Disclaimers in part 1 Joe's experience playing poker helped him end the conversation and the meeting without seeming hurried. He shook hands with Bjorn on the casino floor, who relinquished his newspaper to Joe, and then Joe claimed he was off to look for a bathroom. He ambled in the direction of the poker machines, and watched as Bjorn headed for the exit to the parking garage. When he was sure his fellow Watcher was out of the casino, he homed in on the 21 pit. Joe must have looked right at the world's oldest man twice before he recognized him. Methos wore an inexpensive business suit - not tailored - and was perched with just the right amount of pretended indifference to the game to blend in perfectly with the other Midwestern gamblers who wanted to look like they knew what they were doing. Joe approached the table, which had only a few other players, and stood looking at the world's oldest gamer, trying to get his feelings under control. Methos had abandoned Joe after Richie's death. Not a word, not a phone call. Joe hadn't known what to make of it. He wavered between fearing that Methos had unexpectedly met and lost a challenge to fury that the most self-protective of immortals had chosen Mac's apparent insanity as the perfect reason to go walkabout somewhere. On his better days, Joe had simply prayed that Methos had found MacLeod and was keeping him safe. And now, here he was, enjoying life in Vegas. Joe had long been of the opinion that, if you stared at a person long enough they would have to meet your gaze. Methos seemed to be immune, so Joe walked around to stand behind him, and nudged him, not entirely in a friendly way, in the shoulder. Methos looked up at him, his eyes widening in recognition. Not much surprise in his expression, Joe thought, and not a lot of pleasure, either. "Dawson!" "We need to talk." Joe was prepared for resistance, but Methos deftly scooped up his chips and stood, abandoning his hand of cards and his bet, both of which were casually swept away by the dealer. Joe followed as Methos led the way to the circular bar near the buffet area. It was nearly empty of patrons, which didn't surprise Joe. Why, he wondered, do they have bars in casinos where they bring you free drinks at the tables? They occupied two barstools. "What the hell are you doing here, and where have you been?" Joe demanded. "Hiding out, of course." "From Connor?" Methos hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "Connor?" he ventured. "You mean, as in, Connor MacLeod?" "Yeah, Connor MacLeod!" Joe broke off as the bartender approached. "What'll it be, gentlemen?" "Gin and tonic," Methos replied. "Draft beer. Whatever you've got," Joe told the man. "Yeah, Connor MacLeod," he continued when the bartender had left. "He's hunting you." Methos looked like a man who had just realized something. "So that was *Connor* MacLeod," he breathed. "Didn't you get my e-mail?" "Free cryptic was for you field guys, Joe; we never used it in Research." "Oh, come on. They taught it at the Academy!" "I didn't pay much attention. Angelina taught it, so it was hard to concentrate. I remember about the flower code, but I certainly don't remember who is what. So Connor MacLeod is petunias, huh. Why is he traveling under his original name? Why exactly is he hunting me? And which me is he hunting? You said something about 'old stories'." The bartender brought their drinks, and Joe fished out his cash. Different to be sitting on this side of the bar, he mused. "Thanks, Todd," Methos said. "Is Ernie still up?" "Fifty thousand, last I heard," the bartender replied, shaking his head. He and Methos both looked toward an excited cluster of casino patrons at one of the 21 tables. The actress working the floor as Cleopatra stood at the back of the group, trying to bring regal approval to the House's losses. "Sherry shouldn't be there," the bartender added. "Not for a shill." "It would look funny if she weren't," said Methos. "I wish he'd let the guys put it in the safe for him. We all tried talking to him." "That's how he is," said Todd from San Bernardino (as his name tag declared), scooping up a rag and tossing it over his shoulder. He moved off. Puzzled, Joe had to ask, even though he was putting hundreds of other questions on hold. "Are you working here?" "Income is always nice. I don't know how long I'll have to be here. I'm a shill. Now, about Connor MacLeod?" "A shill! But you look ..." Joe's idea of a shill, a person employed to play at empty tables as a subtle encouragement to others to join, was of someone down on their luck. He was pretty sure it wasn't a job which had, say, a dental plan. "Like a refugee from a sales convention? Shills are supposed to look like the desired clientele. Connor, Joe?" Joe took a drink of beer. "You tell me some things, first." The expression which flashed across the other man's face reminded Joe of how dangerous even his friends could be. He'd been in awe of Connor, but he often forgot that Methos was ... whatever it took to live five thousand years. Including that little interlude with Kronos. Methos leaned back, his expression now friendly but guarded. "Like what things?" Joe had played a lot of poker with the man, and this was an act, he suspected. Joe decided he'd better get what he could from the immortal and then give him everything he had. "Like where were you? You didn't even come to the funeral!" His despair welling up again, Joe lost any concern for immortal sensibilities. "I needed you. *Mac* needs you. I figured you were at least looking for him. I was scared to death. What happened at your place? It was a shambles. Where did you go? Why didn't you call?" Damn, he had meant to insist on one answer at a time. Now Methos could pick and choose which questions to answer. Methos looked down, studying the video poker machine embedded in the bar, but not before Joe caught a glimpse of his face. Surprise and pain, and that was no act. Surprise? What had the man expected? Joe went on. "What did you think I was gonna ask? Where were you? Did you just leave town to keep your own head safe?" This last came out very bitterly. Methos looked up. "Yeah, that's right," he bit out. "I just left town. MacLeod had killed his own student. Do you know how awful that is to immortals, Joe? It's an unthinkable crime, like - like incest. No one will talk to him, now. No one immortal, anyway. Not if they know. So I left. Yep, that's what I did." "That's not true," Joe protested. "Connor will talk to him. He wants to find Duncan and help him." "Well, bully for clan loyalty. Does he know what he did?" "I ..." Joe stopped. "No, he doesn't. He knows Richie's dead. That's all." Methos gave him a smug look. Joe realized the conversation had veered away from his questions. "You could have come to the funeral." The smug look vanished, replaced with an oddly earnest expression. "No, I couldn't, Joe." "Why not?" Methos shifted in his seat and swirled the swizzle stick in his drink. Then he flicked the plastic stick on the bar in a frustrated motion. "If I could tell you, Joe, I would." "Tell me what?" "Why I left." Methos looked at Joe straight on, begging for understanding. But Joe didn't understand. "Why can't you?" Methos sighed. "I just can't. Listen ..." Methos's hazel eyes grew speculative. " would you teach me free cryptic?" "What? Don't change the subject!" "I wasn't, actually." He looked toward the gamblers at the 21 table, then back at Joe. "Now, tell me about Connor MacLeod." "You haven't told me half of what I want to know!" "Tell me about Connor." Was that a threatening undercurrent Joe heard? "Damn you." Joe glared at his drink. "He's hunting for Methos because he's heard that Methos is hunting for Duncan. Which he ought to be doing!" he added, moving his glare to the other man. Methos frowned, thoughtful. "Now how do these rumors get started? Is he still in Bora Bora?" "I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you ... hey! How did you know? You *were* in Bora Bora!" "I won't be again, I can tell you," he replied drily. "Small island with only one airport. No way to blend in with the locals. Might as well be a blind alley. It's only any good if no one would ever think to look there. A place like Vegas is better. And you were here, so I thought I'd have a chance to ask you what your e-mail meant." Joe was aghast. "You mean you came here because of me? Adam, *Connor* followed me here, too! I was trying to keep you clear of him!" Shit, shit, shit. Joe could be responsible for exactly what he was trying to avoid. His stomach knotted around the beer. Methos gazed at Joe in silence for a moment. "Thanks," he said, simply, in a tone of slight surprise. Joe squirmed. It was, of course, another violation of his oath, which "Adam" would know better than any immortal. How could he be both this angry with him and this worried about him? This must be what it's like to have kids, Joe thought, then he winced and steered his thoughts away from *that* direction. "Was that the sick nephew part?" Methos asked. "No, that just means danger from an immortal. 'Please come home' means lay low." "How would you say an immortal is in danger from a mortal?" Joe shook his head. "Why are we talking about free cryptic? Do you really want a lesson in this?" "It could be useful. How would you say an immortal was in danger from a mortal?" "Well, you wouldn't. The code isn't that firm. You improvise around the things you do know, and hope the message comes across. That way you can make the message look like it makes sense to someone who might be eavesdropping." "So there's no phrase for danger from a mortal?" "Not to an immortal. Why would the Watchers need to say that, you know?" "Horton," Methos replied, drily. "Uh, yeah. But, well, why would field agents need to warn each other about danger to an immortal? I mean, you could do it, but you'd have to make something up." "Like a sick niece?" "Maybe. Make it the niece of the mortal and use the flower code to specify what immortal. But they still might not get it." Methos made a face. "Why flowers?" Joe shrugged. "They thought it up in the Middle Ages. I guess they weren't into giving people ID numbers." "What's Duncan's flower?" "I can't believe you are avoiding my questions this way! Who cares?" "Tell me Duncan's flower, Joe, please," Methos begged. Bewildered, Joe complied. "Pansy." Methos nearly spit out his drink. "Pansy?!" He reached for a napkin, choking. Joe grinned. "It isn't meant to mean anything. Scottish immortals all start with P. Connor is Petunia and Cochrane is Primrose. If you tell him, I'll have to kill you." The smile died on his face as fear for the Highlander hit him full force. It had been like this for months. Just when Joe started to laugh or enjoy something, the fear and grief returned. Methos wasn't laughing, either. He was mopping the bar with a napkin, looking somber. Joe resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get much more from Methos. He desperately wanted to know more, but Joe had to let him go. Methos needed to find another hidey-hole from Connor. "What will you do?" he asked, quietly. "Connor might come back. He thinks I know something." Methos nodded. "I should leave. Good thing about the job - they can pay you under the table; no employment papers, and you can walk away anytime." He sat slowly upright, a wary look crossing his features. Joe knew the look. "But it may be too late."