CHAPTER FOURTEEN

David Everett tossed the last of the bread crumbs to the motley crew of seabirds that had gathered around him. He folded the empty plastic baggie and put it into his pocket for tomorrow, then brushed the crumbs from his hands. As if it was a signal, the birds departed, moving further down the beach in search of greener pastures. It was cold, especially when the wind gusted as it was doing now. Dave huddled deeper into his jacket, though he welcomed the chill. It cleared his head and imposed a kind of penance. He needed both.

His thoughts, as they had for the last several days, kept chasing themselves round and round. This mess had started with a favor for a friend. And that had led him down a path he had thought he would never take. Now, where the path would lead him, and where it would end, he had no idea. But, he hadn't been sleeping or eating right since the night in the alley. No, be honest, before that. Since the night in the boat. He was absorbed in his own thoughts and paying no attention to his surroundings. Until something fell into his lap.

Dave opened his eyes. There was a piece of fabric sitting on his leg. He picked it up. Just as he recognized it, he felt hot breath on the right side of his face. He snapped his head around and looked into the eyes of a big white dog. It yipped softly. Dave jerked back in surprise. He looked down at the Coast Guard patch he held in his hands, then back at the dog in wonderment. "Where did you come from?"

A voice came from his left. "He's with me."

At that, Dave sprang to his feet, his heart pounding. He stared at the man who faced him - a tall man in a big hat, wearing jeans and a leather jacket.

"Y-you!"

"Yes," he said. "Me."

"Wh-what are you doing here?" he managed, as he contemplated escape. Adrenaline coursed through him as he prepared for fight or flight. But the Lake was behind him, and the man and the dog were between him and the parking lot. He wouldn't get two paces without being brought down by one or both of them on the sandy beach. And he was no good at fighting.

Fraser held his hands up in a calming gesture. "I just want to talk to you, David. That's all."

"H-how do you know my name?"

He smiled, slightly. "It's a long story."

Despite his fear, Dave spoke with the bravado of a world-weary teenager. "I got the time, dude."

Inwardly amused at the show of spirit, Fraser pointed at the patch in Dave's hand. "That," he said, "led me to you." He then launched into an abbreviated, no names version of how he had traced the patch from the time Diefenbaker ripped it from his jacket to the present moment. Dave's mouth dropped and he stared at the patch in disbelief.

In the ensuing silence, Dief whined.

"I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you - David Everett, meet Diefenbaker. Well, actually, you two have already met - but were not properly introduced - Dief, this is David," he inclined his head. "And, you may recall, I am Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." Dief whined-growled. "OK, OK, I'm getting to that," he said to the wolf, then to David, "Dief wants to apologize for ripping the patch from your jacket. Or, rather, your father's jacket."

Dave stared at the dog, who seemed to expect some kind of response. "S'okay," he said, at last. The dog grinned and wagged his tail. Dave felt like he had been dropped down the rabbit hole. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair and said, "Look, I don't understand who you are or what you want."

"I just want to talk," Fraser repeated. He gestured to the sand. "Why don't we sit?" He sat, Dief sat, and Dave, after concluding that even if he ran, the dog would catch him, sat.

"Windy day," Fraser said, conversationally, as his hat was nearly blown off his head. He removed it and set it in his lap, keeping a hand on it. He looked around. The accommodations were spartan for a city park. Of course, it was the off-season. But, there wasn't much here beside the horseshoe-shaped white sand beach, wide here at the public access point, but narrowing as it followed the curve of the Lake in either direction. The jetty, a few concrete benches marked with graffiti, and the johnny-on-the-spot were the only amenities. The only wildlife he saw were the gulls. Several species, he noted, co-existing in relative harmony. Most of them were giving Diefenbaker a wide berth. One big one, with a black spot on its back, was brave enough to venture closer, curious to see if the newcomers had any food. He wished he did have something to reward this fellow's courage. When no snack was forthcoming, it wandered to water's edge in search of a meal.

Dave blurted into the silence, "Is it because of what happened in the alley? Is that why you're looking for me?"

"Actually, David, I'm looking for the maple syrup." As Dave gawked at him, he continued, "I believe you know something about it."

"How did you know about that?" he asked, dumbfounded. He was trying to get a handle on this situation, but his mind was reeling at each revelation.

"That's another long story and one I am not at liberty to disclose fully. Suffice to say, that I became aware that Canadian maple syrup was being sold to local restaurants through, shall we say, back-alley channels." He leaned closer, and said, sotto voce. "I suspect that's where you come in."

The young man had the grace to blush. "Uh, I'm not sure what I should say. I mean you're a cop, right? Do I need a lawyer?"

Fraser looked earnestly at him. "You'll have to answer that question for yourself, David." He shifted on the sand to a more comfortable position. "What I can tell you is that I'm a 'cop' in Canada. I have no arrest authority in this jurisdiction. And my interest in the maple syrup is strictly unofficial." As Dave absorbed what he said, he added, "I give you my word that I only want to talk to you."

"But what happened in the alley–" He swallowed hard. "We tried to shoot you and then run you over."

"Are you using the royal 'we'?" Fraser said, amused. At Dave's mystified look, he went on. "You didn't shoot at me. Nor did you try to run me over." His expression became solemn. "In fact, you tried to stop your associate - I believe his name is 'Al' - from shooting Dief and myself. I suspect you may have tried to stop your other associate from running me down in his Camaro."

"I did!" he cried, unwittingly confirming the make of the car. "But, he wouldn't listen!"

"Well, I was neither run over nor shot," he shrugged. "So ... to paraphrase my friend Ray ... what happened in the alley, stays in the alley."

Dave slumped in relief. "Oh, man. I felt really bad about that since it happened. I was afraid -" He took a deep breath. "I'm glad you're not hurt." He tentatively patted the wolf's head. "Or Diefenbaker." The wolf, laying on the lupine charm, put his head on his knee and looked up at him with liquid eyes. If he had eyelashes, he would have batted them.

"I still have questions, David," Fraser reminded him.

"I guess I owe you some answers." He paused, then said firmly. "But I won't rat out my friends."

"Understood."

Suddenly, the seemingly dozing Dief lunged after the black-spotted seagull, who had come in a little too close. The bird squawked and flapped, making a clumsy getaway over the water, its feet running along the top of a whitecap. Dief turned and grinned as David laughed, then ran down the beach toward a cluster of shorebirds. The gull he had startled, soared over him, then swooped down, hovered, and squawked at him, taunting him. Dief leapt for it and missed. The bird's caw-caw sounded like laughter. As they watched, the gull repeated the maneuver. Dief obliged on his part, and the game continued with some of the other birds getting into the fun. Fraser knew that Dief had no intention of actually catching the birds. What was curious was that the gulls seemed to realize it, too.

"Funny dog," Dave said, grinning.

"Wolf, actually," he replied, then continued, "Where did you get the maple syrup that you were unloading in the alley?"

"It's a long story," he sighed.

"I've got the time, dude," Fraser said, with the ghost of a smile.

Dave took a deep breath, then launched into his tale. At first, the words came out haltingly. "I work on the boats up at Oak Park Marina." He gestured vaguely to the north. "Some piloting, mechanical work, a little cleaning, whatever needs doing. I sleep there too. Different boats, different nights. I'm sort of a night watchman, I guess. Anyway, the one owner lets me borrow his little runabout once in a while, so long as I pay for the gas. Last month, Al - my friend - wanted to take the boat out real late one night to do some night fishing."

He turned and looked at Fraser. "Really, that's all I thought it was. We'd done it a coupla times before. So, we went up the shoreline a little ways when Al tells me to cut the engine. Then, he's hanging over the gunnel with a flashlight. There's a barrel floating off the port side. One of those blue barrels, made out of heavy plastic. He fishes it over to the side with the boathook, then calls me over to help him lift it into the boat." He paused for breath. Once he resumed talking, the words came pouring out. "I was scared shitless, I mean, I thought it was drugs and I didn't want to get involved in that kind of thing! I told him I was heading back to dock and there was no way we were putting the barrel in the boat. Then, he started begging me. Said he needed to do this. He owed a lot of money to another guy and he had to do this to get square or else he'd be in deep shit."

He paused, looking down at the sand. "Al's my friend. He was there for me when ..." he stopped, shrugging his shoulders. "Anyway, that's what friends do, right? They help each other out."

Fraser nodded solemnly. "That's what friends do."

"Al said it was whiskey, not drugs. But, I told him no way, I wouldn't do it unless we opened it up and I saw for myself. So, we brought it up on deck and opened it up. I smelled the maple syrup right away, but then I thought it was some kind of fancy maple-flavored liquor. So, I tasted it and, whaddya know? It was maple syrup. Really tasty maple syrup. Al was upset that it wasn't whiskey. But I was so relieved, I didn't really think about that. Anyway, we picked up nine other barrels and headed back to dock. When we got back, Br - Al's friend was waiting. He had a truck with him, you know, one of those panel things? Anyway, he was really mad when Al asked him why he told him it was whiskey in the barrels, when it was really maple syrup. The dude wouldn't believe us! We had to open each and every barrel."

"And they were all maple syrup?"

"Yeah! Man, was he pissed! He looked at us like we'd done it. Like we pulled some kind of switch on him. Finally, he believed us. We loaded the barrels into his truck and he and Al took off. Later, Al asked me if I wanted to make some money helping them sell the stuff. I figured what's the harm? I mean, it was maple syrup, for crying out loud! And I could use the money." He snorted, "I can always use the money." He picked up a stick, and traced a line in the sand. The expression on his face was one of shame.

"What happened next?"

"Al and Br – my friends pumped the stuff into smaller jars and we peddled it to some restaurants." He averted his eyes and played with a shoelace. " I ... I ... knew it wasn't right. I'm no dummy. I mean, it had to be stolen. But it was maple syrup!" He looked out of the corner of his eye at Fraser. "I never thought there'd be any real trouble. When Al tried to shoot you and Br - his friend - tried to run you over, I freaked! I made them stop the Camaro and let me out. I'm not into that! Shooting dogs, running people over! We almost ran you down! It was so close! You were only an inch or two from the front bumper." He looked sick. "I dream about it some nights," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "Only then, in the dream, you don't make it and we hit you and you fly up and hit the windshield and there's all this blood! Just like –!" He stopped, running his hands through his hair in agitation. His voice shook. "I mean it was maple syrup, for chrissake!" He buried his face in his knees, trembling.

Fraser gave him a few minutes to regain his composure. "Do you know where the barrels came from, David?"

"Al didn't tell me, and I haven't talked to him since that night," he said, lifting his head.

"But you have a theory."

He nodded. "I think Bri– Al's friend – dumped them off a boat or a dock somewhere so they'd float downcurrent to us."

"Will you help me find where that was?"

Dave looked at him. "If you promise to keep my friends out of it."

"I give you my word."

For the next few minutes, he bombarded Dave with questions. The young man did his best to answer them. Satisfied, Fraser looked out over the beach. Except for Dief and the gulls, it was very quiet. The joggers had gone home, the lunch truck had driven away, and all the cars had left the lot. The park would be closing soon.

"Can I ask you something?" Dave said, tentatively.

"Yes."

"How did you get to be a Mountie?"

"My father was a Mountie." He picked up a flat stone and flung it into the water. It skipped twice before sinking. "When I was growing up, I wanted to be just like him. So, when I came of age, I applied to the Academy and followed in his footsteps."

"Is he still a Mountie?"

"No," he said. "He died nearly two years ago." He added, "It was in the line of duty."

"Sorry," Dave said. There was a silence. Then, he said, "My dad was in the Coast Guard." He picked up a stone, examined it, then rejected it. "He died when I was nine."

"Yes, I know." he said, then added, "I'm sorry."

"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in the Coast Guard, too." Dave's voice was wistful. He picked up another stone and whipped it into the Lake. It skipped eight times by Fraser's count.

"It's not too late."

He laughed bitterly. "Who are you kidding? I didn't even finish high school."

"You could."

"I could what?"

"Finish high school. Or rather, get the equivalent. I think it's called the GDE certificate."

"GED," he corrected. "Stands for General Educational Development."

"Ah," Fraser said, "so you've thought about it."

Dave refused to meet his eyes. "So what? What good does thinking about it do? I couldn't pass the test. I skipped most of my junior year." He paused. "And even if I did, the Coast Guard doesn't accept homeless losers like me."

"You're wrong," he said, seriously. "You may be homeless, David, but you're not a loser. And the Coast Guard does not make an issue about where you reside. Granted, you'd have to get your GED, but there are free courses offered all over the city that you can take to prepare for it. You won't know if you can pass it until you try."

Dave stared at him.

He continued, mentally reviewing the recruitment poster he had seen in Bill Pulaski's office. "There's a physical." He looked Dave up and down. "You seem fit." He paused, "Then, there's the Aptitude Tests. I imagine preparing for the GED might help you with those, as well." He pursed his lips. "I don't know. The final requirement might be difficult for you."

"What's that?"

"You have to be willing to work on or around the water," he deadpanned.

Dave snorted, then sobered. "But, I'm a criminal!"

"You have no criminal record," he said, neutrally.

"But, you caught me ... stealing the maple syrup, and selling it in back alleys."

"First of all, you didn't steal the maple syrup, Al's friend might have, and Al might have conspired with him, but we don't know that for sure. Arguably, you salvaged flotsam from Lake Michigan. Selling maple syrup in those small quantities as an unlicensed vendor is against the law, true. But it's not a crime in Chicago. At best, it's a summary offense." At Dave's mystified look, he explained, "That's on the level of a speeding ticket." He added. "I'm not authorized to issue speeding tickets in this jurisdiction."

Dave looked hopeful. "Still ..."

"You made a mistake," he said. "We all do." Unbidden, an image of himself running desperately for a train popped into his head, but he ruthlessly pushed it away.

"It was a pretty big mistake," Dave said.

"Yes, it was," he said, absently. Then, mentally shaking himself, he continued, "But, some mistakes can be rectified." He took a deep breath. "Most importantly, you're sorry. And you'll never do anything like that again." He looked pointedly at the boy. "Right?"

"R-right," he said. "D - do you really think I could get into the Coast Guard?" The eager expression on his face touched Fraser.

"Yes."

He rubbed his face and blew out a noisy breath. "I don't even know where to start."

"I'll help you."

The young man was astonished. "Why? You don't even know me."

"I know enough." Fraser pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and wrote in it. "This is the telephone number of the Canadian Consulate. Just ask for me." At his surprised look, he explained, "It's where I work. If you decide that you'd like to try, call me. Leave a message if I'm not there."

Dave took the piece of paper and tucked it carefully into his wallet. He dusted sand off his hands, and held one out. "Thanks."

Fraser shook it. Then, he stood, brushing sand off the seat of his pants. "Dief!" he called to the wolf, who was playing hide and seek with the black-spotted gull. "Goodbye, David. I hope to hear from you again."

He looked up at him for a long moment, before replying. "Count on it."

Fraser set his hat firmly on his head. Dief bounded over to Dave, accepted a pat on his ruff, then fell in with Fraser as they walked off the sand and on to the firm surface of the parking lot. One car had pulled in to the lot while they were talking. A man sat in the passenger seat. The vehicle was parked as closely as possible to the bollards nearest the johnny-on-the-spot. Fraser grabbed at his hat as a sudden gust of wind nearly took it. The same gust rocked the portable toilet and he heard a startled exclamation from its occupant. He exchanged amused glances with Dief. Then, he looked back to see David Everett still sitting where he had left him, staring out over the water.

Dief yipped a question.

"Yes, I think we will hear from him again."

Another yip-whine.

"There's a bus stop one half mile up the road. We can meet up with Ray back at the station."

Dief made a noise.

"Well, yes, but perhaps the driver will let you board this time. If you ask politely." Dief grumble-whined and trotted along beside him. At that moment, a stronger gust succeeded in taking Fraser's hat. He whirled, grabbed, and missed. The wind rolled it on its brim across the parking lot. He chased it in a running crouch for several yards before it came to a stop just under the rear of the parked car. A Cadillac, he noted. As he reached for the Stetson, he heard the passenger door open and close. From his vantage, he couldn't see the man who was exiting the vehicle. Conversely, the man couldn't see him either. Fraser was about to stand and make his presence known, when he heard a noise. A noise that caused him to duck back behind the car, his heart beating rapidly.

It was the sound of the slide of an automatic handgun being pulled back as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.