DISCLAIMER: Highlander and its familiar characters re the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended. Please archive at Seventh Dimension. Info for archiving: Rating: PG Characters: Duncan MacLeod and a minor OMC Summary: Strictly AU, this is a hopefully-different take on a familiar theme: the death of Joe Dawson. ************************************************ The dream slipped away from him, slithering back into the dim recesses of his mind. He knew only that it had been a bad one. He sat up in bed, shivering. The barge was rocking violently; hail beat against the cabin walls, and the wind howled like a banshee. That would have been enough to wake him. But his sleep-fogged brain gradually registered another sound. The phone was ringing. //Now? It's pitch dark--has to be the middle of the night. Why would anyone call now?// He threw off the bedclothes and stumbled in the direction of that insistent ring. Crossing the cabin during a storm like this was as much a balancing act as staying astride a bucking horse. //Probably just Methos//, he told himself. //Calling from some damn-fool place like Borneo, too drunk to remember the time difference.// He finally found the receiver. Much as he wanted to believe in the drunken-Methos theory, he heard the anxiety in his voice as he said, "MacLeod." "*Duncan* MacLeod?" "Yes." Recalling where he was, he corrected that to *"Oui."* "Actually, I'm glad youčre an English speaker," the other man told him. His own French accent was barely detectable. "The message I'm supposed to give you won't have to be translated. "But first I should introduce myself. My name is Pierre Bouchard. I'm a Catholic priest, calling from Saint- Luc's." "Oh." MacLeod dropped to a sitting position on the floor. And not just because of the motion of the barge. He knew Saint-Luc's was a hospital. //Something bad is coming.// "Monsieur MacLeod," the voice on the line continued, "I must ask...are you a relative or friend of a man named Joseph Dawson?" "Yes." He felt every muscle go taut. //Nothing can be wrong with Joe. Not now. It's too soon, he's too young!// He made himself add, "A very close friend." "I'm afraid I have bad news. There's no easy way to say this. Monsieur Dawson is dead. Killed in an auto accident." *** Time stretched out. He could have sworn that he wasn't breathing, that his heart had stopped. //I'm still dreaming. Yes, a bad dream, that's all it is...// *** At last he said in a strangled voice, *"No."* It couldn't be true. Only that evening, Joe had been as excited as a kid about the new act performing at Le Blues Bar. The musicians had sounded even better when Joe himself began jamming with them. "There's some mistake! I saw him--uh, just a couple hours ago, I think. What the hell time is it?" He was shaking now, all but screaming into the phone. "It's four-thirty a. m." That stopped him cold. //Four-thirty. So Joe would have closed the bar, headed for home... I didn't have problems on the road, but the storm got worse later on.// He moaned. "Monsieur MacLeod? Are you all right?" The caller sounded alarmed. "Are you alone there?" He tried to pull himself together. "I'm okay, Father. Yes, I'm alone, but you don't have to worry about me." //I can deal with death. I've had lots of experience.// He took a deep breath to steady himself, then asked, "Are you absolutely sure about the identification?" "Yes, there's no doubt. A middle-aged man with two prosthetic legs. Gray hair, beard..." "All right," MacLeod whispered. "Th-that's Joe. C-can you tell me how it happened? Did he suffer?" He couldn't ask the other questions that crowded into his mind. //Was it really an accident, or murder? Did someone kill him to hurt me?// "It was the storm," the gentle voice explained. "The roads had suddenly gotten icy. Another driver, not your friend, lost control of his vehicle. And that led to a six-car pileup in which three people were killed-- including the man who'd caused it. łI can assure you Monsieur Dawson didn't suffer. He was brought to the hospital, but the medics say he died instantly. Of a broken neck." MacLeod closed his eyes. So it wasn't murder. And it had been quick. Merciful-- if death in one's early fifties could ever be that. *** //Wait. The Watchers once lured Joe to France with a false report that I was dead. What if an enemy's trying to lure *me* somewhere with a false report that *he's* dead? If this guy's on the level, he's going to think I'm crazy. But that can't be helped. I have to be sure.// Aloud, he said, "I'm sorry, Father. But I'm not convinced this isn't a crank call. I'm going to hang up, find the number of Saint-Luc's, and call back. All right?" He heard a startled intake of breath. But after a moment the voice said quietly, "Of course. That's... a wise precaution. When you reach the main switchboard, ask for Pastoral Services." *** Five minutes later he was back on the line with the same man. That was when he began to cry.