Whispers (2/2) Dawson closed his office door firmly, locking it against further interruption. He looked longingly at his padded armchair. Refusing to be tempted, he hooked a finger under the packing tape and ripped open the seal on the first box. What the hell had Cord been thinking? Steeling himself, Dawson took a hit off the coffee before proceeding, appreciating the underlying Irish burn. He was freezing. There were the usual miscellaneous mementos that Dawson laid aside for later cataloging. There was a single, simple wedding band. There was a well-stowed and maintained set of handguns, some dating back to the Civil War. Nothing recent but for one Viet Nam era sidearm. Dawson hefted the piece, wondering at how familiar it felt to his hand. Shaking his head, he thrust it aside. The box held carelessly tossed commendations for gallantry under fire from two world wars, and Korea. There was a Bronze Star. Two Silver Stars. A Good Conduct Medal. Only one. Dawson almost smiled at that. There were fading pictures of young men in old wars. None were from Viet Nam. Dawson found nothing else from Viet Nam, until he opened the second box. Roughly ripping the box open, beating up his own hands in his tension, Dawson came upon a folded khaki shirt. Recognizing the cut of the cloth, Dawson felt a roiling sensation in his gut. He carefully pulled out the stained old Marine uniform. The placket read "Cord." There were three bullet holes across the chest, with three matching bloodstains. Cord's blood. Immortal blood. The lower part of the shirt was wholly discolored. Mortal blood. Dawson's blood. In the center of the shirt, the blood flowed together. Dawson shivered. He really should have changed out of his wet clothes. Slowly, gingerly, he refolded the shirt, trying not to touch the old stains. Shutting his emotions away in favor of the Watcher's proper detachment, he noticed that the sergeant's insignia had been roughly cut away. All identifying Marine patches had been sheared off, as if Cord had court-martialled himself. Dawson wondered how much damage Cord _really_ took in that last firefight at Thien Duc. Cord's physical wounds evaporated as all Immortal wounds did, but Dawson doubted that the scorch marks on Cord's soul had healed any better than Dawson's legs. Then his fists tightened. Cord _killed_ that woman in Thien Duc. There was no excuse for that. Not Bravo company brotherhood. Butler, the rapist, was Bravo Company. Dawson was practically an accomplice. He'd just...stood aside. Followed orders. Watched. Dawson sank into his desk chair, as phantom pain tangled with real rage. Why the hell had he tried to protect Cord? "Semper Fi, boyscout,” Cord’s voice whispered from the tangled jungle of guilt. "You're not going to die on me, boyscout. And I'm not going to leave you. I'll kill you myself, first," he'd promised, showing him the gun. _That_ gun. Cord cajoled, pled, threatened, lied, every word whispered so the enemy wouldn't hear. Sixteen miles. That's how far Cord carried Dawson, back through enemy lines. Cord could have left him at any mile of that march. Any foot. Any inch. There was a Semper Fi for every leech-ridden bug-bit mile. The doctors said you forgot that sort of pain. They were wrong. Cord hauled him every inch. Dawson never forgot. Bravo Company had written them both off. Someone had grabbed Cord's dogtags, turned them in. KIA. Dawson they hadn't even checked. Click. Boom. Pond scum. MIA. With an effort, Dawson boxed up the harrowing memories with the medals and the guns and the brown stained uniform. His hand didn't shake as he downed the rest of the coffee. Not much. Then he tore into the third, and smallest box. It was full of papers. Legal papers. His favorite. Cord had packed a copy of the will. He had made a last request. He wanted to be buried next to his first mortal wife. He also listed a few names of persons to be notified in the instance of his death. It was a very short list. It included a very wily Immortal, Cord's first teacher and an associate of the gunrunner Grayson. That didn't bode well. Grayson's associates tended to have long memories. Dawson unthinkingly reached for the phone, and arrested himself only after dialing the first five digits of MacLeod's phone number. MacLeod did not want to hear from Dawson about this nebulous Immortal threat. MacLeod did not want to hear from Dawson ever again. So be it. Dawson barely recognized his own voice as he called the cleanup crew chief to cancel Andrew Cord's local burial. Over the long course of the afternoon, he made the arrangements for Cord's body to be transported to Boston, the city where Cord had been raised, and first married, before the Civil War. He would be buried in the long held plot next to his first and only mortal wife. "Semper Fi," Cord whispered. ****** The bar had been closed for an hour. The pink neon sign was turned off. "Time to clear out, Mike," Dawson said as he sat on the darkened stage. He picked at his guitar, dissatisfied with the sound. He was having a hard time stringing three chords together. The sounds would trail away in vapid echoes of his locked-down feelings. Mike was malingering over the bar cleanup, sending Dawson the occasional pony beer and concerned look. The beers were welcome. The concerned looks were really beginning to tick Dawson off. Then Mike's head turned, his attention drawn to rear door. Dawson more than half expected it to be the cops again. He less than half hoped it might be Duncan MacLeod. It wasn't Duncan MacLeod. "Hey, Joe! What's going on, man? A Thursday night, and you're buttoned up like a biker bar on Mother's Day!" Richie Ryan. Wonderful. Dawson could not think of one damn word to say. His hands tightened on the guitar, pulling it closer, as if it would shield him from Richie's innocent well-meaning presence. He bent his concentration on a riff that had been evading him all evening, trying to ignore the interruption. Mike tried to shortstop the young Immortal with the old standby. "Sorry, we're closed," he warned softly. Some bouncer you are, Barrett, Dawson observed silently. Maybe tomorrow he'd head on down to the docks and hire a nice thug. Still oblivious, Richie leaned up against the bar and shed his leather jacket. "Yeah, right, like Joe ever locks the door before 2:00 am." Richie’s grin softened his youthful sarcasm. "Immortal Happy Hour, right Joe?" Mike flinched. Dawson sighed. Good thing Gleason hadn't hung around to hear _that_ pithy observation. Dawson's hand closed off the vibrating guitar strings on an ugly E flat. "Richie. You were supposed to be off racing motorcycles, somewhere." His voice was as flat as the chord. "Caught a break. Sponsor upgrade. They cut me loose for a few days while they work on the bike. Where's Mac? He's not at the dojo--thought I might catch him here." "No," Dawson said shortly. "He's not here." Dawson could almost see Richie vibrating with the long miles of road behind him. He ached to share some highway stories over a beer or three. Impossible, now. Again, Mike tried to step in. "This really isn't a good time, Richie," he said softly. "Mike, time for you to go,” Dawson said abruptly. Barrett had been covering for his sorry ass for too long. He was just too damn nice to be a Watcher. "Lock it up. I'll see to Richie." His tone brooked no debate. "Okay, Joe. You take care of yourself,” Mike said doubtfully. He left with the guilty air of a man walking away from a street accident. "You know, I'm getting some bad vibes here, Joe. You don't welcome me home, you don't buy me a beer... ," Richie cast a harder look around the shadowed bar. "The way you snapped at Mike, you'd think he'd been watering the scotch or something." It was clear from Richie's expression that the young Immortal was getting the idea that something bad had happened. Something very Not Good. "Let me buy you a beer,” Dawson offered automatically, but he didn't make a move to get down off the stage and pour. "Joe, what's wrong? Is it Mac? Is he all right?" Richie peered from the well lit bar to the darkened stage. "Relax, Richie. MacLeod is fine,” Dawson said formally. "If you didn't find him at home, he's probably at the Island." It gave Dawson a pang to realize that he didn't know. He hadn't been watching. Watching. "He took a Quickening?" Richie asked. "Yeah," Dawson agreed, turning his face further into the shadows. "He took a Quickening." Richie edged closer, clearly disturbed by the emptiness in Dawson's voice. "Joe, what's wrong? You look like you haven't slept in a week. You sure Mac's okay?" Dawson allowed Richie a ghost of a reassuring smile. "I'm sure. Mac's okay. Listen, Richie, MacLeod should be the one to tell you this, but--Charlie DeSalvo is dead." "Aw, no way!" Richie was shocked, and properly outraged. Dawson endured Richie Ryan's exclamations and denials, fending them off with small slices of truth. "A dishonest gunrunner killed Mara. Charlie chased him over here. He didn't know he was up against an Immortal. Charlie didn't know Immortals from Bruce Lee." Dawson drew a ragged breath. "I knew what Charlie was up against. I should have told him." "Why didn't Mac tell him?" Richie asked blankly, shocked. That stopped Dawson cold. "I don't know." Dawson ducked his head, studying the grain of the wood on his Gibson. "But Mac got the guy who did it,” Richie said with grim approval. "Cord. His name was Cord,” Dawson rocked slightly, cradling his guitar. "Time for you to go, now, Richie. MacLeod can fill you in, when he gets back. There's more, but you should hear it from him." Richie backed off slightly, obviously sensing the off note in Dawson's voice. "There's something else you aren't telling me." "Later, Richie," Dawson said, a growl of frustration curdling his even, unemotional words. "Ask MacLeod. Later. He'll tell you." "Tell me what?" Richie asked with the mixed impatience and forgiveness of youth. "I'm your friend too, Joe." Oh, that hurt. Dawson held. By a thread. By a guitar string. He didn't say it. _He'll tell you to stay the hell away from me. We are different. I crossed the line. You are Immortal._ Dawson ran a harsh hand along the strings from high on the frets down to the base of the guitar. It made a harsh noise, beyond the blues. It was not music. But Dawson couldn't bring himself to speak harshly to Richie. "Ask MacLeod. He'll tell you the truth." The words were soft, and truthful. "I trust you, Joe,” Richie said quietly, searching Dawson's face in the dim light. Richie didn't trust _anyone_ easily, Dawson realized. It was his best survival trait. "I'm sorry, Richie. I shouldn't be talking to you." Richie was MacLeod's student, a part of MacLeod's clan. MacLeod would consider that _way_ over the line. "You know the rules." "I don't care about the Watcher rules,” Richie said carelessly. "You and Mac break the rules all the time." Hell. Dawson was in his own personal Watcher Hell. "My mistake." Richie started at the pain and emotion thinly buried in Dawson's controlled voice. "I just thought you might like to talk. Like to a friend," he offered with awkward honesty. "Richie, it's late, and I'd _like_ to lock up," Dawson said sharply. Better to cut this off cleanly. Get back on the right side of the line. Or the wrong side. The _Watcher_ side. Just like MacLeod. Get Richie to walk away. Just walk away. "All right, already. I know when I'm not wanted,” Richie backed off. "Jees, what's your problem?" he grumbled defensively, as he left the bar, expecting no answer. He got none. Dawson had gotten what he wanted. He was alone. Dawson sat on the stage, staring into the empty bar. He carefully put aside his guitar. It sounded as stale as his beer tasted. There was no music in him tonight. Just whispers. Whispers of ghosts. "Semper Fi..." Finis