The Consulate ….

Meg went through her usual routine after arriving at the consulate. Turnbull brought her a mug of coffee, she re-sorted her mail, checked her e-mail and made phone calls. The last one of those phone calls had to be to the Illinois Social Services.

"Hello, I would like to speak to Callestina Roma please." Meg waited for the receptionist to transfer her.

"Hello, Callestina Roma speaking." A mature woman with a lush voice answered.

"I'm calling about Calvin Hellman." Meg began, her tone authoritative. She didn't feel this would be a problem with her diplomatic skills.

"Are you a relative?" The woman on the other end of the line asked flatly.

"No, I'm not, I'm Inspector Margaret Thatcher, Chief Liaison Officer with the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago." Meg informed her smoothly.

"What has this got to do with Social Services?" Roma asked again.

"Well, nothing, it's a long story." Meg began, feeling a fluster coming on.

"If you aren't a relative I'm afraid I won't be able to help you, it's a against policy to discuss our clients." The Roma answered, unrelenting.

Meg took a deep breath and decided to try one more time. "You don't understand, I need to speak to you about Calvin."

"If you aren't his mother, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you." The Social Services woman repeated.

"Very well, good day, Madam." Meg gripped the telephone until her fingers turned white.

"Thank you for calling." The phone line went dead in Meg's ear. She growled before slamming the receiver into it's cradle.

TAP, TAP, TAP,

"Come in." Meg bellowed, shoving her reading glasses into her top drawer.

"Good morning, Inspector Thatcher." Fraser walked in, still dressed in uniform.

"What are you doing in uniform, you're on restricted duty." Meg snapped.

Fraser looked down at his apparel as if he hadn't noticed. He'd worn his dress reds eighty percent of the time he'd been in Chicago.

"Habit I suppose, Sir." He answered, avoiding her icy glare.

"Has Social Services contacted you yet about Calvin?" Benton switched to a safer, or so he thought, subject.

"They most certainly have not. I tried to speak with Ms. Roma and unless I am his mother or a relative, she won't discuss his case." Meg answered, standing up. She couldn't sit still while Fraser stood across the desk from her. He looked like he hadn't slept well again. Meg's mood softened a bit at the thought.

"Perhaps we could take Calvin to the Illinois Social Services office after school." Fraser offered.

"Yes, that seems to be the only way to handle the situation." Meg agreed. She followed Fraser's gaze to the analog clock hanging behind her desk. A pensive expression clouded his face for a second.

"Do you have somewhere else to be, Constable Fraser?" She asked, adjusting her pencil skirt.

"Yes, Dr. Chandler's office. I rescheduled my appointment for ten o'clock this morning." He informed her reluctantly.

"Yes, very well, dismissed."

"Thank you kindly, Sir." Fraser nodded and turned on his heel. Meg wondered why she'd dismissed him, he'd been the one to come into her office. She shook her head and went back to work.

Dr. Chandler's Office ….

Fraser and left Dief at the consulate with Constable Turnbull. He gave the junior officer strict orders not to feed Dief anything other than dog food. To Dief he gave strict instructions to keep Turnbull from burning down the consulate or hurting himself.

The Mountie arrived ten minutes early for his rescheduled appointment. The receptionist greeted him, looking around him for the wolf.

"Dr. Chandler's running a few minutes behind, if you'll have a seat I'll call you." She gave him a perfunctory smile before going back to her computer monitor.

"Thank you kindly." Fraser turned on his heel. He took a seat near the door, Stetson on his lap. A television in the corner of the room showed a business report detailing how a charitable foundation had provided goats to starving families in Africa so they would have a renewable source of both food and income. Fraser watched the program intensely, absorbed in the novel idea.

"Constable Fraser," Dr. Chandler's voice broke the spell. He stood at the door leading to his office. He wore a sky blue shirt with a navy and brown tie, the cuffs rolled up to just below his elbows.

"Ah, good afternoon, Doctor." Fraser popped up, his posture straight and confident. He felt more than saw the receptionist's gaze follow him through the waiting area.

"How have you been since we last spoke?" Chandler asked genially as they walked down the corridor toward his office. Florescent lights gleamed on the surface of photographs of American National Parks.

"It's been an eventful forty-eight hours, Dr. Chandler." Fraser answered truthfully. The doctor opened his office door and ushered the Mountie inside.

"Oh, how so?" Chandler asked, pen poised. "Have you had another nightmare?"

"No, thankfully. Inspector Thatcher insisted on accompanying me to pay my condolences to Jimmy's mother. While there, we witnessed the woman being both verbally and physically abusive to her second son, Calvin. To my surprise, the Inspector insisted we have Calvin come with us, until his grandmother can be contacted. The Inspector's reaction toward the boy is …." Fraser's voice trailed off as he searched for the correct word. He frowned, running his thumb nail over his left eyebrow.

"Protective?" Dr. Chandler suggested.

"Yes, but no. Her treatment of the boy is maternal." Fraser clarified.

"How is this surprising?" Chandler latched onto the confusion he saw in the Mountie's eyes. He'd met Inspector Margaret Thatcher. He admired her intelligence and elegance, as well as her beauty.

"The Inspector, while capable of handling any situation, has never struck me as maternal." He thought back to the way she'd ran her fingers through Calvin's hair and pressed a kiss against his temple. Fraser had seen a smile on her face, a real, unguarded smile.

"This maternal side of the Inspector interests your or disturbs you?" Chandler probed, hoping to wedge the gap in Fraser's facade wider.

"Interests, ah, no, that wouldn't be appropriate." Fraser looked at the doctor, surprised by his automatic answer.

"Do you think it would interest her if she saw a paternal side of you?" Chandler followed up.

"I hadn't thought about it." Fraser frowned, his gaze toward the floor. The doctor scribbled away in the momentary lull.

"I suppose it's natural to want to nurture a child, especially knowing that he's had such a rough life." Fraser spoke as if to himself.

"During our first visit, you spoke of your father being killed, do you think your reaction to to Jimmy Hellman's suicide was influenced by that?" Chandler probed, expecting a dramatic reaction.

"Perhaps." Ben looked up at the doctor seated across from him. He avoided the other man's expectant gaze by checking his watch. Half the session remained.

"Do you know if Calvin or Jimmy had much of a relationship with their father?" The doctor switched back to a more comfortable topic. He sensed that if he pushed much farther, Fraser would shut down completely.

"Not that I'm aware of, both boys lived with their mother. I doubt if they had the same father." Fraser answered dryly. He had always known his father's identity. There had never been any reason to question otherwise.

"Would you like to tell me about your mother?" Dr. Chandler asked casually, scribbling again.

"She died when I was six, afterward I went to live with my paternal grandparents." Fraser again answered dryly. He'd related this tale too often.

"May I ask how she died?"

That had been a common question when Ben spoke of his mother. He'd practiced the answer, tamping down his grief and anger over the last two plus decades.

"She was killed by a man named Muldoon."

"Was this man arrested?" Chandler started putting the puzzle pieces together.

"No, as far as I know he fell over a cliff and died. His body was never recovered."

"That must have been difficult for you and your father. You must miss them both terribly." Chandler watched Fraser out of the corner of his eye. The Mountie swallowed hard, staring at the wall silently for a moment.

"Yes, though I feel my father is closer to me now than when he was alive." Ben couldn't say 'ghost' outright, especially not at a psychiatrist's office.

"Do you want to be a father someday, Constable Fraser?" Chandler asked, leaning back in his leather chair with brass studding.

"Yes, very much." Fraser spoke quickly. There were so many things he wanted to do with a son, or daughter, that he'd never gotten to do with his own father.

"What's the hold up?"

"I have yet to marry, though there have been several offers over the years." Fraser looked away. His awkwardness around women pained him.

"You've had women propose marriage to you?" Chandler asked, surprised.

"Yes, on numerous occasions. I doubt most of them sincerely wanted a long term relationship." Ben ducked his head and began digging at his eyebrow. "It's quite embarrassing."

"I'd say so." Dr. Chandler made a note, thoughtfully chewing at his bottom lip.

"Sometimes I dream that I'm in my long underwear and I wake up to find myself surrounded by women of all shapes, sizes and ages, they press in on my until I can't breath, I clutch my pillow in front of me as they start tearing my clothes off, somehow I escape through the throng, they follow me, chasing me down the street, the farther I run the more women join the chase. I wake up in a cold sweat, about to scream." Fraser related one of his worst nightmares.

"That's interesting. When did these dreams begin?" Chandler latched onto the dream like a dog on a bone.

"I've had them since my teens, but the dreams have worsened since arriving in Chicago." Ben shook his head and blew out a breath, shivering at the thought of being chased by a horde of women.

"Do you see any one you know in the dreams?"

"Yes, on occasion. My friend, the real Ray Vecchio's younger sister, Francesca, is often the leader of the mob. She's petite but moves like a cheetah when she has a mind to." Frannie gave Ben a daily work out, dodging her advances.

"I would love to hear Freud's analysis of this guy." Chandler thought to himself.

"Does Inspector Thatcher ever feature in your dreams?"

Ben looked up at the man strangely, suspiciously. "Yes."

Chandler knew from the set of the Mountie's jaw and the cold look in his eyes he wasn't about to elaborate. "I see you have a vivid dream life, why do you think that is?" The psychiatrist changed tactics.

"I sleep soundly for the most part." Benton went on a five minute lecture on REM sleep processes and the benefits of self hypnosis for sleep problems.

The sound of a chime brought the session to an end. Both men stood up. Dr. Chandler walked Ben to the door.

"Alright, make an appointment for the first of next week, start keeping a dream journal, to help you sort out what's going on. As you know, dreaming is the mind's way of dealing with stress from our waking hours." Chandler shook Ben's hand before bidding him good day. ***