Disclaimers in Part 1
Joe delivered the supplies he'd gone out for to the kitchen of Le Blues
Bar, and apologized to his expectant patrons for skipping his sets,
tonight. The crowd groaned, but allowed the owner of the bar to slip into
his small office. Their regard warmed something in Joe. One thing about
grief and depression, he mused, it made for great Blues music, and Joe had
been packing them in, recently. Oh Richie, he thought, for the millionth
time, you deserved better than this.
Safe in his bar, with supportive customers and friends around, Joe allowed
himself to shiver. Connor MacLeod! Wow! The man who had defeated the
Kurgan! Duncan MacLeod's *teacher*. He punched the button on the blinking
answering machine.
"Hey Joe, it's Tommy. Listen, man, you won't believe the deal I've got.
Call me. You know that gig I've got in Vegas? That friend of my
brother's? Well, he called me today; he's looking for another new act and
wanted to know if I knew anyone. I told him about you. You could go to
Vegas with me, Joe. I *know* they'll love you, man. You are *stone*! I'm
tellin' ya. Call me."
Joe shook his head. Tommy Maloney had been around, lately, telling Joe
about this or that scout or agent. It just made Joe feel old. The music
business always seemed to be full of people whose brothers knew someone.
Cold dreams. He'd been too depressed to pay much attention to Tommy, and
he dismissed him now.
He booted his computer, logged into the Watcher's secure server, and
checked the location log. Sure enough, Connor was still listed as being in
Copenhagen. Joe sent in his Sighting report, updating Connor's location,
and then sent e-mail in free cryptic to Connor's Watcher.
Bjorn,
I haven't seen you in a while. How are you? My petunias are doing
well. I thought of you today when I was on the river. You should come
visit.
Joe
It was an odd pleasure to have something to report. With every Watcher on
the planet alerted to watch for Joe's own immortal assignment, he felt like
a failure.
The door to the office opened, and Rousseau, his manager, stuck his head
in.
"Joe? Phone for you out here." Joe nodded and Rousseau withdrew. He
logged out and went through the back of the bar area, into the storeroom, a
quieter place to answer the business line, if a bit chilly.
"Joe, mon ami, this is Maurice. There is a man in Monsieur MacLeod's home.
Did you know?"
"Yes, I know. He's ..." Joe hesitated. Had Connor kept his story
consistent?
"He says he is his cousin. Do you know him?"
"Yes, I just met him. It's all right, Maurice. He *is* his cousin."
"Yes, yes. But he gave me money. I cannot take his money. I do not take
money from a friend."
Joe shook his head. He and Maurice had a distant association, due to both
being Parisian business owners and having the one mutual acquaintance. But
what did he want from Joe?
"Well, what's the money for?"
"The wharf fees. I am happy to pay them for Duncan. I do not want this
man's money. I do not take money from a friend."
But you already have, Joe thought. Oh, he realized, Maurice wanted him to
talk him into it.
"He's not a friend, Maurice. You don't know him. And I'm sure you know
Duncan would pay you back himself, when he returns. What you are doing is
not a small amount of money. You are being a very good friend. Taking
Nash's money is just business."
It took a few more minutes to make the restaurant owner happy. Joe's
attention wandered during the last part of the conversation. The crowd was
thinning, he could hear, despite a very passable performance from a
clarinet and vocalist duo. The music lovers in the bar had come to hear
*him*. His thoughts wandered back to Tommy. He wouldn't go to Vegas, of
course, but with his Watcher role on indefinite hold, it might be the time
to concentrate on his music.
He returned to his office, thoughtful.
And was slammed against a wall, the blade of an extremely sharp sword
pressed against his neck.
"You have his katana!" Connor hissed. "What happened to him?"
"Let me go," Joe managed.
"Call out, and you won't live to see the results. Right?"
"Right," Joe gasped.
Connor lowered the sword, but kept his other hand pressed against Joe's
chest, holding him, not only against the wall, but upright, as well. The
violent movement had toppled Joe from his prosthetic perch. His "legs"
were still attached, but he had no way to move them into position to
support his weight. It made his situation doubly humiliating.
"Talk," Connor ordered.
Talking was not easy. The pressure against his sternum made even breathing
difficult.
"He left it. The katana. I'm keeping it for him."
"*And* the boy's sword?" Connor growled. "You're an assassin!"
"No! The boy is dead. That's why he left."
"He would have avenged him. He loved that boy. He would have told me."
"Grief," Joe coughed. His vision was blurring. Connor hauled him by the
shirt, one-handed, and swung him like a sack, to plunk onto the chair. Joe
gulped air. His .45 was in the drawer ...
"Who killed the boy?"
Christ! "What does it matter?"
Connor kicked Joe's chair. "That's where he'll be."
"No." Why couldn't he just tell the immortal the truth? "He's gone. Take
his sword. If you find him, give it to him."
Connor backed off and regarded him. "It was a friend, then, who did it,"
he concluded.
"I don't know." That was a mistake. The point of Duncan's katana appeared
at his adam's apple, pricking blood.
"You're lying."
Name, rank, and date of birth. Don't give them anything more. Joe didn't
know why his instincts forbade him to tell Connor all of it, but he had
never gone against his instincts. Joe knew how to put the truth of his
grief into his music; he thought he could show it on his face, even if his
words were disbelieved.
"Richie died and Duncan left, in shock," he said deliberately. "I don't
know where he went and I can't find him. If you can find him, ask him to
call."
Connor saw, and looked away. The sword swished back to the immortal's
side. He paced, then, around the office. He could almost circle the desk,
like a prowling wolf. Joe took the chance to glance around and see the
ransacked desk and the opened cabinet which had held the swords. He
thought again of his drawer, but saw that it was open and empty.
"What did you do, follow me here?" Joe accused.
Connor paused at the door to the bar, opened it a crack, peered out, and
shut it again. The door had no lock from the inside. Connor placed a
chair under the knob with practiced ease, blocking entrance. He returned
to Joe, and put one foot on Joe's chair, leaning into his face, forearms
resting on his thigh.
"Tell me everything you know about Methos," said Connor.
"Methos!" Joe blurted. What the fuck?! Fortunately, he realized, his
astonishment didn't necessarily reveal anything. But his mind was reeling.
What did Connor know? What did he want? What had Duncan told him?
"Methos," Connor confirmed, calmly.
"Why?"
"Just answer the question!" Connor looked exasperated.
Joe had finally reached the place where his anger overtook his fear. "Why
should I tell you anything?!" he demanded. "Is this how you treat your own
friends, or is this just for Duncan's friends? You break into my office
and threaten me with a sword, and now you want me to tell you a fairy tale?
Fuck you!"
"You're a spy and probably an assassin," Connor replied, levelly. "At the
very least, a peeping Tom. You're lucky I don't torture cripples. Don't
bore me with what good friends you and Duncan are. Tell me about the fairy
tale. Methos."
Joe met the immortal's gaze for a long moment, breathing hard. "Or what?
You'll kill me?"
Joe meant it as a taunt, but there was too much potential truth in it. He
couldn't keep the fear from his voice.
Connor removed his foot and looked down at the Watcher. Something flashed
across his expression, too quickly for Joe to read it. The silence was
heavy as Joe waited to hear his fate.
"Is it worth your life?" the Highlander asked in a tone which sounded
merely curious.
Oh, Don, Joe prayed to his dead friend Salzer, you gave your life trying to
protect this information. I never thought I'd be here. I don't want to
die for this.
Particularly not when I'm so pissed off at the five-thousand-year-old
slippery sonofabitch.
"I tell you what I know, and *then* you kill me."
Connor smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but it did seem to have
genuine amusement behind it. "Now, would I do that?" he asked. "To
Duncan's friend?"
Not very reassured, Joe tested. "Tell me why you want to know. I'm not
supposed to just ... tell you things." Damn, his voice still quavered.
Connor tipped his head, birdlike, and regarded Joe sidelong. "I don't care
what you're supposed to do. Tell me, or it's going to be a long night.
Then I'll tell you why."
Joe let his breath out. He believed the man didn't intend to kill him, and
this was something of a concession from the player holding all the cards.
Considering the head games these warriors played to live, Joe guessed he
was not going to wrangle a better offer.
"The oldest living immortal," Joe tried, watching the man's face. "Most
people think he's just a myth. Five thousand years old. He's supposed to
have, uh, built Stonehenge and studied with Socrates. That Methos?"
"And where is he now?"
"I don't know." Also true, Joe thought bitterly. He was facing one of the
world's most dangerous immortals and all his friends had conveniently
scattered.
"Isn't it your job to know?"
"We're not even sure he's real. And if he is, we've never identified him."
Connor turned away, moving to a bookshelf. He flipped pages in a volume he
had probably been perusing earlier. Joe's heart sank when he recognized
it. A photo album. His own, personal, one. Chock full of pictures of
Duncan and Richie and ... Adam.
Connor carefully removed a half dozen pictures.
"He's real," Connor commented, pocketing the photos. "I want him because
he's hunting Duncan."
"What?"
"If Duncan's unarmed and vulnerable, I'll have to find Methos first."
Joe couldn't think of anything to say. Hunting Duncan?
Connor replaced Duncan's katana in the cabinet. "You keep this. Duncan
will need a new blade soon, anyway." Then he strode to the door, removed
the chair, and slid out into the bar.
Joe didn't move for a long time, unless you count shaking. Then, he logged
into his e-mail again.
Adam,
Thank you for sending the lovely petunias. Your nephew is still
ill. He wants to hear your old stories. Please come home.
Joe
He reviewed his composition. Sick Nephew - danger from an immortal; *your*
nephew - the danger is to you; Petunias - Connor MacLeod; Old Stories -
didn't mean anything, but maybe it would make him think; Please Come Home -
lay low.
Adam, Joe thought, I could kill you myself for vanishing on me. *Please*
read your e-mail, wherever you are.
Then, slowly, he reached for the phone, and dialed Tommy's number.
