NOTE FROM AUTHOR: I accidentally posted chapter 7 again, not 27. So, here is the proper chapter in the flow. Sorry. Any way to un-post after posting?

This is the last chapter in this Part One: Chicago. The story continues in Part Two: Canada. Enjoy.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN A

Fraser braced himself as the barge lurched hugely, flinging him against the side of the crate and back again. He winced at the sound of Ray's head hitting the wood. Fraser was tired, sore, cramped and cold. But, he wasn't seasick. At least, not yet. Ray moaned as he swayed and fell against him. The boat tilted again, and he nearly toppled off his perch. He clung to Fraser's supportive arms, trying to regain his balance while hanging on for dear life. Any embarrassment at this show of weakness was a thing of the past. Like his dignity. He swallowed convulsively as Fraser propped him up again. The last thing he wanted to do was start a barf-a-rama in their tiny home away from home

The promised storm had overtaken them hours ago. Until then, Ray and Fraser had enjoyed mostly unimpeded ingress and egress on the barge, so long as they stayed below the sight level of the tug. The new tugboat still had no view of the area of the barge where their crate was situated. Hunkered down, they were able to move relatively freely. Taking turns with the spyglass, they had determined that there were six men on the tug. Shortly after the transfer of the barges, five of them had bustled around the deck, securing the boat for foul weather, while the captain sat in the wheelhouse, not surprisingly, at the wheel. They conversed exclusively in French and seemed to share an easy camaraderie that bespoke longstanding relationships. Ray, who had three years of French in high school, couldn't make out a single word. Fraser did a bit better with the Quebecois accent, though it was difficult to discern individual words over the sound of the engine. Nothing he heard gave him a clue to their destination, though he learned a few new idioms that made him blush. One burly fellow in particular displayed a ribald sense of humor that his companions seemed to find hilarious.

The reluctant stowaways were in the same fix as before - outnumbered, outgunned, and unable to reach the tugboat from their position on a barge at the end of a fifty foot tow cable. Their only advantage was that no one knew they were here. They had used that advantage to reconnoiter. While they couldn't open every crate, they had seen enough to confirm that they were indeed carrying large quantities of cocaine and assault weapons. The weapons were packed for shipment, covered in oil, and wrapped in plastic. Ammunition was apparently not included in the deal for they had found none. They had carefully restored the crates so that their tampering could not be detected.

This tugboat was similar in configuration to the one that had towed them out from Brannigan's Wharf. Ray's notebook contained the registry numbers, and other salient information (Fraser having sent his with Dief). Together with the information they had gathered on the Chicago end, they had a fair amount of intelligence on this international smuggling operation. But they were unable to communicate it. The cell phone was beyond repair. Of course, the tugboat had a radio. But, there was no way to get to it. At least, not while the boat was in motion.

They had prepared for a second night in the crate, albeit a colder, wetter, rougher one than the last. Ray had the idea to fashion tarps into crude windbreakers. They had cut them off two of the smaller crates on the outer edge of the deck. It would look like the rising wind had ripped them away. The tarps provided them some protection from wind and snow.

The northeast heading had changed to due east as they had neared the Straits of Mackinac. The temperature was dropping as night was falling quickly. But, even in the Straits, they had not encountered another boat.

"If it wasn't so cold, we could swim ashore," Ray said, wistfully, looking south to the lights of the town of St. Ignace on the Canadian side.

"The distance is deceptive, Ray. The straits are five miles across at their narrowest point and twenty fathoms deep," Fraser said. "But, you're right. It is too cold to make the attempt." The wind whipped his words away and he had to repeat himself. He pointed to the starboard side as an ice floe drifted by. "The Coast Guard must use ice breakers here to keep the straits open through the winter."

As the barge passed under the majestic Mackinac Bridge, they looked up longingly. There was little traffic. The wind was picking up and snow had started swirling around. Still, one or two cars moved on the bridge, oblivious to the plight of the men below. Ray imagined the drivers heading home to a hot meal and a snug bed.

"We're in the Lake they call Huron now, Ray," Fraser said, as they passed the marker. He paused. "Though, hydrologically speaking, it really is one big Lake. Michigan-Huron. The largest freshwater Lake in the world."

Ray was too cold to care. The water was getting rougher. Whitecaps shone in the lights of the tug. The snow was falling in big wet clumps now. He shivered as he pulled his coat closer around him, and they reluctantly retreated to the crate.

Soon, the barge was pitching violently. They had been riding it out a couple of hours as best they could, huddled in their pieces of plastic tarp. The wind howled and shook their little shelter with malevolent force. The lid was firmly fastened, keeping out most of the snow. Ray longed for fresh air, but it was a forlorn wish. The wind would take the lid if they kept it open. Between the cold, the wet snow that found its way in through the cracks, and the seasickness which was roiling his head and stomach, he was utterly miserable. The confined space wasn't helping. It was loud, dark, wet, cold, smelly, and, worst of all, moving. All of these conditions assaulted the senses. If this kept up, he knew he'd be adding regurgitated peaches and pemmican to the mix. That reckless thought triggered his gag reflex and he heaved drily several times, barely managing to stop the urge to vomit. He moaned again.

"Fraser?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Ray," he said, softly.

"Do something for me?"

"Whatever I can."

"Take out my gun."

Fraser reached into Ray's coat and withdrew the automatic from his shoulder holster.

"You got it?"

"Yes."

"Is it loaded?"

"Yes."

"Is the safety on?"

"Yes."

"Take it off."

He hesitated a moment, but did as instructed.

"OK." Ray swallowed compulsively several times before he could speak again. "Now, shoot me."

"No!"

"Shoot me now!"

"No, Ray!" Fraser hastily returned the gun to the holster and buttoned Ray's coat all the way up. He tugged the plastic tarp closer around his shoulders.

"Please, Fraser," he pleaded.

He patted his back, awkwardly. "This will pass. You can't die of seasickness."

"Oh, yes, I can," Ray wailed, "Just watch me." He moaned again, gripping his stomach as a wave of cramps rolled through him.

"Ray, listen to me." As he continued to moan, Fraser grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Seasickness, or mal-de-mer, is caused by your brain's inability to process the conflicting information it is receiving from your body. But, there are remedies."

"Yeah, Dramamine!"

"There are natural remedies, Ray, that have existed long before modern medicines."

"So, help me, Benny, if you tell me the Inuit chew seal blubber for this, I'll – I'll –" He had to stop as the heaving began again at that queasy image.

Fraser, to his credit, did not retreat from the line of fire. He grasped both of Ray's hands and turned them, palm-side up. He moved his thumb over his skin to a spot just above the wrists and pressed down firmly. Keeping the pressure steady, he said, "Acupressure on the Nei Kuan point - this spot here - has been used by the Chinese since ancient times to curb nausea and vomiting."

He struggled weakly, but Fraser held on tight. "Lemme go. I'm gonna hurl!"

Fraser ignored him. "Now, take deep breaths. Like this." He inhaled deeply through his nose, then let it out slowly. "Again."

Ray tried to disengage, in real fear that he was going to throw up on his friend, but he was facing both the Immovable Object and the Irresistible Force in one Canadian package. It was easier to go along. He took a deep breath and almost lost it at the ripe smells in the crate. He swallowed hard, then let the breath out slowly, breathing in tandem with Fraser. After a minute or so, he no longer noticed the smell.

"Good, Ray. Now, sit up straight. Head up. Feet flat on the floor. That's it. Keep your head and upper body balanced over your hips." He positioned his own body as he spoke. Ray followed suit. "Good," he said. "As the boat moves, go with the rhythm of the waves. It's less tiring than fighting to hang on or to passively let the motion toss you around." He drew another deep breath. "Ready? Feel that? Ride the wave. That's right, Ray. Just like that. Keep breathing." After several minutes of this tandem exercise, Ray felt the nausea back off a bit. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. Yes, he was definitely feeling better.

Fraser's voice was soothing. "Don't think about your body, Ray. Let it breathe. Let it ride the rhythm of the water. Let it go. " He took a deep breath and let it out. So did Ray. "It's important to keep your mind occupied. Perhaps, we should try a mantra."

"What's that?"

"Rhythmic chanting to induce a tranquil mental state."

"You mean ... like singing?"

"Well, uh, yes. Good idea, Ray," he said. He thought a moment, then started to sing:

A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.

And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance, and

Maybe they'd be happy for awhile.

But, February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver ...

Ray concentrated on his breathing and riding the waves. At first, Fraser's husky

tenor filled the small space of the crate merely as background noise. But, as the song went on, he found himself listening to the words, remembering how he and Marco Metroni had played the song over and over on the record player in Marco's room, dissecting the lyrics with all the seriousness that two twelve year olds could muster. The lengthy verses were replete with mysterious meaning, and he found himself concentrating on the lush imagery:

... I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck, with a pink carnation and a pickup truck, but

I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died.

I started singing ...

Tentatively at first, Ray joined Fraser in the chorus:

I started singing, bye, bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing

"This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die."

Slowly, his voice gathered strength, and Ray joined Fraser in singing the classic anthem to rock and roll. When Fraser forgot the words of a later verse, Ray took the lead:

And, there we were, all in one place, a generation Lost in Space

With no time left to start again

So, come on, Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick, Jack Flash sat on a candlesick, cause

Fire is the Devil's only friend...

Fraser picked it up again and they continued together to the big finish:

They were singing, bye, bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.

Then good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing,

"This'll be the day that I die!"

Ray laughed out loud. He hadn't sung that since before Marco moved away! He was amazed that he could still remember all the words. He was about to tell Fraser when he realized that the nausea was gone. It was just ... gone.

He took a deep breath and let it out. "How ... how did you do that?"

"I didn't, Ray. You did." He let go of his wrists. Ray held his breath, but his stomach stayed calm.

"Thanks."

"No problem, Ray."

He was curious. "Why that song?"

"It's the longest and most intricate I could think of, except for – " he stopped. "Well, never mind."

"What?"

"I'd rather not say," he said, avoiding his eyes. "Under the circumstances."

Ray grinned, "What is it? Some dirty ditty?'

"No!" He protested, then seeing that he wasn't going to drop the subject, he said. "If you must know, Ray," he shrugged, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald first sprang to mind."

"Oh," Ray said. "Well, I'm glad you thought better of it." He paused. "Marco and I used to play American Pie over and over, trying to figure out what it meant."

"As did Innussiq and me."

Ray was surprised. "I thought you didn't have electricity back then?"

"We didn't. We used my grandmother's wind-up Victrola."

He frowned, "Doesn't that play 78s?"

"Yes."

"Don McLean must have sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks."

"Y-yes," Fraser said, uncertain of the reference, assuming it must be another pop group of the seventies that he had missed.

There was a companionable silence, then Ray ventured, "What do you think is happening back home?"

He spoke confidently. "Diefenbaker got through, Ray."

"Sure, he did. He's one tough wolf."

"The Inspector and the Lieutenant will be working diligently on the case."

"They're probably looking for us right now." Ray looked dejectedly around at the crate. "They're never gonna find us out here."

Fraser didn't answer, assuming the question was rhetorical.

Ray rode out another big wave, then cleared his throat. "OK. This one's for Dief," he said, before launching into Hound Dog.

They were still singing when they crossed the border.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: This is the end of Part One: Chicago. Part Two: Canada, continues the adventure ... I hope you have enjoyed the story so far.