EPILOGUE

"There she is, Benny!" Ray said, excitedly, peering through the glass doors of the terminal exit. He pushed the door open and hurried through. It swung back, nearly striking a little old lady that Fraser had politely ushered ahead of him. He lunged for the door and held it for her and the flock of elderly women in her wake.

"She's over there!" Ray called over his shoulder. He hoisted the backpack higher and quickened his pace on the sidewalk. "God, I missed her."

Frannie Vecchio waved a mittened hand enthusiastically from the passenger pickup spaces at the curb. She wore tight jeans and a short rabbit fur jacket. A bright knitted cap with pom-pom perched on her head, matching her mittens. The cold had pinked her cheeks and nose. She made an attractive picture, smiling broadly as a light snow fell. Several men gave her an appreciative glance in passing as they hurried by.

Ray broke into a trot and raced toward his sister. She stepped out to meet him, arms opening in an embrace, when he ran past her and laid himself over the hood of the Riviera. He ran his hands across the green metal, brushing away the snow that had accumulated there. "Ooooh, I'm so glad to see you, baby! Did you miss me?" he crooned.

Frannie turned and glared at him. She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out a hip. "You are such a jerk, Ray Vecchio!"

"Hello, Francesca," a voice said behind her.

She spun. "Benton!"

Fraser smiled down at her, then staggered back as she threw her arms around him. She squeezed him tightly for a moment, her head resting against his chest. Before he could react, she let him go and stepped back. "Welcome home," she said, looking up at him, shyly.

"Thank you kindly." Fraser's cheeks were as pink as hers now. He looked down at his feet, then back at her. "It's good to be back."

Ray tapped her on the shoulder. "Gimme the keys," he demanded. She whirled, fire in her eyes. As she opened her mouth to berate him, he swept her up in a bear hug, lifting her clean off her feet. She buried her face in his shoulder and held on tight. When he set her down at last, he saw her eyelashes were wet. Ray was touched, but before he could say anything, she punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow!" He scowled, rubbing the spot. "What's that for?"

"For scaring me to death! Don't you ever, ever do that again!" She looked sternly at Fraser, but contented herself with shaking a finger at him. "That includes you, too!"

"I'm sorry, Francesca," he said, contritely. "I'll try."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Ri-ight! That'll last five minutes. C'mon, gimme the keys, Frannie."

"What are you wearing?" she said, in distaste, as she reached into a pocket.

Ray held his arms out at his sides, displaying the bulky neon yellow parka with the patchwork stitching over the heart. "What? It's warm," he said, defensively. His Armani overcoat was now evidence. He'd never see it again.

She looked askance, as she searched another pocket. She dug the keys out of her tight jeans with difficulty, dropped them in the snow, then bent to pick them up, attracting some appreciative looks from male passersby, who hurried on at Ray's glare. Frannie tossed the keys over. Ray clicked the door locks, then opened the trunk. He blinked. It was filled with shopping bags from Marshall Fields, Bonwit's, and every other department store in the downtown Chicago area. He made a nest and gently laid the backpack down among them. Two mason jars of the Quebecois Dark Reserve and two growlers of the Abbey's Heavenly Elixir were nestled inside, wrapped carefully in muslin. They had survived the long journey so far, despite a thousand potholes on the road to North Bay and the turbulence over Lake Ontario. Just a few more miles to go.

When he got behind the wheel, Fraser had already settled in the back seat, with Frannie at shotgun. Ray started the engine. He nearly had a heart attack as Olivia Newton-John's Hopelessly Devoted blared out of the speakers, rattling the windows. He snapped off the radio, in disgust. As he reached for the gearshift, he automatically glanced at the odometer.

"You've been driving my car!" he accused.

"Just around the neighborhood," Frannie said, innocently. "And to the airport, today."

He squinted at the dial and did the math. "Six hundred miles around the neighborhood?! That's like to Quebec and back!"

"Actually, Ray, it's seven hundred miles to Quebec from Chicago. One way," Fraser said, helpfully. "By road, that is. Not barge," he added.

"I had to take Ma to the doctor's too, didn't I?" Frannie said, quickly. "She got a real good report, too." She successfully diverted Ray for ten minutes while they discussed their mother's health before he circled back to the argument.

Fraser looked out the window at the passing scenery as they headed downtown. He had already tuned out the battling Vecchios, a survival skill he had acquired over the course of several months. He cracked open the window and breathed deeply of the cold air, tinged with the rich, varied smells of urban life - motor exhaust, steam vents, garbage, fried food. The fresh snow was softening the sharp edges of the city and muffling the cacophony. He noted the new construction outside the Merchandise Mart, and the fresh graffiti on the El platform at Wacker Avenue. He had been gone only a few weeks, but it seemed much longer. He realized, to his surprise, that he had missed the city and mused on that novel thought for the rest of the journey. He was startled when Ray pulled to a stop and exited the vehicle. They were at the Consulate already.

"You're going to work, now?" Frannie said, surprised. "It's after five. Why don't you start fresh in the morning, Benton?"

"I've been away two weeks, Francesca. It's best if I start catching up as soon as possible."

"But, you're not dressed," she protested. Like Ray, his civilian clothes were clean, but shabby-looking. She had noticed the patch sewn on to the back of his jeans when he had climbed into the back of the car. And, the fact that his pants were a little baggy in the seat. Not that she was complaining. He still had the cutest butt in Chicago.

"I have a spare uniform in my office," he explained. As he pushed the driver's seat forward, he said, "Thank you kindly for picking me up, Francesca."

"Anytime you need a ride, Benton." She smiled. "You can be my pickup."

He nodded uncertainly, and hastily exited the car.

Ray had opened the trunk and carefully extracted a bundle from the backpack. "Here you go, Benny."

"Thanks, Ray," he said, warmly.

"Hey, don't thank me. That's from Brother Victor."

"No, I meant ..." he rubbed an eyebrow with a thumb, and shrugged. "Thanks ... for everything."

Ray frowned. "Don't go getting all touchy-feely on me, Benny. We're not in Canada, anymore."

Fraser cleared his throat. "No, of course not." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the front entrance. "I have to go. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Ray said, smiling. "See you tomorrow." He got behind the wheel. "Dinner's at seven."

Frannie leaned out the window. "Don't forget. Ma's been cooking for three days."

"I wouldn't miss it, Francesca."

As the Riviera pulled away from the curb, Fraser heard them resume the argument right where they had left off. He walked up the steps of the Consulate and used his key to open the front door. As he closed it behind him, he was nearly bowled over by Diefenbaker. He managed to sit down on the stairs without dropping the mason jar, but it was a close thing. He didn't protest as the wolf licked and nuzzled him enthusiastically. "All right, Dief. All right," he said, again and again, as he petted his friend. "I missed you, too." Eventually, Dief settled back on his haunches with a toothy grin.

Fraser wiped his face with his sleeve. He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully. "I received a full report from the Inspector about your actions while I was away. Well done, Diefenbaker. Very well done."

Dief wagged his back end. He cocked his head, and looked at Fraser with a critical eye. He made a noise.

"I'm OK. Really." Another grumble-growl. "Well, yes, I have lost a little weight," he acknowledged. "But, it looks like you've found it." He looked at him sternly. "Tomorrow, we start a new training regimen. We both need it." He ignored the grumbles of protest and got to his feet.

Turnbull stood in the hall, in full dress uniform. He raised his arm in a crisp salute, while tears glistened in his eyes. Fraser sighed, and returned the salute. Turnbull rushed to him. "Welcome back, sir! Oh, welcome back!" In a defensive move, Fraser thrust out his hand before he could be embraced. Turnbull clasped it enthusiastically, pumping his arm up and down hard enough to cause twinges in his shoulder. Fraser gritted his teeth and managed to extract himself before his arm fell off.

"Thank you, Constable," he said.

Turnbull wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose. "We missed you, sir."

"Thank you for taking care of Diefenbaker." He glanced down at the wolf. "He appears well-fed."

"He was no trouble, sir. None at all." He blew his nose once more. "The Inspector asked that you report in as soon as you arrived," he said, grimacing, as he looked upstairs. He leaned in and whispered, "She's been on the telephone all day. Right now, with Ottawa."

Fraser nodded. He appreciated the warning. Telephone calls with Ottawa usually engendered a foul mood in the Inspector. "I'll go right up." He picked up the muslin-wrapped jar from the stair riser and took a step. He turned back. "Oh, Turnbull?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I know my absence must have placed an extra burden on you. I apologize for that. Were you able to participate in the school district's World Cultures Day?"

"Oh, yes," he said, eagerly. "I was invited back next year."

"Good." Fraser took another step, then turned again. "What was our dish?" he asked, curious.

"Gingered-maple pork medallions, served over a bed of maple-roasted root vegetables and wild rice," he said, proudly. "With maple-polenta souffle for dessert."

Fraser's empty stomach rumbled in reaction. "That sounds delicious," he said, sincerely. Turnbull beamed at the praise. He lowered his voice. "So ... how did we do?"

Turnbull made a face. "Second place, sir."

"The paella?"

Turnbull nodded. "It came down to one vote, sir," he said, with a trace of bitterness. "I hate to speak ill of anyone, but I suspect cronyism."

"You may be right," Fraser commiserated. He looked down at the muslin-wrapped bundle in his hands. He permitted himself a tiny sigh of regret before offering it to the junior officer. "Here. Use this next year."

Turnbull unwrapped the muslin and stared at the mason jar of brown liquid. "What is it, sir?"

"That, Constable, is the Quebecois Dark Reserve."

Turnbull's jaw dropped. He cradled the jar in his arms as if he were holding a newborn. "The Reserve?" he whispered, awestruck. He snapped to attention. "Thank you, sir! I won't let you down." He turned on his heel and carried his burden carefully into the kitchen.

Fraser watched him go with amusement, then mounted the stairs two at a time. The Inspector's voice drifted down the long hall from the open door of her office.

"Yes, sir," she said. "I understand, sir. Yes, sir. He is quite ... something. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She set the phone down in its cradle slowly and stared at it, a stunned expression on her face. When she looked up, she saw Fraser standing in the doorway of her office, his hand poised to knock on the door frame.

She stared at him without speaking. He looked back at her, unsure if he should step into the room, acutely aware that he was out of uniform and that his civilian clothes gave him a seedy aspect. The silence stretched. He finally broke it.

"Turnbull said you wanted to see me, sir?" He paused, feeling more awkward than usual. "I could change first, if - "

Meg blinked. Get a grip, she told herself. This is your junior officer and you are his commander. There was a line between them. It was a line that could not be crossed. The extreme circumstances in Quebec had blurred that line. It was up to her to restore it. The fact that what she really wanted was to throw her arms around him was irrelevant. Discipline needed to be restored. Starting now. Unfortunately, the only way Meg knew how to discipline herself was at his expense.

"Don't stand out in the hall, Fraser," she snapped. "Get in here."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," he said, hastily moving to the desk where he stood stiffly at attention.

"You're late," she said, flatly.

"Yes, sir. Our flight was cancelled due to mechanical problems and then, there was weather over the Lake they call..."

She wasn't listening as she eyed him critically. He looked well enough, thinner than when he had left Chicago, but substantially fit. Those clothes, however, had seen better days. She supposed they were the clothes he had been wearing on the night he and Vecchio had disappeared from Brannigan's Wharf.

He seemed to read her mind. "I realize my appearance is ... substandard, sir. But, it was either these or the monks robes. Ray, I mean Detective Vecchio, pointed out that the robes were ... impractical ... for Chicago weather, " he said, apologetically. "I could change–"

She interrupted him, holding out her hand. "I believe you have something for me from Brother Nathaniel?"

He sighed, and reached into his pocket. He extracted the bulky sealed envelope addressed to her in the monk's neat script and handed it over.

She slit the envelope with a letter opener, removed a folded sheet of paper, and squinted at it. "He says you're restricted to light duty for two more weeks."

"I really don't think that's necessary, sir. I'm fi –"

She interrupted him. "He also says if you tell me that you are fine, I am to dose you with this." She held up a glassine envelope with dried leaves and seeds in it. "Three times a day for those two weeks."

Fraser blanched at the prospect of the continuation of Brother Nathaniel's herbal cleanse regimen. "I'm better, sir. Truly," he hastened to say. He paused at her skeptical look. "Perhaps, not one hundred percent," he acknowledged, reluctantly. "But, in the high eighties." He added, "And improving daily."

She fixed him with a stern eye. "All right. I'll accept that," she said, brusquely. She dropped the herbal packet into the middle drawer of her desk. "But, you are restricted to light duty for the next fourteen days. And, I want you on your best behavior on your off-duty hours, too. You are not to risk your life or limb for the next six weeks. Is that clear?"

"Six weeks, sir?"

She indicated the phone. "I just hung up with Chief Superintendent Foster. We have been chosen for a special assignment, Constable." She allowed herself a small smile, then quickly quashed it. "A plum assignment."

"Sir?"

"We, that is, you and I, have been chosen as security escort to the Musical Ride on its tour of six major US midwestern cities, including Chicago." She looked eagerly at him. "The tour will be accompanied by an American film crew making a documentary of the RCMP and the Musical Ride for PBS."

Fraser nodded. A plum, indeed. And good public relations for the Service. Perhaps, he and Dief should start the training regimen tonight to be sure he would be in shape in time. "That is good news, sir."

"Excellent news," she agreed. She picked up the phone. "I have arrangements to make. Dismissed, Constable."

Fraser spun on his heel and exited her office. He stood in the hall a moment, wondering what he had done this time to offend the Inspector. He heard a noise and looked down.

"I don't know why, Dief," he said, in response. "But, you're right. I seem to be back in the doghouse." He looked down at himself. Perhaps, it was the shabby appearance. He should have worn the robes, Windy City be darned.

He hurried to his office and shut the door. He quickly changed into his spare uniform, noting with a frown the loose waistline of his trousers. He cinched the Sam Browne tighter around the baggy tunic. Oh well, he thought, resignedly. Mrs. Vecchio thought he was too thin at his normal weight. She would consider it her personal project to fatten him up.

There were several neat stacks of correspondence and forms on his desk. He usually started with the job-related paperwork before the personal, but a colorful postcard caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a beautiful shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, sheathed in thick fog so that it's spires protruded like the masts of a sailing ship. He turned it over. The postmark was a week ago.

Dear Benton,

I will be returning to Chicago the Monday after Easter. Our young friend is staying on. He's enrolled in a program for study and will take his test in two months. I am so proud. He is a bright, eager student, and I have confidence that he will do well at anything he puts his mind to.

Hope you and Ray and Diefenbaker are well and that the unpleasant business is soon resolved. The Senior Center's Spring Fling is on the 30th. Will you wear your red suit and big hat and sing for us?

Fondly,

s/Helen

There was a postscript written in a different hand:

Thanks for everything, dude.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as his father said, over his right shoulder, "I think the boy will be all right, son."

"Do you mind, Dad?" Fraser said, trying to damp down on the adrenaline surging through his body.

"It's a postcard. Everybody reads postcards," Bob protested. "Even the mailman."

"I didn't mean the postcard. Can't you give me some warning before popping in like that?"

"What? Like a bell around my neck?" he said, offended.

"That's an idea, yes." Fraser looked guiltily at the stack of official correspondence, before indulging himself and opening the small buff envelope with his name on it. The return address was in Calgary.

Benton,

I wanted to thank you again for all your help. As you can see from the postmark, we are back home. Sam's recovery has been better than expected and his doctors are well pleased. Not to take anything away from them, but I truly believe that being home with his family under blue Alberta skies has done the trick. He pooh-poohs me, but I know it's true.

Melanie's leave is coming to an end on Monday. She wanted me to thank you especially. She said to tell you that she can do her duty abroad with a lighter heart knowing that someone like you is doing the same on the homefront.

I've enclosed a photo of us with Lady. I told her all about Diefenbaker and she hopes to meet him someday. If you are ever in our neck of the woods, please do come and see us. You are always welcome in our home.

s/Betty Conroy

He handed the letter to his father, who read it through twice before handing it back.

"Nice letter," Bob Fraser commented.

"Yes, it is." He picked up the first item on the first of several stacks of professional correspondence.

"You're making a difference here, son."

Fraser looked up in surprise. "I thought you disapproved of this posting."

His father looked embarrassed and mumbled something that Fraser couldn't catch.

"Pardon?" he said.

"I said, I was wrong." As Fraser gaped at him, he shrugged. "I'll leave you to it, son." And, with that, he was gone.

Fraser sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. Then, he looked at the paper in his hand. It was the memo he had given the Inspector recommending switching pest control companies. She had added a post-it note. "Make it so, Constable." dated two weeks ago, the day he and Ray had ended up on the barge and started their journey across the Great Lakes. He picked up the phone and dialed the new company.

There was a crash and a shriek from downstairs. He dropped the phone back into its cradle and dashed to the door of his office. The Inspector stared at him from the door of her office, her hand at her throat. "What?! What is it?!"

"I don't know, sir," he said, running for the stairs. As he was halfway down them, he heard another scream and Diefenbaker started barking furiously. As he dashed into the kitchen, he saw Turnbull up on a chair, pointing at the refrigerator. "A mouse! I saw a mouse!" He screamed again as the little creature dashed out from under the fridge and darted across the floor. Dief swallowed it in one gulp. Turnbull blanched at the sight and stood swaying on the chair. Fraser looked down at the memo still clutched in his hand. He had time to think "Oh, dear" before the Dragon Lady burst through the kitchen door, breathing fire.

The End.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Well, that's it. I had a hard time ending this. I have been working on it for a year, and it was like saying goodbye to old and dear friends. While this is my first Due South fic, I don't think it will be my last. I've had too much fun playing with these characters. I hope you have enjoyed the story. Thank you for sticking with it. Please let me know what you think!