The Blizzard
Each winter is different. Some are mild and others are down right nasty to live through. This winter had been especially disagreeable in every way for Chicago. From the middle of October onward, it had been either rain, hail, sleet or wet, heavy snow. The local utility companies had been hard pressed to keep services up and running.
As if bad weather weren't bad enough, the flu going around was a particularly violent strain. Hospitals were full and schools had closed down for sick days. No one wanted to get close to anyone in fear of getting the killer flu. Ray Vecchio, Chicago police department's finest, was among the germaphobes in the precinct. The Italian detective sprayed Lysol on every door knob and all over his desk appliances several times through the day. The smell of what was supposed to be pine made his unofficial, Royal Canadian Mounted Police partner's nose go haywire.
"I don't know why you insist on spraying that foul aerosol, Ray, simply disinfect your desk with rubbing alcohol or bleach, both are clinically proven to kill ninety-nine percent of germs, and neither of them make me sneeze." The mountie informed his friend dutifully.
"My mother trusts Lysol and so do I, end of story." Ray stated emphatically.
"Ma only uses it to make the bathroom smell better after you eat vegetables, Ray." Francesca, Ray's younger sister announced, butting into the conversation, as usual. The two had similar temperaments, often leading to bickering. In the end they would defend the other regardless of the opponent.
"Vecchio, a fishing vessel just pulled a body out of the water down at the docks, go investigate." Lt. Welsh boomed out the assignment as he walked by the detective's already swamped desk.
"Why do I always get the floaters, Sir, you know how their blue faces make me sick." Vecchio complained.
"That's just how the ball bounces, Detective." Welsh shrugged, walking on toward his original destination. Dragging himself up, Vecchio pulled on his trench coat, scarf, wool cap, galoshes and fur lined gloves to leave the precinct. Fraser simply pulled on his navy, wool, pea coat and hat.
At the Docks
The coroner's black trimmed ambulance sat with it's lights flashing, as did three patrol cars. Four inches of snow lay on any surface cold enough not to melt it. Most of the responders were sure footed in the slick stuff, none of them more than Fraser. He strode up behind Ray to the highest ranking patrol officer in charge of the scene, his hands behind his back.
"What's the deal, Hobbs?" Vecchio pulled out his notebook and pen to take notes. The uniformed officer opened his own notebook to refresh his memory. Snow swirling around the scene didn't deter any of the responders.
"The captain of the fishing trawler, Mary Angeline, called it in, they spotted the body of a male Caucasian, age undetermined, floating about three miles out on the lake, I've questioned the entire crew, that's about it." Hobbs signed off on his part of the investigation and left the real, dirty work to Vecchio. Next came the coroner's initial report. The detective wouldn't have anything until an autopsy was performed. Fraser kept one ear on the conversation while he looked at the crowd of spectators surrounding the scene. Most were dock workers, others were first responders, but one of them caught his eye. A tall, stocky man seemed to be trying to hide, yet still see the body. He talked to someone on a cellular phone as he surveyed the scene. When Fraser began to walk toward the strange man who took off like a shot. Benton lengthened his stride to a run, following the man easily along the edge of the dock. Powerful winds buffeted the pair. Waves crashed angrily against the cement dock, spraying anyone within ten feet. The stocky man turned to look at his pursuer, losing sight of his footing as he twisted. A large ice patch and his forward momentum sent the runner into the lake, head first. Fraser threw off his coat and hat before diving in after the man. Patrol officers had managed to catch up to the pair in their vehicles. Fraser dragged the man up to the surface of the churning lake with some difficulty. He'd had to slug the man in order to stop his protesting. Vecchio and Patrolman Hobbs fished out the mountie and the running stranger.
"I saw him talking to someone on a mobile phone and went to ask a few questions when he fled." Fraser reported as he shivered without his wool coat.
"We'll just have to see what he was reporting then won't we." Vecchio handed his friend his coat and hat from where he'd thrown them.
"I'm gonna press charges, you busted my nose." Patrolman Hobbs bit his bottom lip as he pulled the handcuffs on the thug tighter.
"My apologies, perhaps next time I should allow a suspect to drown." Fraser spoke from between chattering teeth. Another ambulance was called for the two, frozen swimmers. They had symptoms of hypothermia and were taken to the emergency room. Fraser refused to stay, instead sending Ray for a change of uniform, against the doctor's suggestion. It was like talking to an iceberg.
Two Days Later...
"Achoo! Achoo!" Fraser pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket to sneeze into. He'd been feeling less than his best since taking a dive into the lake. His head ached, he coughed, body aches, no energy and food just didn't taste the same
"That's the third or fourth time you've sneezed today, Benny." Ray observed, unused to seeing the mountie as a human.
"Yes, I know, I believe there's something in the air." Ray looked at the Canadian picture of health for a moment. Something was in the air alright, but not what Fraser thought and Ray knew it. His detective's senses tingled.
"Are you sure you aren't getting sick, Benny, cause I'm sure you've worked up some sick leave since the whole bullet wound thing, wouldn't hurt to take a day off once in a while." The Chicagoan suggested as they sat across from each other at Ray's desk.
"I could bring you some lasagna, everyone swears by it." Francesca volunteered, sauntering up from behind Fraser.
"If someone's sick you give them chicken noodle soup, Frannie, not lasagna." Ray countered, amazed at what all his sister didn't know.
"Chicken noodle soup is slimy." The detective's younger sister wrinkled her nose at the idea.
"Thank you, Francesca, but I'm quite alright, that isn't necessary." Fraser smiled weakly, his light eyes looking tired. Francesca and Ray exchanged meaningful glances like only siblings can.
"Have you heard the weather report lately, Vecchio, the weather bureau is calling for a blizzard tonight, up to two feet of snow." Louie popped into the conversation. His broad, common features seemed a little too happy about the dreadful forecast.
"Guess we'll be chaining Diefenbaker up to the Riviera for added traction." Ray joked, getting no response from Fraser but a condescending glare and a groan from the half-wolf. Lt. Welsh chose that moment to drop a report on Ray's desk with a thud. "What do we have here, Sir?" Vecchio asked his commanding officer with a weary tone of voice.
"The autopsy report and ID on that floater from yesterday, you'd better hit the street before it starts looking like an ice skating rink outside." As much as Ray wanted to complain, there was only one thing to do; suck it up and begin working the streets for information. Benton began to get out of his chair but the world around him began to move and tilt. The mountie grasped the desk and sank back into the stout, metal chair.
"Whoa, Benny, you OK there?" Ray asked, coming around to see his friend more closely. The Canadian was paler than usual and appeared to be burning up along with the weak look around his eyes.
"Just a little dizzy." Fraser held his head, praying that the world would go back to normal, along with his pounding head and queasy stomach. He took a deep breath and sat up straight. "I'll be alright, I just need to eat something." The unstoppable mountie stood up as gracefully as ever.
"You have the flu, Constable Fraser, you better go home, I don't need you dropping in my squad room and giving it to everyone else in the process." Lt. Welsh ordered, his voice gruff.
"Come on, Benny, let me take you home, I got this case under control." Ray felt the knot of worry forming in his stomach. He'd never seen Fraser ill. Things seemed strange, reversed somehow. Ray was the one most likely to get sick, trip, fall in a dumpster and come out dirty. Fraser always looked like he'd been freshly polished and pressed every morning.
"Nonsense, Ray, I'm perfectly fine." Fraser leaned his thigh against the desk so as to appear to be standing on his own two feet. He wasn't 'perfectly fine'. With a worried expression, Ray lead him out of the precinct. When they got to the parking lot the blizzard had begun to move in. Ten inches of snow had already fallen. Salt trucks with rattling chains drove by, spraying brine water onto the already icing streets. Diefenbaker dodged the deeper piles of snow, choosing to walk along the sidewalk, the long way around, to Ray's precious, emerald, 1972, Buick Riviera.
"If at any time you want to head back to the barn, Benny, just let me know." The Italian detective offered as he started the classic car.
"Thank you kindly, Ray, I will let you know." Fraser affirmed.
Neither of them knew what they or Chicago had in store. As the afternoon wore on the storm worsened. Radio broadcasters announced weather bureau warnings for everyone to stay indoors if at all possible. Even the hardiest, weather beaten Chicagoans began to brace for the storm. Fraser too began to feel worse, but wouldn't tell Ray under any circumstances.
"Well, I don't know about you but I'm starved." Ray shivered as he got into the waiting Buick's interior. It had been a lousy day to have to be outside. It was a dark, gray world outside, neither day nor night.
"Ah, yes, it is dinner time isn't it." Fraser shivered as he settled into the car.
"Yep, and Ma's making pot roast, my favorite, wanna join us, Benny?" The detective asked, knowing that his family wouldn't mind having Fraser for dinner at all.
"Thank you, but no, Ray, I have some paperwork to catch up on at the consulate, if you'd drop me off there I'd be much obliged." The mountie begged off. He enjoyed Mrs. Vecchio's cooking, but didn't feel up to the noise that went with all the Vecchio siblings.
"Alright, Fraser, but if you need anything, give me a call." A few blocks later Ray dropped the Canadian off at his consulate and watched him walk in. Ray could only shake his head. He knew Fraser felt like crap but what could you do or say without hurting his pride?
Once inside, Fraser felt the warmth of a space heater blossom up his body, beginning at his feet. The sudden warmth brought on a coughing fit that made his head ache like crazy and stars dance before his eyes. Turnbull heard the racket and popped his head out of Inspector Thatcher's office.
"Are you ill, Constable Fraser, would you like a cup of peppermint tea perhaps?" The junior officer offered, a look of concern pulling down his usually cheery features.
"No, Turnbull, I'm just a bit under the weather, thank you." Fraser walked into the closet he called an office and sat down.
"Whiskey and honey." Whirling around to see who'd spoken was a mistake.
"Dad, couldn't you announce yourself once in a while?" Fraser groused, trying to regain his equilibrium.
"You always did get cross as hell when you were sick." Bob Fraser walked around the office and peeked out the window at the blizzard eddying around the old building.
"What did you want, Dad?" Benton asked, leaning back in his roller chair.
"Just to tell you that a dram of whiskey and honey warmed together will knock the flu out of you, make you right as rain," The old ghost turned, his dress uniform clean and dry, the way Fraser wished his were. "or make you tipsy enough not to care, it's how you look at it I suppose."
"Thank you, Dad, but I'll be just fine with a good night's sleep." The younger Fraser claimed again for the dozenth time that day.
"I heard that coughing fit all the way down the hall, you're sick my boy, better prepare for it." Bob Fraser warned, "I've seen men in the Yukon die of the simplest things, if only they'd taken care of it sooner, Buck Frobisher were outside of Yellow Knife one winter and …." He didn't get to finish his story. Benton had stood up to do something and fell to the floor. Diefenbaker hovered nearby, trying to rouse his keeper with his cold, wet nose. When he received no response, the half wolf let out a mournful cry.
"He'll be just fine, Boy, don't worry about my son." Bob Fraser told the worried wolf. Down the hall, Inspector Thatcher ordered Turnbull to investigate the howling. Nothing chilled her bones like the howl of wolves. Thatcher had warned Fraser not to let that wolf make such a racket, but like a lot of things, she couldn't make it stick.
"Constable Fraser's unconscious, Sir, he's feverish." Turnbull double timed to report back.
"Call for an ambulance, immediately!" Thatcher rushed to Fraser's office while Turnbull called emergency services. As she ran down the hall in her dress boots the electric went off all around, leaving her in confusing darkness. Diefenbaker let out another blood curdling howl. When Thatcher finally found her ranking officer he was lying on his back, eyes closed, as hot as a baked potato to the touch. Diefenbaker laid nearby, looking up at the humans with a pathetic expression on his furry, white face.
"Sir, the phone is dead, electricity is out as far as I can see through the blizzard." Turnbull reported a few moments later. Thatcher took a deep breath, groaning on the inside. She was stuck at the consulate until the blizzard blew itself out or moved on.
"Help me get Fraser to the guest bedroom, then find as many candles, lanterns and such as you can." Together they packed Fraser to the guest room upstairs. Thatcher and Turnbull did the best they could to make Fraser comfortable while they applied cool compresses to lower the fever. It was going to be a long night.
Several Hours Later
"Constable Fraser, Benton, I know you may not be able to hear me, you've been delusional for hours now, but I, well, if I don't say this now I never will," Meg felt like a school girl again, confessing her feelings, embarrassed and dreading rejection, "I" she stammered, "I am in love with you." Saying it to someone besides her own reflection was a relief. "Every day I see you, how you care so much about total strangers, I like that, and no one cares for you, but then again you don't care at all about me or how I feel, I'm every bit as vulnerable as you are, Benton, if only you could see what I'm like on the inside," She shrugged, tracing Fraser's thumbnail with her finger, "oh I don't know why I hide so much, why I have a facade, I'm not really a cold hearted, callous bitch." Meg heard what sounded like a scoffing chuckle, but laid it off as a sleeping, snoring Diefenbaker at the foot of the bed. Inspector Margaret Thatcher would never know that Fraser heard every word she said as he stood beside his father at the foot of the bed. Bob Fraser had been the scoffing chuckle.
"Oh, Benton, you are so perceptive about everything except me, and that Italian sausage, Vecchio's sister." That pissed Meg off royally. Francesca was her main, persistent competition for Fraser's attention. Both women would fight a running saw mill for him. "How can you be blind to all the ways I try to get you to notice me?" The inspector clasped his hand in both of her's and pressed it against her cheek. "How could I ever bear it if you were gone?" The idea scared the lady mountie. A world without Fraser would be a dark, lonely place.
"But I'm right here, Inspector Thatcher, I'm not going anywhere." Benton knelt down beside his boss. He tried to wipe away a tear sliding down Meg's cheek.
"Where's that draft coming from?" Meg mumbled to herself.
"She can't hear you, Son." Bob Fraser told his one and only son. Benton stood up, frustration evident in his pale, handsome features.
"I'm right here, Dad, I can feel her hands around my hand." He argued fruitlessly.
"So am I, what does that prove?" The experienced ghost pointed out.
"You are also dead, I was at the funeral, I saw your body at the morgue." Benton struggled with his thoughts.
"Dead and unconscious are a lot closer than the living like to admit, there's a very thin veil between the two, Son" Bob summarized with a resigned tone of voice.
"Inspector Thatcher must believe I am in danger of dying or she wouldn't confess such feelings to me." Benton rationalized easily, even for such a grave situation.
"How do you feel about her, Benton, she's a decent woman, feisty almost tot he point of being mean spirited, she'd keep you on your toes in the bedroom and out of it." Bob Fraser had a way of saying the most scandalous things, especially since he'd died. If it crossed his mind, it came out of his mouth.
"Dad, there is more to a relationship than the physical aspect, there is respect, devotion, loyalty, sincerity," Benton began to list them out loud. Bob waved him off.
"You can have all that from Diefenbaker, but he doesn't measure up to good, old-fashioned sex appeal, something has to set the old ticker to thumping once in a while." Fraser Sr formed the silhouette of a girl with his hands as he spoke. The two, unseen men bickered like children while Meg sat holding Benton's hand and changing cool compresses against his forehead and chest. His still form seemed unnatural. Benton had never encountered anything that had slowed him down, not even being shot in the back while chasing Victoria. Meg prayed this killer flu wouldn't be the thing that robbed him of his life.
"If you would only wake up, Fraser, everything would go back to normal, I could quit worrying, I could go on loving you like I always have." The inspector sighed as she wrung out a cold wash cloth and placed it on Fraser's burning forehead. Turnbull opened the guest bedroom's door a sliver, peeking one, blue eye in before entering.
"Sir, there's been a weather update on the radio, the blizzard has now dumped five feet of snow and ice on the city, the newscaster reports that state and city officials are declaring a state of emergency, they are dispatching the Illinois National Guard to help restore power lines and clear roadways." The junior officer reported anxiously. He saw the same worry and anxiety mirrored in his boss' big, brown eyes.
"We are stranded here, at the consulate, for who knows how long." Meg tried to maintain her composure and professionalism in front of her subordinate officer. Inside, she felt like crying. Thatcher knew Benton wouldn't want to see her so torn apart over him.
"Well, a little southern snow won't affect us Canadians." The inspector straightened herself up, took a deep breath and gave Turnbull a reassuring smile.
After Meg took a break and had something to eat she resumed her post at Fraser's side. He still felt feverish to the touch. The inspector hoped he'd wake up every time Benton shifted in the bed. She wondered what went on inside his dreams and prayed they weren't terrifying or painful. Eventually, Thatcher fell asleep, Ben's hand in hers.
"You'd better do something soon, Son, limbo won't last forever." Bob Fraser chided his grown son. "It's time to make a choice." The pair stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at Benton's body and Meg's sleeping form, her head on the side of the waist high, four poster. As much as she made his life difficult, Benton looked forward to seeing her every day.
"I don't want to leave, Dad." Benton crossed his arms over his red plaid clothed chest, his tongue toying with his eye tooth. He'd made his life in Chicago. The city had taken him in, given him friends and shown the mountie innumerable facets of himself.
"Then don't, Benton, go back to Ray, Inspector Thatcher, Turnbull, Diefenbaker, and all the people who care about you." Bob Fraser's eyes went a little misty.
"I wish I knew how to go back." Fraser sighed heavily.
"You have to want it bad enough, think about all the thing's you'd miss if you left." The older man's usually strong voice had a softer, more somber tone to it. Benton turned to his father with a sad smile.
"Thank you, Dad."
"I'm always here to guide you, Son." Father and son embraced for a moment. Neither of them had ever shown such affection toward the other. The next thing Fraser remembered was waking up confused, Meg Thatcher's hair tickling his wrist.
"Inspector Thatcher," His voice sounded weak and dry. The lady mountie roused from her uncomfortable slumber.
"Constable Fraser, you're awake, finally!" Meg still held his hand. Her dark brown eyes glistening with excitement. The relief filled her from the tip of her Gucchi boots to the top of her over priced haircut. "Constable Turnbull and I were very concerned about you." Meg could hardly contain the emotion in her voice. "Would you like Turnbull to prepare some broth?" Thatcher asked, not realizing how tightly she'd began squeezing Fraser's hand.
"Yes, only if it's not too much trouble." He agreed, barely audible. Quickly, Thatcher called for the lanky, young Turnbull to come into the room. His easily read face changed from somber to overjoyed. If he'd had a tail, he'd have worn the rug out wagging it. Fraser drank the chicken broth slowly, enjoying the chicken taste as he did.
"Were you lucid at all, Constable Fraser, while you were unconscious?" Thatcher asked, hoping he might not remember what she'd confessed. Her brown eyes peered out at him from beneath dark, natural lashes.
"It is difficult to tell what was real and dreams, I saw my father, he and I were standing at the foot of the bed, talking." Fraser answered, looking into his broth, but glancing sideways in the dim candle light at his boss. She wrung her hands as they lay on her lap.
"So you didn't hear what Turnbull said, or what I did?" Meg asked, really beginning to squirm on the inside. Fraser set his broth aside and reached out for Meg's hand.
"I heard enough, Sir." He gave her a soft, caring smile, squeezing her hand lightly as he did.
"Oh god!" The lady mountie swallowed hard, wishing she could sink into the flooring at her feet.
"No need to fear, Inspector Thatcher, discretion is the better part of valor." Fraser spoke very low, so as not to be overheard. The threat of rejection still hung over Meg like a guillotine blade. She blinked to stem the tears her eyes and heart wanted to let fall. Fraser thought for a long moment about what to say, what he actually felt for the blustery lady he had to call 'Sir'. Meg Thatcher definitely had a way of making him feel virile, alive, interesting; at least on occasion anyway. Those occasions were few and far between.
"I should have kept everything to myself." Meg pulled away, fearing she would break apart, like a ceramic vase that had hit the floor. She didn't know if she could pick up all the pieces and rearrange them.
"No" Fraser pressed a soft kiss to Meg's hand as he held it. He was glad that her feelings had been aired. Although neither of them would announce their relationship any time soon, it was a reality. Things would be different between them. Neither would have to be solitary creatures any longer. In the darkness there would always be someone to call, someone to turn to when the loneliness crept in like a cold draft of air. With one look they could reassure each other. No words needed to be spoken.
The Aftermath
The blizzard wore itself out over the next day and a half, eventually dumping six feet of snow on the city of Chicago and surrounding areas. Seven fatalities were blamed on the freak storm. Utilities were restored within two weeks with the help of crews from as faraway as Kentucky. On the positive side, the flu that had made so many sick loosened it's grip, dying out.
Author's Note: Written while listening to Nickelback's "Silver Side Up" album.