Northern Lights: A Due South Novel

Chapter 22: Strange Things Done

The morning sun blazed as Fraser and Thatcher sped past the turnoff to the Klondike Highway and Lake Laberge. A season of snow had piled up on either side of the highway, and it all seemed to melt at once. As temperatures climbed to three degrees Celsius, the highway had turned to shimmering wet blacktop. It was too early for true spring, but a warm wind was blowing over the mountains from the Pacific Ocean.

Fraser had picked up Thatcher at 7:30 a.m. for the drive to Bear Falls. They were alone. Ray Kowalski had objected to the early hour, and insisted on driving himself back to Bear Falls in Elizabeth's car. Fraser suspected a conspiracy, given Ray's too-loud protests and his insistence on taking Ogilvie, but he did not object to private, personal time with Meg.

"I can't believe you settled in a place that has a Starbucks." Thatcher said after a sip from her venti latte. She had insisted on stopping at the cafe before hitting the highway, since the hotel coffee was, she declared, "dirty brown water".

"The coffee was not a factor in my decision to move here. The hospital, however, was. Given my personal track record."

Meg's short, cautious laugh suggested she didn't know whether he'd told a joke. Fraser steered into the curve of the road. Several caribou dug in the snow beside the highway. They lifted their heads as the truck passed.

"What did you think of the exhibit?" Meg asked.

"Well..." Fraser searched for something positive to say. "They must have put great effort into locating those old uniforms. And once they get them displayed correctly, then it will be an...adequate...addition to the museum."

Fraser studied her reaction out of the corner of his eye, his shoulders tense.

"Well, I think it was abominable."

Fraser loosened his vice grip on the steering wheel. "It really was."

"Not a single firearm, axe, or knife in the entire exhibit? Even airbrushed out of the archival photos?" Thatcher said.

"The curator said they didn't want to promote violence to children."

"We're the police, Ben! What are we supposed to do, politely request the criminals turn themselves in?"

He shrugged. Meg grabbed her coffee and rolled it between her hands.

"I was more troubled by the illustration showing the Lost Patrol dead while their dog team was still alive and in their traces. Given that the patrol ate their dogs to fend off starvation. But I suppose that also wasn't appropriate for children."

"Maybe you should be the new curator. After you retire."

"Oh, I'm hardly qualified for such a position, and you know it." Fraser locked his gaze on the road. This was easier than confronting the actual question: what did Fraser intend to do when he retired? Fraser had been a Mountie his entire adult life. Even during a few leaves of absence and his dog-sled adventure with Ray Kowalski, he had still been a Mountie. And before he was a Mountie, he was a boy who wanted to be a Mountie. Who was Benton Fraser, without the red serge?

"That was a joke, Fraser, not a psych evaluation," Thatcher said.

"Understood. But do you have any plans? Retirement plans?"

Thatcher slumped in the oversized truck seat. "I haven't decided yet. I never liked Ottawa. My sister is in Toronto, but my heart isn't there anymore. Maybe it's the condos. Sometimes, I think about moving back west. You never forget the mountains."

The immense St. Elias Range had appeared on the horizon like a wall. Snow-capped and barren, they dwarfed the Alberta Rockies of Thatcher's childhood.

"I see. And...do you know anyone where you're planning to move?"