They’d always thought it would be the Mountie. They’d thought that it would be the Mountie, who would be the one to buy the farm, Caribou plantation, whatever the fuck they got in the Northwest Areas anyway.
So when the old guy in the funky furry hat told them that Fraser would be living on to a ripe-old age, up there in the snow, untouched by freak accidents involving a ton of herring and a genuine 1967 Gran Turismo Omologato for reasons that totally did not need exploring at this juncture and would consistently fail to die in wildly bizarre ways, they were astonished.
They were flabbergasted.
They were amazed.
They were really quite surprised.
They were wondering if they’d picked up Fraser’s dictionary-brain by osmosis.
It was Vecchio, as they stood there in the snow that failed to be cold and gazed out at the bright horizon of eternity, who recognised Mr Horrible Hat. No, he was Seargent Horrible Hat, actually. Vecchio said that he’d seen that face staring at him from the Dead Mountie File all too often, looking out accusingly as he’d tried to scam his way out of cases (and he muttered, if he hadn’t stopped doing that, he would still be alive and not talking to Benny’s old man in the flesh, or more to the point really not in the flesh at all) and at least it wasn’t his own fucking father.
He’d tailed off mumbling and muttering half-swallowed curses there, leaving Kowalski to ask The Question, “So yeah, you’re Benton’s dad, greatness, so what do we do now, besides kick ourselves in the head for falling for such a dumb rookie trick like that?”
“Well son, ahem sons, you wait.”
“Wait? Wait? Wait a fucking goddamn minute; you’re saying that we just wait here? What do we do? My partner here ain’t no good at waiting so why don’t you…”
The Mountie had seen Vecchio vent like this before, not knowing that he had another witness, and could chose the apposite moment, the moment when Vecchio was just winding down, taking a breather before another tirade, to carpe the diem, as Buck would say, and plunge in, “Personally, I suggest that you get to know each other better, there’s my old cabin over there, beyond the hills, I’m sure you boys could get her cosy in next to no time, and the bed’s hmmn extensive, not like that little thing that Benton sleeps on, more than enough room for two. Benton’s going to be some time coming, and it would so please him, the two of you getting on together. That boy,” he added disdainfully, “no sense of timing.”
And with that, the old Mountie faded away, leaving the two Detectives (First Class, Chicago PD, funeral on Tuesday, family flowers, donations to the police benevolent fund) standing there in the snow, staring at each other, trying desperately to find some obscure and innocent Canadian meaning in the words. Surely, they thought, Fraser’s old man couldn’t be thinking like that, surely he couldn’t know about that, that and how the unfreezing snow would mend broken hearts.