-Chapter 2-

Miracles: Two from No. 4

Starts about eighteen hours or so before Miracle No. 1 (Dr. Tash POV)

Thomas's eyes followed his wife's bustle as she sailed out through his office doorway to the front door and the street, wifely-disapproval radiating from Margaret's stiff shoulders and the rat-a-tat of her heels. He bit back a caustic remark, deciding that she was probably right about his "idiot plan" and "there would be hell to pay," replaying her angry words to himself. He sighed in frustration, completely aware that he was a difficult man and lucky to have such a fiercely loyal and protective mate…If only his loyalties were not so divided in this case. It was a good thing she did not try to forbid him or threaten to stop him, although after all these years of marriage she should know better.

I was always going to do it anyway, he knew, come hell or high water. He sat back down in his desk chair, pushing a litter of papers aside, to try and concentrate. The hated telephone, which had not stopped its infernal clamor for the last few hours, was blessedly silent, allowing him space to sort out his thoughts.

God, I want a scotch! ... was all that came to his mind at the moment, even so early as this in the morning. He poked into the basket Margaret brought for his mid-day meal, approving of the savory smell, but unable to find any appetite for the contents. His drink lay untouched as well. Probably laughing at me, he grumbled to himself, thinking ambivalently of the alcohol. He looked from the half-full glass on the credenza he tried to hide from his wife, to the photographs of his natural family—Margaret and the boys—to the ones of his own men and of previous generations of the constabulary lining his office walls. He decided his loyalty was not in question after all—Loyalty to one was loyalty to the other in the grand scheme of things. What was required now was leadership of a different kind.

Initially the personal visits or telephone calls were supportive and "rally-'round-the-flag-boys" in tone. Other colleagues, inspectors, aldermen, even the mayor's office offered help to find Worsley's killer and solve the mystery of who shot Dr. Odgen and where Murdoch was. That lasted only for the first few hours before turning sour, with pressure and innuendo; ugly power struggles in the wider and deepest levels of Toronto politics bubbling up from the muck.

…If you ever want to be Chief Constable, this can't end badly... one visitor whispered confidentially. Another caller was blunter: If you can't keep your own house clean, your career could be over as well… Thomas slammed his hand on the desk. Bugger that! That was the last straw. He told that particular sniveling little bastard to mind his manners, yelling that as long as he was Inspector of Station House No. 4 he'd be the one to decide how a case was handled, then hanging up on him in a righteous disgust. That was before a cold shiver washed over him at the realization of what he'd just done and just whom he managed to offend, right after breakfast this morning.

Christ…what next? He swore under his breath, not caring if he was overheard. Thomas centered the slip of paper Constable Crabtree had given him on the empty green desk blotter, somehow hoping that would bring a bit of order to the chaos in his head…to no avail. His thoughts darted like the minnows he used for bait, as he wished for all he was worth that fishing with his sons was the only thing on earth he had to attend to. He took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose, feeling an annoying headache blooming behind his eyes, probably caused by turning the problem over in his thoughts so many times; but he found no way around it, only that he must go through it. There really is nothing else to do, I just have to decide how to do it, and be quick about it. He checked his watch, as if he could dictate the time and laughed bitterly at his own stubbornness: Something else my wife pointed out this morning. Smoothing his hair with both hands, he straightened his shoulders in his habitual manner of preparation, then inhaled deeply.

"Crabtree!" His shout reverberated, startling several officers into looking up through station house's glass office walls. The recipient of his summons immediately set down a map he'd been pouring over and presented himself with a crisp, "Sir?"

"Crabtree, I am going to follow up on this," he said with an abrupt exhale, tapping the paper on his desk which contained information about land owned by Miss Pearce's family. "While I am gone I want you on duty as acting detective and for you and Jackson to take over the investigation into Constable Worsley's death as I am not satisfied we have enough information. You can follow up with Miss James as well; she'll have to do until we get another coroner. We have a list of men from the other station houses who will fill in for interviews and canvassing for witnesses who saw anything. When he gets here, Detective Slorach will assist on the case, but you will still be our point man." Thomas felt his face get red, and allowed his irritation to show. "Our men were called off their duty and I want to know more about who and how. And another thing: it makes no sense that someone just waltzed in easy-as-you-please into that hotel and shot Dr. Ogden, vanished into thin air, and then turned back up like a magician to spirit Murdoch away like that, all with a cloak of invisibility around them. Someone from that hotel saw something. Shake them up if you have to. Bring the whole bloody staff down here and show them our cells if that's what it takes to get a straight answer!" He noticed George had a confused expression. Thomas paused to take a breath when the other man interrupted him.

"But, sir! How can youleave? Constable Worsley is dead, one of our own, sir. His family needs to know we are putting in a full effort. You probably should stay here and take charge of the investigations and meet with whomever the mayor sends over or the press, considering the number of telephone questions we have fielded already. Some of them not so nice… Why not just telephone or telegraph the local sheriff up there and have them check on that property for us rather than take a chance on a wild goose chase? It might even be faster." George said reasonably.

Exactly what Margaret suggested. Thomas tried not to fume, and stood up, coming around to the front of his desk. "Crabtree, you don't want to have untrained men on the scene if by any chance that's where Murdoch and Miss Pearce are, do you? A cock-up like that in this case would be a disaster, might even put Murdoch in danger." He hoped he was being convincing.

Unfortunately Crabtree still objected. "If it is important that we do it ourselves, then let me go with one of the other men and follow up on this address. If you are that concerned, perhaps I should organize a full search party…?"

Thomas drew himself up as authoritatively as possible. "No. I don't think so. Too much noise might cause even more problems. No. I want you to take over here while I investigate this cabin; you are more than capable and I will not be gone that long." Thomas said this firmly and bored into the younger man's worried eyes with as much resolution as he could give. "Are you going to waggle your gob all day, or follow my orders?" He said, willing him to comply. Take it, just take it and don't ask any questions, he repeated to himself, as if the power of his determination could make it so.

"Sir, I must protest. It is unwise for you to go out like this alone." Crabtree gave one of his crooked, awkward smiles. "It violates the 'Murdoch rule' you insisted upon, that says no officer can ever go alone into a situation without back-up. As you recall you established that rule with good reason…" Of course, no one at the station house called it the 'Murdoch rule' to the detective's face, but everyone was perfectly clear that rule came about due to the unfortunate frequency with which the detective got into jams when he was investigating solo. "I will do whatever you ask me to do, but I must insist someone goes with you, several someones in fact…"

Damn Fool! Thomas eyed Crabtree, who was standing fish-faced and floundering on the carpet. He usually has such a vivid imagination, what's wrong with him that I have to spell it out for him this time? He wanted Crabtree to understand what might be at stake. He closed the distance between them, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder to speak directly in his ear, hoping no one could eavesdrop.

Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper, keeping his speech clear and calm. "Crabtree. George. Listen to me, damn it! … Officer Worsley is dead in Murdoch's rooms, tucked away in his bed no less. This is on top of no one having any witnesses to who actually shot Dr. Ogden." He paused for emphasis. "And now Murdoch's disappeared." He nodded his head at the pile of message slips scattered near the desk blotter, then gestured with his hand to include the two of them. "We might believe it is all the work of a deranged patient of Dr. Ogden or an enemy Murdoch has made while doing the constabulary's business, possibly Eva Pearce on both accounts, but plenty of people appear to want to think that Murdoch has something to do with this, perhaps is the one who caused all of this…and they don't want him to be rescued, mind you, but to be brought in for questioning."

"But…but sir! That's ridiculous…" Crabtree answered, then stopped suddenly, looking like his throat was working for some spit. Then his wide eyes froze for a second, before slanting back and forth, obviously thinking through the implications. Thomas saw it was sinking in how serious this was becoming. It was possible Detective Murdoch had enemies at City Hall and in the constabulary who might take advantage of the situation to wish him harm; very possible.

Thomas collected his coat on and reached for his scarf and gloves. "Now you've got it, Sunshine! Even if it is bloody-well ridiculous, I don't want anyone but me to be the first on the scene." Thomas thought this next part through carefully, his words ground out slowly through tightened jaws. "You have two choices. You can stay here and be acting detective on this case, hold the station house together for me while I am gone…." He paused, recalculating the options.

Thomas, who had been so sure of his path mere seconds before, now hesitated, critically assessing the officer standing before him. I can think of no better man than George Crabtree … which is why it is unfair to ask this of him. He held his breath, seeing the constable waiting expectantly, and then shook off his brief lapse of indecision. Crabtree knows his own mind. All I can do is ask… "Or you can come with me."

While waiting for Crabtree to respond, he went to the coat rack and donned his winter garments before looking around. His eyes strayed to the tumbler of scotch sitting forlornly on the sideboard. Grimacing, Thomas went over and poured it back into his decanter, banging the stopper in sharply with a meaty fist. "It's your decision, but I am going, and going now. So, do I ask Jackson, instead of you, to take over until Detective Slorach gets here…or not?" Thomas felt his heart pound the headache deeper and more painfully into his brain, anxious about how the man would answer. When Crabtree only stood there, blocking the doorway, he pushed in ever closer to the constable's face, hissing: "Choose, George. Now!"

"Sir. I'll drive," was the answer.

# # #

Ultimately the stable-hand, Hicks, drove their carriage while Thomas and Crabtree jolted uncomfortably in the rear seat, thrown left and right as the wheels grabbed at a rutted trace only an optimist would have counted as a proper road. Fortunately there was only a dusting of snow or travel would have been impossible. Hicks had been the one who saddled a horse for Dr. Ogden from the Stations House's stables, dumb-founded as he was by the sight of the woman dressed in her husband's trousers, boots, shirt, coat and hat, demanding a horse, entreating him to helping her. Thomas had reduced the man to a quivering mess upon learning about it, so by way of recompense, Hicks agreed to harness the horses and take the carriage reins, with a mutual vow of silence about the whole business.

A small bundle of supplies lay crammed by Thomas' feet, a shot gun for the constable and blankets beside his empty lunch basket, that fed the three of them instead of having to stop, not that there was any place to stop. According to Crabtree's map, there was no direct route to get from Toronto to the Pearce's land, forcing them to jog east, then north, then east again, and back north in a crab-like slant past cleared farmland into thick forest.

Crabtree kept tracing the map, calling out directions to Hicks when a decision needed to be made at various forks in the road and trying to calculate how long the journey was going to take. "If Dr. Ogden left late in the day yesterday, and went cross-country, she still could not have gotten all the way there. It would have been too dark," he commented.

Thomas did not answer. The two men were mostly quiet, as Thomas insisted it was important Hicks did not get any more knowledge than he already had, including the gossip about Murdoch. "No need to have yet another man running his mouth," Thomas warned.

Crabtree kept glancing at him though, opening his lips as if to say something and then changing his mind and closing back up. Thomas considered the younger man who sat by him in the carriage. He had an inkling about what the unasked question was, and thought perhaps it was fair to take Crabtree fully into the matter, since the constable was here with him more on faith than anything else. He let himself rummage through their history together for a while, watching the landscape pass.

Thomas reviewed what he considered to be the pivotal decisions in his life: leaving Yorkshire for London, going to war, coming to Canada, getting Margaret to marry him, and joining the constabulary…all were critical to getting him where he was now in his career. These were the sort of turning points in any man's history that defined his station in life, producing a common-enough story: nothing much special in that. Hundreds, if not thousands of men's lives were similarly arranged.

Less obvious but equally important were a different set of decisions a man might make; the small ones that do not seem particularly significant, but which, like a degree or two on a compass heading, can throw a man towards a completely unintended destination if enough time and distance unfold. He counted four such decisions: two of which included taking on quirky, irritating, question-everything, overly-intellectual Murdoch as his full detective, and the second was bringing George Crabtree into Station House No. 4, a dozen some-odd years ago.

Murdoch, who had a penchant for ferreting out obscurities that more often than not wound up solving cases; who is so bloody serious and cannot tell a joke (or sometimes recognize one) if his life depended on it…And Crabtree, a solid man with a quick sense of humor and flighty imagination that grows on you after a while….No one in their right mind would have predicted how well the two of them, seemingly opposites, would work so effectively together.

Thomas looked about himself, stuffed into an uncomfortable carriage in the middle of the frozen nowhere going towards who-knows-what with only the slimmest chance of it doing any good. Never-the-less, satisfaction bloomed in his warrior's heart. I would not change a thing, he thought, well maybe a few things… He turned to his companion and finally asked, "I suppose you want to know exactly what we are doing out here?"

Crabtree nodded, apparently relieved to talk about it. "Well, some of it is obvious. I suppose that we are doing our due diligence," was the vague answer. "And I suppose we are going to make sure Dr. Ogden is all right, poor lady. I can't imagine how hard a ride she will have, wounded like that…"

"And you also want to know what we are going to do when we get there?" Thomas offered.

Crabtree nodded again, pulling his coat tighter and turning the collar up against the cold. "Well, sir, it occurs to me that will depend on what we find..." Thomas saw George flick his eyes to the driver, and grunt.

Thomas nodded and silently agreed, pitching his voice to be heard over the racket of the carriage but not so loud for the driver to eavesdrop. "Nemo resideo," he announced.

Crabtree look at him and just blinked quizzically. "Sir?" he asked.

Thomas chuckled. "Murdoch isn't the only member of Station House No. 4 who knows a little Latin. Nemo resideo means that you never leave a man behind. Something I learned in the war. We are going because we have to, me ole' mucker, because it is the right thing to do when a comrade is missing." He laughed again, staving off the uncomfortable truth. "You rescue someone once and then you sort have to keep on doing it…Have you ever counted the number of times we've had to pull Murdoch's ass out of the pisser?"

Crabtree's face took on an embarrassed smile, but he did not disagree.

Thomas continued, more seriously now. "This could indeed be a wild goose chase as you suggested earlier. However, if you are right and Miss Pearce has Murdoch out there and still alive because of some insanity on her part, believing she's in love with him or he with her…" Thomas thought briefly about his marriage with Margaret; as tumultuous as it was, that was at least love as he understood love to be, not the lunatic ravings of a harpy like Eva Pearce. "We get to rescue him and capture her, also alive, and secure the evidence of her other crimes—including the death of Worsley."

Thomas patted the rifle positioned between his knees to underline what was left unsaid. Between them, the three men had only the two weapons, hardly an army or arsenal equipped to lay siege. But as far as Thomas was concerned it was better this way, a tactic he learned in Afghanistan: a small force, lightly armed, making a focused strike at a single target, could be more effective than a brigade. There were also fewer witnesses….

Which was the point he needed to make to George. "Crabtree, what do you make of Dr. Ogden taking off like that?"

"Well I can't imagine she was thinking too clearly at all. I suppose she thought she'd be the one to somehow rescue the detective." Crabtree seemed uncomfortable now.

Thomas let sarcasm play in his voice. "And just how do you imagine she was she going to do that, even if she wasn't gut-shot and stitched? If she thinks Murdoch is there, what do you suppose are her intentions, sneaking off, on her own, armed it seems with a bow?" He paused dramatically. "Invite Miss Pearce to tea?" He waved his hand. "Or knock politely on the door, saying 'I believe you have something that belongs to me and I'd like to have him back'?"

George appeared not to breathe while he was working it out, then his face abruptly fell. "Holy Mother of God!..." he said in horror.

"Exactly." Thomas confirmed. "We are going to get there and pray for the best, but as my old commander would say, we have to be prepared for the worst." Thomas shut himself off from speculating out loud about what they might find when they reach their destination, not sure which outcome he dreaded more. His old regimental sergeant always said that officers never told the whole truth to the men—in case it disheartened them. It enraged Thomas at the time, but since he'd been the head of Station No. 4, he'd slowly and unhappily adopted the wisdom of it.

Thomas knew by the time the carriage reached the cabin, they could end up finding absolutely nothing but an empty structure with no sign anyone had been there in ages. They could find all three of them: Murdoch, the doctor and that Pearce woman, alive. They could find all three dead as well, or some combination of living and dead. He thought possibly the most gut wrenching thing to face would actually be finding Murdoch, alive, and then trying to explain to him where his wife was, if she never made it to the cabin. Thomas was not sure he was prepared for that, could ever be prepared for that…

His plan was to sneak up on the property and do a little reconnaissance, and plan out how to rescue whomever needed rescuing and capturing Eva Pearce. He meant it when he told Crabtree that he wanted her alive, because that was going to be just about the only way to neatly wrap up all the necessary loose ends to everyone's satisfaction. Laying out the possible strategies for breaching the cabin, figuring out sight lines… All this talk of ambush and war…

For the first time in a decade, Thomas had a sudden memory surface of one of the most brutal encounters he ever endured, the cold and pitching of the carriage blatant reminders of one awful day…. He immediately closed his eyes to fight off the nausea as sweat popped out on his brow. Gripping the barrel of the rifle, he waited with a sour feeling in his gut until it passed, leaving him disoriented and shaking.

It took a moment to realize Crabtree was excitedly poking him. "Sir. Sir! There are two riders coming this way. Look! I think it's them, Detective Murdoch and is that Dr. Ogden?"

"Oh, for the love of God!" Thomas shouted, thinking it was a bloody miracle to run across them like this. He yelled at Hicks to stop.

Indeed, plodding slowly towards them were two figures, obviously tired and letting the horses do most of the work of staying on the path and moving towards Toronto and home. Crabtree was out of the carriage even before it stopped, going to help Dr. Ogden, who appeared dangerously close to coming off her mount. "Doctor. Are you all right?" he asked as he got her down and steadied her. "I'll help you to the carriage."

Thomas quickly overcame his pleasure and relief at seeing them both alive, when he saw how utterly exhausted the couple were, and catalogued their injuries. He thought Dr. Ogden looked like she was barely holding on and Murdoch wasn't much better, pale and shivering as he got stiffly down from his horse, unable to use his right hand. He took in the corpse-shaped bundle, tied and slung behind Murdoch's saddle- one end a gory red mess, having dripped blood all down the side of the horse's flank. Bloody Hell! He thought when he saw more blood on Dr. Ogden's horse, a great hand print from where she swiped some off while getting down. This is bad, very very bad. The sour sensation in his stomach and metallic taste in his mouth reasserted themselves.

Hicks looked after the doctor's horse as Crabtree took her slowly to the relative safety and comfort of the carriage, while Thomas took Murdoch aside.

Making sure Hicks was preoccupied and not listening in, Thomas licked his dry lips and made himself ask what happened.

"Eva Pearce tried to kill Julia, and she didn't succeed," Murdoch answered in a hollow, gravelly voice. "Can we just leave it at that?"

He saw that Murdoch was appealing to him for understanding, or at least some time to get it all sorted out. Thomas hesitated only briefly. "Of course we can," he said, and hoped to the devil it could be true. "Go and be with her." He pointed to Dr. Ogden and the carriage, immediately starting to wonder if it was going to be possible to get back to Toronto tonight. "Driver!" he called after Hicks, and started arranging for Murdoch's horses to be tied to the back of the carriage, gristly luggage and all.

# # #

Thomas was grateful when the carriage finally entered Toronto proper, riding once again on level, well-lit streets and up the lane towards Toronto General. Crabtree had volunteered to drive while Hicks took the second horse to ride ahead to alert the hospital that Dr. Ogden was coming in, and then on to let the lads at the station house know that Murdoch and his wife were rescued and Eva Pearce was, unfortunately (or fortunately) dead. The ride was a silent one, mostly out of courtesy to allow the good doctor rest. Thomas was feeling pretty good about it all, taking the few hours' quiet time to formulate what he was going to put in his report and what he would tell the inevitable newspaper reporters. He imagined Margaret being proud of him as well, and that lifted his heart to know he did the right thing and got nearly the best results possible. There would be some loose strings, of course, but being able to say the killer of a police officer was not only captured but dead, would satisfy most of the concerned citizens and, more importantly, the chain of command at the constabulary. "Might even make up for that set-to I had with the alderman," Thomas thought smugly, "silly prick that he is…"

At the hospital entrance, he exited the carriage, holding the door for the detective and his wife. Thomas, stiff and sore, thinking he was too old for this shite, caught himself with a wide smile on his face fantasizing about a nice hot bath followed by a hot meal, when Murdoch's worried voice cut through his tired wool-gathering.

"Sir! It's Julia… I can't wake her…"

That was four, heart-stopping, hours ago.

Thomas was now deposited outside the doctor's hospital room door, having turned her over to Dr. Tash's safe-keeping and making sure that Murdoch and the doctor would not be disturbed by leaving a constable on guard outside the room. He was totally wrung out, the combination of emotional whip-sawing and physical depletion culminating in a certain numbness he recognized as being akin to battle fatigue. He could imagine, as well, what Murdoch must be going through, as the detective and Dr. Tash discussed what to do about his unresponsive wife. Thomas considered staying long enough to hear what Murdoch had to say the plan was, but thought the better of it: he had his own wife to tend to, and the doctor and detective were in good hands.

Leaning against the wall by a radiator to get warm before departing for home, he was glad this was over. All the paperwork and reports could wait until he had a meal, a wash and a good sleep. He spied Higgins coming along the hallway and smiled at the lad, hoping this was his ride home. "Ah! Higgins. Come to fetch me back to my wife, are you?"

"Sir. I have a carriage for you, and I have some clothes for Detective Murdoch from his office." Constable Higgins hoisted a bag by way of explanation for what he was carrying. "I also have a message from the morgue. Miss James would like a word with your before you head home."

Thomas was annoyed. "Can't it wait 'till morning?" He checked his watch and frowned. "That's not very long from now."

"She said that it would not take long but that you would want to know. I think she has finished the preliminary autopsy and wants to report her results before you head home." Higgins shrugged and smiled wryly. "I think she learned a little too well from Dr. Ogden and Detective Murdoch, if you know what I mean…"

Thomas offered a sympathetic, frustrated smile, then thanked Higgins and found the carriage waiting outside. He hauled himself into it and settled for the ride back to the station house and Morgue, deciding that is was perhaps better to get the preliminary results now so that when he got to work first thing in the morning he could field any inquiries and rapidly conclude his own preliminary investigation. By the time he was walking down the ramp to the autopsy bay, Thomas was weary again but resigned to his duty.

"Miss James. You have something to report?" Thomas dispensed with any niceties, getting directly to the point.

The young woman looked up from her desk, a worried look pinching her face. "Ah, Inspector. How is Dr. Ogden?"

"She is with her doctor as we speak. Getting the best of care I imagine." Thomas answered truthfully, embarrassed that he had not thought to reassure her immediately. "What have you to tell me?"

Miss James opened a file. "I have three things to report. First: the bullets taken from Dr. Ogden match the bullets from the gun you retrieved from Miss Pearce. I assisted Constable Crabtree assisted with the findings, and I believe his report will also show her fingermarks were on the weapon, and only hers. He gave me the opportunity to inform you, but his official report will be on your desk in the morning. "

Hearing that, Thomas's gut unclenched a bit. Well, that leaves Murdoch in the clear, or at least at should. He was surprised at his reaction, not realizing he was harbouring anxiety about it.

Miss James continued. "Next I have a report on the cause of death of Constable Worsley: blunt force trauma. I can confirm that the weapon has blood on it, as well as hair consistent with the constable's. I also have the preliminary autopsy on Miss Pearce. I can say with certainty that she was stabbed to death with the weapon you supplied and in the manner and angle that was described. She would have bled out within perhaps thirty to forty-five seconds after the carotid artery was cut. There would have been almost no way to save her."

That also fits with the story Murdoch sketched. Relief washed over him. Thomas found he had a small return of energy, so he directed a beam of it her way. "Thank you very much, Miss James," he smiled, amazed at their good fortune. "Excellent work. If you could send your written reports over to my desk I will review them more carefully in the morning. And, thank you again for sticking with this, and I believe I can go home feeling we have this well on the way to being wrapped up." He turned to go, when Miss James stopped him.

"Do you want to hear about her other wounds?" she questioned.

"What other wounds? She was in a struggle and lost the fight, I imagine there may be other cuts or scratches…" Thomas looked at the young woman, who just shrugged at him apologetically. He gestured for her to continue.

Miss James told him, "Well, that does not explain this wound to her left shoulder. It looks like it was made by a long, rounded blade. I realize that I do not have the whole story, but nothing fits for that…" She left the words hanging.

Thomas prompted, "And…?"

"Will it looks as if before she was stabbed, Miss Pearce had been, I don't know, it sounds so silly…umm, shot with an arrow, as if someone was, hunting her…" Miss James smiled uncomfortably.

Thomas felt flooded with unexpected and unaccountable heat, unable to move as sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, his heart pounding blood into his head. He struggled to think, with nothing useful coming to him. Feeling his shoulders slumping wearily all he could whisper was: "Oh, Bloody Hell!"

# # #

-END—

Other POV to follow….

Thank you for choosing my story. Please review/write. Tell me what you liked and what you didn't. Do you have a POV you'd like explored? Tell me that too, I may have it already cooking up or you might inspire me—thanx-rg