Epilogue

Days and months pass -- and I look around my office one day and realize that my Ray and I are preparing to celebrate our fourth year together.

Jack Huey long ago accepted a transfer to another station -- this one is uptown and will likely lead to promotions. I do miss him, but I cannot say that I regret the way my Ray stands just a bit taller while he is at the two-seven these days.

Dewey is still, well, Dewey. But he has become quite the Curler, and is seeing a young woman he met through a member of our League. She is intelligent, courteous and -- not too surprisingly, I suppose -- Canadian. They seem happy and perhaps even headed for marriage.

Lieutenant Welsh has started mumbling about retirement and looking at log cabin brochures. He never has spoken to my Ray about what occurred at Dewey's home. He simply walked up to Ray the next morning and reminded him that it was his turn to drive them to the Hawks game that night. He continues to act as though nothing has changed, and I think that in his mind, perhaps, nothing has.

Francesca. Francesca works. She has become an excellent officer and earned her Detective's shield earlier in her career than either of her brothers. She never talks about men or marriage or children anymore, and for that, I am sad.

Benton Fraser chose a small station in the southern half of the Yukon as his post-academy posting. It is a nice balance between two worlds. There will always a need for good dog-sledders in the winter, but the post's homes come equipped with electricity and flush toilets. The town has a few paved roads and even a one-screen movie theatre.

And my good friend Ray Vecchio now professes, in his letters to me, to prefer a good flannel over imported silk wool blends. And his threats concerning the state of his -- now my -- beloved Riviera now take up no more than a page or two.

My Ray is. . .My Ray is everything. He is loyal and kind and steadfast, with a vocabulary that makes the Chicago river seem clean by comparison and a heart that dwarfs the Rockies. He carries on with me, and he carries on with his work, and he continues to 'kick 'em in the head.'

As for me, I do as well as I can. I have come to believe that my Ray is with me by choice and will remain so while there is breath in his body. And in this I have found peace and my own measure of joy.

I finally found the courage to read my personnel file. I contemplated its contents at length and cried over them more than once. Then I flew to Ottawa and saw my father. I forgave him for suggesting me as Laurier's replacement. He hugged me as a father to his son. We talked honestly with one another. He has yet to meet my Ray, but says he is looking forward to getting acquainted with his son-in-law. I believe him.

***********

*Ring*

"Canadian Consulate, Consulat du Canada, Deputy Liaison Officer Renfield Turnbull speaking, how may I assist you?

"Benton! How good to hear your voice. . . .

"A favor? Certainly. One moment, let me get a pen."

*

The Sergeant's desk at the two-seven is a venerable institution. It stands as a fortress against the chaos that threatens to pour in from the streets and overwhelm the detectives inside.

A man steps up to the desk. This happens hundreds of times each day, each shift, and would not be remarkable at all, were it not for the man himself.

He appears to be a fit individual, the sort of man who engages in physical activities as a matter of course. He is neither too young nor too old, too shot nor too tall. He carries himself in a manner that makes others -- especially women -- take note of his presence. The pale hue of his skin sets his blue eyes and coal black hair off to perfection. He is impeccably dressed in a blue uniform and funny hat and is perhaps a bit too good looking for his own good.

The man catches the eye of the sergeant on duty.

"Pardon me, Sergeant Anderson, I'm looking for a Detective Vecchio," he says, checking a piece of paper to assure himself that the name he has spoken is correct.

"Hey, you're a Mountie!"

"Yes, yes I am."

"You know anything about pigeons?"

"Pardon me?"

"Forget it. See that desk over there? The one that's got the files all over it?"

"Yes."

"That's Vecchio's."

"Thank you, ki. . ."

"Vecchio! You got a live one," and with that the sergeant focuses on a co-ed group of elderly synchronized swimmers who are clamoring for his attention.

Detective Vecchio looks up as her 'live one' approaches. She sighs, shakes her head and drops her face into her hands. She silently curses her older brother, wonders how much this particular joke cost him and swears she is going to get him for this.

"Good morning, Detective, my name is Constable Warwick Service and I. . ."

"No, don't say it. Let me guess. You're here about a dead Mountie thing, right?"

The man's face falls and Francesca Vecchio rises to the occasion.

"Aw shit, you are here about a dead Mountie thing."

She quickly clears a nearby chair of 'Cases Pending' files and motions for the Mountie to have a seat.

"Here, here sit down. I didn't mean anything by that. See, I thought. . .nevermind, you wouldn't believe me anyhow. Sit. Tell me about it."

This is the first kindness and true concern anyone has shown Constable Service since he buried his uncle five days before. He is helpless before the onslaught. He sits and proceeds to tell her everything.

*

Harding Welsh looks at the woman standing in his office doorway. He takes in the man immediately behind her and speaks quickly, because he does NOT want to know.

"Two days, Vecchio, you can have forty-eight hours and that is it."

He turns his attention to the man.

"And you, no licking things, no setting cars on fire, no jumping out of planes, no submarines and no getting my Detective blown up."

"Understood."

And Lieutenant Welsh knows somebody Up There has it in for him when he realizes the man doesn't seem at all surprised that a superior officer would think it necessary to explicitly ban the aforementioned activities.

He waves them out and starts digging into his bottom right desk drawer, all the while muttering about log cabins and fishing.

******************************************************************

The end!

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