CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Her footsteps echoed off the hard surface of the concrete floor and walls, reverberating in the narrow space. The smell of bromine filled his nose as she splashed through the puddle in the center of the floor. The overhead fluorescents hummed and flickered. Above the sound of her footfalls, he strained to hear. Something was coming ... something wicked.
"Put me down, sir," he pleaded, breathless from bouncing up and down. "Save yourself!"
"Don't be sexist, Constable!" she retorted. "I can carry a fellow officer when he needs me to, as well as any man." She stumped forward, crutch under one arm, himself over her shoulder. The overhead lights flickered and went out.
Mist rose off the stone floor. Stone? Not a moment before, it was concrete, painted industrial green. He lifted his head with difficulty. Where there had been a long, straight corridor of the same ugly color, there was now a twisting, turning tunnel with walls of stone. Damp stone, caked with mold and hung with cobwebs. Torches on the walls dimly lit the dark, dank dungeon. His heart skipped a beat at the whining, crackling sound behind them.
The monster was here.
It turned the corner clumsily, careening from wall to wall, then brayed in triumph when it beheld them. Despite the lurching, shambling gait, Louis Renault was gaining on them. He smiled his charming smile. It was a grotesque leer on his dead face.
"Meg!" he pleaded. "Leave me! Run for your life!"
"I told you to stick to small talk, Fraser!" she complained. She hoisted him higher on her shoulder. "So, tell me ... how's the weather back there?"
Renault was so close now he could smell his hot, wolfish breath.
"Time to keep your promise, Benton," the dead man whispered. Then, he reached out with a cold, bloody hand and touched his cheek.
He screamed, jolting awake to big brown eyes inches from his own. He jerked in alarm, then stilled as Diefenbaker whimpered and laved his face with his tongue.
"OK, boy. I'm OK," he muttered, rubbing his soft ears before pushing the worried animal down.
Dief sat on his haunches and cocked his head. He made an inquiring noise.
"Yes, a very bad dream," Fraser conceded. He lay back on the pillow, concentrating on slowing his racing heart. As he stared up at the ceiling with its fancy plaster cornices and crystal dome light, it gradually dawned on him that this was not the cracked stained ceiling of his apartment. He slid his eyes around a large, well-appointed room, filled with books and expensive furniture. A small reading lamp on a table across the room provided the only illumination. Though the heavy brocade drapes were drawn, dimming the room, he easily recognized the library situated on the ground floor of the Consulate.
He was lying on a cot. Judging from the slightly musty smell, it was one of several that were usually kept in the basement of the building. He lifted the edge of the blanket with clumsy fingers. The scent of Irish Spring wafted up. He recognized the T-shirt, sweatpants, and white socks he usually kept in the gym bag in his office. There was a bandage in the crook of his right arm. On his left arm where Louis Renault had injected him with his special cocktail, there was a matching bandage.
He raised himself up on his elbows. Big mistake. His head pounded so hard, he thought he might actually pass out. He lay back down, breathing slowly and deeply, until the pain and vertigo receded. The nausea took a bit longer to fade. When he opened his eyes again, Dief was there, looking worried.
"I'm OK," he reassured him. The wolf made a doubtful noise, but curled up on the Afghan rug again. He rested his head on his paws, but didn't close his eyes.
Fraser schooled himself to be patient and lay still, taking stock. He hurt all over. His head throbbed. His mouth was dry as a desert. He felt ... raw, as if the skin had been flayed from his body, exposing his nerve endings to the air. The last thing he remembered ... was the sight of Victor Laszlo on the bottom step of the airstairs of the Gulfstream, with Ilsa Lund's arms wrapped tightly around him. After that, it got fuzzy. He had no idea how he had come to be on a cot in the library of the Consulate. Or what time it was. Or, the day of the week, for that matter. He fingered the soft cotton of the faded Tshirt. Or, how he had come to be in these clothes.
He turned on his side with great difficulty. Everything hurt. But, he was rewarded for his effort by the sight of a glass of water sitting on a low table, just within reach. He licked dry, chapped lips and concentrated on raising himself to a sitting position. Once upright, he breathed deeply until the room stopped spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the cot. Though it was an incredibly painful undertaking and far more exhausting than it should have been, he was pleased to see his legs obeying him once more. He reached for the glass with a shaking hand.
The first sip was sublime. It tasted like the purest water from a glacial rivulet in summer, and not at all the chemically dense city water he knew it must be. He waited a moment, but his stomach behaved itself. He drained the glass without spilling a drop, though it took both hands to hold it steady. He set it back on the table, next to a folded newspaper. Parts of a gigantic headline caught his eye. He spread it open on the table.
It was the Chicago Sun-Times, dated Sunday March 16. Banner headlines screamed:
VICTOR LASZLO ALIVE!
KIDNAPING AND MURDER AT HARRINGTON BALL
DRAMATIC RESCUE AT AIRFIELD
A handsome robust Victor beamed at him from the front page. The same photo, Fraser recalled, had run with the news of his death three months ago. There was a candid shot of Ray in his tuxedo shirtsleeves, conferring with Lieutenant Welsh; police cars and the Waldorf-Astoria marquee filled in the background. Below the fold, a boxed article sported a picture of the Inspector, looking sternly professional in red serge. He recognized it as the official photo taken when she assumed her Consulate post. The byline read "exclusive to Basil Thune, society editor."
He read quickly, though it made his head ache worse. There was much that was left out but the essential events of the evening were there. According to the Sun-Times, he had cleverly allowed himself to be captured in the basement room so as to insinuate himself with the kidnapers as the inside man. Yes, I was very clever, he thought wryly, to let Abdul sneak up on me like that. No mention of the grim business in the basement with the taser. Or the drama onboard the jet. The explosions at a marina that claimed the lives of the Spanish limousine and a boat belonging to Louis Renault were news to him. Abdul Jabbar, identified as the sole survivor of the "Chicago-Casablanca conspiracy" was in custody, said to be fully cooperating with the police.
Ray was the source of much of the information in the main article. Some comments were attributed to the Lieutenant. There was a terse statement from Agent Ford. "Today, at 0430 hours, the FBI was informed by Lieutenant Harding Welsh of the Chicago Police Department that two officers on undercover assignment at the Diplomacy Ball uncovered a kidnaping plot, rescued the victim, and arrested the surviving perpetrator. The Agency applauds the actions of Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago P.D., and RCMP officers, Constable Benton Fraser and Inspector Margaret Thatcher. The heroic efforts of these law enforcement officers saved the life of a great man. In light of the exigent circumstances, no charges are contemplated against the officers for failing to report the kidnaping to the FBI."
The Inspector's interview filled in some of the details missing from the main piece, but she had declined to comment on what had brought the undercover officers to the Ball in the first place. Fraser understood her reticence. The families of Marta and Christina should be fully informed before the press was made aware of the connection. In response to Mr. Thune's request to interview her junior officer, the Inspector had stated that Constable Fraser was under a doctor's care, recovering from injuries sustained in the line of duty. Though he was expected to make a full recovery, he was unavailable for interviews. Fraser thought his current sorry state might just be worth it, if it served to keep him out of the media spotlight.
When asked where Victor Laszlo was at this time, the Inspector replied: "Mr. Laszlo has endured a hell that I cannot begin to imagine. His good friend, the philanthropist Walter Harrington, has arranged his retreat to an undisclosed location where he can receive medical attention and recover from his ordeal in peace. I trust the ladies and gentlemen of the press will respect his privacy." The article went on to speculate that Harrington had whisked him away to his private villa on Mykonos, or his compound in the Cote d'Azur, or perhaps, his pineapple plantation on Maui.
Fraser wished he'd had a chance to say goodbye to Victor and Ilsa, but he understood the need to escape the attention. It dawned on him then that Ilsa was barely mentioned in the paper. Just a brief reference that she had been part of the diplomatic team on Victor's last mission and was not implicated in the kidnaping plot. Nothing of her crucial role in the events of the evening. Or that she was Victor Laszlo' wife. Ray and the Inspector were keeping her secret.
He looked at the date on the banner and rubbed his jaw. Judging by the stubble he encountered, at least 24 hours had elapsed since his last shave on Saturday morning. He frowned. Unless someone had shaved him, as well as bathed and dressed him. Was that today's newspaper, making this still Sunday? He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantle. 8:29. Am or pm was anybody's guess. He contemplated getting to his feet and pulling the drapes, but he doubted he'd get five paces before falling on his face.
Before he could formulate a plan, the front doorbell rang. That was an understatement. Whoever it was leaned on the bell, making it peal non-stop. The identity of the ersatz Quasimodo was revealed in the next instant. Ray Vecchio shouted, "TURNBULL! LET ME IN! TURNBULL!" as he pounded on the door.
Dief sprang to his feet, his fur rising along the ridge of his back as he growled, low in his throat.
"TURNBULL!"
Fraser heard running feet in the hall outside the library. Turnbull must have opened the heavy front door because he next heard a cacophony of voices clamoring for the Detective.
"CHICAGO PD! LET ME THROUGH!" Ray yelled.
A stumping sound down the hall outside the library, then "TURNBULL! CLOSE THAT DOOR!"
"YES, MA'AM! I'M TRYING, MA'AM! MIND YOUR CAMERA, SIR!" Turnbull shouted. The door slammed. Quiet descended.
Fraser and Dief exchanged glances. Footsteps in the hall, the dull murmur of voices, then the door to the library creaked open. Ray stuck his head around the jamb. He grinned broadly when he saw Fraser looking back at him. "Benny! You're awake!"
"Yes, Ray," he croaked.
The detective flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lights, then ushered Inspector Thatcher ahead of him. Meg, clad in black slacks and white sweater, stumped with her crutch to a leather armchair arranged in a grouping around the coffee table. She sat heavily, propping the crutch against the table.
Fraser had tried to rise when she entered the room. She saw him struggle and rolled her eyes. "At ease, Constable," she said, impatiently. Ray set an ottoman in front of her, and gently lifted her bound ankle in its fuzzy pink slipper on to it.
"Thank you, Detective," she said, surprised at his solicitude.
"No problem." He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it over the back of another chair. He sat, sighing deeply as he wriggled his back end. He had been on his feet for most of the last several hours.
"How do you feel, Constable?" she asked, formally.
"I'm fine, sir," he rasped.
"Fine, huh?" Ray glanced at Meg. "I told you he'd say that."
"Yes, you did," she acknowledged.
"But, I am," he repeated.
Ray looked him over. With Frannie's makeup washed away, his black eye stood out starkly in his pale face. There was a dark circle under the other one. But, they no longer were the eyes of a hopped-up junkie looking to score his next fix. Ray knew that you couldn't go through what Benny had gone through without residual effects, both physical and mental. That was a fact of life, but one that his stubborn friend refused to accept. Ray had seen the grimace as he tried to stand when Thatcher entered the room. The big goof was obviously in pain, but doing his damnedest to conceal it. He glanced at Meg to see if she was buying it. She was looking at Fraser as skeptically as he was. Ray decided it was time to impart a lesson ... and have a little fun.
"Sure," he said, heartily. "Anybody can see you're fine."
Meg shot him a strange look. Maybe she should loan Vecchio her glasses. Her junior officer sat stiffly on the edge of the cot, his white-knuckled hands gripping the sides. His face was pasty with the strain of holding himself upright.
"I'll get you a chair," Ray offered.
"That's not necessary, Ray," he protested. "I'm quite comfortable here – " But Ray had already moved an armchair up, so it faced the Inspector.
"Stand up, Benny. I"ll move the cot out of the way."
Fraser stared at him suspiciously, but Ray gave him his best altar-boy look. He glanced at the Inspector. She was watching him like a hawk.
"I like eyes at a level, Constable," she said, patting the seat of the chair.
Fraser took a deep breath and pushed himself up off the cot. He managed a few inches before his shaking arms gave out and he dropped back. Red-faced, he looked up to see Ray smirking at him. Then, his friend held out both hands. With an air of injured dignity, Fraser took them. Between the two of them, he managed to lurch to his feet and shuffle to the chair. Fraser leaned back, embarrassed by his weakness but grateful for the support the chair gave his back and legs. Ray moved the cot back against the wall and resumed his seat, without comment.
"Comfortable, Constable?" Meg asked, politely.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Without skipping a beat, she bellowed for Turnbull. The men jumped, startled at the volume. So did Dief.
The young officer appeared at the open door. He looked harried, but managed a quick smile for Fraser. "Yes, sir?"
"Bring a tray, " she said, vaguely. "And Fraser's medication."
"I don't need any – "
"Doctor's orders," Ray cut in.
"But – "
"Don't try to minimize, Fraser," Thatcher said, in a steely tone. Her expression softened. "Victor told me what Renault did to you." It made her queasy to think of his ordeal at the hands of that psychopath. "You were shot eleven times with a taser!"
"Twelve," he corrected automatically, recalling the first zap that Abdul had administered. On reflection, he realized that hadn't helped his case.
"Ouch." Ray winced in sympathy.
Meg added, "He also told me about the drugs."
Fraser flushed with shame. "Yes." He swallowed, before saying, "Sir, I ... must submit myself for disciplinary action. I - I took cocaine, methamphetamine, benzedrine, others ... I don't know the names, but I'm sure they were illicit."
"Noted, Constable," she said, briskly. "I have already devised a suitable punishment."
"But, he didn't take the drugs," Ray protested. "Renault stuck him! There's a difference!"
"I consented to it, Ray," he pointed out.
"You had no choice!"
"Detective, this is an RCMP internal matter," Meg said, calmly. "Please stay out of it."
As his friend bristled on his behalf, Fraser said, "Please, Ray. The Inspector is correct." Ray subsided, though he continued to scowl at the Dragon Lady.
"Very well, Constable," she said, taking a breath. "I have thought very carefully about the discipline that such a transgression requires. And I have decided – "
She stopped as Turnbull returned. Ray moved the newspaper out of his way so he could set his laden tray on the coffee table. It contained pots of tea and coffee and accouterments, a plate of cookies, a glass of water, and a little dish containing three pills in varying pastel hues. Thatcher thanked him and he left the room.
Ray poured tea for her and coffee for himself. He tossed a cookie to Dief, then took a bite of one. Oatmeal raisin, still warm from the oven.
Meg settled back with her cup. "As I was saying, Fraser. I have thought long and hard about the appropriate discipline for your offense." She sipped tea, leaving her subordinate in suspense.
Fraser waited patiently, but Ray couldn't stand it. He cracked first. "Well?! What is it already?!"
She ignored his outburst. "Your punishment, Constable, is ... to take the pills on that dish, four times a day, until further notice."
Fraser opened his mouth to protest. One look at her face and he closed it again. "Yes, sir," he said, crisply.
Ray couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he handed him the glass of water. Fraser dutifully swallowed each pill in turn. When he was finished, he accepted Ray's offer of tea. He sipped the hot liquid carefully. It tasted like the nectar of the gods, dispelling the foul taste in his mouth. He declined a cookie, waiting to see how the tea settled.
Meg settled her ankle more comfortably. "How bad is it out there?" she asked Ray.
"It's intense. All the locals, plus some of the national press," he said. "I almost had to use my gun to get through." He pointed at the newspaper. "Nice picture of you in there."
"You, too."
He frowned. "I thought it made my nose look big."
"Not at all," she said, unconvincingly.
"Mr. Thune?" Fraser asked.
"You promised him an exclusive after the ball," Meg explained.
"I did. Thank you, sir."
She nodded. "I knew you'd want to keep your word."
Fraser froze with the cup halfway to his lips. Her words evoked an image of a dying Louis Renault, blindly groping for his hand. He ruthlessly pushed those thoughts away, and took refuge behind his teacup.
"Thune's as happy as a pig in shi – I mean, mud," Ray said. "But, that mob outside isn't thrilled. I threw 'em a bone or two, but they're looking for some real meat."
"Let them eat cake," she said, with a cavalier wave of her hand. At his skeptical look, she added, "I'll give them another statement tomorrow. Mr. Thune can keep his exclusive a little while longer."
"You know who they really want," he said, looking meaningfully at Fraser.
He gulped hot tea as the Inspector turned her gaze his way. "M-me?"
"You," they chorused. She added, "Don't worry, Constable. You're under doctor's orders not to be disturbed."
He breathed a sigh of relief. "I have a doctor?"
"Chief of Staff at Loyola and Harrington's personal physician," Ray said, then added, in admiration, "One phone call from ol' Walter was all it took. The doc met the ambulance at the ER and personally checked you out. Then, he arranged your transfer here." At Fraser's quizzical look, he explained, "The hospital would be a bad place to be when the story broke." He made a face. "And, Agent Ford's pretty pissed. We figured he couldn't bother you here."
"Oh." He sipped tea. After a moment, he said, "Marta and Christina. They weren't mentioned in the articles."
"We held that back for now," Ray confirmed, his face somber. "But, their families know." He looked down at his hands. "I talked to Marta's parents. Told them what she did ... how she was a hero ... that without her ..." He trailed off. "I think it helped."
Fraser nodded. Perhaps, the knowledge of their daughter's courage and resourcefulness would ease their pain. He hoped so. He sipped his tea in silence, then asked, curiously. "How did you know we were at the airfield? That Ugarte and Renault planned to steal the Harrington jet? The newspaper didn't say."
Ray leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked smug. "Elementary, my dear Fraser," he said, in a very bad English accent. "We deduced it."
Fraser's eyebrows nearly climbed to his hairline. Ray grinned and proceeded to fill him in on the action since he and Renault left the ballroom together, a lifetime ago. Meg was content to sip tea, putting in the occasional detail.
Turnbull stuck his head in the door. "Ottawa on line 1, ma'am," he said to Meg. She reached for the phone on the small table at her elbow and pressed a button. "Margaret Thatcher speaking," she said, briskly. "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir." It went on in that vein. Ray tuned her out and reached for another cookie.
"You want some dry toast, or broth, or something, Benny?"
He shook his head, leaning closer. "Ray," he said, in a low voice. "Can you drive me home?"
Ray gave him an incredulous look. "Forget about it, Benny. You're stuck here for the duration." As he started to protest, he added, exasperated, "Are you nuts? That mob outside would eat you alive! They probably have your apartment staked out, too. My house is surrounded."
"Oh." He sat back, feeling trapped. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour. "What day is it, Ray?"
He blinked. "It's Sunday."
"Evening?"
"Yeah, sleepyhead. You've slept all day." At his look of dismay, Ray explained, "You passed out at the airfield, remember?" Fraser shook his head. "Remember the ambulance ride? Or the hospital?" He shook his head twice more. "Yeah, I didn't think so. The doctor said you were really out of it," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. "After he heard what Renault did to you, he gave you a shot in the other arm. He thought you'd stay asleep till tomorrow morning. He'll be back then to check on you." He washed the cookie down with a swig of coffee. "Are you really OK, Benny?"
He nodded. "Sore muscles. Bit of a headache."
Ray rolled his eyes. Benton Fraser, master of understatement. "You have to tell the doctor everything. If you don't, Benny ... I swear, I'll have you back at the hospital so fast, your head will spin. Reporters be damned."
Fraser kept to himself that his head was already spinning. "Really, Ray. I'm fi – "
"Promise me," he insisted.
He looked down and away, hiding the flush that crept across his features. "I -I promise." That seemed to satisfy Ray. Fraser brought the teacup to his lips and sipped. He plucked at the fabric of his shirt absently, glancing at Meg.
After he did this a few times, Ray noticed. "Something bothering you, Benny?"
He lowered his voice even further. "Did you ... uh ... do this?" hs asked, fingering the fabric. "I mean, I don't know how I got in these clothes ..."
"Not me, Benny," he said. "I've been working the case. Haven't seen you since the ambulance took you away." He yawned hugely. "'Scuse me." He jerked his head toward Thatcher. "It was probably her."
At Fraser's horrified expression, he stopped teasing. "It must have been Turnbull or the doc," he assured him.
"You're sure?" he asked, hopefully.
Ray couldn't resist one last zinger. "Nah, I'm just guessing." He looked at the wolf. "Hey, who stripped him, Dief? Yip once for Turnbull, and twice for the Inspector."
But, he just grinned at them and wouldn't answer. Ray ran a finger alongside his nose. Dief returned the gesture.
"Ingrate," Fraser muttered.
With a final "yes, sir," Thatcher hung up the phone. She looked stunned.
"Sir? Are you alright?"
"Th-that ..." She swallowed and tried again. "That was the Prime Minister."
Ray whistled. "That's like a big deal, right?"
"A very big deal, Ray," Fraser said, equally in awe.
"He said ..." Meg paused. "He said, 'Well done, Inspector Thatcher.'" She hugged herself. "He called me 'Inspector Thatcher.'" She smiled. "The Prime Minister knows my name."
"What about Fraser?" Ray asked, impatiently. "Does he know his name, too?"
"Ray," Fraser began.
"Inspector!" Ray snapped his fingers in her face. "Hey, Inspector!"
"Wh-what?" She looked blank. He jerked his thumb at Fraser. "Oh, yes. Sorry. He said, 'Constable Fraser is a credit to his country, too.'" She paused. "Too? That means ... he thinks I'm a credit!"
Ray smiled at her starstruck expression. It matched Benny's. He had forgotten all about who stripped him naked and scrubbed him like a baby.
He asked her, "Anybody seen the lovebirds?"
"No," she said, smiling dreamily. She was still on Cloud Nine.
Fraser looked accusingly at Diefenbaker. No matter how much he chastised him, the wolf was not good with birds. He considered them a tasty snack. If lovebirds had disappeared, it was likely that he was the culprit. But, Dief looked innocently back from his place on the carpet.
There was a knock at the open door of the library. Fraser looked up to see Ilsa Lund and Victor Laszlo standing there, arm in arm.
"May we come in?" she asked.
"Of course!" Meg exclaimed.
Fraser stared at Ilsa. She had traded her ball gown for slacks and a sweater, her heels for loafers ... no jewelry ... hair brushed back from her scrubbed face. He had thought Ilsa Lund a beautiful woman when he had discovered her weeping in the windowseat. Now, she was incandescent ... as if she was lit from within.
"Close your mouth, Fraser," Meg said, sourly. "You look like a codfish."
His jaw snapped shut. He heard Ray's do the same.
Ray got up and fetched more chairs. He held Ilsa's for her. She reached up and laid her hand on his. "Thank you, Ray," she said, warmly.
He hastily withdrew his hand, glancing guiltily at her husband. "Uh ... you're welcome."
She frowned, dropping her hands to her lap.
"Ilsa, he is looking at you in a way that is making me extremely jealous."
Ray whirled. "No! It's just – " he began, only to see Victor Laszlo bending over to rub Dief's belly. The wolf was lying on his back, gazing adoringly at his wife. At Ray's outburst, Laszlo looked up at him with a quizzical expression.
He hesitated, then extended his hand. "Ray Vecchio, Mr. Laszlo. We ... uh ... haven't been properly introduced ... I saw you across the crowded tarmac ..."
The diplomat took his hand. "It was some enchanted evening, was it not?"
Ray snorted. "That's one way of putting it, sir."
"Young man, you need no introduction," he said, warmly. "Ilsa has told me all about you."
Ray swallowed. "All?" he repeated.
"Yes, Ray," Ilsa confirmed. "I told Victor everything."
Victor looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Thank you, Ray," He released his hand.
"Uh ... no problem, sir."
"Call me Victor."
"Victor," Ray repeated, and resumed his seat.
Fraser rubbed his throbbing temples. "I thought ... the paper said ... you were in Mykonos," he stammered.
"Benton, you know you can't believe everything you read in the newspaper," Ilsa said, in a mock-stern voice.
He looked at Meg. "But ... you told Mr. Thune – "
"The truth," she finished for him. "I said Walter Harrington arranged for Victor Laszlo to recover at an undisclosed location." She said, haughtily. "I am not responsible for the wild speculation of the mass media, Constable."
"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."
Ilsa reached across the table and took his hand. "You were indisposed, Benton." Her clear blue eyes locked with his. "We couldn't leave without saying goodbye."
He stared at her, unable to look away from those remarkable eyes. She released his hand and accepted a cup of tea from Meg. He looked up to see everyone staring at him.
Victor rescued him. "You look much better, Ben."
Fraser cleared his throat. "You too, sir."
Victor had showered and shaved. His hair was still long, but it was clean and neatly combed. He wore the jeans and flannel shirt that Fraser kept in the gym bag with the sweats. The clothes hung on Victor's thin frame. While the effects of his ordeal could not be eradicated overnight, he looked years younger. Closer to his true age of forty-seven, if the newspaper was accurate in that detail.
"I thought we had settled that 'sir' business," he said, in mild rebuke.
"We did ... Victor."
He fingered his shirt. "Thank you for the loan, Ben."
"You, too, Meg," Ilsa added.
Meg and Fraser chorused "You're welcome." She added, "Did you sleep well?"
"The Queen's bed is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in," Victor said. Fraser noticed that he hadn't actually answered her question. While his tone was light, the diplomat's eyes held a haunted expression.
Turnbull stepped into the room. "The sandwiches, ma'am?"
"Yes, Constable," Meg affirmed.
"Back in a jif."
Ray perked up at that. It had been a long time since the sumptuous spread at the Waldorf. Since then, all he'd had was a couple of stale donuts he found on Gardino's desk, dunked in cold coffee to soften them up, and Turnbull's cookies. His stomach growled loudly.
"Dief!" he admonished. The wolf looked up resentfully, before resettling at Ilsa's feet.
The conversation stayed away from the dramatic events of the last evening. But, after those intense experiences, returning to the mundane took on a surreal quality for each of them. There were awkward pauses. Meg's mind was still on her phone call. Fraser, clearly not at his best, had exhausted his repertoire of small talk at the ball and was mostly silent. Ray felt awkward sitting next to Ilsa's husband. It was silly. He hadn't done anything to feel guilty about, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he had. Victor, so recently back from the dead, was not exactly up on current events. He looked blank at Ray's "How 'bout those Bulls?" salvo.
Ilsa, bless her, did her best, carrying the conversational ball mostly by herself. When she admired the decor in the library, Meg sat up straighter. The redecorating had been her pet project. Ray's ears pricked up when Victor asked Meg if the ugly painting over the fireplace was an asteroid. When she confirmed that it was, Ray blinked. Aha! That gave new meaning to the riotous splotches of red, black and green paint. But, as she, Ilsa and Victor enthused over it, it became apparent that Asteroid was the artist's name, not the title.
He peered at the painting, trying without success to see the formal narrative structure collapsing into free-flowing image construction that unfolded in a synergy of visual motifs. David Something-that-sounded-like-asteroid was apparently a genius. Ray didn't want to reveal his ignorance by asking them to spell the name. He frowned, feeling like an uncultured bumpkin.
Fortunately, Turnbull was back in a jif, bearing a silver tray. He set the sideboard, usually covered with Canadian periodicals, with plates, cutlery and napkins. A bowl of fresh fruit completed the tableau. Turnbull set a platter in the cleared space with a bit of a flourish.
Ray rose to check out the spread, nearly tripping over Dief who had beaten him there. The platter was piled high with sandwiches. Dainty little things with the crusts cut off. There were three kinds of bread, and six different fillings, including the homemade pate Turnbull had included in the picnic basket on Friday. Christ, was that just two days ago?
He put his hands on his hips. "What? No peanut butter and jelly?"
"I'm sorry, Detective," Turnbull said, abashed. "I had to make do with what was on hand. I can't get to the market with that ... that ... " He stopped. "Those people out there," he finished, politely.
"I'm kidding!" Ray said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "This is great!" His stomach rumbled again, emphasizing his point.
"Thank you, sir!" he said, beaming. "Oh," he said, with an apologetic glance at Fraser. He reached into the pocket of his red tunic and withdrew several little packets of saltines. He arranged them artistically on a plate and left the room. He returned with fresh coffee and tea and an assortment of soft drinks. When he was finished, Meg invited everyone to partake. There was a flurry of activity as Victor served Meg, Ilsa took care of Dief, and Ray fetched Fraser crackers and Canada Dry. Then, they filled their own plates and sat.
Victor looked dazedly at the plate on his lap. It had been a long time since he had seen this much food. He picked up a red, ripe apple. "I thought I would never taste one of these again," he said, softly. He took a bite, closed his eyes and emitted a sound of pure pleasure.
"Hey, get a room," Ray muttered, without thinking. Heads swivelled his way. He froze, his sandwich poised in front of his face. "Oh, sorry," he said, flustered. "My bad."
Victor stared at him. Then, his lips quirked, and he burst out laughing. It was infectious. Ilsa joined in, then Meg. Even Fraser, though his sore ribs cut his hilarity short. When an alarmed Turnbull dashed into the room, Ray lost it too.
At last, they wound down. Victor pressed a gaily colored napkin to his streaming eyes. "I th-think I n-needed that." He chortled a few more times, then resumed his meal. But at the crisp snap of his teeth biting into the fruit, Ilsa started giggling, setting them off again.
The atmosphere was much more relaxed as they finished their meal. Fraser was pleased that the crackers and ginger ale stayed where he put them. Though still aching, his head had stopped spinning and the queasiness had abated, somewhat.
Ilsa adjusted the ottoman under Meg's foot. "You have been looking quite pleased with yourself this evening, Meg. Has something happened?"
"The Prime Minister called me!" she said, proudly.
"How is Jean?" Victor asked.
Meg blinked at him, all the wind taken out of her sails. "I -I don't know. I didn't think to ask." She looked stricken. "I should have asked, shouldn't I?! He must think me terribly rude – "
"I'm sure he doesn't," Ilsa said, with a sharp glance at her husband. "Tell us what he said!"
Meg related the phone call, word for word.
"That's wonderful, Meg!" Victor said, somewhat chastened.
"What did your parents say when you told them?" Ilsa asked.
Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God! I forgot to call them!" She reached for the crutch. "Excuse me." She stumped to the hall, shouting for Turnbull to help her to her office.
Ray looked after her, amused. So, the Dragon Lady had a mom and dad. It made her seem actually human.
Ilsa said, "Will you help me clear, Ray? It would seem that Constable Turnbull has his hands full."
"Sure," he said. They gathered the empty dishes and uneaten food and left the room. Dief trotted after them, hoping to score some tidbits.
Fraser and Victor faced each other across the coffee table. It was the first time they had been alone since the events in the Gulfstream. The silence stretched.
At last, Victor broke it. "This is absurd."
Fraser blinked. "What?"
"This ... " He gestured vaguely with his hands. "... quiet between us." He scratched his chin. "I have a reputation for being garrulous, you know."
"Yes, I've heard that." After another long pause, he added, "I don't." Fraser tugged his ear. "Although, I am told my Inuit stories are rather long-winded."
"Well, perhaps, one of those, then." Victor looked expectant.
But, Fraser was blank. "I'm sorry. Nothing comes to mind."
Victor snorted. "Never mind, Ben." He ran a hand across his face. "It's just that I feel so ... out of joint." He made a grand gesture encompassing himself, Fraser, the room, the Consulate. "As if ... none of this is real and I will wake up any moment and find myself still in a cellar."
Fraser nodded in sympathy. "After what you've been through, it will take some time to readjust to normality."
"Normality," he echoed, rubbing his jaw. He made a face. "It feels odd ... without the beard."
Fraser shifted painfully, his muscles protesting that he had been too long out of the cot. "Victor, may I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Why are you here? At the Consulate, I mean?" He added, hastily, "Mr. Harrington would have arranged for your stay anywhere in the city ... anywhere in the world, for that matter. Why stay here, with all those reporters outside?"
"The reporters weren't here when we arrived, Ben."
"But, why come to the Consulate in the first place?"
Victor gave him a patient look. "You really don't know?"
Fraser shook his head.
"It's as Ilsa said. We couldn't leave without saying goodbye ... and thanking you," he said, gently. "And this was where you were."
That flustered Fraser. "But, that's not necessary," he blurted. "I only did my duty."
"Duty?" Victor scoffed. "Come on, Ben! You saved my life!"
"You saved mine, sir," he pointed out. "When Renault was tasering me. And later, when you got me on my feet ..."
"Yes, alright," he acknowledged. "But, this isn't a competition. We can agree that we helped each other." He paused. "But, what you did, Ben. What you promised Louis ... the sacrifice you were willing to make ... "
Fraser flushed and looked away.
Victor ran a hand through his hair. "I am making you uncomfortable. I don't mean to." He paused in thought. "It's not something that we men talk about, is it? What Louis would have done to you ..." He trailed off.
"You're right." Fraser's voice was low, lower than low. "It's not something we talk about." He desperately wanted to escape this conversation. He needed to be alone, to absorb all that had happened. But he knew he couldn't count on his legs. And, where could he go anyway? He was trapped. In this chair. In this room. In this building. With ... with people. His heart beat faster, and he could feel sweat breaking out on his upper lip.
"Don't you think it's better not to keep it in?" Victor prompted.
"No." His lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't." His heart was hammering in his chest now.
Victor saw his distress and backed off. "OK, Ben." he soothed. "We don't have to talk about it. Not if you don't want to." He drew a deep breath. "What I wanted to say is that ... I haven't told anyone. Not even Ilsa. The police know that Louis killed Miguel, stunned me and took you hostage. They think it was an act of mercy on Louis' part...to leave me alive. I didn't tell them– "
"– that it was a contract." Fraser's mouth twisted, as if he had tasted something bitter. "A deal with the devil."
"Not a devil. A man," Victor said, gently. "A man with a sick mind."
Fraser's head shot up. "No!" He spoke through gritted teeth. "He was a monster."
"Ben ..."
"A monster!" he repeated. His tenuous control broke. The floodgates opened and the words he had tried to hold back came tumbling out. "He murdered Marta and Christina and Strasser and Karim ... he nearly killed Meg ... and he reveled in it! I don't understand! How could he do those ... terrible things ... and then save me? Why? Why me?"
To his horror, Fraser realized he was close to tears. He bit his lip, forcing his wildly fluctuating emotions to heel by sheer force of will. When he spoke again, his voice was once more under a semblance of control. "You knew him. Please, Victor. Tell me why he did that."
Victor reacted as if Fraser had struck him. "How can you ask me that?! I didn't know him at all! Any of them!" He scrubbed his face with his hand. "I trusted Miguel, Emil, Louis ... even, Karim ... I was betrayed by people I loved, people I thought I knew." He choked back his own tears. "Do you know what that feels like?"
"Yes," Fraser said, remembering exactly what that felt like. He reached out impulsively and gripped the older man's bony shoulder. The muscles there quivered with tension. Just like his own.
Victor looked up, his eyes brimming. "I'll never forgive myself for the deaths of those women, for Meg, for the ordeal they put you through ..." His voice broke. "If only I had opened my eyes ... none of this would have – "
Fraser gave him a little shake. "It's not your fault, Victor. You were ... blindsided."
He stilled. For the first time, he actually understood what Ray tried to tell him in a dreary hospital room all those months ago. And by giving Ray's words now to Victor, paradoxically, he found some small measure of comfort for himself. He said, softly, "You have to find a way to forgive yourself."
"How?" Victor asked, bleakly.
Fraser's voice was rueful. "When I figure that out, I'll let you know."
Victor snorted a little laugh. He reached up to cover Fraser's hand with his own.
"I do not know why Louis saved you," he murmured. "Perhaps, a moment of ... of grace ... at the end." He shook his head. "We'll never know. All that matters, Ben ... is that he did."
Fraser took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He sat back in his chair, feeling his heart gradually slow to its normal rhythm. "That's what Ray said," he murmured.
"Your partner?" Victor asked, tentatively. "He is a good man?"
"The best," he said, firmly.
He nodded, thoughtfully. "Ilsa thinks so, too. But, I am not sure anymore ..."
"But, he is!" Fraser frowned. "Did Mrs. Harrington mention the Chippewa Room? Because I can assure you that Ray hasn't ... " He rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "I mean, he and Ilsa ... uh ... didn't actually ... er ... "
"I haven't seen Tuppy," Victor said. "Why? What happened in the Chippewa Room?"
Fraser opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. "Nothing," he said, lamely.
Victor gave him a quizzical look, but let it go. "I didn't mean to denigrate your friend. Ray appears to be an honorable man. A decent man, in the best sense of the word."
"He is," Fraser repeated. "Without a doubt."
"But, it's not him that I doubt, Ben! It's me!" He stopped, and took a shaky breath. "I have always believed in people. That inside, they were basically good at heart. If I lose that ... faith ... how can I go on with my work?"
But, Fraser knew the answer to that one. "Ilsa," he said, simply.
Victor looked at him.
"She's a part of you, a part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," Fraser assured him. "She'll help you find your way."
Victor bowed his head, overcome and speechless.
Fraser said it for him. "You're a lucky man, Victor Laszlo."
"I am," he said, huskily. He cleared his throat. "I am in love with Ilsa Lund." He added, not without a drop of humor, "I'm not the only one."
Fraser started. "Oh, no. I'm not – " That was true. He wasn't in love with Ilsa. But, if he could ever let go of Victoria ... He glanced longingly at the ottoman and wondered if that was even possible.
"I know you're not, Ben," Victor reassured him. "But, from the first time I saw them together, I knew there was something between Ray and Ilsa." He shrugged. "Since no one is to blame, I demand no explanations." His smile was self-deprecating. "I may be blind. But, I am not that blind. Your partner is in love with my wife."
"B-but, they met only yesterday –" Fraser spluttered, defensive on his friend's behalf.
"Oh, Ben," he said, as if speaking to a child. "Don't you know that it only takes a moment?"
"Or, a day, and a night, and a day," he murmured.
"What?"
"Nothing." Fraser took a breath. "Ilsa loves you, Victor. You can't ... you don't doubt that?"
"No, I don't," he acknowledged. He glanced at the open door of the library. A look of sympathy stole over his thin face. "It's your friend I feel for."
At that, Fraser knew Victor Laszlo was going to be just fine. He followed his gaze. But, he too felt for his friend ...
In the kitchen, Ilsa set the heavy tray on the counter next to the sink, then turned on the faucet. Ray set his own burden on the worktable. He picked up a brightly flowered apron from the back of a chair, and handed it to her without comment.
They worked without speaking. Ray packed the uneaten sandwiches in a container, tossing a couple to Dief under the table, and found room in the fridge. Meanwhile, Ilsa scraped the dirty dishes. Then, she filled the sink with hot, soapy water. He picked up a dish towel.
Ilsa washed, Ray dried. It was the most mundane of activities, one he did almost every night, usually with his sister's kids underfoot. Now, it seemed to him fraught with cosmic significance. Like they were in a time warp, cloistered in this intimate space, the outside world ceasing to exist as long as there were dishes to wash and dry. He knew it was the last time he would ever be alone with Ilsa Lund, and that knowledge hung heavily on him, robbing him of words. Not even a wisecrack about Turnbull's taste in aprons came to mind.
With each dish and utensil she handed him, the silence between them grew like a living thing. Finally, the last dish was stacked, clean and dry, on the counter. She pulled the plug. The water gurgled down the drain. She gripped the edge of the sink with both hands.
Ray broke the silence. "When do you leave?"
She didn't look at him. "Soon. When Constable Turnbull told us Benton was awake, we called Walter." She bowed her head. "He's making the arrangements now."
"Do you know where you'll go?"
She shook her head. "Out of the country. Somewhere secluded."
"How long will you be gone?"
She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know, Ray." She watched the last of the suds circle the drain. "Victor will need time ... quiet." She took a breath. "He barely slept, despite his exhaustion. Nightmares, thinking he was still a prisoner."
"It takes time. He'll be OK."
"Will you?" Her voice was soft, barely audible.
"Sure," he said, unconvincingly. "Why wouldn't I be?"
She untied the apron and neatly folded it over the chair. At last, she faced him. "Ray ..." She brushed her hair from her eyes. "This is the last time we ..." She trailed off. "There is so much I want to say ... but the words just won't come." She paused. "Except 'thank you,' and that seems poor and inadequate."
"You don't have to say anything," he said, huskily.
"Yes, I do." She took a breath. "You made me feel, Ray ... You made me feel something I never thought I would feel again." She looked up at him, her eyes brimming. "Then, you gave me back my husband."
Ray's heart was too full to answer.
She stepped into his arms. He held her close. Time stopped in the tiny kitchen. Ray reveled in her warmth, the scent of her hair, the softness of her cheek against his. He wanted to do Benny's Zen thing, to seal this in memory forever, but he didn't know how.
"Kiss me, Ray," she whispered. "Kiss me for the last time."
He touched his lips to hers, genuinely intending to make it a chaste, brotherly peck. Her husband was in the next room, after all. But at the feel of her mouth under his, her body melting against him, any honorable intentions deserted him. This was not the first time he had felt her lips on his. They had kissed twice before. First, in the Chippewa Room, when she had smeared him with lipstick to fool Tuppy Harrington into thinking they were lovers. The second time, he had planted one on her when he discovered Benny wasn't dead after all. That hardly counted. Hell, he'd have kissed Dief at that moment. But, this time ...
Sometimes, a kiss was just a kiss. And sometimes, it was much more ...
He kissed her for the last time with all his heart and soul, with everything he had, with all the passion they might have shared, and all the regret of knowing they were never meant to be. When he released her at last, they were both trembling. She ducked her head, her face flushing the prettiest shade of pink. He lifted her chin in his hand until her beautiful blue eyes met his.
"Here's looking at you, kid," he said, tenderly.
At the sound of the siren outside, they broke apart. Ray looked down at his feet, only to see Diefenbaker grin at him, then swipe a paw across his nose.
