheet had
had looked at and set aside when Ray had distracted him. 

 No longer able to hold himself back, Ray Vecchio walked around the table
to stand next to Fraser. "What is it, Benny?" he asked, studying the sheet
Fraser had just moved. 

 "It is the number of an account created in my father's name by the
corrupt officials involved in the dam scandal. They were trying to prove
that my father was corrupt as well, and that they had bought him off." 

 "Ok," Vecchio went on, running his hand along the close-cropped hair on
the back of his head. "So we've got a paper trail at the same bank your
dad had an account. An account that was an attempt to prove corruption in
the incorruptible Mountie." 

 "Yes. There was no evidence that my father ever touched the money, and I
never did either, obviously. In fact, I turned over the account book to
the RCMP investigators immediately, and they froze the account. I haven't
even thought about it in several years." 

 "So, we got an account number with your dad's name, no records from that
account, and a lot of records from an account at the same bank with
Cloutier's name on it." Kowalski had started to pace as he thought. 

 "Doesn't that seem awfully coincidental?" Ren noted from across the table
where he was studying the papers upside down. 

 "I wouldn't think that's a coincidence." Meers answered, crossing his
arms across his chest, looking steadily down at Fraser. 

 "I would agree, sir. I believe we can put these pieces together." Fraser
ticked off the points on his fingers. "Given the fact that this account
was opened just a few days before he started blackmailing Meg, the fact
that while he has my father's account number, there are no transactions
from it, the fact that we know he is using a threat against me and my
career to blackmail Meg, and, finally, the fact that there is no other
evidence in this folder . . ." He let his voice trail off, looking from
man to man, wanting to make sure that his guess could be bolstered by his
friends reaching the same conclusion. 

 Four expressions changed all at the same time, Fraser's expression
mirroring their realizations as he watched them reach the epiphany. 

 "That bastard!" 

 "That son of a bitch!" 

 Fraser looked between the two Rays, ignoring the curses, but nodding at
their growing understanding. 

 Kowalski verbalized it first. "He couldn't find anything else, so he made
it up! Bet he flashed the logo on the forms at Meg, read her the account
number, slipped in a couple insinuations, and, bam!" He slammed his hands
together. "She's dragged int'a thinkin' you or yer dad were playing with
dirty money." 

 "Oh, yeah," Ray Vecchio picked up the thread. "She comes up here, all
alone, not expecting to be hit from left-field and so she buys it, and has
been reeling ever since." 

 Fraser stood there, letting them discuss the theory, their words washing
by him. The scenario made sense. He couldn't see what other option there
was since this was the only evidence in the file. Then his thoughts took
an abrupt turn. 

 'How could she think I would touch that money?' The thought raced through
his head over and over. It turned into a tornado of hurt and confusion
that only added to his ever-mounting anger at Cloutier. Didn't she know
him any better than that? Confusion continued buffeting him, wounding him
with little stings. 'Why didn't she come to me and ask me about this?' 

 A more rational voice pushed into the swirling questions, breaking
through them. 'What about what Ray said? She was here alone. You have your
friends to anchor you. She had no one.' He forced himself to examine the
questions logically. To push back his tumultuous emotions. 

 She had been alone. He shook himself further away from his
self-absorption, feeling rather ashamed at having even mentally whined.
Cloutier's claims must've been a shock, and combined with whatever was in
her own folder - though he refused to believe it was anything more harmful
than what was in his - and the threat against both of their careers,
careers they were both deeply committed too, he needed to give her the
benefit of the doubt. She had unknowingly walked into this maelstrom all
by herself. Pulling away from him the way she had must've been the only
way she could see to create an eye in the storm. 

 He continued tracing the thought. The moment he had found out that she -
they - were being blackmailed, he had taken action. By the same token, Meg
was a strong, independent woman fully capable of controlling her own life;
he couldn't see her going along with Cloutier's plans for her without
protest. The actions he and his friends had taken had led him here; he
wondered what she had been up to in the eye she had found herself in. It
would definitely be interesting finding out.  

 Chapter 40 

 A few hours later, only sporadic paper shuffling broke the silence.
Occasionally questions popped up about who had seen what file or which
paper was where, but for the better part of the evening, very little
discussion broke the silence. All four men were too busy chasing paper
trails and making connections, or not, to spend much time talking. 

 The unremitting paperwork, however, finally pushed Ray Kowalski over the
limit. Pushing his chair back, he stretched his arms out above his head
and arched his lithe back. "I have gotta get out of here and stretch my
legs or something, or I'm gonna bug out. Hey, Vecchio, ya' wanna take a
quick walk down to the vending machine? Get some sugar and see if there's
any weird Mountie behavior we can observe in their natural habitat?" 

 "Yeah, a break sounds good. But remember, my eyes are young and
innocent," he said to his partner, grinning at his partner's snort. "So
you'll have to protect me from anything too weird. You two wanna come?"
Ray Vecchio jerked his head at the Mounties. 

 Both Canadians looked up at the cops, their faces showing confusion about
the necessity of a break. 

 "I'm fine, thank you, Ray." Fraser replied, no signs of boredom or
eyestrain apparent on his face. 

 "As am I, thank you," Turnbull said, returning to the pages he was
immersed in. 

 "'Kay, we'll be back in a sec." Seeing Fraser open his mouth, the blond
cop went on. "And yes, Fraser, we will stay in the corridor, and not go
beyond the double doors where someone who shouldn't might see us." 

 "Thank you, Ray. Even though it is after hours, until we know where all
of Cloutier's contacts are, it seems prudent to continue staying out of
sight." 

 "Yes, mom," Ray shot back with a grin that showed he knew exactly how
obnoxious he was being. 

 As the door clicked shut, Fraser returned to the papers in front of him,
a small smile still ghosting around his mouth. It never ceased to amaze
him how contradictory Ray Kowalski could be. For all his flippant remarks
and casual attitude, he took his job seriously and was far more effective
than many of the completely by-the-book police officers he knew. Ray's
cockiness was just another kind of defensive shield, a coping mechanism
for dealing with the world. Not so very different from his clueless
Mountie guise, or from the other mode he slipped into - the one Ray
Vecchio had taken to calling his Mountie Mask, or even, as he was coming
to realize, all that different from Ren's bumbling idiot facade. Which
reminded him. 

 "Turnbull?" 

 Ren looked up immediately as Fraser's serious tone. Taking in the solemn
look on the dark-haired man's face, he stiffened, ready to face whatever
his superior officer had to say to him. Doing his best to keep the
trepidation out of his voice and drawing on the reservoir of strength he'd
discovered out in the hallway, Turnbull answered. "Yes, sir?" 

 Fraser gazed across the table at the younger man, trying to find the
right words to convey his approval. "You handled yourself very well in
Cloutier's office." 

 The combination of pleasure and shock melted Ren's brain. "Tha-Thank you,
sir!" 

 "I'm very impressed with how far you've come in the last few months, Ren.
You've learned a great deal." 

 Turnbull blushed from a combination of pride and embarrassment and
dropped his gaze to stare at the table between them. He nervously traced
the pattern of the fake wood grain with his eyes. "I have a vast amount
more to learn, however." 

 "We all do," Fraser replied intensely, wanting to break through Ren's
insecurity, and growing increasingly tired of the reserve he had always
hidden behind. Thinking of his actions while Ren had attempted to open the
safe, he took the conversation further. "It's when we stop learning that
we, as Ray Kowalski would say, get stuck in a rut and turn stale. Don't
dismiss how far you've come - ignoring the changes would negate your
growth, and you've come too far to retreat now." 

 Ren looked up to see a small smile on the other man's face and answered
it with a shy one of his own. 

 Fraser toyed with the pen in his hands. "And, Ren," he said quietly. "I'd
like, once again, to apologize . . ." 

 Turnbull cut him off by holding out a hand. "Fraser, please; I accepted
your apology before. You don't need . . . well, I mean, I was thinking
about how I would feel if it was Francesca who was being threatened, or if
someone had blackmailed her into leaving me." He leaned forward, his eyes
full of his own intensity. "I can't believe you haven't sought him out and
. . . ripped his head off. I know that's what I'd want to do." 

 Fraser's mouth moved in a hard, tight, little smile that didn't carry any
humor. "Believe me, Ren, that definitely has its own attraction." 

 They shared a look of complete understanding. 

 "Still," Fraser said after a moment. "The more of these folders we go
through, the more it appears there will be no need for any . . . personal
action." The hard look in his eyes flashed back, then retreated. He wasn't
sure whether that pleased him or not. Part of him fiercely resented losing
the chance to feel the gratifying thud of his knuckles against Cloutier's
mouth, even as another part of him, by rote, tried to suppress such urges
and cover them with calls for justice within the system. Trading one form
of justice for another -- a difficult proposition when one was personally
involved. Never before had that concept been so clear, not even when faced
with his father's killer. 

 "We haven't even finished going through these files and we already know
he has suborned perjury, bribed officials, and extorted money and
information from people all across the RCMP and the private sector, to say
nothing of several highly placed government officials. He is blackmailing
a Member of Parliament with photographs of several affairs the man has had
involving some very . . . aberrant behavior. He has evidence that Jackson
Collard embezzled money from his first employer, which explains a great
deal about the land deals Superintendent Meers spoke of this last weekend.
There is at least one stockbroker feeding Cloutier insider information
while he holds evidence of insider trading for other people over the man's
head." 

 "He's even gathered information on people who don't have any power,
money, or information," Turnbull noted. "The file I'm going through now
contains evidence of malpractice against a young doctor in a Toronto
hospital." 

 Fraser shook his head and looked at the folders scattered across the
table. "I wonder how much of this information will turn out to be
fabricated like the "evidence" in my folder. Still, there ought to be more
than enough information here to put the man away for the rest of his
life." 

 "I would like to be there when they throw away the key." 

 "As would I, Ren, as would I." Fraser's voice was dark with promise. 

 They were both just getting back to work when Meers poked his head out of
his office. He had been in the other room looking at Thatcher's file,
which he had taken with him, along with Fraser's, when he went off to
start the paperwork for the arrest warrants against one Henri Claude
Thibodaux Cloutier. 

 "Where are the Americans?" he asked in confusion. 

 "They went down the hall to the vending machines, sir. I believe Ray
Kowalski was in need of one of his 'sugar fixes,' Fraser answered. 

 "Ah. Turnbull, would you please step into my office for a moment." 

 "Certainly, sir," Turnbull said as he closed the folder in front of him.
Getting up and pushing his chair in, he followed Meers.  

 Chapter 41 

 "Quite a piece of work, isn't he, son?" Bob Fraser leaned over the chair,
looking at the folder his son was studying. 

 Fraser started, trying to control the jerk of surprise. "Dad, please. How
many times do I need to ask you to at least give me a little warning?" 

 Bob Fraser ignored the request. As always. "This man, Cloutier, has been
playing quite a game, hasn't he? The only sector of society he isn't
blackmailing must be popcorn vendors." 

 "He has definitely cut a wide swath." 

 "I haven't seen such trail of dirt since I had to go and roust Karl
Swendson out of the one room shack he'd been holed up in all winter." 

 Fraser looked up inquiringly, curious despite himself. "Was that the time
you had to borrow extra rope so you could keep him tied up and far enough
downwind?" 

 "That'd be the one. Thought he was going to fell my horse," the dead
Mountie replied, shaking his head at the memory. "We ended up having to
keep Karl in the small shed outside the station until he would shower.
Fiercely afraid of water, Karl was. But that isn't what I'm here to talk
about." 

 "All right, Dad; I'll ask. Why are you here?" 

 "Well, son, I'm here to talk about percentages." The father stuck a thumb
behind his Sam Browne strap and rocked forward on his toes. 

 "Percentages," Fraser echoed, completely lost. 

 "Yes. I wondered if you had given any thought to them lately." 

 Fraser leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, exasperated by his
father's tactics. "No, I can't say that I have, not anytime recently." 

 "Well, I believe you should." Another rock on his toes. 

 "Good to know, Dad. Any particular reason why?" Ben wondered how long
this question and answer session was going to continue before his father
finally got to the point. 

 "Well, the thought came to me that they could have a great deal to do
with the situation in which you find yourself." 

 The look on his father's face clearly indicated that he should understand
the meaning behind that comment. Unfortunately, Ben didn't even understand
the meaning in front of it. "Could we try for a little less opacity?" 

 A look of disappointment passed across Fraser, Sr.'s face. "The other day
in the park, you put forth the theory that your inspector had deliberately
gotten pregnant and then broken things off with you." 

 "That's true, although clearly the information we have encountered the
last few days has given me reason to . . . reconsider that scenario. But I
still don't understand what this has to do with percentages." 

 "I'm pleased to hear that you've come to your senses." Bob locked his
hands behind his back and looked away from Fraser, strutting to the end of
the table where he pushed a folder away from the edge with a precise
movement. His words took on a ponderous quality. "Percentages are relevant
in so far as you spent just one night together." He skewed a glance at his
son. "And that gave you how many chances . . ." 

 "You know I won't answer that!" Fraser's expression was equal parts anger
and embarrassment. 

 Bob waved away his son's protests. "It's a moot point anyway; you've
reconsidered your position. I just wanted to make sure you'd thought about
the fact that she would've had to have been pretty, um, well . . ." He
made another vague gesture. 

 "Spit it out, Dad; you've come this far," Fraser stated flatly, his anger
tightly restrained. 

 "She would've had to be very sure of your . . . abilities to hinge all
her hopes on that one night, since she couldn't have known if things had .
. . taken when she broke things off three days later." 

 Fraser covered his face with his hands, mortification having taken over
for anger at the moment. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation
with you." He dropped his hands. "Yes, now that I have had time to
reflect, I am fully aware that I reacted to the news of my impending
fatherhood with less than stellar logic. Now," he shot his father a hard
look. "If we could move on to some other subject . . ." 

 This time, the older man's face reflected discomfort. "I'm just trying to
prevent you from repeating my mistakes, Benton," he finally said, softly.
"I missed far too much of your life, right from the beginning; barely made
it back in time for your birth. I hardly saw Caroline while she was
pregnant, didn't see you developing, the changes happening. There was
always one more case, one more suspect." The regret in his voice deepened
as he went on and he turned briefly to look at Fraser before turning away
again. "You know, your mother always wanted to have several more children
- neither of us had liked being an only child. That wasn't what she wanted
for you." He sighed deeply and looked down at his hands. "We'd just begun
trying again right before she died." Looking up, he eyes reflected deep
sorrow. "In fact, she'd thought she might've been pregnant . . ." 

 His father's words hit him with a jolt and he sucked in his breath.
"I-I'm sorry, Dad; I never knew." 

 "Yes, well," the Stalwart Mountie reemerged as Bob raised his chin.
"Hardly something you tell a small boy who just lost his mother." Father
and son shared a moment of silence before Bob Fraser cleared his throat
and forced more words out of a suddenly tight throat. "That was one of the
reasons it took me so long to be able to look at you after . . . after it
happened. I wasn't just seeing her in your eyes and in your smile . . . I
was seeing everything that we had lost." 

 "I'm sorry, Dad," Fraser said again, not knowing what else he could say. 

 "So am I, Benton, so am I." Then he squared his shoulders. "I missed out
on a lot of your life; don't let pride or your job or misunderstandings
make you do the same with your child." 

 Fraser nodded solemnly; he'd never heard his father talk this way -
either before or after he had died. He wondered, not for the first time,
what it would've been like if they'd talked like this while the older man
was alive. Not having any point of reference, however, Fraser couldn't
quite decide what it might have been like. That realization pushed him to
renew his vow that he would be an active part of his child's life. "I
won't, Dad," he replied at last, his voice husky with the past and the
future. 

 Bob nodded briskly; clearly this moment of sharing was over. "I'm off,
boy; since we're back in Canada, I have some errands to run." 

 "Errands? How can you have errands? You're dead." 

 "So you keep telling me, so you keep telling me. Watch out for that,
Benton. Repeating yourself is one of the first signs that you're getting
old." With that pithy comment, he vanished as quickly as he'd come. 

 Left alone again, Fraser shook his head. "Thanks for stopping by, Dad,"
he whispered. He didn't know if they'd ever had a visit like that before -
his father had not only given him useful advice, but he'd learned
something about his past at the same time. Amazing. Fascinating. 

 And thought provoking. 

 He had already come to the conclusion that he had much to atone for from
the conversation he and Meg had on Friday; he'd added making an apology
for jumping to conclusions to his mental list of things to talk about
several days ago. It promised to be quite a conversation. 

 'Holding her while you have it will make it easier.' 

 Fraser's body stiffened again in his chair; where had that thought come
from? It was hardly typical for him. Still, it definitely had merit and
deserved consideration. Besides, if they were going to make a fresh start,
perhaps doing some atypical things would be in order. Something else to
think about. 

 The thought didn't stay around for long, however; memories of Meg in his
arms proved far too distracting. It had been so long since he'd held her,
but the memory of how she felt against him had not lost any of its
intensity. 

 The tight bands he'd slapped into place around the memories of their time
together had definitely slipped over the last few days, and sitting there
alone in the little room, Fraser found himself awash in them as he hadn't
been for weeks, not since forcefully relegating them to a corner of his
mind and refusing to let himself look at them. 

 He closed his eyes and could immediately feel the solid press of her body
against his. The way they fit together as he had held her against him
while they said good night one evening; she had been wearing heels and her
curves melded perfectly with the hollows of his body. Cool night air had
contrasted sharply with the warmth of her skin as they'd ended a lingering
kiss. 

 The feel of her small leg trapped between his larger ones. The score of
her nails against his arms. Her breath whispering across his chest a
heartbeat before her hair. The contrast of her darker skin alongside the
paler color of his own captivating him while the soft rumble of her
laughter chasing his and melding with gasps and sighs. Holding on for dear
life while she traced a line of kisses down his . . . 

 Shifting in the chair, he pulled himself back to the present, infinitely
thankful that none of his friends had come back to witness the sight of
him lost in memories and the emotions they had evoked. 'Or any of the
other . . . responses,' he thought, his blush deepening a bit. 

 The growing sounds of the two Rays coming back down the hallway quickly
jerked him the rest of the way to the present. As he heard them coming
closer, Fraser shut the memories and feelings away again, but not as
tightly this time. Not as far back. This time they were much closer to the
surface, waiting. 

 As he heard the door begin to open, he opened his eyes and sighed quietly
to himself, happy in the certainty that his ability to love remained
intact and that it no longer hurt to think about his time with Meg. She
was still home to him, even more so now that they were going to have a
baby. 'Just a few more days,' he consoled himself, as he looked up at his
friends, eyes widening at the sheer volume of junk food they had brought
back with them; 'just a few more days.'  

 Chapter 42 

 After Ren and Meers both sat down and talked for a moment about the
information they had spent the evening sifting through, Meers got to the
point. "I need to ask you a few questions about your workplace,
Constable." Meers wondered if Turnbull had been taking lessons from
Fraser, given the way he immediately shot to complete attention. 

 "Has Inspector Thatcher ever shown favoritism towards Constable Fraser?" 

 "No, sir," Turnbull answered with an emphatic shake of his head.
"Inspector Thatcher holds all of her subordinates to the same high
standards she demands of herself. She does not play favorites, or show
favoritism. If anything, sir, she has always been harder on Constable
Fraser than anyone else; he bears a large share of the workload in
addition to his position as Liaison to the Chicago P.D." 

 Meers jotted some notes in the same notebook he'd used during his earlier
conversation with Fraser. "How did you learn about the relationship
between Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser?" 

 Figuring that these questions would be coming at some point, Ren had
considered his answers and had already framed his reply. "The only reason
I knew they were dating was because of my association with the Vecchio
family. Since Constable Fraser has been virtually adopted by the Vecchios,
and he and Ray - both Rays - are partners, we all socialize together.
Having said that, however, I would like to make it very clear that not
only did I never see the inspector and Fraser acting in any inappropriate
ways at work, but that they were also circumspect when I saw them outside
work. In point of fact, the only physical contact I ever saw between them
was when they held hands at a movie all the extended family went to. At no
time did they make me feel uncomfortable or put me in an awkward
situation." Turnbull worked hard to keep his voice impersonal, but his
concern bled through anyway. 

 "Your loyalty to your commanding officers is very clear, Constable." 

 "I only speak the truth, sir. They are two of the finest officers I have
ever had the pleasure to work for, and it is my very great honor to have
them consider me their friend." 

 "You are all very lucky to have each other," Meers observed gravely. "The
support you give each other is very impressive; I don't know the last time
I had the pleasure of working with such a close-knit team." 

 "Thank you, sir." Turnbull didn't think he'd felt so proud since he'd
seen Francesca walking toward him on Lt. Welsh's arm. 

 "To your knowledge, is anyone else at the Consulate aware of the
relationship between Thatcher and Fraser?" 

 "To the best of my knowledge, sir, I am the only one who is aware that
they have had anything more than a professional relationship." He thought
for moment as a conversation from several months ago came back to him;
after all, the man had happened to stop by Cloutier's office earlier
today. "However, I should mention someone else who is aware of the
relationship. Even though he isn't a member of the Consulate staff,
Minister Bennett knows about the relationship. Evidently the minister
happened to see the two of them in the back of a restaurant a few months
ago; the inspector and Constable Fraser were holding hands around a
centerpiece. I've known the minister since I was a child - he was a friend
of my father's - and he has known the inspector since she joined the RCMP,
so he happened to mention what he had seen to me. He was delighted that
the inspector had found someone who was making her happy. Despite this, I
do not know of anyone specifically from the office who knows that they
were dating." 

 "Do you know how long they had been carrying on this relationship?" 

 "Not with any certainty - just that it wasn't very long. Constable Fraser
brought the inspector over to my mother-in-law's for Sunday dinner the
week after Francesca and I had our reception; that was the first
definitive evidence I had about their relationship, and it was just a week
or two later that Inspector Thatcher went to Ottawa." 

 Meers made a note of the timeframe and asked his next question. "Do you
feel that their relationship has impacted the working environment at the
Consulate?" 

 Ren had to think for a moment before answering that one. "Sir, the only
impact that I can think of has turned out to be a positive one. When the
inspector and Constable Fraser stopped seeing each other, they both became
even more focused on their work, and so the rest of us had more work to
keep up with. They were, perhaps, withdrawn, several days, but the quality
of their work did not suffer." 

 "Alright, Turnbull, let's move on to the next subject. What did you find
in the folder labeled 'Meg Thatcher' in Cloutier's safe?" 

 Ren blushed a bit. "It was full of pictures, Superintendent. While she
was, uh, unclothed in many of them, they were not gratuitous pictures,
sir; none of them were explicit in any way. As a matter of fact, I thought
the pictures very artistic as well as beautiful." 

 "I agree, Constable," Meers replied with a nod, as he pulled out Meg's
folder. 

 It relieved Ren to see the other man studying the pictures, not gawking
at them; the thought of Cloutier looking at them salaciously was
disturbing enough - to have to watch someone doing so would be awful. 

 "I see that you photocopied the backs of the photos as well," Meers went
on, approving of Ren's thoroughness. "They all date back to well before
she joined the RCMP, and when I cross- referenced the dates with those in
her personnel file, it turns out they were taken while she attended school
in Paris." 

 As he made the connection, Turnbull's eyes widened with understanding.
"Ah! That would explain the artist, sir; did you notice the name?" 

 "Jacques D'Anjou? The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it; I was
hoping you knew who he was." 

 "Oh, yes, he has gained a great deal of acclaim the past few years, sir.
He even has some of his work in the new Guggenheim in Bilbao." 

 Meers nodded slowly. The name still didn't really ring any bells, but the
artist was clearly not some back-room photographer taking nudie shots. It
would be interesting to eventually talk to Margaret Thatcher and find out
which threat had carried more weight for her, the one against Fraser or
the one concerning her. After all, the pictures might be slightly
embarrassing, but weren't really damaging; he decided he would wager
strong odds that her concern had been what she'd thought was evidence
against Benton. 

 He wondered how she would react to finding out the evidence against the
man she was protecting was fabricated; if she was strong enough and
independent enough to attract Benton Fraser, then she was definitely
strong enough to speak her own mind and take matters into her own hands.
He guessed her reaction would be . . . spirited. "Very well, Constable, if
you don't have anything more to add, you can return to work with your
friends." 

 After thanking the Superintendent, Turnbull slipped out the door and
rejoined the men in the next room. The whole interview had been easier
than he thought it would be and his respect for Meers went up another
notch; the Superintendent seemed to be handling the issue of the
fraternization and the blackmail with tact and understanding, not just
mechanical, unthinking adherence to every letter of the regulations. 

 Kowalski looked up and grinned around the sucker in his mouth. Slipping
it out of his mouth with a quiet slurp, he welcomed Ren back. "Good thing
you came back, man; we wouldn't want ya' ta' miss all the fun and games." 

 "Yeah, Ren," the other Ray added, "we left lots for you. Want a candy
bar?" He asked, waving his hand at the brightly colored pile of candy bars
and treats. The size of the pile made Ren laugh as he walked to the table.
Unable to resist the M&Ms - his very favorite - the younger Mountie tore
open the bag before diving back into the folder he had been working on. 

 Meers joined them a few minutes later and accepted a Twix with very
little encouragement. Eventually even Fraser accepted a Snickers bar,
although Kowalski's knowing smirk prompted the Mountie to protest archly
that the peanuts prevented it from being just empty calories. They worked
long into the night before returning to their respective lodgings, but
knowing how close they were to arresting Cloutier provided ample balance
for their exhaustion.  

 Chapter 43 

 The quiet creak of the door made Meg look up just in time to see a fuzzy
blur starting with a muzzle, and ending with a curvy tail. 

 "Diefenbaker?" 

 His yip was clearly an answer, although she wasn't entirely sure what he
was saying. She had found herself talking to him more over the six months
or so, and then, after she and Ben started spending time away from work
together, he had seemed to grow more and more tolerant of her. The last
couple months he had been more watchful than friendly, but he still
stopped by her office occasionally - especially on the mornings Turnbull
brought her apricot croissants. It did, however, scare her a little that
she was thinking of his barks as "answers." 

 "What are you doing here?" Unable to filter her eager tone, she asked,
"Is Fraser back?" 

 The door opened wider as another figure stepped through and bustled into
the room. "Dief is stay'n with me while Benton is busy." Frannie was
pleased with her answer - just enough information without pinning down
Benton's whereabouts. 

 Dief yipped again, turning his head to look back at Francesca as she
walked toward him. 

 "Oh, don't give me that, you mooch!" she countered, hands on her hips.
"You had all the leftover meatballs this morning; you can't be hungry.
Besides, we're gonna have lunch soon. Me and Meg'll get you a doggie bag
or something, OK?" 

 "Is it already lunchtime?" Meg hadn't realized it had gotten so late.
Between her regular workload, checking up on her temporary Constable, and
looking into a promising lead about another one of Cloutier's possible
victims the morning had vanished. 

 "Yep, an' me and Dief are here to take you out," Frannie abandoned her
attempts to glare at Dief to look closely at her friend. Meg had some
color in her face today, but she still had dark smudges beneath eyes that
hadn't yet regained all their normal sharpness. "You've been working too
hard. Thought we could go down to that new Chinese place down on
Atherton." She waved her hand vaguely in what she thought was the correct
direction. Maybe. Yeah, well, whatever, it wasn't like she couldn't find
the place once she'd gotten in her car. 

 Unaware of Frannie's interior monologue about her directional sense, Meg
stood up and lifted her jacket off the back of her chair. "That sounds
good to me. It'll be good to get out of the building." Slipping the jacket
on, she continued. "Getting the temporary Constable up to speed has been a
full-time task." Her tone was tired but not upset. "Have you heard from
Turnbull? Do you know when he'll be finished with this emergency
assignment?" 

 "No, he called the other night, and he's doing fine, but he isn't sure
yet when he'll be back." 'Unfortunately,' Frannie added silently. There
was no doubt in Frannie's mind that what Ren and the guys were doing was
the right thing, but she still missed her husband. It hadn't taken her
long to get used to sleeping next to someone - and Dief just didn't work
as a substitute. 'Too much hair and panting,' Frannie thought with a
mental giggle. 'Though Ren has been known to pant a time or two,' she
reflected, her thoughts quickly turning naughty. She was just
transitioning into a couple really good memories when Meg's voice pulled
her back to the present. 

 "How about your brother, his partner, and Fraser?" Meg asked as she
walked toward the door after making sure her desk was neat and tidy, all
confidential information properly put away. "Has there been any more word
from them?" 

 "Nope," Frannie lied without compunction. She had talked to Ray the same
time she had talked to Ren, but she could hardly tell Meg that, now could
she? "I mean, they're checking in with Welsh, but they don't know when
this thing's going to be over." She hoped it sounded like she knew what
she was talking about. 

 "It must be strange having your brother gone again. Undercover work can-"
The phone cut off Meg's words. "Damn. Almost made it. Just let me get
this, and then we can go-" She walked back and leaned her hip against the
corner of her desk, reaching over the file organizer to grab her phone. 

 "Inspector Thatcher." Years of practice kept any impatience out of her
voice and the words came out as coolly efficient. 

 "Hello, Meg, this is Philippe Bennett, how are you?" 

 The cheerful voice made her want to sigh. She stifled the thought.
"Hello, sir, it's good to hear your voice. Could I possibly call you back?
I was just on my way to a lunch meeting." She met Frannie's gaze and
widened her eyes slightly; Minister Bennett was a very nice man and a
long-time friend, but he could talk for hours on end. 

 "Oh, no, I won't keep you. It isn't anything important. I just saw that
young constable of yours yesterday, and it made me think of you, so I
thought I would call to say hello." 

 "Which constable, sir?" Confusion creased her voice. 

 "Renfield Turnbull -- known the boy since he was young, you know. He's
turning out to be quite a capable man. I'm sure Henri will be quite happy
with him as his secretary, even if it is just temporary." 

 "You saw Constable Turnbull . . ." Then the 'Henri' clicked. The shock of
hearing her subordinate's name and Cloutier's linked pushed the next
question out of her. "Where does Henri come into this?" She tried to keep
her voice calm as she rose from balancing on her desk corner. 

 "Didn't you know? Turnbull's temporary assignment is with the legal
department; Henri's secretary went out with a family emergency, Turnbull
told me, along with another staff member who went out early on maternity
leave. With it being audit season, the office needed extra help." 

 'Say something, Margaret,' she thought furiously, trying to grasp the
fact that one of her people was working in Cloutier's office. Why hadn't
she been told? What was going on? "I see . . ." she pulled again on her
years of practice to keep her voice even. "Well, I'm, uh, pleased that you
were able to talk to him. We miss him down here and hope he returns soon."


 "Oh, I'm sure the regular secretary will return soon. After all, Turnbull
needs to get back to that pretty wife of his," Philippe chirped. "Well, I
don't want to keep you, Margaret, so you take care, and I'll talk to you
soon." 

 "Yes, thank you." Feeling like she was floating up near the ceiling, she
watched her arm move, and her hand place the handset back in the cradle.
The hard plastic made a slight scuffing sound as it settled home. 

 What was Cloutier doing? This had to stop. Ben's career was already in
danger; she wouldn't let Renfield be affected by the machinations of this
despicable man. 

 She swallowed, wondering what more she could do at the moment. 

 She could go up to Ottawa, that's what she could do. Go up there and put
an end to the whole situation. 'This has got to stop,' she told herself
again; she didn't have as much evidence to confront him with as she
would've liked, but what she had would do. It would have to. She would
make sure she made her point; he was going to drop his threats against Ben
and her immediately. 

 Damn, not only did this mean she wouldn't have a chance to talk to Ben,
this truncated the time she had to decide whether or not to turn her
evidence over to Internal Affairs. Well, it couldn't be helped; perhaps
she would see how things went. 

 'No,' she told herself, refusing to retreat; she would turn the
information over to IA no matter what happened. Cloutier's private empire
was about to fall. The impact her actions might have on Fraser and his
career worried her, but she had to believe that whatever Cloutier was
holding on Ben and his father was just as flimsy as what he had on her,
and trust that Ben would understand that she was doing the right thing.
Really the only thing she could do - too many people were getting hurt. If
not, if whatever the folder up in Ottawa held was serious, well . . .
she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. Worrying over mights and
maybes wasn't going to keep their baby, Turnbull or any of the others
safe. She had let this enforced separation from Ben go on long enough. 

 Having made a decision, she felt like her mind and her body reconnected,
rejoining as she took definite action. The sense of control that had
seemed just out of her reach over the last few months seeped fully back
through her. She was still worried and a bit afraid, but felt like she was
fully coming back alive. Cloutier wasn't going to win. She would see to
that. 

 She swung around, these thoughts still forming in her head, the idea of
leaving right now growing, driving her, and stopped dead. 

 Oh, dear. Francesca and Dief stood staring at her in concern, still
standing near the door. Both of their eyes were following her every
movement. Now what? 

 "What is it, Meg? Bad news? What was that about Ren?" Frannie's tone made
it clear she couldn't decide whether to be confused or concerned. 

 How to explain? Meg was sure her face had gone pale. What was she going
to say? 

 Chapter 44 

 "Do you know where Turnbull is working at the moment?" Meg asked finally.
Maybe she could talk around the issue. 

 'Oh, no, what do I say now?' Frannie thought, unknowingly echoing Meg's
thoughts. "He's in Ottawa working for some legal guy, right?" The fake
casual tone in her voice made her want to wince, but Meg didn't seem to
notice. 

 "Henri Cloutier." Meg's words didn't carry an inflection. 

 "Really? Uh, you know him?" 'Oh, geez, this isn't good. This really isn't
good. This could be a cataract. A big one.' 

 "Yes, I do. I, ah, I have some concerns about Mr. Cloutier." 'Careful,
Meg, don't say too much,' she told herself. 'Now isn't the time to get
into this; Ben should be the first person you tell what you've been
doing.' "I've worked with him myself, actually, and I know he can be a
difficult person to deal with." 

 Francesca watched Meg fumble with words, still frantically wondering how
she should handle this. Should she tell Meg what was going on up in
Ottawa? But that might jeopardize everything, destroy their only chance to
catch this weasel. Besides, Ray would probably kill her. Either of them.
Both of them. 

 She decided to stall. "You're worried about Ren?" 

 "Oh, well, I'm sure Turnbull can . . . deal with the situation, it just
might be nice if he had some outside advice, as it were, and I've been
thinking of going up to Ottawa myself, actually, to take care of some
personal business. Finding out Turnbull is working there makes it even
better. Kill two birds with one stone. I can go in and talk to Turnbull,
give him some . . . pointers about working there, even if it is only
temporary." She was trying to sound reasonable, but she wondered how
far-fetched this sounded to Francesca, if she could see through her. 

 Frantically trying to temporize, Frannie looked down at Dief. He was
staring watchfully, but it wasn't like he was going to have an answer for
her. Damn. Maybe the direct approach would work better. After all, no one
could bulldoze a person like a Vecchio. 

 "Meg, you wanna tell me what's really going on? I know you're a good boss
and all that, but I can't see how being worried about Ren has made your
voice shake like a lever." 

 Meg's eyes widened in confusion for a moment before she translated the
skewed simile. She smiled faintly. "You've gotten to know me well the last
few months, Francesca, but I think . . ." 

 Frannie stopped her and moved closer before speaking again. "Meg, I'm
your friend. You can talk to me, you know. You can trust me not to spill
the jelly beans." 

 Fighting an urge to giggle at Frannie's mangled phrases despite the
seriousness of the situation, Meg decided to give Francesca a more direct
answer, if not necessarily a complete one. "Henri Cloutier is . . . he's
not a good person, Francesca, and I don't like the idea of Renfield
working there. Cloutier can be very vindictive; I wouldn't want anything
to happen to Turnbull." 

 "And you wanna go to Ottawa?" 

 "Yes that's what I must do." Worry spiked again as Meg thought about the
coming confrontation and the possible consequences. 

 "I'm going with you," Frannie replied very firmly. 

 "That isn't-" 

 This wasn't the time to be polite, and besides, Frannie figured she
wasn't going to be able to stop Meg from going. At least if she went, she
and Dief would be with her to help. Maybe this way her brother and husband
wouldn't kill her. Though really, what choice did she have? 

 "You're worried about my husband, so freaked, you're white as a pretzel.
There's no way I'm letting you go alone." 'Hey, that sounded pretty good,
and it's true too,' Frannie thought, a little amazed at her own quick
thinking. 

 Meg couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't give even more away
than she already had, and after all, Francesca was right: he was her
husband. Not knowing how to get herself out of the hole she'd just dug
herself into, she gave in mostly gracefully. 

 "Well, alright, if you're sure. I mean, I don't know what is going on up
there." The relief she'd felt a few minutes ago continued mixing with the
tumultuous emotions that had been her constant companion for almost three
months, creating an odd feeling of worried expectancy. Of course, having
Frannie with her would make some of it more difficult, but it might be . .
. comforting to have company. 

 "Yeah, I got that." Frannie would have been amused to realize how much
she sounded like Ray Kowalski. "So, when do you want to leave?" She asked,
tucking her hair behind her ear. 

 "I'll call right now and try to get us on an afternoon flight. Can you be
ready in a couple hours?" Meg replied, her tone making it clear that
Frannie didn't have a choice. 

 "Yep, I just need to throw a few things into a bag. Oh, and talk to
Welsh, but I think he'll understand." Yeah, somehow she figured he'd let
her go. What choice did they have? 

 "Here," Meg suggested, reaching for the phone again, "let me call about a
flight so we can know what kind of a timeframe we're working with. Being
an inspector in the RCMP still carries some weight with Air Canada." 

 Frannie sat down in one of the chairs, motioning Dief over and petting
him while they waited. She sat there and made channels in his fur with her
fingers while her thoughts raced. She and Dief were going to have to have
a talk, but she figured just as Meg wasn't going to be able to persuade
her to remain behind, there was no way Dief was going to let Meg go off
without him. The wolf was quite protective of her - even more so since
Fraser had asked him to keep an eye on her while he was gone. Frannie knew
if she tried to tell him he couldn't go, he'd get all pissy, and there was
nothing worse than a pissy wolf. 

 "We're on a flight in four hours." Meg said a few minutes later as she
hung up the phone. "Where do you want to meet?" 

 "How about I come here and pick you up? Better my car in the parking lot
at the airport than your newer one, you know?" Besides, it would make it
harder for Meg to try to head off by herself before then. 

 "Fine, see you in a few hours then," Meg said with a small smile and
stormy eyes. 

 Frannie walked to the door as Meg started making a list of the things she
wanted to take with her. "Oh, Meg, got a guess for about how long we're
gonna be gone?" 

 "I got us open-ended tickets, but I should think we should be able to
come back tomorrow. Though maybe, since it's almost Friday, you would like
to stay the weekend with Turnbull." Meg's own comment distracted her for a
moment as she thought about the possibility of being free from Cloutier's
constant threat tomorrow. God, that sounded so enticing. She had to pull
herself back from the daydream to catch Frannie's reply. 

 "Now there's an idea!" She smiled while inside she was thinking, 'Yeah,
if he doesn't gang up with my brother to kill me,' as she walked out the
door. "Well, let's play it by ear, okay? See you in a bit." 

 Just under three hours later, Frannie walked up the Consulate steps while
Dief stayed in the car watching her bags. On her way back to the Consulate
to pick up Meg, she'd stopped by the Precinct and told Welsh what was
going on. They both agreed that her going with Meg was the best option of
the few open to them. They also decided that Welsh would try and get hold
of the guys to let them know she and Meg were heading up north. She hoped
that'd be enough. It was going to have to be. 

 Meg saw her from the window in her office, so she grabbed her hastily
packed bags. Among the items she'd packed was a stack of manila folders
full of the information she and her contacts had spent the last several
weeks gathering about some of Cloutier's other victims. They were, of
course, copies; she wasn't about to risk her carrying the originals when
she went into the proverbial lion's den. As a further precaution, she'd
also put a copy of everything in a safe-deposit box at her bank. Her mouth
twisted in a sardonic smile, she thought back to her RCMP instructor
constantly preaching that one could never be too prepared for all the
eventualities and emergencies in an investigation. Somehow, she doubted he
had this particular situation in mind when he'd taught that lesson. 

 Looking around her office one last time to make sure she hadn't left
anything behind, she felt thankful the Consulate was only going to be open
for another hour and a half. That simplified things, as did the fact that
there weren't any functions or visits in the next few days. The staff
could handle things, even if Roberts had only been there for two and a
half - well, almost three - days. Of course, she wished Fraser was
available, but he was off protecting the citizens of Chicago from the Mob.
Pushing aside her misgivings about leaving the Consulate without strong
leadership, she patted the precious folders where they lay in her carry-on
and left her office. 

 She might have a duty to the Consulate, but she also had a duty to her
people, and for now, this looked like the best way to protect her people.
She hoped. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of her office. 

 She was a Mountie; she could do this. 

 Chapter 45 

 Walking to the door with a confidence she didn't fully feel, Meg found
Frannie on the stoop and followed her out to the car. 

 Opening the passenger side door, Meg almost tossed her bag into the
backseat, only to realize it would land right on Diefenbaker if she did
that. "Are we dropping Dief off at your mother's?" 

 Frannie flashed a smile over the car top. "Nope, he's coming with us."
Her voice sounded reasonable, cheerful, and innocent. 

 "What?" Meg's voice just sounded flabbergasted. 

 "I told Benton I'd keep him with me, and I can't abandon him to Maria's
kids. Rosa has discovered nail polish an' tried to paint his claws
yesterday. Dief wasn't amused." He snuffled his agreement emphatically and
looked away, every inch the put upon wolf. "I stopped by his vet on the
way over, and I got copies of all of his papers, including his proof of
rabies vaccination, which the vet says is all he needs to get into Canada.
She even let me borrow a crate big enough to let Dief ride in all comfy."
Frannie settled into the car, and buckling in, looked in the rearview
mirror at Dief. "Didn't she, Dief? It's a nice big one. Perfect wolf
size." Seeing Meg look mulish as she settled into her own seat, Frannie
went on, lowering her voice a bit. "There was no way I was getting out of
the apartment without him, Meg. He was there for our conversation; he
could tell how worried you were and he's really protective of you." 

 Meg didn't know how to respond to that, so she decided it was easier to
just accept that she had a wolf as a traveling companion. How in the world
did she get herself into these situations? 

 They made it to the airport quickly and found a really good parking
place. Unfortunately, that was where their good luck ended. Frannie
figured that it was parking karma or something. They'd gotten the good
spot, but that seemed to have made the parking gods were angry, and they
make their feelings known almost as soon as they tried to check in. First
the check-in lady tried to tell them that the crate for Dief was just too
big. Frannie eventually made sure they saw it her way. 

 Then, after finally getting Dief squared away and stowed, and their
boarding passes cleared, the two women headed for the food court since
neither had gotten a chance to eat lunch. Judging by the selection, there
seemed to be a food shortage in Chicago; neither one of them wanted a
hamburger or pizza, so they ended up settling for a bagel. They were about
ten minutes from boarding-time when they checked one of the banks of
screens full of flight information on their way to the gate. Delayed.
Their flight was delayed. 

 Three hours later, Meg had finished almost all the work she'd brought
with her, Francesca had made it through three magazines, and Meg was
holding on to her temper with what Frannie figured was a totally frayed
lanyard, when, at long last, their flight was called. 

 So all in all, limp and bedraggled were really the only words to describe
the group that finally disembarked in Ottawa. Meg not only felt exhausted
from the day and the emotional upheaval, she still hadn't adjusted to the
added tiredness from being pregnant, and her head throbbed with fatigue.
Frannie felt like the flight had been about a hundred years long - and
that each one of those years had been imprinted on her back thanks to the
four year old who'd thought kicking the back of her seat was the best game
ever invented. Even Dief felt the worse for wear and rather put upon -
they'd put him between a drooly mutt and a persnickety cat in the cargo
hold. Hardly fitting company for a wolf. 

 Completely drained, Meg didn't put up much fight when Frannie suggested
they get a hotel room and find Ren tomorrow. It was after 10 p.m. by this
time, Frannie pointed out, and Ren was bound to be mostly asleep, just
like they were. While she kept the thought to herself, Frannie also
figured the delay was good since it gave her more time to make sure the
guys knew she and Meg were in the city. Besides, how could they show up at
"Ren's" hotel room when it was also Fraser's and Ray's and Ray's? 

 For her own part, Meg didn't protest going to a hotel because it wasn't
as if Henri would be in his office now, and she definitely didn't want to
confront the man at his house. The office might be his turf, but at least
it wasn't completely isolated. Besides, if he held to his old patterns, he
would be going in to work early tomorrow since it was Thursday; he always
went in early and stayed late on Thursdays so he could leave early on
Fridays. If he still did that, she ought to have a window of opportunity
to confront him before the office was full of people. 

 By the time they were all settled in a hotel and ready for bed, it was
after midnight, so when Meg rolled over to squint at her alarm clock, 6:30
a.m. seemed far too early. She dropped her head back down on the pillow
and muffled a groan. At least she didn't feel too nauseated. 

 Slipping into the bathroom after raiding her suitcase for saltines, she
got showered and dressed, feeling a bit like she was dressing for her own
execution, or something equally grim. It felt good to be acting instead of
gathering information, but that did little to ease her tension. Still, she
thought, rolling her eyes at the rather feminine thought, the red
highlights in her favorite blouse always helped her mood. 

 Standing there, looking at herself in the mirror, she wondered if she was
about to sacrifice her career. At least confronting Cloutier would put an
end to any possible reason not to tell Ben about what had been going on,
and why she had been acting the way she had for the last few months. Why
she had hurt him. 

 This morning, she felt less certain that he would understand her motives
- nothing but nerves she told herself impatiently - but couldn't seem to
quiet the niggling questions about whether he would forgive her. She
wondered if they had any hope of finding themselves back to the happiness
they'd found three months ago. She also wondered if she was about to
sacrifice Ben's career. Then she wondered at herself since she seemed to
be more concerned about his career than her own. Finally taking herself in
hand, she put the final touches on her makeup; all this wondering was
getting her nowhere and only delaying the inevitable. 

 Opening the bathroom door cautiously, she discovered, much to her relief,
that Francesca was still an immobile lump swathed in sheets and blankets.
Double-checking to make sure she had all the folders and evidence in her
briefcase, Meg paused at the postage-stamp sized table to jot Frannie a
quick note. After writing she'd gone to take care of "some business" and
that she would call as soon as she finished, Meg tiptoed to the door. This
would be far easier alone. Besides, marshalling all of her mental reserves
to brace herself for this confrontation with Cloutier didn't leave her
enough energy to explain everything to Francesca, even if she wanted to.
Which she didn't. Not now. 

 Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt Dief against her leg. 

 "Good morning," she whispered, giving him a small pat. "I'll be back in a
bit; you stay with Francesca." 

 His soft huffy bark made her throw a semi-panicked look over at her
friend. "Shhh! I don't want to wake her. Now, I will be back soon, so . .
." 

 He growled lightly deep in his throat and just looked up at her. Clearly
he didn't approve of that plan. Feeling a bit frustrated at herself for
personifying his reactions so easily, she tried pushing him out of the way
so she could slip through the door. He barely skidded sideways before
turning rapidly so that his body was flush with the cracked door and
blocked it by lying down. 

 "Diefenbaker! Get up, now!" It was impressive how much command she could
squeeze into a whisper. 

 Clearly, it was more difficult to impress a deaf half-wolf. 

 "Let me go and I'll bring you back an entire box of jelly donuts just for
you," she wheedled. 

 He didn't even consider the offer. Nor did he move. 

 "A box of jelly donuts and any other food item of your choice?" 

 Still nothing. 

 "Has anyone ever told you are just as stubborn as the man you live with?"
she snapped. 

 His tongue lolled out while he yawned, no doubt to hide a smile. 

 "Fine. You win," she capitulated huffily. "You can come with me, but one
problem out of you, and I'll buy Fraser the box to ship you back to the
Yukon, and it won't be a nice roomy one like Francesca got you. Clear?" He
didn't seem very daunted by the finger she was waving at him either. 

 Taking the fact that he got up and stood attentively by her side as all
the agreement she was going to get, she stepped back over to the table,
added a line to the note about Dief being with her, and then let him
precede her into the hallway. 

 How the hell did she get herself into these situations? 

 Riding down in the elevator, though, she had to admit, his presence did
make her feel a bit more . . . secure. Looking down at her lupine
companion, she took in his alert and watchful stance and felt rather
honored. The wolf was protecting her. She wondered if he liked Egg
McMuffins.  

 Chapter 46 

 'As if she was getting out of the room without me.' Not really liking the
glass-walled elevator, but determined not to show it, he stayed close to
her side, slipping deeper into guard mode. 'Humans,' he huffed a bit;
'they can be so predictable.' He'd known what she was going to do the
moment she'd suggested going up to Ottawa. Clearly he still had much to
teach his packmates about stealth. 

 Still, he had to admire her direct attack against whomever she was going
to meet. He had a feeling they were going to see the male whose phone
calls made her smell of fear and anger. Even now the feelings he felt
rolling off of her made his hackles rise. Whoever they were going to see,
it was not a friend. 

 She definitely showed strength. This made her a worthy mate for Ben. Even
if he hadn't asked him to watch over her, it was his duty to protect the
leader's chosen mate. Which he would - to the death if necessary. That was
his intent at the moment: to stay with her and protect her. After all, as
Ben's female, she was part of his pack. 

 The last few months had definitely been puzzling; both Ben and Margaret
had been smelling sad for months now, yet they hadn't done anything about
it. Ben had even ordered him to stop suggesting he go get her and keep her
in his lair - such as it was - until she told him what was going on. The
look in Ben's eyes was one he'd only seen few times before, so he'd
obeyed, reluctantly. He had tried talking to both RayMoreHair and
RayLessHair about it, but they had just told him there was nothing they
could do. Even the older alpha, Harding, hadn't been able to think of
anything. It was most vexing. Ben had done so much staring into space and
sighing, he'd wanted to bite him. 

 Then a few nights ago, all of that had changed. Ben had given him an
Assignment, one he had taken very seriously. So seriously, not even a
whole bowl of Ma's meatballs distracted him from it fully. Now there was a
female to be respected. A strong matriarch with a strong line. Well,
except, perhaps, for a few of the young ones. But he was willing to give
even them the benefit of the doubt; they did play chase well, and gave
quite acceptable back scratches. Yes, he would give them a few more
seasons. 

 Ben and Margaret's young one, however, he was quite sure, would be far
superior. It was good that Ben now knew he was going to be a father, even
if he had acted like he was being chased by stinging flies after he'd
found out. He, on the other hand, had known for weeks; the fact that Ben
couldn't smell the changes in Margaret made him despair yet again for
human senses. He had begun to wonder if he should tell Ben about the young
one. It was good he hadn't had to. 

 Now, as he walked down the street next to Margaret, he felt excited and
tense about this coming confrontation and had to contain the urge to run
down the street or frisk around her feet. Somehow he didn't think she
would appreciate the display, so, difficult though it was, he contained
himself. Ah, well, perhaps he would have the chance to bare his fangs and
growl. It was always most diverting to see humans freeze when he did that,
and Ben didn't let him do it very often. Ben was not here, however. 

 The thought was so diverting, it took him a moment to realize Margaret
had stopped in front of one of the buildings with the golden curves on its
sign. 

 "Do you want one with sausage or bacon, Dief?" she asked. 

 His quick response made her shake her head. "You want one of each?" she
asked incredulously. She took his yip for the affirmative it was and went
in the restaurant while he waited. 

 She was getting quite good at listening to him. He liked her much better
than the Other One. They were well rid of that one. He hadn't liked her
even before she had crossed the line and shot him. In fact, he hadn't
liked her from the first time Ben had mentioned her - something in the
man's voice had raised his hackles. If they were lucky, she would never
come back again. 

 He looked up as Margaret came out holding a bag full of wonderful smells
and followed her to one of the tables in front of the restaurant. She even
unwrapped them for him. That was nice - the papers always left an
unpleasant aftertaste when he had to lick or bite it out of the way. Out
of deference for the female, he ate each sandwich in several bites rather
than one gulp. He did, after all, have manners when he chose to use them. 

 She took longer to finish her meal - smaller mouth - so he curled up
against her legs under the table just to let her know he was there, that
she wasn't alone, and that she could depend upon him. She stroked him a
little with her foot. Nice. 

 Humans. What would they do without him?  

 Frannie rolled over, rubbing her eyes and putting out her arm to hug Ren
and have a morning cuddle. Finding other side of the bed empty and cold
was an abrupt shock, and sitting up in confusion, she realized this
definitely wasn't their bedroom. Memory flooded back: Ottawa, Meg, Dief. 

 Which didn't tell her where Meg or Dief were. She turned her head to look
at the bathroom, but she could tell the light was off behind the partially
open door: no one in there. Somehow she didn't think Meg was hiding behind
the drapes. Bending over, she swung her head over the edge of the bed and
looked beneath it. No Dief. A quick glance under the bed Meg had slept in
showed he wasn't under that one either. 

 "Well, crap!" She huffed, throwing back the covers and leaping out of
bed. "Now what?" She should've expected Meg to go off by herself. It was
totally obvious now that she thought about it. "I had to pick last night
of all nights to sleep like a scone." 

 Standing there trying to figure out what to do next, she happened to turn
her head and catch sight of a note on the table. Grabbing it with eager
hands, she muttered "some business" under her breath while she skimmed the
note. "Yeah, some business named Cloutier," she snorted. At least Dief was
with her annoying friend. 

 Suddenly another thought occurred to her; Meg didn't know she knew what
the "business" really was, or where she was going. Maybe if she hurried,
she could get to the guys before Meg met with Cloutier. Worth a shot
anyway. 

 First step, though, was calling the guys and seeing if she could catch
them before they left for the day. Digging through the purse she'd tossed
under the table last night, she rummaged through it for the scrap of paper
with the Westin's number. Wallet, brush, bonus pack of gum, sunglasses,
hand cream, a knob off her desk at work, nail polish, a pamphlet from of
one of those Jojoba Witness guys in the airport, Chapstick, ha! Here it
was, one scrap of paper complete with phone number. 

 Punching in the numbers with quick little pokes that underlined her
anxiety, Frannie propped the receiver against her shoulder and started
unbuttoning her jammies with the other hand. "Come on, come on," she
breathed through the first couple rings. 

 "Good morning and thank you for calling the Westin Ottawa; how may I
direct your call?" 

 God, was the whole county full of morning people? Frannie bit back a
snippy reply to the sunny voice and asked to be connected to the guys'
room. 

 Seven rings later, she got cycled back through to the front desk. 

 "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the guests in that room aren't answering the
phone. May I forward your call to voice mail?" 

 "Uh, can you let me try one more time? Just to make sure they're not
sleeping or something?" 

 "Certainly, ma'am." The chirpy voice immediately gave way to rings once
again. 

 After another seven rings, the voice slid back across the line. "I'm
sorry, there's still no answer. Would you care to leave a message?" 

 "Yeah, could ya' put me though to voice mail?" Her voice came out
slightly muffled as she bent over and shucked her pj shorts. 

 "Of course, ma'am. Have a pleasant day," she sang before a mechanical
voice took over. Frannie liked that voice better - it didn't make her want
to slap the woman for being way too happy before she'd had her first cup
of coffee. 

 She left a quick message telling the guys where they were staying and
that Meg had managed to slip past her and was most likely headed toward
Cloutier's office. Ending the message by telling them she was going to
head over to Headquarters and get to Meers office as quickly as she could,
Frannie slammed the phone down and barreled into the bathroom. 

 Thank goodness she didn't have long hair anymore - her hair was so thick,
it would've taken forever to get washed and dried enough to be
presentable. With her hair short, she could almost just comb it out and
go. She hoped her and Ren's kids would have Ren's hair - full and wavy
without being so thick it was like a mane or something. 

 Rinsing the soap off her body with hurried motions, Frannie tried to
console herself with the thought that Meg could handle herself. She was a
Mountie, it was daylight, and there would be people around the building.
'She can handle herself,' she thought again, turning off the water and
grabbing a towel. 

 The thought didn't do much to stop her growing sense of foreboding.  

 Meg walked up the steps to the building with Cloutier's office. It wasn't
the main RCMP building, but one off to the side, so perhaps it would be a
bit easier getting Dief through security. Despite her initial reluctance
about having him come along, there was no way she was going to leave him
behind now. His protective stance not only made her feel safer, it felt
like a little bit of Ben was with her, supporting her. A few minutes ago,
Dief had curled up against her legs while she ate, radiating warmth that
she soaked up eagerly. She knew dogs could sense human emotions, so she
didn't think it was too much of stretch to think he had been comforting
her. Well, whether it had been deliberate or not, she'd felt comforted,
and there was no way she was leaving him outside. 

 Looking down at him, she opened the door; he glanced up at her before
trotting ahead through the double doors. She could've sworn his eyes were
full of excitement and wished she could know what he was thinking. 

 The guard manning the desk looked up as they walked through the door; Meg
recognized the look in his eyes very clearly: is that a wolf - and if it
is, what do I do? Pulling out a friendly but official smile, she checked
the young man's uniform. 

 "Good morning, Constable." Pulling out her badge, she flashed it at him
and identified herself. "Inspector Thatcher. I have an appointment up in
legal." Slipping the wallet back in her purse, she turned toward the
elevators as if nothing was unusual about her companion. Nothing like a
good offense. 

 "Ah, ah," the young man sputtered. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but dogs aren't
allowed in the building unless they're working dogs." 

 She turned around and raised an imperious eyebrow, her tone crisp; it was
her inspector's voice, the one that had made Vecchio begin calling her
Dragon Lady. "He is a material witness, Constable. Thank you for following
regulations," she cut him off as he opened his mouth again, "but this is a
special case. There won't be a problem," she finished, her tone making it
very clear that the only problem here would be him if he continued to
bother her. 

 Not giving him a chance to protest any further, she walked with decision
to the bank of elevators and pushed the button. One elevator dinged almost
immediately - there was hardly anyone in the building this early - and she
and Dief got in it. Turning around to face the doors allowed her a final
glance of the guard; he looked rather poleaxed so she smiled assuredly.
Glancing down at Dief as the doors closed with a sliding thunk, she
would've sworn he was smiling too. It made her grin a bit despite the fact
that she had just pressed the button to Cloutier's floor. 

 She was a Mountie and she could do this, but it was good not to be alone.
 

 Chapter 47 

 Walking along the corridor to Cloutier's office, Meg was struck by how
different this trek was from the last time she'd walked this direction.
Despite the fact that it had been just a few months since her last visit,
it felt like an age or two had passed. 

 This time her steps were deliberate and purposeful. Last time, she hadn't
even been sure her feet were touching the floor; she and Ben had spent the
entire night before her last trip making love, and her body had still been
tingling, caught somewhere between lassitude and hypersensitivity. They'd
finally broken through the long-standing barriers between them, and for
the first time in her life, she knew she'd found someone who would not
only love her as much as she loved him, but who would challenge and
stimulate her in every way. His intelligence and emotions countered hers -
not seeking to dominate or be submissive, but matching them in intensity.
At long last, she had found her equal. She'd finally recognized him for
the man he was, and, most amazing of all, he'd seemed to feel the same way
about her. It'd felt like she had a insatiable well of laughter inside
her, and only years of ingrained decorum were keeping her from giggling
with the joy filling her. 

 All that had changed abruptly, of course, just a few steps from where she
stood now. The bubbles of contentment had popped and dissolved. It was
that complete and abrupt jolt that had held her captive and shocked in so
many days of immobility. 

 Looking back on that day, however, she pushed back the unpleasant
memories, and summoning thoughts of Ben, she pulled strength from them
instead. This time, they would not be brutally ripped away from her. She
was the one in control now. This time there was no immobility, only
dynamism. Hers. 

 Standing in the hallway, looking at the nameplate emblazoned with
Cloutier's name next to the door, Meg knew absolutely she had made the
right decision coming here. She was about to put an end to Cloutier and
his sick games. Then she would find Ben and fight tooth and nail to
recapture all the feelings she'd carried with her at the beginning of her
last visit. All of them, and more; now that they were going to have a
baby, there was the potential for so much more. They had obstacles to over
come, but, damn it, she was going to make sure they had the chance to do
so. 

 An inquiring whine from Dief pulled her from her reverie. Looking down at
her companion, she smiled. 

 "No, Dief, thank you. I'm fine. Everything is going to be just fine." 

 Reaching down with the hand not holding her briefcase, she patted him as
he pressed himself against her leg. She almost staggered under his weight,
but balanced herself and gave him one last firm pat. Straightening, she
put her hand on the doorknob and walked into Henri Cloutier's office.  

 "Hey, Ray, ya' know what time it is?" 

 Ray Vecchio looked up in annoyance at his fellow cop, ready to snap back
and tell him to look at his own damned watch. Then he caught sight of the
dancing eyes and bright grin over the edge of a Styrofoam coffee cup. "No,
Ray, what time is it?" What was the little shit up to now? 

 "It's O'Fraser early!" Kowalski cackled back over the table in their base
next to Meers' office. 

 Turnbull snorted and sputtered around the mouthful of orange juice in his
mouth as Vecchio collapsed against the back of his chair, laughing. 

 Fraser looked up from the papers in front of him, raising an eyebrow. "I
hardly think that's an official time measurement, Ray," he said dryly. 

 "Aw, come on, Fraze - even Ren thought that was funny!" Ray countered,
waving a hand at Turnbull who was busy looking intent on wiping up the
juice he'd spilled. 

 Fraser crossed his arms, but Ray could tell from the set of his lips he
was amused. "And exactly what time would O'Kowalski be - 1 pm?" 

 "Nah, Fraze, 5 pm: quitt'n time!" 

 "Ah." 

 "That's Mountie for 'I see the logic of your words and agree with them,'
isn't it, Fraze?" 

 "Perhaps." The word was evenly said, with almost no inflection behind it.


 "Ooh, Mountie of few words," Ray Kowalski taunted engagingly. "Ya' wanna
see if you can explain to me in just one word how you can look all bright
eyed and bushy tailed when I know for a fact that we got the same amount
of sleep last night - namely, not enough? I mean, you know, besides the
Mountiousity." 

 "Certainty." This time Fraser's tone was just as even, but the word
seemed . . . fuller somehow, weighty. 

 "Certainty?" Ray nodded with mock sagacity. "A good one word, but
certainty of what, exactly?" 

 "Certainty that very soon we will have the warrants to arrest Cloutier.
Certainty that the bastard will shortly be behind bars." 

 The intensity in Fraser's voice dimmed some of Ray's exuberance, adding a
jolt of reality to his game, but he wanted to keep the moment light, to
not chance the Mountie slipping into brooding. "Good point, buddy. That's
almost enough to make me not need to put Smarties in my coffee." Seeing
the skeptical looks on the other men's faces, he went on, holding out his
arms in a shrug. "I said almost. But I figure it's my own personal tribute
to Canada, Land of the Smarties, to pop a few into my coffee." 

 Fraser shook his head and picked up the paper in front of him, though he
didn't immediately look at it. "That's very noble of you, Ray." 

 "That's me, Ray Kowalski, Noble Cop," he stated, striking a pose with his
hands on his hips and his chest thrust out. 

 "Yeah, well, whadda say you move that noble butt over to your chair and
get to work, Stanley?" Vecchio asked, torn between amusement at his
friends' banter and frustration that they were distracting him from work.
"We've only got a few minutes until Ren's gotta go over to Cloutier's
office, so could we focus here?" 

 "I guess we can do that, Raymundo," the blond cop shot back, knowing
Vecchio didn't like being called Raymundo any more than he liked being
called Stanley - it was a mother thing, but the moms were the only ones
who could get away with it. He acquiesced to getting to work, however, and
they spent the time until Ren had to leave comparing notes and jotting
ideas of what to investigate next.  

 While the rest of the team got to work, Jonathon Meers sat down the hall
in an emergency meeting in his superior's office discussing the
investigation and deciding how to proceed on the arrest warrants. He'd
gotten summoned by his commanding officer as soon as he'd walked into the
office, before he'd even had time to get a cup of coffee. Before he'd had
time to check his voice mail or his email. 

 If he had checked his voice mail, he would've found a message in a gruff
sounding voice full of urgency informing him that Margaret Thatcher and
Francesca Turnbull were headed up to Ottawa, and that Thatcher was
undoubtedly planning on dropping in on a certain Legal Attach. 

 If he had checked his email, he would've found a note from the same man,
with the same information, as well as a note from late last night
reiterating the same message, along with hotel information for the two
women. Welsh had sent that one after a hurried phone call from Frannie
while Meg had been in the bathroom. 

 Unfortunately, Meers hadn't had time to check either system this morning.


 Across town, another message languished unreceived, and had been joined
by the message from Francesca this morning. The red message light on the
phone in the suite's living room blinked dutifully from under the coffee
table where it had been moved to create more working space. A similar
light blinked urgently under a sweatshirt Ray Kowalski had tossed on the
nightstand last night and been too tired to pick up this morning. Sadly,
the light on the phone in the room Vecchio and Turnbull shared didn't
work.  

 In Chicago, in a cramped office in the 27th Precinct, Lt. Harding Welsh
sat at his desk and wondered why he hadn't gotten a response to any of his
messages. He'd come into work early this morning, no longer able to sit
home not knowing how the group up north was dealing with this wrinkle in
the plans. Pushing his mouse around with an impatient hand, he checked his
email again; neither of the emails he'd sent Meers had been opened. 

 He picked up his phone and dialed the superintendent's office. Worry made
his voice sharp, but the secretary on the other end of the line, who,
luckily, Meers had asked to come in early to help with paperwork, was
efficient and used to dealing with worried people. She dutifully
transcribed the message on a pink message form - in fact, the message was
so long, she had to use the back of the form as well. 

 Unfortunately, Meers wouldn't receive that message either.  

 Chapter 48 

 Not even the quiet hum of the copy machine broke the stillness as they
walked though the door into the dim outer office. That suited Margaret
Thatcher just fine - no interruptions for the coming conversation. The
lights were on in the office through the heavy double doors. He was here.
Nice to see he hadn't changed his habits. Perhaps that predictability
would help her in a few minutes. 

 Taking a deep breath and tightening her grip on the handle of her
briefcase, she started to step deeper into the office, only to realize
Dief was growling quietly, deep in his throat. His whole body was tensed,
ears back, hackles bristling, although he was sticking close to her, not
moving forward. 

 Quickly dropping to one knee, she risked putting a gentle hand on his
back. "Look at me," she said quietly, barely rippling the stillness. "Look
at me," she repeated when he didn't immediately move his head. Finally he
swung his head around, but the rest of his body didn't relax, and his tail
stayed straight out, waving menacingly. "I need you to be calm now," she
insisted, demanding compliance. "Dief, listen, we can't start out this
way, understand?" He relaxed minimally and licked at the hand she had put
against his muzzle, whining slightly, clearly trying to comply with her
command but not liking it. "I know, I know. Believe me. But let's save
that kind of thing for a bit later, shall we?" she said with a toothy grin
of her own. "Then you can growl at him to your wolfy content, ok?" 

 He still didn't look pleased, but he backed down and went back to
standing quietly by her side. His stance remained highly watchful however.
Nodding her approval, she began walking forward again.	

 The smell assaulting his senses as soon as he'd walked though the door
made him slam into hyper alert, and he hadn't been able to control the low
growls coming out of his throat. He'd been disquieted by scents in the
hallway as they'd come closer to this room, but he'd been too focused on
trying to decide what she was up against to fully identify the lingering
odor. 

 Now he knew. 

 The whole office reeked with the scent of the man who had visited
Consulate several times over the last few months. He did not like this
human. Not at all. 

 When he visited, Ben withdrew even further and became even more quiet.
The distance that Ben put between himself and everyone else did not,
however, hide the smells of pain and deep sadness that always increased
when this human was around. 

 Margaret also changed when this human came. She wouldn't talk to him or
share her croissants with him, and while she seemed to be all smiles and
laughter, she was always so tense he would swear he could see her vibrate.


 Now they were in this human's territory. Yet Margaret had ordered him
down. 

 She was the alpha's mate. He would find a way to moderate his instincts.
Somehow. If only because she had promised him a later. 

 Yes, later he would find a way to punish this human for the pain he had
been causing his packmates. 

 Feeling like he was the one vibrating now, Dief stepped even closer to
Margaret and followed her into this human's den.  

 Stepping into the doorway, wolf by her side, Meg pushed the door open and
cleared her throat. "Good morning, Henri." 

 Henri Cloutier's head whipped up so quickly the half-glasses resting on
his nose bounced. He gaped for a moment before rising and catching his
upper thighs on his desk. Trying to hide a wince, he straightened rapidly
and quickly found his voice. 

 "Why, Meggy," he greeted her, smile wide. "What brings you to Ottawa, my
dear. Dare I hope you came to see me?" 

 "As a matter of fact I did, Henri," she answered, deliberately using his
first name again, not calling him 'sir' as she had been for the last few
months. She felt pleased at the flash of wariness that echoed back in his
eyes. "We need to talk."  

 He watched her stand in the doorway. It looked like she might've lost
more weight, which he didn't like to see, but something was different
about Meg, something he couldn't put his finger on. 

 It was a shock to see her here, and shock always made him wary. But then
he'd realized what it must be - why she must be here. 

 He'd won. 

 She must be here to capitulate to what he wanted; his efforts had worked
- she now understood who she belonged with, and he had burned through so
many layers of her old behavior, she had come in person rather than
calling or waiting for him to call. Oh, this was charming; this was
delightful. This was more than he'd expected. 

 Still, it wouldn't do to gloat too much - he didn't want to crush her
after all, just tame her. Make her see the error of her ways. Chose him
over that cardboard Mountie. 

 Smoothing his hair to cover his less than graceful attempts to rise and
meet her, he put on his most charming smile and beckoned her forward. "Of
course we can talk, my dear. Please come in." 

 Then he saw her companion. The wolf. What was she doing with the wolf?
He'd encountered the creature several times during his recent jaunts to
Chicago, and each time he had felt like it had been watching him, sizing
him up as its next meal. It would skulk into Meg's office while he checked
up on her, and if glaring wasn't such a human expression, Henri would've
sworn that's what the beast was doing. Why in the world would she have
brought the wolf, a wolf who belonged to the man she had been forbidden to
have non-business contact with? 

 His initial wariness ratcheted back up again, and his smile dimmed a bit.
If she thought she could challenge him, she was sorely mistaken.  

 Meg motioned to Dief to follow her, and as she walked closer to
Cloutier's desk, she watched the emotions flashing across the man's face.
He thought he was so clever, so subtle, when, in fact, she could see it
all there on his face: a flash of wariness, glee, an attempt to hide that
glee, and then a return of the wariness. 'Ah,' she thought, 'he doesn't
know what to make of Dief.' Then she had an epiphany. 'He's afraid of the
wolf!' An amused ripple followed the thought through her brain. Yes, well,
that might come in useful later. For the moment, however, she had other
things focus on first. 

 She sat down, prepared to rise again if he stayed standing - she would
not give him that advantage. He sat down when she did, however, so she set
her briefcase down and crossed her legs. Reaching out, she put her hand on
Dief's head, stroking it. She couldn't decide if it was more to keep Dief
calm or to make it clear to Henri that she had the wolf's trust. Didn't
really matter - both intents were valuable and being met. 

 Looking across his desk at him, she felt sure of herself, but unsure of
how she should start this conversation. Should she come right out and
present him with the data she and her friends had spent the last several
weeks gathering? Should she keep that back and not show her full hand
until later? 

 Perhaps starting out in a less hostile way would be better. That might be
prudent, but it did disappoint the part of her eager to strike back at
him, to draw first blood. In a figurative sense, of course. She considered
a moment longer - she'd settle for trapping him just has he'd trapped her.


 Still, he could be very wily when threatened. Perhaps it would just be
best to let his reactions be her guide. Following her actions with her
decision, she gazed at him evenly, not saying anything for a moment. 

 He cracked first. "So, Meggy, what brings you here?" 

 This was it - the moment of truth. She settled on her opening gambit.
"Did you request Turnbull?" 

 Chapter 49 

 "Excuse me?" Confusion flashed in Cloutier's eyes; clearly whatever he
had been expecting, it wasn't that question. 

 "When your secretary went out on emergency leave, did you request my
constable to work in your office?" she demanded. 

 "Of course not! I was told you had grown tired of his constant ineptness
and asked for him to be transferred. He and my usual blundering secretary
seem to be friends - not hard to see why, they're both nearly useless - so
when Buckman left on some family emergency, I got stuck with Turnbull,
another blundering idiot." 

 Meg bristled at Cloutier's characterization of Turnbull but struggled not
to show it. Turnbull might not be perfect, but he was her bumbling idiot,
damn it! Forcing herself to focus, she considered Henri's words, but
couldn't completely decide if he was telling the truth. "I see." 

 She watched as his eyes grew sharp. "Oh, I see, you thought I had
requested the idiot as part of our little game." He clucked his tongue,
clearly feeling very sure of his position. "Really, Meggy, I thought you
had learned I didn't need to stoop to such mean tricks. I prefer subtlety.
Besides, you are already mine, I'm just waiting for you to realize it." 

 Meg knew an opening when she saw it. She parried back. "Actually, Henri,
it's Margaret, not Meggy. Occasionally Meg, to my friends, but you, sir,"
her tone made the word an insult not a title of respect, "are not my
friend. Nor am I yours. In fact, if anything, you are the one who is
sitting beneath Damocles' sword." 

 "Oh, really?" he mocked, but she could see the wheels turning in his head
as he absorbed that comment. "And what makes you say that, Meggy, hmm?" 

 His words made it clear to Meg that his over-inflated self-image refused
to seriously believe she could be doing anything but playing with him, but
the watchful look was back in his eyes. Perhaps she was getting through. 

 She did, however, feel her self-control slip a notch in the face of his
supercilious attitude and smarmy smile. Trying to dial her reaction back,
but tiring of this parry and riposte they had going, Meg decided to go
ahead and thrust. "Does the name Ian Felts ring a bell, Henri?" 

 He froze in the midst of unwrapping a candy and moving to lean back in
his chair. "Who?" 

 'Not a very original answer, Henri,' she thought. Out loud she went on.
"Ian Felts. He was a file clerk in office while I was attached to your
division a few years ago. Coming back to you?" 

 He dropped the candy on his blotter unopened and leaned forward, resting
his elbows on the desktop. "Not really." His tone and the way his smug
expression faded, though, indicated otherwise. 

 "He remembers you," she replied softly. She paused, letting him absorb
that for a moment and put her hand back on Dief. His fur felt soft under
her fingertips and not only helped her re-center herself, it helped the
wolf back off a bit too; he'd tensed when Henri leaned forward. 

 An arrogant look reestablished itself on Cloutier's face. "And what
exactly does he remember?" 

 "A great deal. He told me about how you falsified his fitness reports and
had him demoted to the mailroom." She was glad she'd taken her hand back
off Dief's head as her hand fisted against her thigh from the thought of
Ian's lingering sadness and the guilt she felt for unwittingly playing a
role in his demotion. Meg forced herself to relax her hand - such external
displays could be taken as a weakness, and she couldn't be seen as weak.
Not when so much hung in the balance. "You ruined his career." 

 "Did I?" he asked, widening in eyes in a parody of surprise. He picked
the discarded candy up again, rustling the wrapper as he played it between
his fingers. "Well," he went on, "even if I did, there isn't any proof."
He raised an eyebrow. "I find myself disappointed in you again, my dear,
but then, you shouldn't try to challenge a master at this kind of thing.
All you've shown me today is that you still haven't learned your lesson
about whom you belong to. That's too bad," he sighed silkily, "we shall
have to find a way to expand your lessons." 

 Meg smiled tightly, not giving into the unstated threat against Ben. "I
didn't say I was finished." That made his eyes harden. "What about Ron
Smith?" 

 "That fairy?" His tone became noticeably harsher. "He wouldn't have the
balls to say anything about me." 

 "Hmm," Meg countered with an eyebrow lift of her own. Teasing the tiger a
bit, she refused to answer his implicit question and went on to the next
name on her mental list. "Do you know Betty Mayberry?" 

 "Never heard of her." 

 "She's definitely heard of you. She's a secretary for a superintendent
over in Human Relations and had a very good friend who committed suicide."


 "And this is relevant to me how?" 

 "Her friend's name was Janice Tilannon. She knows what you were holding
over Janice's head, what drove her to finally commit suicide." He gave up
all pretense of playing with the candy; his hand hung out in midair like a
wax statue. "She also has in her possession a letter Janice wrote
detailing the way you were blackmailing her, and a record of the money she
paid you. Janice mailed it to Judy just before she died with instructions
to send it to IA in case her husband died before you did so that he
couldn't be hurt or affected by what you had done to her. When I contacted
Betty, however, and explained the situation, she decided Janice would
understand and support her decision to send a copy of the letter and its
contents to me as part of my larger investigation into your dealings. The
letter is quite affecting." 

 Henri Cloutier launched himself out of his chair, the quick motion
sending it flying back to hit the wall. His aggressive posture and the
loud bang made Dief tense again and growl menacingly, but Cloutier was too
intent on his leaking life raft to notice. "That woman was completely
unstable! She had zero credibility. Everyone knew she had been on
medication for years." 

 Meg stayed seated, a gentling hand on Diefenbaker's neck, glorying in
being the one in control this time. She decided to hammer her point home
with one more example, but which one to choose? There were over half a
dozen more to chose from. Before she reached a final decision, however,
Cloutier spoke again. 

 "And you really think these pieces of information - a weak willed mail
boy, a fairy, and an unstable woman - are going to help you? You are
sorely mistaken, Margaret, if you think this is going to change anything."


 She tried very hard not to let her smile be gloating but only partially
succeeded. "Well, you see, Henri, that isn't all I have," she answered in
a calm voice that contrasted sharply with the blazing anger in his words.
Lifting the hand patting Dief, she bent over and picked up her briefcase.
Flipping the top flap open, she angled the open compartment towards him
allowing him to see the collection of folders. "I've been busy," she
mentioned in mock apology. 

 He smiled placating as he sank back into his high-backed chair. "Let me
see what you've gathered, my dear." 

 "Oh, no, Henri, after all, accidents do happen, you know," she countered,
echoing his words from three months ago back to him. 

 His answering smile didn't reflect humor. "So, it appears I have
underestimated you. What exactly do you want?" 

 Meg felt small squiggles of shock run through her; she hadn't expected
him to try bargaining so quickly. 'I want the last three months back.' 

 He must've seen something of the thought on her face, because he abruptly
took a different tack, striking at what he saw as a weakness. "Clearly I
don't have you trained as well as I thought I did. But that's all right.
After all, I still have the information about you and Benton Fraser. What
do you say we call this a draw, hmmm? We've reached in impasse. You have
something on me, I have something on you; we'll forget about it all." He
made a grand shrug. "After all, you aren't my only iron in the fire. I
have other . . . friends, shall we say, who I'm quite sure would be more
welcoming of my attentions, and you can have that Fraser back, how does
that sound, hmm?" 

 This time it was she who bolted out of her chair. The idea of him pulling
the same kind of extortion on other women - maybe women who didn't have
the same means to fight back and protect themselves as she did -
absolutely infuriated her. How could he think that she would be party to
his sleazy victimization? The very thought was reprehensible. Anathema.
Meg swooped her briefcase up and whipping out the shoulder strap, slung it
on her shoulder, her blistering fury making her strike out at him. All of
the frustration and pain and fear from the last few months spilled over
and decimated her previously cautious stance. "Not a chance, Henri, not a
chance. This is what we are going to do; you are going to hand over
Fraser's file and mine, and then I am going to go over to IA and hand over
all of my records. Your days of inflicting pain and terror are over." She
smiled threateningly through her anger. "If you don't, I'll let Dief go -
he's been restrained by my command to stay by me. If I release him, who
knows what he might do. You aren't one of his favorite people." 

 Cloutier lost all color in one mad rush of blood, and Meg could've sworn
she could smell the stink of his fear. He seemed to shrink in on himself,
the large chair making him seem even smaller. She thought she saw
something flash in his eyes, but it was gone before she had a chance to
identify it. 

 "You leave me little choice, Margaret. Clearly you have learned something
about negotiating since your last visit." 

 She didn't react to the comment, just waited to see what he would do
next. 

 Getting no reaction, he face changed again, this time reflecting more of
what seemed to be petulance. "Fine," he spat. "You can have the files -
they're right here in my desk drawer." He reached down and pulled open the
second drawer down, the scuffing sound it made as it opened quiet after
his outburst. He came back up with a couple of folders in one hand, which
he extended to her, holding them out in front of him. 

 She took them, only to be greeted by what he held in his other hand. 

 A gun. 

 "Well, well, well, my dear Meggy," he mocked. "Just as I underestimated
you, you appear to have underestimated me. Such a shame. I did so like
you."  

 Chapter 50 

 'Good Heavens, I'm tired,' Ren sighed to himself after he left his
friends and headed toward Cloutier's office. 'At least this is probably
the last day I'll ever have to work here,' he consoled himself, cheering a
bit at the heartening thought. 

 Still, the weight of his dread seemed to increase with each step he took
closer to his destination. The combination of having lived through three
days working for Cloutier and working until after midnight following up
leads for the past two nights hadn't left much time for sleep. Listening
to his brother-in-law's groans and complaints as they'd gotten up this
morning hadn't done much for Ren's mood either. Somehow, however, he'd
found the inner fortitude to not counter Ray's complaints by pointing out
that at least Ray wasn't the one who had to spend his day working for
Cloutier. 

 How in the world had Mark survived there for so long? Undoubtedly, the
fact that Mark hadn't known how despicable Cloutier truly was, and that he
wasn't acquainted with Cloutier's other victims, had made the whole
situation easier to deal with. Nonetheless, Cloutier's constant
browbeating and criticism made each task a minefield of horrors. 

 Ren had decided the first day that he should never again complain about
Inspector Thatcher's methods or standards - she might be exacting, and at
times even harsh, but she was never deliberately cruel. She never took
pleasure in grinding one of her staff into the carpet, or in finding
mistakes. Cloutier made Thatcher's worst day look like nursery school. 

 The cool air and light breeze felt good against his face as Ren walked
between the two buildings - he had spent very little time outside over the
past few days between working during the day and investigating at night,
and he missed the open air. 

 He also missed Francesca. It'd only been a few nights - not even a whole
week of nights - since he had come to Ottawa, but he missed his wife
dreadfully. One of the few good aspects of the constant work was that it
helped keep his mind off Francesca. Somehow, her brother just didn't
possess the same charm as a roommate. He also snored. 

 Ray did have some interesting stories to tell, however. The image of
Francesca as a cheerleader would stay in Ren's memory for a long, long
time. Perhaps she still had the uniform. That was an alluring thought.
He'd always liked pleats. 

 Going through the double doors to the building housing Cloutier's office,
Ren moved his thoughts away from his wife and back to the present. Safer
that way - decreased the chances he trip over a doorjamb or a wrinkle in
the carpet. 

 "Just one more day," he muttered, "two at the outside. Just one more
day."  

 Several parts of Meg's mind were screaming all at once. 

 'My God, the baby!' 

 'My God, Ben!' 

 'God, he would use a gun like that!' The snub-nosed .32 Smith and Wesson
looked like a toy in Cloutier's hand. She bet it even had a pearl handle. 

 The bullets would still kill her, however. 

 'Why the hell did I push him so hard? Even knowing he's unstable and
unpredictable, I had to go and lose my temper. Think, Margaret, think! How
are you going to get yourself out of this one?' 

 Dief's growling brought her back out of her shrieking thoughts. While
she'd frozen in her chair, he had stood up, hackles bristling, lips curled
above bared teeth. He'd never looked more like a wolf or more terrifying. 

 At some level she was shocked he hadn't launched himself over the desk
and directly at Cloutier's throat. On another level, she was very, very
glad he hadn't, the way Cloutier was wildly training the gun back and
forth between them. 

 Dief backed up a couple of steps, trying to find a better angle to leap
from, his body lowered and tight, but he still didn't spring, clearly torn
between his urge to protect her and the urge to take out the threat. 

 "Call him off! Call him off!" Cloutier bit out, desperation growing in
his voice and making it shrill. Florid color bloomed more deeply across
his face, and all traces of his earlier smugness had disappeared. 

 Making a decision, Meg stood slowly, holding out her hand in a gesture
somewhere between surrender and supplication. "Don't shoot him! You don't
need to do that." Flashing images of Dief lying on the floor bleeding, of
blood-matted fur, hiked her own fear. She'd read the studies - she knew
the statistics about police dogs getting shot; their smaller bodies didn't
deal well with the trauma, and many bled out before they could get to a
vet. She couldn't let that happen. Her mind continued torturing her,
however, as it flashed though several images of Ben finding out Dief was
dead. Of having to tell him. She'd already been the cause of so much pain
the last few months, the thought of adding more almost made her freeze,
but she forced herself to move. Stepping across the front of the desk, in
front of Dief, she moved sideways slowly, keeping her eyes locked on
Henri. Dropping to her knees she wrapped her arm around the wolf's neck.
She could feel his growls rumbling though his body and up into her arm. It
made the hair on her arms stand up, mirroring the wolf's. 

 "I'm sure we can work something out, Henri," she tried, holding on
tightly to Diefenbaker. 

 "Oh, yes, we can work something out, on my terms, Meggy. This is my game
now, and you're going to play by my rules!" 

 She watched his eyes. They were dark and wild as they darted from her
eyes to Dief's. "All right, we'll play by your rules," she said quietly. 

 A strange glint broke though the wild lights in his eyes. "Ah, so you are
trainable, my dear, you will obey. It just seems we needed to increase the
inducement. I'll keep that in mind." 

 Meg felt a deep ripple of disgust invade the fear already echoing through
her mind, playing havoc with her abilities to think clearly and reason a
way out of this. The predatory glint in the eyes of the man staring at her
over the barrel of his gun made her more afraid and repulsed than she
could ever remembered being. It was as if all the avaricious and covetous
looks he'd given her before - from the times he'd chased her around a
desk, to a few months ago when he started blackmailing her - were
multiplied a hundredfold. 

 "First game we're going to play is 'Get Rid of the Wolf.' Then we can
decide what to do with you. Put the wolf in the bathroom." He jerked his
head to the side toward the bathroom. 

 Dief growled again and barked sharply. Meg tightened her grip again and
told Henri she needed to talk to the wolf, shifting around so that she
faced the wolf. She spoke quietly but worked to enunciate clearly for him.
"Please, Dief, come on. You know what he said - he'll shoot you if you
don't let me put you in the bathroom." He whined sharply, barking again.
Meg buried her face in his fur for a moment, then moved back just far
enough that he could see her mouth. "Please, Dief - you know you can do
this - I think he's going to take me somewhere. I need you to stay safe so
you can find a way to get to Turnbull or Francesca and get help. I don't
want you getting shot because of me. That wouldn't be logical or smart -
think of what Ben would say." She felt him huff a little in disgust at her
blatant ploy. "All right, then do it for me." He huffed again between
whines, but she could feel him back off a bit. 

 He continued whining, however, as she half-pulled him to the bathroom.
She gave him one last hug, praying this wouldn't be the last time she saw
him. Dief got in one more series of barks, staring fiercely at the man
with the gun, before Meg shut the door with a snap. 

 "All right, he's in the bathroom; now what?" Meg walked back around the
front of the desk, hoping to distract Cloutier from the sound of Dief's
claws clacking against the tile floor of the bathroom, and the low growls
punctuated the clicks. 

 "Now you sit down, over there on the couch." He waved the gun with a
shaking hand - he clearly wasn't very comfortable using it; he kept
adjusting it with his other hand and nervously moved between a two handed
stance and holding the gun in just one hand. Meg wouldn't quite decide
which thought concerned her more: if he did know how to use the gun or if
he didn't. She evidently wasn't moving quickly enough for him because he
bellowed. "Sit down!" 

 Almost tripping in her haste to keep him as calm as possible, Meg sank
down on the end of the couch nearest to his desk and watched him. He
remained behind his desk, too far away for her to try to wrest the gun
away from him, and paced back and forth very quickly. 

 "You've put me in quite a pickle, Margaret. Of course, you're in quite a
dilly yourself." He dissolved into wild giggling that disturbed her just
as much as the look in his eyes. When he finally got control of his
giggling, it left a twisted smile behind. "What to do, what to do? You had
to make it complicated, didn't you? It could've been so easy, Meggy, so
easy. I would've been good to you. But now you've made it difficult." He
waggled the gun in her direction. "Now it appears that we'll have to take
some sort of corrective action, doesn't it?" 

 "Henri-" 

 "No! No, now is not the time you get to talk. You've done your talking.
Now it's my turn." His belligerence combined with an increasing amount of
whining. 

 She fell silent in the face of his anger, still not seeing an opening,
still not knowing what to do. 

 "I just had an inspired idea. I can take you over to IA, or better yet,
call them over here and claim you were attempting to blackmail me. What a
delicious irony!" He smiled that smile again, the one that seemed to turn
the entire bottom half of his face into a gaping maw. Then his face fell.
"Oh, but then, there is a slight flaw in that plan - you would then be
able to tell them your side of things. I wouldn't like that very much, my
dear; you see, all the things you've said? They're quite true, and it
wouldn't do to let all that get out, now would it?" 

 "Of course, I could just kill you." Meg was unable to stop her gasp as he
brought the gun back up from where he had been allowing it to drop while
he talked. Cloutier tilted the gun and his head. "Still, I don't suppose
you brought the originals with you." She shook her head slowly. "No, of
course not, Meggy, that would've been foolish, and you're never foolish,
are you? Well, at least not most of the time," he smiled, cocking an
eyebrow. 

 He went back to pacing and considering, but didn't lower the gun again
and kept it aimed at her torso. Meg didn't allow herself to sink back into
the couch. She wondered how long she had been in the office. It couldn't
have been long, but it felt like decades. 

 Suddenly he snapped the fingers of his free hand. Walking around the side
of his desk, he walked into the space between it and the seating area. He
came to a rest facing Meg, but still too far away for her to leap for the
gun. 

 "I've got it! I should've thought of this immediately." He shrugged.
"Well, we'll just chalk that up to me being distracted, shall we? You and
I are going to take a little road trip. In a stroke of brilliant fore
planning, I happen to have a small cabin a couple hours out of the city.
It's rustic -beautiful setting, surrounded by trees." He made motions
indicating a landscape with his free hand. It was no longer shaking. "Of
course, it's also isolated. The perfect place to keep guests such as
yourself, hmm?" He smiled that smile again. "Oh, yes, this will be
wonderful. The perfect place for you to reconsider your actions and see
the error of your ways. Oh, and Meggy?" The smug look was back. "I'm a
very patient man."  

 Chapter 51 

 The light beyond the dim outer office surprised Ren. There was still time
before the beginning of the workday, and the last several days had shown
that no one in the staff wanted to get here any earlier than necessary. 

 His curiosity spiked into concern when he heard Cloutier's raised voice
shout something about it being his turn to talk. The words carried a
combination of whining and anger that seemed to capture everything about
the man. 

 Something told Ren his temporary boss wasn't talking on the phone, so
with growing alarm about just what he had walked into, Ren crept forward,
putting every theory he'd ever heard about moving silently into use. 

 The large door closest to Ren stood open. Turning to the side, trying to
create as small a silhouette as possible, he moved in as close as he could
and looked though the crack between the edge of the door and the jam. It
wasn't a large gap, but it was large enough to allow him a view of the
inner office. 

 Jerking himself away from the door and his peep space, Ren managed to
stop himself from banging into the wall behind him just in time and tried
not to hyperventilate. 

 In that instant, Renfield Turnbull came closer to cursing than he ever
had in his entire life. 

 He pinched himself. Hard. And then again, just to make sure. 

 No, not asleep. This wasn't some sort of nightmare, although it
definitely qualified as a nightmarish reality. Craning his neck, he took
another quick look just for confirmation. Sadly, the results were the same
as his first glance; he had actually seen Inspector Thatcher being held at
gunpoint by Henri Cloutier. 

 'Breathe, Renfield, breathe,' he told himself, trying not to pant audibly
and straining to hear into the other room. Cloutier's voice rose and fell,
then rose again. 

 "Of course, I could just kill you," he heard the legal attach's voice
say. 

 Standing there, now leaning against the wall, Ren madly considered the
situation and his options. The Inspector was in imminent danger. Cloutier
was threatening her with a gun. 'What is she doing here?' Shaking his head
impatiently at the thought that really wasn't important right at this very
moment, he searched frantically for options. Another quick glance back
into the room revealed that Cloutier had started pacing. 

 He had to do something, but what? He couldn't go charging in there - he
didn't have his gun since he was doing clerical work, not patrol. Should
he call the others? Getting their help was vital, but how to get hold of
them? He couldn't use the phone in the office; he'd be overheard. Maybe a
phone in another office. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember if any of
them had been open, and he didn't have keys. Perhaps he could run back to
Meers' office and get the others. No, no good. That'd take several
minutes, and Cloutier was talking about killing her now. 

 'Oh, god! I've got to get word to them! We've got to do something! I've
got to do something!' Ren's stomach felt like it was turning inside out
and his heart like it was spinning. 

 Putting his hands on his thighs, Ren leaned forward at the waist, trying
to catch his breath. The movement pushed the bottom his tunic forward and
something hit the inside of his wrist. 

 Momentarily distracted, he wondered what he could possibly have in his
pocket. He never carried anything that felt like that. Sticking his hand
into the pocket, he felt the hard plastic beneath his fingers and the
beginnings of a desperate plan began to form. 

 Taking two quick, deep breaths, Constable Turnbull pressed a round,
ridged button, grabbed a random folder off the credenza next to him, and
walked through the doorway.  

 "Oh, and Meggy? I'm a very patient man." 

 Ignoring the terrible feeling Cloutier's words gave him, and ostensibly
looking the folder in his hands - oddly it held a requisition for toilet
paper - Turnbull walked into Cloutier's office, plowing forward, praying
his Obliviously Stupid Mountie Mask wasn't dissolving. "Good morning,
sir," he sang out, and looked up from the folder. "I wonder if you might .
. ." He let his voice trail off and widened his eyes so far he was
surprised his eyeballs didn't pop out. 

 Dropping his jaw, he looked between the man standing in front of the desk
and the woman seated on the couch. "Wha-what . . ." He hoped he sounded
suitably shocked - not that that was difficult at the moment. 

 Two heads whipped towards him, but other than that, no one moved. 

 "Inspector Thatcher? Ma'am? What are you doing here?" Ren said loudly. 

 Just as loudly, he went on, turning back to Cloutier. "Minister Cloutier,
is that a gun?"  

 Across a tree-filled quad and in an adjacent building, three men sat at a
table. The balding one was playing with the small canisters of creamer
that came with their coffee this morning, making little pyramids and
columns out of them. The blond had turned his chair around and sat,
straddling the seat, one of the red stirrer sticks between his teeth where
it bobbed and weaved as he turned it in his mouth. The third man, who had
black hair and lots of it, sat, arms crossed over his chest, not doing
anything in particular, although he wished he had his neat's-foot oil and
brush so that he'd have something to do with his hands. 

 They were talking of nothing and everything, as friends do. If someone
had asked them what they were talking about, they would've been hard
pressed to recount the conversation, but that suited them just fine;
there'd been a great deal of intensity in their lives the last few days. 

 At the moment, they were waiting for another man to get back so they
could see what kinds of warrants they had been granted concerning one
Henri Cloutier. 

 In the midst of their rambling conversation, the dark haired man's head
suddenly cocked to the side, his sharp ears catching a soft click. 

 Then it was as if someone had switched on a radio, but this station
didn't play music. 

 "Good morning, sir." Three heads turned sharply toward the listening
equipment across the small room. They all recognized the voice, although
it was the bald one who voiced the thought they were all thinking. 

 "What the hell . . ." His voice trailed off as the disembodied voice kept
going. 

 "I wonder if you might . . ." The voice coming through the equipment
suddenly cut off with what sounded like a shocked gasp. All three men were
now gathered around the desk with the equipment on it. 

 "Wha-what . . ." All three men tensed since the voice now sounded shocked
and worried and afraid. 

 "Inspector Thatcher? Ma'am? What are you doing here?" their absent friend
said loudly. 

 The three friends all jerked and the dark haired one leaned forward, the
better to hear, his hands fisted on the desk in front of him. 

 "Minister Cloutier, is that a gun?" 

 The word "gun" had barely stopped echoing through the room and the men's
minds before all three bolted from the room in a rush of air and a slammed
door.  

 Chapter 52 

 "What the hell are you doing here?" Cloutier's voice ripped across the
void of shocked silence. 

 Meg Thatcher sat on the edge of the sofa cushions grasping at any
possible idea for dealing with this new complication. Turnbull's entrance
put an end to any hopes she had of getting out of the building without
putting anyone else in danger. 'Oh, God,' she thought, 'I came here to try
and get Turnbull out of danger, but all I've done is land him in more.' 

 She stared between the two men, blinking, trying to review her options.
It didn't take long; there weren't many. She didn't have her gun - foolish
lack of thinking ahead, the voice of hindsight chided her. Her cell phone
was in her purse, which sat over by the chair by which Cloutier now stood.
Cloutier still stood too far away from her to risk tackling him and
wresting the gun away from him. She had a fleeting wish for a hockey
stick. Even the old Peewee League stick she used when she was seven. 

 Meg shot a quick look at Ren - he wasn't carrying his firearm either.
'Damn.' The quick glance also increased her concern for Turnbull; he
looked more vacuous than usual. In fact, she'd never seen him looking so
mindless. 

 'What the hell is he up to?" she wondered silently. Perhaps he had a
plan. She could only hope. 

 "Well, uh," the young Mountie stuttered in response to Cloutier's
question. "I work here, sir," he finally said, hesitantly. 

 "'I work here,'" Cloutier mocked in a mincing tone back at Turnbull. "'I
work here?' Isn't that convenient." He rounded back on Meg and then
waggled his head back and forth between them, the jerky movements making
him look like he was at some sort of maniacal tennis game. "You planned
this didn't you," he screamed at both of them, spittle spraying behind the
words. "You set me up!" 

 Turnbull flexed his elbows ever so slightly and then relaxed them as he
continued holding his hands high above his head in what Meg could only
assume was an homage to every gangster movie the man had seen. The
ludicrous position matched perfectly with the vacant look on his face. 

 "Set you up, sir? Oh, no, sir. Certainly not!" He glanced toward Meg and
she could see something swirling behind the empty look in his eyes,
clearly trying to tell her something. "Why would I do such a thing? I'm
here because I needed a new position after . . ." Turnbull's voice grew
even meeker if that were possible. "After Inspector Thatcher asked for me
to be reassigned." His shoulders dropped beneath his raised arms. "She
didn't feel I was up to Consular duties." 

 Meg followed his lead and turned to answer Cloutier, putting as much
scorn into her voice as she could dredge up from her dry mouth. "You
really think I'd involve him in a plan - any plan - that involved actual
thinking?" she scoffed. 

 Cloutier cackled from behind his gun and he seemed to relax
infinitesimally. "Good point, my girl, good point - you might lack
cunning, but you aren't stupid." He jerked his head toward Turnbull. "I
swear that yesterday this idiot was going to look in the coat closet when
I asked for my briefs for a case." 

 Meg didn't try and stop the small laugh the image produced. She
remembered a time when she had also thought Ren was completely brainless.
Despite the danger, pride in the young Mountie swelled inside her. She
just hoped Turnbull's hidden depths knew what they were doing. 

 Cloutier laughed with her, sharing the joke. "How in the world did you
put up with him for so long?" 

 "He's an idiot, but harmless," Meg said, trying to reinforce the thought
in Cloutier's mind. "The day I found him filing papers by color rather
than alphabetically was the day I couldn't take it any longer." She
shrugged as eloquently as she could in the face of the situation and her
fabrications. "I was just happy to be rid of him; I never thought he'd end
up here." 'Well, at least the last part of that is true.' 

 "Well, my boy, you don't seem to have many friends in high places, do
you?" Cloutier swung the gun to point it at Turnbull but continued
speaking to Meg. "Since he's such an idiot, you won't mind if I shoot him
before we get on our way." 

 'Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.' "I didn't say that," she gasped out loud,
struggling to moderate the panic in her voice. "He's brainless, but I
don't want him dead! Besides," she tried hastily, "shooting him here would
leave a mess you'd have trouble hiding!" 

 "Hmmmm, a good point, Meggy," Cloutier conceded, tapping a finger to his
lips. 

 Meg thought she might've made her point, but then his demeanor changed in
a flash and the slightly reasonable man who had just joked with her
disappeared beneath the enraged blackmailer who knew his security was
threatened. He lowered his free hand in a move that seemed to carry all
her hope with it. 

 "But I think I'll shoot him just the same - just for the satisfaction of
knowing whether he has sap or blood running through his veins." He
chortled at his own joke as he brought the gun up and pointed it at
Turnbull's heart. 

 Terrified nearly beyond the capacity for rational thought, Meg took the
only option she saw open to her. She couldn't let Renfield die because of
her. He wasn't going to get shot while there was still something she could
do to prevent it. Lunging to the side and grabbing the atrocious sculpture
from the end of the coffee table next to her knee, she threw it with all
her might at Cloutier's arm. 

 Henri howled with pain and rage as it hit him, not doing enough damage to
break his forearm, but knocking the gun out of his hand, propelling it
toward the far wall. 

 As if from a distance, Meg watched the two men turn at the same time -
Turnbull lunging toward the gun, Cloutier toward her. They moved in
diverging arcs that seemed strangely poetic. She didn't have time to see
whether Ren had gotten the gun before Cloutier's fist came flying through
space at her. 

 "You bitch!" she heard him shriek. 

 Then all she could feel was the left side of her face imploding in pain,
the sensation of falling backwards, and then the right side of her head
smacking the hard edge of the coffee table. The world spun around her
sickeningly as her eyes watered from the stinging pain buzzing all over
her head. 

 In fact, the ringing in her ears was so deafening, she never heard the
doors slam open.  

 He didn't ever remember running this quickly before. Not when being
chased by a very large, very angry caribou when he had been fifteen. Not
when trying to apprehend the man who'd kidnapped a young Inuit girl. Not
even when he had been chasing a train trying to capture what he had
thought was love. 

 He could feel his two friends running behind him, but his mind wasn't
focused on them. All of his energy went to pumping his legs as fast as he
could. He had to get to her. Now. Faster. 

 She was in danger. Turnbull had said something about a gun. What if he
didn't get there in time? He couldn't bear to lose her now - he had only
just gotten to where he had a chance to find her again. The muscles in his
legs burned along with his lungs as he pushed himself harder. 

 This all-consuming dread he felt, the fear of what he was about to find,
knocked down the last of the barriers he'd constructed around his rage and
pain. He'd had months of pain and loneliness and frustration and despair
building up inside him, gathering in small pockets and nooks in the ice
holding him captive. Now the ice was retreating, the remnants melting as
fast as he was running, bringing him back alive again, but also leaving
behind puddles of other emotions. Some of his tenuous control over these
uncovered feelings had slipped the other day with Ren and the safe, when
part of the mass of emotions festering inside him had slipped out, hurting
his friend in the process. He'd vowed to himself then not to let down his
guard again; it was too dangerous. Now, however, he couldn't stop it.
Everything inside him pushed him to drop the defenses entirely and let the
feelings wash over him. He could feel the last of his restraint slipping
away. 

 He'd never felt hatred like this before. Not at the universe for taking
his mother away. Not at Gerard the night he'd been compelled to protect
him in the warehouse. Not even at himself when he'd woken up in the
hospital, a bullet in his back. 

 It ignited now, however, swelling within him, becoming a powerful,
separate force, almost a living thing inside him that consumed him and
controlled him, driving him to get there fast and protect what was his -
his mate and his child. 

 All the wildness of the land he'd been raised in came to life inside him
where it had been waiting, lurking, always a part of him beneath the
veneer of civilization he'd adopted. The violence of a place where
glaciers had ravaged the landscape, carving it in their wake. The savagery
of storms that could turn the world white in the blink of an eye. The
hostile environment that could kill man and beast a hundred different ways
in an instant. 

 He'd never tapped into the primal forces inside him to such a degree.
Fraser felt something deep inside him thrill to the feelings being
released. He could feel his more familiar self underneath this wildness,
but it felt distant. Logic and rationality were submerged. 

 He felt feral.  

 Chapter 53 

 Francesca Vecchio Turnbull got out of a cab and paid the driver by
throwing some bills at him. It was weird seeing money in so many different
colors, but it was kind of pretty. The cabbie, however, was a total
nimrod. By mistake, he'd turned down some sort of one-way street thing,
and by the time they worked their way out of the wrong turn, she'd lost
way too much time. Aunt Sophia could've navigated better than that and she
was over eighty and mostly blind. The only tip she gave the guy was to buy
a map. 

 Almost running up the steps, she reflexively smoothed the strap of her
purse over her shoulder and pulled on the huge doors at the entrance to
the main RCMP Headquarters building. She wished Ren was here to show her
around, but she figured she'd make do. 

 A few people milled about, walking to and fro, but the lobby wasn't very
full, so she didn't have to strain to locate the information desk complete
with a couple of guards in full Mountie regalia. Even given the fact that
she was kind of biased, she allowed herself a moment of pride that her
Mountie was way more attractive than the guy standing at the desk. The
younger one standing behind him wasn't so bad, but Ren still looked 100%
better in the uniform than either guy, and the first guy's mustache made
him look like a weasel. Total fashion faux pas. 

 As Frannie got closer to the desk, she took in the way he stood and
watched people with an arrogant look on his face. 'Oh, lord,' she thought
with a small sigh, 'just like Gladys, the desk sergeant back home.'
Anything that woman could do to show people she had power of them, she
did. Wonderful. This was going to be a pain. 

 Still, she pinned a smile on her face; maybe a little bit of charm would
do the trick. "Good morning, sir," she chirruped, doing her best to
imitate that operator at the Westin. "I wonder if you might help me." 

 "Certainly, ma'am," he replied, looking down his nose. 

 "I would like to see Superintendent Meers-" 

 He jumped in before she even had a chance to finish her sentence. "Do you
have an appointment?" 

 She considered for a moment. "Well, no, not really." 

 "Perhaps it would be better for you to come back at such time as you do."


 It was a struggle, but she held on to her smile. "Look, this is an
emergency here, so if you could call up to his office and let him know
Francesca Turnbull is here to see him, I'd really appreciate it." Her
voice was noticeably less friendly this time. 

 "An emergency," he questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Are you ill?" 

 "No, I'm not ill," she bit back, leaning forward across the counter.
"I've got to get a message to him right now." Inspiration struck. "It's a
matter of national security," she tried, using her most official voice. It
was kind of - Cloutier probably had tentacles all over the place. 

 "Really. A matter of national security from an American?" 

 That did it. All of Francesca's interest in being patient or reasonable
vanished. This guy wasn't playing security guard; he was playing God.
"Look, buster, I need to get up and see Meers now. Not in a few minutes,
not tomorrow, not when you decide, now! Got me?" 

 He bristled noticeably, his neck extending rather like a chicken's. "See
here, madam, this is the RCMP, and we aren't interested in your little
games-" 

 Frannie's worry and concern about Meg came to a head as her frustration
boiled over. She'd tried nice, and it didn't work. Fine. No one could make
a scene like a Vecchio. She raised her voice so that it echoed off the
marble walls. "Are you telling me that you aren't going to help me because
I'm an American?" She made her voice shriller still as he gaped like a
fish and darted his eyes from side to side to see if anyone was noticing.
Oh, she'd make sure they noticed. "That's is, isn't it! You're
discriminating against me because I'm not a Canadian! Well, I'm also the
wife of an RCMP officer and I have rights! I demand that you help me. Now
pick up that phone," she stabbed out a finger, "and call Meers' office and
tell him I'm here, got me, puppet-boy?" 

 She leaned even further across the counter, eyes blazing and locked with
his as his face flushed a deep scarlet and he scrabbled for the phone. He
turned away from her a bit, trying to regain his composure and she backed
off, going back down on the flats of her feet and straightened her blouse.
A quick glance over at the young Constable standing behind the weasel guy
almost made her laugh out loud - he grinned at her and winked, although
the amused expression vanished as soon as his superior turned back around.
Clearly Puppet-boy wasn't the most popular one in the bunch. 

 Annoying Mountie - now that she looked, his nametag read 'Jensen,' -
talked into the phone for a moment, paused, and the spoke again. Finally
he hung up, his hand still shaking a little. "Superintendent Meers will be
right down." 

 Frannie tilted her head and smiled ever so gently. "Thank you kindly,"
she said sweetly, unconsciously imitating Fraser's inflection. She'd made
her point, no need to rub the guy's face in it any further. He still
looked like a chicken though. Well, a weasely one. 

 Stepping to the side, she waited, trying to be patient as the flush of
her victory faded and her worries flooded back.  

 Crossing the threshold of his outer office, Jonathon Meers already felt
tired though the day had barely begun. Sighing a bit as he shifted the
papers he carried to his other hand, he headed towards his office, but
stopped as his secretary looked up, saw him, and asked him to pause by
holding up a finger. 

 Speaking into the phone, Rebecca said, "Ah, here he is; please hold for a
moment, Jensen." 

 Stepping up to her desk, he looked at her inquiringly. 

 "It's the front desk, sir. There's a Francesca Turnbull downstairs asking
for you?" 

 "Francesca Turn-Good Lord! What's she doing here?" Turning around, he
moved rapidly back to the door. "Tell him I'll be down in a moment," he
tossed back to his secretary as he yanked open the door, not even pausing
to put down the notes he'd taken during the meeting with his superiors. 

 As the elevator descending, Meers tapped his foot impatiently, trying to
come up with an explanation for Francesca's presence. Clearly something
must've happened. The only question was how catastrophic. Silently urging
the elevator to move faster, he restrained himself from pacing the
confines of the elevator - the two other passengers were already looking
at him strangely. 

 Bolting out the sliding doors, he strode quickly to the front desk.
Jensen looked oddly flushed and discombobulated, but the vivacious
brunette standing on the other side of the desk quickly diverted his
attention. She didn't look very much like Vecchio, but she was the only
woman loitering around the desk. 

 "Francesca?" he asked, putting out his hand. "I'm Jonathon Meers." 

 "Pleased to meet you, sir," she replied, stepping forward and shaking his
hand. "I'm Renfield's wife, and Ray Vecchio's sister, uh, yeah, you knew
that. Sorry." She shrugged but didn't stop talking. "I came here with
Margaret Thatcher, but she slipped out of the room this morning. I think I
know-" 

 Meers cut off the frantic flow of words. "She's here? In the city?" he
demanded. 

 "Yes, sir. I think she went over to Cl-" 

 "Wait," he cautioned hastily, stopping her from saying anything else.
"Let's go talk about this upstairs and find some of our friends, shall
we?" 

 They made their way to the bank of elevators, each of them feeling pushed
by a growing urgency.  

 Chapter 54 

 They passed several people who gaped at the sight of three men running
balls to the wall in the middle of RCMP Headquarters. Ray Kowalski figured
it was hardly normal behavior for the Mountie Inner Sanctum. Thank
goodness it was still early so they didn't have to dodge too many people. 

 The blond cop was also thankful that he'd been chasing after the Mountie
for the past year and a half - otherwise there'd be no way he'd be able to
keep up. 'All those lunchtime Dief-runs musta helped, too,' he thought as
they ran across the quad. Still, even though he and Vecchio were running
flat out, they were having trouble keeping up with Fraser. Of course, they
didn't have quite the same level of motivation. Close, but not quite the
same. Still, thoughts of Meg and Ren made Ray push himself a little harder
- they were his friends too. 

 Skidding to a stop at the door into Cloutier's office, they all paused
for breath for a moment and to assess the situation. They couldn't see
anything through the small window to the side of the door. Mostly gaining
control of their panting, they eased the door open and slipped in, single
file. 

 Ray liked the bit of camouflage the dim room gave them and felt hugely
relieved no one else was there. Fewer hostages for Cloutier. 

 "I don't like this," he heard Vecchio whisper close to his ear. He threw
a look over his shoulder saying he agreed whole-heartedly before moving
into position flanking Fraser on the left. Vecchio took the right, and
they continued easing forward trying their best to imitate Fraser's
advanced stealth moves. Kowalski could tell by the way Vecchio kept moving
his hands he was itching for his gun. So was he. He wondered if Fraser
ever felt this way in Chicago. 

 Ray watched silently as Fraser looked through the gap between the open
door and the jam and used hand signs like he'd used on the Henry Anderson,
pointing and holding up fingers to tell them there were just the three
people in the inner office and their positions. At least they kind of knew
the layout from Ren's description. 

 They were trying to come up with a plan when Ray Kowalski looked, really
looked, at his friend's face for the first time since they'd left Meers'
office. He'd thought he'd seen all of the Mountie's masks, but this one
went beyond anything Ray'd ever seen. Even in the dim light, his friend's
his eyes were flinty, his face set and hard. They glinted with a wildness
that chilled Ray with its ferocity. He didn't think he'd ever seen someone
look so predatory. 

 Then it hit him - Fraser looked like Dief did when the wolf was hunting. 

 And that was before Fraser saw something through the crack that made him
abandon all planning and sprint through the doors, slamming them back as
he charged his enemy. Turned out he growled a lot like Dief too.  

 Cloutier didn't have time to process the noise of the banging door, let
alone lower the hand still stinging from slapping Meg, before he realized
that he wasn't imagining the dark blur coming towards him. 

 The knowledge that the figure headed straight for him was almost growling
barely penetrated before his arm was wrenched to the side and he felt
himself flying backwards. One minute he was standing over the bitch, his
body throbbing with hatred, the next moment, he found himself slammed up
against the wall with enough force to knock every last bit of air out of
his lungs. The huge framed photograph beside his head vibrated dangerously
with the impact and he could feel the vibrations through the back of his
skull. Frantically attempting to draw air into his lungs, he couldn't
figure out what was happening. The frenzied barking coming from the
bathroom only heightened the panic swamping him, but Cloutier found
himself even more afraid of the human in front of him than what would
happen if the wolf got out of the bathroom. 

 Jammed up against the wall, feet dangling several inches above the floor,
gasping for breath, Cloutier began to be able to string a thought together
and looked down into the face of an enraged man. Gone was the calm,
rational, urbane Mountie he knew from Chicago. The Benton Fraser holding
him up, one hand locked around his throat, the other wrapped tightly
around his upper arm, and a knee shoved hard between his legs, had a face
hard and set in a mask of absolute anger. His eyes were blazing. Henri
Cloutier had always thought the phrase just a metaphor, but this man's
eyes were blazing. The deep blue looked like the purest blue of a methane
flame. 

 And they were burning with full intensity at him. 

 Looking down with just his eyes - he couldn't move his chin down at all -
he knew with complete certainty that he had met his fate. Somehow he
managed not to throw up or lose control of his bladder. Maybe even his
autonomic systems were frozen in terror. 

 He was just beginning to regain his breath when Fraser jerked him away
from the wall, then slammed him back, punctuating his words. The tall,
fierce man didn't yell. He didn't shout. He didn't have to. His words
overflowed with unshakeable promise. 

 Slam! "You like hitting women?" Henri's eyes bulged as the hands holding
him tightened even further. Slam! "Enjoy that do you?" Slam! "And you like
blackmail threats?" Slam! "How's this for a threat?" Slam! "I know ways to
break every single bone in your body." The Mountie's hot breath against
his face hit the attach with as much force as the unforgiving wall behind
him. Slam! "In fact, I know several ways, and with bones that are long
enough, I can try for variation." Slam! "How about we see how many
different breaks I can make in your femur?" Slam! "Or shall we try for the
radius and ulna? They can be quite exciting since they rotate so easily."
Slam! 

 "You can't do this!" the attach squeaked through the pain radiating
through his body, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the smooth
wall. 

 "I can't?" the Mountie asked in that same dark, quiet voice. This time he
didn't slam Cloutier at the end of his statement. He raised him further
above the ground instead. 

 "You can't! There are witnesses!" He begged desperately, frantically
looking around the room for help from some quarter. 

 Meg lay against the couch looking dazed, a shaking hand held to the side
of her head. She looked shell-shocked more than anything. The hope in her
eyes warred with disbelief at the scene playing out in front of her. 

 Cloutier's gaze jumped to two men hovering near her, one dark haired and
balding, one blond, who both seemed primed to pounce. But were they
pouncing toward him or toward Fraser? 

 "You can't let him do this!" he shrieked at them, forcing the words out
of a throat that seemed to be collapsing. 

 "Well, here's the deal of the thing, Hank; I don't see so good, gotta
wear glasses, and the distance from you to me?" The blond cop shrugged
expressively. "See, that falls into the category of 'can't see.'" He
smiled a hard smile that made any lingering hope Cloutier had about not
dying here ooze away. 

 "I was undercover with the mob for a long time. Had plenty of practice
not seeing things." The balding man shrugged too, his eyes hard and alert.
His stance made it doubly clear that he was as ready as the other man to
back Fraser in whatever he did. 

 Cloutier turned his panicked eyes back in mute appeal to where Turnbull
crouched beside Meg, helping her sit up. "You're a fellow RCMP officer,
help me!" He could only manage a piteous squeak this time. 

 Renfield Turnbull looked at him calmly from across the room, his face
serene though watchful. "You have told me several times over the last few
days what a fool I am. It seems you are correct; I simply cannot
comprehend what is going on in front of me at this time." The young
Mountie turned away and helped Meg to sit up on the couch. 

 Darting his eyes between the four other people in the room, Cloutier
finally dragged his eyes back to the face less than two inches away from
his own. A cold, smug smile grew across the Mountie's face. 

 "You're all mine, you son of a bitch," the face jammed against his
hissed. 

 Henri Claude Thibodaux Cloutier whimpered.  

 Chapter 55 

 "You're all mine, you son of a bitch," Fraser promised, tightening his
hand around his prey's throat. He felt so highly alert and focused it was
as if he could feel even the minutest adjustment of his fingers. 

 Everything inside him exulted at the bottomless horror seizing Cloutier's
face. This was payback for all the months of pain and sorrow and the last
several days of fear and anger. Retribution. Fraser intended to take all
the pleasure he could from each moment, and as he slid Henri up another
centimeter or two, he allowed himself to feed off Cloutier's terror.
Unchecked power surged through him and knew he could snap this cretin's
neck. It would be so easy. It felt good. This wildness, this venting of
feelings instead of keeping them hidden. He felt like throwing back his
head and howling his triumph. 

 For a moment, he thought he had. Then he realized the sound came from
Diefenbaker, who was baying wildly and throwing himself against a door off
to the left. Dief clearly knew he and Meg were being threatened, and
Fraser knew the wolf would batter himself against the door until he either
hurt himself severely or broke it down to get to his packmates. 

 Not easing his grip on Cloutier, Fraser pulled a small part of his focus
away from his quarry with an effort. Turning his head slightly without
breaking eye contact with Henri, he asked Ray Kowalski to free the wolf,
cautioning him to stand to the side when he opened the door. Then Fraser
turned fully back to the man he had pinned against the wall. He enjoyed
the wheezing whimpers escaping from his captive's mouth. He savored them,
letting the sounds seep through his rage where they began calming some of
the spikes of anger controlling him. Fraser did not, however, allow the
bits of calm developing inside him distract from his mission. 

 As Kowalski moved quickly to the door, Fraser cocked his head and spoke
again, sensing the legal attach's fear of Dief. Capitalizing on that fear,
he decided to taunt Cloutier further. He spoke deliberately, calmly,
knowing that would make his words more chilling. God, this was sweet. It
felt so freeing to release all of his confusion and pain and direct it all
at this miserable specimen. "Maybe I should just turn the wolf lose on
you. An interesting idea." Fraser pretended to ponder further. "Although
he is a bit out of practice - he might have to try several times before
actually severing your jugular." He smiled, making it as toothy and
menacing as possible as his captives whimpers grew louder and his eyes
darted frantically for some means of escape. "Still, it would be a good
exercise for Diefenbaker." He raised his voice a bit and spoke over his
shoulder to Vecchio, knowing his partner would back him up
whole-heartedly, no explicit spelling out of the plan necessary. They were
partners, in sync. "What do you think, Ray? Should I give this bastard a
head start, or shall we let Dief try his luck right here?" 

 Kowalski, just as much part of the team as Vecchio, opened the door
perfectly on cue, and Dief burst out, a white, growling blur that covered
the distance to his alpha in just a couple of wide lunges. He came to a
stop beside Fraser, where he paced back and forth, his eyes locked on
Cloutier, his growls making the man press himself against the wall while
his face lost more of its hectic color. 

 "Gee, Benny, I don't know." Vecchio's voice was beautifully nonchalant.
"Doesn't really seem sporting if you don't give the guy at least a little
bit of a head start. Besides, it's been a long time since Dief got the
chance to do some real stalking and hunting." 

 "Good point, Ray." Fraser could smell the fear billowing off the legal
attach. Rivulets of sweat poured down the man's face, forcing Fraser to
readjust his grip around Cloutier's neck. He could feel the man's
throbbing heartbeat flutter beneath his hand. 

 It would be so easy, so very, very easy. Just a little more pressure. A
quick movement of his hand. Then a quiet snap - and Cloutier knew it. 

 The simple pleasure Fraser got from knowing that he had won, that
Cloutier had been reduced to a sniveling wretch, eased the red haze that
had been coloring his vision since hearing Turnbull's voice say Meg was
here, being held at gun-point. The tunnel vision he'd felt since he'd seen
Cloutier strike Meg also retreated. 

 Meg. 

 His heart and everything else in his chest contracted, fear jolting him
away from his single-minded focus. 

 Whipping his head around, he searched for her, his head clear enough now
to remember that she might be hurt. He needed to know if she was all
right. If the impact of the coffee table had killed her, Henri was dead.
Fraser didn't feel himself twisting Cloutier's shirt or the increased
pressure of his knee against Cloutier's groin. Cloutier did, however. 

 The tall Mountie's intent eyes found her sitting on the couch, one hand
pressed to the side of her head, a red handprint-sized sploch marring one
side of her face. Her eyes were open and alert, however, as she gazed back
at him. He was having trouble reading her expression, but she looked more
surprised than anything. Tracing his eyes over her rapidly reassured him,
though; she was all right. She was all right. 

 He felt his heart start beating again. 

 Sliding his eyes back to her face, their eyes caught and held. Fraser
couldn't tear himself away from the look in them. His eyes questioned,
hers reassured. The bands across his chest eased a little more. It was
what lay behind the reassurance that held him captive, however. 

 She looked worried, but it was worry for him, not for Cloutier. Fraser
tried to gentle his eyes a bit more, to do some reassuring of his own; he
was in control, no matter how out of control he seemed. He wished he could
speak, comfort her that way, but that would give away the game, and
besides, the other parts of the look in her eyes continued to whip his
breath away. He thought he saw . . . love. 

 The hope of that thought blazed across the space between them. The rest
of the room and everything in it faded further away as another kind of
tunnel vision overtook him. His compulsion to dominate, to strike out and
hurt as they both had been hurt faded still further, and he felt more of
his rational mind take over from the primal urge to protect. She was all
right. He hadn't lost her. He never saw his two partners look at each
other and grin before turning back to Cloutier and keeping an eye on him
while Fraser was otherwise occupied. 

 What he did see, however, centered him even more; she barely lifted an
eyebrow at him. Fraser recognized a more subtle version of her usual
inquiring look. She wanted to know what was next. The fact that she didn't
move to stop him made him feel her trust blanket him. 

 The hunger to strike back didn't dissipate completely, however, and he
read an answering urge lurking in Meg's eyes. Wrenching his gaze away from
Meg, the rest of the room and his friends came back into focus. Fraser
looked at his three human friends, warmed further by the understanding and
determination he saw reflected back at him. 

 He set his jaw and turned back to Cloutier, moving slowly to make the
movement as intimidating as possible. "Be thankful you didn't harm her
seriously. You'd already be dead." He let that thought sink in, seeing its
impact in the other man's eyes and his hard swallow. 

 Chapter 56 

 "So, Henri," Fraser continued after a moment, turning the name into an
insult. "As much as I'd like eliminate the blight you are from the human
race, I think it's even more fitting to turn you over to the very justice
system you have been subverting for so long. Shall we let him in on what
we've been doing, gentlemen?" Fraser asked, keeping his eyes locked to
Cloutier's and not letting the waves of more primitive emotions be banked
completely. 

 "Oh, yeah, Hank, you'll get a real charge out of this," Kowalski said,
stepping forward to stand next to the corner of the desk. "Wanna tell 'im
whatcha found the other night, Ren?" 

 From the couch, Ren sent a measuring look at the man who had temporarily
been his boss. "We undertook an investigation into your background and
dealings and found a great deal of very interesting information." 

 "And what my brother-in-law, here, is too modest to say, is that he was
the one who was here in your office finding that information. Not real
smart to leave the combination to your safe where anyone could find it,
dirtbag." 

 Amazingly, Cloutier's eyes widened even further. Everyone staring back at
him took pleasure in the hunted, cornered look glazing the attach's
bulging eyes. The ever-widening leak in the man's lifeboat had just turned
into a blow out against jagged rocks, and the legal attach knew it. 

 "Yep, that's right, Hank; we know all about your little games. An' it's
over. You're over." Kowalski's gloating voice crowed. "We've got arrest
warrants, evidence, a witness or two or ten. The whole enchilada - hell,
the whole enchilada special with a side of beans and rice!" For a moment,
the blond cop thought Cloutier was going to faint, but when the man closed
his eyes, all that happened was tears began trickling down his face,
leaving wet tracks that stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin. 

 Ray figured that about did it; he could tell Fraser wasn't going to kill
Cloutier now, and the dickhead was about as crushed as any human could
get. He supposed Fraser could boot him in the head, but that was more his
style than Fraser's. Standing there watching his friend, Ray decided that
Fraser could maybe use a small bridge to get all the way back to himself.
Yeah, well, he could provide the bridge. "Hey, buddy? If you're done over
there playing 'Choke the Asshole,' you might wanna think about checking
Meg's head. Her pupil's are equal, so I don't think she's gotta
concussion, but -" 

 'Didn't even need ta' finish the sentence,' Ray smirked to himself;
Fraser dropped Cloutier and swallowed the space to Meg and the couch
almost in one lunge. Left without support, Cloutier crumpled to the floor,
landing in a heap of limp arms and legs that struggled feebly to get away
from the wolf looming in front of him. Ray thought he looked kind of like
that Gollum guy trying to get out of the sun. 'Well, except the skin
color's all wrong,' he thought as he saw Turnbull get up off the couch. 

 The younger Mountie rose from the couch to give the couple a bit of
privacy, and moved toward the two detectives. As they stood together, the
three men turned to the quivering man huddled on the floor. Stepping
towards Cloutier, Ray Kowalski put a quieting hand on Dief and told him to
sit. The wolf followed the order, but he never took his eyes off his prey,
his predatory mien continuing to make Cloutier scrabble into the carpet.
'Christ, Dief's good at that,' Ray reflected. 

 "'Her pupils are equal?" Vecchio asked quietly. "I think someone's been
spending too much time around the Mountie." 

 "Maybe," Kowalski shrugged with a small smile. "But I got that one from
Emergency. Didn't you ever watch it as a kid? You know 'pupils are equal
and reactive?' 'Ringers Lactate and 10 cc's epinephrine?'" 

 His balding partner snorted a laugh. "God, haven't thought about that
show in a while. Too bad Johnny and Roy aren't here now - they could carry
this scum out of here for us." 

 Lacking that, however, Vecchio and Kowalski each took an arm, and not
sparing any effort on gentleness, almost threw Cloutier into his chair.
The high-backed chair rocked dangerously in reaction, but Vecchio steadied
it with a hand along the top as he stepped behind it. Kowalski and Ren
stood against the wall, giving Cloutier a clear view as Vecchio turned the
chair to face the couch and the couple it held. Leaning over the shaking
man's shoulder, he put his mouth right next to the scum's ear. Pulling out
every ounce of intimidation and attitude he learned while undercover with
the Mob, Ray slipped into Armando Langostini's voice. 

 "See that, you slime? See how they care about each other? You interfered
with that. Big mistake. You were worried about Fraser while he was holding
you against the wall? That was before he'd gotten the whole story from
her. After they talk and she tells him about everything you've done, about
all the threats and intimidation you used against her, what'da think he's
gonna be like then, huh? If he gets anywhere near you he's gonna tear you
apart. Limb by limb. Prison's the only place you're gonna be safe. The
only thing that'll keep him away. Just something to think about, big guy.
Something to think about how you decide to handle this whole thing over
the next couple days." 

 Vecchio eased back, figuring he'd made his point, and hoping it had been
enough to spare his friends the chaos of a trial. 'Yeah, well, we'll see,'
he thought trying to counter his usual pessimism against the impact a
pissed off Fraser made. Looking down from behind the chair, he watched
Cloutier collapse even deeper into the chair and begin to sob. The smarmy
asshole was broken. A wicked, triumphant smile broke across his face as he
turned to his partner and the blond Mountie. 

 "I think our work here is done," Vecchio said softly to Ray and Ren. 

 Feeling inordinately pleased with themselves, the three men turned as one
back to the couch and watched their friend cradle the woman he loved in
his arms.  

 Chapter 57 

 Meers put a guiding hand on Frannie's lower back as he ushered her into
his outer office. Striding ahead after they cleared the doorway, he
motioned for her to follow, barely sparing a nod to his secretary. Walking
quickly, Meers and Francesca went into to his office; Frannie stuck right
behind him as he walked across the room and opened another door. She had
to stop suddenly to avoid slamming into his back. 

 "They aren't here," Meers said in a confused voice. 

 Peeking around his shoulder, Frannie asked, "Where did they go?" 

 The superintendent stepped into the room looking for some indication of
where the three men had gone. No note on the table amid some the stacked
creamer containers or anywhere else. Nothing seemed out of place. Scanning
the room one last time, Meers turned back to the woman standing in the
doorway. "I don't know where they are." Trying to decide if he should be
worried, he thought about last night. "I'm sure they just went down the
hallway to the vending machines or the restroom. Detective Kowalski
evidently needed a sugar fix last night; perhaps he needed one this
morning as well." 

 Frannie nodded, resisting the urge to bite her fingernails. "Oh, yeah,
Ray can put away junk food like there's no yesterday. Although my brother
is no slump." 

 Trying to sort all that out, Meers finally decided just to nod. "Let me
just set these papers down, and we'll give them a few minutes."  

 A thought suddenly occurred to Ray Vecchio and he pushed himself away
from the wall to look at his brother-in-law. "Hey, Ren," he whispered. "We
still recording, here?" The thought was rather worrisome considering some
of the stuff Fraser had just said to Cloutier and the veiled threats he
himself had just used against the jerk. 'Not that I'd change what I said,'
Ray assured himself, 'but the whole world doesn't need to know about it.' 

 "No," Ren replied, pulling the device from his pocket. It was off. "I'm
afraid it got accidentally shut off when I dove for Cloutier's gun," he
continued carefully. 

 Both Rays looked at him, not knowing quite how to take that. "That's a
real shame," Vecchio finally said. 

 "Yeah," agreed Kowalski, his tone carrying an interesting thread of
inquiry. "Good thing you were able to transmit long enough to get word to
us." 

 "Yes, I quite agree." Ren looked evenly at the two men. "It got shut off
before Cloutier's interaction with the wall." 

 Vecchio and Kowalski absorbed that information for a moment. The balding
cop raised an eyebrow at his brother-in-law, who just shrugged back.
Really, there wasn't anything more to say. 

 Over on the couch, Fraser and Meg were completely oblivious to Ray's
expert gangster lean or the vagaries of recording equipment. 

 A small rational part inside Fraser stayed alert in his rush to get to
Meg, and he kept himself together long enough to gently palpate the lump
on the side of her head. Her quiet moan of pain made him gasp in response,
and he gentled the fingers that had begun to shake. "Swelling, nothing
broken," he forced himself to whisper around the obstruction that suddenly
seemed to be blocking his throat. Shifting his hands around to the front
of her head, he cupped her face and searched her eyes. The part of him
responding to their highlights and depth warred for a moment with the part
trying to read if both pupils were equal. Automatically he reached for the
small pen flashlight he kept in a pouch on his Sam Browne, then shook his
head impatiently at having forgotten he wasn't wearing it. He settled for
holding up three fingers. "How many fingers to you see?" 

 "Three." Her voice sounded a little rusty. 

 The knot binding up all his insides suddenly released. "You appear to be
all right-" She cut him off before he had a chance to insist that she be
examined by a doctor. 

 "I know," she replied solemnly. "Now, if you are finished running through
your concussion checklist, do you think we could say hello?" 

 Sliding the hand still cradling her face up a bit, he caressed her
cheekbone with his thumb. Trying to put everything he felt for her in his
touch and his eyes, he looked down at her and smiled. "Hello." 

 "Hello," she answered with a smile of her own that crumpled a bit as a
few tears of happiness welled up in her eyes and she threw herself towards
him to hold him. 

 He allowed the motion to rock them back against the couch and wrapped his
arms around her as tightly as he could. She burrowed one hand between his
back and the cushions and squeezed back. They both just held on. 

 "I'm sorry, Ben," he heard her whisper brokenly against his chest. "I'm
so sorry." She squeezed even tighter. 

 He squeezed her hard against his chest and tucked his face down into her
hair, cradling the back of her head with one hand so he didn't hurt her by
pressing too hard. Feeling unshed tears of his own burn behind his
eyelids, he wished he could say "I love you," and almost did, but he
wanted to be alone with her, and to be able to look into her eyes, when he
said it after all this time. So he held the most important words back, but
let some of what he needed to say escape. "It's all right. You're safe.
We're safe now. You're all right." His comforting murmurs eased them both
as they held each other close and began to heal. 

 Chapter 58 

 After a few minutes where they were the only people in the whole world,
Meg stirred against his chest and he relaxed his arms so she could sit up
a bit more. He looked at her fondly as he watched her eyes get curious as
she returned to reality and began putting the pieces together. 

 "What are you doing here?" she asked after a moment. 

 "I could ask you the same question," Ben replied, brushing a lone stray
tear from her cheek. 

 "I came up here to confront Cloutier and put an end to this, to do
something so I could tell you the truth." 

 "We came up here with much the same intent." 

 She considered that for a moment. "But how did you -" 

 "Know?" Seeing her nod, he let his eyes smile at her. "That is a bit of a
long story." 

 "Ben, when are they ever not with you?" 

 He looked a bit sheepish and gave in without a fight. "Ray Vecchio
overheard your phone call with Cloutier at the Consulate Friday night. He
told us, and with the help of Constable Turnbull," he threw a quick glance
at his friends, "we began putting the pieces together." 

 Meg processed the information, trying to decide what to say since they
weren't alone, even if, except for Cloutier, the men were friends. "He had
some old pictures of me, but they didn't matter, she said quietly before
taking a deep breath. "Ben, he told me he had information that you and
your father had used some dirty money. I didn't believe him, but I
couldn't find any evidence to disprove it, and he said he'd ruin your
career." She grasped his bicep, frantic to make him understand why she had
acted the way she had. 

 Fraser shuddered, hearing his suspicions confirmed and feeling a wave of
relief that she had believed in him. "I know; we found the folders. There
was actually a whole stack of them; he has been blackmailing a large
number of people." He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how to
phrase this. "Meg," he said quietly, "he made what he told you about me
up; he opened an account at the bank and passed his records off to you as
mine and my father's." 

 She stiffened and pulled back so quickly he almost lost his grip on her. 

 "What?" she gasped. Her grip on his bicep tightened to the point of pain.
"What!" 

 "He made it all up," he replied, reaching up with a gentle hand to loosen
her grasp, then holding her hand in his. "He doesn't have any evidence
against me or my father. There was never any way he could have." 

 Sliding off his lap, Meg's eyes sparked brown flame as she shook off his
hands and stood up. She bristled as her rage grew. "You mean to tell me he
made up everything?" The anger running through her voice grew with each
word. 

 Fraser tried to decide if he should stop her as he watched her whole body
go rigid with rage. She clenched her fists and took a few steps toward the
man cowering in the high-backed chair. He almost did stop her, but he
understood all too well the overwhelming need to strike back at the man.
He had exacted his own justice; why shouldn't she? So instead of
restraining her, he stood beside her, watching, waiting, and said,
"Unfortunately, yes." 

 She took a few more steps forward, feeling Ben follow her, but not
acknowledging him. "Constable Turnbull, do you have your handcuffs on
you?" Her tone changed, taking on a matter-of-fact, almost conversational,
tone as she glanced at Turnbull and then back to Henri, who watched her
warily as she came closer. 

 "Yes, ma'am, I do," Ren replied immediately, putting a hand into the
pouch on his belt and pulling them free. 

 "I'm pleased to hear it. That'll make it easier for you to arrest me,"
she said in the same eerily calm tone. 

 Ren shook his head in confusion as Meg continued walking toward him.
"Arrest you, ma'am? For what?" 

 "For this," Meg replied as she got closer, her eyes locked on Cloutier.
Taking a half step front of the chair, she pulled back her arm in one
smooth motion, and aiming for some imaginary point behind his head,
Margaret Thatcher drove her fist toward Cloutier's face. 

 Her tightly curled fingers flew forward in a powerful right hook; as she
swung, her left fist came up automatically, just like they'd taught her at
the depot, guarding near her face, as the flat of her fingers caught the
fleshy part of his cheek, snapping his head to the side. 

 Meg felt the punch jolt up her arm as she watched in fascination as
everything seemed to slow and his head flew sideways, his hair winging out
and following its progress. 

 Luckily, Ray Vecchio had moved out from behind Cloutier's chair, because
the force of her blow pushed the chair back forcefully, where it impacted
against the wall with a bang. The sound returned Meg to real time, and she
shook her hand out, waggling it rapidly in an effort to ease the pain
exploding through her hand and racing up and down her arm. Nevertheless,
her glee at what she'd done more than countered the pain as she watched
the results. 

 The chair hit the wall so hard it bounced. The deluxe model Cloutier had
ordered for himself came with excellent springs to allow for graceful
rocking, and they did their job beautifully. The back sprang forward,
dumping the body it supported on the ground. Henri Cloutier lay on the
floor, completely unconscious. 

 No one said anything for a moment or even moved. 

 Then Ben stepped into the gap by coming up beside Meg and examining her
hand. While he looked at the small abrasion on her fingers and ran his
fingers over the reddened skin, Ray Kowalski broke the silence. 

 He looked at Meg, grinning admiringly. "Very nice. Next time you might
wanna use a little more upper cut motion across," he said, shadow punching
his hand diagonally in front of his face to illustrate his point. "But
over all? I'd give it a 9.5" 

 Meg grinned back, still a bit breathless from the pain. "Thank you, Ray,
I'll take that under advisement." 

 "Any time," he joked, laughing. 

 Still holding her hand, Fraser squeezed it and she turned to him. "It's
just a small abrasion; it isn't very deep and won't bleed for long." He
looked down at her, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing
at her finger. Their eyes locked again for a moment, both of them
remembering a time in the Consulate kitchen when he had said almost
exactly the same thing over a tray of carrots. 

 Immersed in memories, she reached up and kissed him, just a gentle caress
against his lips, for the first time in three months. 

 Fraser deepened the kiss for just a moment, then pulled back, knowing
that as enticing as the thought was, this was neither the time nor the
place. Then, unable to resist showing her how proud he was of her, he
kissed her briefly again, rather shocked at his boldness, but enjoying it
nonetheless. Touching her cheek once more, Fraser finally looked over at
his friends. "Would one of you please call Superintendent Meers and have
him bring over some armed officers and the arrest warrants?" He felt his
voice returning fully to normal, the wild rasp gone. 

 "Certainly," Ren replied, picking up the phone and dialing Meers'
extension. 

 The two Chicago cops looked down at the man lying near their feet and
then at each other. Then Kowalski stepped over the unconscious form and
the partners stepped further away from the desk.  

 Chapter 59 

 Superintendent Meers and Frannie were just sitting down at Meers' desk
when the direct line to his office rang. 

 "Meers," he identified himself. A moment later he tipped forward in his
chair, dropping both feet to the floor, and his face became very intent.
"You're all over there? And she's there too?" He paused. "Yes, all right,
we'll be right over." Hanging up the phone, he stood in the same motion.
"Everyone, including Inspector Thatcher, is over in Cloutier's office. We
have to get over there now. Come on - we need to swing by and pick up a
couple of other officers as well." 

 Trying to contain her questions, Frannie ran after him.  

 "You know," Vecchio said in a considering kind of voice, "I can think of
better things to do with Ren's cuffs than put'n them on Meg, can't you,
Ray?" 

 "Yep." Kowalski piped up immediately. "Besides, I didn't see anything
worthy of her bein' arrested, did you?" 

 "Nope," his partner replied. "Nothing at all." 

 "I'd say we put 'em on the unconscious shmuck, but it's probably against
the Geneva Convention, or something." 

 "God, you really have been spending too much time with the Mountie,
Kowalski." 

 For once, Fraser didn't say anything about the Rays' propensity for
bending the rules or their unending patter; he was too busy watching Meg.
Her color was still high from the flush of her anger, and she looked . . .
well, really rather wonderful. Not even the darker red mark marring her
cheek detracted from the strong and bold look in her eyes or the
triumphantly peaceful look on her face. 

 The obvious thought that this was the first time he'd seen her since
learning the truth, finally hit him. God, he had missed her. How in the
world did he repay his friends for helping him get to this point? How
could he? He knew he'd never forget the way they'd worked together over
the last few days, or the last few minutes. 

 He'd also never forget the look on Meg's face as she'd stalked toward
Cloutier. Her fierce self-sufficiency had always fascinated Ben and drawn
him to her, even when it had clashed with his own. Seeing her charge into
battle, though, tapping into the same deep seated instincts he had, made
him long for some time alone with her so they could begin fully
reconnecting. Sadly, that was all too unlikely. Fraser almost wished he
could say something about it now, about the chord she had hit deep within
him, but these words too were better saved for a far more private setting,
and for when they had far more time to explore them. 

 Preoccupied by suppressing those thoughts before they took a turn that
the others would notice, it took a moment for Fraser to process the fact
that the flush coloring Meg's face had suddenly drained away. 

 She swayed forward for a moment, but then seemed to regain her balance,
only to sway more violently forward and catch herself with a hand on the
corner of Cloutier's desk. The sound of her hand hitting the wood and the
quiet gasp she gave galvanized all four men into leaping toward her before
she fell, but Ben got to her first. 

 Fraser scooped her up and held her against his chest, the paleness of her
face shaking him. The mark on her cheek had become starkly visible again,
a lurid red blotch against her pale skin. He turned towards the couch and
almost tripped over Dief who was hovering by his leg, whining his concern.


 "I'm all right, Dief," Ben heard Meg whisper. 

 Fraser dismissed his momentary surprise at the two of them communicating
so easily, and seeing that his three human friends were also following him
to the couch, hovering and looking concerned, looked down at Dief. "Watch
him," he ordered, jerking his chin at the unconscious attach. 

 The wolf barked once in reply, and turning, leapt up into the big chair,
sitting attentively, staring down at Cloutier. If Ben had been less
worried, he would've smiled at the eager air surrounding the wolf; from
his vantage point, the lupine could now loom over the human. Fraser had no
doubt that if the man regained consciousness, Dief would make a great show
of growling and baring his teeth. The wolf always had liked to show off. 

 With Cloutier monitored, Ben pushed Dief's proclivities to the back of
his mind and set Meg gently down on the couch. Kneeling, he grabbed the
pillow Ren was offering him, and put it beneath her feet. While Ray
Kowalski ducked into the bathroom to get a glass of water, Fraser quickly
checked her pulse - perhaps a little rapid - before placing one hand on
her forehead, the other low on her abdomen. 

 She grabbed that hand, squeezed it and put it down on the couch. "Ben!
I'm all right! I just got a little dizzy; undoubtedly from my rather
stressful morning." Her voice growing stronger, but Fraser noticed she
didn't try to get up. 

 "You need to go to the hospital for a full examination. Dizziness may
indicate a variety of problems . . ." 

 "Fraser!" she said sharply, breaking through his spiraling worry before
he could list every condition, syndrome, or disorder that involved
dizziness. "I already feel better. I'm fine. I'll go to the hospital in a
few minutes, as soon as we clear up some of this mess. After all," she
cocked an eyebrow and affected an official tone, "I am ranking officer at
the scene." 

 "Of course, sir," Fraser answered. Widening his eyes he said, "Your
orders will be carried out." Ignoring the twin snickers from behind him,
Fraser was pleased to see her eyebrow arch higher; his small joke had
served its purpose by distracting her. Sliding an arm behind her, he
helped Meg sit up a bit so she could sip some of the water. 

 He was just settling her back against the arm of the couch when Meers
arrived, accompanied by Francesca and two young constables. 

 The superintendent took in the scene before him: a woman lay on a couch,
half-supported by one man, while three others hovered solicitously around
her. Taken together with the surreal image of a wolf sitting in a
high-backed, leather chair, looming over an unconscious man in a very
expensive suit, the juxtaposition made Meers feel like he had fallen down
a rabbit hole. Luckily, there weren't any rabbits, white or otherwise, in
evidence. 

 Vastly relieved to find that he could still talk, Meers decided to take
the simple approach. "What the hell happened?" 

 Five voices hit him all at once. Meers held up an entreating hand and
everyone stopped talking. 

 "Let's try that again," he suggested. 

 He walked closer to the couch, his entourage following. Motioning the two
officers he'd brought with him over to Cloutier, he told them to stand
guard, and then watched in bemusement as the wolf jumped out of the chair
and trotted over to the couch. Deciding not to be too worried by being in
the same room as a wolf seeing the way it squeezed itself between Fraser
and the couch and the way the woman put her arm around its neck, Meers
stayed on task. 

 "Inspector Margaret Thatcher, I presume?" he asked her with a small
smile. 

 "Yes, sir," she replied, struggling to rise. 

 "No, no, please," Meers held up a hand. "Please stay where you are," he
said, trying not to embarrass her with his concern, but very aware of her
pallor and the mark on her cheek. "How did you come to be here?" 

 Sitting up part of the way, Meg ran through the sequence of events that
had ended up leading her here - with a few interjections from Frannie
about how there was no way she was going to let Meg go off without her or
Dief - as quickly as she could. When she came to the part about the files
she had on Cloutier, Meers expressed a keen interest in seeing them, but
allowed her to continue. The arm still around her shoulders tightened as
she got to the part with the gun and stayed tight as Turnbull took over
the tale. While Turnbull told everyone about finding the transmitter in
his pocket and what he had done with it, the arm and the body attached to
it suddenly seemed to realize that she wanted to sit up fully and helped
her. Fraser then stepped a bit to the side but stayed close as he heard
Superintendent Meers ask another question. 

 "But if you turned on the transmitter, Constable, why wasn't it still on
when I went into the listening post?" 

 Ren blushed slightly, but he didn't stutter. "The only hypothesis I can
offer is that it got shut off as I dove for the gun, which, incidentally,
is over there on the credenza." 

 Meers didn't look away from the constable as he pointed across the room.
"I see," he replied, wondering about Turnbull's word choice. Setting that
matter aside, at least for the moment, he spoke again. "So, Fraser, you,
Kowalski, and Vecchio, burst in, riding to the rescue, as it were, but how
did that," he pointed to Cloutier, how was still lying on the floor,
unconscious, "happen?" 

 For a moment no one spoke. From where he stood, Ray Vecchio could see
Meg, Ren, and Fraser all struggling with what to say. Before they could
say anything, he decided he'd better say something. "Him? Oh, he fainted
and fell out of his chair." He threw in a classic Vecchio shrug made even
better by the fact that what he'd just said was true. "We weren't quick
enough to catch him. He'll probably have a hell of a bruise from falling
on the floor." 

 "Pity," Meers replied in an mild voice. Turning from avid listener to
commanding officer in the blink of an eye, he motioned again to the two
men guarding the legal attach. "Wake him up," he ordered as he stepped
closer. 

 Kowalski grabbed the cup he'd gotten for Meg from Fraser and held it out
to the two Constables. One of them took it with polite thanks while the
other rolled Cloutier over onto his back. 

 Having the water poured into his face had the desired effect, and
Cloutier came up sputtering and cursing, clearly ready to start screaming
until he caught sight of the group of people standing around him. 

 His face congealed into a mix of hatred and fear, but he stood up slowly
and straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair. It looked like he was
going to say something, but then he stopped, his mouth snapping shut as he
looked at Fraser. Once again, Cloutier lost all the color in his face.
Finally, he moved his lips, the words coming out slowly as he tried to
hide the shaking in his voice. "I want to see my lawyer." 

 "Certainly," Meers replied with a friendly smile. Clearly enjoying
himself, Superintendent Jonathon Meers read Legal Attach Henri Cloutier
his rights, and taking a pair of cuffs from one of the Constables, slapped
them on Cloutier, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary, but
only a little. 

 The two guards each took one of Cloutier's arms where they were now
pinned behind his back. Meers spoke again. "Take him down to holding.
Here," he took a warrant out of his pocket and handed it to the guard
closest to him. "If anyone asks, more charges are coming. You will not
leave him until I relieve you. You will not allow anyone, other than his
lawyer, talk to him, not the Prime Minister, not the Queen, not God and
all his angels, understood?" The vigorous nods he got in reply pleased
him. 

 The group of friends all enjoyed the sight of Cloutier being walked out
the door in handcuffs, shoulders bowed. Just as the guards and their
prisoner got to the doorway of Cloutier's office, one of the secretaries
arrived, her eyes going wide at the scene before her. As far as the group
inside the office was concerned, the comical look of shock that quickly
morphed into quickly hidden pleasure made the whole situation even better.


 "Oh, man," Frannie complained as she walked over to her husband and
hugged him. "I always miss the good stuff."  

 Chapter 60 

 Using his finger and his thigh as pivot points, Ray Kowalski rotated the
room service menu around and around, the slight wuffling sound it made
amusing him. He'd already looked at the prices; who in their right mind
would pay that much for a hamburger, even if it was in Canadian? It didn't
even have cheese! The prices didn't do much to change the fact that he was
feeling a little hungry around the edges, though. 

 "Hey, Fraser, what was it they were sellin' in those carts we saw along
the park - started with p - pou- pouting - something?" 

 "Poutine, Ray. It's a uniquely Canadian dish, actually. Legend has it
that it was created in Quebec, although, as I'm sure you know, pinning
down the exact date a dish came into being can be quite problematic-" 

 "Fraze, as always, thanks for the treatise," Kowalski cut him off before
the Mountie could get a full head of steam; "but cut ta' the chase. What
is it?" 

 Fraser looked a bit nonplused for a moment, but answered readily enough.
"It's simply french fries with gravy and cheese curds." 

 Turnbull piped up. "It can be very tasty; I've always felt the secret is
fresh cheese curds." 

 As Fraser nodded his agreement, the two American cops just stared back at
them across the coffee table in their hotel room. The four men had
returned there after finally completing an endless stream of reports at
RCMP Headquarters, and were relaxing for a few minutes before deciding
what to do next. Turnbull and the two Rays were faced yet again with the
challenge of keeping Fraser occupied when he wanted to be doing something
else; at last report, Meg still hadn't made her statement, and none of
them, especially not Fraser, could have any contact with her until then.
Knowing that it was proper procedure wasn't making the wait any easier on
the Mountie, though. His friends could see the restriction wearing on him;
Fraser was practically fidgeting. 

 "And people eat that, Benny? For real? This isn't some sort of trick the
tourist thing?" 

 "Certainly not, Ray!" 

 Kowalski finally pulled himself away from horrible image of perfectly
good fries ruined by some sort of gelatinous topping. "Fraze, I do not
ever wanna hear another word about me gettn' kraut on my dogs back home." 

 "Ray, I fail to see how the two things can be comp-" A bark from Dief as
the wolf trotted over to the door interrupted Fraser's protests.
"Francesca is nearing the door." He looked eager for a moment, but when
Dief didn't offer any further bulletins, his calm mask dropped back into
place; Meg wasn't with her. 

 Turnbull moved quickly to open the door for his wife. She stood there
with a bellman armed with a luggage cart, a look on her face that seemed
to capture a mixture of awe of her surroundings and the struggle to
conceal how excited she really was. 

 No one really said anything in the shuffle of luggage getting unloaded
and a tip being given. Soon, though, the five friends were alone and
ensconced on the couch, Frannie and Ren sitting right next to each other,
his arm around her shoulders. 

 "So you have brought all of your things as well as Inspector Thatcher's?"
Fraser asked, looking at the size of the stack of luggage. 

 "Yeah, Meg and I talked it over at the hospital, and we decided it was
kind of dumb to keep that hotel room since you all were here and she's
gotta stay overnight for observation." 

 Fraser managed not to get up, but his whole body stiffened. 

 Frannie leaned forward earnestly, waving a hand to counteract his
concern. "Don't worry, Benton, she's fine. Her blood pressure was a little
low, and they thought she might be a little dehydrated, so they just
wanted to keep an eye on her. I think mostly she was so completely
exhausted and relieved that everything was finally over that she was a
little limp, not that she'd ever admit it. She just needs to rest. In
fact, she was already mostly asleep when I left." Frannie leaned back.
"Oh, wait, I almost forgot." She reached down and pulled a small envelope
from her purse. "Meg asked me to give this to you." 

 Fraser accepted the note, ripping it open with fingers clumsy from
eagerness. Quickly scanning what Meg had written, he tuned the rest of the
room out. 

 "So, Frannie, where is it you're staying tonight?" her brother asked
nonchalantly as Fraser read. 

 She wasn't quite sure what he meant, but she'd been his sister long
enough to recognize that tone and look, so she just raised her eyebrow and
looked at him, waiting. 

 "Because, you know, Frannie, we've got the sleeping arrangements all set
up, and after what happened the last time we slept in the same room, I
gotta say, I don't think I want to repeat the experience." 

 "Ray," Frannie replied, her voice dripping with disgust. "I was six,
gimme a break. Besides, you'd been a pain all day and deserved the ice I
put in your bed." 

 Her brother rolled his eyes as Ren and Ray Kowalski looked on. "Yeah,
well, you weren't the one who had to sleep on the floor and watch those
huge palmetto bugs parade by your head." 

 "Well, Ray, if we can't think of another solution, then Ren and I can get
another room or something." 

 As Kowalski jumped in to diffuse the situation and told a story about the
time he and his parents and his brother had driven across country, Vecchio
leaned back against the cushions and just looked at his sister. 

 Not all that long ago, if he had brought up that trip down to Florida and
the ice, Frannie would've countered with the fact that there had been one
bug and that Ma had stepped on it while he had lain there frozen by the
way it scuttled across the floor, and the whole thing would've
deteriorated into a trademark Vecchio "discussion." 

 She hadn't risen to the bait, though, and suddenly Ray felt . . . ashamed
of himself; why had he deliberately tried to provoke her? Sitting there
looking at them, he realized that he was a little jealous. Ren and she
were sitting close to each other, not pawing each other, just leaning into
each other, smoothly slipping into the closeness without a thought. He and
Ange hadn't ever really done that - Ange hadn't really been a snuggler,
and he'd been too macho and full of himself to ask. 

 Shit. He was being an ass. Frannie had really grown up, and it suddenly
hit him that she was married. Really married. Damn. Yeah, well, he could
be a grown up too. 

 "Hey, Fran," he said quietly, after Kowalski had finished talking about
his brother trying to get the rangers at the Grand Canyon to keep Ray so
he could have the backseat to himself. "Sorry. That was stupid. I'm sure
the sleeping thing won't be a problem. I mean," he waved a hand around the
room vaguely. "It's not like there isn't enough room." 

 Frannie looked surprised for a moment, and then she smiled. "Thanks,
Ray." 

 Ray let the feeling of relating to his sister as an adult soak in for a
moment longer before turning to Fraser. 

 "Hey, Benny? Everything ok with Meg?" 

 Fraser pulled himself away from the short note. He'd already read through
it several times. After reassuring him that she was fine, and that the
baby was fine, she wished he could be there with her. He could hear her
tone making the acerbic comment about the nurses and their absolute strict
adherence to the visiting hours so clearly it made him smile. So had the
fact that she told him to sleep well since they weren't going to be able
to see each other tonight. The way she had signed the note, though, made
him want to leap up and run to the hospital, visiting hours and rules
bedamned. "All my love, Meg." The simple happiness the words gave him made
him want to laugh with relief and joy, but he managed to hold it back and
keep it for later. 

 Ray Vecchio's voice asking him a question wasn't a very welcome
interruption, but he schooled his face and slipped the note into his
pocket. He would read it again later. "I'm sorry, Ray, what was it you
said?" 

 "Is everything ok with Meg?" 

 "Yes, thank you, everything is just fine, and the, uh, the effects of
this morning will not be permanent." He had nearly said that the baby was
fine but stopped himself just in time; he wanted to keep that secret to
himself a little longer. For all he knew, Meg might've told Frannie, but
he didn't feel like hearing any more congratulations until he and Meg had
the chance to celebrate themselves. 

 The look Kowalski threw at him made it clear that he realized what Fraser
had almost said. Ray widened his eyes slightly, silently asking if the
baby was alright. Fraser nodded infinitesimally back, just enough to
acknowledge the question, but he could tell that Ray had understood the
way his face relaxed and he smiled very briefly. 

 "So, Fraze, while you were reading your note, we were talking about the
whole sleeping arrangement thing." 

 "Ah. Well, Ray," Fraser answered, looking at Vecchio. "You are more than
welcome to bunk with Ray and I. There's more than enough room; I'm sure we
can work something out quite easily." 

 "Yeah, well," Kowalski said immediately, "all I can say is I'm not gonna
be the one sleeping on the floor." He turned his head to look accusingly
at the Mountie. "I still haven't gotten my 'tuck in on the floor and hurt
my back' badge from the last time." 

 Later, Fraser stood out on the balcony, the note folded in his hands,
enjoying the cool night air. Both Rays were in the room he had been
sharing with Ray Kowalski watching some sort of horror movie that seemed
to involve a great deal of running girls clad only in underwear, and
Francesca and Turnbull had long since retired to the other bedroom. He'd
come out to the balcony to try and find a quiet place to think, but that
was proving a little difficult. His whole body was buzzing with fatigue,
not only from the relief of finally knowing the truth and starting to find
his way back with Meg, but also from the surges of adrenaline he'd had
coursing though him for most of the morning. 

 Looking back at the way he had held Cloutier up against the wall, he
considered more dispassionately how easy it would've been to tighten his
hand and kill the man, but he couldn't bring himself to regret the
feelings, or any of his actions. He would do it again, and more, to
protect her. 

 He sighed, wishing he could talk to her now. 

 "Good job, son, although don't you think you're a touch old to be sighing
at the moon?" 

 As always, Fraser started at his father's sudden appearance. "Thanks,
Dad, and I'm not mooning, I'm . . . thinking." He ignored the skeptical
look on his father's face and looked down at the note in his hand. "I'm
going to ask her to marry me, dad, as soon as I can." 

 "Glad to hear it. Of course, if you'd listened to me, you could've done
that months ago." 

 "Dad, I'm too tired to do this with you tonight." 

 Fraser thought his father looked rather disappointed. 

 "Yes, well, don't drop the ring like I did, son; your mother never let me
live that down." 

 "Thanks for the advice, as always, Dad." 

 "Any time, son. Well, good night." 

 Fraser basked in the silence for a few minutes before going back inside.
Happily the movie was over, so they all went to bed.  

 Chapter 61 

 The seating area in Meers' outer office wasn't very large. A small corner
had been carved out of the larger space taken up by his staff and the
usual office accessories - filing cabinets, copy machine, fax. There was a
small love seat and a couple of chairs, but the four men, two women, and
one wolf waiting there overflowed the area and seemed to dominate the
whole room. They definitely made the secretaries and staffers curious. All
sorts of interesting rumors were flying around the buildings, and here
were most of the key players in those rumors. Despite that, no one
disturbed the group with questions; even if they had been bold enough to,
the presence of the wolf was more than enough to keep them away. 

 The group of friends chatted easily, but there was an underlying tension
in their faces and motions. It wasn't that they weren't happy - there had
been several moments of giddiness as they caught each other up on the
events and mishaps of the last week - they were just anxious to find out
what happened next. 

 Fraser, Ray, Ray, Frannie, Ren, and Dief had all gone by the hospital to
pick Meg up on their way to Headquarters. She was looking much better,
especially since the friends had conspired to give Meg and Fraser a few
minutes alone. Everyone had been ordered to report to Meers' office bright
and early this morning, however, so it had only been a very few minutes.
Despite that, their friends were pleased to see the couple looking quietly
happy when they rejoined the group waiting at the nurses' station. 

 At the moment, though, Ray Kowalski was on the verge of starting to tear
leaves off the tall fichus plant; the waiting with nothing to do was
driving him absolutely crazy. Luckily, Meers finally arrived, out of
breath and flushed. 

 "I'm sorry I'm late," he panted. "I was just leaving when I got a call
from the Crown Prosecutor handling the case and had to take care of some
things. We'll talk about that in few minutes, however." He gestured toward
his office with the briefcase in his hand. "Constable Fraser, Inspector
Thatcher, I'd like to speak with you first, and then I'll call for the
rest of you." He turned back to the group that stayed by the chairs. "This
will only take a few minutes," he assured them. 

 Fraser heard the door behind him click shut as he and Meg stood at
attention in front of Meers' desk and a strong sense of dj vu struck him.
It hadn't been that long since he'd stood in this same spot not knowing
quite what to expect then either. He wondered what Meg was thinking. 

 "At ease, both of you," Meers ordered as he puttered around his desk,
pulling some papers and envelopes out of his briefcase before setting them
on the desk. He turned a bit and looked out the window across the quad,
admiring the green space. "Well, if someone had told me a week ago that
Henri Cloutier would be sitting in a jail cell this morning, I would've
laughed in their faces." He dropped the curtain and turned to look at the
two people facing him. Not wanting to leave them in suspense any longer,
he got right to the point. 

 "I've talked to both of you separately, to Turnbull, and to the Consulate
staff back in Chicago as part of this investigation; while I cannot
condone your conduct, I have to commend you for the way you handled it.
Other than Turnbull, no one at the Consulate seems to know you had a
personal relationship of any kind, and while there were some comments
about both of you being more quiet or worried over the last few months,
the whole staff find you both very professional." Meers looked at Meg.
"You have quite a cohesive staff, Inspector Thatcher." 

 Wondering when the other shoe was going to drop, Meg simply said, "Thank
you, sir." 

 "Having said that, you did both break regulations. As we discussed, it
was decided that I would be the one to decide on the action taken. I have
made my decision. Therefore," he went on gravely, "you will both be docked
two weeks' pay, since that was approximately the duration of your
relationship. A note of your conduct will also be made in both of your
records, although the fact that you both handled the matter discreetly
will also be clearly indicated." 

 The superintendent reached down and picked up one of the papers he had
set down on his desk. "A note will also be made that Inspector Thatcher
did request a transfer away from the posting." 

 Seeing the protest on Meg's face, he forestalled her as she began to
speak. 

 "The date on this request is obscured, but the fact that you requested a
transfer is being taken as a sign of the fact that you were working toward
a resolution to the problem of a personal relationship between a superior
officer and subordinate." 

 Privately, Meers felt a ripple of quiet pleasure at the slight confusion
in Fraser's eyes and the quickly hidden shock on Thatcher's face; it had
taken him some time to secure the copy of the request she had faxed
earlier this week, and the date really was obscured - something must've
gotten smudged during transmission of the fax. Still, it pleased him that
she was honorable enough to not just allow the assumption to go by
unchallenged. It also made him more content that he had decided to handle
the whole matter this way. 

 "This request has been denied, but that doesn't solve the problem of
having both of you in the same chain of command should you chose to
continue your relationship. We will hold off on that issue for a few
moments, though." 

 Meers watched them both blink but didn't return to the issue. 

 "Before I bring everyone else in, do either of you have any questions?" 

 Despite the surprise swimming in their eyes at the relatively light
sanctions against them, neither Meg nor Fraser had any questions, so Meers
walked toward the door. 

 "All right, then let's invite the others to join us so we can continue
this conversation." 

 A few moments later, the whole group stood gathered in a semi-circle in
front of his desk. Meg and Fraser anchored one end of the arc, Diefenbaker
ensconced between them. Ren and Frannie came next, and the two detectives
from Chicago rounded up the line. 

 Meers stood facing them on the other side of his desk, and as seven pairs
of eyes watched him, he suddenly smiled and rubbed his hands together.
"Let's start off with what delayed me this morning. As I said, I got a
call from the prosecutor handling Cloutier's case. He was calling to
inform me that he had just gotten a call from Cloutier's lawyer." 

 Meers paused for dramatic effect, clearly enjoying himself. 

 "In light of the weight of the evidence we gathered from Cloutier's
office and the information Inspector Thatcher brought to the table, Henri
Cloutier has plead guilty to all charges of blackmail, extortion, bribery,
and illegal conduct in exchange for the attempted murder and assault with
a deadly weapon charges being dropped." Meers looked up briefly, before
glancing back down at the paperwork in front of him. "Cloutier seemed
quite eager to avoid a trial." He shrugged and looked up again. "Still, in
spite of the dropped charges, Mr. Cloutier has received a sentence of 172
years in jail. He will be eligible for parole in approximately 93 years." 

 Ray Kowalski's exultant "Yes!" seemed to say it all. 

 Chapter 62 

 It took several minutes of grins, hugs, laughter, and congratulations, as
well as happy barking and frisking, before they all where able to bring
themselves back under control. The relief and happiness in the room was
palpable as they celebrated the final stage of Cloutier's fall. Outside,
Meers' secretary was a bit bemused at the barely audible sounds of
laughter drifting out from her boss' office. 

 After a moment, Meers turned to Meg, who had just hugged Frannie after
Meg and Fraser had embraced briefly. 

 "I can't thank you enough for finding information on Janice Tilannon; she
was a friend of mine, and I was never able to prove that Cloutier was
blackmailing her. Thank you for helping me put her memory to rest." 

 The sudden freedom buzzing through Meg had allowed her to hug Fraser
despite the fact that they were in a commanding officer's office, but it
didn't make her giddy enough to do anything more than shake hands with the
superintendent. Not entirely sure how to react to this man who had spared
her and Fraser from potentially career-ending punishment, she looked at
him and said a quiet, heart-felt thank you back. 

 He squeezed her hand between his two hands, and smiled back before ending
the handclasp and walking back behind his desk. Retrieving several
envelopes, he walked around the other end of the desk to stand before Ray
Kowalski and Ray Vecchio. The two men stopped talking and trading insults
and came to a close approximation of standing at attention. 

 Handing each man an envelope, Meers began to speak in a more official
voice. "Detectives Kowalski and Vecchio, it is my honor to extend you the
thanks of the Canadian government and the RCMP for your service, and to
present you this letter of commendation from the Commissioner of the RCMP.
Copies of this letter will also be sent to your Lieutenant, the Chief of
Police, and the Mayor of Chicago's office. Thank you both." 

 Shaking both detectives' hands, Meers watched discomfort and pride war on
both their faces. Kowalski seemed more uncomfortable with the attention
than Vecchio, but Meers could still see a faint blush rising on the
Italian detective's cheeks. 

 The superintendent stepped to the next person in line. 

 He didn't give her an envelope, but he shook her hand warmly. "Mrs.
Turnbull, thank you very much for all of your efforts on behalf of your
friends and for your support during this investigation. It was invaluable,
and I will be personally calling Lieutenant Welsh to inform him of your
efforts." 

 Frannie definitely did blush with pride. 

 Turnbull was next in line, and he got a thicker envelope. 

 "Constable Renfield Turnbull, it is my honor to not only present you with
an official letter of commendation, but to inform you that you have been
promoted within the rank of Constable. You will begin training as an
Assistant Liaison Officer in Chicago as soon as you return." 

 Meers ignored the way the whole line stiffened as they heard that. He
could almost hear the wheels turning in their heads; as wonderful as this
was for Renfield, what did it mean for Fraser? 

 "You are also receiving a citation for bravery for your actions in
Cloutier's office while he was holding Inspector Thatcher at gun point.
Your courageous action and quick thinking prevented the violence from
escalating and helped end a dangerous situation. Congratulations,
Constable Turnbull." 

 The handshake between superintendent and constable clearly conveyed all
of the pride and awe Turnbull was holding back. Next to him, his wife
beamed, her whole face breaking out in a smile. In fact, everyone looked
happy and proud of the young constable, but Meers could also see questions
behind their smiles. More than willing to provide answers, Meers continued
down the line, giving Dief a pat as he passed the wolf. They had gotten to
know each other yesterday afternoon, and while the superintendent still
found it a bit odd to be in the presence of a wolf - well, half-wolf -
there was no doubt that the animal was just as much a part of the team as
any of the humans. Turning his attention away from the wolf, Meers came to
a rest in front of Dief's human companion. 

 "Constable Fraser, after due consideration of your service record and
your years of service to the force, it is my duty to inform you that our
superiors have decided that a change is in order." He paused before
opening the final envelope in his hand, enjoying drawing out the tension.
"Therefore, I have the duty of hereby promoting you to the rank of
Corporal, with all rights and privileges therein." 

 Few things had given Jonathan Meers more pride than this moment, than
promoting Benton after the way the RCMP had treated him over the whole
disaster involving his father's death. Judging by his friend's reactions,
they all felt the same way. Kowalski and Vecchio were grinning from ear to
ear; Renfield looked just as proud, although his gaze contained a fair
amount of hero worship as well. Frannie looked like she wanted to break
out of the line and hug Fraser, but she managed to contain herself. Of
Fraser's friends, only Margaret Thatcher contained an exterior response,
but from where Meers stood, he could see her eyes shining. 

 As for Fraser, he looked completely stunned. The expression in his eyes
renewed Meers' gratitude that enough time seemed to have passed to dull
memories about the whole controversy around Bob Fraser's death. Clearly,
Fraser had never thought to be promoted after alienating so much of the
force. Meers wondered what the man was going to think when he heard the
rest. 

 "In conjunction with your new rank, you are also being transferred." 

 Meers ignored the way the entire line in front of him froze. 

 "A new unit is being formed. It is a joint venture between the RCMP and
various law enforcement organizations throughout the United States
concerning wilderness and cold weather training, survival, and rescue.
You, Fraser, have been specially chosen for this assignment because of
your skills and experience. From what I have been told, you will be in
charge of the sector containing the middle third of the United States;
your base city will be Chicago. Duties will include helping design the
courses and training, as well as overseeing, and, perhaps to some degree,
leading them." Meers looked down at the information in his hands. "At the
moment, the proposed schedule includes several weeks a year out in the
field setting up and/or guiding the sessions. That's all the information I
have, but you will be able to speak to Inspector Tolliver, the unit
commander, and obtain more details." 

 Meers look up again, thrilled to see the excitement burning in Fraser's
eyes. This assignment being created at just this time had to be the
textbook case of serendipity the way it solved so many problems all at
once. It had even make Jonathon Meers wonder about fate, but no matter it
had come about, he was thrilled for Fraser. 

 "Congratulations," he praised before turning to Meg Thatcher. "Inspector
Thatcher, as his last commanding officer, would you care to present the
Corporal with his new insignia?" Meers offered the dark haired woman a
small box. 

 She took it with steady hands, and with Fraser's eyes locked straight
ahead, she pinned the symbols of his new rank to his uniform. 

 "Congratulations, Corporal Fraser," she said in a firm voice. 

 The new corporal's eyes dropped as they shook hands, both of their eyes
full of emotions the others pretended not to see. 

 Meers turned to Meg who had stepped back from standing in front of
Fraser. 

 "Inspector, I had a chance to look over the files you collected over the
last couple months; you did some impressive investigating and information
gathering. The groundwork you laid is going to make cleaning up the pieces
of this investigation much easier. The prosecutor and my superiors were
also favorably impressed and believe me, a note of this will be made in
your record. Thank you." 

 Clearing his throat, Meers stepped around his desk once again looking
jolly and pleased. "Thus ends our little impromptu awards ceremony,
everyone. Congratulations to you all; it has been my great honor to work
with you, and I am extremely proud of each one of you." He snapped his
fingers, remembering something. "I almost forgot; I contacted Mark
Buckman. He's going on leave and we're going to talk in a few weeks, but
he is seriously considering leaving the force and staying on to work his
parent's farm. He said he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it, and he
wanted me to be sure to say thank you to each of you." Meers was about to
say something more when the intercom on his desk buzzed loudly. 

 Reaching down, he depressed the button. "Yes, Rebecca?" 

 "Sir, Ministers Flanders and Krakowski are on the line; they are
requesting your presence in Minister Krakowski's office." 

 "Please tell them I will be right up," he replied, and turned to face the
others. "Excuse me everyone. I don't believe this will take long; it's
probably some questions about the plea bargain." Grabbing a folder from
his desk, he quickly strode toward the door. "If I am going to be longer
than a few minutes, I'll try to call to let you know." With that last
comment, he was gone. 

 The six friends relaxed in a rush. Another round of congratulations burst
forth, and Kowalski almost tackled Fraser to give him a quick hug. 

 "So, this mean you'll still talk to us now that you're a big wilderness
hotshot, Corporal?" 

 "I will take it under consideration, Ray, but only if you submit the
proper forms in triplicate," Fraser countered. 

 Vecchio snorted. "Yeah, right, then you'll never talk to the King of
Paperwork here again." He shoved his official partner before hugging his
unofficial one. "Congrats, Benny. This new assignment sounds like it's
right up your alley." 

 "Yeah, Fraser," Frannie agreed with a hug of her own. It had taken her
longer to congratulate Fraser because she had been too busy congratulating
her husband. Now that they were both free, however, Turnbull also
congratulated him. 

 In the midst of the new flurry of congratulations to Ren that Fraser
started, it took several moments for anyone to notice Meg wasn't joining
in the rush of words. Finally, Fraser turned his head to seek her out and
saw her leaning against the edge of Meers' desk. A bit concerned, he
started to ask if anything was wrong before the look in her eyes made him
stop. Seeing Fraser freeze, first the two Rays and then Ren and Frannie
stopped talking as well and just looked at the two dark haired Mounties. 

 For weeks, Meg had been trying to come up with a way to fix some of the
pain she had caused Ben. She felt silly for comparing him to a knight in
shining armor, especially since none of the fairy stories ever contained
the princess clocking the monster, but she also remember the way she'd
felt when she'd realized it was him charging into the office. Suddenly Meg
had the perfect solution: she knew just what she could do. That this would
be another step in regaining control over her own life and the course it
would take made this idea even more fitting. 

 The fact that they weren't alone did give her pause for a moment, but
then she realized their friends' presence made this even better; being
willing to declare this in front of their friends, especially these
friends who had helped make all this possible, fit. It was exactly the
right kind of gesture to show Ben once and for all how much she cared for
him and how sorry she was for everything that had happened. 

 Tuning out the other people in the room, Meg focused in on Fraser and how
she felt. It wasn't hard; everything was right there beneath the surface,
just waiting. She waited for him to notice, and as their eyes locked and
she felt the answering chord from his eyes, a sense of rightness slid
through her, quieting the last of her nerves. 

 When she spoke, her voice rang clear and strong. "Corporal Fraser, you
are no longer part of my chain of command." 

 His eyes full of emotion and curiosity, Fraser answered evenly. "You are
correct, sir. Inspector Tolliver is now my commanding officer." 

 She pushed herself away from the desk and stepped towards him until she
stood right in front of him. She didn't touch Fraser, but she was more
than close enough to do so. 

 "Ben, will you marry me?"  

 Chapter 63 

 Fraser hadn't known what to expect when he caught sight of Meg looking at
him expectantly. He felt himself responding to the look in her eyes before
his conscious mind had even clicked in and identified the emotions
reflected there. Unable to hide his answering emotions, he gazed back,
waiting to see what she needed. 

 Her question, so clearly and directly phrased, rocked him, and he
wondered if the shock he felt jolt him showed on his face. It wasn't that
he didn't want to marry her - as he had told his father, he planned to ask
her as soon as he could - he just hadn't expected her to ask him,
especially not so soon, especially not in front of other people. 

 His mind raced as his brain tried to catch up with his emotions. 

 This morning when they had talked briefly at the hospital, there hadn't
been time to do much more than reassure each other. They had both been
determined to tell the other that their feelings hadn't changed and that
they wanted to pick up their relationship where it had stopped. Actually,
they had been so focused on making it clear they had both started talking
at the same time, their rushing words colliding before they'd dissolved
into laughter. 

 Once they'd gotten the speaking order cleared up, though, Ben had felt
even more tongue-tied than usual. Still, his determination to regain their
happiness buoyed him along. He had made it as clear as he possibly could
that he not only loved her, but that he loved and wanted their baby. Her
answering smile had made him catch his breath, as had her words as she
made it clear how happy that made her and that she felt exactly the same
way. 

 So, as important as those few moments had been, they hadn't had time to
touch on the future beyond the fact that each wanted it to involve the
other. 

 And now, standing here, the strictly orderly part of his brain protested
that they hadn't resolved everything, that they needed to do a great deal
more talking before undertaking such an important decision. 

 For once, however, the struggle between his heart and his brain wasn't
much of struggle at all. He followed what his heart demanded without any
qualms. 

 In that instant, he realized that he had changed. Yesterday's rage had
eaten away not only the walls he'd put up over the last few weeks, but
melted old scars, leaving a clean, new surface for him and Meg to build
on. The old shadows and pain were gone, and he felt immeasurably lighter.
Despite the fact that everything hadn't been resolved, his path was
completely clear. 

 "Yes." 

 Fraser's voice was quiet in the absolute stillness following Meg's
question, but the fullness of his happiness couldn't have been more clear
if he had shouted the word repeatedly from the roof. 

 Happy sighs and wide grins popped out from all of their friends, but none
of them said anything or moved as Meg and Ben continued to stare only at
each other. Then the two of them each took that final step and were in
each other's arms, holding tight, overwhelmed by the swell of emotion
pouring through them. 

 Ben wished he could form more coherent thoughts and find the words to
express what he was feeling more clearly, but all that made it past the
joy and peace cascading though him was "yes," so he continued whispering
that against her hair. Luxuriating in her scent and the brush of her soft
hair against his cheek, he could feel her whisper "I love you" against his
neck and wondered again how he had made it through three months without
the feel of her against him, or even the chance of touching her. It was
over. They had made it back to each other. 

 Settling back into the present, Meg and Ben basked a moment longer before
pulling back and smiling into each other's eyes. Reluctant to let each
other go, though, Ben kept his arm around her shoulders, and Meg kept one
of hers around his waist as they returned to reality and turned to face
their friends. 

 All four grinned back from where they had backed away to give the couple
a modicum of privacy, and all four grins carried the same delight and
relief. Dief's excited frisking around Meg and Ben's feet captured
everyone's happiness so perfectly that no one said anything for a moment.
Then everyone seemed to talk at once. 

 "Thank you," Meg and Ben said together, while both Rays and Frannie and
Ren all shouted congratulations all at the same time. 

 When everyone stopped giggling at the silliness of the situation, Ray
Kowalski was the first to speak. "I'm gonna be strong and not say 'took
you long enough.'" 

 "That's ok, I'll do it," Vecchio chimed in. 

 "But," Kowalski went on, ignoring his partner's aside, "we're all real
happy for you. Just hurry up and get married before something else happens
and we have ta' go kiting off to Outer Mongolia or something." 

 "You know," Frannie piped up, "there isn't a waiting period up here. You
guys could get married, like, today." 

 Everyone stared at the petite brunette, several of the pairs of eyes
inquiring. Frannie blushed. 

 "Yeah, well, uh," she tucked her hair behind her ear with the hand not
holding Ren's. "I, well, I, um, looked it up once a while back." 

 Fraser looked down at Meg, ready to smile and make some comment about
proper planning when he felt the idea connect with an answering chord deep
inside him, re-igniting the swirling emotions that had controlled him
yesterday morning. He felt his more feral side wake back up at the thought
of having an immediate chance to be linked to her forever. To have
everyone know that she belonged to him. And that he belonged to her. An
answering call in her eyes reflected the swell of emotion back at him,
heightening it, alpha to lupa, mate to mate. 

 This time it was Meg who said, "yes," softly, and Ben knew she felt the
same sense of rightness he did at the idea of getting married right now,
today, of cementing this bond between them so they could begin building on
it as soon as possible. The shimmering emotion in her eyes told him she
wanted to stay beside him as much as he wanted to stay beside her. 

 "Yes," he answered, affirming everything he saw in her eyes. 

 He leaned down, and cradling her face with one of his hands, kissed her,
trying to put everything he felt into it. His emotions pulled at him to
deepen the kiss, but the logical part of him, while still reeling from
being overwhelmed by emotion, was still present enough to insist that this
just wasn't the time, that they had an audience. 

 "Damn." He felt more than heard her whisper against his lips as they both
pulled back. 

 This time his "yes," carried a different meaning, and the raised eyebrow
he put with it made her grin. 

 Ben grinned back. "I'm not even sure where to start," he admitted
quietly. "I've never planned a wedding before. Well," he said after a
second, "there was that time in Alert, when, as a small boy, I was given
the task of organizing the three-legged race at the wedding of-" 

 "Ben?" Meg's voice was filled with exasperated laughter as she called him
to a halt. "Let's focus here if we're going to do this. I'd say the first
step is to make sure we really can do this and get a license." 

 He nodded at her logical first step, and with her still tucked against
his side, turned back to their friends. This time, both Rays stood there
with their arms crossed, still grinning at them, Ren was trying to hide a
smile, and Frannie looked definitely misty-eyed. Fraser felt himself
blush. 

 Dief barked from down by his feet. 

 "Really, Dief, must you always focus on the gustatory aspect of any
situation?" 

 Meg looked down at the wolf before scratching his head with the hand not
locked around Fraser's waist. "Yes, Dief, we will have food, and if you
like you can help us pick the menu." 

 The wolf's happy yip made Fraser make another mental note to ask Meg
exactly when she and Dief had become so close. 

 Fraser was just about to say something about finding a place where they
could get married seemed like a good second step when Meers came back. 

 Chapter 64 

 Superintendent Meers bustled across the room, taking in the way everyone
was standing and the fact that Fraser and Thatcher were standing quite
close to each other. He didn't know that in the pause he'd made to tell
his secretary not to disturb them, the two had sprung apart. They were no
longer touching, but their hands were only millimeters apart. 

 "Well, now," he said, tossing his notes and folders down on the desk. "I
have some good news to share, but why don't we all sit down? All this
standing makes me feeling like I'm waiting in line." 

 While the four people standing off to the side and Meers all shuffled
around with chairs and sorting out a place to sit, Fraser and Meg stayed
where they were. Exchanging quick nods, Fraser and Meg turned to face
Meers. 

 "Superintendent Meers, we also have some good news we'd like to share
with you." Fraser's voice was quiet but clear. 

 Meers leaned back in his chair trying to look expectant but not knowing;
no need to ruin the surprise. "I'm always up for more good news, son. Why
don't you go first?" 

 Meg took it from there. "Corporal Fraser has done me the honor of
consenting to be my husband." 

 Lighting up his face, Meers' immediate smile reflected the same happiness
as everyone else in the room. Jumping up, he stuck out his hand to shake
Fraser's and pumped it enthusiastically. "Congratulations, son! I think
your father would've approved very much." He turned to Meg and shook her
hand. "My wife introduced me the same way to some friends right after she
asked me to marry her. I wish you the same happiness we've found
together." 

 "Thank you very much, sir." 

 Sitting back down, Meers spoke again. "I'm glad you went first because my
news makes it even easier for you to begin celebrating. This investigation
is, of course, far from over; we not only have more charges against
Cloutier to look into, but we also have to investigate his partners and
co-conspirators. That said, our commanding officers have decided that
while all of your involvement had been allowed because of special
circumstances, they don't want to run the risk of anyone saying that these
upcoming investigations are tainted in anyway. So, they have asked me to
release you all and ask you to return to Chicago for the time being. If,
for some reason, they need to talk to you further, someone will contact
you. As of right now, you are all free to go home, and while they put it
in the nicest of terms, they'd like you to leave as soon as possible." 

 "That is excellent news, sir," Fraser replied. "It makes it more likely
that our plans will go forward; Inspector Thatcher and I would very much
like to be married today." 

 "Well, then, let me again say congratulations! Is there anything I can do
to help?" 

 Meg and Fraser looked at each other yet again, feeling a bit at sea as
they absorbed these latest developments. "We would, of course, like to
have you there, once we decide where the 'there' is," Fraser said slowly.
"We thought our first step would be determining if we can actually get
married today." 

 "You've come to the right place for that, Fraser," Meers beamed. "I have
some connections at City Hall; getting a license shouldn't be a problem
anyway, but I can get one for you faster, and you won't even have to wait
in line." 

 "That's very kind of you, sir," Meg answered, "but we don't want you to
go to any trouble." 

 "No, no," Meers assured them. "It won't be any trouble at all." 

 "Thank you kindly," Fraser said after a moment. "That would be very
helpful. Now we need a place to have the ceremony." 

 "I would rather not do it in a judge's chambers, Ben," Meg said quietly. 

 Fraser nodded, feeling the same way. Casting through his mind to come up
with some sort of location didn't present him a solution, though. Neither
one of them had ties to any church in the area, nor did they have the need
for some sort of large hall or banquet room. 

 A quiet voice spoke from behind them and they turned in time to see
Turnbull rising from the couch. "I, ah, might be able to help you there,
sirs. The Turnbull and O'Connell building downtown has a rather large
interior garden in its lobby. My Aunt Doris is an avid horticulturist and
supervises it herself. She always says there aren't enough green spaces in
cities, so she built her own. It's full of native plants, including quite
a few trees, and has a small stream running through it. When you are in
it, it's hard to remember that you are in the middle of a building and the
city. The company uses it for small parties all the time - Aunt Doris
designed it with walkways and a central patio area - and if it's free and
sounds to your liking, I'm sure you could use it. It's really quite
lovely." 

 Meg spoke first after looking at Fraser; she could see the happiness
Turnbull's suggestion had created and squeezed Ben's hand. "We don't seem
to be saying anything but 'thank you,' but Turnbull, that sounds
absolutely wonderful." 

 Fraser let the idea of being married surrounded by living things, trees
and flowers, soak into him. It sounded perfect. "Once again, Turnbull,
you've provided us a solution. We would very much like to use the garden."


 Chapter 65 

 Time flew by in a flurry of suggestions and decisions and ideas and the
to-do list built quickly as they ran through the usual checklist: flowers,
photographer, music, food. One of the departments at O'Connell was using
the garden for a birthday party late in the afternoon, but Turnbull's
uncle was only too happy to let them use it in the early evening. Meg and
Fraser made a point of adding him and his wife to the small guest list. 

 Meg could feel reality starting to set in as their to-do list grew.
Suddenly, an idea hit her and she turned to Frannie. "Francesca, would you
be my maid-of-honor? Well, I suppose 'matron,'" she corrected with a
smile. 

 "Nah, I hate that word. Always makes me think of old battleaxe nuns. But,
I'd love to, Meg. Thanks for asking." A delighted blush made Frannie's
smile glow even more brightly. 

 Fraser realized he needed to ask a parallel question, but he was faced
with an immediate dilemma: who to chose? Despite tradition, he couldn't.
Fine, then, no choosing. He turned to both Rays and Ren where they sat
across the table in the small room next to Meers' office. "I would be
honored if all three of you would stand up with me." 

 "Anytime, anywhere, buddy. Thanks," was Ray Kowalski's immediate reply,
and Ray Vecchio accepted just as quickly and happily. Ren, on the other
hand, had something else to say. 

 "Sir, thank you very much for asking me. I'm honored. But I wonder if I
could help more another way. Since there is so much to do, and you and
Inspector Thatcher need to go shopping and attend to other things, I
wonder if you would allow me to stay behind and coordinate the wedding.
That way, you both can focus on the fact that this is, after all, your
wedding day." He complete the sentence in a rush, his tone somewhere
between tentative and cheerful. 

 Fraser had a flash of the first time Turnbull had arranged a formal meal
at the Consulate - it had been for a delegation from Saudi Arabia and he
had ordered shellfish and wine, neither of which are acceptable under the
tenets of Islam. But then he thought about how much the other man had
grown in the past few months. A quick look at Meg told Fraser her thoughts
were running in the same direction, so they agreed to leave most of the
details in Turnbull's hands. At least he was familiar with the caterer,
florist, and other staff his Aunt Doris used for functions in the garden. 

 After a few more decisions, and a short, private talk between Ben and
Meg, they had the basic outline of the wedding laid out, and the to-do
list divided up. Jotting down the last thing on her and Meg's list of
things to get done, Francesca stood up with a little jump. 

 "All right, so everyone knows what they're supposed to do. Wedding's at
6:30; we're all meeting there. Why don't you guys go and get your suits
and stuff out of the room first thing so that when Meg and I get back from
shopping, there's no chance we'll run into each other." 

 "What's that matter?" Kowalski asked. 

 Frannie rolled her eyes. "Men! Seeing each other on your wedding day is
bad luck." 

 "Uh, Frannie, they've been seeing each other all morning." 

 She dismissed that with a quick wave of her hand. "That didn't count
because we were planning the wedding - but now that the plans are all
done, now the whole wedding thing clicks in, an' they can't see each other
after we leave here, got it?" 

 "You aren't serious." 

 Frannie looked at her almost brother. "Ray, it's tradition, deal, ok?" 

 Not wanting this exchange to develop into a full scale attack, or to have
Fraser launch into a detailed explanation of exactly where that particular
tradition had originated and how it had evolved, Meg stood up and
shouldered her purse. Steering Francesca towards the door, she moved
things along. "I think that's a fine idea - a little bit of tradition in
the midst of a slightly untraditional wedding. We'll just get started on
the things we have to do." 

 She paused in front of Fraser, who stood up as she came around the table.
Tilting her head up so she could meet his eyes while standing so close to
him, she lowered her voice. "I'll see you later this evening." 

 "Indeed." 

 A small, private smile playing across her face, Meg nodded firmly once.
Then, steadying herself with one hand on his chest, she kissed him
quickly. "Corporal." 

 He smiled back, just the one side of his mouth really moving.
"Inspector." 

 A moment later, she and Frannie slipped out the door; Fraser watched them
go. Things were moving awfully quickly, but his nascent sense of
spontaneity continued sweeping him along, and he found himself unwilling
to object. This chance to be linked to her cancelled out too much of the
remembered pain of the last few months. Unconsciously cracking his neck,
Fraser turned back to the men waiting at the table. 

 "I believe the best place to start is to find an officiant. Inspector
Thatcher," he paused, a slightly perplexed expression flitting across his
face. Then he seemed to make a decision. "That is, Meg and I have decided
to ask a chaplain to marry us and postpone a more traditional Inuit
ceremony until she and I have the chance to travel north. After that,
perhaps the issue of wardrobe would be the next most appropriate step,
followed by the . . ." 

 "Benny," Vecchio cut him off. "Take a deep breath. Come on, breathe.
That's right. Ok, good." He walked over and put a hand on the Mountie's
shoulder. "We've got it under control. Your best men have got it handled.
Here, you can hold the list." He scooped it up and handed it to his
friend, who grasped it more tightly than one sheet of paper normally
required. 

 Herding Fraser back to the table, Vecchio sat down next to him and they
all went back to making plans. Once he'd sat back down too, Vecchio looked
over at the other Ray and widened his eyes comically - they both
remembered the out-of-breath feeling from their own wedding days, but it
was always nice to find things that proved Fraser was just as human as the
rest of them. 

 As they finished mapping out their day, Kowalski stretched back in his
chair and shot a silly grin at Fraser. "All this sounds cool, buddy, but
you know, after we all get back to Chicago and things settle back down,
we're gonna have to make believe you're still a bachelor an' take you out
for a night on the town and send you off right." 

 "Oh, yeah, a night out, maybe some dinner, a little bit of fun. It'll be
great, Benny." A small whine from his feet distracted Vecchio from the
deer in the headlights look on his friend's face. He nodded at the wolf.
"Yeah, sure, Dief, we'll go to some wolf friendly places, too. Oh, and
Benny, there's gonna be a command performance over at Ma's as soon as she
finds out you're married - she's gonna want to cook up a storm, so get
ready to eat. In fact," he said with a smile, "maybe we should start
fasting now." 

 Fraser frowned. "I am sorry your mother won't be able to be here today-" 

 "Nah, Fraser, don't worry about it; she'll understand. Hell, knowing Ma,
she'll probably think it's romantic and make twice as much food." 

 Contemplating that awesome thought, Fraser finally settled on a
diplomatic, "Your mother is a wonderful cook, Ray," as they all stood up. 

 "Oh, and we ought ta' call Welsh and let him know about all this, and
make sure he knows all about the slime-ball copin' to the whole thing." 

 All four men walked toward Meers office, although Fraser and Vecchio were
so busy agreeing with Kowalski's statement that none of them caught
Turnbull's smile, or his considering look. Dief did, but he didn't say
anything.  

 Chapter 66 

 "Man, I remember feeling how he looks." 

 Kowalski's voice was quietly amused in the stillness after Meers went to
take Fraser and Turnbull to find accessories for their dress uniforms. 

 "Yeah," Vecchio snorted. "At least we had some time to space out the
whole pre-wedding thing. Benny's doing it all in one jump." 

 "Yeah, well, he's a Mountie, he can do it. I mean, if he can face
performance arsonists, voodoo priests, and a whole City Council, he can
deal with a wedding and the Ice-I mean, Meg. Don't suppose we really
oughtta be calling her than anymore." 

 "No, I guess not." 

 They were quiet for a few minutes, each of them remembering their own
weddings, both of them hoping that their friends never lost the way they'd
been looking at each other the last couple of hours. 

 "She better not hurt him again." 

 The slighter man stilled his usual fidgeting and the two men shared a
look of complete agreement. 

 "So," Kowalski said, changing the subject. "Fraser's leaving it up to us
to decide who's actually standing next to him at the ceremony. How you
wanna do that?" 

 "Christ, I don't know." Vecchio picked some lint off his slacks. "I mean,
we're both his partners. I knew him first, but you guys worked together
too, and he's your roommate. How about we flip a coin?" 

 "Nah, rock, paper, scissors." 

 Vecchio snorted again. "You're on." 

 Bouncing their closed fists three times in unison, they each made a
gesture. 

 "Damn," Kowalski laughed. Two papers. 

 They went through the process again. This time Ray Kowalski got paper,
Ray Vecchio rock. 

 "Excellent! Paper covers rock!" 

 "Does not! Rock weighs paper down." 

 "That is not how it goes." 

 "Is too." 

 "Fine, best two out of three." 

 A few minutes later, Vecchio's voice rocked with laughter. "Wait, wait,
best out of five!"  

 "Hey, Ray, did you know that concrete powder is harder to get out of
fabric than glass fragments?" 

 Vecchio looked up from his suitcase sure that this tidbit of information
was relevant somehow, but not sure how it fit into his life right now.
"Kowalski, you ever consider the fact that you are just odd, man?" 

 A lightening-fast grin flashed across the blond man's face. "Don't have
to consider it: know it." He held up the suit he'd just pulled out of his
garment bag so Vecchio's could see it from across the room. "I asked the
cleaner when I picked this thing up a few months ago. Last time I wore it
was that Lady Shoes case and between bombs exploding and me jumping
through glass, the guy had a bitch of a time getting it clean." 

 "You were with Benny, weren't you?" 

 "Yeah." 

 Both Rays looked at Fraser, who was sitting on the couch in the living
room of the suite, waiting for his friends to gather up their things.
Fraser looked back and forth between them. 

 "Hey, Ray," Vecchio said. "Did you know that ketchup and eau de dumpster
are almost impossible to get out of Armani?"  

 Ren hung up the phone feeling pleased with himself. There would be just
enough time for the pilot to get to Chicago and back and for the two of
them to get ready and to the airport. Perfect.	

 Chapter 67 

 Fraser had it narrowed down to three, but judging by the look on the
Mountie's face, this might take a while. Oh, god - now Fraser had the
jeweler's loupe up to his eye. Figured that Benny would know all about
gems and imperfections. 

 Vecchio let his mind wander and looked around the small, out of the way
jewelry shop. Bored with looking at rocks and stones, however, he soon
looked out the window and across the small street outside. Straightening
from where he had been leaning against a glass case, Ray realized the shop
right across the street was a toyshop, and the front display was full of- 

 'Perfect,' he thought, laughter cascading through his mind 

 "Hey, Benny, I'll be right back - I just want to look at something." 

 Fraser agreed vaguely, and with a quick, "I'll be right back," to
Kowalski, Ray Vecchio left the shop quickly to go and buy his best friend
a wedding present.  

 "That looks so fabulous, Meg!" 

 Wearing a smile that made her entire face glow, Inspector Margaret
Thatcher admired her reflection in the mirror. It was a simple dress, no
lace, no tiers or layers, not a meringue in sight, just simple, straight
lines, short sleeves, and a high waist that divided the dress just below
her breasts. The bodice of the dress was more of a matte, but the satin of
the skirt gleamed white. She wondered if the color might remind Ben of the
snow he loved so much. 

 "And with those shoes, it doesn't even need to be hemmed!" 

 Meg turned to the shopkeeper standing next to her. "Thank you, I'll take
it." Thank goodness she'd picked one they had in stock.  

 Dief sat on his hind legs and watched RayLessHair help RayMoreHair with
his tie. Both of them cleaned up very nicely. 

 Turning, Dief could see Ben standing in front of the mirror making minute
adjustments to his uniform. So far the day had contained too much walking
and not enough food, but he could smell how happy Ben was, so the wolf was
willing to make a few concessions. At least for the moment. He hoped
Renfield had been able to get everything he had helped Margaret pick this
morning, though. 

 Groaning a bit, he walked over to Ben. 

 "What? Great Scot! How did that happen? Thank you, Dief." 

 He watched in fond amusement as Ben quickly picked the piece of lint off
his sleeve. Wanting to share the joke with the two Rays, Dief turned again
and saw RayMoreHair's mouth move. 

 "Fraze, I promise you they'll still let you marry her even if you have a
couple pieces of lint on your sleeve. Now, come on, buddy, take a seat and
relax. Yer gonna wear those buttons away if you polish them anymore." 

 Relieved to see Ben follow the suggestion, even if it was a bit dazedly,
Dief suddenly realized he could smell Margaret. 

 Deciding the two men had Ben well in hand, Dief left, his nails clicking
against the tile floor, to go and check on Margaret and see if she needed
his help. Now that this was finally happening, there was no way Dief was
going to let any of the humans mess this up.  

 Meg distracted herself from the fact that somehow butterflies had formed
a marching band in her stomach by straightening an already straight sleeve
and, catching Frannie's eyes in the mirror, smiled. "It does look awfully
'bride-y' doesn't it?" 

 "Oh, yeah. Benton isn't even going to be able to talk when he sees you!" 

 Meg's grin widened. "Is that possible?" she joked, her voice full of fake
awe. 

 They were still laughing when Dief trotted in, his tail waving excitedly.
The two women greeted the wolf and Meg reached down to stroke his ears
just as Ren came in to tell them it was time. 

 Scooping up her bouquet of red roses, Meg took a deep breath and watched
in surprise as Dief fell into step beside her as she walked behind
Frannie. 

 "I thought you were going to wait with Ben, Dief," she asked quietly. 

 As the wolf just looked at her, she realized that she would no longer be
walking down the aisle alone: she would have a lupine escort. What more
did she need?  

 Chapter 68 

 The water in the brook rambled and skipped its way along the small stream
as Fraser walked across a narrow bridge, a Ray on either side of him. The
light scents of pine and fresh earth made him feel more at home as he
walked toward where the guests waited, yet he couldn't help but admit to
himself that he was quite nervous. 

 What if he couldn't live up to her expectations, as a man, a husband, or
as a father? What if he couldn't make her happy? What if, after all this
time, he had finally found someone to share a life with, and all he
succeeded in doing was driving her away? 

 Each question seemed to settle another stone in his stomach, weighing him
down more and more. 

 Looking up as they walked around another curve in the path, Fraser caught
sight of his father leaning against a larch tree. 

 "It's on-the-job training, son. You learn by doing it and staying around
when it gets tough. Don't question it to death - you love her, Benton.
This is right." 

 Fraser let his father's words soak in. Yes, he did love her. He said it
again to himself, and suddenly he felt the world shift back into focus.
Instead of dwelling on what could go wrong and all his shortcomings,
Fraser looked at everything that was right and good between them, at the
things they shared. 

 "Thanks, dad," he said quietly. 

 "What, Fraze?" 

 "Nothing, Ray, nothing." 

 "Understood, buddy," Kowalski replied with a quiet smile. 

 They had reached the central open area, but before they took the last few
steps, Ray Vecchio stopped Fraser with a hand on his shoulder. "Benny, Ray
and I are real happy for you, and we're glad all this is working out.
Thanks for asking us to be here. I, ah," his mouth tilted in a smile.
"Before we go on, I just wanted to give you a little something, to, ah,
get you into the right spirit." Looking as innocent as only a Vecchio
could, he handed Fraser a small package. 

 Placing it in the palm of his hand, Fraser looked at Ray quizzically; Ray
nodded encouragingly. "Go on, open it. What else are you gonna do with
it?" 

 "Very well, Ray." Moving quickly, Fraser ripped away the thin paper and
revealed a small toy train engine. 

 Which was why, a moment later when the three stepped into view, Fraser
was blushing and his two best men were snickering.  

 Fraser stood looking out over the small gathering of people without
really being able to muster the concentration to focus in on the
individuals or their faces. He could hear noises all around him - the
brook, the quartet, people talking and shifting chairs, the distant hiss
of the building's air conditioner - yet everything seemed far away and
disconnected from him. Taking a quick inventory of himself, he realized
his heart was racing and his respiration was shallow and uneven. Closing
his eyes and forcing himself to take a deep breath, he centered himself
and tamped down his rising excitement. Opening his eyes, he saw two faces
that jolted him back to full awareness. 

 There, in the front, row, right next to Turnbull, sat Ma Vecchio and
Harding Welsh! 

 Stepping forward eagerly, Fraser found himself enveloped in a huge hug by
Ma, and the recipient of a hearty backslap and handshake from the
lieutenant, and he quickly learned about the phone call they'd gotten from
Turnbull and the quick plane ride up here. 

 When Fraser thanked them for coming, Ma brushed his words aside. 

 "Of course we came, caro. You couldn't get married without all your
family here, could you?" 

 Standing there next to his two best friends and surrounded by friends and
family, Fraser felt his heart swell with emotion and rejoiced that,
despite everything he had gone through to get to this point, he was here. 

 Then the quartet began playing Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," and
the moment became perfect.  

 Around a corner, hidden by some trees and shrubbery, Meg heard Bach's
hymn begin and felt her happiness spill over. Feeling Dief brush against
her leg, she realized that Frannie had already walked into the patio area
and that it was her turn. 

 Her eyes full of only one person, the small group of people standing on
either side of her path barely registered. As she got closer, more of
herself seemed to be grounded in her body, and she became aware of Frannie
already standing near the minister, and of Ray Kowalski standing beside
Fraser, and then Ray Vecchio standing beside him. 

 The last few steps before she reached out to take Ben's hand seemed to
take forever as memories cascaded through her mind. The first time she'd
seen him and the way he'd looked as he lobbied to wear the red serge.
Those first few months and how everything he did seemed deliberately
designed to infuriate her. Those same months as she battled with her
attraction to him before finally finding a working balance. The kiss on
the train. The way she'd felt the day he'd made the wallpaper
recommendation and she'd realized he knew her exact eye color. That
amazing day when she realized that as infuriating as he could be, she
loved him. Their first real date when they'd stayed past closing at the
restaurant, talking and really getting to know each other. And, finally,
the look in his eyes when he'd accepted her proposal. The images all
rushed past her and made her catch her breath in gratitude that they'd not
only found each other, but that after all this time and the obstacles
between them, they'd found a way to get to this point. 

 Then her hand was in his and the warmth of his hand calmed the rest of
her nerves. 

 The moment was perfect.  

 Ma watched the two of them clasp hands and sighed happily as she dabbed
her eyes. She was so happy for her Benton, but she would have to ask
Raymundo and Francesca exactly what had been going on, and why the wedding
was taking place here. She also needed to talk to Benton and Margaret
about eating better - they were both far too thin. 

 Yes, well, now that they were not only back together but married, she
would be seeing more of them and would make sure they ate. In fact, she
would have to make a feast to welcome Margaret to the family formally. She
made a mental note to make a double batch of polenta - Benton loved her
polenta. Hmmm. Perhaps a triple batch would be better.	

 Once they finally got there, it didn't take very long. 

 They exchanged traditional vows, no less meaningful for their simplicity.
Love, honor, cherish. In good times and bad. Loyalty and fidelity to each
other for as long as they lived. 

 And then, with a cool slip of rings on each other's finger, it was done. 

 They looked at each other, their eyes to full to speak, or even to move,
despite the minister's pronouncement that they could kiss. 

 Then it was like the moment holding them captive melted and they slowly
moved towards each other, reaching to meet, seeking, hands tightening, and
there it was. They kissed . . . and a whole new moment began.  

 Chapter 69 

 They stood off to the side and watched their friends taking a quiet
moment for themselves, Fraser's arms in a loose loop around Meg, her arms
holding him close around his waist. 

 Frannie turned around and put her own arms around her husband, who had
been standing right behind her, his hand resting on her nape. "That was
beautiful, Ren; almost as beautiful as I remember ours being." 

 Smiling gently, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "You were
the beautiful one -- I like this color green on you." 

 Thanking him with an enthusiastic kiss, Frannie raised her arms to his
shoulders. "And you did a wonderful job coordinating everything - looks
like everything is coming off hitchless." 

 "Thank you, sweetheart." They talked for a moment longer before Ren
started to say something, stopped, and turned a bit pink before starting
again. "Francesca, I had an idea." 

 Recognizing the fact that he was blushing meant she was probably going to
like this idea, she prompted him, squeezing him a little. "Tell me more." 

 "I know we've been asked to leave, but I thought you and I might stay the
weekend; I cleared it with Superintendent Meers, and he agrees that as
long as we stay far away from Headquarters, it should be alright. We could
spend a little time with my aunt and uncle - they would very much like to
get to know you - and then we could use the return plane tickets that you
and the inspector bought since everyone else is taking the company plane
back to Chicago tonight. And," he paused a moment, his eyes going sharper,
"we could keep the suite." 

 Frannie laughed throatily, delighted with the idea, and loving her
husband and his ideas. "Mmmm, all that space . . . oh, and that bathtub." 

 Their grins widened, anticipation almost glowing between them.  

 Fraser spoke in a hushed voice. "Seeing you walk towards me, knowing you
were coming to meet me, was incredible, Meg. I, I can't explain it. I
don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful sight." He paused. "Well,
except, perhaps, for the springtime mating rituals of the beavers along
the banks of the-" 

 The woman he held in his arms stiffened alarmingly. Incredulity made it
hard for her to keep her voice down. "Are you comparing me, in my wedding
dress, on our wedding day, to a bunch of flat-tailed, hairy, animals?" 

 She was about to go on, gathering a full head of steam, when she caught
sight of the sparkle dancing in his eyes and the grin dancing just under
the surface. Unable to stop from laughing, she tried to narrow her eyes
threateningly. She settled for making her tone as threatening as possible.
"I'm going to get you for that." 

 His words met hers promise for promise. "I can hardly wait."  

 "I would've loved to have seen that piece o' slime cowering again the
wall with Dief towering over him." 

 "It was a thing of beauty, sir," Vecchio replied, his voice rich with
satisfaction. 

 Harding Welsh stood next to his two detectives, all three of them looking
across at the newlyweds. "I got a chance to talk with Superintendent Meers
while we were waiting for all of you to come out, and it sounds like you
both did some good work." Without turning his head or acknowledging his
men's quietly pleased looks, he went on. "Of course, don't think this
atta-boy is going to buy you any slack the next time either of you pull
something." 

 "'Course not, sir," they both chorused. The whole last part of the
exchange was completely without inflection, but all three men understood
the unstated approval, and the unstated thanks. 

 The two detectives spent a few minutes running through their version of
the highlights of the last week, but none of them were in the mood to
dwell on it for long, so they quickly moved on to comparing their favorite
parts of flying in a private jet.  

 As people finished their meals, the Rays stood up and toasted their
friends. Vecchio talked about getting trapped in a meat freezer with
Fraser, and the teamwork Meg and Fraser had displayed on the train;
Kowalski recounted being trapped in the mini-sub and getting swimming
lessons, and by mentioning the incident next to the Inukshuk, summed up by
saying that no matter how many different views people had of things,
everyone agreed that Meg and Ben clearly belonged together. 

 After both men had wished their friends well, Fraser stood up, water
goblet in hand, since both he and Meg had switched to water after taking a
small sip of wine with the first toast. None of the people who knew him
could ever remember him looking so freely happy, or seeing his eyes as
warm. 

 Gazing down at Meg, he began to speak, his voice as deep as the look in
his eyes. She gazed back at him, almost spellbound by how much of himself
he was revealing. 

 "Getting to today has been an long journey, but we have found our way
here at last, and that is something I will always be truly thankful for.
Despite what my friends say about my propensity to talk constantly . . ."
Both of his best men laughed, making Fraser smile fleetingly, but he
didn't shift his focus away from Meg's face. "Despite that, I can't find
the words to fully describe how I feel about you." His throat momentarily
closed with emotion and he quickly cleared it before continuing. "About
the fact that you are my wife. An Inuit poet named Uvanuk, though, wrote a
few lines that come close to the same sentiments, so I will let his words
speak for me . . ." 

 'The Great Sea has set me in motion
 Set me adrift
 And I move as a weed in the river.
 The arch of sky
 And mightiness of storms
 Encompasses me,
 And I am left Trembling with joy.'" 

 He paused again at the end of the poem, taking a moment to savor the warm
glow in his wife's eyes. "For the Inuit, the sea is a dominant force in
their lives, a force that is both constant and ever-changing, loved and
respected. That is how I feel about you Thank you for setting me in
motion," he finished, raising his glass and sipping. Everyone else did the
same, but neither Meg nor Ben paid any attention to the others as Ben sank
down into his chair. Meg reached and took the glass out of his hands, and
clasped his hands tightly in hers. Murmuring "thank you," she kissed him
sweetly, drawing out the moment, thanking him for revealing so much in
front of the others.  

 Chapter 70 

 The celebration went on as everyone finished their meals; Meg and Ben cut
the cake, and then walked around the table to talk with each of their
guests individually. At one point, Meg slipped away to the restroom and Ma
Vecchio followed her. They were both washing their hands when Ma turned
the conversation to something beyond general comments about the wedding. 

 "You make Benton very happy, and it is easy to see that he makes you
happy as well. Welcome to the family, cara." 

 Surprised at this level of acceptance even from a woman as open as Mrs.
Vecchio, Meg barely had time to hug back before the older woman stepped
back, keeping her hands on Meg's shoulders. 

 "I think I'm right in remembering that you've lost your mother?" 

 Curious, Meg answered, "Yes, she and my father were killed in a car
accident not long after I graduated from the Academy." 

 Ma nodded slowly. "You have done well by yourself, but times like these,
a woman needs a mother, so I am going to be a pushy old woman and speak to
you in such a way." Smiling gently, she asked the question that had been
lurking in her mind for the last couple hours. "How is your morning
sickness?" 

 Shock jolted Meg out of the joyous glow she felt radiating from her, and
she felt her old walls begin to slam back into place. Then she caught
sight of the concern behind Ma's question and in her face and consciously
lowered her prickly defenses. "How did you know?" 

 Ma laughed softly. "When you come from a family as large as mine -I have
seven sisters - you come to recognize the signs. Now, having things
resolved between you and Benton may help things, but has your morning
sickness started getting better yet?" 

 Meg gave in, feeling even more of her loneliness getting swept away. It
was strange, but she felt like the older woman's questions had shined a
light into a few dark corners she hadn't even known were there. "In the
last week it has gotten much better, but I still feel sick when I first
get up. At least I seem to have stopped throwing up every morning," she
said, rubbing her stomach unconsciously. 

 "Ah!" Ma threw her hands up in the air. "Someday I will tell you about
when I was carrying Raymundo - that child! I knew he was going to be
stubborn from the very start. Well, if your symptoms don't continue
getting better, you will tell me and I will make you some of my mother's
soda bread. Tonight you might try eating a few crackers before you go to
bed; sometimes that helps." 

 "Thank you, Mrs.-" 

 "Ma," the older woman cut the younger off emphatically. 

 "Thank you, Ma." 

 "Of course, figlia mia." She considered for a moment. "This child will
bring you and Benton great joy; I am very happy for you. Now," she clapped
her hands, "we should get back to that handsome groom of yours and
continue celebrating."	

 As the party wound down, no one noticed Bob Fraser lurking in front of
the presents a few of the guests had brought with them. His son was too
occupied to notice him at the moment, and since no one else could see him,
no one bothered him as he tried to prod a few of the presents to guess
what they contained. 

 Soon growing tired of poking through the wrapping paper and boxes, he
turned around and looked across the open space to where his son and new
daughter-in-law sat. 'The boy looks happy,' he thought. A dull echo of
pain, or as Benton would point out, the memory of pain, flashed through
him as he remembered his own happiness. He refused to let himself
malinger, though - this was a time for celebration of the future, not
dwelling on the past. 

 Feeling pride swell within him at both his son and his daughter-in-law,
Fraser Sr. slipped away to see about carving that cradle for when his
grandchild came to visit in his office.  

 Meg settled back more firmly against Ben, letting the soft voices and the
dull roar of the engines wash over her, lulling her closer to sleep.
Increasingly lazily, she thought back over the last few hours: the
wedding, the reception, the way she and Ben had been looking at each other
all night, their eyes full of the future. 

 Sitting there, one of Ben's arms holding her against him, and not really
listening to Harding Welsh fill everyone in on the events of the last
week, she realized she felt safe and cherished in a way she never had
before. Secure in how they felt each other, she let herself relax more
freely than she had in months, if not her entire life. 

 Wallowing happily in these thoughts, Meg fell asleep knowing Ben would be
there when she woke up.  

 It was late by the time they got back to Chicago, and once again, they
enjoyed the luxury of not having to slog through the commercial airline
system. After making sure everyone had the right luggage, the group split
up. Ray Vecchio and his mother went to find a taxi while Harding Welsh
went and got his car to take Dief, Kowalski, Meg, and Ben home since they
were all on his way. Besides, Chicago's taxi laws still didn't permit
wolves. 

 The drive was quiet as the three men made only sporadic comments back and
forth - Meg was completely silent; she had fallen back asleep, this time
across the back seat. Fraser felt ridiculously pleased that she had
lowered her guard so completely and spent much of the ride watching her
sleep. As Welsh pulled into Meg's complex, however, Fraser sheepishly
realized that he'd forgotten something. 

 Reaching down to where her head was pillowed against one of this thighs,
he brushed back her hair. "Meg, we're home." 

 An indistinct "Mmmm," was the only reply he got. 

 He tried again. "Meg, where are your keys?" 

 "Dunno." 

 "Margaret Elizabeth," he whispered down at her, remembering the implicit
threat his full name had always carried when his grandmother had used it.
"Wake up." 

 "Don't wanna," she snuffled, burrowing against him. 

 Raising helpless eyes to the front seat, Fraser could see Ray's body
shaking with suppressed mirth and Welsh smiling. 

 "Meg, please, we are at your townhouse; where are your keys?" 

 She woke up just enough to focus briefly on him and his question.
"They're at the Consulate. I didn't wanna lose them." 

 Fraser raised his eyes to Ray's again feeling like he was caught in the
midst of some sort of intricate farce: the Consulate was back in the
opposite direction, which meant at least another 45 minutes to get there
and back, and he knew Welsh and Ray were just as tired as he was. 

 A voice from the front seat drifted back. "I know it's not like a super
romantic love nest or anything, but she's exhausted, and so're you, so why
not crash back at the apartment? It's still your place too, Fraze." 

 Grateful didn't begin to describe how Fraser felt about that suggestion;
for a man who had once stood watch in front of a cabin for days without
sleep, he decided he was showing remarkably little stamina at the moment.
Still, he didn't protest. "Thank you very much, Ray. Let's do that." 

 Fraser couldn't believe Meg stayed asleep, but she barely stirred on the
way to the apartment. They did get her into the apartment on her own
power, but Ben didn't think she ever fully woke up as they got ready for
bed. His suspicions were confirmed when he came back from the bathroom to
find her propped against the headboard, fast asleep once again. 

 Too tired to be anything more than amused at the way their wedding night
was turning out, Ben carefully tucked her underneath the covers before
slipping in with her. Pulling her snug against his chest, Fraser relished
her warmth as he spooned up behind her and quickly fell asleep himself.  

 Chapter 71 

 Fraser came awake slowly, knowing something was different but not quite
sure what. 

 For a very brief moment, his sleep-muddled brain thought perhaps Dief had
broken the rules and gotten into bed with him, but an instant later, he
knew he was wrong - besides everything else, Dief never smelled this good.
Nor did he have dark hair. 

 Completely uninterested in even trying to contain his ear-to-ear grin,
Ben ignored the growing light outside and closed his eyes again, just
savoring. Their warmth surrounded him and soaked into his skin, not
allowing any frozen bit of himself that might be lingering to stay
isolated; he realized he felt more alive then he ever had in his life. 

 Trying to contain the swell of emotion buffeting him, he forced himself
not to squeeze her as tightly as he wanted to, and contented himself with
slowly sliding his hand down a bit until it covered her lower abdomen.
Cementing the moment in his mind so he could always carry it with him, he
fulfilled his long-held dream of protecting his unborn child as it grew,
nestled within the woman he loved. The feeling of knowing his child was
there, growing under his hand, was even better than his solitary
imaginings had allowed him to think. He drifted. 

 An immeasurable length of time later, Fraser finally had to concede to
the demands of his body, and pulling away gradually, he slipped across the
hall to the bathroom. On the way back, he paused just in front of his
door, wondering how her morning sickness was. 

 Deciding a preemptive strike was probably a good idea, he walked swiftly
down the hallway and put some water on to make some ginger tea to settle
her stomach. As he stood there waiting for the water to boil, he killed a
few minutes making a pot of coffee for Ray and put food out for Dief, but
his thoughts never strayed far from the woman waiting for him in his bed.
Finally pouring the steeped tea in a thermos, he hurried back to bed. 

 He padded back into his room, and putting the thermos of tea on the small
bedside table, slid back into bed. While he'd been gone, she'd turned over
to face the room, and curled up into the blankets. Carefully untangling
her and moving by increments, Fraser settled back again, facing her this
time. He propped his head on his left arm, which he stretched out above
his head. Giving into his growing desire to touch her, he reached out and
clasped her hand with his other hand, half-turning them so that they
nestled together in the small space between them. 

 Sighing happily, he simply studied her for long minutes. Her
sleep-flushed skin and tousled hair made him revise his statement from
yesterday that he had never seen her looking so beautiful - right here,
right now, in the loose freedom of sleep, she was more lovely than he had
ever seen her. 

 And she was his. 

 At long last he was no longer alone. 

 Content in the silence stirred only by the soft sounds of their
breathing, Ben waited for his wife to wake.  

 Meg stretched languidly. As she slowly surfaced from sleep, she relished
the feeling of waking in stages, not in a lurch back to reality as she had
so often recently. Feeling oddly safe and cosseted, she reached back in
her mind to try and recapture the wonderful dream she been having, but the
fragmentary images eluded her, and the effort forced her further from
sleep. 

 Regretfully giving into the inevitable, she opened her eyes . . . and
found herself staring directly into the most handsome face she'd ever
seen. Feeling like he must be the classic, textbook definition of
masculine perfection, Meg let her eyes drift over Ben's features and down
his chest, which rose bare from the covers wrapped around his waist.
Drawing her eyes back up, they settled on their joined hands, and then on
his free hand. 

 It lay near his face, palm up, the large, blunt fingers curled slightly
in repose. Tracing those fingers with her eyes, she remembered how they
felt against her skin, and the warmth that had been cradling her suddenly
exploded into want. 

 Needing to touch him more extensively, but unwilling to let go of his
hand, she rolled back far enough that she could free her other arm.
Sliding her arm up, she ran her fingers through the hair at the top of his
head, channeling it, just like she had an eternity ago. 

 His eyes snapped open, fully alert, and full of the same heat she was
sure hers were radiating. Not wanting to break the simple clarity of the
moment, she tried to put all the love and desire she felt into her eyes,
and considering the way his eyes flared, she knew she'd been successful. 

 Meg felt the raw emotion, a clean current of desire and passion stream
back and forth between them, and felt his love for her as an almost
physical presence, binding them together. 

 "I feel it," she whispered across the small space separating them,
without realizing she had verbalized the thought. 

 "So do I," he whispered back, his eyes softening and growing even warmer
and more alive. 

 "I love you," slipped off her lips, and she closed her eyes at the power
of hearing the words echoed back. 

 Fraser felt her words lick through him, quicksilver fast; the same
feeling flashed through him as he said them back. Unwilling to wait any
longer, he let go of her hand and folding his arms around her, drew them
together. He buried his face in her hair and felt her nuzzle the skin just
below his collarbone. They lay like that, breathing together, for a while,
their passion taking a backseat to the pleasure of feeling the weight of
their bodies against each other. 

 Long minutes later, Meg drew back a bit and they smiled at each other.
She raised herself to her elbow, and cupped his face with her free hand.
The added height, however, gave her a clear view of the small room they
were in, and she looked away from him, a small frown of confusion flitting
across her face. 

 "Where are we?" 

 He laughed softly. "We're in my room at Ray's apartment - you were
extremely reluctant to wake up last night, and by the time we discovered
your keys were back at the Consulate, it just seemed simpler to come
here." 

 She groaned quietly in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry - I'm not usually
such a sound sleeper-" 

 "Alianait, it's alright - you were exhausted, we all were. Besides, none
of us are pregnant." 

 Smiling her thanks, and feeling strangely shy, she leaned forward to kiss
him but stopped before she reached his lips. "What did you call me? Ali-" 

 "Alianait," he repeated slowly with a smile of his own. "It means 'joy'
in Inuit. It seemed fitting." 

 This time her smile glowed despite the slight quiver at her lips. She
threw herself against his chest, pushing him to his back and buried her
face against his shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered, "that's beautiful,
but I haven't given you much joy in the past few months. I'm so sorry,
Ben. I'm so sorry I hurt you." 

 Tightening his arms around her, he wondered how they should proceed. As
much as he wanted to make love, maybe this was the best time to talk about
everything that had happened so that they could get past it and move on
with the rest of their lives. 

 "I know, Alianait, I know." He comforted her with nonsense words for a
bit before she finally raised her head. Brushing away a few tears, he
shifted them back onto their sides so that they could look directly at
each other and let her talk. 

 The whole story came spilling out, about how Cloutier had threatened to
destroy his career, and about how she had died inside as she watched his
face as she told him it was over between them. They talked about the pain
of the last few months, healing together as they talked about being apart.
She finally got to tell him how proud she was of the way he had treated
her despite the hurt she had inflicted upon him. He got to tell he how
proud of her he was that she hadn't given in, but had investigated
Cloutier and worked to find a way to free them from the blackmail. 

 Meg told him about the pictures and grinned when he expressed a keen
interest in seeing them. 

 Finally they came to the day she had told him she was pregnant, and
Fraser winced at the memory of how he had acted and the accusations he had
flung at her. Meg refused to let him hang onto the guilt, however, and
telling him she didn't want Superman, or even SuperMountie, demanded that
he accept her forgiveness as openly as he had forgiven her. 

 Over that last hurdle, they whispered back and forth a bit longer as Meg
told him about being pregnant and the ways she'd felt her body changing.
His promise to be there for the rest of the changes seemed like the
perfect end to their conversation and apologies, and Fraser closed the
distance between them, kissed her briefly, and then hugged her to his
chest once again. 

 They cuddled close again for a while, enjoying the peace between them,
but wet warmth of her tongue against his collar bone changed the mood in
an instant. 

 Chapter 72 

 Feeling the touch of her tongue rocket through his body and set off nerve
endings from his toes to the top of his head, Ben growled sharply and
tipped back his head, baring more of his throat. She took immediate
advantage of the offer, expanding her focus, nuzzling and caressing the
taut tendons and skin. By the time Meg had moved northward to reach the
skin under his ear, he was already breathless and moving his hands
restlessly along her body. 

 Pushing him onto his back, she rose over him, and stripped off the RCMP
t-shirt she was wearing, tossing it over her shoulder. Then she nipped at
his earlobe and traced a path along his jaw. Her fingers danced ahead of
her mouth, blazing a trail with feather light touches as she relearned
every hollow and ridge of his face, and mapped them with her lips. 

 Finally reaching his lips, she anchored them both by cupping his face
with one hand and using the other to smooth her thumb across his eyebrow,
along his cheekbone, around his jawbone. Yet she still held her lips just
the smallest fraction away from his, teasing and tantalizing, never quite
giving in. This time his quiet groan burst out when she traced a sensuous
circle around his lips with just the tip of her tongue, leaving him
gasping as she followed that slightly cooler trail with warm puffs of
breath. 

 Giving in finally, she slid her lips down to meet his in a slow,
open-mouthed kiss that left them both wanting more. More kisses, more
touches, more everything. They simultaneously deepened the kiss, their
tongues first dueling for dominance, then inviting the other in, then
sliding back to a duel. After kissing for long minutes, Ben caught her
lower lip in his teeth, worrying it a bit and following the small nip with
a soothing dart of his tongue. 

 The answering moan that rocked through them came from them both and
reverberated between them. Meg, still poised above Ben, gentled the kiss,
sliding easily back the heady glide of mouths. She could feel her cheeks
getting stubble burned but couldn't bring herself to care. 

 At some point, Meg's hands had drifted, and now one was caught deep in
his hair, and the other was seeking downwards, stroking along his chest
and tracing his ribcage. She loved the feel of his muscles moving, of the
quiet power just waiting beneath his skin. The thought of controlling that
power, of the fact that at the moment he was letting her direct it, made
her want him even more. Feeling overwhelmed by the desire sparking all
over her body, she pulled away and teased him to get back some modicum of
control; she wanted this to last a long, long time, until they were so
steeped in each other they wouldn't want to move for hours. The images of
what more they could do - were going to do - flashed across her mind's eye
and she swooped down for one more kiss. When she finally pulled away, his
smile was more than a little wobbly. 

 Absorbing that smile and matching it with a slightly smug one of her own,
Meg slid her hand down his arm, tracing random patterns along his bicep.
"So, Ben, do you know how long it's been since I was even in a twin bed?" 

 "It's extra long," he gasped out, his face a mixture of laughter and
naked need. 

 "Yes, it is," she chuckled throatily, abandoning his arm to quickly slide
her hand far lower, inside his boxers, to the hot skin growing harder
between them. 

 "Meg!" Her name came out somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and a few
more strokes of her hand had him chanting her name in the same desperate
tone. Trying to hang on to his sanity and not end this all too soon, he
tried for a full sentence. "I think the bed, will . . . ah! will . . .
work admirably." She stilled her hand as he cocked an eyebrow; the
expression both amused her and made her burn hotter. "It isn't as if we
want to be very far apart." 

 "Good point!" she giggled back, tightening her hand briefly before
letting him go. 

 He tried to retaliate by flipping her over, but her giggles turned into
frantically muffled laughter that was quickly joined by his; as soon as he
rolled her under him, in what he had hoped to be a graceful move, he had
slammed his leg into the wall, thumping loudly. 

 "Ouch!" he chuckled, trying to gain a firm hold on the laughing body
beneath him. The feel of her shaking with laughter and wiggling beneath
him rippled through him and distracted him so much, however, that he
forgot about trying to hold on to her and just enjoyed the sensation. 

 Her eyes were very large and green as they looked up at him. "Want me to
kiss it and make it better?" 

 "No," he laughed, and judging by the way her eyes fluttered closed, he
decided that the feel of laughter rumbling through them both affected her
the same way it had him. "I want you to kiss me here." 

 This time he was the one running his hands all along her body as they
kissed. 

 Chapter 73 

 Fraser rapidly lost himself again in the taste of her skin and in
discovering the ever so slight differences in the way she tasted on the
soft part of her arm, on the curve beneath her breasts, on the slight rise
of her abdomen. When he lapped at the droplets of sweat dotting the
shallow indentation around her navel, he shuddered in delight at the way
her muscles clinched and contracted. 

 As he lay gasping against her side, she writhed beneath him chanting his
name over and over until it flowed from her lips in a constant litany. He
moved lower, lifting her legs, kissing down one and up the other before
drawing random patterns along the softness of her inner thighs. The sharp
keen she made when he reached the crease between her leg and hip came on
top of his groan, and when he spread her legs so he could explore more
closely, she arched her back, urging him on, and twisted her hands into
the sheets in her frustration. 

 "Ben! Please . . . please, now . . . please." She tugged at his back,
then at his boxers. 

 "Soon," he whispered back. He did, however, shuck his boxers as she had
silently demanded. 

 Smiling against her skin, he slid one hand up her torso, caressing along
the way, and laid his large hand over her breast, cupping it, rubbing his
palm across the hard nub, then squeezing it so that it got harder. He
switched hands and breasts, never losing contact, and kept her burning on
the sharp edge, never letting her quite slip over into oblivion. 

 Raising his head, he looked up her body. Her eyes were closed as her head
moved restlessly against the pillow. Ben watched her mouth move, sometimes
forming words, other times just vibrating with moans and gasps. 

 "You are so beautiful, Meg," he said against her skin, resting his head
against her stomach before the image of her tongue darting out to wet dry
lips made him lose all control. "I could touch you forever and not get
enough." His voice grew more hoarse when her hand abandoned its hold of
the sheets and grasped the back of his head; she seemed torn between
pressing him harder against the slope of her stomach and urging him to
move up her body. "Alianait, Alianait," he murmured urgently as he
complied with both her demands and pressed harder kisses along her skin as
he moved upwards. 

 Most of the way up, he finally gave into the need that had been clawing
at him and sucked hard at the skin on the lower slope of her left breast,
leaving a deep red mark. She cried out sharply at the sensation and looked
down to meet his eyes, her green eyes almost black with passion and hot
with the thought of what he had just done. Exultant, he soothed the spot
with light kisses, groaning with the knowledge that he had marked her as
his own, here in this spot only the two of them would see. 

 Finally, the taste and sound and sight and feel of her overwhelmed him.
The rhythmic score of her nails against his back proved to be the last
straw and he covered her smaller form with his own, reveling in the feel
of her beneath him. 

 With her legs locked around his hips and his arms wrapped underneath her
shoulders, they both got what they wanted as they merged into one, no
longer caring where they started or ended. 

 Their skin was still damp with cooling perspiration when they came back
to themselves, although their breathing had eased back to normal.
Eventually, Meg wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders as Ben turned
them both, tucking her under his side. Their limbs twined together as if
they had known the way all along, and with an ease born of great love,
they lay there, once more luxuriating in the feel of each other. Neither
one of wanted to break the spell by talking, so they just rested,
quiescent. The earthy glow on Meg's face made Ben feel simultaneously like
the most powerful man in the world and the most humble. Meg looked up at
him, and taking in the open happiness in his face, rejoiced in knowing
that she had put that look here. 

 A long time later, Fraser reached into the nightstand for the small
package he had placed there last night. Quickly drawing it out, he dropped
it onto the bed behind her, refusing to let her see what it was until he
had taken it out of the box. Bringing his hand back between them after a
moment, he lifted her left hand, and holding her eyes captive with his,
slipped a ring on her finger next to her wedding band. 

 When she glanced down, she saw the most vivid green stone she'd ever seen
in her life set between two small diamonds. She gazed speechless first at
the ring, and then back at him. 

 "This," he brushed the ring and her finger with his thumb, "is a green
garnet; they're said to represent truth, love, and fidelity, all of which
are things we have pledged to each other." Then he grinned and broke the
solemn moment. "But mostly it reminded me of your eyes. I love you,
Alianait." 

 For the span of a couple heartbeats, she couldn't say a word, but then,
although speaking around the lump in her throat was difficult, but she
managed it. "And I love you, Ben." 

 Their hearts full, they held each other close, letting the love and the
peace grow between them.  

 Ray meandered down the hallway, scratching his stomach underneath his
undershirt, trying to keep his eyes open while yawning so he wouldn't run
into a wall. Focused single-mindedly on making it to the kitchen where the
coffee lived, he didn't bother wasting brainpower on anything other
putting one foot in front of the other. 

 The happy realization that the rich aroma of brewed coffee wasn't just
wishful thinking broke off suddenly as he almost took a header over Dief. 

 "Not buddies to trip me, furball." The wolf cocked his head. "Yeah, yeah,
I'm hungry too. I know; let's wake Fraser up and see if he'll make
pancakes. He oughtta be up anyway - the sun's up." 

 Raising his arm to tap on Fraser's closed door, a couple things occurred
to him all at once: he was wearing his fancy socks, something he did only
on formal occasions, and he could hear quiet voices coming from Fraze's
room. Awareness clicked in as he came fully awake. 

 Ottawa . . . wedding . . . Meg and Fraser. 

 Standing there with his arm partially raised, he suddenly heard a heavy
thud against the wall and then muffled laughter and felt the tops of his
ears start to burn. 

 Dropping his arm, he walked down the hallway quickly, motioning for Dief
to follow. "Come on," he whispered. "Somehow I don't think we're needed in
there. I'll go throw some clothes on and we'll go get donuts. Then we'll
go over to Ma's 'cuz it's Saturday and all the good cartoons are on." 

 And so they did. 

End The Gift of Peace by Debbie Hann: debhann@aol.com

Author and story notes above.