Title: Bermuda Triangle
Author: Zeborah
Rating: [ADULT] [SLASH] PG-13/R
Codes: Fraser/Thatcher, Fraser/various, alternate universe
Part: 1/2

Teaser: A followup to Sasscat's "Alternate Thinking" parts 1&2. Fraser is trying to find out how Thatcher escaped from her cell when he's presented with another puzzle: why has she come back?

Disclaimers: Alliance owns all.

Notes: Thanks to Sasscat for letting me play in her alternate universe. You really must read parts one and two of her "Alternate Thinking" before this story.

Warnings: This is written in an alternate universe of the Star Trek tradition, ie it's dark and contains... well, alternate universe stuff. Crude language, leather and whips, sexual references, violence, non-consensual happenings... This is hovering on the border between PG-13 and R. Proceed at your own risk.

 

Bermuda Triangle
-(c) Zeborah 1999-

The knock at the door only made Fraser's headache worse. "Well, sir," he told the phone, "we are doing our best under what can only be described as somewhat perplexing circumstances." He hoped that whoever was on the other side of the door didn't have anything important to say; this was beginning to look as if it would be a long call.

"Ah, I forgot," the superintendent said. "This is the woman who somehow managed to escape from a locked room in your consulate without any help from your staff. Forgive me if I remain a little sceptical, Inspector."

The door handle started to turn, and Fraser reached one hand down to his boot, narrowing his eyes. "Yes, sir, but if it helps at all, we do consider it a strong possibility that she profited from the aid of a known Chicago criminal by the name of--"

"Stanley Kowalski."

The door inched open, and he hefted the knife in his hand before taking aim. "Yes, sir, although he prefers to be known as 'Ray'."

"Of course," she said. "And the reason that you don't pick this suspect up and question him...?"

Fraser winced; this was a particularly touchy subject. "We're having some, uh, minor, and undoubtedly temporary, difficulties with the Chicago Police Department -- which I'm sure will be overcome very shortly -- but for the moment they appear to, uh, disapprove of our taking their citizens from the streets for our own purposes." The knife landed in the doorframe with a satisfying thud, and the door shut again gratifyingly quickly.

"Even fictional citizens."

"Well, sir--"

"Fraser, you're supposed to be acting as liaison with the Chicago police department. Liaise!"

Fraser grimaced at the mental image that conjured up. "Yes, sir."

The door started to open again.

"Or I'll have you liaising with the swamps in the middle of mosquito season."

"Yes, sir." He glared at the face which peeked around the edge of the door.

"Sir," the man said meekly, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but Constable Thatcher's on the phone and I thought--"

"I don't mean to sound like a bitch," the superintendant said in a suddenly low tone.

Fraser suppressed a shiver. "Uh, no, sir. Sir, if you'll excuse me," he added quickly, "it appears that Constable Thatcher has just made contact, so -- with your permission, sir -- perhaps I should--"

"Yes, Inspector, perhaps you should," she said, her voice crisp again. "And then perhaps I won't have to come down to your office and teach you a lesson about commanding your subordinates." The connection was cut off abruptly.

Immediately, Fraser stood, replaced the phone on the hook, vaulted over his desk, and joined his still-cowering aide at the door. "I hope I didn't frighten you, Jeremy," he said.

"Uh, no, sir."

"Good. Is she still on the line?" he asked, pulling the knife out of the doorframe on his way past it.

"She said she'd hold, sir."

"How obliging of her. Did she happen to say where she was?"

"The airport, sir."

Fraser looked at him, surprised. "The airport?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir. She said she was waiting for someone to pick her up as planned, but no-one turned up, so--"

"So she wants us to pick her up from the airport?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's pick her up." He gestured to the phone.

"Yes, sir," the aide said, picking it up. "Uh, Constable, are you still-- Yes, ma'am. Yes, we'll send someone around straight away." There was a brief silence, then he said, "Yes, ma'am, we have been a little, uh, busy at the Consulate." Fraser shifted and he added hastily, "In fact I really should go and do some paperwork now, ma'am. Y-yes, ma'am. Goodbye." He hung up, his face a little flushed. "She'll, uh, keep waiting, sir."

"Thank you. May I?" He gestured to the phone, and his aide handed it to him. "Thank you," he repeated. "You can take the consulate car. You'll be followed back from the airport, in case she tries anything."

"Yes, sir," his aide said, and hurried around him out the door.

Fraser dialled a number, leaning against the edge of the desk. It was answered a few rings later. "Good afternoon, Chic--"

"Good afternoon, Carla," he interrupted smoothly. "This is Inspector Fraser from the Canadian Consulate. I wondered if you might do me a favour."

He could almost see her drooling as the tone of her voice changed. "Well, of course, Inspector. You know I'm always happy to help you."

"I believe one of my officers is in the airport -- a Constable Margaret Thatcher. An unfortunate communications error means we're going to be late picking her up, so I'd like someone to keep an eye on her until we can get there. Perhaps you can see her on one of your screens there, perhaps near some phone booths."

"Well, there are a few people around today, Inspector, but-- Oh. I see her. Red uniform." The tone of voice added, "Short black skirt; long legs; I've got no chance against her" -- or perhaps those were Fraser's own thoughts.

"That will be her," he said, and banished the image from his mind as soon as he'd had time to wonder why she was making herself so easy to find. "If you could just make sure she's safe -- discreetly, of course -- that no strange men are hassling her, for example. I'd be..." He paused briefly, then continued, "extremely grateful."

There was a pause at the other end: a soft melodramatic sigh of a pause. Fraser rolled his eyes briefly, then decided that he could count that as enough of an answer. "Thank you kindly, Carla," he said, and hung up.

He dialled another number; that was answered immediately with a "Y'ello?"

"Mister Jefferson, this is Inspector Fraser. How are you today?"

"Good, I'm good. No luck on the employment front, though."

"I might have a little job for you, Walter. How quickly can you get to the airport?"

"I can leave right away, sir."

"That's good. I appreciate your enthusiasm. Now, I just need you to follow the Consulate car from the airport back here, at a discreet distance, of course. My aide will be driving, and Constable Thatcher will be his passenger, and their plans do not involve any other passengers, or any change in the seating arrangement, or any unplanned stops for anything other than traffic lights. I'd like you to let me know immediately if there is any sudden change in those plans."

"Sure, I can do that."

"Thank you, Walter. I'll send you a cheque right away."

"Well, uh, thank you, sir. It's a pleasure doing business and all that."

"The pleasure is all mine, Walter." He put the phone back on his aide's desk and went back to his own to finish some paperwork and wait for Margaret's return. Perhaps he'd soon have some idea of what had been going on for the last week, and perhaps he could even finish it and return everything here to normal.

***

Some time later -- Chicago traffic being what it was, quite a bit of time later -- he heard her knock at his door. He cleared his papers back into their drawer and shut the drawer containing his phone, leaving his desktop completely bare, apart from the whip hanging on the wall. Then he stood, walked around and leaned back against the desk, crossed one leg over the other, and said, "Please, come in."

She came in, glanced behind her as if someone was acting strangely, and shut the door. "You wanted to see me, sir?" she said innocently.

"Yes, Constable." He regarded her face for a moment, noting with mild surprise how calm and unbeguiling it appeared. Usually Margaret Thatcher was incapable of schooling her expressions, but now they betrayed only the same slight flush that appeared any other time he inspected her rather comely physique. "It's good to see you again," he said finally.

She flushed a little more, almost as she did on those rare occasions when he allowed himself to kiss her. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"I'm glad to see you've come to your senses," he added, hoping that she would display a little more reaction to that.

She did: dark brown wide-eyed puzzlement. "Sir?"

He pushed himself off the desk and stepped close to her, until he could feel her breath warm and rapid against his neck. "Where have you been, Margaret?"

"Sir? I-- Bermuda, sir. You approved my application for leave, sir."

"So I did." He slapped her, then stroked her cheek to relieve the sting a little. "I'm sorry, Margaret," he said quietly as she bit her lip. "But you have been of quite some concern to me recently. I think I could even forgive your association with Mister Kowalski, but--"

"Kowalski!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't even waste my spit on that--"

He moved a finger to cross her lips, and she looked down at it, then up again at his eyes. "But," he continued firmly, "your current obstinacy and mendacity are not your most endearing traits."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her eyes wary. "I don't mean to be obstinate, but I haven't been lying and I don't understand--"

Fraser turned away abruptly as her voice rose, and strode back to his desk.

"I-I don't understand what you're asking me about," she said, more quietly this time. "I haven't even seen Kowalski for at least a year."

"That's not what you told me a week ago, Constable."

There was a slight pause behind him and he began to think that, after all, perhaps she would be cooperative. Then she said, "I was in Bermuda a week ago, sir. I've been there for the last two weeks."

Fraser dropped his head to his chest and held it there for a few seconds. Then he turned to the wall and picked up the whip. "Ah. Then I do apologise, Constable," he said in as calm and serious voice as he could manage, and turned back to face her. "It seems that you have a long-lost evil twin wandering around Chicago intent on destroying your reputation."

She tore her eyes off the whip, a half-panicked expression on her face. "Check with the airline, sir. If you don't trust me," she added with a brief burst of causticity. "And check with the hotel. I've been in Bermuda the whole time."

He held her gaze, running the length of the whip slowly through his fingers. She looked sincere. That was the strangest part, even stranger than her sudden association with Kowalski. Or was it so sudden? If she could look so convincing now-- "I'll do that, Constable," he said slowly, and stepped towards her again. "In the meantime..." He stroked a stray lock of her hair and toyed briefly with the idea of letting her go and having her followed to see where she went. But that would look too sudden, too suspicious. "I think you should wait in your room upstairs." He walked behind her and opened the door.

For a moment she didn't move. Then, with a toss of her head and a muttered "Perfect," she whirled around and strode past him. The tip of his whip grazed her shoulder. She whirled back and took a step towards him as if she was about to attack him; but then, as he waited, she recollected herself and strode down the hallway to the stairs.

"Sir?" his aide ventured.

"Would you be so kind as to lock the door behind her, and have someone watch the window," Fraser said, and went back into his office.

***

An hour later, having doubled the Consulate phone bill for the month, he was no closer to explaining the whole enigma. All of the airlines claimed that she hadn't flown on their planes during the time in question; the hotel staff swore that she'd been at the hotel at least twice a day for the full two weeks. Which meant either that she and Kowalski made quite a team, or that she was telling the truth.

He called in a couple more favours, these ones nearer the Consulate than the airport and free to boot. While they were on the way he went up and rapped briefly on the door of Margaret's room. This time, at least, she was still inside, sitting on the wooden boards with her eyes on the ceiling; she scrambled to her feet quickly as he shut the door behind himself.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "for my disrespect. I was upset and-- but it was uncalled for and I want to apologise for it."

So she was going to keep playing this game; well, he was rather skilled at it too. "You must be tired from the flight," he said, moving slowly towards her, "and we haven't given you much of a welcome home here, have we?"

She looked up at him hopefully. "Did you check with them, sir?"

"Yes. They corroborate your claims. It seems that I'm the one who should apologise." He stopped in front of her and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "I do trust you, Margaret," he said, running his fingers down her jawline and tilting her chin up a little. "It's just that I have a job..."

"I understand," she whispered.

"And sometimes that job..." He bent closer to her; felt, by her breathing, her lips moving closer to his... "Doesn't allow me to listen to my feelings..." Did she really want him, or was it all just a pretence; a ploy in the game she and Kowalski were playing? He stepped back and said, "You should go home and rest, Margaret. I've taken the liberty of calling you a taxi; it should arrive shortly. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

She swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, sir." She walked to the door. Then, hesitating a little, she turned halfway back and said with the briefest glimmer of a smile, "It's good to be back, sir," before leaving.

Fraser stepped forwards and leaned on the doorframe to watch her go down the stairs with brisk, sure-footed steps and a swing to her hips that her tunic couldn't quite conceal. As she disappeared from view, he strode back across the bare room to watch out the window. One of his favours was arriving now in the form of a taxi; another would travel parallel to them at a distance of a block, ready to follow her if for some reason she left the taxi. Either way, he would know where she went, and with any luck, Kowalski wouldn't know that he knew.

Speaking of whom.... He waited until the taxi had left, then went back downstairs. "Would you be so good," he asked his aide, "as to find Mister Kowalski and have him brought to my office?"

"Sir... Uh, didn't the police--"

"I'll deal with the police; you deal with Kowalski."

"Yes, sir," his aide said, and hurried away.

Fraser went back to his office and took the phone off the hook, under the theory that, as his grandmother had often told him, it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

***

Kowalski leaned back against the wall and swung his right leg over his left ankle. "You got nothing on me, Pemmican Boy."

Fraser waited, holding the felon's gaze and watching his barely concealed nervousness grow. After a few minutes Kowalski pushed himself off the wall and attempted to look threatening. "You got nothing," he repeated, "and you're not going to get nothing. So you might as well let me go."

Fraser didn't answer.

"You know what I think?" Kowalski continued.

"Yes."

That stopped the man short. "What?"

"I know what you think," Fraser said.

"What, you're saying you know what I'm thinking?"

He nodded briefly, his face cool and composed. "Yes."

Kowalski shook his head with a nervous laugh. "Yeah, and how d'you know that, wise guy?"

"You have very expressive eyes, Mister Kowalski. In fact," he said, and shifted thoughtfully, "they remind me a little of Constable Thatchers's. You've met her, I believe?"

"Hey, you know damn well the bitch arrested me last year."

Fraser didn't move, though it took a little effort. It was one thing to pretend anger from time to time for dramatic effect; it was another to lose his temper, especially when he was being purposely provoked. "Right you are," he said instead.

"Is that what this is about?" Kowalski said suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Your bitch ladyfriend, that's what this is about, isn't it?"

He pretended mild interest. "Is there some reason it should be, Mister Kowalski?"

He laughed, a hollow laugh, even more rattled than the previous one, and took a step back. "Hey, like I said, you got nothing on me. And I don't got to be here. You got some charges to press, you take me down to the Chicago PD and you do your ironing there. But I don't got to be here in this room with you breathing down my neck."

"You're quite right," Fraser said.

"Thank you," Kowalski said in triumph, flinging his arms wide.

"You could walk out of this room any time, and I couldn't do a thing to stop you."

"Thank you," Kowalski repeated with a smug nod.

Fraser waited.

Kowalski blinked, presumably realising that maybe Fraser was serious after all. He pulled himself out of his confusion with an obvious effort and said, "So," and strolled casually to the door, "I can just go and open this door --" He opened it, looked at Fraser, and took a step backwards out through it, then another. "And I can just step out and leave."

Fraser nodded and watched the grin spread across Kowalski's face. "Well, then, I'll see you 'round, Nanook my friend," he said, mocking a bow, and turned to swagger down the corridor.

Fraser waited.

He waited for his aide's footsteps to intercept Kowalski's; he waited for the outraged outburst and the ensuing scuffle; and he waited for the door to close next door, soundproofing the room and leaving the entire Consulate as eerily quiet as the snow-muffled Yukon.

Footsteps approached, and knuckles rapped on the doorframe. "Sir, he's in the next room," his aide said.

"Thank you kindly, Jeremy," Fraser replied in a pleasant tone, and was rewarded by a shy smile. Courtesy: that was the way to keep their loyalty. It was a lesson that could be well learned down at the 27th district -- or so he had always thought, until this whole affair with Margaret Thatcher had begun a week ago.

He didn't pause outside Kowalski's new room. He opened the door, stepped through, and slammed it shut again behind himself as the man flew towards him in a rage.

"Quit fucking with my mind, Fraser," Kowalski snapped, and threw a punch at him.

Fraser caught the fist and, sidestepping, pulled it farther in the direction it had been travelling. The instant Kowalski was off balance he took advantage of the fact, pushing him with a quick stride to the wall, face-first. "Mister Kowalski," he said in a low voice, this time breathing literally down the man's neck, "I don't intend to fuck your mind." It was crude language, but it got the point across; with the added hint of his hand at the man's belt, undoing the buckle.

"Shit!" Kowalski struggled against Fraser's weight. "Get off me! Dammit, Fraser, get your hands out-- Stop it!" he shouted, as Fraser started unthreading the belt from the pants. With a final effort, he pulled away, and the tail end of the belt flew out and slapped against the wall as he backed across to the far corner of the room. "You bastard," he gasped. "You, you bastard!"

"You've been misinformed about my parentage," Fraser said calmly, inspecting the stitching along the fake leather.

Kowalski stood there for several seconds, breathing hard.

Fraser looked up at him, folding the belt in half. "Surely you can afford better than this, Mister Kowalski, in your... profession." When he didn't receive an immediate answer, he thwacked the belt sharply in the palm of his hand and watched Kowalski flinch. "It's terrible quality."

"What do you want?"

"Want?"

"Yeah, want, what do you want. You bring me down here, you, you--" He gestured at the wall in agitation. "You gotta want something from me."

"No, nothing."

Kowalski stared at him, eyes wide.

"Almost nothing," Fraser amended with a self-deprecating nod. "As you have perhaps discerned, I feel some affection for Constable Thatcher, and anything that concerns her concerns me. I only hoped that you might be able to shed some light on her frame of mind; if, of course, it isn't too much trouble."

"Too much--" He broke off with an openly nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, so I saw the woman last week, okay? And so I give her a wolf whistle, 'cause she looked hot and that's what I do when I see a girl who looks hot, I wolf whistle. I don't mean anything by it, it's just something I do, okay?"

"Of course," Fraser said calmly. "Please, continue."

"Okay, so I'm not expecting her to actually talk to me. Hey, I'm not expecting her in that part of town, y'know? Not that time of evening, too. But she's there, and she says to me-- I don't know, it was weird, it was like she was calling me 'Detective' and asking what was going on and shit like that."

Fraser raised his eyebrows briefly. "And what was going on?" he asked.

"I don't know, it was something about her key not working in the door here and not being able to find you at the station, weird stuff like that. And I tell her if she wants to talk to someone at the station it'll be Vecchio, but she'd be an idiot to want to talk to Vecchio so maybe she should go home and forget it. And then she goes all bug-eyed and she looks like she's about to have an aneurysm or something, so I say maybe we should go into a bar. Sit down and have a drink. And for a bit I think she's about to say yes, so I'm thinking about calling an ambulance, but then she folds her arms and says maybe another time and stalks off and I swear I haven't seen her since then."

"I see," Fraser said. He rubbed the fake leather absentmindedly, watching the felon's eyes and wondering if this investigation could conceivably get any more frustrating. "I do find that a little hard to believe, Mister Kowalski."

"Look, nothing happened, okay? I didn't even touch the woman. I know you like her -- hey, you'd be blind not to, y'know? but I'm not stupid, I'm not going anywhere near her."

"I'm glad I can count on your cooperation."

"My cooperation, that's..." He trailed off weakly, then forced himself back into the sentence with, "Yeah, that's good. So, uh, can I go now?"

It didn't seem likely that he'd be able to dig any deeper; today, at least. "Certainly," Fraser said.

Kowalski shifted. "Yeah, but can I really go? You know, like leave this whole building place and go home and get some sleep?"

"Of course."

Kowalski hesitated a little more, then skitted around the edge of the room to the door.

"Oh," Fraser called after him. Kowalski whirled back, and Fraser smiled politely. "You might want to take this with you." He handed over the belt.

Kowalski flushed, snatched it, and turned his face away as he stuffed it through the loops on his pants. He buckled it quickly, then opened the door and took half a step through. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took another few steps.

Fraser followed him; nodded to his aide; walked Kowalski to the door. "Thank you for your help, Mister Kowalski," he said. "I'll be sure to let you know if I ever need it again."

He turned back inside without waiting for an answer, shutting the door behind him. "Have we had any word about Constable Thatcher?" he asked.

"She's at her house, sir."

"I see. Thank you." He went into his office and shut the door and his eyes at the same time. Who would have thought, when he'd been assigned this position permanently after proving himself on case after case, that his most difficult and perplexing investigation would be the most apparently simple?

But then, who would have thought that it would involve his own subordinate? The thought rankled.

***

The phone rang as soon as he replaced it on the hook. He leaned back in his chair, swung his feet up onto the desk, and lifted the phone to his ear. "Good evening, Canadian Consulate, Inspector Fraser speaking. How may I be of service?" He let a smile play across his lips, partly to lighten his tone, and partly at the thought of the expression on Vecchio's face when she heard that. Perhaps it would even distract her from the reason she was really calling....

"Hey, Frayzh," she said with a snap of her gum.

"Ah, Lieutenant Vecchio," he said cheerfully. "How good of you to call."

"Uh huh," she said, in a tone that wouldn't be distracted. "It's just I heard this story about a member of your staff abducting Kowalski and interrogating him in your Consulate, and, uh..." She shifted position again, added another snap of her gum, and finished in a breathy tone, "y'know, that sort of thing's illegal here in America."

"Oh dear," Fraser said. "I can't think who might have told you such a thing. Clearly there's been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Yeah, so what happened? You invited him over for tea?"

"Oh no," he said. "I doubt that Mister Kowalski would appreciate such an overture. No, I simply had one of my staff inform him that a few minutes of his time would be a great help in an internal investigation I'm currently heading, and he was kind enough to oblige us and answer a few questions."

She snapped her gum thoughtfully a few times, then said, "See, Frayzh, that doesn't sound like what I heard. But then I've got a terrible memory about things like this, and I guess if I was going to make allegations then it wouldn't look good to your superiors. So I think we should get together sometime, discuss it over dinner, see if we can come to some sort of... agreement."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Fraser said. "I'll certainly consider it. Thank you for calling, Lieutenant." He reached his spare hand to the phone to hang up, then quickly switched it to the answerphone before she could ring back.

Well, that hadn't gone too badly, considering that diplomatic relations with the Chicago Police Department were somewhat strained at the moment. Of course, it hadn't gone well, either; but Fraser doubted that Vecchio would make any complaint to Ottawa. He might be transferred if she did, and she would far rather have him close by....

Fraser stood up and went to the closet -- it was time to put on his uniform and go home. Quickly but neatly he took the yellow stripes from one coathanger and pressed their adhesive side onto his leather pants; then he donned the heavy tunic, buckled the belt and straightened the lanyard. Swinging his Stetson in one hand, he closed the closet door again and left his office, with a nod to Moskovitz on the way out of the Consulate.

***

His walk home took him past a small cafe owned by a friend who provided him with information from time to time. Tonight, however, the blackboard outside wasn't proclaiming any soup specials, so Fraser walked on by. He was just passing the small alley next to the cafe when he heard hurried footsteps and a whispered: "Inspector!"

Fraser stopped in his tracks, turned, checked that the coast was clear, and walked towards his friend in the alley. "I would prefer a little more discretion, Pierre," he said reproachfully.

"I'm sorry, sir," Pierre said, "but I just heard about it a minute ago and I didn't have time to write up a special before I saw you. I thought you probably wouldn't want to wait until tomorrow to know -- it's about Kowalski."

Fraser tipped his head slightly in interest.

"He's just moved to a new apartment, just this evening," Pierre said. "I've got the address here." He handed Fraser a serviette and added, as Fraser glanced at it and put it in his pocket, "Apparently he was rather eager for the place. Didn't even haggle over the price."

"Where does this information come from?" Fraser asked.

"His new landlord. I don't know his name; he's not a regular over here."

Fraser nodded. "Thank you kindly, Pierre," he said. "I'm sure this will be very useful."

"My pleasure, Inspector."

Fraser stopped at the next pay phone to make two quick calls. One ensured that a belt of a certain length and a certain design would be delivered to Kowalski's new residence early the next morning; the second that Kowalski would shortly thereafter be delivered to the Consulate. It would be interesting to see how he reacted face to face with Margaret Thatcher; and even more interesting to see how Thatcher reacted face to face with him.

***

(Continued in part two.)