Holding Off for a Hero

by Gail MacMillan

  “Ah-ha.” She gestured to a slight rise. “Over there. Behind those bushes. That has to be it.”

  Stumbling on her snowshoes, she made a clumsy run toward it and hunkered down to begin digging through the spruce and cedar branches that had been used to cover its entrance. Within moments she’d unearthed a heavy plank door, a gleaming new padlock on its hasp.

  “Good going!” Frasier knelt to examine the lock. “Someone definitely has something of value here. From the amount of camouflage used, I’d say it’s a lot more than deer carcasses.”

  “But how do we find out for certain?”

  “Like this.” Frasier pulled a collection of small tools from inside his jacket and began to work at the lock. He knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do; he should take Emma back to the Lake and call for backup, but he’d come this far, had worked so long and hard, he had to vindicate his search without any further delays.

  “Wow! Before you were a rock musician, were you a cat burglar?”

  “Not exactly, but I do know how to pick a lock.”

  A click marked its release. He eased it open, then grabbed the edge of the thick door and pulled.

  They entered a small, square room with another door at the back. Unlocked, it yielded when Frasier pulled on the rope handle. They stared. Inside were rows of shelves lined with packages of a white substance. On the floor were clear garbage bags full of plant-like material.

  “Hold it right there. We’ve got two rifles pointed at the middle of your backs. Turn around real slow and careful.”

  “Hell.” Glancing at the shock mirrored on Emma’s face, Frasier cursed himself for a fool.

  “Frasier?” His name breathed in a question from her lips made him hate himself even more. She’d depended on him to keep her safe. Was still depending on him.

  “Do it,” he hissed at her.

  She swallowed hard, blinked, then nodded.

  Together they turned to face two black-masked figures holding hunting rifles.

  “We’ve had it with you, Mountie.” The spokesman leveled a gun at Frasier’s chest, his words a guttural snarl. “You and your girlfriend have interfered with us for the last time. Now get outside.” He jerked his rifle toward the door, then nudged Frasier with its barrel.

  “Mountie?” Emma, her face pale, eyes wide, stared up at him as the group moved out into the falling snow.

  “Meet Constable Frasier MacKenzie, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, sweetheart,” the masked figure growled. “Lied to you, too, did he?”

  “Frasier?” She kept gazing up at him with those beautiful, innocent green eyes. He’d botched everything. He should have driven her away from Loon Lake. He should have caught these guys weeks ago.

  “Let her go. She doesn’t know anything about your operation.”

  “Yeah, right,” the potbellied speaker snapped. “She’s another narc like you. Women don’t move up here alone. Anyway, she knows way too much. Now toss that camera over here. We saw it flash.”

  “Frasier, no!” Emma hissed. “It has the only pictures of…”

  “The only pictures of what, cutie? Of our cache? Of the trail leading into it? Come on, Constable. Toss it or I take a shot at your lady friend’s kneecap.”

  Frasier tossed it.

  “Great.” The man stepped forward and stomped on it, sending it into pieces. “There. That takes care of that.”

  “Don’t forget the memory stick,” his companion spoke for the first time in a hoarse rasp that Frasier guessed wasn’t his natural voice. Someone either Emma or I know. The thought flashed through his mind.

  “You’re right.” The first speaker shuffled through the snow until he found the small blue chip. With a grunt, he cracked it in two.

  “I thought you had more sense, MacKenzie,” he said. “Coming here alone.”

  “You’re sure about that, are you?” Frasier tried a bluff. “Backup is moving in right now.”

  “Don’t try playing mind games with us, Mountie,” the man sneered. “We know you two live alone at Loon Lake. Since you hadn’t found anything before you started out, you wouldn’t have called for backup.”

  “What makes you think I didn’t have this place in mind when I started out this morning?” Keep them talking, play for time…although what good it will do…

  “If you’d been expecting to find anything, you wouldn’t have brought her along, now would you, Constable? Not unless she’s one of you. RCMP never involve innocent members of the public. You’re such big heroes, aren’t you?”

  “I am an RCMP officer.” Emma drew herself up and faced the pair brazenly. “Corporal Emma Prescott, undercover, posing as a guidance counselor at the local high school to get inside information. So you see, if you’re thinking of doing away with Constable MacKenzie, you’ll have to kill me, too. But let me tell you, killing not one but two RCMP officers will put a very big period at the end of your story. Our members won’t rest until they’ve hunted you down like the scum you are.”

  “Is that so?” the man with the disguised voice snarled.

  “Emma, be quiet,” Frasier ordered out of the side of his mouth.

  “Yes, it is so,” she continued, cocking her head defiantly to one side. “As a corporal, I’m the ranking officer in charge of this operation. I’ll guarantee you a fair day in court if you hand over your weapons immediately.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’re no more an RCMP corporal than I am. The pair of you are as alone and defenseless as a couple of babes in the woods.”

  “Actually,” Emma looked up at him and smiled her most enchanting smile. “We’re not alone. There’s also…Bruiser! Now!” she yelled.

  A small white streak flew out of the trees behind the two men and cannoned into the back of the speaker’s knees. The man’s legs buckled. As he staggered, he discharged his rifle upward into the cold, clear air. It echoed through the silent forest.

  The other man, distracted by the attack, lost his focus. It was enough. Frasier leaped forward, taking him to the ground as his gun also discharged impotently up into the tree branches. The first attacker recovered his balance, raised his rifle, and brought the stock down on the Pug’s head.

  Bruiser squealed and went tumbling into the snow.

  “No!” Emma lunged, tripped over her snowshoes, and plummeted into the man’s protruding belly. With a grunt, he tumbled backward, his head hitting a stump with a dull thud.

  “Hot damn!” Frasier witnessed the pair’s efforts as he swiftly subdued his prisoner.

  “Are you all right?” he called above his captive’s shouted obscenities as he pulled out handcuffs and snapped them on the man’s wrists.

  “Fine, just fine.” She stumbled to her feet and glared up at him. “But mad as hell, Constable MacKenzie.”

  Bruiser staggered up to her and she gathered him into her arms, kissing him. “Brave boy, good boy.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who ought to be mad. What was with that crazy story about your being an undercover cop, a narc at the high school, no less? Damn it, Emma, it’s a crime to impersonate an officer.”

  “And just how would you have kept them talking long enough for Bruiser to get into position?” she snapped back.

  “Oh, yeah, right, like you knew he was coming.”

  “No, actually, Constable MacKenzie, I glimpsed him almost as soon as those two ordered us out of the root cellar. You were so busy watching our would-be killers you couldn’t see the rescuer for the criminals.”

  “Yeah, well, I will admit I missed out on that aspect.” His tone moderated. He shoved his prisoner down to sit in the snow, then went to examine the man Emma had rendered unconscious. “He’ll be okay,” he said, as the man groaned and tried to sit up. Frasier handcuffed him, too, then straightened and pulled out his .38 from the shoulder holster inside his jacket. “Don’t try to run,” he advised both men. “I’m a good shot. There’s also an irritated Eastern Panther in the area that’s just been chased away from his dinner. Two shackled meals on
legs like you pair would make up for his inconvenience.”

  “So you weren’t really looking for an Eastern Panther. You were looking for drug smugglers.” Emma’s facial muscles tightened. “Is there anything you’ve told me that is the truth?”

  “Not much,” he said. Something like a lead weight sank in his chest.

  “Well, fine, just fine!” Tears filled her eyes. “Apparently you’ve never trusted me, not once, not for a minute. Well, you can just take your suspicious mind and get out of my life, Officer. My hero is a man who will trust me completely, who won’t lie about who he is and what he’s doing, my hero is…”

  “Emma, come on! I had no choice! I was under orders…and for a while, you were under suspicion yourself, and…”

  “Don’t, Frasier.” She wiped her eyes with the back of one mitten and sniffed. “You can’t fix things. It’s way too late. You mistrusted me. You even used me to find this place. There’s nothing you can say that will change the facts.”

  “Emma…”

  With a final sniff and wipe of her mitten, she turned and plodded back the way they’d come, into the darkening forest. The Pug cast him a disappointed look, then limped after her.

  Frasier watched them go.

  Hell! Bloody Hell!

  He turned on his prisoners. He had to finish the job. Frustrated, he yanked the ski mask from the one nearest to him, the one who’d worked to disguise his voice.

  Brock Kelly, the gym teacher, glared up at him.

  “Ah, nice,” Frasier breathed his exasperation. “A great role model for the kids, aren’t you?”

  “Your girlfriend knows how to pick ’em,” he sneered.

  “Shut up! Just shut up!” Frasier’s hands knotted into fists.

  He turned to the other hooded figure to pull the mask from his face. With a deep sense of relief he recognized a well-known drug smuggler from wanted posters. After revealing Brock Kelly, he’d feared his pot-bellied accomplice might be Thomas Pentland, the school principal. That would have hurt. He liked the man.

  “Emma will be really proud to have known you,” he muttered, turning back to the gym teacher. “I bet sports events were a blast, with you supplying Todd Stoddart with junk to pass along to the kids. Into the cabin, both of you.”

  He held the gun leveled at the pair with one hand and pulled out his cell with the other. “Work, damn you, work!” he cursed as he punched in a single digit, held it to his ear, and followed the shuffling pair inside.

  ****

  “Emma!” he bellowed desperately. He followed her tracks as fast as his snowshoes would allow. He’d managed to call reinforcements on his cell. He’d left his prisoners handcuffed to a couple of posts inside the old camp, the door securely shut against predators, then set out after her.

  He hadn’t been lying when he’d told the two men there was a hungry Eastern Panther in the area. He’d used precious minutes to make sure his prisoners were safe inside the cabin before he took off after Emma. No matter what the pair had done, he couldn’t leave them outside, helpless to be mauled or killed by the big cat if it returned to finish its meal.

  By the time he’d buckled on his snowshoes and set out in pursuit, twilight had gathered among the trees. His heart hammered a tattoo against his ribs. He had to find her, and quick. Somewhere in the thickening shadows was a hungry, frustrated cat.

  He knew something else, as well. There could be no doubt about it. He, Constable Frasier MacKenzie, former rock musician, fake associate professor of biology, a.k.a. the hermit of Loon Lake, loved Emma Prescott with every ounce of body and soul. If he got thrown off the force for leaving prisoners unattended to go running after her, then so be it. He had his degree in biology to fall back on, and he still played a mean guitar. At least Emma said he did. He felt a corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

  “Emma!” he bellowed.

  She couldn’t be more vulnerable. Trailing along behind her, tired and injured, was a carnivore delicacy in the guise of a Pug. He remembered how the little dog had managed to buckle the drug smuggler’s knees with his small head, then withstood a vicious blow from a rifle butt before Emma had inadvertently rammed the man. Tough little guy. Tough and with a lot of guts Frasier hadn’t thought he’d ever be acknowledging. Just like Emma. But she and the little dog would be no match for the big cat that might be stalking them.

  ****

  The unmistakable screech made his breath clog in his throat. His body froze in midstride. The Panther! Dear God! Emma! Pulling his gun, he plunged into the darkening bush.

  “Emma!” he yelled.

  “Frasier!” Her cry sent him charging forward.

  He rounded a small thicket to see her huddled against the trunk of a pine, the Pug clutched in her arms. Stalking toward her, bird-dog fashion, its belly dragging on the snow, was the Panther.

  He raised the gun. His hand shuddered. No, please, God, not now! Taking aim, he fired.

  The report rocked the silence of the forest. The big cat screamed as the bullet whizzed inches over its head. Roaring, it whirled and vanished into the shadowy bush. The silence of the winter twilight returned. The hand holding the smoking gun dropped to his side, every ounce of strength drained.

  “Thank God you missed.” Emma recovered her speech. “It would have been awful to have killed him.”

  “Damn it, Emma…!”

  “Well, if he hadn’t run away from that warning shot, you would have got him with the next one, right?”

  “Right.” Her absolute confidence made him choke out the word.

  Still clutching the Pug, she suddenly sank down on her haunches in the snow. “Frasier, I was so scared,” she hiccupped.

  “Anyone would have been.” He hunkered down beside her. He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her to face him. “I love you, Emma Prescott,” he heard himself saying.

  “Frasier?” She looked up at him, emerald eyes round with surprise. “Are you sure? This isn’t just a knee-jerk reaction after a near-death experience, is it?”

  “No.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “Definitely not. I couldn’t say it before because…”

  “Because you were working undercover with a secret identity,” she rushed ahead of him. “But, Frasier, you should have trusted me. You really should have.”

  “You make it sound a lot more cloak-and-dagger than it actually is,” he grinned. “I’m just a cop on the trail of drug smugglers, two of whom are now handcuffed to a bunk in Midnight Jim’s camp. Believe me, I wanted to tell you the whole scam more times than you can imagine. It’s lonely with no one to confide in, no one to love and trust.”

  He took her face in his gloved hands and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Green eyes glinted wickedly up at him. “You’ve just said you love me, Frasier MacKenzie. Make like you mean it.”

  “Look, I’ve tried kissing you with him in your arms,” he gestured at the Pug. “It’s not a very satisfying experience.”

  “I can’t put him down,” she said. “He may have a concussion. Frasier, he saved our lives. We owe him.”

  “Okay, okay, give him here.” He took the little dog into his arms. The Pug looked up at him, wheezed a weary sigh, and snuggled into his chest. “Now let’s go. I’ve got to meet the reinforcements I called on my cell. For once the bloody thing worked. But rest assured, Emma Prescott, once he’s safely in his basket by the fire and those jerks back at the camp are on their way to jail, I will kiss you. I’ll kiss you until your toes curl.”

  “Okay. Deal.”

  ****

  Emma took a sip of her hot chocolate and glanced again at her watch. 11:45 p.m. and still no sign of Frasier or the group of RCMP he’d summoned nearly five hours ago. One of the officers had brought her and Bruiser back to her cabin and remained on watch outside while Frasier returned to the site of their drug bust at Midnight Jim’s camp.

  “What can be taking so long?” She turned to Bruiser, curled up under a small, so
ft blanket in his basket, an ice pack tied to his head. “I know Frasier would have to make a statement, explain all we did, but still…”

  The sound of a vehicle approaching broke in on her words. She ran to a window to see an RCMP jeep pull up in the illumination of her verandah light. Frasier and the man who’d been introduced to her as the Professor got out. They paused to talk to the man on duty in the yard.

  Emma could barely contain herself until her guard, with a wave and a nod, had climbed back into his own vehicle and headed back down the trail, his headlights piercing beams into the inky blackness of the wilderness night.

  “Come in,” she called. “I have hot chocolate and cookies.”

  “Just the thing.” The Professor turned toward her with a smile. “Come along, Frasier. I’m sure you’re cold and hungry.”

  They came up the steps and into the warm cabin.

  “Let me take your hats and coats,” Emma offered.

  “Thank you, but I won’t be staying,” the Professor declined her offer. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Work?” Emma looked at him in surprise. “It’s nearly midnight. Surely you don’t plan to look for the Eastern Panther tonight?”

  “Emma, let me introduce you correctly to this man.” Frasier straightened from removing his boots and began to open his coat. “This is my father, Inspector Benjamin MacKenzie of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Drug Squad.”

  “What?” Emma was aghast as she stared at the tall, broad-shouldered man crossing the room to hunker down beside Bruiser’s basket. “Inspector…your father?”

  “It’s a fact.” Frasier grinned at her. “He may not be Professor Benjamin Taylor, but he is my boss, and a darned exacting one, at that.”

  “Come, now, Frasier, I didn’t expect any more of you than I’d expect of any of my men.” The Inspector was gently stroking the little dog’s back. “Brave little lad,” he continued, smiling up at Emma. “You can be proud of him.”

  “I am.” Emma, coming out of her astonishment, managed to curl her lips in response. “And he likes you.” She indicated the blanket area over his tail. It was wiggling.