Tit for Tat Tit for Tat
by Jean Tryon
� September 1998
PG-14 for language, sexual innuendo
Categories: Humor, Romance (M/F), Drama
Background for writing Tit for Tat:
As the third season opened, it was important to weave the "new"Ray's
character firmly into the script but this was at the expense of giving the
viewer further glimpses into Fraser's background and personality.
After Fraser establishes his relationship with Ray Kowalski, what better
way to confuse him further than by throwing him more curves, i.e. have
other things be reversed? My ideas for reversals came from two sources:
The first was an interview with Paul Gross in which he said that Paul
Haggis offered him the part of Fraser because "I don't think you can do
it." PG said he took the challenge, if for no other reason than to prove
PH wrong. My reversal for this is: after working so hard (and being
spectacularly successful) to establish Fraser's character, how would PG
handle a complete change in Fraser? Would he find it to be a piece-of-cake
or difficult and challenging?
The second came from the Live Chat on IRC dated 5.8.96. PG was asked if
The Dragon Lady (Inspector Margaret Thatcher, as played by Camilla Scott)
was a good kisser (referring to the 'train kiss' of All the Queen's Horses
episode) and he answered, "On what kind of scale?" This struck me to be
slightly condescending to the acting abilities of Camilla Scott, who was
outstanding in her own right on Due South. So, I wanted PG to put his
mouth where his money is. (A reversal within a reversal.)
As clever as the stories were - solving convoluted crime cases, what
heightens drama is the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. The
relationship of Fraser and Thatcher provides a very fertile field. So, let
me tell you a story about that.....
This is a story of reversals and would fit in just after Mountie on the
Bounty.
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Due South, Alliance, and
whoever else legally claims them. No copyright infringement intended. I
claim copyright to the story itself in its entirety and it may not be used
or reproduced without permission, except for personal reading pleasure.
Any and all comments will be gratefully appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 1
I can do this, she thought, as she nervously smoothed the soft folds of
dusky-rose chiffon across her hips. Oh, damn. Maybe I should have worn the
other dress. More to the point, why, oh why, did I choose this song? She
glanced up as she heard the applause start. From her position in the wings
just off-stage right, she watched as a man was taking his bows at center
stage. All too quickly the Emcee emerged from the opposite wing to take
the microphone.
She faintly heard the Emcee drone, "Thanks, Eric. Ladies and
gentlemen, let's hear it for one of the upcoming tenors for Chicago Light
Opera: Mr. Eric Logan!! Take a bow, Eric." As the applause waned and Logan
exited the stage toward her, he hissed, "Break a leg, darling."
"I'm not your dar....," she began to retort, but stopped short as she
heard the Emcee continue his patter with the audience.
"....I also want to thank all of you for coming tonight and your
contributions to help keep the Theater going. And it's just great that all
these people are donating their talent to our fund raiser. Now, I want to
present a lady with a beautiful voice. Here's Meg Thatcher."
She hurriedly adjusted the long scarf over her shoulders and stepped onto
the stage to polite applause. With a glance at the pianist and a
imperceptible sigh, she began her love ballad.
"....And do you know of my love, my Love, when....."
Good God, she thought. He isn't even here. Doesn't know I'm doing this.
Did I really read these lyrics carefully beforehand? She closed her eyes
to hide her embarrassment and lost herself in the music.
"....Can you feel my hunger....."
Meg looked out to the audience.
"....Do you belong to another....."
She almost missed a tremolo, as each seat in the darkened theater now was
occupied by the same man. Red serge. Dark hair. She could not make out his
features. Blink. Blink. Were her eyes playing tricks on her?
"....How did I exist without you...."
How did I exist before you came into my life, she mused. Empty.
Meaningless. Going-through-the-motions. Why am I getting all teary? God, I
need to get a grip here.
"....And so if I ask, if I call, will you answer?" Meg reached out her
arms as if to draw him to her, "....I will wait forever, my Love."
She ended with her eyes brimming with tears, arms still outstretched, as
the audience began a thunderous applause. With a slight nod to the
accompanist, she hurriedly left the stage before the Emcee reached his
microphone at stage left. In the wing Meg daubed her eyes, trying to clear
them, and bumped into a woman who was part of the throng of performers and
stage hands milling around.
"Wow! You vamp! You had every man in the audience aching for you," the
woman exclaimed as she caught Meg by the arm. "Were you singing to your
husband?"
Meg struggled to regain her composure and disengage from the woman's
touch. "I'm not married. The RCMP is my career."
"Oh, yes. The RCMP. The Program flier mentions that. Tell me, does it pay
well?" The woman paused slightly and then went on, "Well, not that it
matters. So, were you singing to your boyfriend out there?"
"No boyfriend."
"Come on! All Mounties are gorgeous! That red coat....The wide stripe
going up the leg....the stripe does go all the way to the top, doesn't it?
....So, you must have some Mountie guy stashed somewhere. Pretty thing
like you ought to attract them like flies to honey."
Thatcher was starting to get annoyed by this overbearing bitch. What
business was it of hers? "Afraid not." She began edging toward the
hallway. "Excuse me, but I've got to go now. Tell Vince that I was happy
to help out in the fund raising. I hope the benefit has raised a lot of
money for the Theatre."
As she walked back the deserted hallway to the dressing room area, Meg
could hear the throbbing on-stage music as other performers were doing
their bits. Thatcher approached the darkened office. Through the window of
the door, she saw the faint flickering of a flashlight inside. This is
strange, she observed. What's going on here? No lights? Wait a minute! Is
some Chicago low-life robbing the place?
She cautiously pushed the door open, slid inside, and crept toward the
light. At the far end of the room she was able to discern the shadow of a
man. The door to the wall safe was gaping open and the man was stuffing
its contents into a tattered gym bag.
Time to put all that RCMP training to the test, she thought with
determination. Meg came up behind him and then in a loud voice, said,
"What the hell do you think you are doing?"
The robber did not react as she expected he would. Instead, he rammed his
arms backwards and knocked the wind out of her. Before she could recover,
he turned on her. They began to scuffle: a wild scene with each trying to
grab the other and each trying to escape. A lot of office space was used -
walls, desks, file cabinets. He threw her across a desk and her bare arms
were scratched as they skidded over the surface.
In the dim light Thatcher saw a paperweight which she picked up to throw
at him. He sneered in laughter as he easily deflected it to skitter
harmlessly across the floor. Damn this scarf, she panted to herself. It's
spoiling my aim. Oh, shit! The long free end of the scarf was caught in
the adjustment knob of a secretary chair. Try as she could, Meg could not
free herself, since she had so neatly wound it around her neck before
going on stage.
"Got ya now, you bitch!" the man hissed as he yanked the scarf free. In
the darkness, several sequins fell from the hem and rolled to rest under a
desk. He pulled the scarf tight around her neck, grabbed her wrists and
bound them with the scarf. Before she could call out, he used the other
free end to wind it across her mouth - a very effective gag, indeed. He
trussed her up like a calf at a rodeo. Grabbing the loot-filled gym bag,
the man pushed Meg toward the door. He checked to see that no one was in
the hallway and then manhandled her toward a rear exit.
They burst out the door into the dimly lit, rain-slick alley. As the
larcenist pushed Thatcher toward his old, unwashed junker car, she fell
against the dirty car door, crumpled to the ground and soiled her dress,
arms, and face. He grabbed her and pulled her up.
"Get in there," he snarled and crammed the still struggling Thatcher into
the car. As he slammed the door shut, she flipped the free end of the
sequined scarf out of the door jamb. He had some difficulty getting the
car started but after several backfires and smoke coming from the
tailpipe, he finally was able to get it going.
The car sped off into the night: tires screaming, the scarf bouncing over
the wet pavement in rhythm to the potholes.
CHAPTER 2
With the headlights extinguished, he guided the car to a stop behind an
abandoned warehouse. He glanced up the road, saw no one around, and
slipped out of the car. As soon as he opened the passenger door,
Thatcher�began to struggle but he roughly hauled her out and shoved her
into the warehouse.
In the shadowy interior the robber had his hands full. After retying
Meg's wrists in an arms-forward position with some rope he had found, he
tried to toss the long free end of the rope upwards toward a ceiling beam
and control her struggles at the same time.
"You sure screwed up my plans, lady."
What plans, you scumbag? Meg tried to say but it only came out as
unintelligible grunts from behind the gag. She could not get free of
him--he was holding the rope too tightly. She tried to stomp on his feet
but twisted her ankle instead. Damn these heels! Why couldn't they have
taught me the art of self-defence in anything but regulation-issue Mountie
boots?
"Don't fight it. You're gonna be here until I figure out what to do with
you," he warned her as he made another toss with the rope.
Thatcher saw her chance. "Ummmph!" She knee-ed him in the crotch as he
extended his body. You bastard! You want to play hardball? How about me
giving you some?
The man let out an agonized cry and doubled over in pain. "You bitch! So
that's the way you want to play it," he gasped and slapped her face. She
continued to struggle and move her head side-to-side; the blow had
slightly loosened the gag. Finally, he was able to throw the rope over the
rafter and strung Meg up so her feet barely touched the cement floor. As
he snubbed the rope off, the gag fell from her mouth.
FRAASERRR!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fraser bolted upright in bed. His red longjohns, soaked in sweat, pulled
across his chest. As he wiped the sheen of perspiration from his forehead
with a sleeve, he glanced around his office. "What was that?" he asked
aloud. "Inspector?....Inspector?" He looked at Diefenbaker lying by the
desk. The wolf-dog was muttering and whining to himself. "Inspector?" the
Mountie called more loudly. Hesitantly, he got out of the rumpled bed and,
with the sweaty longjohns pulling and straining around his body, he padded
into the hallway.
"Inspector? " Fraser queried as he opened each door. "Sir?" he called
into the darkness of her office. Hearing no reply, he shook his head in
puzzlement and with a characteristic "Hmmm," returned to his room.
"For God's sake, settle down," he said to Dief who was still muttering.
"I must have been having a bad dream. You're deaf! How could you possibly
hear something I was dreaming? Can you lip read dreams?" And then more to
himself than Dief, "I'm soaking wet! Got to get out of these," and tore
the sodden longjohns off. In the darkness he stood looking at the tangled
sweaty bedsheets and blankets as faint wisps of steam rose from his
overheated body. Too hot, he thought. He pulled the Hudson Bay blankets
off and threw them in the corner. Straightening the sheet, Fraser laid
down on the cot, extended his arms over his head and waited for his body
to cool down.
"Son...."
"Oh, God! You know, dad," Fraser said angrily as he scrambled to cover
himself with the sheet, "I've got the right to some privacy occasionally.
Don't tell me you can lip read my dreams, too."
"Of course you need privacy, son. But that's not important right now.
What is important is that Inspector Thatcher needs you," the ghost of
Robert Fraser replied as he gazed down at his son.
"It was only a dream."
"No....no. I heard her. Quite distinctly as a matter of fact. You know
she doesn't ask much of you. She relies on you and she is asking for your
help. Just as she asked you to..." Fraser, Senior paused to crack his
neck, "...give her a leg over."
"Oh, right," Fraser retorted. "You really had me convinced on that one. I
listened to your ditherings and was so embarrassed when she said she meant
she wanted to adopt...I'm not going to put myself in that situation again.
I suggest you go find someone else's dreams to eavesdrop on." He punched
the pillow, rolled toward the wall and added, "I'm going back to sleep."
"Hear me out, son. I am sure...."
"I'm ignoring you," Fraser said to the wall.
"Son, listen to me!"
"I'm asleep now."
CHAPTER 3
Fraser, wearing his beloved dress reds, was filling out some 10989B
reports at his desk. Or at least, trying to. He scratched out a few words
and then stopped. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his jaw and gazed unseeingly
around the room. No evidence remained of the scene last night: the bed was
remade with the sheets so tightly drawn a Loonie could bounce off it; the
Bay blankets were neatly folded at the foot of the cot.
He sighed and returned to the task at hand. He added a few more words to
the report, shuffled some papers to check references and ran a hand
through his hair. He pushed back his chair, arose, and with much
preoccupation began to pace the tiny room. He stopped and, with hands
behind his back, stared out the window. Finally, the siren of a fire truck
charging down the street interrupted his revere. Another sigh. A few more
words into the report.
"Oh, dear," Fraser said as he checked his watch. He abruptly left the
room to find Turnbull.
"Turnbull," Fraser asked the subordinate Mountie who was diligently
poring over paperwork at the hall desk, "do you happen to know where
Inspector Thatcher is? It's odd that she hasn't come in today."
Turnbull looked up. "Oh, sir, I wouldn't presume to know her--"
"I'm not asking you to presume anything."
"She never checks in with me. Does she check in with you?" Turnbull went
on enviously. "Which would be perfectly understandable with your
seniority. After all, I have only two service-year stars and you have
three and you've had so much more experience..." Fraser's eyes began to
glaze over. "...But since she is our superior, I can't imagine why she
would check in with anyone. On the other hand, you would think that she is
accountable to Ottawa--"
Fraser had to put a stop to the idiot's ramblings. "Turnbull, I didn't
want an expository. I just asked a simple question," and turned away to
head back to his room. "Never mind," he said over his shoulder.
Upon returning to his desk, Fraser valiantly tried to finish the reports
but could not concentrate. What is wrong with me today? he thought with
exasperation. He finally threw his pencil down and picked up his Stetson.
"Come on, Dief," he called, "let's get out of here," and left the
Consulate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep within the bowels of Precinct 27, Lieutenant Welsh was having a hard
time keeping his temper under control as he listened to the caller prattle
on.
"Yes, Ma'am. I understand your concern. I'll have a couple of my
detectives come right over." He paused as the voice became more strident.
He wiped his brow and looked with supplication to the ceiling. God, he
thought wearily, you'd think someone had bombed the Sears Tower, or worse
yet, the United Center...Wonder what this town would be like without the
Bulls? He reluctantly pulled himself back to attend to the telephone
caller.
"Yes, Ma'am, you already gave me the address. I wrote it down. Chicago's
best detectives work out of this precinct....Yes....Well, don't touch
anything else....No, you did the right thing. How could you have called it
in if you didn't pick up the phone?...Yes, Ma'am, it's a
travesty...Someone will be over shortly."
"Finally," the Lieutenant sighed in relief as he hung up the phone. He
gathered up his four pages of notes and went out to the area of the squad
room affectionately called the 'bullpen.' Let's see. Who can I give this
to so I can get some lunch?
"Hey, you two," Welsh called when he saw Huey and Dewey come in. "Back
from break now?" When they nodded affirmatively, Welsh continued, "Good.
Go check this out," and handed his notes to Dewey.
Huey glanced at them over Tom's shoulder. "OK, boss, we're on our way."
As they left the squad room, they almost bumped into Fraser, who for
once, did not hold the door open. "Oh, sorry," Fraser said absentmindedly
to them as they brushed past.
Francesca saw him right away. Of course, she had ample notification from
Diefenbaker. The wolf always came to her first. Fraser was unaware that
she had a secret stash of Cheese Doodles in the desk. She quickly slipped
a handful to her favorite wolf and then joined Fraser as he walked into
the bullpen.
She took his arm and said, "Fraser! You know about color. What do you
think?"
"About what?" Fraser stopped to face her.
"The color," she replied as she tilted her head up to him and ran her
tongue over her lips to gloss up the lipstick. Frannie, you're a shameless
flirt, she thought to herself.
"Colour?"
"Yeah, the color. See?" For emphasis Francesca raised her hands to her
face to show the matching nail polish.
"Ah...."
"All you can say is 'Ah?' You know you drive me crazy with all your
'Ahs.' Do you think it goes with this Civilian Aid blue?" She pointed to
the blouse she was wearing. "I've got to do something to jazz up these
disgusting, dull rags they make me wear. I have problems with uniforms.
They're so...regulation."
Fraser tried to concentrate. "Since red and blue are primary colours,
they do compliment each other," he answered faintly. He scanned the
personnel in the bullpen. "Would you excuse me, Francesca? I have to talk
to Ray."
He walked over to cubicle 7C where Stanley Ray Kowalski was killing time
by playing with a cheap toy at his desk. Damn! I almost had it, he
thought, as he lost again. He glanced up as the Mountie approached.
"How's it going, Frase?"
"I'm not sure," Fraser puzzled and scratched his left eyebrow.
"Not sure? Since when have you not been sure about anything? Your
infestation bothering you again?"
"Infestation?"
"Yeah, those eyebrow mites or whatever you keep goin' after."
"Ray, I assure you that I'm not infested. It's just a mannerism I have
when I am preoccupied or not in my Zen state of serenity."
"So, what's the problem?"
"Well, it's odd," Fraser began slowly. "No, not exactly odd, but perhaps
a little unusual that--"
"Fraser! Spit it out!!"
"Inspector Thatcher always comes to the Consulate by oh-nine-hundred." He
reached his hand up for another go-round with his eyebrow, but caught
himself. "Sorry....In any event, she hasn't come in yet today. Not that
she is so anal retentive that she always sticks to her schedule and allows
no deviation from--"
"Oh, for God's sake," Ray interjected with exasperation. "What's your
point?"
"My point is that she always has told me if she thought she was going to
be late...Maybe not why she would be late...But that's another story. And
then I had the strangest dream last night....."
Kowalski had been only partially listening until then. As Fraser droned
on, he walked over to him.
"....I must have been in deep REM sleep... you know?"
Ray nodded an ambivalent 'yes' and 'no.' What-the-hell is this guy
talking about? Logical Fraser? Weird dreams? Looks like he may be losin'
it. Needs to find his Zen thing-ey or whatever.
"I can't remember exactly what the dream was about, but I distinctly
heard the Inspector call out my name," Fraser continued until he saw
Kowalski reach out to grab him by the shoulders. Fraser instinctively
ducked the contact. "You're not going to hit me again, are you, Ray?"
"Instincts, Fraser! You're not listening to your instincts. Ever dream
about her other times?"
"No...Well, that's not entirely true," Fraser began to equivocate. "Once
in a dream she was on this horse and...Ray, I really don't want to go
there."
"I bet you don't."
"However, last night, when I heard her call, I did get up and look around
the Consulate, but everyone had gone home. It was quite late. She wasn't
there...."
"Of course not! She's somewhere else and she called to you. That's
instinct, Fraser! Kick that logical brain of yours into overdrive. The Ice
Queen calls to you in a dream, obviously needing you for something. Then
she doesn't show up for work today. What's the picture here?"
"Oh, dear! Do you really think she's in a predicament? I can't imagine
she would be in a situation she can't handle...She's so resourceful. But
her voice was so clear in the dream. Ray, it-woke-me-up." The Mountie
turned and started to wander out of the squad room. "Something may have
happened to her," he mumbled to himself.
"Fraser? Where are you going?"
"Back to the Consulate to check her daily schedule. Perhaps she wrote
down where she was going last night."
"OK, let's go." Kowalski grabbed his coat. "Dief! Come on!"
Dief followed Fraser and Ray down the hall but stopped and whined when
Fraser turned left and Kowalski went right. Ray looked back.
"Fraser...Fraser......FRASER! This way!"
CHAPTER 4
Turnbull was still at his desk and still laboring over a mountain of
paperwork when the Mountie and Detective followed Diefenbaker into the
Consulate.
"Turnbull, has the Inspector come in yet?" Fraser demanded.
"No, not yet. Is something wrong? Yikes! It's fourteen hundred hours," he
exclaimed as he looked at the grandfather clock in the hall. "She's never
this late. Good Lord! The Inspector--?"
Fraser tried to placate him. Might have an anxiety disorder, he thought
to himself. But with Turnbull, you never know. "Calm down. We don't know
yet." He started toward Thatcher's office. "Where's her appointment book?"
"Oh, Sir. I wouldn't look in her Schedule Book. That's her private
affair." He reluctantly followed Fraser and Kowalski into Meg's office.
Fraser quickly located her appointment book on the desk and opened it to
check the appropriate pages. "Nothing here about last night...Just her
Consular schedule yesterday. She may keep another personal planner at her
place for off-duty activities. She's much too organized not to write
things down."
"Where does she live?" Kowalski asked.
"Damn. I don't know. Turnbull, where are the personnel files? I have to
get the Inspector's address."
"Sir!" Turnbull nervously objected. "The Inspector will be very angry if
she learns you have been in those--"
Fraser calmed him down. "You don't have to worry about getting your own
gluteus maximus in a sling with the Inspector. I'll take full
responsibility. It's more germane to find out where the Inspector was last
night than be a stickler for protocol. Now, where are they?"
"I don't think we should be doing this. Definitely not regulation,"
Turnbull grumbled as he led Fraser and Ray to a file cabinet in Thatcher's
office.
Fraser pulled open the top drawer labeled 'Personnel' and began scanning
the folders by name. Each contained about 10 pages and had a top sheet
with the employee's current data, fingerprints, and photo. When he got to
his own file which by contrast was five centimeters thick and stuffed with
papers, Fraser pulled it out and quickly fanned through it, speed reading.
"My word, Sir!" Turnbull exclaimed in astonishment.
"Yo, Fraser, you got quite a record. Lemme see," Kowalski said as he
reached for the file.
"No, Ray, you can't see this. National security," Fraser warned and kept
it beyond Kowalski's reach. "However, I see it's accurate and up to date."
He put his own file back and continued the search for Thatcher's. "That's
odd. I don't see Inspector Thatcher's file here. It has to be somewhere.
There must be some record of her residence."
Fraser began to scan the room. "Some record."
"Somewhere," added Ray.
"Wait a sec," interjected Turnbull. "I distinctly recall now that the
Inspector mentioned there was a 'special file' somewhere. However, she
made it quite clear it was to be opened only in dire emergency."
"That's the ticket," Fraser encouraged. "Now, think, Turnbull. Did she
say where this file is?"
Turnbull thoughtfully cupped his face in his hand. "Let me see...No, I
can't recall."
"Think, man!" Kowalski's patience was thinning.
"I'm trying...I'm trying!" Turnbull looked around the office and pointed
to another file cabinet. "There! Maybe it's there."
All three men went in lock-step to the file cabinet. Fraser tried to open
it, but it was securely locked.
Turnbull turned to Fraser. "Oh, heck. Do you think we
ought to break it open? But that would be damaging government
property..." He saw Ray yanking on the immovable drawers. "Stop! I just
remembered that the Inspector said the 'special file' was locked up and
that the key is in her desk."
They lock-stepped back to Thatcher's desk. Fraser slid open the center
pencil drawer, picked up a single key, and all moved as one back to the
locked cabinet. Fraser tried the key. It opened.
"Sort of like d�j� vu all over again, huh, Fraser? We're on another
treasure hunt!" exclaimed Ray.
"Something like that," Fraser replied as he quickly scanned the contents
of the top two drawers. When he opened the third, the only thing in it was
Thatcher's personnel file. It was as equally thick as Fraser's. He picked
it up.
"The mother lode, right, Fraser?"
"My word, she's been active, hasn't she, Sir?"
"Apparently," mused Fraser as he opened it to the face page.
"Come on, Fraser. See what's inside. You read yours. How about a quick
peek at hers?"
"We're not on a scavenger hunt here, Ray. Just trying to find out the
Inspector's address. Anything else would be an invasion of her privacy."
Fraser pointed to Thatcher's photograph. "It is a good likeness of her,
though, don't you think? Ah, here it is. She lives in one of those high
rise condominiums on Lake Shore Drive. Saddle up, Ray. "
CHAPTER 5
Ray was getting exasperated, as he and Fraser stood in the middle of the
condo lobby and tried to convince the building manager to give them access
to Thatcher's unit. "So, what you're saying is that you won't let us in?"
"Of course not," the manager stated in his most official sounding voice.
"Our tenants pay a high price to maintain their privacy."
"Sir, it is extremely important," Fraser urged.
"Nothing is that important!"
Hoping to convince him, Fraser ventured, "She is an Inspector with the
RCMP and--"
"The what?"
"She's Canadian, you knuckle head...A Mountie...With the Canadian
Consulate," Kowalski retorted. This pompous ass was really starting to
piss him off.
"And she didn't come to work this morning," Fraser added. The pompous ass
was starting to piss him off, too, as if he already didn't have enough on
his mind.
"Yeah, and there is a missing person bulletin out on her," Ray said.
"Oh, really? And who filed that?" the manager sneered.
Fraser and Kowalski exchanged glances. "He did," they said in unison as
they pointed to each other.
"Do you want to be mixed up in some sort of international incident? Just
because you want to stick to your piss-ant rules - whatever they are?
Does this mean anything?" Kowalski flashed his badge.
The manager knew he was beaten. "OK, OK. Come on."
"Thank you kindly," Fraser offered as they stepped into the elevator.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The manager swung the door inward to allow Fraser and Kowalski entrance.
"So, don't touch anything," he admonished as they brushed past.
"Yeah, sure. Like we got a moving van pulled up in back and are just
waiting to cart all this crap off," Ray said as he closed the door in the
manager's face.
The two police officers paused to assess the situation:
hardwood floors, a soft leather sofa grouping in front of the fireplace,
teak tables and bookshelves, a number of carved Haida and Tlingit masks on
a wall, a grand piano with numerous sheets of music on it was in the
corner. The spacious living room had large picture windows that afforded a
spectacular view of Lake Michigan from the 17th floor. With studied casual
elegance it had a sleek but comfortable feel about it.
As Kowalski advanced into the living room, Fraser motioned
toward a hallway that obviously led to the bedroom area. "I'll check in
here," the Mountie offered.
"Right. You do that, Fraser," Ray answered with a hint of sarcasm.
Fraser admired the Native art work displayed on the walls as he made his
way to her bedroom. He entered and saw a pair of off-black stockings, an
elegant embroidered slip, and a black silk cocktail dress with spaghetti
straps strewn on the bed. He heard Ray picking out a few notes of Heart
and Soul on the living room piano. Wincing with each clinker Ray played,
Fraser went to the walk-in closet that was open. One wall was filled with
casual clothes: sweaters (each in their individual container), slacks, and
blazers. The opposite side contained her shoe collection and formal wear.
He picked up the sleeve of a red silk suit and inhaled it deeply, then saw
several red serge uniforms on the third wall, along with some outfits he
recognized from her wearing them at the Consulate. He sleeve-smelled
several of these clothes and murmured, "Yes, she does live here."
Moving over to the king-sized bed, the Mountie smoothed his hand across
the brocade bedspread and picked up the petticoat, deeply inhaled her
scent, and absentmindedly carried it around as he looked at the rest of
the room. He finally ended up at her desk. When he saw two leather books,
he laid the slip down to pick up the top book since a corner of a
photograph sticking out caught his attention. He opened it up to see it
was a picture of himself in uniform: a duplicate of the one in his
personnel file. Puzzled by the photo, Fraser began reading:
"...and how I admire his intelligence, his incredible abilities to solve
cases. It all seems so easy for him. I walk such a thin line. Trying to
stay a step ahead of him as his superior -- but with far fewer skills and
even less courage. Why?? What am I afraid of? I just couldn't go through
with it when I asked him to become involved with 'having a child.' Is he
pretending he doesn't hear my messages? Or is
he just not interested?...."
"Oh, God," Fraser agonized aloud.
"....What does he do in his personal life -- go to
a sperm bank? I've never even seen him break
out into a hint of a sweat. Would I dare to get
personally involved with him? Damn these
rules and regulations! And damn Martin in
Calgary!! Imponderable questions..no answers...."
"Nothing out there. Have you found anything?" Ray said as he came into
the bedroom.
Startled, Fraser quickly put the journal down but it remained open to the
page he was reading and his picture landed beside the journal, not in it.
To cover his reaction to Meg's diary writings, he picked up the slip he
had laid on the desk and said, "Ah...er...I'm still looking."
"Whoa, Fraser. Who's on the scavenger hunt now? I heard about you in
drag at that Catholic girls' school. Grazing for new clothes? Think
they'll fit?"
"This? Er...I'm not doing anything. Ah, here it is!" Fraser exclaimed as
he dropped the slip back onto the desk and picked up the matching leather
daytimer to check the date. " She was doing some sort of benefit at the
Repertoire Theatre. It says 'Twenty-one hundred hours.' Where is this
place?"
"Come on, it's not too far from here."
CHAPTER 6
As Fraser, Kowalski, and Dief walked down the hall of the Theater, they
heard loud voices and saw three people arguing in the business office.
"So, what did you want me to do?" said a thirtyish woman dressed in a
tie-dyed shirt liberally adorned with strings of beads, faded jeans, and
long dangling earrings.
"Jasmine," replied another woman in a business suit, "we didn't really
expect you to do anything, did we Earl?"
Earl thoughtfully stroked his chin. "No, Alice is right, Jas. You weren't
responsible for security around here. If anyone was, it should've been me,
since I do the books for the Theater."
Diefenbaker began his own smell investigation of the room as the police
officers interrupted the theater staff discussion. Kowalski showed his
badge and said, "Chicago PD. What's going on here?"
"We were robbed last night," Jasmine replied with some exasperation.
"I called it in this morning," Alice explained. "Two detectives already
have been here. When the Captain...or maybe he was a Colonel or Major or
something, of the police station said that he would send a couple of
Chicago's finest detectives over to investigate, he didn't say he was
going to send two sets of detectives."
"Chicago's finest? What precinct is that?" Ray asked himself under his
breath. "Who were they? They leave their--?"
Alice interrupted him, "--Business card? Yes, here it is," and gave it to
Kowalski.
Ray glanced at the card and turned in wonderment to Fraser. "Huey and
Dewey? Chicago's finest?? How the hell did the Ducks get assigned to this
case?"
"I don't know, Ray," Fraser said absentmindedly, as he was concentrating
on picking up clues. He turned to survey the office and began a visual,
walk-through assessment of the room while Kowalski continued the
interview.
"I'll catch up with them later to get your statements," Ray told the
staff. "What all did they do while they were here?"
"Dusted for prints. Took ours, too," Earl volunteered.
"So, who was here last night? You were puttin' on some kind of benefit?"
Kowalski continued.
"We had many people donating--" Alice offered.
"--Was Margaret Thatcher one of them?"
"Yes, I think--" Alice began but was interrupted this time by Fraser who
had finished his walk-through assessment.
"--Ray, the Inspector was in here," the Mountie stated with agitation.
"And something happened to her. I can feel it...I can smell it."
"OK, OK, Fraser. Keep your lid on. I'll call the precinct to see if
they've gotten any ID on the prints yet. Just cool it," Ray said as he
began dialing the precinct number on his cell phone. "Lemme talk to either
Huey or Dewey. No, Francesca, don't put me on hold. OK.... ...Huey! I'm at
the Theater with Fraser...Yeah, I know it's your case. Do you have any
results on the fingerprints yet?"
"If it's our case, why do you want to know?" Huey retorted. This 'Ray'
replacement is a pushy son of a bitch sometimes, he thought.
"Because Fraser's boss is missing and we found out that she was here last
night."
"When we interviewed the staff, they didn't mention that."
"Well, Fraser is sure she was here in the office. Might have interrupted
the robbery and--"
Huey looked up to see Dewey come into the bullpen. "--Just a sec. Here's
Dewey with the results of the print check. I'll put you on speaker."
Pointing to the speaker phone, he called to Dewey, "Ray's at the theater.
Thatcher's missing. Fraser thinks she was in the office. Tell him."
Welsh walked by on his way to his office, stopped and listened in on the
rest of the phone conversation.
"Ray? That you?" Dewey began. "The prints all check out for the staff.
The freshest set of prints on the safe are of a Bobby Solvay. He's a
part-time go-fer at the theater--"
Kowalski listened to that much of Dewey's report and then asked the
theater staff, "You know anything about Bobby Solvay?" When they shook
their heads 'no', he pressed them further, "Would there be any reason for
this broom pusher to be here in the office?"
"No reason at all. He did some work on the scenery," Jasmine answered.
"Bingo," Kowalski said and then asked Dewey over the phone, "Who is this
guy?"
"Has a fairly long rap sheet for car theft and petty robbery. Currently
on parole."
Fraser moved over next to Ray and listened intently to both sides of the
conversation as Kowalski continued with Dewey. "Any other prints?"
"One complete right hand set on the paperweight, still unidentified."
"Ask them where they found it," Fraser urged.
"You hear that?" Kowalski asked the detectives.
"It was on the floor by that desk in the corner," Huey replied.
Frowning and pulling on his earlobe, Fraser ventured, "She's played
women's softball; I remember that much. Probably used the paperweight to
try and hit him."
"Thatcher?" Welsh queried while he listened to the phone conversation.
"Is that you, Leftenant?"
"Yeah. What's up?"
"Well, the Inspector evidently was here during the theft last night, but
she didn't come to the Consulate this morning. I don't know where she is."
"Missing? Come on, people," Welsh exhorted his troops, "get on this one!"
Fraser turned to Kowalski, "Ray, let me call the Consulate and have her
fingerprints faxed over. Shouldn't take more than five minutes."
"Sure.....Huey? Fraser's gonna have Thatcher's prints sent over. See if
they match the paperweight."
Fraser dialed the Consulate. "Turnbull?...No, we haven't found her yet.
Now listen closely. I want you to get the Inspector's file and...
Turnbull! Just go back, get her file and fax her fingerprints to the
police station...Do it now, Turnbull."
As he handed the cell phone back to Ray, "That man is thicker than two
short boards," Fraser muttered in exasperation. "Now, about this
paperweight," he asked the staff, "before today, where was it?"
"It's mine," Alice said. "I kept it on my desk over there."
"Like that?" Fraser said as he placed it on the indicated desk.
Alice replied, "No, it was more in the corner, like this," and moved it
to another position.
"Thank you kindly." Fraser began a complete and sequential reenactment of
Meg's scuffle with Solvay. He started smelling and tasting the door as
Kowalski continued the questioning.
"So, when did you hire Solvay?" Ray asked and tried to ignore Fraser
licking a file cabinet.
"Couple of weeks ago," Alice answered, as her lip began to curl
involuntarily when she saw Fraser running his tongue over a wall. "He just
showed up and asked for a job."
"You didn't advertise for the opening?"
"Oh, that's so gross!" Jasmine could not contain her disgust when she saw
the Mountie lick his way across the desk where Thatcher's arm had slid.
"Yeah, he does a lot of Gross stuff...Can't help it...He's Canadian. So,
what's you pay schedule like? Did Solvay fill out a W-2 form?"
"Yes, he did," Earl, the efficient CPA, answered. "I'll get it for you."
Meanwhile, Fraser had picked up the paperweight from Alice's desk and
sighted it from where he 'saw' Thatcher throw it to where it was found
under the desk in the corner. He shook his head negatively when he
realized it was not a straight line. As he was working out the geometry of
the deflection, he bumped into Earl who was retrieving Solvay's W-2 form
from a file cabinet. "Oh, sorry. Excuse me," the Mountie automatically
said but remained in deep concentration.
Kowalski grabbed the W-2 form and scanned it quickly. "Says here he lives
at the Northridge Towers. Do you know about that place? It's one of those
upscale yuppie apartments. He couldn't have afforded a day's worth of rent
at this place on the minimum wage you were paying him.
"I had no idea," Earl replied with dismay.
Ray was disgusted. "This is so phony." He looked up to see only Fraser's
rear-end stuck up in the air, since the Mountie was completing his
investigation of the floor on his hands and knees by reaching under a
desk. "Fraser! Mooning is so unMountie-like."
Fraser jumped back to his feet and rejoined the group. "Do any of you
remember what Inspector Thatcher was wearing last night?" he asked the
Theater staff.
Despite her hippie attire, Jasmine was something of a clothes hound and
always made a point of noticing how others were dressed. "Sure. She had a
medium shade of pink dress on. It was organdy...No, check that. It looked
too soft for organdy. Must have been chiffon. Knee length. Sleeveless,
with a jewel neckline. Then she had a matching scarf wound around her neck
and the free ends hung down her back to the hem."
"Any decoration? Beads or sequins?" Fraser persisted.
"The only jewelry she had on were pearl earring studs. But I remember
that the scarf had sequins on the ends."
"Like this?" Fraser opened his hand to show the sequins he had found
under the desk.
"Oh, yeah, that's it," Jasmine said as Kowalski's cell phone rang.
"OK," Ray spoke into the phone. He disconnected and addressed Fraser.
"Print confirmation - they're Thatcher's."
"I know. She was here during the robbery and tried to stop him."
"You mean she wasn't able to put up a good defense and stop him? How do
you know all this?"
"Freshness of the odour," the Mountie said automatically. "It has a
definitive half-life and--"
"--It's OK, Fraser, you don't have to explain it. I'll take your word for
it."
"What's important now is she was somehow overpowered and taken hostage,"
Fraser said with great concern. "The trail goes here...." He was lost in
concentration as he smelled his way out into the hallway.
Ray shook his head in puzzlement. He thanked the staff for their
information, then saw that Fraser was so preoccupied with following
Thatcher's odor that he had forgotten his Stetson. Half-life? he thought
as he picked up the hat. Does the Ice Queen have a scent? How can anything
frozen harder than a carp smell? Nah!
When Kowalski and Diefenbaker reached the back alley where Solvay had
parked the getaway car, Fraser already was surveying the area. He noticed
the residue from Solvay's car backfire and quickly threw himself on the
pavement to taste it directly.
"Oh shit, Fraser! I'm going to hurl. That is so completely disgusting. Do
you eat with that mouth, too?"
Ignoring Ray's criticism, the Mountie got back to his feet. "He brought
her here...See? Here's another sequin. She's good. Very good."
"So why clean the streets with your tongue? We got a department of
sanitation to do that."
"Because if we have any hope of finding her, we need a trail. Sequins
alone may not be enough....His car uses leaded gas." He began walking
slowly in the direction the getaway car took. "Not too many of them around
anymore. And it is poorly tuned.. ..probably running on 3 cylinders. The
emissions here are the engine's unique combustion signature: the unburned
hydrocarbons and various lead compounds. And that one cylinder not working
makes it that much more unusual." He glanced at Kowalski. "The trail is as
clear as the strobe light guide path at O'Hare International."
"So, do it. I'll get the car.
CHAPTER 7
In the darkness as Fraser and Dief tracked up to the warehouse, Ray
followed in the squad car. Fraser motioned that 'this is the place.' Ray
nodded and hand signaled back that he would park the car. Fraser continued
on toward a doorway and was deeply inhaling the air sifting out of the
door jamb when Kowalski joined him.
"She's in there, Fraser whispered. "Fresh scent. Did you see the car?"
Ray cast him a quizzical side-long glance. "Don't know what it looks
like. Can you tell its color or make by the exhaust trail it left? Or did
you just bounce a reality check?"
Fraser mulled this over for a moment. "Right you are. We have no way of
knowing that."
This place is pretty deserted," Kowalski continued as he scanned the
area, "but there're a couple of cars around. He may have parked it in
back."
"So we don't know if Solvay is still in there...Or what condition the
Inspector is in. Does his rap sheet include any assault?"
"The Ducks didn't say....only mentioned car theft and robbery."
"Well, t-take Dief and go around b-back. I'm going in," Fraser stuttered.
Ray gave the Mountie a hard look. "You OK, Frase?"
"Huh?"
"You're sorta up tight. Take a chill pill. We'll find her." Kowalski
motioned Diefenbaker to follow and with his gun drawn, the detective
disappeared into the mist as he rounded the corner of the building.
Fraser cautiously opened the door and entered. As he crept through a
warren of dark rooms and storage areas, he continued to pick up faint
odours of the Inspector. Please God, he thought, let her be OK...Don't let
that son of a bitch Solvay hurt her....She doesn't deserve that. If he's
raped her, I swear I'll castrate him with a dull hunting knife.
He stopped and sniffed the air. Dammit, I'm losing my touch, he chided
himself. Come on, Benton, concentrate! Just find her first. You can deal
with Solvay later. He had to retrace his steps back to a hallway where he
last smelled her scent. He picked up the trail again and headed in a new
direction.
Eventually he began to hear faint muffled sounds coming from a large room
ahead. He cautiously slid through the doorway and in the faint light saw
Thatcher across the room. Although she still was strung up, she struggled
furiously to release her wrists.
The Mountie looked around to check if Solvay was still there. Not seeing
him, Fraser called in a loud whisper, "Inspector?"
"Oh, thank God!" Meg sobbed when she saw him.
Fraser ran over to her and pulled out his boot knife. "Here, hold still.
I'll cut you down. Steady...." Face to face, he pressed his body against
hers. Putting his left arm around her waist to stop her swinging motion,
he reached up with his right hand to cut the rope at her wrists.
"What has he done to you?" he demanded as she, with the release, almost
slid through his arms. He caught her and lowered her to the floor.
"I'm so c-c-cold," Meg cried. She was shaking uncontrollably.
Fraser stood up and with the Inspector clinging to his thigh, he ripped
off his lanyard and Sam Browne and tossed them aside. Buttons flew in
every direction as he tore off the red tunic. "Here, put this on," he
offered as he draped it over her shoulders. He slid to the floor behind
her and enveloped her in his arms.
"You're safe now," Fraser reassured her as he bent his head down to her
ear. "Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?"
Seeking warmth, Meg burrowed her back deeper into his chest. "N-n-no,
nothing like that," she chattered. "Just t-t-tied me up. What t-t-took you
so long?"
"I didn't know where you were. How clever to lay the sequin trail. You're
so brave."
"N-n-not so brave as I s-s-should have been."
Tears formed mascara-stained rivers that coursed through the dirt on her
face and dripped onto his tunic. I can't let him see me like this, Meg
thought in desperation. The more she tried to get in control, the harder
she sobbed.
Fraser was increasingly concerned. In an effort to calm her, he began
smoothing her hair and gently turned her head to him so he could wipe her
tears away with his fingers. As he worked on one side, she used the edge
of the tunic on the other. "It's all right, now," he murmured. "You sure
you're OK?"
Meg nodded, "Uh-huh," as her sobs quieted into sniffles.
As her tears slowed to a trickle, he saw the rope burns on her wrist.
Frowning, he raised her hand to bring the inside of her wrist closer,
almost allowing his lips to brush across the burns as he examined them.
Like hell you're OK, he thought in consternation. Oh, Meg, what did the
bastard do to you?
He glanced at her. She had turned sideways in his arms. With her head
tilted up to him, she seemed so receptive to having him kiss her. As their
eyes met, Fraser was drawn imperceptibly toward her mouth.
"Not now, son," his father's voice reverberated in his head. "Don't do
it. She's too vulnerable. Think of what she has just been through. Oh, I
know she wrote that she wants you...bad. She's a good intellectual match
for you, but if you take advantage of her when she's not on an equal
emotional footing right now...Well, it's wrong, and you know it."
Fraser gave a small sigh. Understood, Dad, he acknowledged with
resignation. He gently laid Meg's head on his chest, wrapped his arms more
tightly around her, and stared out into the empty room. And Meg, with her
ear as close as possible, listened to his beating heart as the tears
silently began to flow again.
The mood was broken as both were startled by the loud report of several
gunshots outside.
"That must be Ray," Fraser explained. "He's out back. Did Solvay just
leave?"
"That's the rat's name?"
"Yes. Come on," Fraser urged her to her feet.
"He left me to hang here, just before you came in." Thatcher was still
weak and wobbly as Fraser held her hand, but she stopped to pick up his
Sam Browne and lanyard.
"Inspector, it's only a uniform. Come on!"
"Oh, all right! Screw the buttons," she said and followed Fraser who
headed back the same way he came in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fraser burst out the front door with Thatcher close behind. However, she
lagged behind more and more as Fraser ran toward the end of the building,
the way Ray had gone. He was within a meter of it when Solvay, speeding in
the junker, rounded the corner and roared past the Mountie into the night.
Fraser could not stop running quickly enough and reached the blind
intersection at the moment Kowalski's squad car came careening around, in
hot pursuit after Solvay. The Mountie was hit -- hard enough to spin him
around and throw him into the brick wall of the warehouse. As his head hit
with a sickening thud, he slumped to the ground.��������
"Fraser!" Inspector Thatcher screamed. Grasping at the sleeves of his
tunic she still had over her shoulders, she ran quickly to bend over the
fallen Mountie. "Fraser! Fraser!! Oh, my God!! Ray! You hit him! Come
back!!" she implored the rapidly disappearing car.
"Oh, jeez!" Ray had difficulty keeping up. "What the hell was that?
Fraser? Couldn't be....He was inside....Gotta get Solvay. He can't outrun
me in that heap." He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Thatcher
bending over Fraser.
In the back seat, Diefenbaker was carrying on, racing from side to side,
looking out the rear window and then at Kowalski, and barked continuously.
"Fraser? Ohmigod, it was him!" Dief nudged his neck, as if to confirm
this.
Ray looked ahead to rapidly fading red tail lights. "Solvay?"
Diefenbaker looked back and barked furiously.
Ray looked again into the rearview mirror. "Fraser?"
The wolf dog nudged Kowalski's neck and woofed loudly in the detective's
ear.
Ray cringed and yelled, "Stop it, you damned dog!" as he slammed on the
brakes, put the car in reverse, and screamed back to Fraser and Thatcher.
As soon as Ray opened the car door, Dief muscled his way out ahead of him
and ran to Fraser, who was lying face up on the ground. A pool of blood
oozed from under the Mountie's head. Dief growled when he smelled it. He
nuzzled Fraser to get up and licked his face. Meg, after covering him with
the tunic, had been checking vital signs.
"Stop, Diefenbaker! I don't know how badly he's hurt," Thatcher ordered.
She tried to fend the dog off.
"Tell me I didn't kill him," Kowalski asked as he squatted down to join
the Inspector.
"He's still alive," Meg anxiously replied. "Has a nasty head wound...see
all the blood? Must have hit the wall hard."
Ray assessed the situation. "How about his neck?"
"I don't know. He hasn't moved." She was beside herself with worry. Hang
on, Benton, she agonized.
"Oh, jeez! I'll call nine-one-one," he said as he dragged out his cell
phone. "Wait a minute. He's moving his legs. Fraser!! Fray-zure! Wake up!"
Fraser groaned in his unconsciousness and started to move his legs more.
His arms moved enough to brush off the tunic.
"Look," Ray asked. "What do you want to do? It'll take the paramedics
about ten minutes to get here. This is good if he has some kinda spinal
injury. On the other hand, he is moving--"
"--and he might bleed to death with this head wound in the meantime," Meg
finished.
"Not so good. So, you call it: Nine-one-one or we take him in the car?"
"Let's go. We should support his head as much as possible."
While Ray lifted Fraser up by the armpits and dragged him over to the
back door of the car, Thatcher picked up the tunic, lanyard, and Sam
Browne. "Careful," she admonished as she opened the door for Ray and then
went around to the other side. They had difficulty cramming Fraser in. His
continual moaning was not encouraging. Thatcher tried to pull Fraser into
the car and Ray tried pushing him in, but eventually he was stretched out
on the back seat with his head in Meg's lap. Thatcher draped the tunic
across him to keep him warm. As she cradled his head, she brushed away her
tears that splashed onto his face.
Ray called to Diefenbaker, who jumped into the front passenger seat but,
seeing Fraser in the back, he tried to leap over. "No, Dief, stay here."
Ray put his arm up to block the wolf.
"You can't help now." The wolf rested his muzzle on the top of the seat,
gazed at his wounded friend, and whined.
Kowalski glanced in the rearview mirror as he started the ignition. "You
OK back there?"
Meg raised her tear-stained face. "Good, but he's still unconscious. Go!
Go!!"
CHAPTER 8
The Inspector, coffee cup in hand, paced the floor. They always paint the
walls such a puke green, she thought. And nothing worth reading except
three year old Readers Digest magazines. When do you suppose the cleaning
crew comes on shift? Probably have to bring in a hose to scour the place
out. She continued to walk the fifteen feet between the lobby door and the
Emergency Room suite.
"I can't imagine what's taking so long. They've been working on him for
almost two hours," she fretted as she passed Kowalski more times than he
could count.
"They probably have to do a bunch of tests," Ray suggested as he rooted
around in a pile of discarded wrappers from food vending machines. "Stuff
like that. Relax. He's in good hands." He dove into the wrapper pile on
the chair next to him and held up an unopened package. "I got DingDongs
here. You want one?"
"Couldn't stomach it. That junk food is terrible. And this coffee is
worse." She threw the cup into an overflowing garbage container and
resumed her pacing.
Kowalski took up his own offer on the DingDong and observed Thatcher. She
was a disaster: dirty, smeared make-up and her dress was heavily stained
with Fraser's blood from when she had supported his head in her lap during
the wild ride to the hospital.
"Good God, woman! You're a mess. Is this your Jackie Kennedy impression?"
"What??" She stopped and tried to comprehend what Ray meant. She didn't
get it. "Oh, I don't care what I look like.....Finally!" she said with
relief as she looked through the windows of the ER door. "Here's the
doctor.....Doctor, How is he?"
"Several things," the physician began as he joined the Inspector and
Kowalski. "He regained consciousness shortly after you brought him in. We
stitched up his head wound. You see, the scalp has a rich blood supply
and, if the skin is broken, it looks like the person is hemorrhaging but
it is not as life-threatening as it appears."
"This is good. This is good," Ray commented. Despite his apparent
nonchalance, he was more than a little concerned about Fraser, who had
looked in tough shape. All Fraser's unconscious moaning and groaning on
the way to the hospital had been unnerving. Even on a bad day, Fraser
wouldn't have said 'Ouch' if someone was breakin' his arm, he thought. No
use gettin' Thatcher more upset than she already was. What's up with those
two? Fraser gettin' wigged out and then the control freak Turbo-bitch
losin' it. Go figure.
The doctor continued, "Since he regained consciousness, we did an MRI,
tested his reflexes, and there is no spinal injury. So, while he was
unconscious, his initial inertia can be explained by the blow to his head.
The bad part is that he has had a severe concussion--"
"Wouldn't be the first--" Ray confirmed.
"--Furthermore, he exhibits Dissociative Amnesia."
"So, what's this Dissoci-ta-tive thing-ey?"
"Just shut up, Detective. Let him explain."
"It's characterized by an inability to recall personal information. He
may have dissociated due to a traumatic event or if he were under intense
stress."
"See," Kowalski pointed out to Meg, "I told you he was pretty wound up
from the time we got to the theater until he found you in the warehouse."
The physician shot Ray a hard look. "As I understand it, you hit him with
your car?"
"Uh, not exactly...I must have clipped him accidentally and it threw him
into the wall...er...Yeah, I hit him," he finished sheepishly.
Meg sensed how guilty Ray was feeling. "How could you have known he was
coming?" she gently asked.
"Well, regardless of how the accident occurred," the doctor went on,
"some of the symptoms of this type of amnesia are the loss of personal
memory, of course, and depression, impairment at work or in interpersonal
relationships, sometimes aggression, possibly sexual dysfunction."
"So what you're saying is that he's clueless," Ray said.
"Apparently."
Thatcher was aghast. "Forever?"
"Not necessarily," he assuaged her. "Often times, Dissociative Amnesia
lifts spontaneously. We don't know what can trigger the return of memory
in these types of cases."
Meg persisted, "How long?"
"Until it lifts? I wouldn't be concerned for two to three weeks. That
will give the brain a chance to heal from the concussion."
"I meant, how long will he be in hospital?"
"Oh, I think if he stays the rest of tonight. And tomorrow. Barring any
complications, he could be released the morning after that."
The Inspector was greatly relieved. "Thank you so much, Doctor. Could we
see him now?"
"He is being transported up to Room Five-Seventy-Three. Give them a few
moments to get him situated and then you can see him. Now, I want to warn
you that apparently he's undergone a complete character change. The man
you will see will not be as you know him."
"Thank you again, Doctor," Meg called to the physician as he headed back
into the ER.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kowalski peeked in the door. "Fraser?"
Thatcher pushed him the rest of the way into the room and over Ray's
shoulder saw the Mountie, dressed in a hospital gown, sitting up in bed.
The television was at full volume on an MTV type show and Fraser tried to
sing along, but was not very successful.
"Who're you? " Fraser asked Ray, as he concentrated on tapping out a
rhythm on his thigh. "Wait a sec. I can't seem to get the beat on this
song."
"Fraser??" Ray reiterated as he reached over, grabbed the remote control
out of Fraser's hand, and turned the television set off.
"That's what they called me in the Emergency Room," Fraser giggled.
"Don't have a clue why....Fraser....Benton Fraser. Who would name a kid
that? Benton?!" He began to chortle and laugh uncontrollably. "Ben - Ton.
Sounds like Chinese soup...."
Then he saw Meg standing behind Ray. "Who the hell are you?" he asked
her. "My God you're a mess!"
"Fraser, I'm Meg Thatcher. Don't you remember?"
"Thatcher....Thresher," he scoffed. "Looks like you've been through a
threshing machine," he giggled. "Ya know, if you cleaned yourself up, you
might be able to get off the streets," he leered at her, "if ya know what
I mean," and winked suggestively.
"Oh, Fraser." The Inspector's eyes began to tear up again. How could he
say such things? "Don't you know me? Can't you
remember the warehouse?...." She had never seen him like this -
her Deputy Liaison Officer?
A comely nurse, carrying a medication dispenser, came into the room.
Fraser's eyes lit up. "Now here's a broad that knows how to take care of
herself. Honey, when do you get off shift? Want to check out this
mechanical bed for me?"
"I don't think so. Just take this pill."
"Your loss, darlin', " Fraser said when the nurse handed him a glass of
water and the medication.
As Fraser took the pill, Ray saw this as an opportunity to pull Thatcher
aside. Good thing Thatcher didn't see that, he thought, as he watched
Fraser trying to catch the arm of the nurse and draw her to him. She
deftly avoided the ploy and when she left, Fraser turned the TV back on.
"Don't take it personally, Inspector. Fraser is really out of it, just
like the doctor said."
Dabbing her eyes, Meg agreed. "I know, I know. I just hate to see him
like this. I think we had better leave."
"What do you wanna do with him when he's released?"
"I guess you could bring him to the Consulate. I'll have to check with
Ottawa. They may want him sent back to Canada...He doesn't have any
family, does he?"
"Don't think so."
"That's my point. If Ottawa wants him back, where would they put him? He
hasn't anyone. Perhaps I can stave them off for two or three weeks so
maybe his memory will be triggered....Keep him at the Consulate." She
considered this option carefully. "OK, I suppose I should take his uniform
back," and gathered up his trousers that had been laid over a chair, the
folded long johns on the seat, and his Mountie boots standing at
attention. "His hat and tunic are in your car. Can you give me a ride?"
"Sure. I can do that."
Having agreed on a plan of action, Thatcher and Kowalski turned back to
Fraser. Ray again had to turn off the blasting TV. "OK, Fraser. We're
going now."
"You, too, Threshing Machine?"
Meg started to say something but stopped. However, Kowalski noticed the
hurt showing in her face and mercifully drew Fraser's attention away from
her. "I'll be back tomorrow to see how you are doing."
"Whatever. Hope you bring a better looking broad than this one," Fraser
giggled as he reached for the TV remote when they left.
CHAPTER 9
The sunlight streamed in the window and spread over Fraser's hospital
bed. Kowalski paced the floor, as he tried to explain the clues of the
case.
"So, I got the plate number of Solvay's getaway car. They're running a
check now."
"Getting away from what, Bob?" Fraser thoughtfully scratched the day-old
stubble on his chin.
"Ray," Kowalski corrected.
"Bob? Ray? Bob and Ray?"
"Getting away from me: Ray. He had taken Inspector Thatcher hostage. You
tracked him--"
"--Who's the Inspector? Thatcher? You mean Thresher! From last night."
Ray was exasperated. "You really don't know anything about this, do you?
Look-it. Even if you can't remember, you do understand about boss-flunky
relationships, don't you?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Fraser responded doubtfully. What the hell is this
guy talking about?
"Well, the Inspector is your boss. And she is a control freak...chain of
command stuff."
"OoooKay...."
"So, if I were you, I'd lay off her. She's a time bomb with a short
fuse."
"Boom!" Fraser was delighted at his own joke.
This was the last straw for Kowalski. "Oh, jeez. Maybe I should have just
gone after Solvay and let Thatcher deal with you. I figured you would be
able to help me catch him later. You're no help at all. I'm outta here."
"Boom!!" Fraser called to him as he left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kowalski was not in a good mood as he walked to the Nurses Station.
There's no reasoning with that guy, he thought. No more logic, no more
brains. Thatcher's gonna have her hands full, that's for sure.
"Lemme use your phone," he brusquely asked a nurse who was trying to
concentrate on charting amid the bustle of the Station.
"Sure," she answered pleasantly. "Is this about that guy in
Five-Seventy-Three?" Ray nodded as he began to dial. "He's supposed to be
a Mountie?"
"Supposed to be."
"That horny creep can't keep his hands off the nurses. You know what he
did this morning? He--"
Ray didn't want to hear it. "--Hey, Huey! What's the skinny on Solvay's
car?...Stolen? Why wasn't it reported stolen? ...Huh? ...Of course it's a
stupid question. Who would bother to report that piece of junk had been
stolen? Stay on it."
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble, he thought. He looked up to see Francesca
swinging down the hall. Sashaying would have been a better word for it.
She was wearing her infamous and incredibly short leather skirt. Didn't
Welsh tell her to wear a longer shirt?
"Look, gotta go. I'll be back to the station in a bit." Ray threw the
phone towards its cradle and ran to intercept Francesca before she entered
Fraser's room.
"Frannie! I told you not to come."
"Ray, Ray, Ray." Francesca could be so maddeningly condescending.
"Fraser's my friend, too. If he's hurt and in the hospital, I want to see
him--"
"That's not Fraser in there."
"How bad can it be? And besides, you're not my brother. You can't tell me
what to do. Get out of my way." She pushed Kowalski aside and went in. Ray
shrugged, threw up his hands, and walked down the hall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Francesca tentatively peeked around the door to see Fraser lying in bed
and staring vacantly at the ceiling. She had no way of knowing that he was
counting holes in the ceiling tile and wanted to get an average. A good
way to kill time between nurse visits.
"Fraser?"
"Huh?" Shit! I lost count, he fretted. Hello! Not a nurse, but a babe,
none the less!
"How're you doing, Frase? Ray said you were here."
"I'm OK, I guess," he said cautiously. He didn't want to scare this one
off. He opened out his arm to her and slowly wet his lips in anticipation.
"Come here."
Francesca quickly responded to his invitation. As she smoothed his hair
away from his scalp sutures, "Some kinda nasty cut you have on your head.
Does it hurt?" she asked innocently.
"It used to, but it doesn't, today," he replied softly.
When she began picking at imaginary lint on his hospital gown, he reached
out, put his arm around her waist and pulled her down to sit, facing him,
on the bed.
"Ray said he almost killed you," she continued as she smoothed the sheets
around him. He's coming on to me, she thought.
"Would that make a difference to you?"
"A difference? Of course it would!"
"How?" Fraser closed his hand over hers.
"Because I care." Her mind raced. He's actually holding my hand! Sweet
Mother of God! Finally!! "We've been through a lot together. You've helped
me..." She leaned toward him slightly. "....I've helped you."
His eyes bored into hers. "Can you help me now?" He drew her to him.
He pulled her down to his chest and began kissing her. Frannie was
slightly taken off guard by his blatant advances: she certainly wasn't
expecting this! Not that she minded, of course. She had dreamed of this
for three long years. When he felt her hesitate slightly because of her
surprise, he smoothly rolled her over onto her back to pin her shoulders
to the bed. Much better, he thought. You can't resist now, my pretty bird,
as Francesca willingly yielded to his tongue.
He could feel her foot begin to stroke his leg through the sheet. "Who
are you?" he panted.
Francesca was lost in a world of liquid ecstasy. "It doesn't matter, just
kiss me," she murmured as she again drew him into her mouth.
"FRASER!!"
Meg Thatcher threw the civilian clothes she had brought for him in the
general direction of the chair. His starched and ironed boxers flew
through the air like a frisbie. "FRASER!!! What are you doing?" she
demanded as she pried him off Francesca.
"Ouch!" Frannie yelped when Thatcher grabbed her by the arm.
"You slut," Meg hissed as she hauled her off the bed.
"Oh, no! Don't take her away!" Fraser implored. Just when he was going to
score, he thought in bewilderment.
The Inspector was beside herself with rage. "Didn't they tell you he is
not acting like himself?"
"He seemed to understand everything we talked about--" Francesca tried to
explain as she straightened her clothes.
"--He doesn't understand anything. Just get out. Get out!!"
"Well, excuuuse me," Frannie retorted as she turned on her heel and left
in a huff.
Thatcher was livid as she turned on Fraser. "Well, that was quite a
scene, wasn't it?"
He was still trying to calm himself: Just when things were getting hot,
this bitch walks in and spoils it. "Why did you make her leave? Because
you're my boss?" He struggled to understand.
"That much you got right." Meg made a monumental effort to keep the hurt
from showing and look like she was in charge. "Look, Fraser. I've called
Ottawa and--"
"--Why do that? Who do you know there?"
"Just listen. You are a Canadian...A Mountie. At least you *were*. I
called Headquarters and told them what happened. They wanted you sent back
there as soon as you are discharged from hospital. They finally agreed to
let you stay at the Consulate--"
"--Consulate? What's a Consulate?" Fraser remained clueless.
"The place where you work...You had come to Chicago on the trail of your
father's killers--"
Fraser was incredulous. "--My father is dead?"
"Yes, and you have remained attached to the Consulate since then. My
point is, there is a better chance of your memory being triggered if you
stay in familiar surroundings. I'm the RCMP Inspector there, your
superior."
"Inspector Thatcher."
"At least you remembered that much." She was confused. If he could
finally remember my name correctly, why couldn't he remember about the
Consulate and all the other things, she thought. "Ray will be by tomorrow
when you are discharged. I've brought you some clothes," she continued as
she gathered them up to put them on the chair. "He'll bring you to the
Consulate. Do you understand?"
"I'm beginning to."
"I'll see you there," she called over her shoulder as she left the room
with relief.
CHAPTER 10
"OK, people. Let's get moving." Welsh trotted around the bullpen. "The
Inspector helped us find Ray and Fraser out in the middle of Lake
Superior. We owe her....big time. I want to know everything about the
bastard who abducted her: where he lives, where he hangs out, what he has
for breakfast, how many sheets of toilet paper....you know the drill. He
may still be in the area. Huey! What do you know about the stolen car?"
"Not too much," the detective checked his notes. "It was stolen from a
guy named Frank James."
Welsh did a double take. "Now, that's ironic, isn't it? And where does
Frank James live?
"South Chicago. I have his address here."
"So get over there! Solvay may live in the area or be familiar with it,
because that's where the car was. He may still be holed up somewhere."
"I'm on it, Chief."
"And find out if James was in on it," Welsh called to him as he hustled
out of the squad room.
Welsh tried to get a handle on the facts of the case. "You say he is on
parole?" he grilled Dewey.
"Yeah."
"Anyone talk with his parole officer yet?"
When Kowalski and Dewey shook their heads 'no,' Welsh exploded. "Has
everyone's brain stopped working around here? Solvay gave a false address
when he signed on at the theater. Ergo, he has been trying to dead-end us.
He isn't as smart as he thinks he is. His parole officer's got his correct
address. Dewey, pay P.O. Miller a visit."
"Ah, Lieutenant? What do you want me to do?" Ray ventured.
"For right now, keep on Fraser's ass. From what you tell me, the
Inspector's gonna be hard put to keep Fraser's libido reined in. She could
use some help.... Francesca!" he called. "Where the hell is she?"
"Left her at the hospital. She insisted on seeing him."
"Oh, for Christsakes! God help us all."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"....Yeah, you've been living here ever since that tenement you had
rented burned down last fall," Kowalski explained as he followed Fraser
into the Consulate.
"Nothing looks familiar," Fraser remarked as he gazed around. He wore the
clothes Meg had brought to the hospital the day before. The Levi's were
bunched around his boot tops, but for some inexplicable reason the jeans
had shrunk. Without a belt, they now rode low on his hips and stretched
tightly across his thighs. One could wonder how he was able to pull them
over the starched boxers. The plaid shirt, with the top two buttons open
and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was casually stuffed into his
Levi's. Still unshaven. Tousled hair completed the picture of Fraser:
rugged and randy.
Their entrance interrupted the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in
the hallway and Turnbull rose from his unending paperwork to say, "Ah,
Sir! It's good to see you back."
Hearing the commotion, Meg went to greet Fraser, as did Diefenbaker. The
wolf was glad to see his friend on any terms but when Meg saw the 'new'
Fraser, she was not so sure.
"Constable. There you are."
"Inspector Thres...er...Thatcher," Fraser acknowledged.
"Yes. Well, I imagine you want to refamiliarize yourself--" Meg began as
she ushered him further into the hallway.
"--Fraser, I'm going back to the station," Ray interrupted. He figured it
was up to Thatcher from this point. "Call me if you need anything."
Fraser nodded absentmindedly as he tried to concentrate on Meg's tour of
the Consulate. "This is my office," she continued. "And our official
greeter, Constable Turnbull.... " (who gave Fraser the 'thumbs up' signal)
"...Our meeting room, "she gestured, "and the kitchen is back there."
"What's upstairs?"
"Bedrooms."
Fraser's eyes lit up.
Meg caught his look. "For visiting dignitaries," she warned. "Your room
is back here," she continued as she walked toward the back hallway. "Here
we are..." She led Fraser into his tiny room. It was as he had left it
three days ago, except for his soiled red tunic which she had hung on a
hook by the door.
"So, this is where I've been hanging out?"
"You don't remember?"
"I feel like I'm lost in space. Are you sure you're not some alien that
has abducted me?" he teased her.
"No, Constable." She was not used to him acting like this. So casual, so
unserious. She knew she had to remain firm and very professional with him.
Keep him grounded. "Perhaps, given enough time, your memory may return. Go
through your personal possessions here, such as they are. They might be
triggers for you. Meanwhile, I have a lot of work to do. Feel free to come
and ask, should you need anything."
"I dunno. How can I know what I need if I don't know who I am?" he said
to her retreating back as she left, shaking her head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Huey was not having much luck as he stood on the blustery corner of
Cosenza and Menomonee. The wind whipped Solvay's mug shot from his hand.
He chased after it and finally stepped on it to prevent its escape but had
to pry it free of the discarded chewing gum on the sidewalk.
A string of the gum remained attached to the paper as he held it up to a
man passing by. "Hey, have you seen this guy around here?"
"Nah, I ain't seen him," the man answered and quickly passed by.
Another man walked past the detective who tried to stop him. "Sir! I'm
trying to find this man. Have you seen him?"
Hardly breaking stride, this passerby barely glanced at the mug shot
before saying, "Sorry, can't say that I have," and continued on his way.
What's with these people? Huey thought. Maybe it's my approach technique.
I'll try the 'courteous' one on her, as he stopped a woman, carrying two
shopping bags, who trundled along the sidewalk.
"Pardon me, ma'am. I'm with the Police Department. We're working on a big
case right now and I'm trying to find this man. Do you recognize him?"
She set the shopping bags down to look at the photo closely. "No, I
don't. Does he live around here?
Huey was up-front with her. "We don't know, but he might."
"Well, everyone in the neighborhood always goes to Charlie's diner for
coffee and gossip. It's down one block on the left. You might try there."
"Thank you, Ma'am, you've been a big help."
CHAPTER 11
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK.... As the clock in the entry hall
continued, Fraser began to look around his room by idly picking up a few
things on his desk. Diefenbaker watched him carefully and whined each time
Fraser shook his head 'no, I don't recognize this.' TICK....TOCK.... The
Mountie eventually opened the closet door. Native chant music flooded the
room. However, Fraser neither could hear it nor see that the back of the
closet led into his father's 'office.' He examined his meager clothing,
took out a plaid shirt out and held it up for assessment. TICK....TOCK....
"What could I have been thinking of when I got this? Definitely not a
babe magnet," he mused aloud. "Oh, the hell with it. I'm getting hungry,"
he decided. "What's the name of that dufus in the hallway? Turkey?
Turnkey? Oh, yeah, Turnbull. I'll ask him."
"So, what do you do for food around here?" Fraser asked as he approached
Turnbull's hallway desk. TICK....TOCK....
"Perhaps you should inquire of the Inspector." Turnbull came up for air
from under his mountainous paper work to motion toward Thatcher's office.
Fraser wandered in there to find her working intently at her lap top
computer. Lounging in front of her desk, he tried to get her attention.
"Er....."��������
Continuing to work without looking up, "Yes?" she asked.
"Er...well...." He hated this. Having to ask about something he should
know about.
"Yes, Constable?" Meg prodded as she looked up. At least he is beginning
to ask, instead of staying in his room all day, she thought.
"I'm getting hungry. What's to eat?"
Good God! Does he think I'm his housekeeper? "I showed you where the
kitchen is. It's fully stocked. Go make yourself something. I've never
been responsible for putting food on your table before and I'm not about
to start."
"OK, OK, I just wondered." Fraser backed off from her apparent anger.
Instinctively he dropped his casual slouch and came to reasonable
attention.
"And by the way," Meg continued, "your wolf has refused all the food
Constable Turnbull and I offered him while you were in hospital. Even
Cheese Doodles. I understand that's his favourite. You had better feed
him, also."
"Uh-huh. I'll do that," Fraser said as he backed out the door.
Thatcher returned to the lap top and silence descended again on the
Consulate, save for the click of the lap top keys, Turnbull rustling his
papers, and the louder TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK of the grandfather
clock.
Thatcher almost dumped the lap top onto the floor and Turnbull flinched
to send a pile of papers off his desk when a loud explosion shattered the
silence. She ran into the hallway to see Fraser coming out of the kitchen.
His shirt was covered with whitish lumps.
"Good God, Constable! What did you do?"
"I was only trying to microwave some potatoes and--"
"--Did you fork them first?"
He gave her a quizzical look. "Fork them? Can you do that with potatoes?"
"Yes, fork them," she tried to explain. "You know....stab them with a
fork so they don't explode in the microwave." He really is impossible. The
kitchen must be a disaster. "Oh, just go clean the place up....Yourself
included," she retorted as she went back to her office. "You're a mess."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"So, Miller is taking the day off?" Dewey flirted with the file clerk.
"I don't think you could call it a vacation," she tentatively smiled at
him. "He's having an impacted wisdom tooth pulled."
Dewey winced. "Ouch. But can you get me Bobby Solvay's record anyway? I
gotta find out where he lives. Big case at the 27th."
"Sure can." She went to a nearby desk, rifled through some papers and
brought back a heavy file. "Here it is."
Dewey glanced through the file and took some notes. "Thanks a lot. I know
that Miller will feel much better when you tell him Solvay's involved in a
robbery and hostage situation. Looks like he will be back behind bars for
a long time when we get him. Ciao!"
CHAPTER 12
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK....As Thatcher worked at her desk, she
glanced up as thuds and banging noises came from Fraser's room. Puzzled,
she followed the sounds through the back hallway and pushed open his door.
His room was a disaster and he was in the process of finishing it off: his
cot was overturned, the desk chair upended, the desk had been swept clear,
and all the storage boxes that had been piled high atop cabinets were
broken and scattered about the floor.
"Dammit!" Fraser had his back to the door and raged as he smashed another
box.
"Fraser?" Meg called tentatively.
"God damn it!!!"
"Fraser?" she said more forcefully.
"This friggin' room's a jail cell!" Fraser threw another box against the
wall.
"Constable! What are you doing?" She was nonplused at his language; she
never had heard him swear -- ever.
He heard her this time and turned to face her with eyes blazing.
"What?!!"
"Get a hold of yourself....You're destroying government property."
"I don't give a rat's ass! I can't stand it!!"
"Fraser, you really can't behave like this," Meg said. She
was becoming frightened of his behaviour. So violent. So angry. Nothing
ever had seemed to bother him like this before now. She started to back
out of the room. "Come on, get in control of yourself. Straighten this
place up. You have to live here, you know."
As Thatcher passed Constable Turnbull, he looked up to see the
consternation on her face. He shook his head sadly. He had heard the
exchange between the Inspector and Fraser and did not understand his
behaviour either.
She returned to her office to resume working. TICK....
TOCK....TICK....TOCK, the clock inexorably ground on in the silence.
Eventually, she heard more noises coming from Fraser's room: nothing like
him trashing the place again, but softer, almost like something being torn
or ripped. When it stopped, she continued on the keyboard. There it is
again, she noted. More data entry. More intermittent tearing sounds
interspersed with the TICK....TOCK.... of the hallway clock punctuated the
silence.
Meg laid her glasses down and listened closely. "Now what is he doing?"
Her curiosity aroused, she went again to Fraser's room.
Fraser had his feet casually propped up on his desk and was taping up the
broken desk lamp with duct tape. All of the storage boxes he had thrown
and smashed were taped back into shape and restacked. In fact, the entire
room was a veritable patchwork of duct tape.
Thatcher surveyed the scene with astonishment. "I couldn't identify the
sound. I see you have repaired all the damage you caused."
"I cleaned the place up like you asked," Fraser responded. "What I don't
understand is why I'm getting such a kick out of this duct tape. You ever
listen to the sound it makes when you pull it off the roll?"
"Fraser, all Canadians love duct tape. Carry on."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As they stood in the middle of a squalid room, Huey and Dewey tried to
get information about Solvay from the tenement's superintendent [Red Green
cameo role], but were not having much success.
"So you haven't seen much of him....?" Huey prodded.
"Naw. 'Course, I never pay much attention," the Super explained as he
scratched himself. "Too busy trying to keep things goin' around
here....Look at this place," he added and swept his arm around the dingy
room. "This ain't exactly the Ritz."
"Solvay ever have anyone over? Any visitors?"
"Don't think so. Sorta kept to himself, what I could notice. Look, I
gotta unplug a drain. Poke around, if you want," the Super offered as he
left.
The detectives made a cursory inspection: the closet contained only a
rumpled shirt, the cheap bureau held a pair of socks, the kitchenette
cupboards were bare of dishes, the refrigerator contained a half-empty
bottle of ketchup and a cottage cheese container that emitted the rankest
of odors, and the bathroom was devoid of toilet articles.
The Ducks looked at each other. Dewey summed it up: "Another big
negatory. Welsh ain't gonna like this."
CHAPTER 13
Silence reigned in the Consulate as Meg continued to work.
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK. She occasionally looked up and listened for
any sound of Fraser. Hearing nothing, she returned to the lap top. After
numerous rounds of attentive listening, she mused aloud, "This can't be
good. He's got to be up to something," and went to investigate.
TICK....TOCK.
As Thatcher approached Fraser's room, she saw the door closed. She
quietly opened it and there was Fraser, facing the wall, on his cot. He
was curled into the fetal position with his top arm over his ear, hand
behind his head. She saw that he was convulsed with sobs, as he writhed on
his bed. A wave of tenderness and sadness coursed through her. Oh, Fraser,
she silently agonized. My fallen Mountie. She hesitantly moved forward a
step, but stopped. No, she decided, I can't go to him. If he ever gets his
memory back, he would feel so ashamed that I saw him like this....Why is
it that it's OK for women to cry but men have to maintain that stiff upper
lip? He's always makes himself appear so strong....I know he has feelings,
but he never shows them. TICK....TOCK. She backed out of the room and
silently closed the door. Outside his room, Thatcher composed herself,
took a breath and then tapped on the door.
When Meg heard no answer, she tapped louder. "Fraser? Fraser?....May I
come in?"
She heard his muffled response, "Just a minute," and waited patiently. He
finally opened the door and appeared semi-composed, but Thatcher could see
how puffy his eyes were, how emotionally ravaged he was. "Yeah, come on
in," he said as he walked back into his room and turned to face her.
"I just was wondering how you are doing," she ventured.
"I'm fine, just fine."
"And I wanted to tell you that I'll be leaving for the day." She looked
at him closely. "Will you be all right?"
"No problem."
"Well, all right." There was not much more she could say; she had given
him opportunity to talk. "Don't be too hard on yourself; it's your first
day out of hospital. The doctor said these things take time."
"Yeah, if I only had a brain."
"Well, take care. I'll see you tomorrow."
After Meg left, Fraser began to wander around his room again, handling
various objects. TICK....TOCK....TICK....
TOCK. It seemed the hallway clock was even louder. He finally picked up a
volume of his father's diary and read:
"....So, there I was, a hundred kilometers from anywhere. The black flies
and mosquitoes in a feeding frenzy. I began to ask myself if it was worth
it: 'Mounties always get their man.' What kind of motto is that? All I
could think of was that Caroline was now dead. God, how I missed her. I
missed her quiet laughter....how her face would light up when I came
home...the way she..."
"This poor son of a bitch sounds like he was in worse shape than I am,"
Fraser remarked.
His father's ghost appeared beside him. "Son! I was just feeling a little
sorry for myself." Fraser Senior pointed to a page in the diary, "See
there? Your mother just died....." but Fraser could not see or hear him.
He read a few more sentences and then threw it into the wastebasket.
"Screw it," Fraser said, as he went to the closet for his leather jacket.
Of course, while the door was open, he could not hear the chant music
either. "This sucks. Come on, dog, let's go for a walk."
His father called to him as he and Diefenbaker left, "Son! It's just as
lonely out there as in here! You can be lonely anywhere, if you have a
hole in your soul."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fraser and Dief walked a street in a seedy part of Chicago. Occasionally
the Mountie peered into windows of bars to see the 'good times' people
inside seemed to be having. He sadly moved on, having to step around winos
surreptitiously drinking from brown paper bags.
In the next block, two hookers watched his approach. The blonde nudged
the brunette. Fraser could not hear what they were discussing, but each
pointed to the other and finally the blonde nodded.
"Hey, big boy! How's it goin'?" the blonde greeted him.
Fraser was slightly nonplused as he stopped. "You talking to me?"
"You bet!" Nice dog you got there," she remarked as Diefenbaker returned
to Fraser's side and began to smell the hookers. He wagged his tail. Maybe
some female companionship would cheer his friend up.
The brunette was impressed with the blonde's pick-up technique. "You go,
girl," she giggled.
"Yeah, he seems real friendly," the blonde continued.
"He wanted me to take him for a walk."
"Wanted to have a good time, then?"
"I think he just wanted to whizz."
"You lookin' for a good time?" The blonde hooker moved closer to him. Her
cheap perfume was almost overpowering.
Fraser backed away. "What do you mean?"
"You know, have a few drinks and stuff. My room is just around the corner
there," she gestured. "You wanna come up?"
"I guess so. I'm not doing anything else," Fraser agreed and then stood
there looking at her. She continued to look at him. Diefenbaker wagged his
tail harder. Finally, the blonde glanced to the other hooker to silently
pass the message between them: 'What's up with this john?' They could not
figure him out.
"So?" Fraser inquired.
"She's waiting for you to ask how much," the brunette coached.
Fraser did not understand. "How much...?"
"How much you got on you," the blonde said.
"I dunno," Fraser replied as he patted the pockets of his jacket and
Levi's. "I don't have any money...Say, what's this all about anyway?" He
looked at her closely. "Are you trying to rob me?"
The brunette cracked up. "Honey, what turnip truck did you fall out of?"
The hookers began to laugh outright when Fraser said, "I don't remember
any turnip truck. I was just taking my dog for a walk."
"That's OK, honey, you just keep looking," the blonde responded between
gasps of laughter. "When you find it, climb on and go back to Kansas."
Fraser really was confused. "Kansas? Why are you talking in riddles?"
Diefenbaker whined as the Mountie started to walk away and muttered to
himself, "My brain is beginning to hurt. Dief, do you know what they...."
CHAPTER 14
Inspector Margaret Thatcher was surprised when she turned the door handle
to the Consulate. It swung open easily. She looked elegant in the black
dress with the spaghetti straps, the off-black stockings, and black heels
as she stepped inside. "Why isn't the door locked? It's ten o'clock for
heaven's sake!" The entry lights were on but all the offices were dark.
She looked around as she approached Turnbull's desk. "Turnbull? Turnbull!
Where are you?" she called. "As soon as that moron sees it's five o'clock,
he vanishes," she muttered. "I told him to stay and keep an eye on
Fraser....Good Lord!...Fraser?" She quickly walked back to Fraser's room
and continued to call his name but slowed up as she entered through the
partially ajar door. She did not want to come in on him like he was the
last time.
"Fraser?...I thought he understood he was to stay here. He was in such a
state," she ruminated as she began to look around his room. "Where could
he have gone? Did he leave any clues?"
She handled various objects on his desk and when she picked up a large
canine tooth, she realized what it was and dropped it quickly. "I don't
even want to know how he got that," she exclaimed in disgust.
She continued to rummage around until she did a double take when she saw
the diary Fraser had thrown in the wastebasket. She retrieved it and as
she opened it, her back was to the door. "Oh, my God! This is his father's
diary. Why would he throw...."
Jacket in hand, Fraser noisily banged the door against the wall. Meg was
startled, whirled around, and clasped the diary to her breast. Fraser
frowned and hesitated at the sight of her in his room. He was still trying
to figure out what those two women meant. Saying nothing, he dropped the
jacket to the floor and slowly advanced on Meg.
"Don't be angry, Fraser," Meg stammered. It looked like he was stalking
her and this was frightening. "I thought you would be here....I decided to
leave the reception early and come back to see how you were doing."
He continued toward her with unwavering eyes. "Are you angry? Fraser...?"
She felt like a doe caught in headlights and backed up as he not only
reached her but invaded her personal space.
"No, I'm not angry. I believe this is mine." He was so close to her that
he took it from her trembling hands without extending his arms. Fraser
quickly slid his arms around her and impulsively bent his head down to
begin nuzzling her neck. Meg stood there shaking in fear and surprise as
he inhaled her scent deeply several times.
"What's that perfume you're wearing?" he murmured.
This was the last thing she expected him to say. Gathering up her
emotions, she could only reply, "The last time you asked me, I told you
that I loathed perfume...I still do."
"I think I remember that," he whispered as he inhaled. He dropped further
down into the bodice of her dress.
"Fraser!! What are you doing?" Meg mentally fought for control. She could
feel his moist breath on her skin.
"I'm looking for the hairpin...I recall I dropped it in here somewhere,"
his muffled voice answered between deep breaths. Before she could reply,
Fraser came up for air with a look of comprehension on his face. "Ohmigod!
I do remember! We were handcuffed together on that train. My sense of
smell is returning!"
He released her and brought his father's diary, which he had been
holding, up to his nose. He deeply inhaled the cover and then opened it to
various pages and smelled them also. "The man who wrote this was my
father. Why would I throw it away?"
She thought he was asking a direct question. "I don't kn......" but he
prevented her from finishing her answer as he returned to her neck for
another deep sniff.
Fraser was so intent on rediscovering his extraordinary sense of smell
that he virtually pushed himself away from Meg and turned to survey his
room. He quickly began picking up random objects and inhaling their odour.
"Yes"..."Uh-huh"... or ... "I remember that," he exclaimed with each thing
he smelled. His movements were so quick that Meg was wordless as he came
back to her neck for further inhales.
When he smelled the tooth and with a grin on his face, his only comment
was, "Oh, yes!" and returned to her neck. "It's your pheromones," he
explained. "They're my trigger."
He saw the Bay blankets on his cot and went over, picked one up and
smelled it. "HBC--Yellowknife! And, Diefenbaker, despite my telling him
not to, has been on my bed. He's a wolf, not a lap dog."
"Half-wolf, Fraser--"
"--Let me have another smell for reinforcement. I should have picked up
on that," he said as he returned to her neck.
Fraser continued to survey the room and saw his soiled tunic hanging by
the door. He retrieved it and sniffed the spots of mascara and tears she
left on it at the warehouse. As he returned to her, he tentatively licked
the spots and shook his head, 'No,' as in non-comprehension, he could not
'read' it yet. He held the tunic in front of him.
Towering over her, he asked, "I think these are your tears, but I'm not
sure...Something happened, didn't it?"
"Yes," Meg answered quietly.
He looked keenly into her eyes. "Inspector?" He searched her face.
"Margaret?" he gently asked. "Meg?" he whispered.
He lowered his arms down to his side and allowed the tunic to brush the
floor as he held it by the collar. The RCMP red serge now was the only
thing that stood between them.
"Oh, God, Meg. I remember now I told you I could not erase from my memory
the 'contact' we had on the roof of that train. It's the taste of you. You
are my trigger."
She was confused. "I am? For your taste? How can--"
"--I can't explain it. I remember that I was able to track you to a
warehouse or someplace....Your pheromones have triggered the return of my
sense of smell. I need you to help me get my taste back...and maybe my
full memory too."
"Full memory?"
"Oh, yes. Can't you see?"
"And then you will stop acting so weird?"
"Uh-huh."
"Back to the normal Fraser, Fraser?" she was still skeptical.
Giving her his most beguiling look, he affirmed, "Uh-huh. Trust me."
"Er...I don't know," she equivocated. "Full memory?"
"Uh-huh."
She started to detect his own scent...the maleness of it. Her doubt
lessened as her own desire grew, but the slight nagging fear remained. She
made her decision. "Well....all right," and tilted her head upward to
receive him.
Fraser slowly released the tunic from his fingers and it crumpled to the
floor. He gathered her in his arms, pinning hers to her side, and moved
toward her mouth. He stopped, tantalizing close.
"You're sure?" he whispered.
When she imperceptibly nodded her assent, he gently took her mouth in
his. As his tongue sought entrance, she pulled back slightly, but now he
was totally in charge and would not be denied. His mouth and body pursued
her, pushing her, body-pinning her against the closet door. She felt his
hardness, smelled his musky odour. She opened her mouth and he eagerly
began to explore its inner depths.
The quiet TICK...TOCK....TICK...TOCK of the clock now sounded like the
soothing CLICKITY....CLACK....CLICKITY....CLACK of train cars speeding on
their way. Their tongues danced an erotic tango. He drew her fluids into
his mouth to savor her taste and her tongue willingly followed.
"It's all right now, son. Let nature take its course," his father's voice
called from the other side of the closet door.
Although Fraser now heard him, the rhythm of the tango was not broken. He
could feel Meg's hands clutching, grabbing the back of his shirt, her
nails scratching his skin through the thin cloth. Their intimate dance
went on....CLICKITY....CLACK and on....
CLICKITY....CLACK. He cupped her face in his hands and entered yet again.
He suddenly moaned and, as he slid his mouth across her cheek to leave a
trail of saliva, he slumped against her with a shudder. "Oh, God...." he
gasped.
Meg was reeling. She had difficulty coming back. "Fraser?" He groaned
again and she extracted her arms from his embrace
but his body held her pinned to the door. "Fraser?"
"Ohmigod, I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled his face off her cheek to
look at her. "I'm so sorry."
She searched his face. "Fraser, what's wrong?" She had never seen him
like this.
"Everything....everything's wrong."
"Why? What's going on?" She struggled to understand.
"Oh, Sir, I'm so sorry."
"Sir? You're calling me 'Sir' after a kiss like that?"
Fraser was on the verge of tears. "I have no excuse for what I just
did...No control....No control."
"Why do you think you need an excuse?"
"You don't know....How can you ever forgive me?...I can't forgive
myself." He lowered his eyes. He could not face her. "I just kissed my
self-respect good-bye. How could anyone respect or trust me?"
"I don't understand...no self-respect for kissing me?"
"I lied to you."
"Lied?" Meg was incredulous.
Yes, lied. I was putting my own needs first...trying to regain my sense
of taste and my memory....And I asked you to trust me and--"
She reached up to cup his face in her hands and ran a finger through the
sweat on his forehead. "--Ahh, Fraser, you do sweat."
"W-w-what?" He pulled back slightly from her touch.
"Fraser, I know you were in my condo for a very good reason. I also know
that you read something that you had no business reading and--"
"--I didn't mean to....totally inadvertent....it matched your day-timer."
"It's all right. It's really OK," she reassured him as she draped her
arms over his shoulders.
"No, it's not," he insisted. "What I am trying to tell you is that while
I had no memory, I did remember what you wrote because, just now, when I
asked you to trust me, and imposed this...ah...this osculatory exercise on
you, I was driven by more than just regaining my sense of taste. I was
remembering all the...er...ah....urges I have been having since you and
Ray took me to hospital. I was so wrong to ask you to trust me. You can't
trust me. No one ca--"
"--Fraser, don't do this. Please don't," she said sadly.
"I am so totally disgusted with myself...so ashamed. I've been acting
like those American Presidents. What total disrespect for you as a person
and as my superior...for the RCMP code. Honesty and integrity? God! I've
disgraced the uniform. I have to resign...I must--"
She put her index finger momentarily on his lips to stop him. "--Fraser,
do you think for one moment that the guilt is entirely one-sided?"
"Of course I--"
"--Do you remember what else I wrote in my journal?"
He looked at her quizzically. "What are you talking about?"
"Martin. In Calgary."
"What do you mean?"
She looked up at him, searching for a sign of compassion and possible
understanding. "That man was my worst nightmare. I can hardly talk about
it," she began as her eyes brimmed with tears. "I was new to the
posting...not too sure of myself. He wouldn't leave me alone. He made it
quite clear that I was going nowhere in the RCMP unless," she gulped,
"....unless I accepted his advances. I tried to avoid him for months. He
finally cornered me...alone. I fought him off but he warned me that I had
better not say anything because he would deny it."
The tears freely coursed down her face. "I couldn't take it any more. I
was so angry. I still am, and it happened more than ten years ago. I filed
a sexual harassment charge against him....I had to. He tried to make it
look like I was harassing him. It was ghastly. You saw how thick my
personnel file is?
Fraser had been listening intently and quickly nodded.
"That's why. As my superior, he tried to take advantage of me to fulfill
his own lust. Fraser, I'm no better."
He tightened his arms around her. "Oh, Meg, yes, you are. Infinitely."
"No. No! Let me finish. You don't understand," she insisted as she tried
to brush the tears aside. "What I wrote in my journal about you was
private....I never intended to let you know about it. Yet, when you asked
me if you could kiss me, I couldn't say no...I wanted you...I've ached for
you."
"Ummm."
"So, don't start taking on all of the guilt here. I used you, too. Why do
you think I came back tonight? Wearing *this* dress? I knew you had seen
it in my bedroom."
"You should have worn the red silk--"
"--You saw that one too?"
"Saw it. Smelled it."
"God! I feel so ashamed. I think I used you and you think you used
me. Tit for tat, Fras--....Benton, I think we're even up on this." � � � �
Fraser heaved a deep sigh, laid her face again on his chest, and rested
his chin on her head while he pondered their dilemma. "It's poison, isn't
it?" he ventured after a while. "We're poison... for each other."
She raised her face to look at him. "I don't know. I really don't. But
you can't resign....If you do, then I must, also. It's only fair. And
besides, too many people are relying on you....Look at Ray. He desperately
needs your help to find Solvay. I want that bastard caught too. Will you
do that for me? Please?"
He was again so close to her lips. "Yes...Yes, I will,"he whispered,
"but, how can we put this behind us? I won't be able to forget your--"
"--I won't be able to forget either....But no one need know how your
memory was triggered to return. That's between you and me, Benton." And
with the hint of a twinkle in her eyes, she looked deeply into his.
"Welcome back...I've missed you...In the meantime, how 'bout losing the
five o'clock shadow and suiting up? You're on duty for the rest of the
night."
Fraser returned her gaze, smiled, and gently gave her a short, sweet
kiss. "Understood," he said softly.
EPILOGUE
Amid the usual intense activity of the bullpen, Lieutenant Welsh
conferred with his detectives. Pacing back and forth, he attempted to
understand the fruits of their investigation. "What's with this guy
Solvay?"
"Chief, all our leads evaporated," Dewey offered.
Fraser, wearing the freshly laundered red serge, interrupted the
discussion as he came into the squad room.
"Fraser--"
"--Hey, Constable, welcome back. We've--"
"--Nice to see you back, Constable," Welsh finished for all of them. "We
were just trying to figure out--"
"--You haven't found Solvay then?"
"Nope," Kowalski admitted.
Huey tried to bring Fraser up to speed on the case. "He didn't spend much
time in that dump of an apartment of his--"
"--And we don't think he had any accomplices in the Theater heist," Dewey
added.
Welsh topped it off. "The only thing we found out is that a couple of
hours ago, his getaway car was found abandoned in International Falls
and--"
"--Yes, it would take him about that long to drive there," Fraser
pondered. "I imagine he would have wanted to obey all traffic regulations,
so he wouldn't call attention to himself."
Ray had difficulty keeping up with Fraser's thought process. "So, if he
didn't have any friends...Why would he head to Canada? No connections,
nothing. How're we gonna find him in that trackless wilderness?"
"It's very logical, Ray. International Falls isn't a very busy border
crossing. He probably thought he could casually cross into Canada on foot.
He wouldn't try it in a stolen car."
"But why Canada?"
Fraser patiently explained, "Solvay escaped to Canada because even the
lowest, most vile thief knows how favourable the exchange rate is on the
American dollar. Once across the border, he will make the exchange and end
up with a fortune, by Canadian standards."
Kowalski liked this theory. "So, how to find him?
Fraser turned to Welsh. "Leftenant, I suggest someone call the Consulate
to get the phone numbers for the RCMP detachments in Winnipeg and Thunder
Bay. Fax Solvay's full description and mug shot to them. They in turn will
distribute the information appropriately to banks and currency exchange
centres. Solvay will be apprehended in short order, I assure you."
"Thank you, Constable. As always, you come through. Huey, Dewey, get on
it."
As the group broke up, Ray suggested, " You want some coffee? Tea? Come
on, my treat," he offered as the two police officers walked down the hall.
"Ya know, Frase, you're a real piece of work...I'm glad you're back. You
OK now?"
Fraser was more thoughtful than usual. "Yes, now...but when I had the
amnesia..." and flushed bright red as Francesca passed them, "I did some
terrible things..."
"Well, I didn't think so," she said under her breath.
"...Terrible things."
"So, did the Ice Queen find out?"
Fraser stopped abruptly to give him a hard look. "Ray, she is not an Ice
Queen," and resumed walking. As they turned the corner, Kowalski put his
arm over Fraser's shoulder.
"Yeah, women," Ray's disembodied voice said. "If you ever figure them
out, tell me. I got problems, too."
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