Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Someone was knocking.
Meg Thatcher put down her pen with an irritated sigh and lifted her head from the stack of files on her desk.
'Come in.' Tilting her neck from side to side, she winced at the stiffness that never seemed to quite go away these days. She removed her reading glasses and blinked a couple of times until the room came into focus.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you.'
Meg bit back a groan when she saw who was standing there.
'What is it, Pincent?'
The young man awkwardly cleared his throat. 'There's a package for you, Sir. They would like you to sign for it.'
'Thank you, Constable. I'll be right out.'
He saluted with a vigour that betrayed his inexperience and slammed the door behind him. Meg rubbed her temples.
Although she had only been working at the Quebec division of the RCMP for two years, she had been an inspector for a much longer time. Sometimes she wondered if she could even remember being a recruit, if she had ever been that young, that inexperienced. It seemed like she had always been too old for her age. Officers with more seniority, and even fellow inspectors, were often surprised to learn that she was only in her late thirties.
Meg knew she was lucky to have been accepted into the training program immediately and then to have risen through the ranks so quickly, but she had never been surprised. Joining the RCMP had been a dream of hers since childhood and she'd tailored her life accordingly. She knew she was driven and utterly committed to her job.
Perhaps too committed...
There had only been once when she had regretted that decision. Only once when she had cursed her inability to keep a piece of her life for herself—
No. I'm not getting into this now.Meg slipped on her high-heels, which she had discarded somewhere between files 8 and 15, and stood slowly, carefully stretching her vertebrae. She had just opened the office door when her phone began to ring shrilly. Expelling a frustrated breath, she turned and grabbed for the receiver.
'Bonjour. La GRC du Québec. Inspecteur Thatcher ici.' She listened for a moment and then switched to English without missing a beat. 'Yes, I did work with M. Cloutier at one point.' She frowned in confusion, 'but that was—oh.' She drew in a breath. 'How…' she paused. 'I see. Well, thank you for telling me. Tell his family I send my—sorry?' She closed her eyes and ran her other hand through her hair. 'I'm not sure I heard correctly. The new superintendent would like me to attend the funeral?'
Thank you Superintendent, but I'd rather have all my teeth pulled then attend that rat's memorial service.
'Fine,' she said shortly. 'If you could send me the information, I will arrange my travel plans.' She groped around for a pen and some paper. 'Uh huh. Sure.' Cradling the receiver against her shoulder, she quickly jotted down the necessary information. 'Thank you. Goodbye.' Dropping the phone into its cradle, she collapsed back into her chair and sunk her head into her heads.
'Damn it.'
Cloutier. She'd spent eight months under his supervision and he'd made them a waking nightmare. Wherever she went, he was always there: getting her to work late shifts, come in weekends, attend company receptions with him. Saying her name in that tone of voice that made her hot with shame and anger. When she thought of it, she wanted to kick herself for not having the experience or confidence to confront his behaviour—for even taking it for granted. For telling herself that's just how things were for women in male-dominated professions. For not realizing just how wrong it had been until she was transferred to Chicago. Until she was sitting there with Cloutier, discussing business by candlelight for Christ sake, and Fraser had walked in and looked at her with his steady gaze that made her want to sink into the floor and die of shame.
Fraser…Not Now.
Wrenching her mind away from that path, she tore the top page from her notepad and picked up her phone again. She needed a secretary to book her a plane ticket and hotel. It looked like she was going to Ottawa.
The knocking began again.
Meg dug her nails into her palms and swallowed a scream of frustration.
'What is it?'
'Uh, Sir?'
'Right. The package.' She forced herself to take a slow breath. 'Just tell them to leave the form here, Constable.' He turned to leave. 'Oh, and could you please find someone to book me a plane ticket to Ottawa for tomorrow if possible.' He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. 'And Constable? Bring a large cup of black coffee with you when you return.'
I'm going to need it.
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Well. At least that's over with.
Closing the hotel door behind her and collapsing against it, Meg sighed. The funeral had been draining. They always were. Even though Cloutier had died of nothing more serious than a heart attack, the RCMP believed strongly in honouring their own. There had been at least several hundred officers there, all in full dress uniform. They were expected to stand there, sombre and still, for the whole ceremony. It was a measure of respect.
And public relations, Meg thought wryly. There were usually at least two rows of media personnel at these things.
Cloutier didn't deserve this ceremony. Superintendent or not.
Meg bent over and unlaced her regulation boots then quickly peeled off her red serge. She moved through the motions with practiced ease, despite the fact that she hadn't worn her uniform much lately.
Red suits you.
She smiled wanly and hung it up carefully in the tiny hotel closet.
Slipping on some casual clothes, she walked over and looked out the window. It was typical weather for March in Ottawa: cold and gusty. She considered going for a walk, but felt too drained after last night's red-eye flight from Quebec and opted for a drink at the hotel bar instead.
She made her way down the hall, occasionally nodding or smiling at the other officers milling around. The sign at the front of the bar instructed her to seat herself, so she slid onto an empty seat and flagged the bartender.
'Just a glass of your house wine.'
He nodded and set a glass in front of her. She thanked him politely and drank it in silence, her eyes wandering aimlessly from the bar to the windows and the darkening streets beyond.
A minute later, she choked on her wine and stood up quickly.
The bartender looked over in concern. 'Are you okay?'
She didn't answer, but riffled through her pockets for the appropriate change and put it down with trembling hands. 'Thanks,' she threw over her shoulder as she rushed out into the lobby.
I thought I saw…Hardly breathing, she rushed outside. And stopped short. The streets were virtually deserted. In the distance, she dimly heard the hiss of a passing car.
What were you thinking Meg? No one would be out this late in this kind of weather.
He would, her mind whispered.
She stood frozen as the wind whipped her hair around her face in a dark cloud.
I thought I saw…the back of his head, his shoulders, a flash of white fur. How many Mounties have wolves as pets?
She couldn't help it; couldn't stop his name from escaping.
'Fraser…' Her breath was visible against the streetlights.
She didn't really expect an answer. Finally noticing the cold, she returned inside and stumbled back to her room. Not bothering to remove her clothes, she got into the bed and closed her eyes.
Get a hold of yourself. It's over.
It never began.
She didn't fall asleep until her return flight began its final descent into Quebec.
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A/N: The funeral details may not be entirely accurate as televised RCMP funerals are rare. In regards to March in Ottawa, I've only been in November. Nonetheless, March in most of Canada is cold. Also, GRCFrench acronym for the RCMP.
As always, feedback is appreciated. I've planned to complete this in four to five parts but we'll see.