Tit for Tat (adult version)

by Jean Tryon (jtryon@aracnet.com)

Category: Drama, Humor, Romance Rating: ADULT het Genre: Romance Pairings: Fraser/Thatcher Teaser: Our buttoned-down Mountie manages to lose his mind and Thatcher holds the key. Case #140 (Flashback) was never like this. Spoilers: All the Queen's Horses, Perfect Strangers © 2002

PREFACE

This is the third (and final) version of the story that originally was posted as a Teleplay and then as a PG-14 rated story at The DS Fiction Archive (http://www.squidge.org/dsa/cgi-bin/search. cgi) in 1999. Obviously, the complete story needed to be told. In later chapters there are explicit sexual scenes, as well as fairly crude dialogue throughout, so if you want to avoid that or are underage, read the PG 14 version, not this one. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Due South, Alliance, and whoever else legally claims them. No copyright infringement is intended. I claim copyright to the story itself in its entirety and it may not be used, posted to other sites, or reproduced without permission, except for personal reading pleasure. All comments of a constructive nature will be gratefully appreciated, while flames will be thrown in my otterizer and disposed of forthwith. E-mail: jtryon@aracnet.com

CHAPTER 1

I can do this, she assured herself, 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 The Chicago Light Opera! 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. No time to criticize another male chauvinist pig for calling her "Darling".

"--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, did I really read these lyrics carefully beforehand? He isn't even here. Doesn't know I'm doing this. How could he know? All I do is tell him what a moron he is. And he just stands there and takes it. After all I've bitched him out about, would he believe me if I told him how I really felt? 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, searching, seeking one man, her brain telling he was not there but her heart aching that he would be.

"...Do you belong to another...."

She wondered; she had heard the stories. How in god's name could he have been attracted to that bitch? Thank god it didn't happen on her watch! 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? Empty. Meaningless. Going-through-the-motions. You look into my eyes and you can see to the very depths of my soul. Without saying a word, you give me such strength. And what thanks do I give you in return? Nothing. 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's arm with long lacquered nails. "Were you singing to your husband?"

Meg struggled to regain her composure and disengage from the woman. Shit! She hated to be touched! Well, most of the time and it had to be by her choice, not due to someone else's whim. "I'm not married. The RCMP is my career," she answered faintly and tried to back away.

"Oh, yes. The RCMP. The Program flier mentions that." The woman was insufferable as she prattled on in a distinctive nasal Chicago tone, oblivious to Thatcher's discomfort and distraught mental state. "Do you ride horses? Tell me, does it pay well? 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 theater business office. Through the window of the door, she saw the faint flickering of a flashlight inside. Her RCMP training washed over her in a heavy wave. 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 working in quick jagged motions. 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 as she assessed the situation. Meg came up behind him and then in a loud voice, said, "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

He did not react as she expected he would. She was counting on the startle factor: surprise him enough to apprehend him before he made his escape. Instead, he rammed his arms backwards into her solar plexus 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 wooden 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 tightly 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 as her ankle twisted cruelly on the uneven pavement. He grabbed her and pulled her up.

"Get in there, you fucking whore," he snarled and crammed the still struggling Thatcher into the car. As he slammed the door shut, she defiantly 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, her 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. She fought against his rough hands and tried to kick him with her low stiletto-heeled shoes but he roughly hauled her out and shoved her into the warehouse.

In the shadowy interior the man 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 fucked up my plans, you bitch."

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?

She held no illusions about her situation: it could turn ugly for her. She had her chance and she blew it. Now at his mercy, hot tears welled into the back of her eyes as she envisioned his dirty hands on her body, his fetid breath on her face. She had been in similar situations in the past but always had been able to escape or backup had arrived before she was harmed. Ever pragmatic, Meg knew she was on her own here. Dimly, she heard his phlegmy voice.

"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 fucking whore! 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. She knew at last that she was helpless. As he snubbed the rope off, the gag fell from her mouth.

"FRAASERRR!!"

Fraser bolted upright in bed. His red long johns, 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 softly into the night. "Inspector?" the Mountie called more loudly. Hesitantly, he got out of the rumpled cot and, with the sodden long johns pulling and straining around his body, he padded into the hallway.

"Inspector? " Fraser queried softly 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 admonished 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?" he asked sarcastically. And then more to himself than Dief, "I'm soaking wet! Got to get out of these," and tore the perspiration soaked long johns off and threw them toward the closet. In the darkness he stood looking at the tangled sweaty bed sheets and blankets as faint wisps of steam rose from his overheated body into the cool night air. Too hot, he thought. He pulled the Hudson's 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, with his pale skin glistening in the faint moonlight sifting in through the window, he 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." Fraser's exasperation at the constant untimeliness of his father's appearances crept into his voice. But he wondered in an offhanded way how many other times his father might have shown up and said nothing. He wouldn't have known if dad was there when he... Oh dear, this was much too embarrassing to contemplate.

"No... no. I heard her," the ghost blithely went on. "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, dad. 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 in a level tone to the wall.

"Son, listen to me!"

"I'm asleep now."

CHAPTER 3

Fraser, wearing his 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. Idly, 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 them; the Bay blankets were neatly folded at the foot of the cot; the sweat-encrusted long johns had been long since relegated to his dirty laundry bag in the tiny closet.

After a very early morning shower in the Inspector's office bathroom and his usual meticulous shave with his cutthroat razor, he had carefully wiped away all traces of his presence from the mirror and porcelain fixtures. The smell of his shaving soap and deodorant dissipated quickly. One dressing-down from the fastidious Inspector concerning his slovenly habits in her bathroom had been quite enough, thank you. He knew he wasn't as bad as she made him out to be, but it was her bathroom and he just was thankful she allowed him use of the facilities. After that single one-sided discussion, he was careful to finish his toilette several hours before she was due into work.

He sighed, finished the single cup of bark tea he allowed himself in the morning 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 absentmindedly reminded himself he needed a hair cut because despite his attentions, his dark chestnut hair was starting to separate into naturally wavy locks. Definitely not regulation. On the other hand, what's with the Inspector getting that ridiculously short hair cut? Does she think it makes her appear more professional? More masculine? More in control? He chuckled to himself. As if that would make a difference! Oh, Meg, if you only knew how in control of me you really are!

I stand before her and distantly listen to her tirade. It matters not what the topic of discussion is. The chain of events is always the same: she calls me into her office under the pretext that I have thoroughly botched a procedure, declares me a moron, threatens to cashier me, gives me a most enigmatic look and then dismisses me. It is that LOOK that mesmerizes me. I attempt to keep my emotions well hidden and present only a bland, noncommittal expression.

I silently groan. What is it this time? A 759 stroke 23F report not filled out in triplicate? I concentrate on maintaining my "sentry duty" countenance all the while looking at her without looking at her. It would be bad form to stare directly into one's superior's eyes. However, I can read every gesture she makes: the light rake of her fingers through her hair... She didn't do that before she got it cut. Then, it remained almost immobile, yet I often wondered how she managed to keep it in place. I know for a fact that she used no hair spray or setting gel. Perhaps it did not dare to allow one strand out of place.

Now, this is an interesting concept. When her hair was long, did it behave in such rigid fashion all the time? What did she look like upon awakening in the morning? Her long hair spread out in a halo across a satin pillow. To watch her eyes slowly open and a satisfied smile spread across her lips... God, I must stop thinking about this.

I smile inwardly and hope not even a faint crinkle appears around my eyes, for she would immediately think I mock her. No, I imagine her now as the Inspector with the Experimental Hair. Not that it is as wild as Ray's, but this haircut certainly gives her an impish look. Probably not at all what she thinks she is going for. She is much more personable this way, whether she knows it or not. My mind drifts to sweaty satin sheets and long legs intertwined with mine...

"Fraser, are you listening to me?"

Her question drags me back. "Yes, Sir. With complete attention. If you have suggestions on how I might correct this problem..."

Somehow, I expect this infuriates her. I think she knows I would lay down my life for her. Not just in the sense of duty. As in any well-oiled military, of what worth is the life of a foot soldier given to protect a general? A small price to pay to win the war. We do understand each other on that point. If, as my superior, she would order me to do anything, anything, I would do it, for I trust her judgment implicitly.

I allow myself a thought as she continues through her diatribe. She fidgets, paces around my body rigidly locked into at-ease attention, almost brushing against me but not quite, and I catch faint wafts of the soap she used this morning. Unscented to be sure, but it is distinctive nonetheless. Her arm barely grazes my hands clasped behind my back as she makes yet another lap around me. I think she must not realize why I stand in this exact spot before her desk. Chosen with the greatest care and forethought of measurement. Far enough from the desk front to give her easy pacing room, yet near enough that she must come dangerously close to me as she brings me to task for the most inconsequential things.

I wonder if she knows this is a game. She has taken to virtually leaping from behind the desk to begin her pacing around me, taunting me... God, I don't know what she is doing but I am helpless to stop whatever it is that she does to me. A moth to a flame... moth to flame... moth to flame... who is the moth and who the flame? Or are we interchangeable? My mind feels like it is short circuiting. She appears uncomfortable about having to give me yet another lecture on my inadequacies. Occasionally she looks at me, probing my depths. What is it she is asking of me? I feel caught on the horns of a dilemma: she knows I respect her and her authority, yet she seems to want something from me.

Ah, this is the underlying problem I realize. She knows she has authority to order me to do anything, and that I will obey. I think this gives her a sense of security. However, I have caught glimpses of the real Margaret Thatcher, the one who most likely is as lonely as I. The woman who is passionate beyond belief, but cannot let herself go. As if she holds one palm up to indicate "Stop, come no closer" while the other hand beckons me to her. Does she see me as her professional lackey or does she want me to be a bit more assertive in the personal realm? Is she interested? Is she waiting for me to make first overtures? I am hopelessly mired in Thatcher quicksand. Not that I am totally ignorant of the feminine psyche; I just feel I am unable to read her. I would never do anything that would make her feel uncomfortable or challenged.

When I kissed her on the train, it was Meg, yes, Meg, who first forced her tongue into my mouth. And what a delicacy it was. A taste I will never forget, for its sweetness is firmly imprinted in my brain. I smile in remembrance of our passion. Now, I have heard of the Mile High Club. For the life of me I cannot fathom how two people can conjoin in those tiny airplane rest rooms. Could Meg and I have gone for the Five Mile LONG Club? Mission accomplished over distance traveled, given the speed of the train. I'm sure I would have ended up devouring her as the train sped through the frigid Illinois countryside, except for Buck interrupting us.

When she told me I was to erase all memory of our kiss... well, whom is she kidding? We both know we cannot ignore it. She knows I will not speak of it, yet she is sending me messages to the contrary. Should I break her direct order? I now understand the problem, but unfortunately have no solution.

Relieved to finally hear her "Dismissed," I seek my customary unsatisfying relief in the privacy of my room.

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. The return of Dief from his routine morning romp outside did not register in Fraser's mind. Finally, the siren of a fire truck charging down the street interrupted his reverie. 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. Dief raised his head off his paws to watch his packmate leave; he knew his human friend would be back.

"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 through his customary overwhelmed glazed stare. "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 ten years of service whilst you have three service stars 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 in defeat at the verbosity and inanity of Turnbull-ese.

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.

Chapter 4

Deep within the bowels of District 27, Lieutenant Welsh was having a hard time keeping his temper under control as he listened to the caller prattle on. He had planned on an early lunch, so that a projected mid-afternoon snack would be in order as well. Why Ms Vecchio had not picked up this phone call was beyond him. For being the Civilian Aide, she seemed to be conspicuously absent from her desk all too frequently. Now he was stuck and had to listen to this confusing diatribe.

"Yes, Ma'am. I understand your concern. I'll have a couple of my detectives come right over," pausing 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. Yes, I wrote it down. Chicago's best detectives work out of this office... 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? Surveying the controlled chaos, he was pleased. Nothing like getting the riffraff off the street.

"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. Rather, the Mountie had impolitely failed to remove his Stetson indoors and had his head down as if lost in thought. He just barged through the swinging doors, narrowly missing the detectives on their way out. The Duck Boys looked at each other. Fraser? Impolite?

"Oh, sorry," Fraser said absentmindedly to them as he brushed past.

Francesca saw him right away. Of course, she had ample notification from Diefenbaker for the wolf always came to her first. Fraser was unaware that she had a secret stash of Cheese Doodles in her desk. If she had problems getting to Fraser's heart through his stomach... cooking for him... then she would get to his heart through his wolf's stomach instead. She quickly slipped a handful of the tasty snacks into the animal's heavily salivating mouth 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, Francesca?" Fraser stopped to face her and finally remembered to remove his Stetson.

"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. How she would love to let her lipstick smudge across his perfectly chiseled lips... lips she would die to kiss. She felt a quick, deep pang of desire throb within her.

"Colour?"

"Yeah, the color. See?" After surreptitiously wiping off the faint orangish-yellow dusting of Cheese Doodle from her fingers, 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 Aide 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... er... regulation."

Fraser tried to concentrate. "Since red and blue are primary colours, they do compliment each other," he answered faintly. As good natured and bubbly as she was, he was incapable of listening to her continued prattling right now. He scanned the personnel in the bullpen. "Would you excuse me, Francesca? I have to talk to Ray," and left her standing, slack-jawed, in his wake.

He walked over to cubicle 7C where Stanley Ray Kowalski was killing time by playing with a cheap toy at his desk. He tilted the metal box slightly and watched the tiny ball slide away from the hole he was aiming for. In the process two of the three other balls also left their holes. Damn! I almost had it, he thought, as he lost again. He glanced up as the Mountie approached.

"How're they shakin', Frase?"

"What? Did we have an earthquake?" He couldn't believe he could have missed something as significant as that.

Ray smirked at the Mountie's naiveté. "No, Frase," he explained patiently. "I meant how're they shakin'? As in: are you hanging loose, buddy? What with you wearing boxers all the time. That sorta thing."

"Ray, what possible significant connection is there between the type of underwear I use and my mental state? And, you might be interested to know that boxers promote fecundity by allowing the scrotal sack and the testicles encased within to remain at a lower than body temperature, thus promoting meiosis of spermatocytes. That is the biological explanation, teleological as it may be, for why testicles descend through the embryonic inguinal canal in boys. If they were to remain within the body cavity, as the female ovaries do, meiosis would be severely retarded, if occur at all."

Ray sat there, listening to this latest Fraser expository and shook his head. He knew it was futile to try and stop it.

"Furthermore, are you aware that by you wearing briefs all the time, your testicles are closer to your internal body temperature and your sperm count is being negatively affected? Granted, it is easier to wear briefs with jeans, since there is less material to stuff in those close-cut types of trousers, but one must remain vigilant about one's health. Now," the Mountie paused for the first time to catch a breath, "if you had asked: 'Fraser, you seem preoccupied. What's wrong?' I'm sure I would have understood your question."

Ray loved to bait him. "Ooookay, Benton buddy. Disregarding your boxers and the possibility that in this particular point in time you could knock up more women that I can -- like either of us is gettin' any lately, exactly how is your world today?"

"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 fucking 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! For chrissakes! 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, shit," Ray interjected with exasperation. "What the hell's your point?"

"My point is that she always has told me if she thought she was going to be late... Perhaps 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?"

"Dammit, Fraser! Instincts!! You're not listening to your instincts. Ever dream about her other times?"

"No... Well, that's not entirely true," he 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," Kowalski shot back with a grin.

"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," he stated matter-of-factly. The Mountie turned and started to wander out of the squad room. "Something may have happened to her," he mumbled to himself.

"Fraser? Where're 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 5

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 curtly. He was in no mood to mince words.

Papers in triplicate, pencils and pens, even the four line telephone unit went flying from Turnbull's control as he rose to stand at attention before the Deputy Liaison Officer. "No, not yet, Sir. 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. He knew Turnbull always gave his best effort, but sometimes... On the other hand, he might have an anxiety disorder, and 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 began wringing his hands and 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 residence for off-duty activities. She's much too organized not to write things down."

"Where does she live?" Kowalski asked innocently.

"Damn it, Ray!" Fraser flashed in anger. "I don't know. Turnbull, where are the personnel files? I have to get the Inspector's address."

Kowalski gave his Mountie partner a long look. Most unusual for Frase to lose it like this. He'd never before seemed to take such an interest in the Ice Queen's whereabouts. Ray stood aside and watched the Fraser-Turnbull interplay.

"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. This had very interesting possibilities. So, the Mountie has a past!

"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," he puzzled. "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 moment," 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 secure.

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 centre 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 déjà 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 6

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. Sometimes dresses like my buddy here," Kowalski retorted as he swatted at a palm frond. God! He hated this yuppie excuse for real greenery. The pompous ass, all decked out in a three-piece, 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.

Kowalski flashed his badge and leaned into the manager's face. "Does this mean anything? Wanna to be mixed up in some sort of international incident? Just because you want to stick to your piss-ant rules -- whatever they are? "

The manager knew he was beaten. With an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, he motioned to them. "Okay, okay. 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 shit off," Ray said sarcastically 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, definitely lived-in by someone who valued the artifacts regardless of their intrinsic cost.

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. Oh, yeah. Mountie boy can't wait to see her bedroom, he smirked to himself.

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 rubbed his fingers over the satin and 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. His head was ringing and his ears burned. The eyebrow infestation began acting up again and he felt the familiar stirrings deep within his groin. Within the lonely confines of his room was one thing, but to stand in her bedroom, smell her natural scent on her clothes and read her innermost thoughts... He knew he should stop reading it immediately, but he couldn't put the diary down.

"...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, no matter what the situation. Hmmm. His kiss on that train. I'm sure it meant something to him, if what came between us was any indication. 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 turned back to the desk to hide his growing physical response, otherwise Ray would tease him unmercifully forevermore. He put the journal down but it remained open to the page he was reading and his picture landed beside the diary, 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 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 7

As Fraser and Kowalski followed Dief as he trotted down the backstage hall of the Theater, they heard loud voices belonging to three people arguing in the business office.

"So, what did you want me to do?" snapped a thirtyish woman dressed in faded jeans, a tie-dyed shirt liberally adorned with strings of beads, 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 District 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 Duck Boys get assigned to this case?"

"I don't know, Ray," Fraser said, clearly preoccupied as he concentrated 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. "Are we under suspicion for this, as well?"

"Naw, we're just trying to separate the good guys from the bad guys here. Any unusual prints might be the robber's. 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. I've got to find her."

"Okay, okay, Fraser. Keep your lid on. I'll call the District to see if they've gotten any ID on the prints yet. Just cool it," Ray said as he began speed dialing the number on his cell phone. "Lemme talk to either Huey or Dewey. No, Francesca, do-NOT-put-me-on-hold. Okay... ...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.

"Because, you asshole, Fraser's boss is missing and we found out that she was here last night."

"Why didn't you say that to begin with? When we interviewed the staff, they didn't mention it."

Ray's impatience rose and he heaved an exasperated sigh as he ran fingers through his spiky blond hair. "Of course not! Do you have any idea how many people were here last night? And did you ask about what all of them did? And specifically, what happened to Thatcher? Jesus, Jack, get a grip! 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, "C'mon and hear this, Tom. For some inexplicable reason, Ray's at the theater. Apparently, Thatcher's missing, too. Fraser thinks she was in the office. What d'ya got on the prints?"

Welsh, quietly burping the after-effects of a salami sandwich with the works on it, 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 explained.

"Bingo," Kowalski said and then asked Dewey over the phone, "Who is this guy?"

Tom fumbled with the printout sheets he recently obtained from Francesca. "Has a fairly long rap sheet for car theft and petty robbery. Nothing really major... Small time hood for the most part. No indication he might kick it up a notch to kidnapping. Maybe that should be 'Mountie-napping'," he said with a grin. "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, "The Inspector has 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 and I am becoming increasingly concerned for her welfare."

"You're scratchin' you eyebrow again, aren't you?" Huey interrupted with a wink to Dewey.

Fraser glanced at Kowalski as if in silent plea for an interpretation. Ray shook his head and mumbled, "Later, Frase."

"Missing? Come on, people," Welsh boomed in exhortation of 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. Probably should scan them and jpeg them over as well. Sometimes fax quality is not what it should be."

"Sure... Huey? Fraser's gonna have Thatcher's prints sent over... Yeah, fax and on the computer, so tell Frannie. See if they match the paperweight. Call me back when you've got an answer." Ray disconnected and handed the cell phone to his partner.

Fraser quickly 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. Yes, the number is in my rolodex. Do it now, Turnbull. Then, I want you... Turnbull? Turnbull!" He looked at the phone in disbelief. "The man hung up on me!" he explained to Ray.

"Maybe he's a one-idea-at-a-time kinda guy," Ray offered.

In total exasperation Fraser hit the Redial button and waited for an interminable six rings until Turnbull answered.

"Canadian Consulate, Consulate General du Canada. Constable Turnbull speaking. Will you hold, please?"

"Goddammit, Turnbull, I will NOT hold!!" Fraser shouted into the phone. "Don't you dare hang up again! As I was trying to tell you, I also want..."

As Fraser turned away to give the junior officer the rest of the instructions, Ray shook his head and muttered under his breath, " One testy Mountie we have today," and then smiled as he heard Fraser finish.

"...Yes Turnbull, on her computer. No, it won't crash. After you scan it, just type in fvecchio@cook.co.chicagopd27.gov and hit Send. Are you clear on this? No, I can't stay on the line; I can't tie it up that long. For chrissakes, just send the mother fuckers!" and viciously snapped the phone shut.

As he handed it back to a very amazed and startled Ray, Fraser muttered in exasperation, "That man is thicker than two short boards." Smoothly and calmly he made an instant transition back into his ever-so-polite Mountie mode, and asked the staff, "Now, about this paperweight, before today, where was it?"

"It... It's mine," Alice offered tentatively. She was nonplused at the level of anger seething inside the good-looking Mountie. At first, she had thought about hitting on him, but with this outburst, she wasn't so sure. "I kept it on my desk over there."

"Like that?" Fraser said as he placed it on the indicated desk.

"No, it was more in the corner, like this," she corrected and moved it to another position.

"Thank you kindly."

He turned away and, as Kowalski continued questioning the staff, Fraser began a complete and sequential reenactment of Meg's scuffle with Solvay by smelling and tasting the door, then across the room to a desk in the corner.

"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 the previous night.

"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-4 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-4 form from a file cabinet. "Oh, sorry. Excuse me," the Mountie automatically said but remained in deep concentration.

Kowalski grabbed the W-4 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. Dief crouched right beside him and woofed soft barks of encouragement. "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 in wonder as Kowalski's cell phone rang.

"Okay," Ray said. 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 might have come on him stashin' the cash and wasn't able to put up a good defense? How do you know all this?"

"Freshness of the odour," the Mountie said automatically. "It has a definitive half-life and--"

"--It's okay, 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 8

In the growing darkness as Fraser and Dief tracked up to the warehouse, Ray followed in the squad car and finally 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? Maybe got your Slinky kinked?"

Fraser mulled this over for a moment. "Slinky? What's that?"

Ray dismissed his question with a slight wave of his hand.

"Oh, right you are. We have no other information on the ca-car."

"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 S-Solvay is still in there... Or what condition the Inspector is in. Does his r-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 okay, 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 silently 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, let her be unharmed... Don't let that son of a bitch Solvay hurt her... No woman deserves that, but especially not her. If he's raped her, I swear I'll castrate him with a dull hunting knife... Slowly... Ever so slowly.

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 of a single bulb high above, he saw Thatcher across the cavernous 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 above 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 to toss 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, stretched his legs around hers and enveloped her in his arms. He quickly picked apart the rope knots that had bound her wrists.

"You're safe now," Fraser reassured her as he bent his head down to her ear and rocked her gently in his grasp. The slight pressure of her hips in his crotch was more than enough stimulation for him inadvertently to begin to respond, no matter how inappropriate a time it was for that to happen. He stopped rocking her, for it was only exacerbating his problem; he clutched her tightly to his chest, and prayed she didn't notice his physical response. She was cold. "Are you hurt? Did he do anything to you?"

Seeking his 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," he murmured in admiration and squeezed her tighter to him.

"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. I have to look strong... in control. She knew her appearance was dreadful. Her arms sent out streaks of white hot pain from the sudden release after being extended over her head for so many hours. She was totally exhausted: physically and emotionally and the more she tried to get in control, the harder she sobbed.

Ben was increasingly concerned. In an effort to calm her, he began smoothing her hair and whispering soft unintelligible words of encouragement in her ear. He didn't tell her to stop crying -- he knew she needed to do that -- he just 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 his tunic on the other. "It's all right, now," he murmured. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Meg nodded, "Uh-huh," as her sobs quieted into sniffles, for his presence meant everything to her. She was finally safe.

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 okay, he thought in consternation. Oh, Meg, what did the bastard do to you?

As if she read his mind, she turned sideways in his arms and gazed into the depths of his blue-grey eyes: eyes that drew her closer and closer to him as she plumbed their depths. Hold me! Warm my frozen soul! Feed me your warmth! Her mind screamed to him. If you love me, and I know you do, envelope me within it and don't let go! She watched in fascination as he delicately ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip and felt his hardness increase along her hip.

With her head tilted up to him, she seemed so receptive to having him kiss her. As their eyes met again, Ben 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... 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 silently 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 wildly beating heart as her tears silently began to flow again. Perhaps he won't cross the line I drew in the sand, she thought miserably. Why does he always obey me?

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," Ben 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 he ran toward the end of the building, the way Ray had gone. He was within a meter of it when Solvay, speeding in his 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 of Solvay. The Mountie was hit hard -- 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 draped 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 fuckin' furball!" as he slammed on the brakes hard enough to throw Diefenbaker into the front seat, put the car in reverse, and careened back to Fraser and Thatcher.

As soon as Ray opened the car door, Dief muscled his way out ahead of him and ran to his packmate, who was lying face up on the ground. Dief growled when he sniffed at a pool of blood oozing from under the Mountie's head. He nuzzled Fraser to get up and licked his face in encouragement. Meg, after covering him with the tunic, was checking his vital signs.

"Stop, Diefenbaker! I don't know how badly he's hurt," Thatcher ordered and 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?" He leaned over the prostrate Mountie to assess the situation from a different angle.

"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," Kowalski said as he dragged out his cell phone. "Wait a minute. He's moving his legs. Fraser!! Fray-zure! Wake up!"

Fraser groaned deeply in his unconsciousness and started to move his legs more. His arms moved enough to brush off the tunic.

"Look-it," 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?"

Meg didn't even hesitate. "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 and 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 his tunic across him to keep him warm. As she cradled his head, she brushed away her tears that splashed onto his face. He had to survive this... he MUST survive it, she willed to herself.

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 pitifully.

Kowalski glanced in the rearview mirror as he started the ignition. "You okay back there?"

Meg raised her tear-stained face. "Good, but he's still unconscious. Go! Go!!"

CHAPTER 9

The Inspector, coffee cup in hand, paced the floor. They always paint the walls such a puke green, she idly thought to herself. And nothing worth reading except three-year old, dog-eared 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 nearby 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?"

Despite not having eaten for more than a day, the thought of food revolted her. "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.

Oh, you've really done it now, haven't you? If I hadn't tried to play supercop, as is the wont of a certain Constable under my command, and just minded my own damned business, I wouldn't have been caught by that bastard Solvay. And Fraser wouldn't have had to rescue me. And most importantly, he wouldn't have gotten hurt. This is all my fault. Whatever possessed me? I'm a pencil pusher, not a crime fighter. Get me gussied up in a gown and my hair done... well, not now with this butch cut... I can talk circles around anyone in the diplomatic corps. Flirt with a big shot trade rep? No problem, if it means more business coming into Canada. That I can do, and I do it well without being a Diplo-Whore like Fiona McDonald. How can she look herself in the mirror each morning?

I know I'm good. Did Fraser somehow challenge me to step in his world? Oh, I know I ream him out regularly, but I never forbid him to get involved with the Chicago PD. I suspect he would go 'round the bend if he had to shuffle papers all day. He is ill-suited to my pencil pushing activities and to my chagrin I can now finally admit I am not suited to his daring-exploit-Super-Mountie mode. He says nothing, almost goading me to lose my temper with him. How does he do that? That egging me on? I am fully aware I end up castigating him far more than I should. Why do I act like a complete idiot around him? Do I fear him? No, not fear of him. Maybe I fear myself, that I would simply surrender to him.

How odd, the word surrender. Does it always have to be that way between a man and a woman? What an moron I was that first time with Malcolm. He really hurt me, physically and emotionally. I was much too young to be losing my virginity and my body rebelled appropriately. Exquisite pain but somewhere amidst it I instinctively understood the concept of sexual satisfaction... not then, but for the future. Thinking I had to surrender to him... that's what women were supposed to do... he plundered me, punishing me by forcing his penis inside and incessantly pounding until I felt him contract and spew his hot seed with an animalistic groan.

Oh, yes, physical and emotional surrender. The lesson he taught, and I learned so well, was that you can be sexually satisfied without becoming emotionally involved. Emotions involve a special kind of surrender and this is dangerous ground. I've had my share of men. They probably didn't realize it but I never, ever again surrendered my emotions; I just concentrated on getting physical satisfaction from partners of my choice. Had they known, they probably would have thought I was merely masturbating on them. Perhaps I was... it's much safer that way.

Is this so different from a man's reason for going to a bordello? No emotional involvement. Merely a release of sexual tension. I often have wondered why a man deems this behavior acceptable and yet wants his wife to remain faithfully entrapped in her emotional commitment to him. Somehow, this does not equate to a 50-50 marriage. I smile wryly to myself. Perhaps this is why the "new" Ray calls me the Ice Queen. It's the only way I've found to control my emotions: keep them so bottled up that no one suspects how hurt I have been or how vulnerable I really am.

But Fraser... Sometimes he just looks at me... weighing me... assessing... What the hell is he thinking when he does that? But... But, I must be brutally self honest here. He's my emotional backup and I rely on him heavily. Given my resolve to remain emotionally detached, this is probably not a good thing. Does he know how much I depend upon him for support? No, I suspect not. He must be terribly confused, for I send him contradictory messages: I will not have you question my authority; I am your superior officer and don't forget it! Yet I act like a newly awakened hormonal teenager whenever I am around him.

Oh, god! I want... I want... Shit! What do I want? I want him. I want him. I want HIM! Like I have wanted no other man before. I want him to envelope me in his arms and crush me to him. To feel his tongue explore my mouth. Feel his excitement and lust to have me, to possess me, to claim me as his equal and not his superior. I want him to devour me, plunge himself into my soul. I want to lose myself within his strength... feel it flow soft and warm from him into me. I want to surrender to him and feel safe in doing it. Is he asking for the same from me? Will we have the chance? Will I let us have the chance?

Hot tears well up behind my eyes, threaten to spill over, and show this Pollack cop just how weak I really am.

Kowalski took up his own offer on the DingDong and observed Thatcher. She was a disaster. Dirty. Smeared make-up. Shredded pantyhose. Her dress 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 fuckin' mess. Is this your Jackie Kennedy impression?" He couldn't resist the obvious analogy.

"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. That was one of many things he admired about his Mountie partner: didn't matter how much pain Frase was in, he would always brush it off. But not this time. No use gettin' Thatcher more upset than she already was. What's up with those two? Fraser gettin' wigged out when we couldn't find her right away and then the control freak Turbo-bitch losin' it. Go figure.

The doctor continued, "Since he regained consciousness, we did an MRI, CT scan, tested his reflexes, and have concluded 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. "I told him Solvay had just left. When we heard the gunshots, he thought you were having trouble catching him and needed his help."

"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 basically 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 the hell'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 his hand, and turned the television set off.

"Hey, I wanted to hear that! Gimme the fuckin' remote back!" Fraser insisted loudly and tried to swipe it out of Kowalski's hand.

"Don't think so, Benton-buddy. You got the rhythm of a stick."

Fraser seemed to transition abruptly. "That's what they called me in the Emergency Room," he 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 as he critically surveyed her. "My god, you're a mess!"

"Constable, 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? Bet I can make it go up and down as fast as you can ride me... er... it."

"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, 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 this way. He's so... so forward. I've never seen him like this." She was six ways nonplused. And more than a modicum of jealously was wrapped around her confusion. "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 precisely 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. "All right, I suppose I should take his uniform back," and gathered up his jodhpurs that had been laid over a chair, the folded long johns on the seat, and his Mountie boots standing at attention. "His Stetson and tunic and Sam Browne 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. "Okay, 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 10

The sunlight streamed in the window to spread over the hospital bed coverlet. Fraser idly picked at the suture scabs in his scalp and counted dust particles dancing in the air above his knees. Anything to blot out the idiot's rambling. He didn't want to hear it. Borrrring! Who gives a rat's ass, anyway? Guy's kinda weird looking anyway... can't sit still for a minute.

Kowalski paced the floor as he tried to explain the clues of the case. He knew he was failing miserably to draw the Mountie into the facts. "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?"

"No, Frase! Not that Provincial Governor... or was he a Prime Minister? Shit, I can't keep your Canuck stuff straight. Remind me to take a Canadian Civics class sometime."

"Bob and Ray?"

Ray was reaching his limits. "Nooo, not the American comedy team either. Solvay was 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, for chrissake! Maybe I should have just gone after Solvay and let Thatcher deal with you. I figured you'd 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. No more logic, no more brains. Shit! No instincts either... as if he had much of that anyway. 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 and pushed the phone across the desk to him. "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 looked up to see Francesca swinging down the hall from the direction of the elevators. Sashaying would have been a better word for it. She was wearing her infamous and incredibly short leather skirt... The skirt that showed her slender legs went all the way up to what Kowalski had only dreamt about. He wondered if she wore panties. Or a thong. Or maybe nothin' underneath. His fingers twitched as they made an imaginary journey from skirt hem into the dark recesses of her Garden of Earthly Delights.

Ray shook his head violently. God, I'm losin' it too. Thinkin' like some guy out of one of her romance novels. Dick of Desire? Isn't that her favorite book? Once, he had casually picked it up from her vacant desk in the bullpen and it fell open to an oft-read section. Somethin' about some guy with a big whanger tryin' to hump some gal... Whatever floats your boat, Frannie.

"Look, gotta go," Ray finished with Huey. "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 admonished her and blocked her way with his arm across the doorway.

"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, buster!" She pushed Kowalski aside and went in. Ray shrugged, threw up his hands, and walked down the hall. He knew when he was beaten, even if she wasn't really his sister.

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, or anybody else of the feminine persuasion. God, he was horny! He shifted his hips and idly scratched his crotch.

"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." This was definitely encouraging, she thought. He smiled brightly at her, not like usual when he always seemed preoccupied with something and barely acknowledged her presence... no matter how pleasant (or seductive) she was. She sent a small "thank you" prayer heavenward for having the foresight to wear this outfit today. Easily, it was the sexiest one in her wardrobe.

"I'm okay, I guess," he said cautiously. He didn't want to scare this one off. Rotten luck so far, but this one definitely looked promising. Look at those legs! He quickly drew up a knee to tent the bedcovers just enough to hide his stirrings. Opening out his arm to her, he slowly wet his lips in anticipation. "Come here," he quietly extended his invitation.

My god! It can't get any better than this, her thoughts swirled as she quickly responded and sidled up beside his bed. As she smoothed the hair away from his scalp sutures, she asked innocently, "Some kinda nasty cut you have on your head. Does it hurt?"

"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. His hand across her bare midriff made it feel like he had caressed her ever so gently with a touch of white hot fire. She didn't dare think how her body would respond if he continued to stroke her. Already she was wet. Her heart felt like it would explode. She felt a deep flush of intense desire creep up her throat, both inside and out, a longing to taste him, to draw him into her.

"Would that make a difference to you?" He looked intensely into her eyes.

"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! Oh, stop... No, no, don't stop! I want you... I've always wanted you... Benton, dear Benton, take me... Take me. "We've been through a lot together," she ventured in a whisper. "You've helped me..." She leaned toward him slightly, taunting him, inviting him, wanting him. "...I've helped you."

His eyes bored into hers. "Can you help me now?"

He drew her to him, pulling 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 dreamt 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. You can't resist now, my pretty bird, as Francesca willingly yielded to his tongue. She was irresistible. Her body language screamed at him to fuck her. His imagination was in overdrive as he thought how tight she must be. To sink himself inside her hot slickness...

His spread hands slid from her shoulders, down her ribs. With his thumbs extended across her breasts, he lightly caressed her erect nipples jutting out to greet his fingers. She gasped in delight as he tarried to brush them several times before continuing downwards. Down, over the taut leather skirt that stretched across her slender hips. Down to the soft skin of her inner thighs and then up under her skirt to the thin strip of lace threading its way between her legs.

Beneath the covers she could feel his hardening length beside her and she raised her hips to his questing fingers. The sodden lace easily gave way to one and then the second. She fell into the rhythm of his tongue in her mouth, his long fingers reaching inside her, his hips thrusting against her leg. She reached down to grasp his shaft and allowed his thrusts to flow through her hand. The intervening bed sheet could not disguise the heat of his insistent desire as it was faintly damp from his pre-ejaculate. Both recognized the other's heat of passion. Both wanted it. They were sliding into a sea of each other's emotions.

"Who are you?" he panted into her mouth. The covers were working their way down his hips; already his ass was hanging out of the back of the open hospital gown he wore. A few more thrusts and he would be free of the sheets. A few more thrusts and she would have his pulsing bare shaft firmly in her hand... To guide him... to lead him inside... into her very core that ached for him.

Francesca was lost in a world of liquid ecstasy. "It doesn't matter, Benton. It just doesn't matter," she murmured as she again drew him into her mouth.

"FRASER!!"

Jeans, flannel shirt, socks and hiking boots exploded from her arms as 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 Frisbee and landed with a thud on the window sill, only to slide ignominiously to the floor behind the chair.

"FRASER!!! What are you doing?" she demanded. It was all she could do not to stare at his rounded bare-ass cheeks as she pried him off Francesca. Oh, this was over the top! Way over!! It took all her strength to roll him off Frannie, for he was one hundred eighty three centimeters and ninety two kilos of pure solid muscle with a single-minded purpose: fucking the brains out of the chick he had pinned to his bed.

"Ouch!" Frannie yelped when Thatcher roughly grabbed her by the arm.

"You slut," Meg hissed back 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. He had been close, soooo close... He surreptitiously wiped his fingers on the sheet after smelling them.

The Inspector was beside herself with rage. "Didn't they tell you he is not acting like himself?"

"He... 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. She had been startled by Thatcher's vicious attack. But embarrassed that she and Benton had been caught? Never! At least he was going to do it with her and not the Ice Queen. 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--"

He was incredulous. "--My father is dead?"

"Yes, and you have remained attached to the Consulate blah, blah, blah," she impatiently cut short the standard litany. "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. And why, for god's sake was he trying to hump that Italian puta? Does he recognize her? And not me? And to think I was considering showing my vulnerability to him.

"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 11

"Okay, 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 per shit he uses when he takes a crap... 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?" he retorted sarcastically. "And where does this modern-day Frank James live?"

"South Chicago. I got 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, Lieu."

"And find out if James was in on it," Welsh called after him as he hustled out of the squad room.

Welsh tried to get a handle on the facts of the case. "You say he's 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. He's really gone fifty-one fifty since you creamed him. 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 chrissakes! 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 and with the shortened in-seam, they now rode low on his narrow hips and were tightly crotched, stretching snugly across his muscular thighs, as if they were spray painted onto his body. 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. "Ah, Sir! It's good to see you back."

Hearing the commotion, the selectively deaf Diefenbaker came racing from the kitchen. The wolf was glad to see his packmate on any terms but when Meg saw the 'new' Fraser, she was not so sure.

"Constable. There you are," she ventured as she came out of her office. She quickly scanned him from head to foot and swallowed hard. He virtually oozed virility. Well, he did that anyway, all the time. It was just kicked up a thousand notches today. A fleeting image of her under him on that hospital bed flashed through her mind but quickly dissipated when he spoke.

"Inspector Thres... er... Thatcher," Fraser acknowledged.

"Yes. Well, I imagine you want to refamiliarize yourself--" Meg's head was swimming in a musky-scented testosterone overload 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, although he wondered what was going on between them. He could sense something, just didn't know what. "Call me if you need anything."

Ben 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 with a grin.

"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. And keep herself grounded too. His rugged handsome appearance was making her heart do flip-flops. Must keep a grip on this, she reminded herself. Maybe I should keep a grip on me. "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. He was sure he could make better use of his time than freezing his peaches off, trying to smell out a fart in a wind storm. Like sitting in the Cop Shoppe diner, drinking decent coffee, chowing down a burger and fries, trading war stories with other detectives. But, nooo! The Lieu had him chasing a ghost named Solvay.

The wind whipped the mug shot from his hand. He chased after it and finally stepped on it to prevent its escape but had to kneel to pry it free of the discarded wad of 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?"

The man looked down with a sneer and answered curtly, "Nah, I ain't seen him. I don't see nobody."

Dammit, Huey muttered darkly. Here he was, on his knees for chrissakes, begging someone to recognize Solvay's likeness. I sure hope the Lieu appreciates this humiliation. He rose to his feet and was almost bowled over by another man, hunched over in the cold. Instinctively, the detective reached out to slow him down.

"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 portly 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 on top of a Guardian newspaper stand 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." Straightening his shoulders, Huey headed out... maybe Charlie had good coffee.

To Continue with Tit For Tat