CHAPTER THREE

Ben stuck out his tongue. The snowflake that drifted on to it tasted like gingerbread. Interesting. The one before that had a bright lemony flavor. And the one before that, dark chocolate. As the snow drifted around him, he felt content. He could sit here tasting snowflakes all day. Though barefoot and clad in his favorite red longjohns, he was warm and dry. That was curious. But, it was too much of a bother to try to figure it out. He was happy to sit in the snow and drift. He smiled at the pun, then stuck out his tongue and tasted coconut.

Diefenbaker barked in the distance. Ben looked up. The wolf was cavorting in the snow, ostensibly chasing a white snow hare. Dief had no intention of catching the animal. He was just having fun, enjoying a beautiful day in the Yukon. Ben squinted at the bright sun glinting off the snow crust. Bright sun in the middle of a snowstorm was another point that mildly piqued his curiosity, but not enough to delve further into the anomaly.

Ben frowned as a sudden shadow loomed over him, blocking out the sun. Then, he caught a whiff of a tantalizingly familiar scent. He sniffed appreciatively, trying to identify it, remembering that it was a smell he liked. What was it? As his mind suddenly made the connection, his eyes flew open. A face loomed over him, extremely close. Ben yelped, jolting fully awake. His overtaxed body screamed in protest as he bolted upright and he groaned as he fell back against the pillows, heart racing like a runaway train.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher squealed as she jerked back from the bed. She tripped over her own feet and bumped into a table. Water sloshed out of a pitcher. She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heart.

"Don't do that, Fraser!" she said, sharply. She tugged at her jacket, and tossed hair out of her eyes, assuming a dignified air that she did not, at that moment, actually possess.

"Sorry, sir." Fraser managed. He was struggling to regain his composure, slow his heart rate, and calm his protesting muscles, while figuring out what the Inspector was doing in his apartment. He sat up slowly. As he took in his surroundings, his confusion cleared. He was in hospital. The medications that his doctors and Ray had insisted he take were clouding his mind, though he had to admit that he had slept well and soundly as a result.

Now that he was awake, and so abruptly awakened, he felt the full measure of the abuse his body had taken last night. He had been lucky. The battery of tests he had been subjected to in the emergency room had confirmed no concussion, fractures, or internal bleeding. "Just soft tissue injuries," the doctors were pleased to report. Fraser's soft tissues, however, were far from pleased. He drew himself to seated attention in the presence of his superior officer, with difficulty.

Thatcher immediately regretted her sharp rebuke. She had a tendency to react aggressively when surprised, and Fraser had surprised her. He had looked dead to the world, pale and so still she had bent over him to see if he was actually breathing. She was sorry now that she had disturbed his rest, but didn't know how to say so. Instead, she fell back on training.

"At ease, Constable," she said, stiffly. There was no visible change in Fraser's posture in the bed. She frowned. "I said, 'at ease'" He stared blankly at her, then looked about him in confusion. Then, back up at her, clearly at a loss as to how to comply. She came forward, searching impatiently in the tangle of sheets and blanket for the hospital bed's control device. Fraser's obvious unease at her rooting around in the bedclothes irritated her further. She was only trying to help, for pity's sake! Finally, she found the device and jabbed a button.

The foot of the mattress rose up. Fraser, unbalanced by the movement, fell back flat. Thatcher muttered to herself as she fiddled with the controls. Fraser bore the contortions of his body stoically as the mechanized bed was put through every position in its repertoire. Finally, Thatcher stabbed the button which raised the bed to a sitting position. "There!" she announced. She looked up, triumphant, then frowned. If anything, he looked paler and more strained than when she had entered the room. Belatedly, she realized what her fumbling with the controls had put him through. She set the control device down on the night stand. "There you go," she said, lamely.

"Thank you, sir," he said, breathlessly. He leaned back, smoothing the thin blanket over his lap as he did. He tried to conceal the relief he felt at the support the raised mattress provided. He took a deep breath and regarded her fully for the first time. The Inspector looked cool and crisp in a tailored pantsuit in a rich, cranberry shade. The tiniest bit of lace at the collar of her silk blouse softened the ensemble. Red suits her, he noted, while surreptitiously taking stock of his own dishevelment: out of uniform, clad only in a faded blue hospital gown, hair tousled, evil taste in his mouth, very full bladder.

"How are you, Constable?" Thatcher inquired, formally, posture straight, hands behind her back.

"Fine, sir," he replied.

"Good, good," she said, heartily. A pause. "And when will you be discharged?"

He hesitated. "Is it still Friday, sir?"

"Yes." She added, helpfully, "1600 hours.

Fraser nodded. He'd arrived at the ER twelve hours ago. After all the tests were concluded, he had been admitted. So, he'd slept for eight hours. "Soon, sir. Ray - Detective Vecchio - will pick me up after his shift ends."

"Are you sure, Fraser?"

"Yes, sir. Unless something detains him -"

"No, I mean ... Are you sure you will be released already? You look quite ... done in."

"I'm fine, sir." He winced at a cramp. "Soft tissue damage only. Nothing broken." In fact, the doctors had wanted to keep him longer, but Fraser had refused. These types of injuries required time to heal, not skilled nursing care. He didn't need to take up bed space that a more needy patient could occupy. Besides, he had spent far too much time - months - in hospital last year, and had no desire to add to that tally. "I'll be back to work tomorrow." He'd be sore for awhile, but he'd be just as sore in his apartment as he would be at the Consulate.

"Yes, well. Satisfactory." An awkward pause ensued as she searched for a topic to replace the lecture on the American healthcare system that she had intended to deliver. She'd save that for another day. He really did look ... done in. "Lieutenant Welsh told Turnbull that you were injured while pursuing a suspect."

"Yes, sir."

Thatcher had met Welsh on several occasions now. He struck her as a gruff, but competent, officer. A man of few words, he had assured Turnbull on the telephone that Fraser's injuries were not life-threatening. There were no other details provided. She had missed the call as she had a breakfast meeting at the Warwick, followed by a luncheon conference that had gone overlong. When Turnbull had been able to reach her, she was just a few blocks from the hospital. She had thought it her duty to check on her subordinate and remind him that the United States did not have universal healthcare nor government cost-controlled medicine. She had half expected that Fraser would have been released by then, and was surprised to be directed to an inpatient room.

"What happened, Constable?" she prompted.

"I fell, sir," Fraser replied, then added hastily. "But the suspect was apprehended by Detective Vecchio." He shifted to a more comfortable position. The too-large hospital gown chose that moment to slip off one shoulder. He shrugged it painfully back in place. It promptly slid off the other shoulder.

Thatcher drew a sharp breath.

"Sir?"

"Take off that gown."

"Take off - ?"

"That's an order, Constable."

Fraser hesitated, then tried to undo the ties at the back of his neck, but simply couldn't lift his arms high enough to do so. When she realized his difficulty, she moved the night stand out of her way and did it for him. The gown dropped to his waist. He resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to clutch it to his chest and sat quietly, hands on his lap. He could feel his face turning as crimson as her suit. He willed himself to sit still, at attention, as if he was undergoing dress inspection. Or, in this case, undress inspection. He suppressed an uncharacteristic urge to laugh out loud, which he attributed to the drugs he had taken. Plus, he knew it would hurt like the dickens.

"Dear God!" She stared at his back. It was a solid mass of black bruises. She reached out a hand to touch him, then snatched it back before making contact. As she circled him for a full inspection, she saw that the bruising extended around his torso to chest and abdomen, which were mottled in every shade of black and blue. She backed up, her hand at her mouth, completely unaware of his discomfiture.

She narrowed her eyes. " How exactly did you fall, Constable?"

Fraser looked up at her earnestly. "Sir, may I state for the record that Detective Vecchio had no choice but to shoot that cable. Without his quick thinking and decisive action, I would have fallen another six stories." She gaped at him. "Instead of just the three," he added, helpfully.

It was all downhill from there. As Fraser was finishing the recitation of the events of last night, Ray bounded into the room. "OK. Boxers or briefs? I got you a pack of each -" he began, then stopped short as he took in the scene. Fraser, naked to the waist, sat stiffly in the bed, face red, body black and blue, while the Dragon Lady breathed fire, obviously in the middle of dressing down her subordinate. Their heads swivelled in unison to stare at Ray.

"Hey, sorry for the interruption." He spoke to the patient in the bed. "Here, Fraser! Catch." He tossed the packages of underwear at his friend, intending to beat a hasty retreat. The packages struck Fraser full in the face and fell to the floor. Ray was horrified. "Sorry! Sorry!" He rushed to pick them up, and set them on the night stand. When he straightened, Thatcher rounded on him.

"He can't lift his arms!" she said, accusingly.

"You should see the other guy," Ray joked.

"This isn't funny, Detective!" she snarled at him. "He fell off a high rise building! He could have been killed!"

"Whoa!" Ray threw his hands up in a defensive posture. "This is not my fault!"

Fraser spoke at the same time. "It was only three stor –"

"Shut up, Fraser!" Ray and Thatcher said at the same time. Then, they faced each other, eyes flashing. fists clenched.

Thatcher said coldly, "Constable Fraser is a deputy liaison officer with a diplomatic posting. It is an administrative position. A 'desk job,' to put it simply. The worst injury he should get is a paper cut! Look at him!" They both stared at Fraser, who managed to turn a deeper shade of red. "His duties do not include pursuing dangerous criminals across the Chicago skyline doing your job for you, Detective."

"Sir - " Fraser began, but Ray cut him off.

"I do my job, lady!" He spat the words at her. "Try doing yours, for a change!"

"Ray - " Fraser interjected, but Thatcher cut him off.

"You don't know the first thing about my job! Or his!" She crossed her arms over her chest and tossed her head. "You Americans! Barging in –"

But Ray was angry now. "He's your deputy, right? But you have him standing on the sidewalk eight hours straight while kids shoot spitballs at him and dogs size him up like a big red fire hydrant! Writing out invitations! Driving you around! You're either trying to make him quit or -"

"Ray -" Fraser tried again.

Now, Thatcher was hot. This was her first supervisory posting and she took it very seriously. She also did not take kindly to criticism. Especially not from a male chauvinist American outside her chain of command. As a female officer with ambition in a male-dominated field, she had learned from hard experience that the only way to handle someone like Vecchio was to take and keep the offensive. "You're out of line, Detective! Don't tell me how to handle my subordinates!"

"Somebody should!" Ray shouted. "He's a cop! The best damn cop – ."

A deep voice boomed from the door. "Detective Vecchio! Stand down!"

Three heads swivelled toward Lieutenant Harding Welsh. "I could hear you down the hall," he said in a low voice that nonetheless commanded attention. His stern gaze included Thatcher. "Both of you. Need I remind you that this is a hospital?"

Ray and Thatcher glared at each other, but subsided.

"Detective Vecchio."

"Sir!"

"Inspector Thatcher, while not your superior officer, is, nevertheless, a ranking official of a sovereign nation, one with which we are not ... uh... currently ... at war. As such, she deserves the respect commensurate with her office. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Welsh raised expectant eyebrows at him.

Ray sighed and faced Thatcher. "I apologize," he said, stiffly.

She nodded curtly. "I also apologize, Detective."

Ray was shocked. He exchanged a quick glance with Fraser, who shook his head, slightly, in warning.

Thatcher turned smartly and spoke crisply to Welsh. "I apologize for criticizing your subordinate, Lieutenant." At Welsh's nod, she continued, "I should have spoken directly to you, as Detective Vecchio's superior officer, about my complaints."

"Complaints?" Welsh was taken aback. "Vecchio and Fraser solved a particularly perplexing case and apprehended the suspect. It's a good bust." He spoke to Fraser. "Maxwell was wearing a ring that belonged to the first victim. That, combined with the rock-climbing apparatus, gave us enough for a search warrant of his apartment. What we found ... well, he's going away for a long time." He paused. "Once he gets out of traction." He smiled and spoke in a conciliatory tone to the Inspector. "As a matter of fact, I think you'll be pleased at –"

But Thatcher was not placated. "Pleased! Look at him!"

All eyes turned on Fraser. He couldn't help it. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to his neck.

Welsh took in his physical state and whistled. "I bet that smarts. Eh, Constable?"

"A bit, sir."

Welsh nodded. "I have some news that may lessen the pain –"

Thatcher threw up her hands in exasperation. "You're missing my point, Lieutenant. Fraser is my officer. Not yours. He does not belong at your American precinct, arresting American criminals, falling off American buildings and incurring American hospital bills."

"But, sir, I don't arrest –"

Thatcher ignored Fraser and locked eyes with Welsh. "Furthermore, you're taking advantage of him." At his surprised look, she continued. "You get a highly trained professional's services added to your force without incurring a penny to your budget. Training, I might add, that was paid for by the taxpayers of Canada."

"Sir, may I –" Fraser interrupted.

Welsh cut him off this time. "Now, wait a minute, Inspector. I understood that Constable Fraser is on his own time when he works with Vecchio."

"That's not the point," she said, her tone defensive.

Welsh was on a roll now. "I don't know about Canada, but here in the United States, what a man does on his own time is his own business."

"Well, yes," she conceded, then added. "So long as it does not reflect badly on the Service."

"Reflect badly?" he looked askance at her. "Hardly." He gestured at the man in the bed. "He's a credit to the force. Any force." He gave her a piercing look. "A fact I'm not sure you appreciate, Inspector."

Thatcher refused to acknowledge his statement. Welsh did not have access to Fraser's personnel file, as she did. The man was unorthodox nearly to the point oflunacy. His loyalty to the Service had been called into question over the Yukon dam project, along with his deceased father's integrity. And his murky role in that Metcalf woman's escape still had not been explained to Thatcher's satisfaction. She was not going to debate the Constable's checkered record with Welsh, nor that certain of her superiors had made it clear that Fraser's exit from the force while on her watch would be looked upon with favor. Her own sense of fair play, and Fraser's unwillingness to make it easy for her, had backed her off of instantly terminating him. That, and her personal observations of the man seemed at odds with the official line. She shook her head, dispelling these thoughts as irrelevant to the issue here. She had learned she could be as stubborn as any man. "He is my Deputy Liaison Officer and, as such, his duties to the Consulate and his country must come first."

"I cannot imagine that the Constable has been neglecting his official duties, Inspector."

"No, not up to this point. But look at him!" She grabbed Fraser's wrist and extended his arm. At his gasp of pain, she dropped it. "He can't lift his arms. Does he look like he'll be fit for duty tomorrow?"

Welsh didn't answer.

Ray spoke up. "A desk job, you said. Strictly administrative."

"Ray," Fraser said, in a strained voice. "I need you to –"

"Stay out of this, Detective," Welsh said. He looked troubled. "You may have a point, Inspector."

"But, sir," Ray argued, "we use civilian volunteers all the time. What? Canadians aren't allowed to volunteer now?"

"I said stay out of this, Detective."

Ray threw up his hands and backed away from his boss and Fraser's boss, who were eyeing each other like Sumo wrestlers in the ring. He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down into pleading blue eyes.

"Ray, I need you to –" he started, in a low tone.

"I can barely hear you, Benny," Ray said, bending closer.

Just then, there was a commotion outside the room. Several voices were talking all at once. Then, a blonde woman strode through the door. She was impeccably dressed in a smart business suit with a brightly colored scarf at her throat. She had a brisk, breathless air about her.

"Lieutenant Welsh?"

Welsh drew himself up. "That's me. You're Ms. Golightly?"

She stuck out a hand. "Holly, please. I believe my office arranged everything with your assistant."

"Yes, yes," Welsh said, nonplused, shaking her hand. "I'm sorry, I got a little distracted here." He turned. "May I introduce Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, currently attached to the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago."

"Wonderful!" Holly said, grabbing Thatcher's hand. "We were looking for you. We called the Consulate and Officer Turnbull - what an interesting young man - didn't know when you'd return. This is just perfect!"

She returned the handshake. "Perfect for what?"

But Holly had moved on. "And this is Constable Fraser," she said, approaching the bed. She looked him up and down, "Oh, my. This will not do. This simply will not do!"

Fraser looked dubious. "Ray?" he called, uncertainly.

Holly took in Ray, standing on the other side of the bed. "You must be Detective Vecchio."

"Yeah," he said, "I must."

She went over him with a critical eye. From his topcoat, charcoal gray suit, black cashmere sweater, crisp white shirt, and discreetly patterned tie down to his highly polished wingtips. "Very nice," she murmured, approvingly. "Armani?"

He brightened. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

She gestured helplessly at Fraser. "Can you do something with him?"

"I've been trying," he said, rolling his eyes, "but he thinks LL Bean is a designer label."

She laughed and Ray joined in. There was more noise from the hall and someone called her name.

"I'm coming." She laid a hand on Ray's arm, and smiled up at him. "Be a dear and see what you can do with him before the photographer gets here." She strode out of the room.

Ray and Thatcher looked at Welsh who scratched his forehead. "That's what I came here to tell Vecchio and Fraser." He looked at her. "The last victim, the one with the skull fracture. Turns out, he's the Mayor's godchild. He's coming here to personally thank the two officers who got the perp."

She looked stunned. "The Mayor is coming here?

"Any minute now," Welsh said. "It's more than a photo op. " He smiled at Vecchio. "There's a commendation coming your way, Detective." He nodded at Fraser. "Yours too, Constable."

"That's not necessary, Lieutenant. Really," Fraser said, nervously. "it's really not."

Thatcher touched her hair and tugged at her jacket. "Nonsense, Constable. If the Mayor of Chicago wants to show his appreciation, the least we can do is accept it graciously." She leaned toward Welsh. "Perhaps, we can discuss this subject another time, Lieutenant." She grabbed her purse. "Excuse me a moment. I'm going to freshen up."

"Sir!" Fraser called, as she darted into his bathroom and closed the door. He sighed in frustration.

Ray grinned at Welsh. "That seems to put a different spin on things, doesn't it, sir?"

His boss grunted. He fiddled with his necktie. "Is my tie straight?"

Ray nodded. "How 'bout mine?"

Welsh nodded. "Yeah." He fingered Ray's sweater. "Is that real cashmere?"

"Uh-huh," he said. He rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning like a schoolboy.

"Ray!" Fraser pleaded. "Ray, I need your help."

"Oh, right!" He'd forgotten all about the patient for a moment. He eyed him, critically. "I'm on it, buddy!" He shrugged out of the topcoat and suit jacket and handed both to Welsh. "Thanks, sir." He skinned out of the sweater, tossed it on the bed, put the jacket back on and adjusted his tie. He posed for Welsh, who gave him a thumbs up. Then, he picked up the sweater and advanced on Fraser.

"You just need to look good from the waist up, Benny. Keep that blanket on your lap, for God's sake," he urged. "No matter what."

"Ray -" Before he could get another word out, Ray had the sweater on his head. "Ray!" he said, his voice muffled by the garment.

But Ray wasn't listening. As he pulled the sweater over Fraser's head, he kept up the conversation over his shoulder with Welsh. "Hizzoner, himself. Wow! Wait till Ma hears about this. She loves him!" He gathered one sleeve of the sweater and slid it over Fraser hand.

"Ray, I really can't do this –"

Ray fussed with the sleeves. "Aw, don't be shy. All you have to do is smile and shake his hand. He'll do the rest."

Welsh moved closer. "It'll all be over in a minute, Constable. These things are very quick."

"But, sir -"

"This'll be good for you, Benny. Besides, the Drag - " he glanced at Welsh, "uh, the Inspector, is already on board with it." Ray had Fraser's forearms in the sleeves. "Let me do the heavy lifting, Benny," he said, as he gently pulled the garment up and over the bruised shoulders and back, tugging it into place. He was careful, but Fraser emitted a few grunts all the same. The activity left him breathless and hurting. Ray smoothed the soft fabric over his shoulders and back, and adjusted the sleeves. He took a step back, and assessed him with a critical eye. Well, he was too pale, which the dark color emphasized, but the fit was good. Ray pulled a comb out of his pocket and handed it to him. When he saw Fraser struggle to lift it high enough, Ray took it from him and combed the dark hair into place.

He examined Fraser straight on. "There. You look good, man." He gathered up the crumpled hospital gown. He noticed the packages of underwear lying on the night stand.

"Oops, gotta get rid of these!" He rolled them up in the gown and stashed them into a drawer. He looked around. Everything seemed in order.

"Ray," Fraser pleaded.

This time, Ray heard the note of urgency. He leaned closer. "Yeah, Benny?"

Several things happened at once. Thatcher emerged from the bathroom, hair perfect, lipstick freshened, clothes straightened; Holly strode back into the room, followed by two serious-looking men in dark suits, another man and two women, one of whom held a camera and bag, and, as if bringing up a parade, the Mayor of Chicago. He greeted Welsh with a hearty handshake. The Lieutenant gestured for Ray to join him in the center of the room.

"Ray!" Fraser called, but his friend was gone. Welsh pulled the detective into the melee, leaned in and spoke into his ear. Ray nodded gravely, then was swallowed up in the entourage.

The action was centered in the middle of the room. Alone and overlooked in the bed, Fraser was wringing his hands, trying, without success, to get Ray's attention. There was a flurry of introductions, handshakes, and back-slapping. Then the photographer was snapping pictures, the flash dazzlingly bright in the small room: the Mayor with Welsh, the Mayor with Ray, the Mayor with Ray and Welsh, the Mayor with the Inspector, the Mayor with Ray, Welsh and the Inspector, and so on. Just as they were finishing, Francesca Vecchio pushed a wheelchair containing a beaming Mrs. Vecchio into the room. There was another round of introductions, back-slapping and photography. Fraser's sense of humor, usually easily suppressed, threatened to escape once again as he realized he was living the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera.

If one more person comes into this room, I'm going to lose it, he thought, in more ways than one.

"Hello, son." His father stood to his right, in full dress uniform.

"Oh, no," Fraser groaned, then hissed at his father, "Go away!"

Just as he said that, there was a lull in the conversation. All eyes turned toward him. He stared helplessly back at the group, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"This is a big moment, son. I wouldn't miss it for the world," Robert Fraser said, as he fussed at his collar. "Is my lanyard straight?"

Thatcher stepped toward the bed. "Mr. Mayor, may I introduce my Deputy Liaison Officer, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As my Deputy Liaison Officer, he works very closely with the Chicago Police Department and was indispensable in the arrest of Paul Maxwell."

The Mayor of Chicago stepped forward. "I'm afraid we've been neglecting you, son." He took Fraser's hand in a strong grip and clapped him on the shoulder. Fraser managed not to wince, but it was a close thing. "A pleasure to meet you, Constable. And I want to thank you, and Detective Vecchio personally for the hard work and dedication you showed in bringing this man, who caused so much pain and heartache, to justice."

"I'm honored, sir," he said, tightly.

"The honor is all mine, son. All mine." He continued to hold the pose as the photographer stepped up. "Smile, Constable. This'll only take a minute."

"Sir, I have to tell you," Fraser spoke in low but urgent tones. "I need –" The flash popped several times, dazzling him.

Holly pushed Thatcher forward to pose with them. She drew a deep breath and stood at attention on the right side of the bed. His father did the same. Fraser panicked as he saw Holly was lining up Ray, Welsh, Mrs. Vecchio and Francesca in what was obviously going to be another round of photographs at Fraser's bedside. The thought of Francesca being so close to the bed when he was - what's the phrase that Ray used? - 'going commando,' made him blanch.

"Sir –" he tried again.

"Eh?" said the Mayor, into his left ear. "Say again. I'm a little deaf on that side."

"Don't be bashful, son," said Robert Fraser, into his right ear. "Sing out."

"Speak up, Constable," Thatcher ordered, then softened her tone and smiled widely. "We're all friends here."

Fraser, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and obeyed. "I NEED TO URINATE!" he said, loud and clear.

Every head in the room turned toward him as the flash went off.