CHAPTER TWO

"... five men exited the Cadillac, and took cover behind a block wall several yards away from the vehicle. From that position, they could advance on Detective Vecchio, Inspector Thatcher and myself. It was necessary to distract, perhaps disable, them to prevent that. I fired a single shot from the .44 into the gas tank. When the vehicle exploded, I ran toward Detective Vecchio's position in the garage with the intention of taking cover within the underground cellar, and from there, defending our position or possibly finding an escape route." Fraser stopped speaking.

"And, then what happened, Constable?" Lieutenant Raoul Latourette of the Surete du Quebec prompted.

"I woke up here," he said, simply. "I am told nearly thirty six hours later."

"Here" was the small bedroom in the Abbey- St. Jean-Baptiste. It was crowded. Fraser sat, propped up by pillows, in the bed. Latourette, who had flown up from Montreal that morning, had the wooden chair. A stool had been brought in for the stenographer. Her machine took up the rest of the floor space. Fraser had wanted to get up, to sit in a chair, at least. It felt unprofessional to be reclining in bed while giving an official statement under oath. But, Brother Nathaniel had overruled him, insisting he conserve his strength for the interview process. At least, he had been allowed to dress. He wore a soft, white cotton surplice underneath the brown woolen robe. Ray was right, the outfit was very comfortable.

"You don't remember anything that happened after you, Vecchio and Thatcher fell into the underground cellar at the Depardieu warehouse?"

"Actually, sir, I don't remember falling into the cellar. My last memory is running toward it, but not actually reaching it," he said, then added, "I'm afraid it's all rather hazy from there."

The Surete officer pulled a plastic evidence bag from the briefcase at his feet. He handed it to Fraser.

"Can you identify the object marked A-12, Constable?"

"Yes, sir. This is my knife."

"When was the last time you saw this knife?"

"It was in my right boot when I ran for the underground cellar."

"Inspector Thatcher and Detective Vecchio have both stated that you threw this knife at Antoine Depardieu as he and his associate, Emile DeBecque, were about to shoot them in the subterranean room under the Abbey; that after being struck in the back of the head by the blunt end of the knife, Depardieu stumbled, discharged his weapon, and collapsed; that the bullet hit the steel security door that leads to the Abbey's sub-basement, ricocheted, and struck Emile DeBecque in the head, killing him instantly. Do you agree with this recitation of events, Constable?"

"No, sir."

"You don't?"

"More accurately, I can't, sir. As I said, I do not recall anything after running toward the underground cellar."

"You don't seem surprised at what I've told you."

"Detective Vecchio told me what happened, sir."

"Vecchio and Thatcher insist that you saved their lives. That Depardieu and DeBecque would certainly have killed them if you hadn't acted." He paused. "You don't want the credit for that, Constable?"

"I don't recall it, sir. However, Detective Vecchio and Inspector Thatcher deserve whatever credit is generated through these events. I was a burden to them for most of it." Fraser tried not to wince. The questioning had been going on for several hours now. The constant headache was worsening, the intensity ratcheting up as he tried to remember and coherently relate the events of the last several days. "I do regret the loss of life. But, I am gratified that Detective Vecchio and Inspector Thatcher survived." He squinted. The overhead light was bothering his eyes.

The stenographer turned to Latourette. "Excuse me, sir." She smiled apologetically, shaking her hands to restore circulation. "May I take a break?"

"Of course, honey," he said. "I have a phone call to make, anyway." He left the room.

The young woman went to the tray on the night stand. She poured from the long-cold teapot into two mugs. She handed one to Fraser.

He grasped the cup with both hands, trying not to slosh tea on the bedclothes. "Thank you kindly, Miss ... ?"

"D'Avila. Therese D'Avila," she spoke English with a Quebecois accent. "I have never heard anything like this! It's like an adventure novel." She looked back at the door, then lowered her voice. "I think you were very brave."

Fraser flushed. "Thank you." He hid behind the mug, taking a sip of herbal tea. "I was just doing my duty."

She smiled sweetly, then reached into her bag. "Here's my card. If you are ever in Montreal –"

He took the card politely, but was spared a response when Latourette returned. He unbuttoned the jacket of his meticulously tailored suit and stretched. Then, he said to the woman. "You can go, Therese. We're done here."

Fraser, surprised at this turn of events, took another sip of tea. He watched as Therese efficiently packed up her accouterments into the specially made case. She smiled warmly at him and wished him a speedy recovery. He thanked her kindly and she was gone.

Latourette stood looking down at Fraser. "I just spoke to the Deputy Attorney General in Ottawa. You're in luck. The Ministry is backing you on your 'hot pursuit' theory and officially acknowledges that your actions since entering Ontario and Quebec jurisdictions were performed in the line of duty as an officer of the RCMP." He yawned without covering his mouth. "You know that they found the body, eh? Of Jean Renoir? Undisturbed, right where you left it."

"Yes, sir," Fraser said, quietly. "Detective Vecchio told me. He said recovery operations in the pond will begin tomorrow."

"Yeah. The ice-breaking equipment has to be brought in. And divers, certified for cold water. Glad it's not on my turf," he said, with a mock shiver. "This place is bad enough." Latourette was stationed in Montreal HQ and had flown in to the rural Surete district after the arrests of Depardieu and his men. The small station had been overwhelmed.

"You were saying about the Attorney General ...?" Fraser prompted.

"Oh, right. Your shooting of Jean Renoir has been deemed justified.

"Justified, sir?"

"Ruled self defense."

"I see."

Latourette started packing his briefcase. "This is the biggest arms bust in Quebec law enforcement history. The drug seizure is not too shabby, either." He paused. "There'll be plenty of credit to go around. Well, not for the American, obviously." He smirked. "Don't worry, Fraser, you'll get your share."

Fraser frowned. "I wasn't worried, sir."

"They'll give you a medal over this, I'll warrant. You and Thatcher." He snapped the locks on the briefcase. He shot Fraser a look. "I'd like to be the one to pin it on her chest, if you know what I mean."

Fraser's eyes narrowed. "No, sir. I don't," he said, flatly. "Why don't you explain it to me."

"Steady on, son," his father said, in his ear. "Remember what the doctor said."

Fraser looked down at his clenched fists in surprise. Brother Nathaniel had warned him that his impulse and emotional control could be affected by the concussion. As Latourette opened his mouth to speak, Fraser leaned back on the pillows. "If you don't mind, sir," he said, "I'd like to rest, now." He closed his eyes and willed his hands to relax.

"Oh, uh, sure," Latourette said, taken aback at the abrupt dismissal. "Au revoir," he muttered, and picking up the briefcase, he hastily left the room.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Ray poked his head around the door. "Mr. Stuffed Shirt gone?"

"Yes, I imagine he's happily winging his way back to his desk," Fraser said, sourly.

Ray raised his eyebrows. "Was he rough on you?"

"No." He smiled, wanly. "Let's just say a little of Lieutenant Latourette's company goes a long way."

"Desk jockeys," Ray commiserated. "How's Dief?"

Fraser brightened. "Good." When Brother Nathaniel had examined him this morning, he had brought the Abbey's portable telephone with him. It had been difficult to carry on a conversation with a deaf wolf while a sobbing Turnbull held the phone, but they had managed. "He was pleased to hear you were OK."

"I miss the little guy."

"I don't think he misses me. Between Turnbull, Francesca, Elaine and the rest of the squad room, he's become quite spoiled. Donuts, morning, noon and night."

Ray hoped Dief was enjoying the treats while he could. That gleam in Fraser's eyes meant lupine boot camp was starting as soon as he got home.

"And, how're you doing?"

"Fine," he said, automatically. When Ray rolled his eyes at the stock answer, he admitted, "Actually, I'm hungry."

"Well, it is dinner time."

"Oh, good." He tried to summon some enthusiasm. Since he had awoken in this bed yesterday, he had been restricted to broths, tea, and a vile, but nutritious, herbal concoction, on Brother Nathaniel's orders.

"And, Nathaniel said you can come down for dinner. So long as you don't -" he paused, as Fraser nearly leapt out of the bed, "– overdo it." Ray reached out a hand to steady him, as he swayed on his feet. "OK?"

"OK," Fraser said, drawing a deep breath. The dizziness passed and he eagerly followed Ray out the door. It wasn't just the thought of a real meal that spurred him. He was keen to get out of the room, and curious about the rest of the Abbey. He had been confined to the narrow bed in the tiny room, except for short trips to the tinier bathroom that he shared with Ray. People had had to come to him. The Abbot, Brother Adrien, a short, barrel-chested man whose sharp wit and booming voice, despite his kindness, had left Fraser's head aching after his departure; the Inspector, looking harried, popping in just before his statement; then, the tiresome Latourette, accompanied by the lovely Therese.

During his medical visits, Brother Nathaniel had acquainted him with the history of the Order. The first monastery of the Brothers of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste was built in 1885 in Montreal though the Order was old, going back to seventeenth century France. This Abbey was a modern complex, constructed on former national government lands in 1976, the decommissioned NORAD site that also housed the Depardieu Distribution Center to the west.

The rural location had appealed to the members seeking a contemplative life away from the distractions of the city, where they could focus on prayer, study, physical work and their ministry to visitors and guests. For Brother Nathaniel, a licensed medical doctor educated at McGill, the pastoral setting allowed him to incorporate a more holistic approach into his practice of modern medicine. He grew his own herbs, crafting many of the remedies he dispensed to his patients from its harvest. In addition to the medicinal and culinary herb garden, the monastery grew most of its own food and raised its own meat. They were a frugal bunch, able to support themselves by selling their own cheese, apple cider, and beer. And maple syrup, Nathaniel had bragged, once the grove of sugar maples matured in a few years.

Ray gave him the mini-tour, narrating along the way. He took it slow, without, he hoped, making it too obvious. Nathaniel had read Ray the riot act about Fraser taking it easy for the next week or two. Ray liked the monk very much. But, he did not want to get on the wrong side of the physician, a fierce banty rooster of a man when it came to his patients.

Fraser greatly enjoyed the tour, both for its aesthetics and a chance to stretch his legs. The Abbey, though modern, resonated with its bucolic surroundings. He admired the clean lines of the main building. The architect's attempt to instill a sense of harmony by emulating the geometric laws of nature was masterful. Ray stuck to the Abbey's main complex. The outbuildings and grounds would have to wait. Still, the main structure was impressive enough, housing the living quarters for seventy monks and their occasional guests, office space, the brewery, Nathaniel's stillroom, the kitchens, and, of course, the chapel.

The Chapel of Sainte-John-Baptiste was noteworthy, all polished wood, flagstone floors, and stained glass. Ray made Fraser stand outside, in the hall, as he walked to the altar. He turned and spoke in a low tone.

"Can you hear me now, Benny?"

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, astonished. Ray's voice was clearly audible more than one hundred feet away, even with the door closed. He joined him inside, admiring the solid wood curving strips on the walls and overhead. The chapel was polygonal in shape, its sinuous form, wood fins, and ceiling fretwork, reinforcing the image of a finely crafted musical instrument. Which, Fraser realized, it was.

"The acoustics in here were designed so that the choir can be heard everywhere in the building." Ray shot him a look. "With those Vulcan ears of yours, you even heard them down in the tunnel."

"Did I?" Fraser looked blank. "I don't remember. But, I've heard the choir from my room."

"Yeah, twice a day. Matting and vestas."

"Matins and vespers," Fraser corrected, automatically.

Ray nodded. "You can set your watch by them." He paused. "It's really ... beautiful."

"Heavenly," Fraser agreed, his lips quirking in a smile.

The tour ended at the dining hall, where long wooden trestle tables were set with crockery and utensils. The monks were already seated, ten to a table, and tonsured heads turned in unison as they entered the room. Smiles and greetings abounded. Fraser smiled shyly in return, uncomfortable at being the center of attention. Ray guided him to a seat at a table near the door where there were two empty places. He greeted the men seated there by name. Fraser sat down heavily on the bench, dismayed at the leaden feeling in his legs.

An older man sat to his right. He regarded Fraser with an appraising eye. "You're looking better, young fellow," he said. He looked familiar, but Fraser couldn't remember meeting him. Then, the penny dropped. Despite the mischievous expression, the resemblance to his dream angel was unmistakable, even without the celestial light and choir. It was the fringe of snow-white hair that haloed his head, framing the cherubic face. The monk gestured with his head at Ray. "I last saw you slung over that one's shoulder like a sack of potatoes."

"Yes, sir," he said, politely. "You must be Brother Charles."

"Benny Fraser," Ray said, "let me introduce you to my bros." There was a ripple of laughter around the table. "Brothers Charles, Adam, Nathaniel you know, Etienne, Maurice, Armande, Noel and Tristan." Greetings were exchanged all around.

Then, the Abbot at the head table stood. The room instantly quieted as he led the brethren in prayer. At the end, he said, "We thank you, Lord, for your restoration of our brother, Benton. We pray for your grace and healing as he continues on the path to lasting health. Amen." He looked out over the gathering. "We welcome you, Brother Benton, to our humble table. Brother Raymond, welcome back." There were murmurs of assent around the room. Fraser nodded his thanks, an unexpected prickling in his eyes catching him by surprise.

"Humble table, my foot," Ray said. "They have a cook here, Brother Victor. He's a lay brother, not a monk. He comes out every night after dinner and takes a little bow." He lowered his voice, adding for Fraser's ears only, "I'm telling you, Benny - and don't you ever, ever repeat this - " he looked up quickly, as if expecting to be struck by a lightning bolt. "We had something called 'cassoulet' for dinner. It was better than Ma's pasta fazool." Then, he said, in his normal voice. "You're gonna love the food, Benny. Last night, I thought I had died and gone to heaven."

Brother Charles put his hands together, looked angelic, and intoned. "Perhaps, you have, Ray."

"Nah, nah," he said, shaking a finger at the monk, "I'm not falling for that one again, Charlie." Fraser joined in the laughter at the table. The atmosphere in the room - he struggled for the right word - fellow feeling, camaraderie, joie de vivre, whatever - was like a tonic. He caught Brother Nathaniel watching him across the table.

"How do you like my prescription, Benton?"

"Very much, sir. Thank you, kindly."

"Don't overdo it," he cautioned, sternly.

"I won't, sir."

The first course was served, family-style, as a contingent of brown-robed monks carried soup tureens and set them on the end of the tables. Brother Noel who was closest, dished out steaming bowls of potage de navets and passed them around.

"What's a navet?" Ray muttered to Fraser as he sniffed appreciatively.

"Turnip." He spooned the thick soup to his mouth, blew on it, and tasted. It was sublime. He closed his eyes, as a sound of pure pleasure escaped his lips. Fraser looked up at the sudden silence, embarrassed to see all of his tablemates watching him.

"I'm sorry," he began, his face reddening.

"Don't be," Brother Charles said, with a gleam in his eye. "Good food is a gift of God and one of the few pleasures of the flesh we don't deny ourselves around here." He helped himself to his own soup, then moaned lasciviously.

Ray lost it. His laughter was so infectious that their table and several alongside were engulfed. Fraser got over his embarrassment quickly as Brother Charles had clearly intended and finished the soup, without further outburst. The freshly-baked bread and home-churned butter were equally as good, but he managed to restrain himself. Humble ingredients, elevated to the sublime by the skill of Brother Victor.

The conversation around the table was lively. There were several topics of discussion whirling about - art, gardening, politics, automobiles, old movies, animal husbandry. Fraser was content to concentrate on the soup and sit silently for the most part, though he joined a discussion about the relative merits of Rhode Island Reds versus French Houdans between Brothers Tristan and Maurice.

He had just taken another bite of bread when he heard Brother Etienne, who sat across from Ray, say, "It's hard to believe that Antoine Depardieu is a criminal. The man was one of our most generous donors. Came here once a year on retreat." He shook his head, ruefully. "You never know, do you?"

"No, you don't," Ray agreed.

Etienne leaned closer. "I was a lawyer in my old life, Ray. I can recommend a good criminal defense man in Montreal."

Ray studiously avoided looking at Fraser. "Thanks, Etienne. I'll keep that in mind. I'm still hoping that this will all blow over."

The bread stuck in Fraser's throat. He hurriedly gulped water and swallowed. "Ray? Are you in trouble?"

Before Ray could respond, Etienne said, "Didn't you know? There's talk of charging him in both provinces. Until then, he's under house arrest, here at the Abbey."

Fraser stared at Ray, stunned. His appetite evaporated.

Ray was apologetic. "I was gonna tell you after dinner, Benny. We'll talk later, I promise." He turned away to answer a question put to him by Brother Armande.

Fraser sat there, oblivious to the conversations that buzzed around him. Maybe it was a symptom of his injury, but he couldn't wrap his mind around how Ray could be facing criminal charges. And facing them alone, while he had been languishing in bed. His head pounded harder. Suddenly, it was all too much. The headache, the babble of voices, the clatter of cutlery, the smell of the food. His stomach roiled. He lurched to his feet. "I'm sorry," he muttered, through clenched teeth, and pushed away from the table. He stumbled out of the dining hall and found a door to the outside.

Ray caught up to him in the courtyard that looked over the herb garden. Fraser was bent over, hands on his knees, gulping the cold, night air. Ray put a cautious hand on his left shoulder.

"You OK?"

Fraser couldn't speak so he shook his head. He was afraid if he opened his mouth, he'd vomit his first hot meal in a week onto the flagstone path. He stood like that, breathing deeply, until the nausea receded. Ray helped him to a stone bench. They sat, looking over the snow-covered garden, without speaking.

Brother Nathaniel joined them, holding a mug in his hand. "Here," he handed it to Fraser. "This will help."

He eyed it suspiciously.

"It's mint and chamomile tea," he nodded at the garden. "From my own plants."

Fraser sipped judiciously. Brother Nathaniel peered into his eyes, took his pulse, told him to take it easy, then left them alone.

He felt a little better after he finished the tea. "You're missing your dinner, Ray."

"Nah, I had enough. That soup was pretty filling," he lied.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Benny. You just overdid it on your first day up."

"I'm sorry that you're in trouble." He looked at his friend. "Tell me."

Ray looked him over carefully, then judging that to keep him in the dark would be crueler, said, "Where to start?" He rattled off points on his fingers. "First, my gun isn't registered in either Ontario or Quebec. Two, I discharged my gun in Ontario when I fired at Jean and company, you know, when you fell off the snowmobile. Apparently, it doesn't matter that I was out of range and only fired to get their attention. The fact is I discharged an unlicensed handgun in the province. They're gonna give me a pass about the three guys in the pond. Since they were stupid enough to drive their snowmobiles out on to the ice, that's on them. But, the kicker is the firefight at Depardieu's warehouse. I shot said illegal handgun at several people, wounding a few. That raises the bar to assault with an illegal handgun."

"But, Ray, you only acted in defense of self or others."

He nodded. "I told them that. So did Meg. So did you, in your statement today. Welsh has been on the phone with the muckety mucks up here, too." He shrugged. "It'll all probably just blow over," he said, unconvincingly.

Fraser sat back. "You and I took the same actions under the same circumstances. Yet, I may get a medal. And, they want to charge you?" He rubbed his temples. "I don't understand."

"It's simple, isn't it? You're the hometown boy and I'm the ugly American."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Detective," said a voice behind them. "You're not that unattractive." Inspector Thatcher walked toward them, looking elegant and professional in a blue tailored suit.

Fraser rose to his feet. "Sir, I must protest the treatment of Detective Vecchio in this –"

She interrupted him. "Stop right there, Constable. I've had a long day," she said, wearily. She blew on her hands. "It's freezing out here." She turned on her heel and marched back to the door into the hall. She looked back at them in disgust. "Well, come on!"

Ray and Fraser exchanged glances, then hurried to catch up with her. They followed her into a small parlor off the hall. A fire blazed in the hearth. Before it, a small table was set for one.

Fraser looked at the table, then at her.

"The order of Sainte-Jean-Baptiste is very traditional, Fraser," she explained. "No women allowed. Since there is nowhere else for me to stay, Brother Adrien has graciously granted me temporary special dispensation so that I may sleep in one of the guest rooms. But, he draws the line at the dining hall," she said, primly. She sat and spread a linen napkin on her lap. She directed Ray and Fraser to pull up two more chairs. "I assume you have eaten?"

"Yes, sir," Fraser said. Ray mumbled something unintelligible.

She sipped a glass of water. "I heard your statement went well."

"I just told the truth, sir."

"Of course, Constable. I would expect nothing less." She steepled her fingers and leaned forward. "I have been in meetings or on the telephone since early this morning. In that regard, I have good news and bad news."

Right on cue, Fraser asked, "What's the good news?"

"The good news, Constable, is that Ottawa and the provinces have determined that our actions, yours and mine, were at all times, lawful, if a trifle unorthodox. More than lawful. Laudable. Commendations will be coming our way." She paused as a monk entered the room with a covered dish. It was the turnip soup and bread. Fraser held his breath, but his stomach seemed to have settled down. She talked as she ate.

"There's a lot of excitement in high places over these arrests, gentlemen. At both provincial and national levels. And not just in Canada." She turned to Ray. "You heard that Frank Nardo was arrested today?"

Ray nodded. "Welsh told me." Fraser and Ray had witnessed the murders of Vinnie and Joey being carried out on the direct orders of Frank Nardo. While there was no corpus delecti - the bodies could not be produced - the blood evidence at the scene and on Ray's overcoat, combined with their testimony, was sufficient to support a case for first degree murder against Nardo, according to State's Attorney Louise St. Laurent. Welsh was hopeful that deals would be made with his underlings to testify against Nardo now that the bigwig was in custody and his organization in disarray. As he pointed out, all it took to start the domino effect was one piece tipping over.

Thatcher tore a piece from the small loaf of bread, buttered it, and took a bite. She had never tasted better in her life.

Fraser gave her a moment to swallow, then prompted, "And the bad news, sir?"

Ray thought, proudly,I taught him that.

She looked at Fraser. "There's a problem with Detective Vecchio."

"Sir, what Ray did is deserving of the Meritorious Service Cross, not criminal charges. His actions were as justified as yours and mine. What happened at - "

She held up a hand to cut off his impassioned plea. "You're preaching to the choir, Constable."

"Sir?"

She rolled her eyes. "I agree with you."

That brought him up short. "Y-you do?" he stammered.

"I do. Detective Vecchio at all times conducted himself with ... ". She mumbled something that neither Fraser nor Ray could catch.

He cocked his head. "Pardon, sir?"

"I said," she repeated, "Detective Vecchio conducted himself with courage and honor." They both stared, open-mouthed, at her. "Well, he did," she said, defensively.

"Thanks," Ray managed.

She waved a hand, dismissively. "What I think, doesn't matter." She spoke directly to Ray. "I know you are unfamiliar with the ways of our country, Detective. And, Constable Fraser is ... to put it, baldly ... politically obtuse."

Neither Fraser nor Ray objected to such a patently true statement.

"So, I'll try to explain." She took a deep breath before continuing. "On one hand, you have many supporters in the Surete, the OPP and the RCMP, Detective. They tend to be the ranking officers that have real field experience. They are appalled that charges against you are even being contemplated." She paused, looking at Ray directly. "On the other hand, there are voices within certain circles who are trying to turn you into a symbol for American overreaching. And, I'm sorry to say, a lot of people would react strongly to such a symbol."

"I'm a man, not a metaphor," Ray protested.

"Nonetheless, I'm afraid slapping you down would have a certain appeal in those quarters." She added, drily, "One can sympathize." As he started to bristle, Ray caught Dragon Lady #101, the I Do Have a Sense of Humor, But I'll Be Damned If I Admit It look.

"Aw, get in line, lady," he quipped, without rancor.

Fraser looked quizzically back and forth between them. Were they actually teasing each other? It seemed that something had passed between them that he had missed. Perhaps, Ray and the Inspector had forged a bond during the ordeal in the warehouse and tunnels, as hard as that was to imagine. Unbidden, his dream image of the two of them wrapped in each others' arms popped into his head. Could that have been ... real? Laughter bubbled up inside him at that ridiculous thought. He choked it off, but not before a strangled chortle had escaped.

Two heads swivelled in his direction. Fraser pretended to cough. Ray obligingly pounded him on the back, which only made his head and shoulder hurt more. Breathless, his face red, he apologized for the interruption.

Meg turned serious again. "As far as I can tell, there is one man who is leading the charge against you."

"Who?"

"Brian Forbes."

Fraser sat up straighter at the name.

Meg looked closely at him. "Do you know him, Fraser? I understand he started his career in the Yukon."

"I've met him, sir. Once," he said. "At Sergeant Gerard's trial. I think that was the first time Deputy Superintendent Forbes had returned to the Yukon in more than a decade."

"I don't know the man," she said. "Just his reputation."

"Tell me, Benny," Ray begged.

He did. About ten years Fraser's senior, Brian Forbes had started his career in the Yukon, but hadn't stayed long in the North. His rise in the RCMP had been meteoric. By the time Fraser had graduated from the Academy and had his first posting, Forbes was already a deputy superintendent in Ottawa. Photogenic and media-savvy, he had been assigned as the RCMP's representative on site at Gerald's trial.

The official position Forbes espoused was that Sergeant Gerard was a rogue officer and Fraser had done the Force a service by publicly exposing his misdeeds. The ice-cold shoulder he had given Fraser at the courthouse revealed his personal opinion on the matter. With the resignations and terminations in the wake of the Yukon Dam scandal, Forbes' career trajectory in the RCMP had skyrocketed. He had parlayed that into political office when a vacancy opened up. He was now a Member of Parliament, the chair of the RCMP oversight committee. In that position, he would have considerable influence with all law enforcement agencies, including the Surete and OPP. A powerful man to run afoul of.

"Great, just great," Ray muttered. "I need a drink."

Just then, a young monk entered the room, carrying a tray of covered dishes. There was a small silver vase on the tray with a single red rosebud in it. He set the tray in front of Meg. She lifted the cover off a dish. A delicious smell wafted from it.

"Hey, Brother Matthew?" The young man looked up at Ray. "Can you bring me some of the Elixir, please?" He turned to Fraser. "Wanna try some of that ale, Benny? For medicinal purposes? Benny?"

Fraser was staring at the plate of food in front of Meg. It was some kind of rich, dark stew with little crispy bits on top. He had a funny look on his face. Then, he screwed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Uh-oh, Ray thought. "Benny! Hey, Benny! You gonna be sick?" He reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Constable?" Meg pushed her chair back nervously, trying to get out of the line of fire.

To her and Ray's astonishment, Fraser snatched up the plate and brought it to his face. He sniffed deeply, eyes closed. Then, he did it again.

"If you're that hungry, Fraser ... " Meg began. His behavior was starting to alarm and annoy, in equal measure.

He didn't seem to hear. He grabbed a utensil and spooned stew into his mouth. He turned to Ray, eyes wide. "Venison!" He picked up one of the crispy bits, nibbled delicately on it, and shook it at Ray. "Lardons!" He took another spoonful. "Grandmother's recipe!" He nearly shouted that last.

Meg and Ray exchanged worried glances. Then, he said, soothingly, "OK, Benny. Time for bed. It's been a long day."

Fraser became aware that Thatcher, Ray and the monk were staring at him in alarm. He looked down at the plate of food in his hands, then carefully set it back in front of the Inspector. "Uh, sorry, sir." He shoved his chair back. "Excuse me. I need to pay my compliments to the chef." He bolted from the room.

Ray and Meg stared at each other, before scrambling after him.

"What is he talking about?" she said, in exasperation. "What recipe?"

"I dunno," Ray replied, mystified. "His grandmother was a terrible cook."