Whispers 1/2

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Whispers 1/2
Cathy Butterfield


"Semper fi..."

The words escaped as Joe Dawson watched Charlie DeSalvo's funeral from a
distant knoll. He squinted against the intermittent rain.  Late August
had turned into September before the body had been released for burial,
and a sharp wind cut from the northeast, chilled by the snowy crags of
the Canadian Rockies.

Leaves whipped around the tombstones to dance around Dawson's legs, the
only part of him that wasn't clenched against the cold.  He shifted,
leaning into the wind, minding the small memorial plaque which rested in
the earth near the ferrule of his cane.  Petey, it said.  Just Petey.
Nothing else.  Petey's sad, young spirit kept him company, calling to
Dawson's conscience in the language of rustling leaves.

Dawson could see from his removed post that the funeral was well
attended by Charlie's former students, and family, and friends.  And
MacLeod.  It was in deference to MacLeod that Dawson watched from this
cold, windy and well hidden point overlooking the gravesite. MacLeod had
made it painfully clear that Dawson was not welcome in MacLeod's life,
and by extension, the observance of Charlie DeSalvo's death.

"We are different."  Dawson couldn't get the words out of his head.  "We
crossed the line."  He heard the timbre of MacLeod's voice in the wind
bending the tree limbs, felt the coldness of his tone in the spattering
rain.  "_I_ am Immortal."

MacLeod's lack of anger made it worse.  There had been no accusation,
just the implacable decree.  Dawson tried to take the responsibility,
and MacLeod took even that attempt at atonement away.   Dawson gritted
his teeth, tasting the bitter memory.   Let MacLeod assume
responsibility alone.

Dawson would assume the guilt.  Alone.

Andrew Cord had killed Charlie DeSalvo.  Duncan MacLeod had killed
Andrew Cord. An impossible tangle of motives had brought them
together--loyalty and friendship, hate and love, vengeance and greed.
Dawson's attempt at friendship with the two Immortals _had_ crossed the
line, and now there were two bodies to show for it.

Dawson waited a long, empty hour after the services before picking his
slow way down to the gravesite to pay his final respects.  A crunch of
gravel interrupted his final farewells.  He hadn’t waited long enough.

"You had to come."  The same stern tone.  The same unyielding timbre.
MacLeod.

Dawson finished his silent graveside salute and apology to DeSalvo
before turning to face MacLeod.  Yes.  He had to come.

"You had to _Watch_."  MacLeod's voice carried an edge of reproof.
Dawson expected that; it was the disdain that seared his soul.  MacLeod
judged, and found Dawson mortally wanting.

Dawson remained silent, letting the cold and the wind and the rustling
leaves answer Duncan MacLeod.  Dawson had no excuse to offer, no
justification to present.  He had no defense at all.  Maybe Charlie
DeSalvo, a fellow mortal, would have understood the sense of duty that
had compelled Dawson to observe this passing. It did not matter if
MacLeod didn't recognize his motives.  Not anymore.

I am mortal, MacLeod.  The words hung between them, unsaid.  Dawson did
not look down at the fresh-turned cemetery dirt, or away at the gray
rain-muted horizon.  He looked at MacLeod, as if looking upon him for
the last time.  When their eyes met, Duncan MacLeod's snapped away
first.

Without a single word, Dawson turned down the cemetery path and walked
away from the Immortal.  He had no more duties here.  His requested
temporary leave of absence had been approved.  Dawson no longer Watched
MacLeod.  He hadn't for days.  Apparently, MacLeod hadn't even noticed.

This week, Dawson had another duty to perform, another passing to
observe.  This duty was for a man with no students, or family, or
friends.  Joe Dawson had to bury Andrew Cord.

*****

As Dawson drove back to his blues bar, MacLeod's words echoed in his
mind.  "We are different.  We crossed the line.  I am Immortal… ."
Dawson had betrayed _both_ MacLeod and DeSalvo by trying to protect
Cord.  Dawson had lost three friends, not two, because he could not stop
Cord.  And in the end, he'd finally and fatally betrayed Cord.

Dawson's vehicle wavered on the freeway off-ramp, and he tiredly cursed
himself for allowing his attention to wander.  Grief did not excuse
carelessness, and Dawson blanked out his feelings, concentrating on his
driving.  His grief didn't matter.  He still had work to do.
Self-indulgence could come later.

Dawson pulled up at the bar, shivering as the rainy wind scoured the
parking lot.  Even here, surrounded by concrete, the smell of freshly
turned earth plagued him. He embraced the familiar fug of the bar as he
pulled the door shut.  With a wave to Mike Barrett behind the bar, he
surveyed the floor with a critical eye.  The lunch crowd was small.
Business was down, since Charlie's murder.

Barrett hurried around the bar, meeting Dawson at the back hallway.  He
looked worried.  "Hey, Joe--jees, you're soaked.  What did you do, stand
out in the rain all morning?  Let me get you some coffee."

Dawson shrugged off Mike's attempt to take his coat irritably.  The
tracklight in the far corner had burned out again.  The last thing the
place needed was more gloom.  "Get out the ladder for me, Mike, and I'll
rewire that damn light again."  Time to take care of the business.
_His_ business, he reminded himself.

"The light can wait," Mike carped worriedly.  "You've been standing too
long.  I know the look.  You need to sit down for a while."

"Enough, Mike.  I _need_ to get back to work,"  Dawson stopped Barrett
short.  The man had developed a lamentable tendency to hover in the past
couple of days.  Then he relented slightly.  "Give me the coffee.
_Then_ get me the ladder.  How's that sound?"

Mike retreated to the bar to get out Dawson's large personal mug and
poured a coffee nudged with a touch of Irish.  Maybe more than a touch.
"The police were here again,” he said apologetically.

Dawson nodded.  Only to be expected.  DeSalvo's death couldn't be
covered up by the Watchers, and he had died in the alley behind Joe's
Bar, hurled from the roof.
Dawson had been answering their questions for days.  The same questions,
the same answers.  He hadn't seen or heard a thing.  The fact that
Dawson was telling the exact truth lent no comfort.  The sick irony that
he was covering up one death while answering questions about another did
not escape the Watcher.

Dawson leaned against the bar, inhaling the caffeine, his eyes drooping
slightly.  Maybe he would take a short break.

Mike Barrett eyed Dawson hesitantly.  "Joe--another thing.  Gleason is
in your office.  Cord's Watcher.  He has some of Cord's effects, and
wants to talk to you.  He doesn't sound happy."  Barrett added under his
breath, "Officious little creep."

"You should have told me that first.  You know Watcher business takes
priority." Straightening his shoulders, Dawson pushed himself erect,
hiding a wince of pain.  Privately, Dawson agreed with Barrett's
character assessment, but Gleason was Cord's Watcher, and had a right to
see his assignment through to the end.  Even if the asshole had lost
Cord and let him ambush DeSalvo without Dawson's knowledge.

Goddam useless Watchers...and Dawson was the worst.  DeSalvo had died on
his _doorstep._

Dawson realized that Mike was leaning back away from his negative
vibes.  He didn't blame him.  Forgetting his coffee, Dawson entered his
office. Delaying would not make this interview any easier.

******

Gleason was sitting behind Dawson's desk, half hidden by some cardboard
boxes.  At Dawson's approach, he jerked upright and then out of the
seat, looking for all the world like a schoolkid sneaking a look in the
teacher's desk.  "Dawson.  Barrett said you were due an hour ago."
Gleason sounded partly put out, and partly patronizing.  Officious
little creep, indeed.

"Something came up.  Mike said you had something for me."  Dawson wanted
to get this over with.  He'd be damned if he wasted time explaining
himself.

"Well, you know this is highly irregular.  I was clearing out Cord's
hotel room, as per instructions… ,"

Yadda, yadda.  Get on with it, Dawson thought.

"…and I found Cord's will."  Gleason waited expectantly, his eyes
sliding over Dawson in search of a reaction.

Dawson just looked at him.  Watchers routinely turned over such
documents to the Legal Section.  Those bequests that were practicable or
even possible were faithfully carried out anonymously, as long as
Watcher interests weren't endangered.

Dawson said curtly,  "Turn it over to the mouthpieces.  They'll take
their cut and make sure the beneficiaries get more than they ever
dreamed."  Immortal wills were an art form of financial juggling for
living Immortals.  Dawson was tired, and cold, and did not want to deal
with the ghoulish legal remains of the dead.  Dealing with the actual
remains had been ordeal enough.

After Duncan MacLeod beheaded Andrew Cord, Dawson had followed strict
procedure.  He secured the kill site at the paintball factory, and
called in a Watcher cleanup crew.  The body was delivered to a
Watcher-underwritten funeral parlor for preparation for burial.  There
were Watcher mortuaries all over the world.  It was one of their most
lucrative side investments.

Just that morning, Dawson had called the cleanup crew chief and checked
on the burial site. The chief was most helpful.  It was an obscure
location, much like Petey's lonely marker on the blustery hill. All the
necessary paperwork was being forged now.  The burial was scheduled for
the early morning.  Dawson expected no company.  Gleason was a model
Watcher.  Gleason would steer well clear of Cord's physical presence,
even in death.

"Well, the will is the reason I'm here.  It's a little unusual."
Gleason sniffed in disapproval.  No, not disapproval.  Downright
suspicion.  It was Gleason's job to erase the paper trail of Cord's
existence in Seacouver as he tied up his Chronicle.  It should have been
done by now.

"So.  Why tell me?" Dawson asked, keeping his voice barely out of the
rude zone.

"I _did_ take it to the lawyers.  They said I should deliver the codicil
to you, as the local supervisor and as the...beneficiary."  Now Gleason
sounded just a bit sly.

"What the hell are you talking about, Gleason?"  Dawson snapped.  He
wasn't in the mood for dicing around.

"Cord's last will.  He changed it, just before he died.  It's dated the
day of his death, in fact.  He left these boxes to you.  I found them in
his room, still sealed.  Addressed to you.  This is highly irregular,"
Gleason repeated.  "I'll have to put it in my closing report."

"Well, you do that,” Dawson said coldly.  "Now, if you will excuse me?"
He had no doubt that news of a dead Immortal leaving a bequest to a live
Watcher was already heating up the phone lines between the Legal Section
and Headquarters.  Gleason's report would just be the capper.

"I'd like to see what is in the boxes,” Gleason fished.  "To finish up
my report, of course."

"I'll send you a memo,” Dawson said, pointedly turning his back.
Belatedly, he peeled  off his still dripping black dress coat and hung
it on the coat tree.  His hand curled around the hook, bending it
slightly, as he briefly wondered how much more interesting Gleason's
report would read if he finished it up with a broken jaw.  Dawson looked
up in relief as Barrett poked his head in the door.

"Shapiro in Europe wants you to call him, Gleason,"  Barrett said
tersely, using the opportunity to bring in Dawson's abandoned coffee.
"Feel free to use the phone in the bar."

Finally getting a clue, Gleason left.

"Thank you, Mother Barrett,"  Dawson breathed, wrapping his fingers
around the cup, offering a small smile of apology for his earlier sharp
words.

"Want me to bounce him, Joe?"  Mike asked hopefully.  "Gleason's been
asking a lot of questions."

"Nah.  He isn't worth the trouble," Dawson said dismissively, his anger
leaching away.  He was too tired to be curious.  "Just get back out
there and make sure he keeps his fingers out of the tip jar."


******

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