Disclaimer: For the final time in this story, I don't own the characters; they belong to Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury and the CBC.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alexander Martin gave George a heavy handed shove and he stumbled forward into the maturation room. He twisted sideways to catch himself on his side instead of his face, rolling over the top of his bound hands. He looked around, getting his bearings. Hundreds of solid oak whiskey barrels were lined up in rows, filling the room. Martin hauled him up by the back of the shirt and shoved him again. "I've got men coming for me, Martin," George told him. "I'm with the Toronto Constabulary. You don't want to do this."

"You're right, I didn't," Martin replied, pulling him along by the arm. "I hoped that by knocking you upside the head, you'd have gotten the hint to quit looking into this."

"Where's Alfie Dwyer?" George asked him. His eyes caught the clock on the wall and noted that it was long past time for him to meet with Nina. Hopefully she's done her job, he thought. "He had to have been in on it, right?"

"Alfie was the one who could keep gettin' us into the denaturing room," Martin said. He stopped in front of one of the giant oak barrels and shoved George into it. His head hit the wood and he saw stars. "But he got soft on us when Brendan Walsh found us out. He had to go."

"So Brendan Walsh found out about your operation, you choked the life out of him, and then dropped him in the barley pile," George blinked, fighting to stay on his feet.

"Ken's the one who dragged him in there," Martin shrugged. "Walsh was poking around where he shouldn't have been-kind of like you." He jabbed George in the stomach and George doubled over, gasping for a breath. Before he could get a full one in, Martin shoved something inbetween his teeth and secured it behind his head. Now completely incapacitated, George started to worry. Just a bit.

Martin pried open one of the barrels and grabbed George by the collar, yanking him over to it. George twisted, trying to get out of the man's grip. Martin shoved his head toward the opening, and George let out a muffled, strangled gasp at the beaten and bloody face of Alfie Dwyer.

"Oh," Martin said nonchalantly. "This one's occupied. Guess we'll have to find you another one."

George's blood ran cold.

Murdoch and John stood in the center of the Parkington Whiskey plaza. "Where do we start?" John glanced around, as if expecting to be bombarded from all directions. "Lots of places to look."

Murdoch's mind raced. "There," he said, pointing at the maturation room. "Lights. Perhaps that would be our best bet."

John nodded. "Okay!" The two of them ran for the building. Murdoch yanked on the door handle. It didn't budge. "Back up, John," the detective said. John stepped sideways as Murdoch drove his shoulder into the door. It creaked on the hinges. Murdoch rammed it again and the door splintered.

"Here, sir," John said, planting his boot in the weakened door and kicking it in. Murdoch nodded approvingly.

"Well done, John," he said. "George?" he yelled, looking around the room.

John spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced over quickly to see Alexander Martin running for a back exit. "Detective, I've got him!" John took off after the big foreman. "Martin. Stop!"

Murdoch surveyed the room and the rows and rows of barrels. Dear God, he breathed, looking around. "George!" he yelled. "George, are you in here?"

John pushed off the floor and launched his six-foot frame at Alexander Martin, tackling the bigger man around the waist and sending them both to the floor. Martin rolled over, pinning John to the floorboards. John brought his knees up, driving them into Martin's backside. The foreman toppled over the top of the constable. John rolled out from under him, scrambled to his feet and pulled his revolver. "Don't move!" he ordered. "Where's George?"

Martin grinned, wiping a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. "He's around," he said, breathing heavily. "Better find him tonight; otherwise it'll take you about ten years."

John's eyes widened. "Detective!" he yelled, never taking his eyes off Martin. "The barrels! Check the barrels!"

Murdoch stood in the middle of an aisle. Surrounded by barrels of whiskey. "That doesn't exactly narrow it down," he muttered.

And then he heard it. A couple of hard thunks, coming from somewhere around him. "George!" he called out. "George, is that you?"

He waited. Behind me. Murdoch turned, walked down the row, listening carefully.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Then he spotted it. Propped next to one of the barrels was a thin crowbar. Murdoch picked it up. "Once more, George," he begged.

Thunk.

Murdoch prodded the end of the crowbar into the lid of the barrel nearest him on the bottom row and pulled back.

The lid popped off and he was bent down instantly, pulling his friend from the barrel. "John! I've got him!" he announced. "He's here!"

He tugged the gag from George's mouth and the constable breathed deep. "George, are you all right?" Murdoch demanded.

George shook his head. "I could really use a drink, sir," he said weakly, grinning at the reproachful look on Detective Murdoch's face.

"Martin won't say a word," Inspector Brackenreid crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Murdoch.

"That's fine, because Ken Smith is doing enough talking for the both of them," Murdoch replied as the two of them watched McNabb and Higgins haul Martin out to the cells. "At least now Henry Parkington will have a hard time sweeping his misbehaviors at the distillery under the rug; I would imagine a deeper inquiry into Mr. Smith's statements will reveal that he had some knowledge of what his men were doing. Between that and the rest of the evidence, he'll most likely be ousted as president, and Martin will most likely hang."

"Stuffing Martin in an oak barrel for ten years would be a bit more fitting," George said, leaning on Nina Bloom in his desk chair. Nina had a white knuckle grip on his arm and hadn't let go since Julia Ogden had brought her to the station.

"Right alongside Ken Smith," Nina said darkly. George rested his head on her shoulder and she relaxed slightly.

He looked up at her. "Did I hear right, that you slapped Ken Smith?"

She nodded, brushing a piece of his hair off his forehead. "And broke an entire case of whiskey." Nina frowned. "Which I hope isn't coming out of my paycheck."

George looked her over proudly. "Good thing you didn't get ahold of Alexander Martin," he said with a smile.

John Brackenreid leaned against the doorframe of the bullpen, Connor O'Neill standing next to him. "If I'd said something sooner…" Connor shook his head. "If I had just believed Brendan…" He looked at John. "He'd still be alive right now to testify. What do I tell Violet?" he wondered sadly. "If I tell her about leaving Brendan to look on his own..."

John put a hand on his shoulder. "You were scared, and you couldn't have known. You'll find the right words," he told Connor. "All you can do now is be the friend that she needs. No more secrets."

The other man nodded thoughtfully. John caught George looking over Nina's shoulder, nodding approvingly.

"All right, it's gettin' late and we can wrap all this up tomorrow," Inspector Brackenreid clapped his hands together. "Crabtree, go home and get some rest."

"Gladly, sir," George agreed tiredly. Nina steadied him as he climbed to his feet. He kissed the top of her hair and gave a two-fingered wave to his superiors as Nina gingerly walked him out.

The Inspector looked at John. "Well done, John."

His oldest son grinned back at him. "Do I get to tell Mother about all this?" John asked.

The Inspector eyed him. "I can think of a few parts you might want to leave out. Like the fact that it was at a whiskey distillery. Or the fact that alcohol was invol-you know what?" Thomas looked at John. "Let's just keep this one to ourselves." John chuckled.

Detective Murdoch slipped an arm around his wife. "Shall, we Doctor?" he asked her.

She smiled. "I finally get you home at a decent hour?" she teased him. "Whatever shall we do with all of this free time?"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow as she started leading him toward the door. "Did you have some ideas on that?" he asked her under his breath.

Julia bit her lip with a smile. "One or two, perhaps," she confessed.

Murdoch swallowed. Even after everything that had happened that evening…he felt like he could use a drink right now.

Just, perhaps, not whiskey. Murdoch had a feeling it would be a long time before he could look at the stuff the same way again.

Fin.

Author's Note: Thanks everybody who's been reading and reviewing. It's not a perfect, solid mystery, I'm sure there's some glaring discrepancies :) but I had fun writing it!