Epilog
"We can't really get her a get well card." Cimon said, as he followed his older brother to the hospital gift store. The Thatcher family had arrived at the hospital before Meg did. Presently all the doctors were giving her a once over. The boys had been told that she was going to be fine, that there were no serious injuries and she just needed some time to recuperate, however no one said what she needed to recuperate from. "She's not sick. Do they have feel better cards?"
"I'm not thinking of a card for Aunt Meg."
"You just wanted to come her because . . ."
"We need to get a card for Constable Fraser."
"He's not sick either."
"A thank you."
Cimon nodded, very excited about the idea. "Yha, I mean, if it weren't for him . . ."
"I don't want to think about it." Will said almost forcefully.
"Right," Cimon nodded. "Not happy thoughts."
***
Fraser sat in the waiting room examining his Stetson for nothing better to do. He looked at the buckle and noticed it was smeared, he spun the hat in his hands and noticed the beginning of what might be a crack in it's leather lining. He played with the brim looking for a weakness and not finding any. All and all it was in wonderful shape. Unlike him.
He couldn't help but feel guilty for what had happened. It was blatantly obvious to everyone, even agent Ford, that Bear wouldn't have kidnapped Meg if she hadn't been connected to him. (Of course those would be the details that Ford looked for). Now, no one but Ray and Benny knew what kind of connections had dubbed her as pray, and Fraser couldn't figure out how Bear had known. Maybe he had followed the Mountie around town, maybe he had pieced it together that night at the dinner, maybe he had just been dammed lucky. In any event, it was clear the whole affair was Fraser's fault.
"That's Bullshit." Ray said when the fact had been brought up in his presence. "What did you do wrong? Throw a boomerang? Last I heard that wasn't a crime in Canada."
It wasn't a crime. It wasn't a sin. It wasn't irresponsible. It wasn't inappropriate. It wasn't even stupid. But still that one simple action had somehow snowballed into the near death of Margaret Thatcher. Fraser suddenly found himself desiring to talk to Lisa about it all.
"Ah-hem," The thick voice of William Thatcher the first cut through the waiting room. Fraser looked up, realized who was looking down on him, and then stood at attention, still holding his hat in his hand.
"Can I help you sir?" Fraser asked, nervously. The last few times he had seen the man had been less than pleasant for him.
"No son, you've done more than enough." Fraser couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing. "I just came to give you these." Mr. Thatcher handed Benny both his plaid winter coat and his leather jacket.
"Thank you sir." Fraser stuttered.
"I was talking to FBI agent Ford. A very attentive young man."
"If you say so."
"He told me that not only was it you're fault Margaret was kidnapped in the first place, but you also blundered the investigation and you involvement was totally unnecessary in the rescue attempt."
"He communicated those concerns to me as well sir, and --"
"But you see," Mr. Thatcher interrupted, a smile creeping slowly onto his lips. "I've also been talking to Margaret."
"Is she alright, sir?"
"Lost the color in her cheeks, that's all. And something like that is easy enough to regain." Fraser thought that the older man was making light of the situation, but didn't say anything. "Now I have to take everything she says with a grain of salt, you understand. She was not entirely composed in the woods, and now at this hospital they have her on god only knows what kind of drugs. But never the less I have gotten the distinct impression that--" He looked down, he was smiling broadly, but didn't want Fraser to see that. "--And this is not an easy thing to say, no matter how pleased I am to say it, but -- ." He took a deep breath. "--I was wrong about you, in the hotel."
"You were?" Fraser didn't mean to sound like an idiot, but he didn't know what else to say.
"Yes. But that is to stay between us."
"Naturally."
Her father looked up, he was wearing his genuine smile. And Fraser tried to smile back, but didn't quite make it. Never the less, her father patted him on the shoulder before walking off.
Fraser stood and watched the door swing shut behind the diplomat before deciding that he would be of more use to the inspector if he went home and got some sleep and was able to manage the consulate, and Turnbull's cheese factory emergency, tomorrow than if he stayed on the faint hope he would be able to see her. He didn't even know what he would say if he was presented with the opportunity.
He sighed and looked at the two jackets in his hands. It was cold out, very cold for September, but not cold enough to warrant his plaid jacket. He started putting the leather one on when he noticed a something in the breast pocket. He walked out of the hospital and towards his apartment, a mere seven miles away, with the coat in one hand, the jacket on only one arm and trying to scoop the foreign object out of his pocket. Once that was accomplished he slipped the jacket on his other arm and actually looked at what he had found. It was a white sealed envelope that had FRASER written on it in sketchy cursive. He opened it up to see a regular greeting card with a picture of a snowscape on the cover. On the inside was printed "Thanks for everything" and under it, in digressing levels of hand writing was signed William, Cimon, Xerxes, Leonidas, and Elly. Fraser's smile didn't wear of for at least three days.
The End