Disclaimer: Methos, Duncan, Joe and the other characters from Highlander:
The Series, belong to Davis/Panzer. I do not make any money. At least,
not for this. Sher is mine. Pantheona stays in my basement and chews on
her own leg. Sorry bout that. Natasha is mine, but I don't like it.
This is slash and icky stuff. Be warned for violence and language. Ouchie poo.
Thanks to my quickie betas, Dana and Alice, without whom this would be scarier than it is, and not for content. Thanks to Chuck, who reads and whines.
----------------------------------
Tongues of Angels
by Amand-r
---------------------------------
PART THREE: FISTULA
I want your hand across my belly I want your breasts against my back I want your pain to rip right through me I am your death you are my wrath. --Sophie B. Hawkins, "32 Lines"
FEBRUARY, 2002:
Pantheona grasped the sides of her stomach and vomited. Methos decided he wouldn't mind so much if it weren't so damned messy. He reached for another towel and wiped at the sides of her face as she stared at him dumbly.
"Well," he muttered in a light tone. "A little sick are we?" She smiled and showed teeth. "I'll take that as a sign that you're alright," he sighed. Pantheona wouldn't have much to say. She didn't know any English, or much of anything else. At least, that's what he had gathered. She hadn't said a word since she stumbled in the door three weeks ago.
Mac had been reluctant to let her in, but he seemed relieved that Pantheona was actually a person, and one that Methos hadn't been sexually involved with. Methos was aware that Duncan had been obsessing about his disappearances. His departure in October had only cemented the Highlander's suspicions that Methos was involved with someone else.
Methos chuckled. If he only knew.
He helped Pantheona stand and escorted her back into the loft living area. Duncan was rolling the lift gate up, coming back from his morning run. Methos made a face that told him everything that had happened so far that morning. The Scot skirted clear of Pantheona and opened the fridge, tossing Methos the bottle of Pepto Bismol. Methos poured a little bit into a cup and held it out to the girl.
"Drink, kiddo."
Pantheona knew the routine; she sipped the small amount of liquid from the plastic cup and grinned beautifically, then flung herself down onto the couch, splaying her arms and legs. Her little body was encased in a lacy pink flannel nightgown, sock feet sticking out to touch the floor. Methos rinsed the cup out and replaced the bottle in the fridge.
Duncan poured himself a glass of juice and leaned on the counter, watching Pantheona make gestures in the air and sing to herself. He curled one arm around Methos's waist and pulled the other immortal close to him.
"How is her highness today?" he murmured into Methos's ear. The other Immortal pushed away from him and wrinkled his nose.
"The same. You smell really bad."
Mac grinned, and for a second, Methos wished he hadn't said it. "I try." He finished his juice and let go of Methos entirely, pulling his sweatshirt off and heading to the bathroom. "Whose turn is it for bath duty?"
Methos winced. Mac had been blessedly good about this whole thing. Pantheona was a burden, and the Highlander had taken it on as if she was an invited guest in their house instead of a vagabond that had washed up on the beach outside of their cottage in Santorini. He had bought her a ticket back to Seacouver, and they had bundled her up and taken her with them. Methos had slept with her on the couch until Duncan suggested that the two of them have the bed.
"Yours," he said absently, staring at the girl on the couch. Pantheona had taken off one sock and was biting her toenails. No wonder she was sick. Damn.
He heard Mac start to run the bath, and Pantheona's eyes widened. She made eye contact, freezing. He didn't move. This was the morning ritual. Bathtime was more like some sort of sporting event that should show up in the next summer Olympics. //Right up there with alligator wrestling and bunjee jumping.// She tensed, and her hands flexed, but she betrayed herself by looking towards the door. Methos shook his head.
"No." She seemed to understand that word. Her comprehension didn't help. She bolted over the back of the couch and made for the lift, hair flying behind her like a demented cape. Methos dove over the counter in the kitchen. He'd never get her.
Mac tackled her from the bathroom, slamming into her waist and encircling her. The two fell to the ground, and Pantheona let out a screech that could have shattered glass. She kicked and spit as Duncan raised them both to a standing position. Then she went limp in his arms. He dragged her into the steaming bathroom, Methos following behind.
"I think we should try a shower," Mac told him absently. "I mean, everyone's going to get wet here, and we could close the doors and save the floor." He didn't let go of Pantheona until Methos had locked the door firmly and turned around.
When he did let go, she rammed into Methos head first, knocking the wind out of him and slamming them both into the door. He struggled with her hands while Duncan finished undressing. He left his boxers on and turned the bath to a shower. Methos sighed. Here they all went again.
Pantheona was a mess. Her hair was filthy from being sick, and her face was grimy from the chocolate cake they had foolishly let her have last night. Her fingernails were caked with it and whatever she'd been doing with the crayons this morning. Before she'd decided to eat them.
Mac held her arms while Methos unbuttoned the nightgown and tried to take the remaining sock off. Pantheona became limp again, so they set her on the toilet seat and he pried them off her feet, the stiffened right angles that they were. Lord, children weren't this difficult. He removed his own sweats and tested the water.
"On the count of three," he said in a mild voice, as if he were discussing the weather, or the stock reports. Mac didn't reply, but he knew he'd been heard. "One," he sang. "Two......three." He reached and grabbed Pantheona's feet and they dragged her into the shower, wailing as if she were being doused in acid. "For God's sake!" he screamed. "Pantheona! Stop!" He wrapped his arms about her shoulders and held her while Mac busied himself with shampoo.
It was a chore, and a two person one at that, to clean a woman who was only five three. //Call Guinness, this *has* to be some sort of perverted record.// One to hold, the other to clean. And clean her they did. Hair and face were always first. There had been occasions where it had been smart to cut the cleaning session short. This time it was a full body wash. Yesterday and the day before Pantheona had vetoed any other cleaning.
Duncan massaged her head, and her eyes seemed to lid over for a second. It was as if she was starting to cave. Methos let go, and she shot forward towards the side of the sliding door. Duncan snorted and caught her square in the chest with the flat of his hand, shaking his head. She backed away. Methos grunted. She listened to him. Why was that?
He took the time to peruse his lover as he washed Pantheona's feet and calves. The muscles on Duncan's back writhed as he worked. The hair at the nape of his neck curled and plastered itself to the dark skin. Methos could see his own legs in comparison with Pantheona's olive complexion. They were both still tanned from their time on Santorini. He heaved a sigh, and both of the occupants of the shower looked at him. He shrugged and tightened his hold on her shoulders, and Pantheona mirrored his sigh. The hot water beat down on both of their backs.
He leaned against the stall wall, and closed his eyes.
...Pantheona's arrival had been so swift; he hadn't even had time to contemplate it. She had come out of the water, a drowned thing, covered in seaweed, and choking. He and Mac had been walking along the shore that morning, talking, thinking of going down to the village and having lunch, when they had heard her wail, high-pitched, like that of a baby.
He had frozen. Mac had charged head towards the immobile form. Methos had known in his heart what it was that lay ahead of them.
"She's alive!" Mac had called over his shoulder, kneeling down to untangle some of the seaweed from her throat. Methos stood back and shook.
"Don't touch her."
"Methos, she's choking--"
"GET AWAY FROM HER!"
The volume of his voice had been enough to make the Highlander second-guess his actions. He jolted back from the body, leaving Methos to crouch down beside the still form and reach for her throat. She had still been partly formed. If he had stabbed her at that moment, she would have died, and nothing could happen to him. Or could it?
Pantheona had opened her eyes and smiled.
And he had known that it was over...
Now, Mac dutifully washed in between Pantheona's legs and up over the swells of her small breasts like an orderly, staring at Methos. He smiled. Pantheona cooed to herself, then let out a sharp yell as he tried to turn her to wash her back.
"Oh, live with it, Thee," Duncan muttered, as he would to a dog or small child. That earned him a dirty look from his captive bather. Methos suppressed a laugh.
When she was clean, and they were all clean, the shower was turned off and they toweled her down and let her go. Pantheona wandered the loft clutching the towel around her, picking up random objects and talking to herself in singsong.
"Was it my imagination, or was that easier than a bathtub?" Duncan whispered in his ear from behind. Methos sagged against the weight behind him. He was so grateful for the Highlander's assistance, and at the same time, he couldn't help but think that if Mac hadn't been there that morning on the beach, this whole thing might have been circumvented. Methos needed to watch her now; it wasn't a matter of dumping her off in a psych ward. Nothing would ever be that easy. Not with her.
Pantheona seemed to sense his thoughts, and turned her brown eyes on him. They were the color of dried blood.
***********
LONDON, 2012:
Methos woke in a cold sweat. Something had been choking him. In his head, he could still feel the echo of something, something. He tossed back the blankets and rolled from the bed, skipping any robe and instead choosing to get dressed.
The moon spilled in through the bottom of the venetian blind; the clock blinked twelve midnight because no one had bothered to reset it.
He opened his dresser drawer and removed a key from one of the bundles of white socks in the back. Then he dug under the bed until he found the box he wanted and carried it out into the kitchen.
The kitchenette was far enough away from the bedroom that he wouldn't wake anyone. He poured himself a brandy and settled in one of their little ergonomic chairs and placed the box on the table.
For a long time, all he did was stare at it. It was a lacquered thing, tooled with gold and painted in the design of the Celtic knot. It had been a gift from someone; he didn't even remember who, but the lock was fairly unique. He placed the key in and turned, then knocked the lid back to remove it.
Then all he did was stare at the photo on the top. Duncan held Pantheona, arms around her waist. The girl looked distracted; her head was turned and she was staring at something far away from them. She probably hadn't even known what Methos was doing when he took the picture. That is, until the flash had gone off. Then she had screamed.
He fingered the photo. Pantheona glowed as if she were lit. And she had been. They had given her wine with dinner, and she had been tipsy by the time they were finished. //It's like giving beer to a dog, and watching them stagger around,// he thought to himself, slightly amused by the analogy. They had fed her cake, and she had been sick as usual in the morning, but who knew if she had had a hangover.
Pantheona had been so easy to control in those days, no one but Methos would have guessed what was lurking behind those big velvet eyes. Duncan had even started to buy her gifts and take her to the park, where she chased the ducks and tried to play with every dog that they crossed.
Joe had not been in any of his usual places for a month or two, and Methos had been worried. He had messengered that he would be staying in Greece for a while, but didn't disclose any information about what was going on. He had assured them that he would be returning soon.
He never came, and by the time he got there, Pantheona had grown up.
Methos tossed the picture aside, and reached for another. This was the one that had led to their current arrangement. Sher on horseback. He cocked his head and studied her frame. There was no hint of damage on her here; her own ordeals with becoming immortal had finally been reconciled. She leaned down onto the horse's back and wrapped her arms about its neck, laying her head on its shoulder.
He smiled. She was always there, his Sher. And now?
//Would that all of our transitions to immortality were so easily dismissed,// he mused, glancing back at the first picture.
There was a noise from the bedroom, and he shoved the pictures back into the box and slipped it in the cupboard. Peter Laurent knew nothing of the Watchers per se, so it wouldn't do for her to find pictures of Duncan in his possession. Natasha stumbled out of the bedroom, wiping her eyes with balled fists.
"What time is it?" she mumbled.
"I don't know. Too early for you to be up. Go back to bed." He tried not to be snippy, but his own voice sounded too clipped, too menacing.
She noticed it too. "Bad dreams?" Her hands went to his shoulders, kneading. For a second he pretended they were someone else's. But it was impossible; they were too small, too delicate.
For once, he was happy to be able to tell her the truth. "Yes, bad dreams."
She nestled her face in the back of his neck and breathed. The warm gust tickled him. "I'm sorry. Anything you want to talk about?"
Methos closed his eyes and reached a hand up to clasp hers. He thought of Pantheona, and Duncan. He slipped the key into the small ledge under the edge of the table. "No. Not really."
"Come to bed. It's too cold out here."
//Cold. Cold slows her down.// Methos took a swift intake of breath and nodded his head.
"Bed it is."
It was on the way back to the bedroom that an icy chill caught his throat, and he remembered.
'oinev, sohtem, mus arret bus....Methos, I come, I am under the earth..."
**********
MONTANA:
Sher and Cassandra shared the silence of the farmhouse as if it was the last thing they possessed. Time was jealous and rolled past slower than normal, making then hunt to find things to say, things to do.
Sher finished setting up the clips for the nine millimeters, and placed the last one on the table in front of her, staring at it intently. Cassandra glared at her. Sher had purposefully set about this chore in front of the witch just to piss her off. It had seemed to work.
"You do these things to irritate me," Cassandra sang mildly, turning the pages in one of Sher's journal logs of Pantheona. Sher simply slid a new clip into the gun and drove it home. She leaned back on two chair legs and opened one of the curio drawers, removing a Casull and night scope.
The Casull was a big gun. It only had room for five bullets, and it was guaranteed to make a large hole in anything. Sher had seen it in the movie Alien Nation, and had ordered one immediately. She had only used it once, and the recoil had sent her three feet back into a concrete wall, and broken her wrist.
Not the most practical gun, but damn, it was pretty. Cassandra's eyes widened. "What the hell are you planning to do with that?"
Sher smiled. "Look for bear?" She shrugged. "How else do you think I get meat around here?" When Cassandra made a face, she winked.
"It's a dubiously pleasant thing to see you haven't lost your macabre sense of humor," she muttered as she returned to the book.
Sher plunked the gun down on the table and returned to the coffeepot. "What, did you think it had gone the way of the finger?" She wiggled her four-digit hand and smirked. Cassandra hated looking at that hand. Sher sensed that it had less to do with the actual hand itself, and more with the thought that her finger had passed through Duncan's innards. Still, any leverage was good leverage these days.
Cassandra was driving her mad. She followed her everywhere; into the barn, down to the cell, into the computer room, back to the house. She accompanied her out to chop firewood. Sher thought to get another axe in the next air shipment and make her pull her own weight.
Sher refused to leave her alone with Pantheona. The last time she had left anyone with the creature alone, Amanda had tripped security and released her. That had been a hoot.
Of course, Duncan hadn't gotten far. Sher had filled him with a few rounds from a long distance .44 and that had been that. Amanda had gotten away, but Sher had decided to set the ground sensors for height instead of mass. Amanda and some deer weighed the same. Not that it could keep her out for long, but with that much wildlife out there, Sher was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Cassandra, she sensed, had no intentions of releasing Pantheona. Instead, she used her voice to make Duncan come to the cell wall. Sher watched her reach out to Duncan, attempting to touch him through the mass that was Pantheona.
She wasn't going to tell the witch not to do her little hocus pocus. With any luck, she had figured that out this morning when Duncan had pulled her arm out of the socket and had almost succeeded in ripping it off entirely. Cassie was still sore about that. Sher choked down a few 'bludgeoning by arm' jokes and instead brought them both a warm refill.
Cass shivered. "I could use a shower."
Sher snorted. "You want to go down to the barn? I can spray you with Pantheona's firehose."
Cass shot her a dirty look. "I still don't see why you don't bother to heat this house with the generators. I haven't had to heat bathwater in a long time."
Sher nodded and acquiesced to the small talk. "There's no duct work in the house for heat. And do you know how much electricity it takes to heat something?" She shook her head. "I'll stay with the woodstoves and save the big power for the barn." She raised an eyebrow and scrolled her hand with the gun in it. "Overkill prevents overkill."
Cass shrugged. "I was just thinking, that all this money, and you--"
Sher sighed, and rolled her eyes. "Booooooring. Do I tell you how to do that wicky voice box thing? Anyone ever told you that you sound like Darth Vader when you do that?"
A lie, but it served its point. "Fine. You do your job, and I'll do mine."
Sher cocked her head and examined her nails. "The funny thing about that statement is the phrase, 'your job'. As in you, Cass. Your job is...?"
The woman sighed and shut the book she held in her hands. "Joe sent me."
Sher tilted her head back. "Ah." Cass rose and put another log on the fire. Sher watched her with slitted eyes. "Has he found Methos yet?" The other woman turned to her, face blank. That look said it all. "No," she answered for her. "Well then, what, pray tell, are you doing here?"
Cassandra returned to her seat and picked up her mug, curling her hands around it as if to leech every last bit of warmth from the ceramic. "He seems to think it might be prudent to have two of us here. I have to agree, though things would go a bit more smoothly if you were more cooperative."
Sher landed her chair back onto four feet and laid her chin on the table. "Why? I'm fine. The bitch is still alive. Although I do miss a good game of Canasta." She blinked wide eyes in Cassandra's direction. The witch smiled.
"Shall I call you the fingerless wonder?" she parried, her face venomously sweet.
Sher laughed. "Now we're getting somewhere. I, the fingerless wonder, and you, wicky Darth Vader voice, shall conquer Pantheona and drive her from the face of the earth."
Cass shrugged. "That was the idea." She opened the book again. "What has he been saying?"
"Latin," Sher answered. "Backwards. She loves a good mystery. The usual threats, crying, asking for Methos, et ce-trah, et ce-trah, et ce-trah," Sher finished in her best Yul Brenner voice.
Cassandra didn't look up at her. "Sounds to me like she knows more than she is letting on. Do you think she got that from Duncan?"
Sher shrugged and scraped at her palm with a small paring knife. "It's anyone's guess. I have no idea what she was like before, so I'm not the one to ask." She rolled her eyes. "See, the one to ask is Methos, who you were supposed to bring *with* you, but I guess you forgot about that--"
"Child, hush," Cassandra chided, her face soft and strained at the same. Sher decided to obey the stentorian image and shut her mouth. "I was just wondering how difficult it will be to separate them. If they can be separated. If he's in there at all." She frowned again, and returned her gaze to the fire for a second.
"I don't suppose you've given any thought to what that might do to us, to all of us, have you?" Sher mused, trying not to make another smart-ass remark.
Cassandra was less than pleased with that idea. "Sometimes saving one is more important than a whole."
Sher couldn't help it. "How very James Tiberius Kirk of you. I prefer the whole Spock theory." She sniffed and peeled a callus from the pad of her hand, flicking it in the fire. "You ever read the Bible?"
The other woman looked up then, eyes hooded and cautious. "No," she replied. "There didn't seem to be any point--"
"Matthew, Chapter eight. Jesus meets two demon possessed men coming from the tombs." Sher lifted a book from the stack and opened it, scanning and turning pages. "They were so violent that no one could pass that way." She found the passage she wanted and traced it with her finger. "'Suddenly they shouted, "What have you to do with us, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?" Now a large herd of swine was feeding at some distance from them.'"
Sher glanced up to see if Cass had figured out what she was pointing to. The woman's eyes glittered with something dark. She continued.
"'The demons begged him, "If you cast us out, send us into the herd of swine." And he said to them, "Go!" So they came out and entered the swine; and suddenly, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and perished in the water.'"
The two women stared at each other over the table. If she concentrated, Sher could almost hear Pantheona purring to herself in the ground.
********
LONDON, THE NEXT DAY:
Methos checked his two duffel bags in to the airline, and clutched his carry-on to his chest. He would have to move quickly in order to catch the plane, but he could do it. He ran to the gate and threw his ticket to the flight attendant, hurtling down the tubing that led to the innards of the plane like an umbilical that could ensconce him back into the womb. And that is what this would do-- take him far far away, safe, where he could duck his head again.
It wasn't escaping. It wasn't desertion. He had told Tasha that he was going away on business. It was only natural that anthropologists go to Kenya every once in a while, even if the plane was bound for Hong Kong. He collapsed into a seat and pondered that the plane would take him farther from everyone, and that was just fine with him.
In the nick of time too. Dawson was on his way to London. He had arranged to have dinner with Tasha and Peter that evening. Methos had scribbled a note and left it on the fridge, then called Natasha's answering service and told her what was going on. He had scrupulously hidden the framed photo of the two of them, and --
Shit.
He had left the box and the key. Methos looked around frantically. There was no way in hell he was getting off this plane. The flight attendant had already closed the door, and if he went back for it now, he might very well run into Joe on the way home.
Methos gritted his teeth and fastened his seatbelt. He didn't know why he was worried. Tasha was rarely home for long periods at a time, and why ever would she open the box? It wasn't as if she had something to be suspicious of. No, the box could stay where it was. It was in the cupboard with the cooking pans. Tasha hadn't ever cooked anything in that kitchen. She was a take out girl.
Methos hadn't intended to get involved with a Watcher, but it had been so damned convenient. He had long since erased all photos of Adam Pierson from Watcher directories and databases, and although they had figured out that Pierson was Methos, they never had any pics of him in the Methos files. It had been too easy.
They had met incidentally in a taxi, and he, in need of some companionship, had followed her home. She had taken a shining to him, and four years to the day of their initial cab ride, he had proposed. The wedding wasn't set. Methos wasn't sure if would ever be. It didn't matter.
He had known she was a Watcher. The tattoo had been replaced in the past five years by a bracelet that was welded around the wrist, since the mark had proven itself too easy to mimic. They used retinal scans for everything, and there was no getting into the Headquarters building. Amanda's days of B and E were over with.
Then Tasha had taken to saying Pantheona in her sleep. Once or twice, and he had pressed her on it. He had whispered in her ear, suggestions, hints. If she could bring him some of the Chronicles, then maybe...
But Tasha never brought her work home with her. Not one scrap. She worked late if she needed to, but the girl stuck closer to the Watcher oath than a child on the first level of moral reasoning- rules were there to be obeyed no matter what. No, she was not a 'bend in the wind' kind of girl.
Methos stayed away from Dawson as if they would implode if they got within three yards of each other. Joe hadn't forgiven him for what had happened, and he hadn't forgiven Joe for Alexa.
Alexa. If he called her name, she might come back. They all came back. What was that phrase from that wretched horror movie?
//Death is only the beginning.//
*******
PARIS:
Amanda stirred the olive in her martini and pondered the pulsing lights of The Sanctuary. She was bored. She'd had the club for over ten years, and while she was rarely here, it was an investment. The Sanctuary had kept up with the times, but strobelights, she mused, were always in fashion. It made her head hurt. She hoped her appointment showed soon.
No one was ever around anymore. Liam was gone, as was Nick. He had settled in with a young bride to ignore Immortality as long as he could. She sighed. Some lessons couldn't be taught, only learned through experience, no matter how it hurt to watch from the sidelines.
Methos and Duncan had seemed to make a promising couple there for a while, and then--
She told herself not to go there. Everyone seemed to have disappeared these days. Amanda had taken to ignoring Joe. It was depressing to be around mortals, especially the older ones. She never returned his emails and phone messages.
She checked her watch. He appointment was at seven, and it was now seven- thirty. Amanda did *not* like being stood up. Bennie had assured her that this guy dripped money, and she did like that, however. She crossed her legs and wished the lights to go away. She needed some down time. This was not the place to get it.
With not that many people to play with as there used to be, Amanda had turned her sights on other distractions. It had been so easy to slip back into being a thief, one of the highest paid on the planet. That was nice. And creative too. No more Cartier, very few Louvre jobs. This was the big time, like cops and robbers. Government installations, munitions factories, once in the Emperor of Japan's private country house. She grinned. *That* had been fun. Duncan would have killed her, but--
//Don't go there.//
There was something about the rush, like when she and Cory Raines used to rob banks. Of course, this didn't have many bullets, so far. She was hoping to keep it that way.
She threw a ten to the bartender and leaned over to pick up her coat. So much for big business tonight. Maybe she'd hop a plane down to the Bahamas and see what was what. Nice, warm weather.
A hand on her shoulder stopped her, and she turned. This was an interesting change. What greeted her was an older man, mid-forties, graying, but polished, in a pre Grecian 44 sort of way. He had fabulous teeth. She gave him her best sexy business smile and extended her hand.
"I assume you are looking for me?" The man took her hand and shook it. His hands were feverishly warm. Well, it was hot in here.
"That depends on who you are," Amanda purred, smoothing a stray curl behind her ear. The man took the stool next to her and waved the bartender away.
"I am looking for Amanda Montrose. You have to be her. Benjamin Staley told me that she was one of the most fuckable woman on the planet." The man shrugged. "His words, but I did manage to find you fairly easily."
Amanda grinned. She could play this card. "Bennie has a way with words. Drink?"
The man shook his head. "No thank you. It's bad for my constitution."
She triggered the bartender to take her glass. "Then it's on to business, is it, Mr...?"
Her companion smiled. "I'm sorry, it's Forman, Gerry Forman." He accepted her hand and raised it to his lips for a second. His bracelet flashed in the strobe lights.
"Gerry," Amanda rolled the word on her tongue. "Lovely, Gerry. Now," she leaned in closer to him. He smelled like metal and stale air. "What do you need?"
Gerry pulled pictures out of a manila folder and slid them over to her. She kept his gaze. Sometimes looking at the picture committed one to the job, and she never committed to jobs blindly. Last time she had, she'd had to steal three Sharpei dogs from a Dutch Princess in the Netherlands. Her leather boots were damaged beyond repair.
"I am interested in how good you are with lockdown facilities," he started.
That cinched it for her. "I don't do prisons," she replied sweetly. "Chances are whoever is in there is there for a reason. Sorry." She gathered her coat into her arms, feeling the weight of the sword.
Gerry shook his head and gestured for her to be silent. "Please, it is not a prison. There's no harm in looking at a few aerial shots, is there?" He smiled. "No commitment."
Amanda slid all the way back on top the stool and touched the tips of her fingers to the edge of the first shot. It was an aerial of a snow-covered house, she thought, and a hundred yards from it, another structure. The snow hid a lot.
She didn't need to see any more.
"Just one man, I'm looking for. My client wants one man."
Amanda flipped to the next photo; there was a closer shot of the forest area. Someone from a top angle. It was difficult to figure the gender, but she knew, as Gerry continued.
"One guard, computer systems, that's it." He paused. "We're looking for a man named Duncan MacLeod..."
end of three
This is slash and icky stuff. Be warned for violence and language. Ouchie poo.
Thanks to my quickie betas, Dana and Alice, without whom this would be scarier than it is, and not for content. Thanks to Chuck, who reads and whines.
----------------------------------
Tongues of Angels
by Amand-r
---------------------------------
PART THREE: FISTULA
I want your hand across my belly I want your breasts against my back I want your pain to rip right through me I am your death you are my wrath. --Sophie B. Hawkins, "32 Lines"
FEBRUARY, 2002:
Pantheona grasped the sides of her stomach and vomited. Methos decided he wouldn't mind so much if it weren't so damned messy. He reached for another towel and wiped at the sides of her face as she stared at him dumbly.
"Well," he muttered in a light tone. "A little sick are we?" She smiled and showed teeth. "I'll take that as a sign that you're alright," he sighed. Pantheona wouldn't have much to say. She didn't know any English, or much of anything else. At least, that's what he had gathered. She hadn't said a word since she stumbled in the door three weeks ago.
Mac had been reluctant to let her in, but he seemed relieved that Pantheona was actually a person, and one that Methos hadn't been sexually involved with. Methos was aware that Duncan had been obsessing about his disappearances. His departure in October had only cemented the Highlander's suspicions that Methos was involved with someone else.
Methos chuckled. If he only knew.
He helped Pantheona stand and escorted her back into the loft living area. Duncan was rolling the lift gate up, coming back from his morning run. Methos made a face that told him everything that had happened so far that morning. The Scot skirted clear of Pantheona and opened the fridge, tossing Methos the bottle of Pepto Bismol. Methos poured a little bit into a cup and held it out to the girl.
"Drink, kiddo."
Pantheona knew the routine; she sipped the small amount of liquid from the plastic cup and grinned beautifically, then flung herself down onto the couch, splaying her arms and legs. Her little body was encased in a lacy pink flannel nightgown, sock feet sticking out to touch the floor. Methos rinsed the cup out and replaced the bottle in the fridge.
Duncan poured himself a glass of juice and leaned on the counter, watching Pantheona make gestures in the air and sing to herself. He curled one arm around Methos's waist and pulled the other immortal close to him.
"How is her highness today?" he murmured into Methos's ear. The other Immortal pushed away from him and wrinkled his nose.
"The same. You smell really bad."
Mac grinned, and for a second, Methos wished he hadn't said it. "I try." He finished his juice and let go of Methos entirely, pulling his sweatshirt off and heading to the bathroom. "Whose turn is it for bath duty?"
Methos winced. Mac had been blessedly good about this whole thing. Pantheona was a burden, and the Highlander had taken it on as if she was an invited guest in their house instead of a vagabond that had washed up on the beach outside of their cottage in Santorini. He had bought her a ticket back to Seacouver, and they had bundled her up and taken her with them. Methos had slept with her on the couch until Duncan suggested that the two of them have the bed.
"Yours," he said absently, staring at the girl on the couch. Pantheona had taken off one sock and was biting her toenails. No wonder she was sick. Damn.
He heard Mac start to run the bath, and Pantheona's eyes widened. She made eye contact, freezing. He didn't move. This was the morning ritual. Bathtime was more like some sort of sporting event that should show up in the next summer Olympics. //Right up there with alligator wrestling and bunjee jumping.// She tensed, and her hands flexed, but she betrayed herself by looking towards the door. Methos shook his head.
"No." She seemed to understand that word. Her comprehension didn't help. She bolted over the back of the couch and made for the lift, hair flying behind her like a demented cape. Methos dove over the counter in the kitchen. He'd never get her.
Mac tackled her from the bathroom, slamming into her waist and encircling her. The two fell to the ground, and Pantheona let out a screech that could have shattered glass. She kicked and spit as Duncan raised them both to a standing position. Then she went limp in his arms. He dragged her into the steaming bathroom, Methos following behind.
"I think we should try a shower," Mac told him absently. "I mean, everyone's going to get wet here, and we could close the doors and save the floor." He didn't let go of Pantheona until Methos had locked the door firmly and turned around.
When he did let go, she rammed into Methos head first, knocking the wind out of him and slamming them both into the door. He struggled with her hands while Duncan finished undressing. He left his boxers on and turned the bath to a shower. Methos sighed. Here they all went again.
Pantheona was a mess. Her hair was filthy from being sick, and her face was grimy from the chocolate cake they had foolishly let her have last night. Her fingernails were caked with it and whatever she'd been doing with the crayons this morning. Before she'd decided to eat them.
Mac held her arms while Methos unbuttoned the nightgown and tried to take the remaining sock off. Pantheona became limp again, so they set her on the toilet seat and he pried them off her feet, the stiffened right angles that they were. Lord, children weren't this difficult. He removed his own sweats and tested the water.
"On the count of three," he said in a mild voice, as if he were discussing the weather, or the stock reports. Mac didn't reply, but he knew he'd been heard. "One," he sang. "Two......three." He reached and grabbed Pantheona's feet and they dragged her into the shower, wailing as if she were being doused in acid. "For God's sake!" he screamed. "Pantheona! Stop!" He wrapped his arms about her shoulders and held her while Mac busied himself with shampoo.
It was a chore, and a two person one at that, to clean a woman who was only five three. //Call Guinness, this *has* to be some sort of perverted record.// One to hold, the other to clean. And clean her they did. Hair and face were always first. There had been occasions where it had been smart to cut the cleaning session short. This time it was a full body wash. Yesterday and the day before Pantheona had vetoed any other cleaning.
Duncan massaged her head, and her eyes seemed to lid over for a second. It was as if she was starting to cave. Methos let go, and she shot forward towards the side of the sliding door. Duncan snorted and caught her square in the chest with the flat of his hand, shaking his head. She backed away. Methos grunted. She listened to him. Why was that?
He took the time to peruse his lover as he washed Pantheona's feet and calves. The muscles on Duncan's back writhed as he worked. The hair at the nape of his neck curled and plastered itself to the dark skin. Methos could see his own legs in comparison with Pantheona's olive complexion. They were both still tanned from their time on Santorini. He heaved a sigh, and both of the occupants of the shower looked at him. He shrugged and tightened his hold on her shoulders, and Pantheona mirrored his sigh. The hot water beat down on both of their backs.
He leaned against the stall wall, and closed his eyes.
...Pantheona's arrival had been so swift; he hadn't even had time to contemplate it. She had come out of the water, a drowned thing, covered in seaweed, and choking. He and Mac had been walking along the shore that morning, talking, thinking of going down to the village and having lunch, when they had heard her wail, high-pitched, like that of a baby.
He had frozen. Mac had charged head towards the immobile form. Methos had known in his heart what it was that lay ahead of them.
"She's alive!" Mac had called over his shoulder, kneeling down to untangle some of the seaweed from her throat. Methos stood back and shook.
"Don't touch her."
"Methos, she's choking--"
"GET AWAY FROM HER!"
The volume of his voice had been enough to make the Highlander second-guess his actions. He jolted back from the body, leaving Methos to crouch down beside the still form and reach for her throat. She had still been partly formed. If he had stabbed her at that moment, she would have died, and nothing could happen to him. Or could it?
Pantheona had opened her eyes and smiled.
And he had known that it was over...
Now, Mac dutifully washed in between Pantheona's legs and up over the swells of her small breasts like an orderly, staring at Methos. He smiled. Pantheona cooed to herself, then let out a sharp yell as he tried to turn her to wash her back.
"Oh, live with it, Thee," Duncan muttered, as he would to a dog or small child. That earned him a dirty look from his captive bather. Methos suppressed a laugh.
When she was clean, and they were all clean, the shower was turned off and they toweled her down and let her go. Pantheona wandered the loft clutching the towel around her, picking up random objects and talking to herself in singsong.
"Was it my imagination, or was that easier than a bathtub?" Duncan whispered in his ear from behind. Methos sagged against the weight behind him. He was so grateful for the Highlander's assistance, and at the same time, he couldn't help but think that if Mac hadn't been there that morning on the beach, this whole thing might have been circumvented. Methos needed to watch her now; it wasn't a matter of dumping her off in a psych ward. Nothing would ever be that easy. Not with her.
Pantheona seemed to sense his thoughts, and turned her brown eyes on him. They were the color of dried blood.
***********
LONDON, 2012:
Methos woke in a cold sweat. Something had been choking him. In his head, he could still feel the echo of something, something. He tossed back the blankets and rolled from the bed, skipping any robe and instead choosing to get dressed.
The moon spilled in through the bottom of the venetian blind; the clock blinked twelve midnight because no one had bothered to reset it.
He opened his dresser drawer and removed a key from one of the bundles of white socks in the back. Then he dug under the bed until he found the box he wanted and carried it out into the kitchen.
The kitchenette was far enough away from the bedroom that he wouldn't wake anyone. He poured himself a brandy and settled in one of their little ergonomic chairs and placed the box on the table.
For a long time, all he did was stare at it. It was a lacquered thing, tooled with gold and painted in the design of the Celtic knot. It had been a gift from someone; he didn't even remember who, but the lock was fairly unique. He placed the key in and turned, then knocked the lid back to remove it.
Then all he did was stare at the photo on the top. Duncan held Pantheona, arms around her waist. The girl looked distracted; her head was turned and she was staring at something far away from them. She probably hadn't even known what Methos was doing when he took the picture. That is, until the flash had gone off. Then she had screamed.
He fingered the photo. Pantheona glowed as if she were lit. And she had been. They had given her wine with dinner, and she had been tipsy by the time they were finished. //It's like giving beer to a dog, and watching them stagger around,// he thought to himself, slightly amused by the analogy. They had fed her cake, and she had been sick as usual in the morning, but who knew if she had had a hangover.
Pantheona had been so easy to control in those days, no one but Methos would have guessed what was lurking behind those big velvet eyes. Duncan had even started to buy her gifts and take her to the park, where she chased the ducks and tried to play with every dog that they crossed.
Joe had not been in any of his usual places for a month or two, and Methos had been worried. He had messengered that he would be staying in Greece for a while, but didn't disclose any information about what was going on. He had assured them that he would be returning soon.
He never came, and by the time he got there, Pantheona had grown up.
Methos tossed the picture aside, and reached for another. This was the one that had led to their current arrangement. Sher on horseback. He cocked his head and studied her frame. There was no hint of damage on her here; her own ordeals with becoming immortal had finally been reconciled. She leaned down onto the horse's back and wrapped her arms about its neck, laying her head on its shoulder.
He smiled. She was always there, his Sher. And now?
//Would that all of our transitions to immortality were so easily dismissed,// he mused, glancing back at the first picture.
There was a noise from the bedroom, and he shoved the pictures back into the box and slipped it in the cupboard. Peter Laurent knew nothing of the Watchers per se, so it wouldn't do for her to find pictures of Duncan in his possession. Natasha stumbled out of the bedroom, wiping her eyes with balled fists.
"What time is it?" she mumbled.
"I don't know. Too early for you to be up. Go back to bed." He tried not to be snippy, but his own voice sounded too clipped, too menacing.
She noticed it too. "Bad dreams?" Her hands went to his shoulders, kneading. For a second he pretended they were someone else's. But it was impossible; they were too small, too delicate.
For once, he was happy to be able to tell her the truth. "Yes, bad dreams."
She nestled her face in the back of his neck and breathed. The warm gust tickled him. "I'm sorry. Anything you want to talk about?"
Methos closed his eyes and reached a hand up to clasp hers. He thought of Pantheona, and Duncan. He slipped the key into the small ledge under the edge of the table. "No. Not really."
"Come to bed. It's too cold out here."
//Cold. Cold slows her down.// Methos took a swift intake of breath and nodded his head.
"Bed it is."
It was on the way back to the bedroom that an icy chill caught his throat, and he remembered.
'oinev, sohtem, mus arret bus....Methos, I come, I am under the earth..."
**********
MONTANA:
Sher and Cassandra shared the silence of the farmhouse as if it was the last thing they possessed. Time was jealous and rolled past slower than normal, making then hunt to find things to say, things to do.
Sher finished setting up the clips for the nine millimeters, and placed the last one on the table in front of her, staring at it intently. Cassandra glared at her. Sher had purposefully set about this chore in front of the witch just to piss her off. It had seemed to work.
"You do these things to irritate me," Cassandra sang mildly, turning the pages in one of Sher's journal logs of Pantheona. Sher simply slid a new clip into the gun and drove it home. She leaned back on two chair legs and opened one of the curio drawers, removing a Casull and night scope.
The Casull was a big gun. It only had room for five bullets, and it was guaranteed to make a large hole in anything. Sher had seen it in the movie Alien Nation, and had ordered one immediately. She had only used it once, and the recoil had sent her three feet back into a concrete wall, and broken her wrist.
Not the most practical gun, but damn, it was pretty. Cassandra's eyes widened. "What the hell are you planning to do with that?"
Sher smiled. "Look for bear?" She shrugged. "How else do you think I get meat around here?" When Cassandra made a face, she winked.
"It's a dubiously pleasant thing to see you haven't lost your macabre sense of humor," she muttered as she returned to the book.
Sher plunked the gun down on the table and returned to the coffeepot. "What, did you think it had gone the way of the finger?" She wiggled her four-digit hand and smirked. Cassandra hated looking at that hand. Sher sensed that it had less to do with the actual hand itself, and more with the thought that her finger had passed through Duncan's innards. Still, any leverage was good leverage these days.
Cassandra was driving her mad. She followed her everywhere; into the barn, down to the cell, into the computer room, back to the house. She accompanied her out to chop firewood. Sher thought to get another axe in the next air shipment and make her pull her own weight.
Sher refused to leave her alone with Pantheona. The last time she had left anyone with the creature alone, Amanda had tripped security and released her. That had been a hoot.
Of course, Duncan hadn't gotten far. Sher had filled him with a few rounds from a long distance .44 and that had been that. Amanda had gotten away, but Sher had decided to set the ground sensors for height instead of mass. Amanda and some deer weighed the same. Not that it could keep her out for long, but with that much wildlife out there, Sher was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Cassandra, she sensed, had no intentions of releasing Pantheona. Instead, she used her voice to make Duncan come to the cell wall. Sher watched her reach out to Duncan, attempting to touch him through the mass that was Pantheona.
She wasn't going to tell the witch not to do her little hocus pocus. With any luck, she had figured that out this morning when Duncan had pulled her arm out of the socket and had almost succeeded in ripping it off entirely. Cassie was still sore about that. Sher choked down a few 'bludgeoning by arm' jokes and instead brought them both a warm refill.
Cass shivered. "I could use a shower."
Sher snorted. "You want to go down to the barn? I can spray you with Pantheona's firehose."
Cass shot her a dirty look. "I still don't see why you don't bother to heat this house with the generators. I haven't had to heat bathwater in a long time."
Sher nodded and acquiesced to the small talk. "There's no duct work in the house for heat. And do you know how much electricity it takes to heat something?" She shook her head. "I'll stay with the woodstoves and save the big power for the barn." She raised an eyebrow and scrolled her hand with the gun in it. "Overkill prevents overkill."
Cass shrugged. "I was just thinking, that all this money, and you--"
Sher sighed, and rolled her eyes. "Booooooring. Do I tell you how to do that wicky voice box thing? Anyone ever told you that you sound like Darth Vader when you do that?"
A lie, but it served its point. "Fine. You do your job, and I'll do mine."
Sher cocked her head and examined her nails. "The funny thing about that statement is the phrase, 'your job'. As in you, Cass. Your job is...?"
The woman sighed and shut the book she held in her hands. "Joe sent me."
Sher tilted her head back. "Ah." Cass rose and put another log on the fire. Sher watched her with slitted eyes. "Has he found Methos yet?" The other woman turned to her, face blank. That look said it all. "No," she answered for her. "Well then, what, pray tell, are you doing here?"
Cassandra returned to her seat and picked up her mug, curling her hands around it as if to leech every last bit of warmth from the ceramic. "He seems to think it might be prudent to have two of us here. I have to agree, though things would go a bit more smoothly if you were more cooperative."
Sher landed her chair back onto four feet and laid her chin on the table. "Why? I'm fine. The bitch is still alive. Although I do miss a good game of Canasta." She blinked wide eyes in Cassandra's direction. The witch smiled.
"Shall I call you the fingerless wonder?" she parried, her face venomously sweet.
Sher laughed. "Now we're getting somewhere. I, the fingerless wonder, and you, wicky Darth Vader voice, shall conquer Pantheona and drive her from the face of the earth."
Cass shrugged. "That was the idea." She opened the book again. "What has he been saying?"
"Latin," Sher answered. "Backwards. She loves a good mystery. The usual threats, crying, asking for Methos, et ce-trah, et ce-trah, et ce-trah," Sher finished in her best Yul Brenner voice.
Cassandra didn't look up at her. "Sounds to me like she knows more than she is letting on. Do you think she got that from Duncan?"
Sher shrugged and scraped at her palm with a small paring knife. "It's anyone's guess. I have no idea what she was like before, so I'm not the one to ask." She rolled her eyes. "See, the one to ask is Methos, who you were supposed to bring *with* you, but I guess you forgot about that--"
"Child, hush," Cassandra chided, her face soft and strained at the same. Sher decided to obey the stentorian image and shut her mouth. "I was just wondering how difficult it will be to separate them. If they can be separated. If he's in there at all." She frowned again, and returned her gaze to the fire for a second.
"I don't suppose you've given any thought to what that might do to us, to all of us, have you?" Sher mused, trying not to make another smart-ass remark.
Cassandra was less than pleased with that idea. "Sometimes saving one is more important than a whole."
Sher couldn't help it. "How very James Tiberius Kirk of you. I prefer the whole Spock theory." She sniffed and peeled a callus from the pad of her hand, flicking it in the fire. "You ever read the Bible?"
The other woman looked up then, eyes hooded and cautious. "No," she replied. "There didn't seem to be any point--"
"Matthew, Chapter eight. Jesus meets two demon possessed men coming from the tombs." Sher lifted a book from the stack and opened it, scanning and turning pages. "They were so violent that no one could pass that way." She found the passage she wanted and traced it with her finger. "'Suddenly they shouted, "What have you to do with us, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time?" Now a large herd of swine was feeding at some distance from them.'"
Sher glanced up to see if Cass had figured out what she was pointing to. The woman's eyes glittered with something dark. She continued.
"'The demons begged him, "If you cast us out, send us into the herd of swine." And he said to them, "Go!" So they came out and entered the swine; and suddenly, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and perished in the water.'"
The two women stared at each other over the table. If she concentrated, Sher could almost hear Pantheona purring to herself in the ground.
********
LONDON, THE NEXT DAY:
Methos checked his two duffel bags in to the airline, and clutched his carry-on to his chest. He would have to move quickly in order to catch the plane, but he could do it. He ran to the gate and threw his ticket to the flight attendant, hurtling down the tubing that led to the innards of the plane like an umbilical that could ensconce him back into the womb. And that is what this would do-- take him far far away, safe, where he could duck his head again.
It wasn't escaping. It wasn't desertion. He had told Tasha that he was going away on business. It was only natural that anthropologists go to Kenya every once in a while, even if the plane was bound for Hong Kong. He collapsed into a seat and pondered that the plane would take him farther from everyone, and that was just fine with him.
In the nick of time too. Dawson was on his way to London. He had arranged to have dinner with Tasha and Peter that evening. Methos had scribbled a note and left it on the fridge, then called Natasha's answering service and told her what was going on. He had scrupulously hidden the framed photo of the two of them, and --
Shit.
He had left the box and the key. Methos looked around frantically. There was no way in hell he was getting off this plane. The flight attendant had already closed the door, and if he went back for it now, he might very well run into Joe on the way home.
Methos gritted his teeth and fastened his seatbelt. He didn't know why he was worried. Tasha was rarely home for long periods at a time, and why ever would she open the box? It wasn't as if she had something to be suspicious of. No, the box could stay where it was. It was in the cupboard with the cooking pans. Tasha hadn't ever cooked anything in that kitchen. She was a take out girl.
Methos hadn't intended to get involved with a Watcher, but it had been so damned convenient. He had long since erased all photos of Adam Pierson from Watcher directories and databases, and although they had figured out that Pierson was Methos, they never had any pics of him in the Methos files. It had been too easy.
They had met incidentally in a taxi, and he, in need of some companionship, had followed her home. She had taken a shining to him, and four years to the day of their initial cab ride, he had proposed. The wedding wasn't set. Methos wasn't sure if would ever be. It didn't matter.
He had known she was a Watcher. The tattoo had been replaced in the past five years by a bracelet that was welded around the wrist, since the mark had proven itself too easy to mimic. They used retinal scans for everything, and there was no getting into the Headquarters building. Amanda's days of B and E were over with.
Then Tasha had taken to saying Pantheona in her sleep. Once or twice, and he had pressed her on it. He had whispered in her ear, suggestions, hints. If she could bring him some of the Chronicles, then maybe...
But Tasha never brought her work home with her. Not one scrap. She worked late if she needed to, but the girl stuck closer to the Watcher oath than a child on the first level of moral reasoning- rules were there to be obeyed no matter what. No, she was not a 'bend in the wind' kind of girl.
Methos stayed away from Dawson as if they would implode if they got within three yards of each other. Joe hadn't forgiven him for what had happened, and he hadn't forgiven Joe for Alexa.
Alexa. If he called her name, she might come back. They all came back. What was that phrase from that wretched horror movie?
//Death is only the beginning.//
*******
PARIS:
Amanda stirred the olive in her martini and pondered the pulsing lights of The Sanctuary. She was bored. She'd had the club for over ten years, and while she was rarely here, it was an investment. The Sanctuary had kept up with the times, but strobelights, she mused, were always in fashion. It made her head hurt. She hoped her appointment showed soon.
No one was ever around anymore. Liam was gone, as was Nick. He had settled in with a young bride to ignore Immortality as long as he could. She sighed. Some lessons couldn't be taught, only learned through experience, no matter how it hurt to watch from the sidelines.
Methos and Duncan had seemed to make a promising couple there for a while, and then--
She told herself not to go there. Everyone seemed to have disappeared these days. Amanda had taken to ignoring Joe. It was depressing to be around mortals, especially the older ones. She never returned his emails and phone messages.
She checked her watch. He appointment was at seven, and it was now seven- thirty. Amanda did *not* like being stood up. Bennie had assured her that this guy dripped money, and she did like that, however. She crossed her legs and wished the lights to go away. She needed some down time. This was not the place to get it.
With not that many people to play with as there used to be, Amanda had turned her sights on other distractions. It had been so easy to slip back into being a thief, one of the highest paid on the planet. That was nice. And creative too. No more Cartier, very few Louvre jobs. This was the big time, like cops and robbers. Government installations, munitions factories, once in the Emperor of Japan's private country house. She grinned. *That* had been fun. Duncan would have killed her, but--
//Don't go there.//
There was something about the rush, like when she and Cory Raines used to rob banks. Of course, this didn't have many bullets, so far. She was hoping to keep it that way.
She threw a ten to the bartender and leaned over to pick up her coat. So much for big business tonight. Maybe she'd hop a plane down to the Bahamas and see what was what. Nice, warm weather.
A hand on her shoulder stopped her, and she turned. This was an interesting change. What greeted her was an older man, mid-forties, graying, but polished, in a pre Grecian 44 sort of way. He had fabulous teeth. She gave him her best sexy business smile and extended her hand.
"I assume you are looking for me?" The man took her hand and shook it. His hands were feverishly warm. Well, it was hot in here.
"That depends on who you are," Amanda purred, smoothing a stray curl behind her ear. The man took the stool next to her and waved the bartender away.
"I am looking for Amanda Montrose. You have to be her. Benjamin Staley told me that she was one of the most fuckable woman on the planet." The man shrugged. "His words, but I did manage to find you fairly easily."
Amanda grinned. She could play this card. "Bennie has a way with words. Drink?"
The man shook his head. "No thank you. It's bad for my constitution."
She triggered the bartender to take her glass. "Then it's on to business, is it, Mr...?"
Her companion smiled. "I'm sorry, it's Forman, Gerry Forman." He accepted her hand and raised it to his lips for a second. His bracelet flashed in the strobe lights.
"Gerry," Amanda rolled the word on her tongue. "Lovely, Gerry. Now," she leaned in closer to him. He smelled like metal and stale air. "What do you need?"
Gerry pulled pictures out of a manila folder and slid them over to her. She kept his gaze. Sometimes looking at the picture committed one to the job, and she never committed to jobs blindly. Last time she had, she'd had to steal three Sharpei dogs from a Dutch Princess in the Netherlands. Her leather boots were damaged beyond repair.
"I am interested in how good you are with lockdown facilities," he started.
That cinched it for her. "I don't do prisons," she replied sweetly. "Chances are whoever is in there is there for a reason. Sorry." She gathered her coat into her arms, feeling the weight of the sword.
Gerry shook his head and gestured for her to be silent. "Please, it is not a prison. There's no harm in looking at a few aerial shots, is there?" He smiled. "No commitment."
Amanda slid all the way back on top the stool and touched the tips of her fingers to the edge of the first shot. It was an aerial of a snow-covered house, she thought, and a hundred yards from it, another structure. The snow hid a lot.
She didn't need to see any more.
"Just one man, I'm looking for. My client wants one man."
Amanda flipped to the next photo; there was a closer shot of the forest area. Someone from a top angle. It was difficult to figure the gender, but she knew, as Gerry continued.
"One guard, computer systems, that's it." He paused. "We're looking for a man named Duncan MacLeod..."
end of three
