Green Thumb	  

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

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

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

 RATINGS: Taken all around, this is PG.
 

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

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

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

 GREEN THUMB
  

 by Kiki Cabou	

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

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

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

 "Curiosity, Constable. Plain and simple." 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You mean regularly?"
 

 "Yes."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Boy, do you have stamina."
 

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

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

 "B-but ma'am …"
 

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

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

 "Please! I don't understand!"
 

 "Oh I do, Fraser. I do."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Okay. Here it is. Lean in." 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Fraser obliged him.
 

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

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

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

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

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

 Fraser nodded and stepped back.
 

 "Okay. Somebody explain this to me."
 

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

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

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

 The three cops set off down the hall.	

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

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

 "Good morning, Inspector," he said politely. 
 

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

 "My pleasure."
 

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

 "Pardon, ma'am?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Um, hello." 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Ray, could you…"
 

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

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

 "Thank you, Stan."
 

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

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

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

 "Do you have clearance?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Did she say where she was going?"
 

 "Yes, sir."
 

 "Where?"
 

 "Um, on errands, I think."
 

 "Did she say what sort of errands?"
 

 "No, sir."
 

 "Did she talk to anyone about them?"
 

 "She might have, sir."
 

 "Who?"
 

 "Perhaps Ovitz, sir."
 

 "Do you know where he is?"
 

 "No, sir."
 

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

 "Yes, sir."
 

 "Where?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Ah. Yes. I will. Goodbye."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The teller looked at him blankly.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 She looked Fraser over. "Miss."
 

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

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

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

 The three of them got back into the car.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Stan? Are you okay?"
 

 "Yeah. I'm just peachy keen."	

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Ray floored it.  

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

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

 "Okay! Thank you."
 

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

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

 "Okay!"
 

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

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

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

 "OOF!"
 

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

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

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

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

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

 "I was merely commenting…"
 

 "Shut up, Fraser!"
 

 *sigh*  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Why the hell are you calling there?"
 

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

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

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

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

 Fraser stared him down. "Try."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Well, she's trying to fire me…"
 

 "Again?"
 

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

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

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

 "Oh, dear."
 

 "Indeed."
 

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

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

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

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

 "Thank you kindly."
 

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

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

 "Ah."
 

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

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

 "Oh, thank you. Please do."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Oh, dear."
 

 "What?" Ray said.
 

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

 "Missed what?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "What is it?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Are they rare?"
 

 "For now, kinda."
 

 "Let's make a few calls."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Rrrrrgggh."
 

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

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

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

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

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

 *SSHHKK!* *SSHHKK!*
 

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

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

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

 "You've been de-briefed."
 

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

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

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

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

 "Hiya, Fraze," Frannie said.
 

 "Oh, hello, Francesca," Fraser responded. 
 

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

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

 "What did you find?"
 

 "I started making those calls and…"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Floyd?"
 

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

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

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

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

 "You got it! Let's go!" 
 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yow!!"
 

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

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

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

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

 "Ray! Slow down!"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "How far away do you live?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

 Fraser arrived and everyone looked up.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "How so?" Ray asked.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Arf deb wull?" she asked.
 

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

 "I said, 'And then what?'"
 

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

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

 Too bad he wasn't wearing the cup.
 

 *WHAM!* 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Oh my God! You!"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "This is it."
 

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

 "Inspector?" Stan yelled.
 

 "Yo! Dragon Lady!" Ray called.
 

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

 "Bingo." 
 

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

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

 "Right!" the cops yelled in unison.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "And if they don't come?"
 

 "I'll blow your head off."
 

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

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

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

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

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

 "FRASER!!" she screamed.  

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

 "Fraser! Do something! Anything!"
 

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

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

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

 The crowd gathered started laughing.
 

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

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

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

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

 He aimed for her heart, and pulled the trigger. 
 

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

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

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

 Fraser saw her fall. "INSPECTOR!!" 
 

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

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

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

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

 Kowalski slapped the cuffs on Jake.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Then she heard it.
 

 *SSSSSHHHHH…*
 

 "OH, SHIT!"
 

 *KKKK!!!*
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 She woke up screaming. 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "In the hospital, I'm afraid."
 

 "How long have I been here?"
 

 "About ten hours."
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Rib glue?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Hi, fellas."
 

 "Hey/Yo/Hullo."
 

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

 The three cops looked at him, confused.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 "Well thank you, ma'am."
 

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

 "Ma'am?"
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Understood."
 

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

 THE END