Reason No. 362 that I hate you all

apathocles' fault. Yes. Yes it is, you freak of a crackheaded wench.

due South. Insanity. (That's the same thing, isn't it?)



Ray got waylaid three times before he got to his desk.

The first time was by Huey, who made real sure that Ray knew everyone was glad to see him by almost taking Ray's arm off with what had started out as a gentle handshake from The Hulk. The second time it was Frannie, who squeaked higher than a poodle, tackled Ray into the water fountain, and then, thank you, god, sobbed her way off into the Ladies. And finally there was Welsh, who stopped all the traffic in the hall to frown and say, "Good of you to show up in one un-gnawed piece, Vecchio."

Ray threw up his hands. "Okay, really for real, this time -- what the HELL?"

"You know what would be a better question, and not only because it's coming out of my mouth and not yours, detective? Why it is that your cell phone hasn't been on at any time this morning."

Ray had fallen back a half step at the "detective," but he didn't wince as he pulled the phone out of his pocket, because, "It's--"

Welsh's frown-lines got lines.

Ducking his head away from the glare, Ray pressed the power button even harder. Nope. Nothing but the "you're so screwed" lack of sound that was the answer of a deader than dead battery. Shit.

He looked up with a half-assed try at an innocent grin. "I got messages?"

"Message," Welsh announced. Then he smiled.

***

Go see Thatcher. Go...see Thatcher.

That needed a "what the fuck?" Ray decided. Hell wasn't good enough if that woman was demanding his ass at her Consulate.

...A Consulate with one terrified-looking Turnbull outside, not Fraser, Ray noticed when he came around the corner.

He was double-parked and up the steps in five seconds, tops.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

"He's..." Turnbull didn't even try to play statue, he just spun and fumbled at the door handle, his hands trembling.

With a muttered "Jesus Christ," Ray knocked those hands out of the way.

"Detective!"

Ray heard himself growl, which didn't surprise him anywhere near as much as the fact that Thatcher didn't back down an inch at that sound. Tough lady. Still...

"Say thank you," he told her. "I didn't kick them in. Fraser. Where?"

"He's..."

Now she paused. And she kept on pausing. Flashing on everything from a squashed hat to a missing arm -- he could deal with a one-armed Fraser, yeah, maybe, fuck -- Ray growled again.

"I already got that much from shake-and-bake out front, so okay, new question. What'd you do to Fraser?"

Thatcher drew herself up to full Canadian straightness. "I didn't do anything, detective. No one did." She blinked. "Precisely."

That was it. Ray started for her office. That door wasn't as solid as the front ones; it wouldn't hurt too bad if he kicked it off its hinges.

"Detec-- Ray!"

He looked over his shoulder to see her standing there in the middle of that huge hall, her hands clenched at her sides and a really worried frown on her face. Before he could figure out what to ask now, though, she raised her arm and pointed.

"Constable Fraser is in his office," she said, almost normally.

Ray cocked his head and gave her a look. Thatcher took a deep breath.

"There was an incident. He had to be...restrained."

"What?"

"Don't be...too alarmed if he tries to...lunge for your head," Thatcher warned with a wince.

Miracles usually came bigger, but something kept Ray's mouth from falling open.

***


Total idiocy. There's more, though, if I can't beat the damn thing off with that cricket bat that I really need right now. ::headdesk::