It wasn't the plane that made him queasy
It wasn't the plane that made him queasy. It wasn't the altitude. It wasn't the re-circulated air. It was that the seats were so small, and he was so cramped, and there was no way out. And they always turned the lights out on these over-night flights, which just reminded him all the more of bad foster home experiences. Richie sighed and shifted in his seat. Even in first-class, he was unbearably cramped. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm his claustrophobic nerves.
"Sir, are you alright?"
Richie jumped at the flight attendant's question.
"Yeah. Uh, actually, you know what?" he fished out his wallet, then credit card. "Get me the strongest drink you have. Two."
Minutes later, after downing both drinks in one go, Richie felt the alcohol do what breathing exercises couldn't. Two drinks more and he was calm enough that he could nap lightly the rest of the way to Germany.
When they landed, Connor led the way straight to the rental cars. They had packed all they needed in carry-on luggage. They weren't going to be here long. Richie couldn't remember ever getting out of an airport so quickly. But speed was important.
"Did you see anyone?" Connor asked as they weaved through city traffic.
Richie twisted around in his seat double checking for a familiar car or face. "No one, yet. How long until you think they notice we're gone?"
"It depends on how observant they are."
Richie settled into his seat and closed his eyes. This was it. By the end of the next day, he would know for sure if his dreams were nothing more than a hopeful subconscious or something more powerful.
Believe in yourself.
It's all in the files.
The two themes of his dreams for the last two years. There weren't nightly. They weren't weekly. There was no rhyme, reason, or pattern to them. He didn't get them when he was stressed. He didn't get them around special occasions or significant dates.
Over the years, he kept track as best he could of when the dreams occurred. He'd scoured ever sort of calendar, metaphysical charts, celestial diagram… anything he could get his hands on to explain what was happening to him. He had even toyed with going to a psychic, but after what happened to Tessa he couldn't bring himself to go near one.
"You're going to break it." Connor's voice interrupted his thoughts. Only then did he realize he was grasping the car door white knuckled.
"Sorry."
"Calm down. They won't even notice you."
Richie nodded and looked out the window as Germans and tourists alike rushed in out of the sudden down pour.
"Did you register for your classes?" Connor changed the subject.
"I arranged it so Rachel could do it for me. My date is while we're gone." Richie paused. "I actually wanted to talk to you about school."
"You're finishing. I don't care what degree you get. Just get one."
"I know, I know. I was just wondering if you had some time-line in mind."
"Take your time. As long as you're enrolled full time and have some idea of what you're doing, I don't care."
"Cool, 'cause Miss Wrigglesworth… did I tell you she was leaving?"
"Yes."
"Well, we were talking and she introduced me to Ms. Martin, who teaches history. And I'm going to do my volunteering with her next year."
"What does that have to do with you graduating?" Connor asked, on the verge of exasperation. He couldn't get used to Richie's rambling way of telling stories.
"They both thought I'd make a pretty good teacher," Richie finally got to the point. "If I start now, well this coming semester, it'd only add a semester of classes and then a year of student teaching. Ms. Martin has already offered to let me student teach under her when the time comes."
"Sounds like a good plan. If that's what you want, go for it."
There was no more conversation after that until, hunched over blue prints in their hotel room that night, Connor went over the plan again.
"Now, these are the blue prints on record with the officials," he explained. "They may have changed things around a bit, but with structures this old there isn't too much you can do but use the space as best you can. Study this. It's only one floor and a basement, it won't be hard to memorize."
Richie moved the desk lamp to better illuminate the drawings of the old church. It was a simple and traditional lay out: a large open area to worship surrounded by smaller rooms for clergy and a single space open basement.
"The only people there are researchers and librarians and you're young enough I doubt we need to worry about you being recognized. So just be calm and try to blend in."
Richie nodded as he tried to figure out how he would use the available space if he were storing thousands of years worth of files documenting people's lives. He'd just use a computer.
"Computers. Do we have passwords?"
"Try low tech first."
. . . . . .
"Don't mess with it, you'll smudge it," Connor warned as Richie examined the inked-on Watcher's tattoo. It looked exactly like Joe's. "Keep your sleeves down, act like you're used to it. Just follow the plan: get in, get what you need, get out."
Richie nodded and put the car in gear out side their hotel.
"See you when you get back. Not latter than noon, or I'm assuming something went wrong."
"Noon," Richie agreed.
Richie drove the narrow roads half his mind on driving, half on what he had to do when he got there. The Central Watcher's Records Storage, secret as it was, wasn't very hard to find if you knew what you were looking for. It was labeled "Private Property No Tours." Richie ignored the sign and started up the long driveway. There were no guards posted. It didn't even seem like anyone was there.
"Easy mark."
The door was even unlocked.
"Too easy."
Inside was a hodge podge of files, spilling out of shelves and drawers. He glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes.
"Noon. Yeah, right. I need a computer."
He looked around the entry and spotted exactly what he was hoping to find. He followed the retro-fitter power lines, examining the bundle until he found an Ethernet cable.
"Technology wins again."
He just hoped their computer security was a lax as their building security.
"Can I help you?" a thing woman looked up at Richie, a confused look on her face, from her seat on the floor surrounded by four foot high piles of file folders.
"Yeah, actually." Richie gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm on a real dead-line and I need to look up a couple files. I was hoping you had the computer system up?"
"You mean the database?"
"Please tell me it's up. The guys in Paris said it was up." He did his best to look desperate, not scared.
She shrugged and looked back down on the files in her lap. "The boys tend to fight over it, but you look like you could beat them if you had to. The stairs are in the back: straight a head on your left. Follow the beer smell. You can't miss it."
"Gee, thanks, you're really saving me here." He smiled at her broadly.
She smiled back and adjusted her glasses. "Glad to help."
Following her directions he easily found his way to the lone computer where "the boys" were working away on a two-player shoot 'em up game. He hovered behind them, waiting to be noticed. He watched them re-start the level twice before speaking up.
"Can you save? I have work to do."
They turned around. "Who the hell are you?" one of them demanded.
"Cole. Can I…" he gestured at the computer.
"Do you have clearance?" the second asked.
"No one said I needed clearance. This thing's barely put together."
The two gamers banded together against the interloper.
"Can't just let any ol' Joe go through our records."
Richie sighed and put his hands up. "You got me. I'm really an immortal here to get the info on my life-long enemy."
Just as he finished his sentence the sensation of an immortal washed over him. A third computer –guy came out of the shadows from behind the shelves.
"Now, boys, you're being rude," the new immortal said with an air of easy authority. "This kid came a long way on assignment. Don't play KGB with him." He turned to Richie. "I'll help you." Then to the other watchers: "Why don't you go practice your moves on Joany?"
Grumbling, the two got up and left. The strange immortal tapped a few keys and logged Richie into the International Watcher's Database.
"There you go."
Richie looked at him suspiciously. "That's it? You're just going to let me on?"
The immortal shrugged his narrow shoulders. "If you're good enough to get this far you may as well get your reward."
"Thanks." Still keeping an eye on the immortal, Richie sat down and ran a search.
"Sladkie, eh? Aren't you a little young to go after a guy like that on your own?"
"For all you know, I'm 5,000."
"If you were that old, you'd be looking for him under Arsenios."
Richie looked up sharply from the computer screen he was scanning. "What?"
"He's only gone by Sladkie for the last few centuries. Between identities he disappeared almost entirely. The Watcher's haven't quite put together they are the same person. Without photographs they probably never will."
"What?"
Rolling his eyes the immortal leaned over Richie and pulled up a new set of files. "I'll give you the cheat sheet." He sent the file to print.
"Why are you doing this for me?" Richie asked, suspiciously.
"I like to give the young ones a chance," he said. "Besides, if someone else could take care of Arsenios for me it would save me a whole lot of trouble."
"You got a beef with him, too?"
"He's killed a few of my friends over the years. You?"
"My teacher."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Thanks."
"Here," the immortal tore off nearly a whole ream of paper from the printer. "Take time with this one. Don't let your emotions get the best of you. You really do have all the time in the world to get your revenge."
"I'm Richie." He put out his hand.
The immortal smirked at him, eye brows raised, and shoved the papers into his hand. "Charmed."
"And you are…?"
"A friend worth making."
. . . . . .
Somewhere in New England
A bright light filled the usually pitch black concrete bunker. A shell of a man, nothing more than skin and bones, allowed his stringy, thick, dark hair to hang in his eyes to help block out the sudden light. He didn't bother to move as another man, a strong, broad, well muscled man, approached him. It wasn't worth it. The end was coming. It was only a matter of time before his captor grew tired of taunting him.
"Your cousin took the child to Germany," the broad man said. "Perhaps the elder MacLeod isn't as clueless as I imagined." A smile curled on his lips. "Or maybe it's that boy. It will be nice to hear their brilliant plan in person. Tell me, how long do you think the child will last before he tells me everything I want to know? Do you think he's as stubborn as you Scots pride yourself on being? Do you think he has the loyalty? I think he'll tell me anything I choose to beat out of him."
A gnarled, shriveled hand, fueled by adrenaline grabbed at his ankle.
"Leave him alone…"
