"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth."
-- The Bible, St John 3:8
Chapter 1
*25 May 1999. Paris, Le Blues Bar*
"Where the hell are you, Methos?" Joe asked aloud, picking out a random tune on his guitar. The bar had closed for the night, and everyone had gone home. Amy had just left, giving him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and an admonishment about not staying up too late. Joe smiled: his recently acknowledged fatherhood was a pleasant experience on the whole, but it was a bit disconcerting to have an adult daughter bullying him.
He missed his friends, though. Mac had been gone for six months now, and there was still no word from him. As for Methos - well, the last time he had seen Methos had been...
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*March 1999. Le Blues Bar*
The obnoxious businessman and his female companion had arrived only ten minutes earlier, and already Joe was annoyed with the man. He was American, obviously wealthy, from the looks of the Armani suit, and very condescending to his attractive blond companion. Girlfriend? Wife? Subordinate? Joe wondered, as she was also in a business suit. Her only contribution to the conversation consisted of an occasional 'yes, Brad, you're right', or a nod of the head to punctuate the non-stop verbiage from her companion.
'Brad' was declaiming at length and at top volume about how the 'deal of a lifetime' had been clinched, entirely due to his unpapralleled intelligence and negotiation skills, while *she* of course, had not the first idea about 'how things are done here in Paris'. His litany was drowning out the band, and several other patrons had shifted away from the bar with deeply annoyed expressions.
The man was obviously drunk, and getting worse, though so far, he had yet to do anything that would justify bouncing him. Joe contemplated calling Mike over to do it anyway. He smiled sympathetically at the pretty blond woman, which she seemed to appreciate.
"Why do the nice women end up with jerks?" Joe asked Irene, sotto voce, one of his waitresses, when she came to collect an order.
"Beats me, Joe," she replied, stealing a surreptitious look at the couple, before returning to serve a customer at the tables.
The jerk under discussion was perched on a stool right next to Methos, who was apparently absorbed in his beer. Joe wondered if the Immortal was really as oblivious as he appeared. He had been unusually quiet all evening, and the incessant flow of customers had kept Joe too busy to try and find out what was bothering his friend.
Brad's female companion excused herself to visit the ladies room, which brought a merciful lull in the monologue. Displeased with the loss of his captive audience, the American turned to look for alternative sources of amusement, leering suggestively at Irene, who was passing by. When she ignored him, he turned to Methos and said, "Nice piece of ass, huh?"
The lanky Immortal's only response was a indeterminate "Mphf."
Not to be discouraged, Brad persisted. "I'm Brad Davies. CEO of Davies Electronics? Maybe you've heard of me?"
Joe watched, fascinated, as Methos looked up, for it was as if someone had flipped a switch inside the man. He was all boyish charm as he responded with a friendly handshake, "The name seems familiar. Weren't you on the cover of Red Herring recently? I'm Adam Pierson."
"Yeah, my company went IPO last month, so there was quite a lot of publicity. You know how these press guys are, they never let you alone." He was preening quite obviously.
"Must be hard, dealing with the fame and fortune," Adam commented.
"Yeah, what can I say? You want success, you gotta take the pain that goes with it," Brad said, laughing at his own humour. "So, what do you do, Adam?"
"Oh, I'm an illusionist."
Joe's ears pricked up. Something interesting was in the wind.
"Really? Like on stage, and everything? The hand is quicker than the eye?"
"Something like that," Adam agreed. "I make things disappear, and so on."
"No kidding. Much money in that?" He looked over the thin man's baggy sweater and worn jeans with a barely concealed sneer.
"Not very much," Adam admitted. "We can't all be David Copperfield, I suppose."
"Guess not. So, what kind of tricks do you do?"
"Let me show you." He looked around, then grabbed a napkin off an adjoining table. "May I borrow your watch?"
Brad obligingly took off the expensive gold Rolex he was wearing and handed it to Adam, who whistled in appreciation.
"Very nice." He wrapped the watch carefully in the napkin, and placed it on the bar. "I'm going to need a hammer -- Joe, do you have a hammer?"
The fascinated Watcher produced one from under the bar; Methos knew very well it was there, since he had used it the previous day helping Joe hang up a picture.
"Thank you. Now then-- you do trust me, don't you, Brad?"
"Sure I trust ya," was the semi-drunk endorsement. Brad grinned around, inviting the growing audience to join in the fun. The band was taking a break, and many of the curious patrons were watching the little side show. Joe grinned back at Brad, for entirely different reasons.
Adam made a couple of dramatic passes over the folded napkin, and then brought the hammer down hard, resulting in a very audible bang-smash-tinkle sound. He raised the cloth with a flourish to reveal what looked like the remains of a very expensive watch.
Brad stared at this unexpected sight, and looked up, growing red with anger. "You broke it!"
"Did I? Then what's that on your wrist?"
Everyone quickly looked, to find that the Rolex was back on his wrist, intact. That was a round of oohs, laughter, and a scattering of applause. Adam smiled and took a brief bow.
"That was great! How did you do that?"
Yeah, how did he do that, Joe wondered.
"Just a trick," Adam disclaimed, with a shrug. The band resumed playing, and the people standing around dispersed back to their tables.
The blonde woman returned, and Brad turned to her, still grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, Alice, you just missed this neat trick." He turned back to the 'illusionist'.
"Can you show me how to do that?"
"Certainly." Passing Davies the napkin, Adam proceeded to reel off instructions. "Yes, you fold it under like that, and place it on the bar. Now you wave your hands over it -- yes, very good, exactly like that. Now you take the hammer, and…"
Brad enthusiastically smashed the heavy tool down on the folded bundle. The smashing sound was identical to the earlier one. The would-be illusionist removed the napkin with a flourish, revealing a mess of springs, metal parts, and glass.
"How about that, huh?" he said, sounding very pleased with himself.
Alice looked puzzled. "You broke your watch!"
"That's what you think!" Brad laughed, winking at Joe. "Look," he said, extending his hand. When her expression of puzzlement didn't waver, he looked down himself to see that his wrist was bare. He stared, then looked at back the pile of junk on the bar. Frantically, he pawed through the remnants, and realization dawned. "That wasn't the way it happened last time!"
"How very odd," Adam remarked. "It always seems to work for me."
Alice burst out laughing, and Joe joined in, unable to help himself, as he watched the disbelief on Davies' face.
"Hey!" Brad turned to Adam, a very ugly expression growing on his face. "You broke my watch!"
"No, you broke your watch." The baritone voice was cool, even amused.
Then the drunk American made an even worse mistake. He threw a wild punch at the man who had just made a fool of him. Adam ducked, and a quick nudge sent the other man, already off balance from the missed swing, crashing off the stool and on to the ground. He didn't get up. The combination of the drinks and the impact of the hard floor left him unconscious.
Mike bent down to check and confirmed his status, "Out like a light." He was grinning, and so were Joe, Irene, and a good many of the spectators.
In a few minutes, the matter was efficiently wrapped up, the blissfully unaware Mr.Davies was 'helped' into a cab, and his companion had also left with a broad smile and 'thank you' to Joe.
The Watcher came back to resume his place behind the bar, shaking his head. "You are something else, you know that?" he commented, waving a mock admonitory finger in his friend's face.
Adam smiled impishly at him, putting on what Joe privately thought of as his "choirboy" look. "Me?" he said, sounding injured. "You've got customers waiting, Joe."
Dawson gave him a 'later for you' glare, and went back to work. Much later in the evening, the last customers had filed out, and the band was packing up, when Joe finally found the time to talk to Methos again.
"Hey Adam," he called cheerfully. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve? Like, something that would help with these dirty glasses?"
"Sorry Joe, can't help."
"What, I thought you could make things disappear!" he said derisively.
"Yeah." The impish expression was back. "First, I'm going to make this drink disappear," and he promptly did so, chugging it down in a single toss. "And next," he continued, getting up and putting the empty glass down, "I am going to disappear." He walked to the door. "Now you see me..." he stepped out, and then ducked his head back in briefly through the entrance, "... now you don't." And he was gone.
Like the Cheshire cat, Joe thought whimsically. The grin fades out last.
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On that characteristically abrupt note, Methos had vanished, apparently into thin air. The Watchers had been stunned, having been lulled into a sense of security by Adam Pierson/Methos' apparent acceptance of his permanent tail. He had been in the habit of waving nonchalantly at the Watcher assigned to him, Timothy Wyatt. He had even bought him a drink once, at Le Blues Bar. Or rather, Joe corrected ruefully, he had added Tim's drink to his own already astronomically high unpaid tab.
Why do you keep doing this to me, Methos? It seems that just as I get used to having you around, you up and go AWOL.
The last time this had happened, Joe had been extremely upset. It was in the aftermath of Richie's death. In those first terrible moments, Methos had held him, let him cry helplessly into a wool-clad shoulder, as Dawson tried to accept the enormity of what had just happened. MacLeod had walked out, unable to deal with the horrible reality -- Richie dead, by Duncan's own hand. Methos had helped Joe with the funeral arrangements, unnaturally calm in the face of Joe's own nearly uncontrollable grief. And then, he too had left, without a word. Joe had felt completely abandoned and alone.
The older Immortal had returned, months later, as if nothing were amiss. Joe still recalled his conflicting emotions at the memory of that moment. His first reaction had been relief that Methos was alive, and he was back. The second was anger and a strong sense of irritation, because Methos was apparently back merely to do an illicit search of the Watcher database.
Later, after harsh words spoken on both sides, Methos had saved Joe's life and rescued his daughter Amy. Proving to Joe yet again that this enigmatic man would go to great lengths to help his friends, belying all his cynical assertions of unleavened self-interest.
And where are you now, Methos? What are you doing, and when are you going to just pop back into my life?