Go (2/2)

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***

When he was calmer, he asked more questions. "Have
you called Joe's daughter yet? Or his parish priest?" It
seemed odd that it wasn't one of them who'd called
*him*.

"No, Monsieur MacLeod. The only name in his wallet,
aside from his own, was yours."

"Oh." That came as a surprise.

"There was a note saying you should be called in the
event of his death, and you'd know who else ought to be
informed." The hospital chaplain paused and cleared
his throat. "And whoever spoke to you was to deliver
the message."

"Message?" He belatedly remembered Bouchard's
opening words. //"I'm glad you're an English speaker.
The message I'm supposed to give you won't have to be
translated."//

"Yes. The note indicated it was very important that
upon Monsieur Dawson's death, you be given this
message quickly. It's brief--that's why I'm glad it's in
your native tongue. I don't know if it will make sense to
you. But if it doesn't, it won't be because some shade of
meaning was lost in translation."

MacLeod felt all his nerve endings tingle. "Okay. What
is it?"

"A single word. *Go*."

***

He sat very still.

Slowly, it sank in.

//Joe...*knew!*

He knew what I planned to do after his death, whenever
it might occur. Or rather, after his burial.

But how could he? I've never shared that secret with
anyone, even Methos or Amanda.

I guess the answer is obvious. He knew what I'd want to
do because he knew *me* so well.

And he's given me the green light...to do it *now*,
without waiting for the funeral.//

He was suddenly very scared.

***

"Monsieur MacLeod? Are you still there?" Bouchard was
asking. "Do you understand what your friend meant?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," he replied steadily. "Thank you, Father.
And now I hope you have pen and paper handy. There
are several more people you should call."

He supplied the names, addresses, and phone numbers
of Joe's daughter Amy, his pastor, and even his niece in
the United States. "His pastor is the one most likely to
know his wishes about funeral arrangements," he
concluded.

"Very well, I'll get in touch with them," the chaplain
promised. "Will you be coming to the hospital to view
the body?"

MacLeod's breath caught in his throat.

After a long pause, he whispered, "No."

***

He tried to ignore the swaying of the barge--now, at
least, brightly lit--as he gathered the papers he'd need
and stuffed some clothing into a duffel bag.

He signed and dated the deed that would transfer
ownership of his dojo to its current, worthy manager.
That could be dropped in the nearest mailbox. He'd
simply abandon the barge.

He'd moved on before, many times, to conceal the fact
that he didn't age. But he'd never made a break like
this.

***

Much as he valued the mission of the Watchers,
MacLeod had realized long ago that no Immortal who
*knew* he was being Watched--and didn't count his
Watcher as a close friend--could lead even a
quasi-normal life.

The odds were overwhelmingly against his lucking out
again, finding another friend like Joe.

He'd had no problem with his goldfish-bowl existence
while Joe was his Watcher. And he'd planned to endure
it as long as Dawson lived, even after his retirement.
He'd hoped the day of reckoning could be postponed for
a half-century.

But every year, for five years now, he'd secretly
prepared a new backup identity. Just in case. Each
year he'd obtained a birth certificate for a male child
who'd died at birth twenty-eight years before. For the
three who'd been American, he'd also gotten U. S. Social
Security numbers. And he'd faked backgrounds,
complete with education and employment history.

With luck, an identity that gave his initial age as
twenty-eight would be good for fifteen years. He knew
from experience that neighbors and co-workers who see
a person every day seldom notice his aging--or, within
reason, his *not* aging.

***

Now his hands shook as he held the forged passport he'd
actually use.

//This would be a damn sight easier if I could change
my appearance.//

He envied Methos the fair complexion that permitted
him to change hair color--and, with contacts, eye
color--at will. His own olive skin made dark hair and
eyes a necessity. It ruled out a number of nationalities,
too, no matter how flawlessly he spoke the languages.

So he'd be heading back to America--to Florida, where
he'd never lived before. A small town, he'd decided,
inland. He'd seek a position as a teacher and athletic
coach.

When the identity was well established he'd have more
options. A few years down the road, if he was finding
his life too tame, he'd join the Peace Corps. Duncan
MacLeod had never spent much time in Africa.

He'd e-mailed Methos and Amanda, but only to break
the news of Joešs death. After he was settled, he'd let
them know where he was...somehow. He wouldn't trust
e-mail, or the telephone.

But he'd never see Amanda again. The risk would be
too great--she had an assigned Watcher. And he
wouldn't get together with Methos until "Adam
Pierson," supposed-mortal friend of Duncan MacLeod,
was long forgotten.

He'd go to great lengths to avoid other Immortals. If he
was forced to fight and kill, his opponent's Watcher
would be sure to recognize him. Then he'd have to lose
the Watcher *and* start over with a new identity.

//I'll keep my own Chronicle//, he vowed. //Like
Methos.//

Of course, there was no guarantee that anyone else
would ever read either of them.

//This isn't so different from what I've done a dozen
times before.//

But he knew it was.

Always before, his door had been open to at least a few
other Immortals.

And always before, in all times and corners of the
world, he had been Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod.

***

The phone rang again as he was about to leave.

He glanced at his watch. Seven a. m.

That would be Amy.

//She'll be broken up, need a shoulder to cry on.

But my only hope of escaping the Watchers is to move
quickly--get out of here before anyone guesses I'd do
such a thing. Joe knew that.//

He wavered.

//*Joe told me to go.*//

For once in his life, loyal, conscientious Duncan
MacLeod ignored a ringing phone.

He slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, left the
cabin--unlocked--and made his way down the
gangplank. Its glaze of ice prompted a vicious kick.

//I'll miss you, Joe, as long as I live.

But I'm glad you understood what I have to do. Thanks
for letting me know you approved. In death, you gave
me a priceless gift.//

Duncan MacLeod turned for a last, lingering look at
the barge. He fought back the tears that stung his eyes.

Then a man named David Carlino strode briskly away.




THE END

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