CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ray glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed since the last time he had checked it, and the time before that, and the time before that, going back ad nauseum. He was becoming obsessive about it, though he tried not to peek. Or maybe, he was being compulsive? Or, Ray thought, he was acting obsessively compulsive. Yeah, that's the ticket, he thought, in triumph. No, wait, maybe he was being compulsively obsessive?

He was about to ask Thatcher what she thought was the appropriate phrase, then abruptly shut down that impulse. She'd just give him one of her looks. She had a thousand of them. They ran the gamut from cool reserve to fire-breathing Dragon Lady, and every variation in between. She ought to patent them. With only the tiniest change in expression, she could make Ray feel bumbling, oafish, clumsy, inarticulate, ineffective, inane or immature. Or, all of the above, all at once. He was starting to number them. He supposed that was obsessive. Or compulsive. Or compulsively obsess– he stopped that line of thought with difficulty and tried not to look at his watch again. Tried mightily. He failed. Three minutes.

In Ray's defense, time didn't exactly fly while you were pushing an unconscious Mountie on a squeaking handcart down a dimly lit tunnel. Thatcher had offered to spell him, but Fraser weighed one-eighty with his boots on. Add to that the weight of the cart and the box he sat on, it was closer to two hundred pounds. It wasn't chivalry - they needed to keep up the pace. She walked slightly ahead, keeper of the flame. The flame that was dimming as the batteries inevitably wore down.

"Uh, Detective?"

He sighed. "Inspector, under the circumstances, do you think you might find it within yourself to call me 'Ray'?"

She hesitated, then said, "I suppose." She added, after a beat. "Ray."

"See, that wasn't so hard."

She hesitated, then said, stiffly, "You can call me 'Meg.'"

"OK," he said, heartily. "Meg."

"But," she said, quickly, "and don't take this the wrong way, just for the duration."

"The duration?"

"Yes," she said, firmly. "I think it's important to observe the proprieties. Informality in a working relationship undermines discipline and invites chaos."

"Well," he said, sourly, "we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

The cart squeaked for a few more minutes.

"Um, Ray?"

"Yes, Meg?"

"Why don't you keep on going for a bit without me? I'll catch up."

"Why? Did you hear something?" he said, looking over his shoulder in alarm. He stopped the cart, straining his ears.

"No."

He started pushing again. "I think we should stick together."

"I won't get lost. It's a straight line, for goodness sake!"

He shot her a look of concern. "Are you OK?"

"Yes," she said, tersely. "I just need a moment."

He slowed the cart to a stop. "Oh. Sure, I could use a break, too." He stretched his aching back muscles.

"Must you be so obtuse?" she snapped.

"Whoa! What did I do?" he said, defensively.

She took a breath. "Nothing. Sorry. Here, take the flashlight. I just need a little ... privacy."

"Privacy?" he said, befuddled. "What do you need privacy for?"

She shot him Dragon Lady Look #138. The Do I Really Have to Explain It To You, You Idiot look.

"Oh." He hastily handed her back the light. "Here, I don't need it. It's a straight line." He grabbed the handles of the cart. "Besides, my hands are full. You keep it in case you ... uh ... need ... it," He tried to stop babbling, and started pushing. "I'll ... uh ... just keep going ... Shout if you need help, uh, that is -" the wheels of the cart squeaked. "Take your time." The wheels squeaked louder as he quickened his pace.

Meg waited until he was out of sight. Honestly! Did she have to paint him a picture? She slipped out of the parka, then unzipped. As she squatted against a wall, her irritation with Vecchio grew to encompass his entire gender. Oh, they had it easy, all right. Panties, long underwear, trousers and boots wouldn't slow them down at all. No! Vive la difference, my ass!

In the dark, Ray kept his head down and motored, trying to put as much distance between himself and Thatcher as humanly possible. "Obtuse! I'm not the one who's obtuse, Benny," he muttered. "How the hell am I supposed to know what she's talking about? No wonder, you act like an idi –"

BAM!

Fraser and cart rammed into an obstruction and bounced back against him. Caught off-guard, Ray fell, landing hard on his ass. He got to his knees, feeling around in the dark. Fraser was half hanging off the cart, his box askew, the strap around his chest the only thing keeping him on. "Sorry, man," Ray said, as he righted him. He made sure he was breathing OK, pulse strong, as comfortable as possible. Then, he reached out his hands, looking for what they had rammed into with Fraser's knees.

A wall.

Ray's heart thudded in his chest. Using his hands, he "walked" himself up the wall till he was on his feet. Keeping one hand on the wall to guide himself, and using Fraser as a starting and ending point, he walked the perimeter of a square room. By the heel to toe method, he roughly measured it as thirty feet by thirty feet. A square room at the end of a corridor, with the same dimensions as the smuggler's cache. The terminus.

Where the hell was Thatcher? How long did it take for a woman to pee? He navigated by touch around the room and back to the corridor. He waited impatiently until he saw the flashlight beam, then strode out to meet her.

"What took you so long?" Before she could shoot him Dragon Lady #77, he said, quickly, "Never mind. I found it. The end."

"The end? Of the tunnel?"

"No, of the story," he said, sarcastically. "Of course, the end of the tunnel." He hurried her to the room. She shone the flashlight around the space. She immediately realized that the room was the same size and shape as the smuggler's cache at the Depardieu warehouse. Unlike that space, however, there were no stairs and no lights.

But, there was a door.

It was heavy-duty, industrial, a steel door, set flush into the wall. There was no knob, no lock. Ray tried pushing on it, to no avail. Whatever mechanism opened it, worked from the other side. He leaned his back against it, looking at Meg in silence. He knew somehow - instinct, hunch or, as Fraser would say, subliminal reasoning - that this door had not been opened in a long, long time.

In the dimming light, she looked at him, bleakly. "We can't open that."

"No. It's a security door. It's designed to keep people out." He grimaced. "Got any C-4 on you?"

"Sorry." Then, she pulled the gun out of her pocket. "I do have this. Do you think we can shoot our way through?"

Ray scratched his head. "It's not like TV. There's nothing to shoot at that'll make this thing open. And I'd be worried about ricochet with that steel." He sighed. "Somebody's got to open it from the other side."

"So, what do we do? Knock?"

"If we knock, it's possible that the bad guys will answer," he told her. "But, I don't think we have much choice."

She nodded. "We knock."

He grabbed the handles of the cart. "Let's get you out of the way, Benny." He rolled him to the far side of the room, and backed him into the corner, to the left of the open corridor. Back at the door, he slipped the empty AK-47 off his shoulder and examined it. The stock was metal, the butt end flat. He hoisted it in a two handed grip. "This is gonna make some noise."

"Right." She took up position just inside the room, peering out into the corridor, gun in hand. She had set the flashlight on the floor facing toward the steel door. It provided some illumination for Ray, and a little for the room. It didn't do much for the corridor.

Ray drove the stock of the rifle against the steel as hard as he could. Even though she had been expecting it, the loud CLANG still made Meg jump. Then, he did it again. And again. He kept it up until he was gasping. He stopped and leaned heavily against the door. He wiped his face, wrinkling his nose at the aroma that wafted from his sweat-soaked body. God, he needed a bath.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said. He pressed an ear to the cold steel. Nothing. He picked up the rifle to start again, then noticed the stock was smashed. He tossed it away and picked up the other one. "If at first you don't succeed ..." He banged repeatedly until the second rifle too fell apart. Ray collapsed back against the door and slid to the floor, exhausted. He listened again. Nothing. He looked up at Meg, without speaking.

"We can dismantle the cart to make another club," she said, helpfully. "I'll take a turn."

He nodded, still catching his breath. Then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. As he took a step toward the cart, the flashlight winked out.

"Merde," he said, then moved to pick it up. Maybe, if he shook

it ... BANG! His head collided with Meg's hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Oooff," she said, falling on her bum. She fumbled for the flashlight, found it, and shook it. The beam came on for an instant, illuminating Ray as he sat, rubbing his own forehead. Then, it fluttered off. And stayed off, no matter what she did with it.

"That's that, then," she said, stating the obvious.

"Fraser's got a couple of waterproof matches," Ray offered.

She snorted. "That would be great if we had the C-4."

"Yeah," Ray said, appreciating her attempt at humor. He got to his feet and reached down, fumbling for her hand. He hoisted her up.

"Thank you," she said. She put out her hand blindly, and encountered his chest. "Which way is the cart?"

Before he could answer, the room was engulfed in a blaze of light. To their dark-adapted eyes, it was beyond blinding. Ray felt like hot needles were jabbed through his eyeballs straight into his brain. He gasped, shielding his eyes, and stumbled back against the steel door, confused and disoriented. Meg reeled, and fell against him. Her eyes were on fire!

The lantern had dimmed. As he was about to crank it, he noticed a dull red glow emanating ahead. A fire? He sniffed. No smoke. He cocked his head. The voices were louder, though he still couldn't make them out. He switched off the lantern and clipped it to his belt. The red light was enough to see by as he walked, though it flickered and danced, casting weird shadows on the walls and floor. He squeezed through a cleft in a rock, and stepped into a stony chamber the size of a large room. To his disappointment, it was a dead end. He would have turned around and started back, but for the odd wall that comprised the rear of the chamber.

His first thought was that it must be ice, perhaps a glacier abutted the cave. He touched the surface with a bare hand. It was cool, but not frigid. Not ice, then. Crystal. It was a solid wall of crystal. He had never seen the like. Was it some weird formation of stalactite and stalagmite that had met and fused together over a vast expanse of time? Translucent, rather than transparent, he could see through it, though not clearly. Shapes moved on the other side, as if through a glass, darkly. The source of the red light was over there as well. The glow on his side of the cave was the leakage through the crystal wall.

Ben pressed an ear against the wall, then reared back in surprise. He knew that some crystals had a harmonic quality. He had built a crystal radio with the Reverend when he was a child. But, how on earth? He pressed his ear to the wall again. Gregorian Chant. The Kyrie, if he wasn't mistaken. He couldn't explain this music, so he closed his eyes and enjoyed it, listening rapturously for a few minutes. He straightened with a jerk. He had nearly fallen asleep. He didn't remember sitting down, but he was, leaning against the wall, nodding off to the siren song of this cave.

The shapes on the other side of the wall seemed closer, the voices louder. In fact, there seemed to be new, bigger shapes. They made him uneasy. There was a menacing quality to the shapes and voices now. Ben knew that he had to get through this wall. Right now.

He rummaged in his pack, extracting the axe he had used on the climb. He drew his arm back and sunk the pick end of the axe into the wall. Clunk. None of the shapes on the other side reacted to the sound. Feeling guilty for destroying something so beautiful, he hardened his heart, and struck another blow. And another. And another.

Meg pressed her palms against her eyes, trembling with shock.

"What's happening?" she cried, blindly reaching out. "Ray?"

He grabbed her hand, steadying her. "I don't know. My eyes!"

"Forgive me, Meg," said a smooth, baritone voice in French.

She froze. She felt Ray stiffen beside her. "Antoine?"

"At your service, mam'selle," he replied, still in the same language. "I apologize for the flare, cheri. But it was a little dark in there." He spoke French too rapidly for Meg to follow. Then, she felt someone grab her. Someone big. She struggled. Ray moved, blindly grappling with the big person. She heard his grunt of pain and felt him double over.

"Calm yourselves," Depardieu said, authoritatively. "Emile won't hurt you. Unless, you make him."

Meg restrained herself as Emile patted her down. He was professional, not lascivious. Still, in her vulnerable state, she felt violated. He removed the gun from the pocket of her parka and moved on to pat and frisk Ray. The pain in her streaming eyes was beginning to dissipate. She felt Emile move away from them.

"She had a gun; the man, this knife," he told Antoine. "And his wallet."

"Try the radio again."

She heard walkie-talkie sounds - the hiss of static, clicks, Emile calling names.

"Nothing, boss."

Ray squinted, his vision slowly starting to clear. He could make out two large blob shapes in front of him. A flare burned brightly on the floor, illuminating the entire room and its occupants in a sinister red glow. He looked at Thatcher. Her features were a blur, but he could make out her motion as she rubbed her eyes.

Ray faced the blobs, and assumed a belligerent stance, "What's going on here? Who the hell are you?"

"Antoine Depardieu, m'sieu, at your service," he said, switching to English, amused at the bravado of the squinting man, with tears running down his face. "And my associate, Emile ... " He turned, slightly, "I'm sorry, I don't recall the last name."

"DeBecque," Emile said, flatly.

"Really?" Depardieu said. Then, to Ray, "Meg and I are already acquainted, m'sieu. So ... who the hell are you?"

"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago Police Department." What the hell, the guy already had his wallet and badge. Ray's vision was coming back. The tall, distinguished boss man, former owner of a classic 1959 Cadillac Seville, and a hulking blond man with a flattop stood between him and the corridor. He saw Emile flinch at his words. "That's right. I'm a cop."

"And you, Meg?" She almost laughed at his hurt tone. He might almost be saying Et tu, Brute.

Thatcher's voice was glacial. "Inspector Margaret Thatcher, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"An American policeman and an RCMP Inspector?" Depardieu said, in astonishment. "In Quebec? What are you doing here?"

"We," Thatcher said, imperiously, drawing herself up to her full height,"are the International Joint Task Force of the Chicago Police Department and the Canadian Consulate."

"Damn straight," said Ray, although he thought it was the International Joint Task Force of the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department. "You're in big trouble, now, buddy. You may as well surrender and get this over with."

Depardieu frowned at him, then burst into laughter. "You are a funny guy, M'sieu Detective."

"Where'd you come from? Through there?" Ray gestured behind him to the steel door, which looked untouched, still flush with the wall.

Depardieu snorted. "That door hasn't been opened in twenty years, I'll wager. Not since the government decommissioned this site."

"Decommissioned?" Meg asked.

Depardieu looked at her. "Didn't you know? This used to be part of the NORAD network before the government shut it down. The tunnel system was sealed off when the land was sold to private owners in the seventies."

"And you bought it?"

"Only a piece," he said, modestly. "But to answer your question, Detective, I came the same way you did." He dipped his head to them in a gesture of respect. "I must admit that your little ruse at the crossroads was clever. Most of my men are scampering down the western tunnel in hot pursuit, as we speak." He looked annoyed. "Sooner or later, they will figure out the deception." He shook his head, ruefully. "One had rather hoped it would be sooner. Emile and I had remained at the crossroads, when I heard the faintest of noises emanating from the eastern tunnel. And, voila, here we are."

He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. Well, as magnanimous as one can while holding a gun. "Now, I have a question of my own. How did you learn of my partnership with Frank?" At Meg's blank stare, he prompted, "Frank Nardo, my brother-in-law?"

"Oh," she said, in disdain, "You mean, The Toothpick." She lifted her head and looked down her nose at him. Dragon Lady #57. Disapproval of One's Choice of Relations. "That's classified," she said, primly.

Ray glanced at her, admiring her spunk. "You wouldn't believe us anyway," he muttered, thinking longingly of a stack of Nick's blueberry pancakes. In a louder voice, he told Depardieu, "That's not important. What is important is that we did find out about it. And you're in a lot of trouble."

Depardieu shook his head. "I will grant you that you have been troublesome tonight. You are one of the mystery men that caused problems at my dock too, are you not?" he said to Ray, then paused. "But, wait, where is the other?"

"He's over here, boss," Emile said, from the corner of the room.

Depardieu looked quickly over his shoulder. Ray tensed, ready to lunge, but there was no opportunity. Both men were holding guns on them. They exchanged places, Depardieu toward Fraser, and Emile back to them. The big man was good. He never wavered in keeping them in his sights.

Depardieu stood over Fraser. "He is injured?"

"Concussion. When he fell through the trap door in the garage," Meg hurried to explain. "He's been unconscious ever since." She tensed. Antoine's proximity to her helpless junior officer was ratcheting up her adrenaline level even higher than she thought possible. Beside her, she heard Ray's breathing quicken, and knew that he felt the same.

Depardieu grabbed Fraser roughly by his hair and jerked his head up. He studied his slack face. "I don't know him. Not one of our fine local force." At Meg's look of surprise, he said, "Everybody knows everybody around here, Meg. It is a nice contrast to Montreal." He let Fraser's head drop. "Or Chicago. He is an American policeman, too?"

"He's a Mountie," she admitted, knowing that Fraser, like Ray, had his ID on him.

"Interesting, that not one of you is Surete." He rejoined Emile. "As I was saying, you may have caused me a spot of trouble. And my brother-in-law." He smiled. "But, I do not think that you are in position to cause me any more."

"Think again, Antoine," Ray said. "You're about to be busted wide open. Your best bet is to cooperate. It'll go easier for you."

"But, Detective, if I was about to be busted, where are your cohorts?"

"They're up there. Your place is surrounded," Ray said, with as much confidence as he could muster.

"I think not, Detective," he said, shaking his head. "No one has come to your aid in all this time, despite explosions, fire, gunshots. Nor, have I seen or heard from the local police. The - what is the word - the 'chatter' on the scanner is all about the accident on Route 101. Apparently, it was a bad one." He paused, thoughtfully. "Non, I think you are all alone. I do not understand how you infiltrated my operations. But, I think you and your friend," he gestured to Fraser, "have been undercover." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "In your case, deep undercover." He looked at Thatcher. "And you, Meg, were their liaison. But, we intercepted you before you could make contact with your inside men, did we not?"

Meg looked him in the eye. "You're wrong, Antoine. The Surete is involved with this operation. Officer Truffaut knows of the investigation, my whereabouts –"

Depardieu nodded, thoughtfully. "Perhaps. If that is so, Truffaut will be dealt with." His voice took on an ominous tone. "As you see, Meg, accidents can happen even on rural highways."

Meg stilled. If the three of them were going to die here and now, she didn't want to bring anyone else down with a lie that would accomplish nothing. She couldn't have that on her conscience, here at the end. She was scrambling for something to say, when Ray jumped back in. "You already know that there's more than just us. You know what's happening in Chicago."

"Ah, but Chicago is very far from here, Detective." He shrugged. "My brother-in-law is quite capable of managing his own affairs." He mused, thoughtfully. "No, he will deal with his own problems. And I will deal with mine." He looked at Meg with real regret. "A pity. We could have had a moment, cheri. It would have been lovely."

"What about your wife?" she said, sourly.

"What about her?" he said, genuinely surprised at the question. Then, he sighed, deeply. "Ah, but there is no point in wondering what might have been." He raised his gun. "Adieu, Meg."

Ben stopped, leaning against the wall. His effort had left him gasping, sweating, and trembling. Yet, he hadn't even made a dent in the surface. Not a chip or crack. He turned the ice axe so that the hammer end faced the wall. All crystals had a shattering point. He just had to find it. With the last of his strength, he swung his arm as if he were about to ring a gong. The hammer struck the wall. The crystal rang a single, bell-like note before shattering into a thousand pieces. His momentum carried Ben through and he fell to the other side.

"You'd shoot a woman and an unconscious man?" Ray said, scornfully, playing for time. He was sizing up the logistics. If he threw himself at both of them, he might be able to block the bullets and knock the guns from their hands before he went down. Maybe Meg could grab a gun –

"What do you mean by that?" she said, with asperity.

"By what?" he asked, mystified.

"What difference does it make if I'm a woman?" There was real anger in her tone.

"Really?" Ray asked, in disbelief. "You wanna go there at a time like this?"

"Why not?" she retorted. "It's not like there's going to be another time." She added, "Is there, Antoine?"

"I'm afraid not, cheri."

Ray gestured at Depardieu. "He called you 'cheri'!"

"He's holding a gun!"

They glared at each other.

"Fine," Ray said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Do whatever you're gonna do, Antoine. Don't listen to me."

"That's all you have to say?" she demanded.

"I was gonna say 'Ladies, first' but apparently that's a no-no."

Emile snickered, and said something in French to Depardieu, who laughed. Meg directed the diamond edged glare - Dragon Lady #6 - at them.

"What did you say?" Ray demanded of Emile.

Meg translated, angrily. "He said, 'Lovers' quarrel.'" Then, in a burst of inspiration, she added, "Darling." She reached out and took Ray's hand in hers.

Ray was so flabbergasted he didn't react at all. She clutched his hand tightly so he couldn't it pull it away.

"Antoine," she said, facing the French Canadian. "May we have a moment?" She lowered her eyelashes, demurely. "To say goodbye."

"But, of course, cheri," he said, "I am not a barbarian." He bowed in a very Gallic manner. "Take your time."

Meg pulled a shocked, unresisting Ray to her in a fierce embrace. "Put your arms around me, you idiot," she whispered in his ear, as she nuzzled his neck.

Ray's arms moved to embrace her of their own volition. He bent his head and buried his face in her hair. She smelled good. "What are you doing?"

"It's the only way to talk. Now, shut up and listen. We don't have much time." Ray pulled her closer as she continued. "I'll charge both of them just before they shoot, catching them by surprise. You should be able to get one of the guns away before they can react. If you're quick enough."

He nuzzled her left ear. "Now, wait a minute. That's what I was going to do," he whispered. "I'm bigger and stronger."

She bit his earlobe, none too gently. "Oooh, you're the big, strong man. And I'm just the woman, the damsel in distress –"

"That's not what I meant!" he hissed.

"Maybe," she whispered, "because I'm a woman, they won't be expecting me to be the aggressor, did you think of that?"

Ray hadn't, but he'd be damned if he'd ever admit it. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and whispered, "I'll do it and that's final." Ray knew he was going to die. All he had left was to do it on his terms. He wound his fingers into her soft, dark hair and pulled her head back. She opened her mouth to argue when he pressed his lips to hers.

Meg was so shocked that she froze in the embrace that she had initiated. At first, it was a tentative kiss, sweet really, but then he deepened it. She didn't resist, carrying on the ruse. But, then, she thought, if this was it, if she was going to be shot dead in the next instant, why not show this arrogant, infuriating, chauvinistic American just what the Dragon Lady was capable of? That would teach him. Meg cradled Ray's head in her hands and fused her mouth and body to his.

Ray, who had intended merely to stop the argument, was dumbfounded by her response. Reason deserted him. In the vacuum it left, instinct rushed in. He kissed her with everything he had. He held nothing back. Why should he? He'd be dead in a minute.

Time stopped. Nothing existed for either Meg or Ray, except the touch of their lips, the feel of their arms around each other, the human need to comfort and be comforted in their moment of need ...

"Ahem."

Ray felt like he was waking from a dream.

"Ahem."

Meg felt like she was emerging from a pool of clear, warm water.

"AHEM!"

Ray opened his eyes to see Meg looking into his. He blinked and released her. She faltered and stepped back. Slowly, they turned to face Depardieu and his henchman.

"That was quite ... affecting," Depardieu said, no trace of mockery in his tone. He spoke to Emile in rapid French.

"What's he saying?" Ray muttered, out of the corner of his mouth.

"He is," she swallowed to clear the squeak. "He is ordering Emile to shoot you, on the count of three, when Antoine will shoot me. So, that we die simultaneously. It is his grand gesture to ... love." Her voice cracked on the last part. "Then, Emile is to shoot Fraser, strip our bodies and leave us here."

"On three?"

"Trois, actually."

Depardieu finished speaking. Emile nodded. They raised their guns.

"Un," Antoine said.

Ray tensed, rising on to the balls of his feet. Meg pressed her lips together tightly, and clenched her fists.

"Deux."

Suddenly, Depardieu's head jerked and his gun went off. Meg and Ray flinched. Emile collapsed. Antoine fell on to his prostrate henchman.

For an agonizing moment, Ray and Meg stood there, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then, they both bent and scooped a gun off the floor. Ray handed her Emile's as he knelt down. She kept both guns trained on the supine men.

Ray rolled Depardieu over. He was unconscious, but had a pulse and was breathing. He pushed him aside and examined Emile. There was a neat, nearly bloodless hole in the middle of his forehead. He was dead. Ray went back over Depardieu but there was no sign of a bullet wound, no blood, nothing. As he sank back on his haunches, puzzled, he spotted something on the ground, half-covered by Emile's body. He picked it up, bringing it close to his face.

It was a knife. A heavy-duty hunting knife, with a very dull edge. It smelled faintly of peaches.

Meg's shock had worn off enough that she could speak. "Is - isn't that Fraser's?"

Their eyes swivelled to the corner of the room. Fraser looked back at them from his perch on the box on the cart. For a long moment, the tableau was frozen in the red glow of the flare. Then, Ray looked at Meg.

She returned his look with Dragon Lady #1 - Nothing Happened And I Will Deny It With My Dying Breath If You Say Otherwise look.

That was absolutely, positively fine with Ray.

He pointed at the limp Depardieu, and said, shakily, "He's alive. Keep him covered." She nodded and pointed both guns at Antoine. Ray crossed to Fraser on rubbery legs and sank to his knees beside him.

Fraser looked bewildered. "Am I dreaming?"

"No." Ray didn't trust his voice so he didn't say anything more.

"Oh."

Ray fumbled with the buckle on the strap across Fraser's chest. His hands were shaking. Finally, he got it and the strap fell away.

Fraser watched as Meg slowly walked over to them. She knelt on his other side.

Ray said, sharply, "I told you to watch –"

"I tied him up with his and Emile's belts. He's not going anywhere," she said, brusquely. "Here." She handed him back the gun. She held Fraser's knife in her hand.

Fraser stared at it, then back at her. She had never seen an expression like this on his face. It was beyond unguarded. It could best be described as ... childlike.

"Fraser," she started. That seemed wrong, too harsh. "Ben," she said, gently. "Did you just throw this knife at that man over there?"

He looked at a spot over their shoulders. His father was standing there, a concerned expression on his rugged features.

Fraser frowned, and said slowly, "You mean Dad?"

Meg and Ray exchanged worried glances. "No, Fra – Ben," she said, "I meant the man on the ground."

Fraser's brow furrowed in thought. "I think so," he said, uncertainly. Looking anxiously at them and his father, he added, "I'm sorry."

Ray patted his shoulder. "Don't be, Benny. I don't know what happened, but I think you just saved our lives."

"Oh." He looked around at his surroundings, then down at himself, then back at their faces. His confusion was evident.

"How do you feel, Ben?" Meg asked.

"And don't say 'fine,'" Ray warned, as he saw his lips forming the word.

Fraser took a moment to assess. It was obvious to Ray that he wasn't operating on all cylinders. Then, haltingly, he said, "My head hurts." He moved his right arm, slightly. "My arm hurts." Then, looking further down, "My knees hurt." He looked back up. "And, I'm very tired."

Ray, feeling guilty about the knees, patted his shoulder again. He grabbed hold of the side of the cart and hoisted himself to his feet. Meg did, too. Fraser watched as they moved slightly away and bent their heads together.

His father spoke. "How many fingers am I holding up, son?"

"Four?"

"Four what?" Ray asked, over his shoulder.

Fraser gestured with his head to a space in front of him. "Dad's holding up four fingers, right?"

"Ri-ight," he said, heartily. "That's right, Benny."

"No, I'm not, Yank! It was two. Two!" He shook his hand in Ray's direction. "See!"

"Hold still, Dad! I can't tell with you waving your hand around," Fraser complained, squinting.

Bob Fraser stilled as he saw the meaningful look pass between Ray and Meg. "Never mind, son. It's not important. Pretend I'm not here."

"OK, Dad," he whispered, loud enough for them to hear. He looked pointedly away from his father, his gaze flicking around to everything but him.

Ray came back, and peered into his face, worriedly. Both eyes seemed to be tracking. He thought the pupils looked the same. "It's OK. You just rest, Benny. We're gonna get you to a doctor soon as we can." He returned to Thatcher.

"He's scaring me," she said, grimly.

"Me, too," Ray admitted. "Even scarier, Depardieu's goons are gonna be coming for us."

"We're armed and we have a hostage, now." She frowned at her choice of words. "I mean, a prisoner."

"Yeah." Was that enough, he thought, to get the three of them out of here? He glanced at Fraser, who looked back at them so trustingly. It had to be.

"Ray?"

"Yes, Benny?"

"Is ... is this ... heaven?"

Ray snorted. He couldn't help it.

Meg shot him a dirty look. "No, Ben," she said, kindly. "It's not heaven."

Ray, noting the sinister red glow cast on their faces by the burning flare, said, "It's not hell, either."

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow with his left thumb. "Then, why do I hear angels singing?"

Meg and Ray exchanged worried looks. She spoke first. "You injured your head, Ben. Concussion can sometimes cause auditory hallucinations." She added, frowning, "Visual ones, too."

"Oh."

Just then, there was a sound from the other side of the room. A sound of metal scraping on stone, of long disused hinges being forced to rotate. Fraser looked over their shoulders as Meg and Ray whirled. He pointed with his left hand. "If this isn't heaven, why is there an angel over there?"

"I'm no angel, son," his father said, with an amused chuckle. "Far from it."

"Not you, Dad. Behind you."

The steel door was open. Bright white light poured out of the opening. Ray gaped at the sight of the angel standing in the doorframe, his long white robe flowing to the floor, a halo of white hair framing his head. The sound of a heavenly choir filled the room.

"Oh my God," Meg whispered. She really was dead. Antoine had shot her. It was The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge for real.

Ray blinked hard, but the apparition was still there. He turned away, closing his eyes, pressing his hands to his ears, momentarily unable to process one more bizarre event in a long series of bizarre events.

Fraser swayed on the box, the light and music threatening to overwhelm him. Black spots crowded his vision. Over the roaring in his ears, he heard his father say, "You don't look so good, Benton." Then, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard "Yank! Hey, Yank!"

Ray opened his eyes. He thought he heard somebody shouting over the celestial choir. Then, he saw Fraser's eyelids flutter as he started to slump sideways. Ray lunged and caught him just before he hit the floor.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This concludes The Great Northern Maple Syrup Adventure Part Two: Canada. The story continues (and comes to an end) in Part Three: Sanctuary. I hope you have enjoyed it so far. Please let me know how you like it.