XI
The cab appeared, outside, blocking traffic on the narrow street. Duncan
took Rachel's bags. Connor put his arm around her, both a fond embrace and
a firm encouragement to go. The wind whipped her wool skirt as she kissed
both men and stooped into the cab. Connor spoke to the driver. Rachel
knew the instructions would seem odd. She was to change cabs once, then
take the subway before hailing another.
The cab pulled away as Rachel looked out the rear window at the two
MacLeods standing sentinel over her departure. Connor turned aside first.
Rachel knew with a little sadness that he would now be focused on the task
ahead. She was a valuable he had sent to safety, a preparation taken care
of, and he could now spare little thought for her.
Duncan watched the cab until it turned the corner and she could no longer
see him.
Rachel sighed and turned back to face front, and pulled her purse into her
lap. It was not a good time of year to be at the beachhouse, she
complained to herself. Very few services would be open in this season;
just the general store. And she would miss her final.
The cab bumped, with fits and starts, through narrow Manhattan streets
never built for modern cars. Their route took them up Waverly Place, past
the purple and white banners of New York University. Michael would miss
the final too, she thought, if he really had left the country as quickly as
he'd promised Connor. She smiled at herself. As if missing a final
compared to missing a head. The Game really did have to come first for all
of them, herself included. She was pleased to find that she held no
ill-will towards Michael, neither for deceiving her, nor for leaving
without saying good-bye. She understood both, perfectly. In fact, she
thought with a sigh, she'd be a good match for an immortal. No messy
explanations, and she came already trained to deal with the Game.
They left Greenwich Village and it started to drizzle. Rachel considered
Michael with some wonder. He must have talked awfully fast to escape
Connor without a fight. While she had never known her father to be blindly
murderous, an immortal who crossed him in any way was asking for a
challenge, and Connor always answered. Rachel had begun to think the Game
must somehow make immortals immune to fears for their own lives, since all
they really had to do in order to live forever was not fight, but that so
seldom seemed to be their choice. Michael had made that choice. He didn't
want to fight Connor MacLeod, and was willing to abandon his home in order
to see that it didn't happen. To Rachel that seemed so smart, so logical.
Michael might live a truly long time, she guessed. Too bad she'd never see
him again.
She wondered where Connor had directed her cabbie to leave her off.
Somewhere public, where other cabs would be quickly available, she assumed,
but they were now moving into the warehouse district. She leaned forward
on the seat and spoke through the plexiglass divider which separated the
front and back seats.
"Where are we stopping?" she asked.
"Right here," said the cabbie in unaccented American English. That was a
surprise, and so was the cab whipping into an alley and stopping. Before
Rachel could reach for the door handle, the man had knocked down the faux
divider, and yanked her head back by her hair.
She shrieked and struggled, but his other hand covered her face with cloth
and chloroform. Her body rebelled, from head to stomach, against the
overpowering chemical odor, and her last awareness was of terror and
nausea.
XII
When she woke she felt even worse. Her whole body ached as if she had a
flu, her head felt like it was in a vise, and even small movements
convinced her she was destined to vomit soon. She heard only muted
mechanical sounds like water in pipes, or a furnace, so she risked opening
her eyes.
She lay in a dimly lit, unfurnished, large room with a high ceiling of
steel girders. One long wall was boarded over, and by the rays glowing
around the edges of the boards, she guessed they covered windows. Rachel
lay on the cement floor on a sleeping bag, not far from a closed door. She
identified two other doors to the room, one of which was open. That
doorway was the source of most of the daylight which leaked into the murky
atmosphere.
Rachel tried moving. Every joint and quite a few of her muscles ached.
She was vaguely grateful that the room was large. When she vomited, she
could do it far from the sleeping bag. If she could *get* far from the
sleeping bag.
She rolled onto her hands and knees, and stopped, waiting for her stomach
and head to calm. A wave of panic washed over her. Where were her
captors? When would they come for her and what would they do? The urge to
flee was powerful enough to bring her to her feet, blinking as her eyes
teared up. God, she was so scared.
Operating on some instinct, she stumbled toward the door with light beyond
it. She reached the doorway, and saw, with a surprising jolt of relief, a
bathroom. The suggestion of the toilet undid her, and she emptied her
stomach into its basin, her head howling a protest at the violent movements
caused by her heaves.
When the storm was over, she sank back on her heels, and closed her eyes.
She was trembling and weak, but she did think she felt a little better.
Using the sink for a prop, she hauled herself to her feet and turned on the
water. The tap whined and sputtered to life, spewing brown water. She
stared at the water flow numbly, until it began to run clean. She rinsed
her mouth.
Time to take stock. Feeling a little stronger, Rachel explored the
bathroom. It, too, had a cement floor, exposed pipes, and nothing movable.
The window did not open, and had bars beyond. The glass was frosted, or -
she wiped at it - very grimy. It also had a sturdy security mesh woven
through it. Looking out, she saw she was on a second story, overlooking an
industrial yard.
She leaned her forehead against the glass and tried to think. Why had she
been taken? Could Lucky expect to use her against Emmett? Or did he want
something from Connor? No one knew of her relationship to the Highlander;
they had arranged the "death" of her adopted father years ago. Russell
Nash was her employer, nothing more. Still, Connor had feared that Lucky
might involve her, that's why he sent her out of town, she reflected
wearily. Actually, if you looked for someone to use against Connor
MacLeod, you wouldn't find many prospects, she realized. Damn. But, if
revenge was all Lucky wanted, wouldn't he just kill her? Unless . . . she
suddenly remembered herself sitting on the guest bed, reflecting that she
hoped Lucky didn't start sending them Emmett's fingers or other body parts.
Terror seized her, and she slid down the wall, crying.
Some time later, her tears ran out, and nothing had changed except the
sunlight, which was more dim, and came from a lower angle. She heard the
sounds of a door opening and people entering the large room.
"Where is she?" someone asked, not sounding too alarmed.
"Check the bathroom," someone else replied.
Rachel scrambled to her feet, not wanting to be found on the floor. Her
stomach tightened with fear, but her head abruptly cleared. She heard
someone heavy clumping toward the open bathroom door, and, in a small act
of defiance, she turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face.
To her surprise, the footsteps stopped just short of the door. In the
background she heard sharp, angry words, and moaning.
"You. Come outta there," a near voice ordered. But the speaker did not
come into view.
Rachel blinked, amazed at what appeared to be something like courtesy
toward her modesty. For a moment she entertained wild thoughts of slamming
and holding the door, and shattering the window, and ripping out the
security mesh, and squeezing through the bars, and . . . right. Gathering
her courage and her dignity, she flushed the toilet, and emerged.
The man before her was impressively large. He wore a tailored suit and
polished shoes. He held no weapon, but his fists were the size of small
melons. Behind him stood another man she couldn't see very well, and next
to him, on the floor, was a man-sized heap making the moaning sounds.
"Take off your shoes," the giant ordered.
Rachel stared at him.
"Take off your shoes and your hose," he added.
When Rachel didn't move, he bent his head toward her and spoke in a lower
tone. "Take 'em off, or I take 'em off you."
So much for courtesy. Rachel removed her shoes and her nylons while the
man watched. She threw them on the floor behind him. The man grinned.
The other man moved forward and picked them up. Rachel thought he might be
the smaller, weaselly man who had come to the store. He regarded her with
the same dead eyes and said, "Your boss put my brother in the hospital.
But he got his." He sounded satisfied.
Rachel stayed silent, but she looked at the giant.
"Lucky wants to talk to you later," the large man said. "If you're a good
girl you might get some dinner. If you're not, you might get some a'
that." He nodded his head toward the huddle on the floor. Rachel suddenly
knew who it had to be.
The men left, the unmistakable sound of a strong lock clicking behind them.
Rachel padded toward the huddled man, the concrete cold on her bare feet.
"Emmett?" she ventured.
Emmett looked up at her. "Oh Rachel," he sobbed. Even in the twilight she
could see bruising and blood on his face.
Rachel paused. He was clearly badly injured in some way, and she knew a
moment of hesitation. She also found herself furious with him. The room
held only one sleeping bag and he was on it. She wanted to order him off
of it. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. That's not why you're
angry. Get over it and deal with the situation.
She knelt next to him and touched his shoulder carefully. "Emmett, what
did they do to you?"
Emmett clutched his chest. His breathing was forced. "They've broken
something. God, it hurts. Oh, Rachel . . ." He sobbed again and caught
his breath. Crying hurt him, she could see.
"He's dead, Rachel. I'm so sorry. Russell. I never meant for . . ." Pain
or no pain, Emmett lost himself in sobs.
Rachel slid a comforting arm around his shoulders, trying not to hurt him.
"What happened, Emmett?"
"They shot him. They shot him. Oh, Rachel, Rachel."
She smoothed his hair and made an attempt to clean the blood from his face.
"How did it happen?" she encouraged.
"He . . . I saw you leave in the cab. I recognized the driver. I went to
warn him."
"What were you doing there?"
"I was waiting. I needed to go back for something. Then they saw me and
everything started. Did you hear me? Russell's dead. He's dead."
"Shot."
"Yes. I saw it. It was awful."
Rachel was sure it was awful. The ability to get over being dead, she had
noticed, had never made her father eager for the experience. Getting shot
. . . how awful.
Just not as awful as Emmett believed.
"Well, we need to think how to keep us from being dead. Do you know what
they want?"
"They want something I have. Something I kept. How can you be so calm? I
know he was important to you."
Rachel puzzled over what to say. If they both got out of this alive, they
wouldn't have much chance of hiding Connor's existence in a living state
from Emmett.
"Did Russell ever mention to you . . . he sometimes wears a bullet-proof
vest?"
Oh, good one. Rachel rolled her eyes at herself.
Emmett removed himself gently from her grasp and regarded her with pity.
"A vest," he said. "Sure, honey, sure. Maybe he was wearing a
bullet-proof vest."
This was ridiculous. Emmett wasn't even mocking her. He was genuinely
trying to humor her.
"There is some toilet tissue in the bathroom," she told him as she stood.
"Let me try to clean you up."
Rachel cleaned his face as best she could, trying to distract herself from
her fears. Emmett uncurled somewhat to allow her ministrations. The
blood, she found, was only on his face, where his lips and the skin over
his cheekbones had been cut. His nose bled, so Rachel had him pack it with
tissue.
"Why did they beat you?" she asked.
"Bunishbent," he mourned. "Also, dey wad be to tell dem where someding
is."
"The ledger from National Linen Supply?"
Emmett's eyes grew wide. "How did you doh?"
"I found it in your . . . "
"Shhh!" Emmett held a hand out toward her mouth, and Rachel drew back to
avoid it. "Dey bight be listening. Dat ledger is all dat keeps be alive.
And you too, probably."
Rachel grew cold. She knew exactly where that ledger was. It was lying on
top of her green sweater in her suitcase. Where ever that was. She felt
sick again.
Emmett shifted uncomfortably on the sleeping bag.
"I dever thought to be back at National Linen Supply. I ran to Nord
Carolina to stay clear of dem. I lived dere for dirty years. No family,
you doh? I couldn't risk it. What if dey found me? And dow, my son, my
son. I should dever have looked for Karen. I should dever have come back.
Dey've killed him. After all dese years." He was crying again, and pulled
the tissue from his nose. Rachel handed him some more.
"Emmett, what did you mean, you never thought to be back at National Linen
Supply?"
"Here," he replied. "This is the New York branch of National Linen Supply.
Their warehouse, anyway."
Hope surged in Rachel. "It is? That's wonderful!"
"Why?" He dabbed at his nose.
"Because," Rachel dropped her voice to a whisper. "Russell knows about
National Linen Supply. If there's a New York branch, that's the first
place he'll think of."
Emmett closed his eyes. "Rachel, I told you. Russell's dead."
Oh yeah. "I mean, uh, Duncan will think of it. He's very resourceful,
too." Rachel knew she was acting too calm about Russell's "death," but she
didn't have the energy to fake a grief she didn't feel.
Rachel's hope didn't seem to impress Emmett. She saw his eyes glaze over
with fear and pain. She let him rest while she thought. If she gave the
ledger to their captors, was there any chance they would let them go?
Surely murder was a sufficient risk even to these mobsters that they
wouldn't do it if they could avoid it. Emmett obviously believed he'd be
killed as soon as they didn't need him for information. She sighed. He
was probably right. They clearly had had no hesitation about opening fire
in broad daylight on a city street. God, it must have happened seconds
after she turned the corner. Hard to imagine. Why did they keep her after
killing "Russell Nash"? Because they still didn't have the ledger; that had
to be it. They guessed it was in Connor's store somewhere, or that she
might know where it was. So they would torture her, too. She wanted to
cry again.
The door opened, and their two jailers stood there. "Time to go," said the
giant.
