*********
Mac comes in, opening the door for a woman. This
must be Kate, or Faith, or whatever she is calling
herself this week. She looks like one of those walking
skeletons that populate modeling runways. For heaven's
sake! Why can't the man find a woman with meat on her
bones? At least Amanda had the excuse of a slender frame.
As they approach, I catch her eye and reassess. I do not
trust this woman. She is a survivor, and I do not mean
that in a complimentary sense. I shall have to watch my
step.
"Hullo, Joe, Adam," Mac says. Ah, so he has not told
sweet Kate my name, yet. Commendable. Well, Mac has not
survived four centuries by being a complete fool. Telling
Kate my name would give her leverage over me and make me
very angry. I do hope Mac knows better than that. He
introduces us to the wife. She puts on an uncertain air,
sucking in her cheeks, and I trust her even less. She is
trying to play us. Does Joe get it? I glance at him. His
face is set. Oh, he sees through her. Not bad for a kid.
I will give her credit. She does not push the charm
once it becomes clear that neither Joe nor I are buying
it. Mac gets her seated then sits down himself. The small
talk that follows is uninspired; all of us holding our
respective cards to ourselves.
"Are you two staying in Paris long?" I ask brightly.
I wouldn't bother with the chit-chat, but Joe won't talk
much, sitting at the table stone-faced and fussing with
his cane. Mac looks unhappy about Joe's attitude. You'll
live, Mac.
*********
I shouldn't have let you pull all the weight in the
conversation, but I honestly didn't know what to say.
*This* was the love of Mac's life? Yowza. Here was Mac
talking about how Kate had risked her life to save his
ass from Kell, and she was sitting there, looking all
cute and modest about it. Not like we had anything to do
with it--huh, Old Man?
Mac was such a sucker when it came to women. Take
that Katya he ran into a while back, for example. I got
suspicious when he told me her first death had been
stoning for witchcraft. Witchcraft was still a pretty
rare offense in merry old England back in the 14th
century. Nobody got stoned to death for anything in
Europe back then, anyway. And 'Frederick' wasn't much of
an Anglo-Norman name, either. Surprise, surprise. When I
looked Katya up in the database, I found out she'd got
her first death from being hung as a thief, and there
wasn't any noble fiance in sight. She made the whole
thing up. Figures.
After Mac told me the whole sad story of how she'd
let the father of her adoptive granddaughter go free for
murdering her daughter, I checked Katya out. Turned out
she whacked Baptista after all. When she disappeared, she
took the granddaughter with her and he turned up dead a
few weeks later, floating face down in a river. They
never did catch her. Can't say that I blame her. I'd have
whacked the guy, too. Nobody kills my family and gets
away with it, and screw him being the little girl's
father. What was gonna happen when Daddy's Little Girl
grew up and fell in love herself? Or what if he'd gotten
the idea that the kid wasn't really his? I'll bet that
would have gone over real well.
Hell, you'd have whacked him. You whacked Walker
just for threatening my daughter, and Kristen just 'cause
you thought she was a bitch (which she was). You don't
mess around with that stuff. Mac needs to get a learning
curve with women or he's gonna lose his head to one some
fine day. Maybe it'll even be Kate.
*********
Jerry strained to hear the conversation over the
crowd while tending the bar. Though Joe had mostly kept
him on days while he got up to speed, Jerry still found
himself helping out Friday nights. Marie didn't like him.
She regarded him with a sullen, Gallic contempt most of
the time and was constantly on his case when they worked
together. At least Amy had a sense of humour--not to
mention great legs.
Marie was really riding him hard tonight, but at
least she'd given him as much of an earful as he could
use. Joe and Methos had found themselves a guilty party,
after all. Some crazy woman from South Africa had
attacked Methos in the hospital on Wednesday; that was
why he'd stayed in an extra day. They were figuring her
for the poisoner. Now that she was dead, she couldn't
deny it, so that was good. Well, not good, exactly. Jerry
did feel bad that somebody had gotten killed in all this
crazy mess, but he was still glad that somebody had not
turned out to be him. And it sounded as though the cat
was gonna be okay. What a relief. He would have felt
really bad if that cat had died. At least now he could
relax, or as much as he could relax with Methos in town.
*********
Joe puts up with playing Happy Friends until he gets
the call for the first set. Then, he leaves us all to it.
I give him a hurt look. He ignores it. Guess he figures I
can take care of myself, not that he was helping me out
much in the conversational arena. Thank you so much,
buddy. Leave me to field the two of them all by myself?
I'm old, not superhuman.
Mac is playing with his drink. Abruptly, he drains
it, then turns to Kate. "Kate, love, could you get us
some more drinks?"
"A pint of bitter for me, please," I pipe up. Might
as well.
Kate raises an eyebrow at Mac, playing it cool, but
I can see that she is insulted. Like Joe, Mac ignores it.
"Certainly," she says. "Perhaps I'll freshen up a bit
while I'm up there." She stands up.
"That's wonderful, love. Thank you," Mac says to her
back and she strolls away, head high, towards the little
girl's room. She knows something about holding on to her
dignity, does that one. Mac turns back to me, apparently
not noticing that his wife has just snubbed him as
effectively as he had snubbed her.
"Methos, what the Hell is going on with Joe?" At
least he is keeping his voice down, though I still do not
like him using my name here. He pulls the chair around
towards me and leans over the table. "He looks really
pissed off."
"Any reason he shouldn't be?" I drain my drink. Why
not? It is a Coke and sweet Kate is coming back with a
pint of bitter. I can always nurse that one.
"What do you mean?" Mac looks blank. He didn't visit
me in the hospital after Tuesday. Maybe he is not up to
speed, after all. I didn't exactly encourage him to come
back and I suppose he was afraid of running into Joe. How
much has Joe told him? Does he even know about Annie
Lembede or my cat? Over by the stage, Joe is discussing
something about the lighting with one of his crew,
pointing up at the fixtures. I try to catch his eye. He
turns away. Such a pain in the ass. I guess, since they
both still seem to be on the outs with each other, that I
should assume Joe hasn't told Mac anything, or at least,
not much.
"I didn't get out of hospital until yesterday, Mac.
Joe's been covering for me all week. He's been running
himself ragged. Didn't you know?" I should feel
irritation but I am too tired.
"You were in the hospital until yesterday?" Mac
looks incredulous. "What for?"
"And then I had to go get my cat," I continue, not
wanting to explain Annie Lembede after all. Come to think
of it, the cat is an even bigger minefield.
And Mac notices that. "Wasn't he sick?"
"He had a rough couple of days, but he's doing okay,
now." That sounds like total bollocks, but I cannot come
up with better right on the spot.
"And you're here now? Tonight?" It is hard to tell
whether Mac looks skeptical or disgusted. I think I will
push for the latter, since admitting that Silas ran away
will sound suspicious.
I shrug. "He's only a cat. I left him at home, all
tucked into a box. He has food and water. I am sure he'll
be fine." Now, Mac does look disgusted. Mission
accomplished. "I thought we were talking about Joe."
I can see that Mac does not want to let this go, but
knows it will be fruitless to press me on it. "You're
saying he's angry with me because he's been distracted
helping you out with your bad week?"
"Honestly? No. I'm saying that you might have picked
a better week to snub him than this one. He has a short
temper right now."
"Yeah, but does he have to take it out on Kate?"
I make wet rings on the table with my glass. "I
don't think he likes Kate, Mac. I don't think he trusts
her." I refrain from adding that I don't trust her,
either, since that is a given. I glance around; Kate is
at the bar. Good. "You must admit that she was less than
clear about her motivations during your troubles with
Kell. Not having any history with her, Joe has no reason
to trust her in spite of his instincts."
"He could at least give her the benefit of the
doubt," Mac growls.
"Oh, as you've done with him in the past?" He pales.
"Joe has unilaterally rebuilt too many bridges with you
over too much bad blood for you to lecture him--or me--
about forgiveness. Or have you forgotten Jacob Galati so
soon?" I can almost hear Mac grinding his teeth. I hope
it hurts because I have not forgotten his bitter words
about my playing Watchers against Immortals. I deserved
better.
"Did you miss me?" Kate says right over my shoulder.
I'll admit it; I jump.
"Maybe you could do that over *his* shoulder?" I
snap, still keeping my eyes on MacLeod.
"Sorry," Kate pouts, as she plunks down a pint of
bitter in front of me. At least she is good for
something. She crosses over to sit next to Mac. He makes
it complicated by moving his chair away from me. Not a
good sign, but Kate worries me more. How much did she
hear just now? I have a bad feeling that it was more than
either Mac or I wanted her to hear. She is very good at
this. She manages to look like a virgin and a whore at
the same time. No mean feat. Though Britney Spears
appears to have managed it, Kate is a great deal older
than Britney.
When I feel the Buzz, what I think, uncharitably, is
that Stephen Keane must have the worst timing of any
Immortal on the planet. As Mac turns in his chair, a look
of guilty panic crosses his face. He must think it is
Amanda. Kate only looks panicked. Heaven knows who she
thinks is coming through the door. When Keane steps
through, she sags in clear relief. Mac, of course, reacts
quite differently. "What the Hell is he doing here?"
So much for the benefit of the doubt. Might as well
get this out and on the table. "I invited him."
Mac gapes at me. "You *what*?"
I stand up and wave at Keane, who is scanning the
room for me, or whoever else might have that telltale
Buzz. "I invited him. Joe said it was okay." This will
create more problems with Joe, but I don't see why he
would deny it, not after last night. I finally get
Keane's attention. He spots me and waves back, smiling
like a idiot. The smile freezes when he sees Mac, but he
comes over anyway.
"Is this a bad time?" he says when he gets close
enough. I shake my head. Once Joe starts up, none of us
will be able to hear ourselves think. That should make
any touchy conversation impossible.
"Have a seat." I point at the chair next to me, on
the other side from Mac. He did promise.
For a moment, I think he will run right back out the
door, but he swallows and comes forward, edging past Mac,
to claim the chair. Mac watches his every move, like a
dog ready to attack, but does nothing else. Kate keeps
glancing from Mac to Keane. She must sense the tension,
but is wise enough to keep her mouth shut.
"I believe you two have met," I tell Mac as I sit
down myself. I look at Kate. "Kate, this is Mr. Keane. He
and your husband met briefly some time ago. Keane, this
is Kate, Mac's wife."
"Pleased to meet you," Keane chokes out, barely
above the chatter rising around us. At least he remembers
his manners. Am I the only male Immortal willing to be
rude to women--or to give them credit for being as
dangerous as men? "Have you been in Paris long?"
"We've been back and forth." Kate decides to take up
the conversational gauntlet, since Mac is still silent
and glaring. "It's a wonderful old city, but a bit
exhausting."
"Peace and quiet can be a rare commodity these
days," I say. Especially at Le Blues Bar on Friday night,
with four Immortals--two of whom badly want to kill each
other--sitting at the same table. An uncomfortable
silence follows. I glance over at the stage, in front of
which Joe is settling into his chair. He happens to look
up and spot us. He looks alarmed. He starts to pick up
the mike, which one of his crew has just turned on, then
seems to think better of it and lays it back down. He
tilts his head to one side. I shrug and spread my hands.
I'll do my best, Joe, but I can't guarantee anything. He
slumps, nods, then goes back to what he was doing, which
appears to be messing around with his chair. Gee, this
seemed much more like a good bit of fun when we were
plotting it this morning.
"What are you doing here, Keane?" Mac says into a
lull in the surrounding conversation.
"As...Pierson said, he invited me." Keane's tone is
equally hostile. Nope. These two will never be friends. I
will settle for keeping them in one room for the next few
hours without their challenging each other.
"No. What are you doing in town?" Mac, of course,
assumes that Keane would only come for him. Hate to
disappoint you, Mac.
"I came to see Pierson." Keane, if possible, is even
more brutally honest than Mac. "Our previous acquaintance
was sadly all too brief. I wanted to get to know him
better. Pierson has been kind enough to accommodate me in
that wish." Heaven only knows what Mac thinks of all
that. I don't think I am his favourite muppet today.
"Considering that you were trying to kill each other
the last time you met, I'm surprised to hear that," Mac
says, "or that Adam was willing to give you the benefit
of the doubt." There is that bloody phrase again.
"Pierson seems very good about that. I thought he
might teach me something of his philosophy on it." Nope.
Keane will never have any love for Mac, but I guess he
was serious about trying to break bread with him tonight.
He is making an effort.
Too bad Mac is not interested in reciprocating the
olive branch. "He does have a certain talent for
meddling." Oh, that is it.
I lean forward across the table so fast that Mac
recoils and Kate puts a hand under her coat. A warning
glance from me and she slowly removes said hand from said
coat. I turn back to Mac. "This is not about you. Not
everything is about you. He is just here to talk with me.
I told him that you would be here and he was willing to
come anyway."
Mac shifts uneasily in his chair. "He should have
known better."
"Why? He's not the one who created this situation in
the first place. You did. You created all that bad blood
all by yourself."
"If I could take it all back--"
"You wouldn't." I see no reason to be gentle. "You'd
kill them all over again and you know it." Next to Mac,
Kate looks thoughtful. If she were my wife, I would be
taking my sword with me to bed and staying awake all
night. That may be why she is not my wife.
"That's not fair," Mac says.
"Considering the company," I snarl, "perhaps we
should leave the concept of 'fairness' out of any future
conversation, for the sake of harmony."
"You would kill them all over again, wouldn't you?"
Keane wades in. Ah, damn it, boy. Let it go for just one
night.
"Didn't you slaughter our countrymen as if they were
cattle?" Mac snarls back. "What were we supposed to do,
stand by as you murdered our women and children?" Kate's
dangerous look deepens. Watch your step, Mac. Your wife
is not behind you 100% on this topic.
"And do you think that every Englishman you killed
was a monster? How very convenient for you." At least the
Friday night crowd is noisy. Maybe if the bad blood flows
a bit, these two will get it out of their systems. I only
hope that being in public will force them to keep their
tempers in check.
So much for that idea. Mac stands up suddenly. "I
dinna have to listen to this from a sassenach!"
"Duncan." Kate lays a hand on his arm. He shakes her
off. Ooh. Now, she looks more than a bit murderous. He
doesn't seem to notice, and that only makes her look
angrier.
Unlike Kate, I don't attempt to touch Mac, or get
up. "Sit down, Mac."
"How dare you do this to me?" His anger turns on me,
now, as I knew it would. In a moment, it will turn on
Joe. Right, Mac. Let's have a big, family blow-up in
public. That will really fix things with Joe.
I look up at Mac, not caring if he can hear me above
the crowd or not. "First of all, Keane's coming to Paris
has nothing to do with you. If it did, he would have
challenged you already. Second, as I said before, you
created this situation. You don't like it? Fine. You fix
it. In the meantime, I am going to have a drink and some
quiet conversation with Mr. Keane. You can join in, or
not, as you please."
"Unless, of course, you can't handle a 'quiet'
conversation," Keane taunts, most unwisely. Next thing I
know, the table has upended and my beer is flying through
the air. A good half of it goes on me before the glass
smashes on the floor. I go for my sword.
"HEY!" The command, amplified by a mike, blasts over
the speakers. I freeze. Conversation in the place peeters
off as everyone, most importantly Mac and Keane, turn to
stare at Joe. He is standing by the stage, holding the
mike, looking fairly pissed off. I ease my hand away from
the Bastard, my rage short-circuited.
"Knock it off or I'm calling the cops." I believe
him. "In fact, you can either clean that up now, or you
can get the Hell out of my bar." Jerry hurries up with a
bar towel, a broom, a dustpan and a mop. He starts to
sweep up the glass. Around us, conversation starts up
again.
I put out a hand to stop Jerry. He jumps. Nice to
know I'm still feared by someone. "No," I tell him,
taking the bar towel out of his hand. "They made the
mess. Let them clean it up." Jerry looks from me to Mac,
like a trapped animal. Too bad. Mac glares at me; I stare
back, letting my face go slack. "Go on. Give him the mop
and broom." Hesitantly, Jerry gives Mac the broom. I jerk
my chin at Keane. "Give him the dustpan." Jerry obeys
this time with more alacrity. I sit back. "Don't worry
about the rest. They'll put it all away when they've
finished." Jerry scurries off. He, at least, can sense
when the level in a barometer drops.
Mac grips the broom handle until his knuckles turn
white. He'd probably like to use it on my head. "Methos--
" he blurts out, not quite stopping himself in time. He
looks horrified. He should. It is an indiscretion, at the
very least, but I ignore it. Only sweet Kate, who
unfortunately looks all too enlightened at the moment,
might benefit from it at my expense. And I can handle
Kate. I sleep with my sword.
"You want a teacher, but you only listen to what you
want to hear," I tell him, still keeping my expression as
blank as I ever did with Kronos. Beer is soaking into my
jeans. I focus on sopping it up with the bar towel.
"Darius never told me what I wanted to hear," Mac
snaps, visibly stung.
"Didn't he?" Darius was a child to me. Invoking him
will not cow me. "Maybe it was because you never dumped
beer all over him." He flushes and makes a move to clean
me up. I stop him dead with a warning look that would
have given even Kronos pause. "I agree that you have a
problem that is making your life miserable, but it is not
my problem. You need to stop making it my
responsibility." I don't bother to say what will happen
if he does not stop. I am too old to make threats.
"What do you want from me?" He doesn't quite say my
name this time. He learns. Good.
"I want you to clean up your own mess." I finish
sopping up beer and glare up at him until he looks away.
Reluctantly, he starts to sweep. Even more reluctantly,
Keane crouches down with the dustpan so that Mac can
sweep the pile into it. I watch them, slouched in my
chair in the middle of the floor while people stare at
us. I stare back at them until they turn away. If I look
like some minor god sitting on his wooden throne, I can
live with that. Wouldn't be my first time. I catch Joe's
eye as he and the band finish setting up. He shakes his
head at me, smiling wryly, as he pulls his guitar strap
over his head.
"I think I'll go get some more drinks," Kate
suggests from the sidelines.
"You do that." I don't see any reason for false
courtesy at this point. "And why don't you get me another
towel while you're at it?" She goes away, which is all I
can ask for.
As Keane rights the table while Mac mops, the
crackling of the mike distracts me from my cold brooding
over their activities. Joe is starting the evening's
festivities. Thank Heaven for that. I sit up and turn to
watch him, ignoring my erstwhile students. Joe has the
mike set up on a stand and he leans over it, tapping on
his guitar as he goes through the introductions of the
band.
He starts strumming a tune on the guitar. "I'd like
to dedicate this first song to a friend of mine." At
first, I assume he means Mac. "He's been having a bad
week." Uh oh. Not Mac. "Adam, this one's for you." He
grins at me, the cheeky bastard, right before he lets me
have it:
"I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here.
"Your voice sounds so wonderful
"But your face don't look too clear.
"So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew.
"Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw?"
For the first time in what seems like too damned
long, I laugh out loud. Mac and Keane pull up chairs and
sit down, staring at me as if I have gone mad (I suppose
I have). I grip the table and shake it as Joe launches
into the chorus:
"Why don't we get drunk and screw?
"I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you.
"They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think
that's true.
"So, why don't we get drunk and screw?"
"Please. Don't. Sing along," Mac says through his
teeth while Joe and the band wail through the bridge.
Keane looks too spooked to contribute his opinion.
Welcome to real life, Keane. It's messy.
"Why not?" What I really want to do is wolf-howl
along, but that would not go down well. Wet blankets, all
of them--literally, considering my jeans. Taverns used to
be so much more fun. "Never mind. Here comes the beer."
And here comes Kate, with Marie following with a tray. I
guess Kate doesn't carry her own water these days. Mac
insists on paying for them all. She puts on a show of
letting him mollify her. I put on a show of letting him
mollify me with a new pint. Joe and the band move on to
'Take This Job and Shove It'. David Allan Coe has always
been a crowd pleaser.
A few minutes later, I spot a familiar-looking woman
coming through the door. At first, I cannot place her.
Then, I realise why--it is my academic advisor, Azar
Davani.
"Be right back," I say to no one in particular and
push myself out of my chair. Mac and Keane continue to
ignore each other and Kate continues to pretend that
everything is fine. Kell must have given her good
practice at that.
"Dr. Davani," I say, intercepting her near the door,
"I wasn't expecting you here."
"I came to see how you were doing. How do you feel?"
I shrug, not wanting to alarm her. "It's been a
rough week, but I'm all right now. Joe said he talked to
you."
She smiles at me, doesn't look a bit fazed, doesn't
even seem to notice the huge beer blotch down my front. I
have always found her calm impressive. "Oh, yes. He
invited me over for the evening." She peers past me at
the band. "Is that him in front of the stage?"
"Yep." I gesture back at Mac and Keane and Kate.
"I'm sitting with some friends over there. Great view.
Why don't you come sit with us?" Joe doesn't seem to have
noticed her arrival, yet. Hmm. Joe, buddy, what are you
doing?
"All right." She follows me back to the table. As we
approach it, I hear Mac ask Keane tentatively if he likes
the Blues. Will wonders never cease? Maybe there is
something to this Wise Old Git gig after all.
*********
Saturday
You're lucky I'm a civilised man.
What the Hell was I thinking, starting a book store?
What a pain in the ass! I am not in any shape for this
kind of venture. I am wearily making up my financial
books on a shipment that I've just received when a
customer wanders in through the open front door.
"Rene!" I say, surprised. "I wasn't expecting to see
you here." Rene is an old Watcher field operative buddy
of mine. His short beard looks greyer than I remember,
but not as white as Joe's. He reminds me of some of the
Belgians that I worked with in Uganda back in the '60s,
though he is a few years too young to be one. There is
that air of bonhomie that can evaporate in an instant if
one persists in asking the wrong questions. As I have
never been in the habit of doing that, Rene and I have
always got along fine. He's much like Joe, but Gallic.
I stand up to greet him. Rene envelops me in a hug
and gives me a kiss on each cheek. "Bonsoir, Pierson. I
heard you were in town. Comment ca va?"
"Been better," I admit. "I was in hospital for a day
or two. Poisoning of some type. It's not been the best of
weeks." I rub my stomach surreptitiously. "What are you
doing here? I thought Gabrieli would have told every
Watcher in Europe to stay away from me."
"Ah, pfff." Rene waves a hand, looking disgusted.
"Parle a mon cul parce que ma tate est malade, you know?"
I laugh. "Gabrieli is a suit. I don't like a suit, unless
she has great legs. Me, I don't like his 'big plans' for
the European section."
"Yeah, well it still might not be safe hanging
around with the likes of me." Rene is tough, but I don't
want him getting caught in the middle of what looks to be
a nasty fight coming up between me and the Watchers. I
don't want Joe in the middle, either, but Joe won't
listen to me on that subject. What are they going to do,
I guess he figures, shoot him? They already did. If I
didn't know any better, I'd think he was pre-Immortal.
Oh, how I wish he was. I'd shoot him myself tomorrow.
He'd be in the Game, then, but he wouldn't be the first
Immortal I've protected. I used to do that for money; I
can do it for friendship.
Gods how MacLeod does pontificate to Joe. He is so
young, and he tells Joe such total bollocks. Friends and
foes spiralling together into one great killing frenzy at
the end of time? What the Hell would he know about it? We
have had alliances and groupings, beyond just a few
Horsemen. Even had a government of sorts for a few
decades once. That was fun; nearly lost my head over
that. We have lives untouched by the Game. Or we did
once, I think. How did we change? How did we grow so
small? The young ones don't remember and they don't care.
Who wants to listen to an old man who won't tell them
what they want to hear? Only the Game and the Gathering
and taking head after bloody head are important to them.
A great monument gutted by ignorant fire--that is
Immortal culture now. Except in Africa. But none of the
young ones know about that. Go find Shangri-La on your
own, you murderous little munchkins. Some of 'em are,
too. I remember this little bastard in the baggage train
at Agincourt who tried to take my head. Looked like a
cherub. What was his name? Kirk...Corin...Kenny! Yeah,
that was it. Kenny. Haven't seen him since; that's why
he's still alive, I will wager.
"When do I play it safe?" Rene is saying cheerfully,
reminding me that he was the one who tracked down Silas
and Caspian for me back in 1995. I drag my attention back
to the conversation; I am drifting too much for my
liking. It has been a tough week. Rene liked Silas, I
think, though he must have been tempted to turn Hunter
with Caspian. Hard to blame him, there. I have long since
lost count of how many times I almost took Caspian's
head. Ah, it doesn't matter anymore. Five years now, so
odd. How can they all be dead? I am still looking over my
shoulder for Kronos. I wish he would leave me alone. I
still have not figured that one out. Why does he bother?
Oh, come on, Old Man. It is the inside of your own head.
He's not real. You can make him go away any time you want
if you can just figure it out. But why Kronos? And why is
he almost...benevolent? I don't understand--
"Adam?" Rene touches my arm. I jump.
"Sorry," I say. "It has been a very long week. I'm a
bit tired." I shake it off. "So. What have you been up to
lately?" I pull out a chair for him. Got plenty of those,
of the folding metal kind.
"Oh, me." Rene sits down. "I work for Sean Burns'
old hospital, now."
"Oh? Did they keep that going after he died?" I know
they did, but I am not sure if Adam Pierson would know
that. Got to play Adam Pierson here, and play him well.
Rene is not a man one can fool easily.
Rene nods. "Sean was a bonhomme--a good man. People
talked to him--Mortals and Immortals. It seemed too bad
for that all to go to waste because he failed once." He
cocks his head to one side. "You were there when he died,
n'est-ce pas?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah I was." Have to do something right
now. I get up and go to the fridge. "You want a beer?"
"What, no wine?" Rene puts on a face of mock
outrage. "Pierson, you are in Paris!"
"And yet, I'm a Brit." I smile winningly. "Beer?"
"How should I refuse?" I come back with beers for
both of us and open them in front of him. He takes his
and swigs it.
"That was a bad day for you, yes?" he says after a
few minutes.
I chuckle. "Bloody Hell. You sound like Sean. What,
are you a shrink, too?"
"Yes," he admits. He seems to be studying me for a
reaction. "Does that bother you?"
"Why would it?" Control, Old Man. Keep it together.
This isn't what you think it is. "Treating Immortals, I
take it? Must be a great position for Watching." I sit
back, watching Rene watch me.
"I treat both," he says. "And no, I don't make
reports on the Immortals I treat. It would violate my
medical oath. You know that."
I swig my beer. "You treat both? Why? I'd think
you'd pick one or the other."
"I specialise in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I
suppose I have more Immortal patients than the usual
doctor; they have many traumatic events in their lives,
yes? But you know, I have treated many Watchers, too. And
Mortals with no connection to the Game." He stops, as if
waiting for me to say something. I do not take the bait.
"I am worried about you, Adam."
"I don't need a nanny, Rene." Joe. Joe called him. I
should have known. Shit! Why didn't I just leave Paris
after whacking Atticus? I couldn't have been that
depressed!
"I don't think you need a nanny, either," Rene says.
"You are a very tough man. But you have lost some people
who were close to you, and the Watchers failed you. You
seem lonely."
"I'm fine." Just smile, thank him for his concern
and shoo him out the door. "It was years ago."
"If you are so fine, why is this the first time in
years that you have settled somewhere for more than a
month?" Is it? Haven't thought about it much.
"Why? Is that a problem?" I say lightly. "Some
people are just nomads. Guess I am, too." Joe, Joe. You
have been screwing me over, buddy. Telling tales out of
school.
Rene smiles ruefully and shakes his head. I have
that effect on people. He pulls out a pen and a notepad
and writes on it. "My phone number," he says. "I will be
in town for a few months. If you need to talk about
'company business'--even if it is old--I promise you that
this Watcher, at least, will listen. I will even serve
you beer."
I snicker at that. He holds out the paper. Is this
some sort of a test? Should I take it? Ah, well. What is
the harm? I can always throw it away, later. I take the
paper. He smiles and stands up, patting my shoulder as he
heads for the door.
"Why are you really here, Rene?" I say, as he pauses
at the doorway.
"Because I am your friend." The door closes behind
him.
Joe, you son of a bitch, we need to talk.
*********
I blow into the bar like a hurricane past Jerry, who
doesn't even try to stop me, and back into Joe's office.
Where would it be? In the database? Look there
first.
My, things have got more interesting since I logged
on here four months ago. Nice graphics, though they do
load up rather slowly. No hints of me on the database; I
don't suppose he'd be that stupid. He knows I can get in
here. Nothing on the laptop harddrive either, that I can
see. None of the files that are big enough to have
anything on me. We are talking a hard copy, here. Doing
things the old-fashioned way, are we, Dawson?
Anything below waist level that Joe cannot reach
from a chair seems unlikely. No surprise that those
shelves are empty, then. I look higher, pulling out
papers and dropping them on the desk, the floor. Let the
bastard catch me playing merry Hell with his filing
system. I can feel bridges burning at my back.
I pull out a stack of magazines and start shaking
them out. It falls out of a Paris Match (was it the one
he was reading yesterday in my kitchen?), a palm-sized
notebook with a pen stuck in the rings. Nothing on the
cover. No, there wouldn't be, would there? I stare down
at it, this unlooked-for grenade lobbed into my life.
Pick it up, Old Man. Waiting will not make it any better.
I pick it up. I open it. The very first words are:
"I think you're losing it, Old Man." After that, it gets
ugly. I sit down on the floor, hard.
I am not sure what is more frightening, the candour
or the fear. Is this just Joe or does everyone I meet
these days believe that I am balanced on a sword's edge?
There are little stories about Amy and the other Watchers
under Joe's management, but the central, relentless focus
is on me and what Joe sees as my mental disintegration. I
shiver. He does not think I'm losing it; he thinks I have
already lost it. The notebook only goes back a few weeks;
he must have many others. In this one, he talks about
starting a chronicle right after I killed Walker. Four
years. He has been doing this for four years. I knew he
wrote things down about me, but this is obsessive. Does
he hand in these reports each time he finishes a
notebook? He talks about his visits when I was hiding out
in my apartment last month, the videos we watched, the
things we said, how I looked, how he felt about it. I did
not get that low, did I? I don't remember. It didn't seem
as bad as that. I got through it, didn't I?
My eyes ache. He called them. The son of a bitch
called Sean Burn's people. Trying to get me locked up. I
could kill him. Maybe I will kill him. I have to get out
of here.
*********
"Methos is what?" I said, feeling sick.
"He's out back," Jerry said. "He just said something
about needing to use your office." I brushed past him and
humped it out to the office.
Jesus. You'd ripped it completely apart. Papers and
files were scattered all over the place. You were getting
to your feet, my latest chronicle in your hand. The look
on your face was.... Too late. Too late and a whole lot
more than a dollar short.
You threw the notebook at me, hitting me in the
chest. It stung. "You rat bastard son of a bitch!" you
spat.
"Methos," I pleaded. "I'm sorry. I was worried about
you. You were--"
"Yes, I know what you thought I was! That came
through very clearly! What were you thinking, that you
could have some shrink come down and get me committed, no
questions asked? You bastard! I'll bet you and Mac had a
good laugh planning that!"
"Methos, I don't know what you're talking about. It
wasn't like that. I only called them to find out if there
was any way that I could help you. They never got back to
me. You gotta believe me!"
"Oh, I believe you. I just don't care." You
shouldered past me; I put out a hand to stop you. You
halted, shaking.
"Methos, don't," I pleaded. "Please. Just...don't go
do anything stupid."
You stared rigidly ahead, past my shoulder. "I am
not going to let you, or anyone else, lock me up the way
they did in Seacouver." You turned your head and looked
me in the eye. "You read the report. I spent a week on a
Level Three Suicide Watch in five point restraints--a
week! What makes you think that I would *ever* let
anyone do that to me again?"
I tried to reassure you, for all the good it did.
"Nobody is trying to lock you up. I just wanted to get
some advice on how to help you out, that is all. Come on,
Old Man, what harm would it do to just talk to somebody?"
Your breath huffed out in near amusement. You ran a
hand through your hair. "I can't take this anymore! If I
stay here, I *will* go crazy!" You pushed past me,
shrugging off my hand. I heard the door slam a moment
later. Shit. Ah, shit.
Jerry came out back, looking like a snail coming out
of its shell after a cat's been at it. "Is everything
okay?"
I sighed. "No, Jerry. Everything is not okay." I
looked around the wrecked office. "Help me clean this up,
will you?"
*********
Of all the people to betray me, I never thought it
would be you, Joe. You were the one friend I could depend
on for that. If you couldn't give me up to Walker, not
even for your own daughter, I figured you'd never do it.
But you don't consider this a betrayal, do you? This if
for my own good, right? I am supposed to lie down and
take my medicine like a good nutter, aren't I?
No...no, that's not fair. I know he cares. He cares
too much. Oh, Joe, what have you done to me? What have I
done to myself? There is a mourning tune in my head, the
song of my own funeral.
"Pierson, stop!" Someone grabs my sword arm. I swing
round, yanking my other hand out of my pocket, but he
ducks, then pulls himself in close so that I cannot hit
him. It is Rene.
"No!" he whispers fiercely. "Do you want people to
see?" I stop struggling, panting. "ca va," he says more
calmly. "Sois calm. ca va. Let's go for that drink, yes?"
"I don't want a drink," I say, trying to shrug him
off. He doesn't let go.
"I do," he says. "And you need one." He drags me
down the street. Can't the man take 'no' for an answer?
He finds a cafe with a table in a corner in the
back, and sits me down with my back to the wall. He sits
down across from me, blocking my escape. I slouch in the
chair, as if it is no matter to me.
"I don't want a beer," I insist.
"Bon," he replies, and orders us coffee, instead.
We sit in silence until the coffee comes. Rene does
a little ritual that I remember from a lunch we had a few
months before Don died--milk, stirred in slowly, no
sugar. I leave mine black and untouched. Rene makes no
remark on that. He is waiting for me to break down and
tell him everything, I can tell. As if. Does he have
three days?
Rene sips at his cup as I watch the minute hand on
the cafe clock crawl up the wall. "Did you have a fight
with Joe Dawson?" he asks.
"What makes you say that?" I reply casually. I feel
lightheaded. If I drank that coffee, I would be bouncing
off the ceiling.
"The bartender left the door open. I heard
shouting."
"Just a small dispute over my bill." I shrug. "It's
a perennial thing."
"And over me, yes?" He watches me over his cup.
"Why would we be fighting over you?" Fuck you, Rene.
"You think that I am here because he asked me to
come."
"Aren't you?" I put one boot up on a chair. Let him
think that is a challenge.
"No," he says. Yeah, right.
"He called you, didn't he?" I say acidly.
Rene sets the cup in its saucer, the coffee half
gone. "No. He called a colleague, whom he asked for
advice. He said that a friend of his (he did not name
you) was depressed. He was worried that the way he was
helping his friend was making it worse. My colleague
assured him that was not true. He said that he would
contact Joe again, to see how this 'friend' was. Then, he
called me. It was I who decided to come see you."
"You knew it was me? I thought you said Joe didn't
give you my name?"
"He didn't. He said you were a Watcher, that you had
lost some friends, one recently, and that you were a
widower. Joe does not have many close friends. I know you
both. It was not difficult to guess. Joe would never
betray you, Adam."
I glare at him. "You're here, aren't you?"
He doesn't smile, or get angry. Nothing I can use to
make a scene and storm out. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Yes."
"Why?" I play with my spoon. Maybe I should drink
this stuff after all. I dump some sugar in. "Why is that
bad, Adam?"
"There's nothing wrong with me," I say. "I just need
to get out of town for a few months."
"A few months, or a few years?" I don't answer. It
is an unsafe question. "Would you like my professional
opinion?"
"No." This coffee isn't that bad, after all, if you
pile in a mound of sugar.
"Tant pis." He leans forward, folding his hands.
"You are clinically depressed. You are suffering from
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, brought on by multiple
traumatic events. You suffered a psychotic breakdown in
May 1998, when you were hospitalised with acute mania
after a suicide attempt. I contacted the hospital in
Seacouver. They were very happy to hear that you are
still alive. Are you happy to still be alive? Do I need
to continue?"
"No," I say thickly. I don't explain which question
I am answering. "So, I'm destined for Bedlam, am I?"
Funny, I don't feel like running anymore. Or fighting. I
am so tired.
"No. Not if you stay here." He seems to be examining
me for cracks. "Your illness is curable. You do not have
to suffer for the rest of your life."
"And you can help me? Why would you help me? Why
should I trust you?"
"If you run," he continues, as if he hadn't heard
me, "you will eventually collapse in a place where you
have no friends, and you will end up in another hospital
like Seacouver General. Do you want that?"
"Are you kidding?" I laugh. I stop. This isn't
funny. "I don't trust you."
"You don't have to trust me. You don't have to
accept me as your therapist, either. That is up to you.
Do you trust Joe?"
"What?" Shaken, I stare into my coffee. "I don't
know."
"Adam, look at me." I stare at the table. "Look at
me, Adam." Fine. Whatever. I look up into his eyes. How
can these Mortal children still scare me? He holds my
life in his hands. "Joe is your friend. I know you worry.
What if he dies, too? What if he betrays you? Then, you
lose him, maybe. But if you run, you will lose him. Sans
doute. Here is my advice: go back and talk to him. Listen
to him. Him, you need. Me..." Rene shakes his head.
"Maybe not. But he is your friend. I am your friend, too;
I think you forget that. If you remember, you have my
number. Did you keep it?"
I nod. "I thought the paper might make a halfway
decent paper airplane."
Rene snorts. At least he has a sense of humour about
it. He drains his coffee and stands up, throwing a few
Euros on the table. "Take my advice, Adam. Go see Joe.
The rest you can think about--when you are not so
worried, yes? Bonne chance." He nods to me and turns
away, going straight the door and out into the street. He
doesn't look back.
He is a smart bastard, to leave me hanging. I'll
give him that. The question is, I suppose, can I trust
him?
Or maybe it's: can I trust Joe? I don't know. Is
that even an option? I want to trust him. I want that
option. I'm so tired, so tired of being afraid. The bank
is so close. Will it crumble under me if I try to climb
up it? But if I don't, I'll drown, so I don't have much
choice. I need to trust somebody; I'd prefer it be Joe. I
guess that will have to be enough.
I am still there, my coffee gone stone cold in front
of me, when the cafe staff throw me out at closing time.
***********
Amy sensed something was wrong the moment she
stepped into the bar. It was late afternoon, yet the sign
outside said "Closed". Inside, Joe sat near the stage,
playing his guitar alone. He stared at the floor and
didn't seem to notice her.
"Joe?" She stepped forward, unsure of his mood. He
had never given her cause to fear his temper, but she had
seen him tear a strip off an obstreperous customer or
two. He did not suffer fools at all, let alone gladly.
"Joe," she called more loudly when he did not respond. He
looked up and stopped playing. Now that she was close
enough, she saw that his eyes were red, as though he had
been crying. "What's wrong?"
"Hi, Amy. I didn't hear you come in." His American
accent always startled her a bit. He had not turned out
to be what she had either hoped or feared her biological
father would be. She was getting used to that.
"What's wrong, Joe?" she asked gently.
"Nothing." Joe wiped his face with his sleeve,
giving the lie to his denial.
"What happened? Are you still upset over MacLeod
being such a horse's arse last night?" Joe blinked. He
needed a second opinion on that. Being friends with your
assignment was one thing--Joe was the king of Watcher
rule-breakers--but being his doormat was a different
story. "I thought you handled it perfectly well, all the
way down the line. If MacLeod wants to run off in a snit,
that is his problem. He will almost certainly be back."
"It's not Mac," Joe said, surprising her, both with
the admission and the information that something else was
wrong. "It's Ben. I--we had a fight. Sort of. Mostly, he
screamed at me. Then he peeled rubber out of here. I
don't know where he is or what he's doing or if he's even
on the same planet as the rest of us." He sniffed.
"You and Ben had a fight?" Amy repeated this half to
herself. "But you two never fight." It seemed
unbelievable. Those two loved each other.
Joe looked startled. "But, we always fight."
"No. You squabble. You bicker. You even snipe. You
never fight." Of this, she was quite certain. "Could this
be some sort of misunderstanding?"
Joe hung his head. "Oh, there was no
misunderstanding. I don't think he's coming back."
"What did you do?" She couldn't imagine either of
them letting anything get in their way. Siamese twins
were further apart.
"Um...I'd rather not say; it would make things
worse. Let's just say that I screwed up. Well,
technically, I didn't screw up, but he saw it that way,
and I can't blame him." Joe ran a hand through his hair.
"He's probably halfway to Kathmandu by now."
Amy hugged him. "He will come back, Joe. I promise
that he will. There is no way that he will simply leave
things like this. He will come back, if only to yell at
you some more."
Joe put an arm around her waist and leaned his head
against her. "That's not his style, honey, trust me. The
last sound you hear from him in a fight is the sound of
the door slamming. That's if your lucky."
"Well, maybe if you're really lucky, he'll have
forgotten his car keys." That got a laugh out of him.
"Yeah, maybe," he admitted. "You never know."
***********
Mary sat in the small chapel, staring past the
closed coffin at the crucifix above the altar. She wasn't
even sure it was really her mother in there. Annie had
cursed her many times, saying, "You are no child of mine!
I never bore you! I could never bear a cripple!" Perhaps
this was simply another lying stranger. No one had asked
her to identify the body, No one wanted her to look in
the coffin.
"Try to remember your mother as she was when she was
alive," the undertaker told her. Whyever would she want
to do that? As soon as they all left her alone with the
coffin, she opened it. It was not as bad as she had
imagined, but her mother was certainly dead. The
undertaker could not hide that. All Mary felt was relief.
She would go to Hell for it, but she was glad her mother
was dead. She had no idea where she would go or what she
would do now, but whatever lay ahead of her, it had to be
better than living with Annie Lembede. Uncle Jacob had
died before she could properly get to know him. She had
loved her Auntie Mary, but after Auntie had died, her
mother had come to demand her back. For a long time, Mary
resented her foster family for turning Annie Lembede
away. The woman was her mother, after all. That was
before she found out that living with her mother was a
long series of tantrums and tears. As soon as she was old
enough, Mary went looking for her mother. She had
regretted it ever since.
Mary had loved her auntie, who took her in at birth,
gave her her own name after her mother had abandoned her,
and treated her as one of her own children. She did not
know what she felt for her 'real' mother but it was not
love. She stood up, went to the casket, and opened it,
just to make sure. Yes, her mother was still dead. No
more screaming. No more rages. No more insults.
The door opening in the chapel behind her startled
her, making her let fall the coffin and turn to see who
it was. The man who entered the room was tall, black, in
his forties and dressed elegantly in a suit and coat. He
walked right up to her and held out his hand. She noticed
that he wore a tattoo on his wrist like Uncle Jacob.
"Mary Lembede?" he asked. His accent was soft,
American.
"Yes?" Forcing down hesitation, she reached out to
shake his hand. He had a firm grip. She would like to
learn how to do that. "Who are you?"
He smiled, with no apparent offense. Her mother
would have slapped her for the impertinence. "My name is
David Gabrieli. I am a colleague of your Uncle Jacob and
Aunt Mary."
"You knew them?" What was this man? Was he like
Uncle Jacob and Auntie Mary? "But, you are American. How
could you know them? They never left South Africa in
their entire lives."
"Our group is old, Mary. It spans many borders."
Gabrieli pulled up his sleeve, showing her a dark purple
tattoo. "Do you recognise this symbol?"
"No," Mary lied. It was just like Uncle Jacob's. The
man made her nervous--but she still wanted to know more.
"Your Uncle Jacob wore one as well. I doubt he
showed it in public." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Why
don't we go someplace and talk about this over a meal,"
he said kindly, as she flinched at the rare human touch.
"I have a job offer to discuss with you."
She left the chapel with him. In truth, she had
nowhere else to go.
*********
The bar is not picky about its clientele, but the
bouncers are willing to make an exception for me. Each
one getting a grip on one of my elbows, they haul me to
the door and boot me out into the alleyway. I crawl over
to the wall and pull myself to my feet. The wall stinks
of piss and vomit.
"Allez vous faire foutre! Et vos meres, aussi!" I
shout back into the hole of a bar. Content with my
parting shot, I stagger out into the street. It is darker
than it was when I started drinking. No fear. I have
money and my sword, enough to get me home.
Joe hates flying. He shouts at me to slow down as we
strafe fields and hills and rivers in the jet. This is
the way to raid. Horses are much too slow. Joe thinks we
are flying too low, despite the excitement of trees and
grass flitting past. He is frightened. Impatient with his
nagging, I yank on the joystick. For once, he falls
silent--out of fear or wonder, I don't know or care. The
plane glides straight up into the sky, higher and higher,
until we seem to balance on its fins, suspended in the
blue. And then we fall back into a flat spin. The
joystick won't respond. Joe is screaming and as the
ground comes up at us, I see that I have killed us both.
The sun is blinding, beating down on the red mud. I
suck down warm beer. The bottle of Trent-Trois seems
always almost empty, yet never runs dry. It is really too
hot to stay in the truck, but I feel no urge to leave. I
am in the driver's seat and there I will stay.
Over six solid feet of muscle and madness, he
appears at my elbow, grinning over the door--the local
fou. Every town needs a resident drunk or nutter, I
suppose, especially Batouri, with its uneasy mix of mud
brick and neon.
"Je te connais!" he shouts happily, grabbing my arm.
"Tu es le Roi des Bandits!"
I glance at him sidelong, before taking another
spit-warm swig of beer. "C'est vrai, mon frere," I agree
solemnly. "Tu es vraiment sage de voir ca." As I watch
him caper down the street, joyful at his discovery, I
wonder why I feel so lost.
"Caspian wishes to have a word, Brother." Kronos
peers over my shoulder at the designs on the hospital
wall: maps of terrain, projections of enemy movements,
concentric circles of increasingly elaborate raids. It is
difficult to write precise lines on the leather without
piercing it or smearing the pencil all over the panel. I
have to concentrate, my head pressed against the padded
wall as I etch out the designs inside my head. The images
hang before my eyes, flickering across a transparent
screen superimposed on the world. It is harder since
Caspian broke my Walkman. I need my music to smooth out
the flow.
"Did you hear me, Brother?" I stay silent. He often
leaves me be if I do not respond. Thwarted, he goes away.
The designs absorb me once more until he returns with
Caspian. I turn, sighing to myself. I cannot concentrate
with that fool in the room; he gibbers. He spits in
defiance but doesn't approach me, at first, too afraid of
me. Kronos nudges him forward.
"Go ahead," he tells Caspian. "Tell him what you
told me." Caspian cringes, shrinking from the small walls
of the cell. Then, he sucks in a breath, inhaling courage
with air, and stares me in the face.
"You shouldn't be in charge anymore," he declares.
"Only lunatics can run this asylum and I'm madder than
all of you." He draws himself up until he is nearly as
tall as I am. "I eat babies for breakfast, with ketchup.
I should be in charge."
I consider him, my face blank. He is a little man
with little dreams. He is nothing. Calmly, I lift my hand
to my mouth and bite down hard on my fingers. As Kronos
and Caspian watch, open-mouthed, I eat my own fingers.
When I reach the second knuckle, I stop eating and
turn back to my designs. The blood is easier to use than
the pencil, though it does drip. I ignore the pain. I do
not hear Caspian leave, but at my back Kronos sighs.
"You win, Brother," he whispers. "Again."
I wake up fighting my quilt, in which I have
cocooned myself. Sunlight shines in my eyes. I roll over,
groaning. I have the worst headache. Where have I got
myself to? I see a map of Tibet on the wall, an alarm
clock on the night stand. I am in my apartment. How did I
get here? Did I call a taxi? Did someone carry me home?
Where is my cat? My cat. Right. I remember now. Silas ran
away. Couldn't stand me anymore. Joe? Oh, no. Oh, Joe. We
had that fight over his journal. I got him killed in my
dream; it was so vivid. And my hand.... I yank my right
hand out from under the quilt and hold it up in front of
my face, staring at it, feeling it. I cannot shake the
feeling of biting into it, the taste of my own blood and
bone. How could I have been that insane?
*Joe is your friend.* Shut up, Rene. *If you run,
you will lose him. Sans doute.* No. Nonono. I have to
talk to Joe. Joe wouldn't let me eat my own fingers. He
wouldn't let me hurt myself. I don't want to lose him
over that bloody chronicle. I sit up. I have to...I have
to throw up. I lie back down and hold my head.
After the sunlight has left the bed, I try again.
This time, I can get up--if I'm careful. I am still fully
clothed, sword and all. I reek of alcohol, which makes
the nausea worse. I need a shower. Then I will call Joe.
As I stagger for the bathroom, I notice the door. It
has been closed and locked; anyone could have done that.
But only one person could have shoved the chair up under
the doorknob. That is my subconscious telling me that I
did this all to myself.
*********
Sunday
The Devil went down to Georgia.
He was lookin' for a soul to steal.
He was in a bind, 'cause he was way behind,
And he was willing to make a deal....
I blame myself for what happened next. When Mac
walked in I was ready for every Immortal I had ever known
to walk back out. You'd been gone since yesterday by
then. It's safe to say that you'd left skidmarks on your
way out the door. I couldn't blame you--not after you
read this chronicle, and found out about that shrink. I'm
sorry, okay? I did not know that they were gonna send
down some guy to spy on you, on both of us. Give me a
break, here. You're one step ahead of me; I haven't even
met the guy yet!
I was scared. I was angry. For all I knew, you'd
already found some helpful Immortal to whack you. Then,
Mac walked in. I'd better tell you the rest.
I'll give him credit; Mac tried to make it look
natural as he got himself a stool and pulled it up to the
bar. He leaned his arms on the counter, tried on a smile.
It looked thin. I didn't smile back.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." My reply was as neutral as I could make it,
so it came out a little cold. "Scotch?"
Mac nodded. "Yeah, sure." I got him the scotch and
handed it over. After that, I backed up against the
liquor rack and waited. Call it entrenching my position.
Mac stayed quiet for a few minutes, sipping the
scotch and licking his lips. I could tell he was trying
to figure out some diplomatic way to start the
conversation. I wish I could say that I was sympathetic,
but I wasn't. I was still too raw from you screaming in
my face. I don't blame you. I know how freaked out you
were, but it didn't stop my gut getting all twisted up
over it. I just wanted Mac to go home and try again
another day.
"How's it going?" he said finally. Stop laughing.
Quirky conversation ain't his thing, and you know it.
"It's been a busy week," I replied, still shooting
for neutral.
"I suppose that's one way of putting it," Mac
admitted. He sipped more scotch. "How's Methos?"
I shrugged. "He's had better weeks, too, but his
cat's home from the vet and Keane hasn't tried to whack
him, yet. Considering the past couple of months, I guess
he's doing okay."
"Yeah, um, about Keane." He swallowed. "I'm sorry
about that. I can pay for the damages."
"Ah. Don't worry about it." I waved it off. "It was
just a table and a few glasses. I don't think anybody
really expected you to be happy about seeing Keane
again." This, I had to admit, was true. "Must have been a
shock to see him walk in."
He laughed, though he didn't sound too amused.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"I'm sorry about that." And I was, too. "That didn't
exactly go according to plan. I thought you'd be out of
town, or something. I did try to call you."
He sighed. "I just thought you should meet Kate. I
suppose I should have given you more warning. Do you have
any idea what Keane wants with Methos, anyway?"
"As far as I can tell, Mac, he wants pretty much the
same thing you wanted." A teacher. Not that Mac would
ever admit that.
He grinned. "What, an arrogant pain in the ass who
takes over your house and drinks all your beer?"
I smiled back and relaxed a little. Maybe it would
turn out okay, after all. I should have known better.
"Something like that," I said. "Let's just say that
he's on a not-so-shallow learning curve regarding all
things Methosian right now." You don't mess around. You
may be cagey, but you're not a liar and you're no cheat.
Keane asked for an education and by God, that's what
you've been giving him. "Keane may be a son of a bitch,
but he's as honest as you, as far as I can tell. Besides,
he actually seems to like the Old Man. I think it'll be
okay. Screwball, but okay."
"So, Keane was his stalker after all?"
The question seemed casual but there was a hook in
it. It took me by surprise. "Uh, no. That person turned
out to be some Mortal he'd met in South Africa. She got
him lynched a few years back. Seems she was a little
surprised to find him alive and well and living in Paris.
That's probably why she put him in the hospital trying to
poison him."
"I see." Mac stared into his scotch. "That's not
good."
"No. It's not. But since it's all over now and both
Methos and the cat are fine, that doesn't matter." I
folded my arms and glowered at him. The conversation was
going somewhere real bad real fast, and I wanted to know
what that destination was.
Mac looked up at me. "I heard on the news this
morning that a young woman from South Africa was killed
at St Genevieve Hospital in a fall."
"Yeah? So?" I didn't like this game. "And you
thought Methos was involved in some way?"
"I've been keeping an eye out for any suspicious
deaths, lately, just in case," Mac said.
"'Just in case'?! What are you talking about?" I
couldn't believe it--he was talking as though you were
some kind of serial killer.
"Methos is sick, Joe," Mac said gently, damn him.
"And you just said that this woman was a threat to him.
We both know what happens to anybody who threatens
Methos."
"Well, if he can walk away, he does, even when it
makes him look like a coward. Doesn't sound like a cold-
blooded killer to me." I wished Mac would walk away more
often. I could think of a few people who would still be
alive.
"He didn't walk away from Atticus." Mac had that sad,
conflicted look he got before he killed Ingrid. I could
see him working himself up for another mercy head-
whacking. He didn't seriously think I was gonna just
stand by and let him do it, did he?
"He didn't get a chance to walk away from Atticus,"
I said. "Not this time. Stop throwing that in his face.
So he's crazy right now. You've been crazy, too. Nobody
took your head."
"He's dangerous like this, Joe." Jesus wept. That is
just what you told me.
I set my jaw. "Where do you get off judging whether
he has the right to get his own back when somebody hurts
him? Anyway, she didn't 'fall' Mac, she jumped, and she
took Methos with her."
He looked skeptical. "Are you sure about that?"
"I was standing right there when they found the two
of them at the bottom of that stairwell, Mac. Yeah, I am
very sure."
Mac picked up his glass, considered the remaining
contents and then drank them down. "Well, then, I guess
it must be true." Of course he'd assume that I was
protecting you.
I grabbed my cane and came around the bar. This was
the kind of conversation that you have face to face. "Are
you trying to say that Methos pushed her? He didn't. When
we found them, she still had a deathgrip on his shirt and
the knife they found nearby had her fingerprints all over
it. She wanted him dead and she did a whole lot to make
sure it happened." We were eye to eye by then. Mac was
holding his own, but I could see I was making him
uncomfortable. Good.
"Joe, you can't keep defending people when they've
done something like this--even when they're your
friends." I really hate when he tries to be "reasonable".
"'People?'" I snarled back. "Are we talking about
Methos here, or Cord?" He turned pale at that. I kept
going. "I noticed that we sure got to hear Charlie's side
of it all the way down the line, but Cord?" I shook my
head. "Nah. He was just a bad guy who needed to get taken
out, right? Is that what you're thinking with Methos? You
looking for a good reason to make him the bad guy, too?"
Mac tried to scramble for higher moral ground. "Joe,
he's sick. If he's going around killing--"
"He's not! I just told you; she tried to kill him,
not the other way around!"
He shook his head, like I was a stupid, little kid.
"Joe, you don't get involved, you know that. Watch and
record, but never interfe--"
Okay. Now, I know you're laughing. Stop it. I know I
shouldn't have hit him, but you should've heard him
standing there, quoting the Watcher Oath at me, of all
people. As it was, I didn't get in a good whack upside
his head, the way I intended, though I did connect. If
he'd just stood there and let me hit him, it might not
have turned out so bad. Unfortunately, guys with
centuries of martial arts training don't "just let" you
do anything to them. Though maybe you'd have let me, but
then, you know better. Mac was startled, he reacted. He
stepped to one side, grabbed the cane, and down I went,
flat on my back. That's when it got ugly, because just as
Mac grabbed the cane, I heard you say from the door,
"Hey, Joe! I'm back."
After that, it was like a time glitch, some science
fiction thing. I was lying on the floor looking up at
Mac, who was standing with his back against the bar. And
there you were, the Bastard shoved up under Mac's chin.
Mac's head was pressed up, his back arched over the
counter, a little blood trickling down his neck. No
transition.
"Methos," he wheezed. He stopped when you raised the
Bastard.
"No," you said firmly. You sounded like a dad telling
his kids to stop bugging the monkeys at the zoo. You were
shivering, and your breathing was almost as fast and
shallow as Mac's. If I didn't do something real quick,
you'd take his head.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows. "Methos, stop!"
You didn't let up, but you didn't press any harder. You
were doing just what I said. "It's okay, Old Man," I
forged on. "It was just a misunderstanding. Put the sword
down. Come on."
You lowered the sword to a defensive position and
backed away towards me. Mac came down off his toes,
gasping and rubbing his neck. "Methos, what the f--"
"Mac, go," I said, before he could get anything out
that would set you off again. I was beginning to see why
Kronos liked having you cover his back way back when. Mac
hesitated. "*Go*, Mac."
He went--reluctantly, I hoped. I tried not to let
myself think that he might never come back as he paused
at the door, then opened it and left. I didn't relax
until you did, slowly putting the Bastard back in its
scabbard (whose tip hung a few inches under your jacket,
almost to your knee--you need another coat, Old Man). I
knew you wouldn't do that until Mac's Buzz was gone.
Your shoulders slumped and you let out a big sigh.
When you turned around, you seemed fine. You crouched
down next to me and helped me up into a chair. "Joe, what
happened?"
"Nothing dramatic," I said. "I hit Mac and he
knocked me on my ass, basically."
"I see." Your tone indicated that you didn't at all.
"Is there something that I should know about? You two
seem to have been a bit tense around each other all
week."
I sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I think maybe you should. Go
get that bottle of bourbon I keep for special occasions
out of the cabinet and a couple of glasses. This is a
real long story and it doesn't have what I'd call a happy
ending." It was time to tell you about Cord.
*********
"Mac killed Cord even though you asked him not to?"
I ask Joe. "After you told him all about how Cord had
humped you 16 miles to a hospital after you lost your
legs in Vietnam?" Damn. No wonder Joe hit him.
Joe nods. "I can see why he did it. I mean, Cord
killed Charlie--"
"After Charlie shot Cord down in the street, wasn't
it? Or did I get the timing wrong on that one?"
"It was at the airport," Joe says testily. "Do you
ever listen to me?"
"Do you ever listen to me?" I can see him grinding
his teeth. I grin and get him another beer, grabbing one
for myself. I feel mellow for the first time in months,
far, far better than this morning (I don't want to figure
out why). I'm gonna need a taxi at the end of this bull
session. Joe really needs to talk.
"Cord murdered Charlie's wife, Mara," Joe says. "I
can see why he was angry."
"And our authority on this was...no, let me guess.
Was it Charlie, by any chance?" Joe grimaces. "Ah." I
slouch down in my chair and clasp my hands over my belly,
which still hurts. "Would you like to know what I would
have done?"
"Not really," Joe mutters into his beer.
"Too bad. First, I would have whacked Charlie. The
guy sounds as though he was a loose gear and I figure he
would have gone after you as soon as he found out you and
Cord were buddies and he'd taken care of Cord. Best to
nip that one at the root. Then, if Cord had continued the
way he did, I would have whacked him."
Joe snorts. "That's just peachy, Old Man. That would
have really improved things."
"Yes, it would have improved things. Cord was using
you; you felt you owed him and he agreed with you. Bad.
Very bad. He'd have got you killed, you know, covering
his ass." To be honest, I agree with Joe. He did owe
Cord. But I still think Cord pushed it too far, just like
Kronos. I think I won't bring that up.
"It was my decision," Joe says defiantly.
"Yeah, and it was my decision to lie down on those
train tracks out in Seacouver, but I wouldn't call it a
good one. I am beginning to feel thankful to the good
people of Seacouver General Hospital, even if I cursed
them to Hell and beyond at the time. You are damned right
I would have whacked Cord. And then I would have bought
you a very good bottle of scotch, got you very drunk, and
hoped that you'd forgive me someday. Which reminds
me...." Before my good feeling can evaporate, I fish in
my pocket for the pen and notebook that I bought at the
little grocery near my house on my way over here and pull
it out. Opening it up, I hand it over to Joe. I pull my
hands back and hold them under the table, clenching and
unclenching them to keep myself from shaking. Maybe this
wasn't such a good idea. I'm not sure I could have
managed it without having a couple of beers, first.
"What is this?" he says, looking confused and
exhausted. This hasn't been a very good week for him,
either, I suppose.
"Just read it." When the shakes subside, I put my
arms on the table and lean my chin on my fists. I can
wait.
He reads through it slowly. Since he is thoroughly
literate in English, I assume that he's reading it more
than once. Or perhaps my handwriting is worse than I
thought. I feel a momentary vertigo, as though I am
tipping over a cliff, unsure if I will have a soft
landing.
"Methos," he says, shaking his head, "this is what,
some kind of will?"
"It is just what it says it is. I am naming you my
Guardian Advocate, in case I end up on another planet
again. I am not certain about what we have to do to make
it legal, but I am sure that an advocate can help us out
with that this week." There. All done. Can't go back now.
The shakes come back; I clench my fists harder to stop
them.
"I-I don't know what to say." Joe runs a shaking
hand through his hair, which has turned so white now. I
have almost made him speechless. "Do you realise what
you're asking me to do, what you are letting me do?"
I rub the bridge of my nose. My eyes ache. "I am not
'letting' you do anything. I am asking you for a favour.
I know that it is a big favour. I know that it is a
favour which entails much risk for both of us, but I am
still asking you."
"But why? Why me?" He looks bewildered. He moves
restlessly in his chair, as if he wants to get up and
run. Can't blame him there. I do, too.
"Because the alternative is unthinkable?" I look at
him hopefully. "Please? I don't want this to fall to
someone random. I want to know who it would be. I do not
want to end up in some new version of Sanctuary--or
worse."
"I thought you didn't trust me, Old Man." Bloody
Hell, Joe. Don't cry.
I sit up, squelching a sudden urge to run screaming
out the door. "I did trust you; that was why I was so mad
at you. Anyway, I ran into that shrink again, the one
from Sean Burn's place, after I left here and we had a
little talk. He seems all right, but I certainly do not
trust him. I would rather trust you--if I have to make a
choice, that is. This way, I only have to trust one
person. I can live with that. Maybe. I think." I cover my
eyes with my hand. "Please, Joe. Just say yes before I
lose my nerve."
He stares down at the paper and sniffs, rubbing his
eyes. I have deliberately picked a notebook similar to
his chronicle; does he notice? I couldn't resist the
snipe. Now, I am beginning to regret it; he does deserve
better. He picks up the pen and signs the paper. When he
hands it to me, I sign and date it, then give it back to
him before I can think of a way to torpedo the entire
idea. I hope my parachute opens soon.
"We'll have to find a lawyer to make it legal," he
says. His eyes are red. This is a good beginning. I've
just made my best friend cry. At least it shows he cares.
"I know," I say. "But this was still the hardest
part." What an understatement! Now that I've done it, I
feel a strange sort of relief, even if my heart is
pounding. It has been so long since I have had a brother
to watch my back.
*********
I can't take care of a 5000-year-old man; I can
barely take care of myself! First Amy, now you. Or maybe
it was the other way around.... God. Oh, God. I'm not
ready for this kind of responsibility. I got through the
paper-signing part before I started bawling like a little
kid. With no expression on your face, you went and got
the bar towel. You came back and handed it to me without
a word. I wiped my face and blew my nose. Might as well.
If it stank of stale beer, it needed a wash. I needed to
talk to Jerry about bar hygiene.
It's like being handed a Living Will and being told,
"You're in it". Mom said once, "Joe, when the time comes,
you'll do the right thing, won't you?" Thank God that
when she went, she went fast, like Dad. Dropped dead on
her way out to get the paper. Uncle Frank called me in
Paris and asked me what to do. I had to come home and
arrange everything. I don't think I told you about that.
It was right after Mac killed Horton and I wasn't doing
much talking to anybody at the time. Horton. I can't call
him 'James' anymore. I know you wouldn't. You were always
nice about it, never said anything, but you never liked
him, did you? You liked Cath, even when she stopped
talking to me for a few years, but never him. Something
about him put you off. Or maybe it was that she was
family, my sister, and he wasn't. Boy, he really screwed
us all in the end, didn't he?
I hope you'll understand, someday, why Don and I did
what we did.
I folded up the paper. "Let's put this somewhere
safe," I said. Yeah, like hiding it away was gonna make
it disappear. Didn't work too well for my chronicle on
you, did it? You know what? I'm switching to dictation
from now on. I can always write it down later and
meanwhile, you can't skip through it looking for the
juicy stuff.
Not that you made any protest when I got up. You
just followed me out back, still silent. Think you ran
out of words for once. I hesitated in the door of the
office, wondering how I was gonna hide it with you right
there, but you just wandered out into the back storeroom,
bless you. You understood. I hid the paper in the new
hiding place for the chronicle (took Jerry and me an hour
to clean the place up) then hurried out after you.
You were wandering around the boxes, your breath
showing--it was a pretty cold day outside and the
storeroom was unheated. I spotted the place for the "care
packages" I'd made up for you when you were so sick. One
case of beer was still there. I had Jerry make it up last
week.
"Hey," I said, pointing at it. "You want that? I
made it up for you."
You looked surprised. "Yeah? You sure?"
I nodded. "Keep it. It's no problem."
You shrugged and went over to crouch next to the
case. You ran your hand over it. "What is this stuff?"
you said. You held your fingers up to your face and
sniffed. The next moment, you were spitting and coughing,
backing away from the case as if you had touched some
giant spider. I watched in amazement as you reached for
the Bastard.
"What the Hell are you doing?" I said.
"That smell...that's what poisoned me." You stared
at me accusingly. I could see us both on the edge of
something real bad all of a sudden. "You said you made
that case up."
"No," I said slowly. "Jerry made up the last few."
You cursed creatively. At least, I think it was
creative since it wasn't anything I recognised. I got the
gist, though. I approached the case with caution. There
was a dark, shiny stain on it. It was smeared, as if
somebody had wiped it off. It looked like it had soaked
through onto at least some of the bottles. I stared at
it, puzzled.
What is that?" I said.
You came up behind me. I shivered involuntarily when
you put your chin on my shoulder. At least it wasn't your
sword.
"The smoking gun?" you said, too brightly, in my
ear.
"Stop that!" I snapped. "You're creeping me out."
You backed off and came up beside me, leaning against the
wall, arms folded. You'd gone with the 'no expression'
look again.
I looked above the case. There was just a small
cabinet on the wall. The same stain spilled out of it. I
opened the cabinet. Inside, cleaning supplies were set up
neatly on the shelf, nothing directly on the stain.
Nothing that looked as though it had spilled, anyway.
Ah. And what was that in the back? I reached over
the other bottles and pulled it out. It had a big stain
down the label.
"It's drain cleaner. Is this what you smelled?" I
held the bottle out in front of your face. You snorted
and batted the bottle down, turning away. "I think
Jerry's got some explaining to do." Drain cleaner.
Amazing stuff--will unclog any drain in high doses,
machine or human. You must have just gotten a diluted
version of it off the bottles--or maybe your system heals
so fast, it didn't get down that far.
"You gonna cover for him?" you asked, your back to
me. You didn't ask if I meant with you or with the
Watchers.
"Hell, no." Even if you weren't my friend, Jerry had
blown his Oath big time. I flashed on him giving it to me
in your van, after the showdown with Atticus. I felt sad,
but that didn't mean I was gonna save the kid's ass if he
was really behind this. He sure did look guilty. "I want
to talk to him first, though, make sure this was just
him, for a start."
You nodded. "Fair enough. You have a plan?"
"No. But I'll think of something. We've got until
three when he shows up for his shift."
Poor, stupid bastard. Barring a miracle, this was
gonna be Jerry's last shift, ever.
*********
Jerry didn't see anybody at the bar when he walked
in. "Joe?" he called.
"Back here, kid," Joe called from out in the
storeroom. Jerry went out through the curtain. "Joe?" he
said again, feeling uneasy. No big surprise there. He'd
been feeling jumpy all week. Now, he felt guilty as well.
He wished Methos hadn't whacked that poor woman, even if
it did let Jerry off the hook with the poisoning stuff.
"Jer-ry." The low voice came from behind him. He
turned to see Methos step from the shadows along the wall
to block the exit back to the bar. He stood there, in his
long, dark grey jacket, feet apart and arms hanging
loosely at his side. He looked like Death personified.
"You've been a very bad boy, Jerry."
"Wh-what?" It came out in a squeak. Jerry licked his
lips with a tongue that felt coated with dry bone dust.
"What do you mean?"
"You tried to kill me, you little bastard. You
damned near killed my cat." Jerry backed away towards the
office. Methos wandered after him.
Jerry heard a noise from the office. He half-turned.
Joe stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane. "Joe, help
me," Jerry pleaded. "Tell him I didn't do it."
Joe held up the bottle--that goddamned bottle of
drain cleaner. Jerry wished he'd never seen the thing.
"We found it, Jerry," Joe said. "You can stop
bullshitting us anytime."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Jerry was
afraid to retreat as Joe stumped up to him and Methos
circled behind him, silent as a barracuda.
"This was all over the case I had you make up for
Adam," Joe snarled. "And if there's anybody in this bar
with the motive to do something that sick to him, you are
it." Joe shoved the bottle in Jerry's face. The strange,
peppery smell of the drain cleaner was overwhelming.
Jerry recoiled, but stopped dead as Methos came up behind
him and put his sword on Jerry's shoulder. Jerry jumped
and, to his utter humiliation, peed his pants.
"You think we should make him drink it?" Methos
purred. "They do say that drain cleaner helps unclog
those pesky blockages."
"It's a thought at that," Joe said. He glared at
Jerry and shook the bottle in his face. "You want a taste
of your own medicine Jerry?"
"Oh, please," Jerry squeaked. "Please, it was just
an accident, I swear. It just spilled. I wiped it off,
but it must have soaked through."
"Bullshit," Joe said coldly. Methos grabbed Jerry by
the shoulders and held the sword to his throat.
"I don't believe you either," Methos said.
"No! I swear! It was an accident. I had the cases
all laid out and when I opened the cupboard to get
something, the bottle fell out and spilled everywhere. I
wiped it up right away, really!"
"But it still got all over the bottles, didn't it,
Jerry?" Joe said, his face twisted with disgust. "You
figured you'd just get yourself a little revenge on the
guy who whacked your best friend is that it?"
Jerry shook his head, but stopped when Methos
pressed the sword against his neck. The sharp pain
terrified Jerry.
"Please," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for any of this
to happen. I was in a hurry and I just let it go. I just
thought you'd get a stomach ache at worst, that's all. I
didn't want that woman to die. I didn't want to hurt
Silas. I *like* cats. I wouldn't do that to a cat. I've
got a dog. My ex-housemate tried to poison him with wood
alcohol once. I had to take him to the vet. I know how it
feels, really. You gotta believe me. If I'd known about
the cat, I never would have let those cases go through."
He knew he was babbling now, but he was too panicked to
stop. He seemed to be outside his own body, watching it
all go down, badly.
And then, miraculously, the sword went away and
Death let go of him. Jerry reveled in the momentary
feeling of being ignored by all present.
Joe's anger also seemed to evaporate. He sagged,
reverting from Man in Black to plain, old Joe. "Are you
okay?" he asked Methos over Jerry's shoulder.
"I'm fine." The answer was terse and hostile. "Just
make him go away."
Joe looked down at Jerry's pants and shook his head.
"Go home and get cleaned up, kid. I should report you--
you blew your Watcher Oath right out of the water--but I
won't. This time."
Jerry felt his face grow hot with shame. He opened
his mouth but Joe cut him off. "You won the lottery, kid.
Don't push it."
Jerry took the hint for the gift it was, and fled
back out into the bar.
*********
Amy was getting used to receiving text messages from
Joe at this point. This one said, "Come to the bar when
you can," which meant right away. Sighing to herself, she
turned off the mobile and got ready to go out. And she
had so been enjoying a quiet afternoon to herself. She
pulled on her coat (Paris was getting cold and wet as it
slid into winter), carefully sliding the Glock into its
holster on one side, and a large hunting knife into its
sheath on the other. The weight balanced out rather well,
even if the weapons themselves had required some
rethinking of her wardrobe. She knew that the Watcher
hierarchy would never approve of her carrying protection
against her assignments, but she'd been caught out once
already by an Immortal. She would not allow it to happen
again. She didn't know if Joe knew about her little
armoury. He'd never asked.
When she got to the bar, Joe was waiting for her at
a table, two glasses and a bottle of whisky in front of
him. "Hey," he said. "Thanks for coming." He might be
leaning more on her than usual, but he was courteous
about it.
"I don't mind," she said, which was true. "What's
the matter?"
Joe poured her a drink as she sat down. "A couple of
things have come up and I need you to look into them."
"Do they involve Ben?" Trouble usually did these
days.
"More or less." He handed her a glass. "You were
right, as it turns out. He came back, we talked and we're
okay again. I guess he just needed to go off and think
things through overnight." Thank God for that. Being on
the outs didn't do either of them any good and she had to
admit she was fond of both of them. "But we still have
some external stuff coming down the pike. First of all,
it turns out our poisoner wasn't that woman from South
Africa, after all. It was Jerry."
"You're joking." She took the glass and knocked back
half of it. "Him? He's afraid of his own shadow. He
wouldn't dare go after Ben."
"I don't think he did. Seems it was some sort of a
cross between accidental and opportunistic. Something
nasty got into Methos' beer care packages. Jerry noticed;
he just didn't do anything about it."
"I see. Do we need to do something about him--or
anyone else?" She felt a bit ill considering the thought.
Jerry was an idiot, but she had borne him no ill will
before now.
Joe shook his head, much to her relief. "Ben and I
tag-teamed him and gave him a pretty good scare. I don't
think he's gonna try anything else, but I need you to
make sure. Can you ride herd on him until he goes off to
Academy? It'll only be a couple of weeks."
"Of course." Joe didn't have to ask, being her
supervisor. He could just give her an order, but he
wouldn't do it that way, she knew. "What was the other
thing?"
Joe narrowed his eyes. "This one is a little
delicate, kind of an internal matter." And monitoring
Jerry's movements wasn't? "There's this guy who's shown
up in Paris--claims to be an old friend of Ben's. He's a
Watcher named Rene Galbon. I want you to check him out
and I want you to be real quiet about it. Nobody will
talk to me these days, but they might to you."
"This man is a Watcher? Are you saying he knew Ben
as Adam Pierson?" Joe nodded. "But why show up now?"
Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I called
Sean Burns' place a few weeks back for advice about Ben.
Galbon's with them."
"So, he's a psychiatrist." Joe nodded. "Ah. Could he
really be an old friend of Ben's?"
"So Ben says. I haven't met him yet."
Perfect. What a mess. "You're saying that he
contacted Ben on his own?"
"Yeah. Yesterday. I don't like it."
"Ow." No wonder Joe was unhappy about this. "All
right, I'll see what I can dig up. What did you find out
about him in the database?"
Joe pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket
and handed it to her. "That he's exactly what he told Ben
he was: Dr. Rene Galbon, born November 3, 1948 in
Carcassone, France. Watcher since 1975 when he witnessed
a Quickening in Marseilles. Clinical psychiatrist since
1985, specialising in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Been working at Sean's place since 1993. He treats both
Watchers and Immortals."
She glanced through the paper. "You have a problem
with that."
"Let's just say that his Watcher record seems a
little blank for the late '80s and early '90s when he was
supposed to be getting to know Ben. I want to know what
he was up to during that period."
"All right. I'll get on it right away." She finished
her drink and stood up. Joe stopped her with a hand on
her arm.
"Honey, do me a favour--don't mention this to Ben,
okay?"
She stared down at him, puzzled. "Why not? Shouldn't
we warn him?"
Joe grimaced. "About what? If Galbon's on the level,
he might help Ben. I don't want to blow Ben's trust in
the guy without a reason. And if the guy's not on the
level...well, Ben probably doesn't trust him, anyway."
*********
Jerry tried ignoring the phone, but it kept ringing.
The queue on his answering machine was choked with
messages. He appreciated Gabrieli's concern and all, but
he really did not want to talk to the guy.
"Hello, Jerry? Are you there? Call me back when you
get in, please. I'm becoming a little concerned." The
machine clicked off. Jerry turned up the TV and let
Buford up on the couch. He needed a little boost and
Buford, tail wagging at getting his way, was happy to
oblige. At least neither Joe nor Methos had come by, much
to Jerry's relief. They seemed to be finished with him,
at least for now.
Gabrieli had seemed nice enough when he first
contacted Jerry. At first, Jerry had assumed it was some
kind of ritual for new Watchers, some post-acceptance
interview. It had gotten a lot more sinister after Joe
chewed him out. He didn't know why Joe's own boss was
leaving him out of the loop, but he sure didn't want to
get in the middle.
The phone rang again. The machine clicked on. This
time, Gabrieli hung up before the beep. Jerry changed the
channel as Buford settled into the cushions next to him.
This Watcher stuff had sure not turned out the way he'd
thought it would.
*********
M. Gabrieli?" Clarisse knocked on the open door to
the new Section Head's office. She knew that she was only
a new intern and that he was busy and important, but he
also claimed to be available to all who worked in
Headquarters. She determined to test him.
Gabrieli glanced up from his computer. He frowned.
"Yes?"
Clarisse swallowed and took a deep breath for
courage. "May I speak to you, Sir? It is somewhat
urgent."
"I see." A strange look came over his face as his
glance fixed on her security badge. "Clarisse Mermet? You
are with the Methos Chronicles team, aren't you?" She was
impressed. The previous Head, Jason Anders, had barely
remembered the names of his own wife and mistress, let
alone anyone else's. She nodded. "Is this about your
project?" She nodded again. He indicated a chair. "Well,
now, please have a seat, Miss, and tell me all about it."
He spread his hands on his desk and watched her as she
settled into a chair across from his desk.
"Sir," she said hesitantly, "we would like your
guidance on what we should do about the corruptions that
we have found in some of our records."
"'Corruptions'? What kind of 'corruptions'?" He
looked alarmed.
She stared at him in surprise. "Why, the alterations
which Adam Pierson made in the records, of course."
He nodded. "Ah. You mean the glosses."
"Sir?" she asked, confused.
"The glosses, Miss. The additions. Not alterations,
necessarily, from what I understand."
How could Gabrieli, of all people, not understand
the irreparable damage that Pierson had done to the
Methos archives? "But--he changed the records."
"Yes, he did. And I take that very seriously, Miss
Mermet. I want your team to make up a list of those
changes, where and when they have been made and what you
believe those changes to be. Then, I want you to leave
those records alone." He folded his hands and leaned
forward. "I want to be very clear about this, Miss
Mermet. I want those records to be studied, not 'cleaned
up'. I do not want them to be 'corrected' further, or
purged, in any way."
She stared at him, mouth open. "But, Sir, Pierson
has corrupted some of these records almost beyond
recognition."
Gabrieli cocked his head to one side. "Indeed he
has. And I want those changes preserved for further
study--*all* of those changes, do you understand?"
Stunned, Clarisse could only nod. "Yes, Sir."
"Good. I think that clarifies things sufficiently.
Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss
Mermet." He turned back to his computer. "I am afraid
that I'm a little busy at the moment. Do you have
anything further?" He raised one eyebrow.
"Ah, no. No, Sir." Clarisse stood up. "Thank you,
Sir."
"Please let me know if anything else comes up." He
smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but Clarisse still left
the Head's office more confused than when she had entered
it.
*********
Oh, I am so tired. Joe suggested I go home and sleep
for a week. Think I will take him up on that. I am not so
tired that I forget to close the door behind me as I
slouch into my apartment. The light on the answering
machine is blinking. I wonder who that could be? I press
the button and wait.
"Hullo, Adam? It's Mac." He sounds awkward, rushed,
on his way out of town. "Look, I don't understand what
was going on today, but I wasn't trying to hurt Joe. I
know it didn't look good but that's the truth." For once,
I am willing to agree with him on that. He wasn't trying
to hurt Joe; it has simply become habit.
"Kate and I are heading up to Glenfinnan for a few
weeks. I don't think Joe wants to talk to me right now."
This is the truth, as well, though personal experience
has taught me that giving Joe space convinces him that
you simply don't care.
"Nor do I want to have to meet you on holy ground
when I get back, so I'll use you as the messenger, if you
don't mind." I do mind, but that is the beauty of
answering machines--you cannot talk back to them.
"Tell Joe I'll be back in a month or so. I'm not
leaving forever. I hope you get some help, Methos. You
need it. Don't let your pride get in the way of getting
what you need." Look who's talking! "I'll talk to you
soon."
Message and machine click off. You pompous son of a
bitch. How dare you slap me in the face and run away? Ah,
well. Perhaps it's best he go for now. He is beginning to
understand me too well. I suppose he does have a point
about my being off my game. I am beginning to frighten
him. I should not have attacked him at the barge in
September. That was a tactical error. Soon, he will stop
seeing me as ill and start seeing me as a threat. Then, I
will have to kill him. But how can I do that, yet stay
near Joe? He would never forgive me for killing Mac.
Maybe it is better if Mac leaves. It gives me more
space to breathe, and I so need space right now. I need
to be where I don't fear to alarm people. No one wants to
be friends with a threat, not except for the rare Alexa
or Joe. It is so hard showing one's throat all the time,
swallowing rage while the young ones trample my pride so
thoughtlessly. One Immortal is simple enough to dispatch,
but they always come in packs.
Why must I always behave? Why can no one follow my
rules for a change? If my aged wisdom is so valuable, why
does everyone ignore it? If Joe wants to keep me around,
he is going to have to accept that I am not a civilised
man. No more masks. What frightens me is that he might
call my bluff.
And what about Rene? Should I accept his offer? I
have never taken the mental breakdown ride with a tour
guide before. I am not certain that I am ready to start,
either. It has always been traditional to do 'Look, ma,
no hands!' and not use any safety harness. Where is the
fun in bucking tradition? Maybe I can avoid the entire
thing. I have stopped the slide before. And maybe I am
ready to let this all hang fire until tomorrow. A shower,
some Chinese food and a good night's sleep. That is all I
am ready for tonight.
The tiny Buzz teases the edge of my senses. Though I
have been half-expecting it, I don't catch it at first.
When it grows only a tiny bit, then stops, I start to
realise who--what it is. A tiny, anxious meow and
scratching at the door convince me that Silas has come
back.
I go to the door and open it. Silas sits in the
doorway. He stares up at me and mews. "Hello, O cat who
walks by himself," I tell him, "So, if all places are
alike to you, what brings you to my humble cave?"
Disdaining Kipling for Little Friskies, Silas scoots past
me straight for the feed dish, where he tucks into the
dry food I put out yesterday in eternal hope. Shaking my
head, I get him some canned food, then order my own. I
consider trying a pat on the head. Mmm, no. Best to leave
it. I retreat, turn on the TV, put in a movie, answer the
door when the food comes and otherwise pretend not to
notice the way the tiny Buzz of my cat moves across the
room to the bed, over to the window, into the bathroom
and back out. It is a good hour before I feel him at my
shoulder, purring and kneading the arm of the couch. I
could swear I smell ozone rising from his fur. What the
Hell has he been up to? Never mind. I don't care. As soon
as I put my dishes on the coffee table, he jumps into my
lap and settles in. So, all is forgiven, after all.
It is not until Joe wakes me after midnight with
some ridiculous phone call about leaving his toothbrush
here, that it sinks in. This Hell week is finally over
and I am in exactly the position I was in a week ago
Saturday night. I was bored then. I am not bored now. I
will take my cat, a takeaway, the couch and a senseless
chat with Joe, thank you very much, and if that is the
most excitement that I get in the next month of Saturday
nights, I will be more than satisfied.
*********
Epilogue
Patient notes of Dr. Rene Galbon:
Joseph (Joe) Dawson:
Age: 54
Current Location: Paris, France.
Nationality: European-American.
Religion: Catholic.
Marital Status: Single.
Children/Dependents: One daughter, Amy Thomas.
Other known family: One sister, one niece.
Current Occupation: Watcher, Bar owner, Blues musician.
Previous Occupations: Soldier--U.S. Marine, Vietnam vet,
Historian, Book-store manager, field operative in
longterm, covert surveillance for secret organisation.
Personality traits: Bilateral amputee (war wounds),
probable Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. "Tribal" in
nature. Extremely loyal to family and friends over most
other ethical considerations. Tendency towards
insubordination and low respect for authority--values
lateral over hierarchical relationships. Short temper--
occasionally solves problems with violence. Secretive and
taciturn. Good mediator in disputes, but responds badly
to abandonment and betrayal. Presents no signs or
symptoms in need of immediate or longterm treatment. No
observed pathological or characterological disorders. No
pets.
Other names: None.
Information sources: Reports, Watcher Council trial
documents, personal Watcher file, independent observation
of associated Immortals. (Note: Unreliable source of
information for certain Immortals.)
Treatment options: Job-related counseling has been
suggested and refused. Coping skills and relations with
family and friends within normal parameters. Compulsory
treatment or intervention contraindicated.
Recommendations: Has strong, beneficial relationship with
patient. Include in treatment process.
Methos (current identity--Adam Pierson):
Age: 5000+ (unconfirmed).
Current Location: Paris, France.
Nationality: None. Possible Asiatic Celt in origin.
Religion: Unknown (Atheist?).
Marital Status: Married (and widowed?) 68 times.
Children/Dependents: None known.
Other known family: None. Current legal next-of-kin, Joe
Dawson (possible problems involving hospitalisation?)
Current Occupation: PhD student in Ancient Iranian
History at the University of Paris--Sorbonne, bookstore
owner. Current Watcher status uncertain.
Previous Occupations: Watcher, researcher, physician,
scribe?, slave?, raider?, god?, gladiator, rebel leader,
pugil?, mercenary?, schoolteacher, monk?, farmer? (others
unknown).
Personality traits: Strong survival instinct,
occasionally resulting in amoral or even "immoral"
behaviour, but also natural risk-taker. Playful nature
with quick mood changes. Dry, often gallows sense of
humour. Intensely tribal in nature, particularly
regarding "familial" relationships. Dislikes unnecessary
physical activity. Prone to use "quick" solutions
involving extreme violence. Unusually tolerant of others
but also extremely dangerous when threatened. Does not
readily volunteer information about self. Controls social
interactions by giving ambiguous answers when questioned
about personal information. Owns one cat.
Issues to be addressed: Recent widower (grief process),
possible problem drinker, problems with identity,
recurring depression/suicidal impulses aggravated by
occasional hallucinatory episodes and acute/delirious
mania, PTSD, possible Stockholm Syndrome, history of
longterm, situational psychosis punctuated by extreme
violence, situational paranoia, feelings of persecution
(justified by situation), brought on by repeated and
varied longterm trauma. Problems with trusting others. No
signs of learned helplessness (on the contrary, patient
is intensely independent). No apparent characterological
or organic disorders. No signs of bipolar tendencies,
sociopathology, psychopathology or Multiple Personality
Disorder. Recent deterioration in physical condition,
loss of weight and muscle definition (problems with
anorexia/bulimia?) indicates self-neglect, possible self-
harming and wish to commit suicide-by-Immortal, a common
form of self-destruction by depressed persons in
patient's cultural context.
Tendency to engage in high-risk, short-term sexual
relationships and to abuse alcohol (other drugs?) when
under moderate stress. Under extreme stress, patient will
withdraw from stressful situation entirely, either
leaving the area and disappearing for months at a time,
or alternatively, remaining isolated at home for weeks.
Presents indifference and inappropriate humour when
pressed on stressful topics. Can become agitated,
hostile, and even violent under questioning. Patient
experienced acute psychotic episode in Summer 1998, with
acute/delirious mania for one week, after prolonged
alcohol abuse ended in two suicide attempts and police
protective custody. This resulted in a four-month-long
hospitalisation that ended with patient's escape (note:
contact hospital personnel in Seacouver). Patient
presented signs and symptoms of acute (possibly
psychotic) depression with self-harming and suicidal
tendencies following murder of a friend six weeks ago.
Past Precipitating Events: Notable events--thousand year
period during the Bronze Age spent in family situation
with three sociopathic personalities (patient was
possibly in a state of acute mania or psychotic
depression for much of this period), murder of mentor in
1995 by man trying to find and kill patient, murder of
woman in 1996 (possibly by patient, due to her being a
perceived threat to patient's friends) which may have
ended patient's 200-year-long hiatus from "The Game",
murder of therapist in front of patient by friend
suffering from acute psychosis in 1996, death of wife in
1996 from cancer, identity stolen by rival (who was
subsequently murdered, possibly by patient?) in 1997,
possible kidnap by Bronze Age family members resulting in
their deaths in 1997 (possibly murdered by patient),
murder of a friend by another friend in 1997, witness to
the murder of friend's student by friend in 1997.
Current Precipitating Event: Murder of a friend six weeks
ago.
Other names: Adam Pierson, Ben Adams, Benjamin Adamson,
Methuselah?, Matheus Pugilus?, Death on a Horse, The
Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, Godfrey de Bouillon?,
Spartacus, zi-Mezena Methos, Vercingetorix?, Ahriman?
(others unknown).
Information sources: Reports (highly unreliable),
personal Watcher file (also highly unreliable), patient
files of Dr. Sean Burns, historical documents (uncertain
provenance, may have been altered by patient),
independent observation of associated Immortals
(ambiguous information, multiple interpretations),
medical file from St Genevieve Hospital in Paris, police
arrest report from Seacouver, Washington, USA (original
missing--summary available), medical file from Seacouver
County General psychiatric ward (recently obtained).
Diagnosis: PTSD brought on by extreme, longterm, repeated
stress. Presents as acute psychotic depression and acute
mania (possibly circular type), acute anxiety and
agitation, substance abuse, risk behaviours. This may be
a longterm pattern. Grief and possible identity and trust
problems.
Treatment options: Psychotherapy strongly recommended,
but difficult to commence under current circumstances
(efforts to introduce patient into a program of therapy
are in progress). Drug therapy possibly beneficial but
unlikely to be tolerated. Patient might benefit from
hospitalisation, but is extremely resistant to anything
resembling incarceration or anything which might limit
his freedom. Compulsory commitment recommended only if
patient becomes an unmanageable danger to himself or
others outside of hospital, or attempts to leave area.
Strongly recommended that any treatment or intervention
include the participation of listed next-of-kin and be
undertaken only with the knowledge and cooperation of
patient, if at all possible.
Recommendations: Initiate psychotherapy immediately
(prior relationship with patient will be useful). Build
on previous survival behaviours and work on changing
self-destructive habits and thought patterns. Should
initiate contact with patient before contact with next-
of-kin to remove any implication of "backstabbing".
Concerns about possible recurrence of acute symptoms
(suicidal tendencies and acute psychotic episodes, in
particular) in near future make acquiring patient's trust
paramount over all other considerations.
Prognosis: Good--if patient can be persuaded to accept
treatment. Between acute episodes, patient shows
extremely strong will to live, positive view of life and
a continued need and willingness to form relationships
with other people. Main danger is patient's self-
destructive behaviours during acute periods of illness,
which must be moderated (eliminated, if possible).
Note: Treatment may extend beyond current therapist's
lifespan.
END
For now, but Joe and Methos will return in "It's So
Beautiful Over There".