Seasons of Change
by Cameron Dial
"Too late I stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--"
May 19, 1999
Restless and knowing it would be
impossible to find parking even this close to midnight, Methos had taken the
Metro to St. Germain des Pres for a late supper. Named for the two
statues dominating the room, Aux Deux Magots had once seated the likes of
Ernest Hemingway. The current generation preferred the restaurant's
neighbor, Café Flore, where the astronomical prices usually included an
opportunity to watch celebrities come and go. Methos preferred
tourist-watching from an out of the way table under the green cloth canopy
shading the square in fine weather and--whatever the weather--unobtrusive white
aproned waiters who understood that a man might actually prefer to be left
alone with the book he'd just purchased at the late night bookstore next door.
It wasn't hard to identify the
source of his restlessness, of course. Earlier in the day he had been at
Gibert Jeune, a large academic bookstore in Place St. Michel, when he'd turned
automatically in response to a woman's alto voice calling his name.
"Adam?
Adam Pierson?"
It had taken a moment to place her,
mentally erasing the tracery of fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the
more pronounced lines slanting downward from the corners of a mouth that had,
at one time, been truly lovely. Twenty-three years ago they had spent the
summer together in a blue and white cottage on Ile de Re, a small island in the
Atlantic that the locals, at least, thought of as the French Nantucket.
The affair had been casual enough, and they'd drifted apart after four or
five months. Eventually, Raina Luce had become the newspaper columnist
she had wanted to be. He had remained in Paris, even keeping his
"Adam Pierson" persona, and in time he'd met Don Salzer, the man
who'd recruited him into the Watchers and set him on the road that had one day
led Duncan MacLeod to his door. The only difference was that Raina had
aged in the last quarter of a century, and Methos, of course, had not.
"It is you, isn't it?"
she'd asked in French-accented English, two lines of doubt creasing her
forehead. Then, confused: "But it can't be--"
He'd murmured an apology, abandoning
his intended purchases and left the store quickly, conscious of Raina's gaze
the entire way. Half a block up he'd crossed the street and headed for
Pont St. Michel.
Amy Thomas had caught up with him on
the bridge, silently resting her arms on the railing and watching the tourist
boats move up and down the river for a few minutes before asking, "Who was
that woman?"
"No one," he'd said
automatically, staring across at quai des Orfevres, partially concealed by the
stand of trees along the river's edge, but Amy had her father's way of using
silence to invite conversation. With a sigh he'd amended his statement,
saying, "Just someone I knew a long time ago."
Twenty-three years. Not so
long ago, really, when measured against the centuries and decades that were an
Immortal's usual clock, but Amy Thomas had been a small child with scraped
knees and scuffed Sunday shoes twenty-three years ago. God--they grew
up so quickly and had so little time allotted them. More, she seemed
distinctly attuned to his sudden depression, and charmingly determined to make
him feel better.
"I'll let you buy me
lunch," she'd said brightly, startling a laugh from him.
"You're the one with the steady
paycheck these days," he'd reminded her, pretending poverty.
"All right," she'd
said. "Then I'll buy you lunch."
They'd crossed the bridge to the
islands, dodged tour guides and tourists alike at Notre Dame, and strolled
across Pont St. Louis, winding up eventually at Au Gourmet de L'Ile, an
inexpensive restaurant with good food and better neighbors. Dessert was
Parisian ice cream from Berthillon, just across the street, served in
wide-mouthed waffle cones and eaten in a comfortable silence as they walked
together to Pont de la Tournelle, leaning together against the rail in the
shade of the statue of St. Genevieve, Paris's patron saint.
"Why'd you quit the
University?" she'd asked guilelessly, and he'd shrugged.
"I was bored."
She'd managed to get a bit of ice
cream from the wide-mouthed cone on her right cheek, obscuring two of his
favorite freckles, and he'd been abruptly and acutely aware that his first
impulse was to kiss the ice cream away. Amazing, the effect that
realization had on his body: He'd gone stock-still and his breath had
stopped in his throat, his vision telescoping in close-up detail on the pink
and red rosettes embroidered on the lacy front of her summer top. It was
the palest apple green, like her matching wide-legged pants--bell bottoms that
had first been popular before she'd been born, resurrected by fashion mongers
in the last year or two for the fun of it. She'd said something, but he'd
been so wrapped up in his own out-of-kilter sensation that he'd missed it,
focused instead on the way the sun found the red in her short brown hair.
And exactly what would Joe
Dawson make of that? Of all the people in the world to find himself attracted
to--
Like a coward, he'd settled for
wiping the ice cream away with his thumb, the fingers of his left hand splayed
gently along the firm line of her jaw in a gesture so natural, so quickly over,
that only he had been aware he was shaking as he touched her. She'd
laughed, amused at her seeming inability to eat without needing to be cleaned
up afterward, like a child in need of grown-up supervision. After a bit
they'd caught the Metro to the Champs-Elysées and wandered through the art
exhibits at the Grand Palais for a bit; when it had grown too warm under the
glass ceiling, he'd suggested the Planetarium and they'd spent the afternoon
staring up at the stars.
"Non--merci."
Methos shook his head, simultaneously covering the mouth of his wine glass with
his hand, forestalling the waiter's attempt to refill it. Smiling, Methos
stood, leaving money on the table for his supper, adding more bills for a tip,
and collected his lightweight trench coat from the back of his chair. The
broadsword concealed in its folds made it impossible to carry it draped
casually over his arm the way another man might on a summer evening, so he
slipped it on out of habit, dropping the paperback book he'd bought into the
deep pocket in the left front lining. He'd meant to head for the Metro
and home, but once he was on his feet he felt like walking. There was no
reason not to, after all, with no classes to teach the next day.
With the end of the spring semester he'd tendered his resignation to the
University, refusing the offer of a leave of absence instead, and become his
own boss once more.
It felt good, knowing he had no
obligations, no place he had to be any given day of the week. For all his
griping and grumbling about "Adam Pierson's" money problems in the
last half dozen years, his alter-ego's enforced poverty had disappeared once
he'd graduated with two doctoral degrees and become a full-time employee of the
University of Paris. At that point there'd been no reason to maintain the
starving graduate student image any longer and he'd bought a house on Rue
Boileau and traded in the secondhand Volvo for a new Range Rover. The
truth was, he had no real concerns about money after five millennia of
acquisitions and investments, and even if he had, Duncan MacLeod had taken care
of the situation when he'd left Paris in November 1998. When he'd disappeared
for the second time in as many years, the Scot had named "Adam
Pierson" sole executor of his holdings and property both in Europe and the
United States. There was a law firm that provided any assistance he
required, but beyond that he had cart blanch to do whatever he pleased with
MacLeod's considerable holdings, subject only to the Highlander's return and
written revocation of the order--an event that did not appear to be in
the offing any time soon.
Barely 500 yards south of the restaurant
was Place St. Sulpice with its chestnut trees and, directly across the street,
the grandiose church of the same name. He seemed to recall a brothel
somewhere in the neighborhood--it had been closed for the last half century,
although it had once serviced its upperclass clientele in the very shadow of
the church, much to his amusement and the church's annoyance. In another
month the Poetry Market would be open, too, with A-shaped wooden easels grouped
around the enormous fountain in the square, displaying the poems of amateurs
and professionals alike. He'd missed it last year, he recalled, since
he'd been traveling. Maybe he could get Joe to walk through the square
with him this year, he thought, especially if he promised him lunch on the
terrace at La Petite Cour afterward.
The city was quieter as he left the
cafes, jazz cellars and bistros behind. With more than seven million
people in the metropolitan area, Paris never really slept, of course, though
the retail stores had closed around seven, and most restaurants had shut down
about ten o'clock--a few he knew would stay open until one or two in the
morning, though heaven help you if you needed a late night chemist. As
far as he knew, there was only one 24-hour drug store in the entire city, in
Champs-Elysées. Fortunately, Immortals seldom needed emergency
prescriptions filled. Most of the city's nightclubs were just getting
started at midnight, of course, but the publishing houses and high class
fashion stores scattered throughout this district were all locked up tight.
He really would hate to leave Paris,
he realized, but he had begun to feel it was time. In fact, he'd spent
part of the last two years preparing to do exactly that, setting up a new
identity in anticipation of the need for one. Running into Raina Luce had
merely made him face the inevitability he'd been avoiding for several years
now. What was it Spencer said? "Too late I
stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--" He'd been speaking of a love affair,
which was at least apropos. In a way, Methos had been having a love
affair with Paris for the last 30 years--too long for an Immortal to stay in
one place without attracting attention or inciting unhealthy curiosity,
especially an Immortal who'd let himself become entangled with the likes of
Duncan MacLeod and company.
Ah, Duncan, what am I going to
do with you?
He remembered the first time he'd
met the man. Not surprisingly, it was Joe Dawson who'd brought them
together, although quite unintentionally. Kalas had been cutting a wide
swath through his fellow Immortals at the time, apparently hunting Duncan
MacLeod. Once Kalas had stumbled upon the Watchers, however, he'd set his
eyes on a different target: Methos himself, oldest of the old.
Since Kalas was killing Watchers and Immortals alike in his search, Joe had
asked MacLeod to keep an eye on Adam Pierson, the Watchers' chief Methos
scholar at the time. What Joe hadn't known was that Adam Pierson and
Methos were one and the same person. As soon as MacLeod had shown up on
his doorstep, of course, he'd known "Adam Pierson" was an
Immortal--that he'd also known instantly that he was Methos had been a
bit of a surprise, though.
Methos had been concealing his
identity for a thousand years before Duncan MacLeod had been born. The
moment he'd heard his name from the Highlander's mouth, though, he'd made a
decision every bit as intuitive as MacLeod's recognition of him. Well,
all right, in truth nothing he did was purely intuitive; he'd
spent far too many years analyzing, calculating and manipulating situations for
that to be true anymore. Still, there'd been a moment when he'd simply known--he
visualized it as a telescoping cup, hollow in its length, collapsing suddenly
in on itself so it was nothing more than concentric circles, each designed to
fit inside the other. In exactly the same way he had understood that he
could, with absolute faith, trust Duncan MacLeod with his identity and his
life. It was a faith he tried to repay in kind so far as he was able,
although he and the Highlander had radically different ideas about things at
times. What the hell--it made life interesting, anyway, even when the man
took off and left Methos holding the bag.
Smiling, Methos slowed,
finding himself opposite the Luxembourg Gardens. Duncan MacLeod had met
Stephen Keane there a few years ago, and Methos remembered the momentary
confusion he'd experienced when Amanda had come beating on his door in the
middle of the night, insisting he talk to the Scot. In the first place,
she'd awakened Methos from a sound sleep (never, in his experience, the best
way to start a conversation), and in the second place he'd misheard the name
and wondered what in the world an American horror writer could have against
Duncan MacLeod.
Try forgiving yourself for once,
he'd counseled MacLeod. Oh, he'd known it wouldn't work, of course, and
he'd wound up shooting MacLeod in the back and taking on Keane himself--an
expedient solution if not exactly the smartest thing he'd ever done. He'd
had the man on his knees and was winding up for the killing stroke when MacLeod
had stormed up, livid.
"You do, and I'm next!"
he'd shouted. He'd meant it, too--he'd have taken Methos' head on the
spot, killing a friend to save an enemy he himself planned to kill, all out of
some convoluted logic marked honor in that thick skull of his.
He'd have regretted it later, naturally, but Methos would still have been
dead. Come to think of it, MacLeod had taken his advice that
time . . .
About a mile from the restaurant
now, he realized he'd reached the Zadkine Museum. The last time he'd been
here was in 1996, shortly after he'd returned to Paris after Alexa's
death. He remembered because the last thing in the world he'd wanted to
do was go to a museum reopening, but he'd let MacLeod talk him into it anyway,
knowing the Highlander meant well and wanted to divert him from the agony he'd
been feeling. He'd known Alexa had family in Seacouver and he'd been getting
gentle hints from Joe that the Bonds wanted her buried in the States; he'd
known, too, that Alexa had said she'd prefer to be buried on the Greek island
of Santorini, forever looking out over the sea. It was his own desperate
need to be near her that had won out in the end, though, and he'd arranged to
have her body shipped to Paris because he couldn't bear to have her so far
away. He was the one who had needed help that time, and Mac had been
there for him, never questioning his inability to let Alexa go, even in
death. At least in part, he realized, it was that which had helped him to
accept MacLeod's seeming inability to move beyond Richie Ryan's death. He
stopped still, checking his own mental calendar. God, how
ironic. It was May 19, 1999. Richie Ryan had died at MacLeod's
hands on May 19, 1997. It was two years ago to the day.
He recalled the hour or so he and
MacLeod had spent together at the Zadkine Museum as pleasant but
uneventful. He'd wandered around the museum's gardens, not particularly
impressed with the Russian-born sculptor's work. MacLeod, on the other
hand, had spent most of the time in the vicinity of a piece called "The
Return of the Prodigal Son." It had been easy enough to divine the
source of Mac's interest in the piece, of course, though neither of them had
said anything about it. It must have been about eight months, at that
time, since they'd last seen Richie Ryan, and MacLeod had missed the young man
more than he'd admitted, even then. And now? Now it was MacLeod
who was the prodigal son and it was Methos who had an urge to see the statue
again.
The blue and white sign on the gate
informed him that the museum was closed on Mondays and listed a phone number to
call for further information. Rather than bother anyone, Methos simply
picked the lock on the gate and let himself in after making sure there was no
alarm that would summon more company that he wanted at the moment. He
eased the gate silently shut and moved around the corner of the house-turned-museum,
toward the spot where he remembered the statue being displayed. Not a
dozen steps inside, he realized he'd erred badly.
There was a sound of feet running
across a sidewalk, followed by a scuffling in the underbrush. The short
hairs on the back of his neck rose as a wash of Immortal presence hit him
abruptly, signaling another of his kind had just come within sensing
range. Prudence argued retreat even as instinct turned him toward the
source of the presence, its tremolo ringing soundlessly in his ears.
Simultaneously he realized he'd drawn his sword; half a second later two men in
trench coats crashed into view around the corner of the building. In the
first moment that he saw them he recognized the shorter of the two, but what
really decided the issue was the long, narrow pipe in the man's hands, being
used as a quarterstaff to ward off the sword the other carried.
Methos threw himself between the two
without a word, driving them unexpectedly apart. Suddenly confronted with
a new and better armed opponent, the taller of the two men raised his weapon in
a defensive stance. Less than a meter away from his opponent, Methos
struck once, a single backhanded swipe at full strength. The tip of his
blade caught the other in the right shoulder and then cut downward across his
body, knocking the man's sword from his grip. Encountering no more
resistance, Methos' blade continued south, emerging somewhere just above the
other's left hipbone in a semicircular cut. The man's mouth was open to
scream, but Methos' blade swept up to shoulder level before he could make a
sound. In a movement too fast to be seen clearly, Methos released his
hold on the Ivanhoe's leather-wrapped handle, reversed his grip to a forehand
while the sword seemed to wait for him, and caught the grip again before the
sword could begin to fall. The follow through dropped the man to the
ground, headless, where he'd stood just seconds before.
Nick Wolfe swallowed hard in a
throat that had gone thick with fear and accepted the hand up Methos offered
him. There was no Quickening.
Chapter Two
"Where the hell is
Amanda?" Methos snapped.
"Amanda?" Nick
repeated. Oh, of course. A new Immortal could hardly be allowed
out on his own, could he? "We had a falling out," he said,
willing to let the old man make of it what he would.
"A falling out."
Methos just stood there, looking at him.
"Well . . . yeah."
Unconsciously, Nick's chin came up.
"Picked a hell of a time for
it, didn't you?"
Nick hadn't felt this stupid since
he'd been a beat cop, called up in front of the watch commander's desk.
Or maybe since high school, when the boys' vice principal had threatened him
with expulsion. It occurred to him that Methos would have made a great
high school principal. Recognizing the criticism as rhetorical, Nick
didn't even try to fashion a response. At any rate, Methos didn't seem
particularly interested in a reply. Instead he'd fished winter's leftover
gloves out of one pocket of his coat and pulled them on before stooping to
check the body for identification.
Of course, Nick
thought. Can't have dead bodies wandering around with fingerprints on
them, can we? In addition to checking for a wallet, he noticed,
Methos took time to examine both of the dead man's forearms, quickly examining
each wrist in what little light there was and letting each arm drop in turn.
"What?" Nick asked as
Methos hesitated.
"A chain," Methos said,
straightening with the object in his hand. A chain made of tiny linked
beads, similar to the metal chains military personnel wore around their necks
to carry their dog tags. If it hadn't been tucked inside the man's
clothing, Methos' sword might well have caught it, and it would have been lost
between the bushes and undergrowth in the yard. There was neither light
nor time to examine it here and now, so Methos stashed it inside his front
jeans pocket. "All right," Methos said. No
identification and no tattoos. Interesting. "You
can tell me about your falling out with Amanda later. Right now we have
to get rid of the body. Give me a hand."
The body. Amazing how
detached Methos sounded, as if bodies simply sprang up around him on a regular
basis and had to be disposed of. Nick decided it was probably better
not to pursue that particular avenue of thought. There was another
thought, though, that was almost as interesting. He'd said
"we." Well, of course the man expected him to help--he'd just
saved Nick's life, hadn't he? And just like that Nick was about to become
an accessory to . . . what? Murder? No--Methos had killed in Nick's
defense and quite possibly in his own if you overlooked the fact that Methos
didn't die. It was manslaughter at worst. Never mind the fact
that he'd just killed a man without even blinking and said not a word about it
since.
There was a box near the steps
leading up to what had once been the kitchen of the house-turned-museum.
Perhaps a yard square and a couple of feet deep with a slanting lid, it looked
as if it had once been used to store wood chopped for the house's cooking
stoves and fireplaces. A piece of wire had been looped through the hasp
and twisted a time or two to secure the lid. Untwisting the wire, Methos
opened the box. An axe lay on the bottom, but otherwise it was
empty. "This'll do," he said.
As a police detective Nick had seen
his share of dead bodies. He'd always been involved in the finding of
them before, though, and had never actually considered that the Immortals he
knew--Amanda included--must routinely dispose of dead bodies.
After 5,000 years of routinely disposing of dead bodies, he supposed,
even that act might grow commonplace. Methos' preparations to stash the
body inside the wood box were so matter-of-fact it was absolutely
macabre. That he so casually expected Nick to help was even more so.
"Now, Nick." Their
eyes met across the corpse.
Yep--one hell of a school principal.
"Make sure you don't touch his
shoes--fabric only, where you won't leave fingerprints."
Nick nodded. He'd been a
street cop for six years and a detective for another four. He knew these
things--his new situation just required thinking about them from a different
perspective. It was all . . . backwards, somehow, like looking in a
mirror that couldn't quite be trusted. Together they lifted the body
inside the box.
Nick managed not to look when
Methos stooped to retrieve the leaking head and shoved it in as well before
closing the lid. "If you're thinking of throwing up, don't,"
Methos said.
"I've seen dead bodies before,
Methos," Nick snapped.
"Yeah? Well with luck you
can look forward to seeing a whole lot more of them." Methos lowered
the hasp, twisting the wire to secure it again. "How'd you get in
here, anyway?"
Here, Nick assumed, meant
the garden. "Over the fence, that way," he said, pointing
toward Boulevard Raspail. "I was at the cemetery--"
"Holy ground."
"Yeah," Nick said.
"He forced me out--"
Methos nodded. "Go back
over the ground and check the fence," he said. "Make sure you
didn't tear your jacket and leave any fabric around, that kind of thing--"
"I'm not an idiot,
Methos," Nick snapped. "I know what kind of thing to look
for."
"Then do it." Methos
turned his back on Nick and used his gloves to smudge and smear any surface
Nick might have come in contact with. The box wasn't an ideal hiding
place for a dead body but it would provide concealment for the little time they
needed. In a day or two enough visitors would have been through the
museum's gardens to make any footprints they'd left useless to the
police. The chain was interesting--
Nick was back, nodding curtly and
asking, "What about the blood?"
Methos shrugged. There were
some things you just couldn't do anything about. "Pray for
rain," he said.
"Or the sprinklers," Nick
said, and Methos shot him a look in the dark. Nick's voice was calm
enough, but the words themselves had just a suggestion of hysteria to
them. Now was not a time he wanted Nick going into shock.
"Here," Methos said,
handing him the dead man's saber. "You'll be needing this."
Swallowing, Nick gripped the sword
handle. It reminded him, and he looked at Methos in the dark.
"I thought you guys had a rule against interfering once a battle's
engaged," he said.
"What?" Methos
asked. "You'd rather I hadn't?"
The silence stretched out and Nick
was glad there wasn't enough light to reveal his furious blush.
After a moment Methos
relented. "You're forbidden to interfere in a battle between two Immortals,
yes," he clarified. He prodded the length of metal pipe Nick had
dropped on the ground, rolling it with his foot. "Of course, that
assumes both Immortals are using swords, or are at least equally armed . . . an
axe and a sword, for instance. There's nothing in the Rules that says you
can't interfere in a confrontation between a mortal and an Immortal, though.
In fact, some Immortals feel morally obligated to do so, at least until they've
sorted out who the players are." He smiled, adding, "Of course,
it's usually the mortal who needs rescuing. And speaking of
which, just in case you haven't noticed, you happen to be one of us guys
now."
"Yeah, I know."
Being pursued for no good reason through Paris' midnight streets by a mortal
assailant with a sword had been bad enough. The psychic blow of
unexpectedly and abruptly stumbling into sensing range of an Immortal had
almost made him wet his pants. Not that he'd ever admit that to
Methos. "My car's on Froidevaux," was all he said, his mouth
dry.
"Good," Methos said.
"I think I've walked enough tonight." As he spoke, Methos
tucked his broadsword away in the hidden sheath inside his coat.
"Nick."
Nick looked at him.
"The pipe."
Damn. Of course the
pipe he'd grabbed to defend himself would be covered with his palm and
fingerprints. Wordlessly, Nick picked it up. Between it and the
dead man's sword Nick felt encumbered to say the least.
In fact, Methos had several loops of
leather sewn into his coat to accommodate a second or even a third sword, but
he wasn't inclined to tell Nick that at the moment. It should be very
instructive for Wolfe to feel his enemy's sword in his hand for a bit and deal
with the fact that it was his now. Very instructive indeed.
They cut south and west in silence,
past the brightly lit La Coupole brasserie with its glass front and then struck
south through Montparnasse on foot. Holy ground, Nick
thought. For all the good it had done him.
"I'd cover that with something
if I were you," Methos observed casually as Nick started to toss both the
pipe and saber into the backseat of his SUV. Mildly annoyed, Nick
supposed he was right nonetheless--if nothing else he didn't want them in plain
sight in the unlikely case that they were stopped, and the prospect of the
sword cutting though his upholstery didn't appeal, either. He suppressed
a grumble as he found a stained towel in the back and rolled sword and pipe
together in its length before laying them in the floorboard.
They were on their way to Methos'
apartment on Rue Boileau in the sixteenth arrondissement before Methos spoke
again. "So tell me about Amanda."
Amanda. That meant
telling him about Janet and Tom Ross, not to mention Immortal Evan Peyton's
computer fraud racket. Peyton had warned Amanda to stay out of his
business and then made his point by leaving Nick choking in a cloud of
poisonous gas and less than 24 hours to live. Nick and Amanda had intercepted
Peyton's payoff only to have him kidnap Janet in retaliation. They'd
arranged a swap--Janet and the antidote for the money--only to have Peyton
challenge Amanda and lose. She hadn't said anything about it to Nick, but
they'd both known by that time that there was no antidote. God, what
a week. Strangest of all was the fact that Nick remembered dying and
the way his breath had locked in his lungs and throat. It had felt like
drowning--or as close to the sensation as he cared to come--and when Amanda had
shot him the shock had been complete. To awake again, knowing without
question that he had died and was now Immortal, that the last year's association
with Amanda had been based not on respect or friendship but on her knowledge
that he was pre-Immortal--a fact she'd concealed from him . . . of course, it
meant that Methos had also known from the first moment they'd meant, but that
wasn't quite the same. He'd only known Methos for a couple of months, and
Methos hadn't shot him through the heart.
Nick shook his head. "Do
you mind it we don't talk about it?" he asked. "At least until
I've had a chance to sort things out?" He was grateful when Methos
said nothing. Five thousand years. That Nick might live
even a tenth of that seemed impossible. Amanda had lived--what?--twelve
hundred years or so. A hundred years, 500 years, a thousand--what
difference did it make, really? His first thought as an Immortal echoed
in his mind: What chance is there for love if there can be only
one? And, close on its heels, how in God's name had Methos
survived 5,000 years of that dim prospect, and why would he want to?
Methos' apartment on Boileau had
been half of a private home up until twenty years ago, when the American owners
had gutted it, split it in half, and turned it into a rental duplex to support
their retirement years in Provence. Nick pulled up in the nighttime shade
of one of the thirty-year-old trees guarding the street outside the high fence
and shut off the car's engine.
"Don't forget your sword,"
Methos said, slipping out of the passenger-side door.
Nick sighed but obeyed as Methos let
them in the gate to the front yard beyond. Two shallow brick steps led
from the brick walkway to the duplex's covered porch and Nick gripped the
sword's--his sword's--handle uneasily while Methos unlocked the double doors to
the house. Nick had been there only once before, and Amanda had let them
in as easily as if she'd been carrying a spare set of keys.
Now, standing in the foyer with a
sword in his right hand, Nick watched as Methos paused to remove a key from the
keyring he carried. "Here," he said, handing it to Nick.
"You can sleep next door. I'll get you a blanket. There's not
much there," he added, "just a couch and a few odds and ends--"
Curious, Nick opened the door almost
immediately to his right and flipped on the light switch while Methos' buzz
retreated as he moved into his own apartment. Nick stepped into an entry
hall with a galley kitchen just to the left, beyond saloon-style swinging
doors. Beyond the kitchen he could see a small dining area, empty of
furniture. Directly in front of him was the living area--long, as in
Methos' half of the house, with a fireplace centered in the far wall.
Archways on either side of the fireplace led to a hallway that, he discovered,
led in turn to the apartment's single bath and bedroom, also empty of furniture.
Two doors led from the bedroom, one to the walled garden beyond and the other
to the bathroom. Not a bad little apartment, actually. He walked back
into the living area, where a couch had been shoved out of the way in a
bay-window area, end tables standing at either arm, leaving most of the
floorspace open and empty. About that time he became aware that Methos'
buzz was strengthening, and he looked over his shoulder to see the other
Immortal standing in the open doorway.
Other Immortal. He
was, he supposed, at least beginning to adjust to the idea. The sword in
his hand felt awkward, though--
Methos tossed a blanket and pillow
onto the couch and reached toward him. "Let me see," he said.
Nick handed him the sword and
watched as Methos perched on one arm of the couch, the sword in his hand.
"And now that you're unarmed I
want you to realize that I could kill you with one stroke if I wanted to,"
Methos said. "Clear?" He watched Nick blink, then flush
red as the realization set in. "Right. Now let me see your
hand."
Awkward and embarrassed, Nick held
his right hand up for inspection, beefy and calloused from thirty-some years of
work, the fingers square at the tips.
"Here," Methos said.
He tossed the sword easily to Nick and watched him catch it. "Let me
see you hold it."
Nick had no sooner grasped the sword
handle than Methos was shaking his head. "You're going to need an
open grip," he said. "Something like my Ivanhoe. The saber's
handle is too small for you. All right. We'll get you another sword
in the morning. Get some sleep."
With that he left, flipping the
light off on his way out, and Nick realized something else. Methos had
shown no hesitation whatsoever about being in Nick's presence unarmed.
Nick snorted and threw himself down on the couch, pounding the pillow into
submission. Now, why would that be, do you suppose? The
only answer that came to mind was because the old man knew perfectly well he could
dump Nick on his ass six ways from Sunday, take the sword away from him when
he'd finished, and use it to take his head at his leisure.
And what was more, Nick knew it,
too.
Chapter Three
Methos slapped the
"off" button on his radio alarm and blinked, trying to remember why
he'd set the damn thing in the first place. Oh, right. The
barge. The Seine had already flooded once this year so he'd arranged
to have the barge moved into dry dock and he was supposed to meet the
movers. And Joe. He'd asked Joe to meet him, too, which
meant he'd actually have to keep the appointment. Five minutes later he
was out of the shower, scrubbing a towel over his body and then through his
short hair. Relatively dry at least, he tossed the towel over the shower
curtain bar and pulled on boxers before wandering back into the bedroom,
plucking yesterday's blue jeans from the floor. He pulled them on and
then went in search of clean socks, tossing yesterday's dirties into the
laundry as he crossed the room.
Swords. Nick needed a sword
and there were a few stashed away in what used to be the house's wine
cellar. Shoving his feet into his hiking boots but not bothering to tie
them, Methos opened his walk-in closet. Clothes--mostly casual--hung to
the left and right, though he'd had to make some concession to building a real
wardrobe once he'd started teaching at the University. Straight ahead,
though, what appeared to be a solid wall opened easily to his touch, revealing
a winding stairway.
It was cooler in the rock-walled
basement, but water stains several feet up on the walls had made him doubt its
trustworthiness for any serious storage when he'd first bought the place.
The previous owners had compromised by bolting metal shelves and storage racks
to the basement walls just above waist-height and he'd stashed a few things on
the shelves for the sake of appearance, including some camping gear that had
never been used. For appearance's sake, too, he'd installed a suspended
ceiling with flourescent lighting. The real purpose of the suspended
ceiling, though, was to provide some unique overhead storage that wasn't shown
on any blueprints.
Stretching just a bit on tiptoe,
Methos pushed one of the large ceiling tiles out of its frame and slid it out
of the way, snaking one long arm into his storage space. His fingers
touched cold metal and he pulled three swords hilt-first toward him, just far
enough that their pommels showed. There was the gorgeous swept hilt
rapier he loved, too showy for everyday use with its dazzling gold cage and
swirl, but a testament to the sword maker's craft as a creation of sheer
beauty. For just a moment it had to be fetched out simply to be admired
and checked carefully for the least trace of rust along its 37"
blade. It was, needless to say, far too fine to be entrusted to an infant
Immortal whose first task was to learn not to cut himself on the damned
thing. Its overall length exceeded that of his own broadsword and made it
a nuisance to carry in modern times, but he hadn't parted with it for nearly
300 years and didn't intend to. He gripped its hilt familiarly, rotating
his wrist to give it play, quite unaware of the smile on his face as he watched
the light flash off its length.
Next was the Moorish broadsword, far
less decorative than the rapier but still beautiful. At
just a tad over 40" it was about the same size as his own if a bit
lighter. The down-curved guard reminded him of the sword Amanda had used
until recently and he wondered if it might be less than diplomatic to offer
Nick a sword so similar in appearance to Amanda's, especially since she hadn't
yet forgiven Methos for its loss. Still--the open grip was undeniably
comfortable, and Methos had no doubt it would fit Nick's hand perfectly.
Oh, hell. He'd offer him a couple that seemed workable and let Nick make
his own choice. It wasn't as if he was the man's babysitter.
Ah, yes--he'd almost forgotten the
bastard sword. He'd measured it at 44", yet despite its extra long
blade it was amazingly light and fast, allowing maximum maneuverability.
The guard was a lot like his own, although a bit more decorative with its
cut-out designs; the handle was a full nine inches, designed for one or
two-handed grips as needed. Used correctly, it was as deadly a sword as
one could ask for and that was, after all, the whole idea. On second
thought he pulled a dagger out as well before closing up the ceiling
tiles, not because he expected Nick
needed or would even readily use one--modern sensibilities being what they
were--but because he wanted the man to have a choice in the matter.
* * * * *
"We couldn't have met
at the bar?"
Joe Dawson stood on the dock,
looking annoyed as Methos emerged from the barge's interior in his usual jeans
and sweatshirt ensemble, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows.
"Sorry, Joe," Methos
called from near the wheelhouse. "I'm having the barge moved into
dry dock and thought you might want to be here." He watched for a
moment as the lines were secured to the bow from the tug boat and then moved to
the barge's leeward side as Joe made his way up the gangplank and on
deck. "There are some things I thought you might want to take a look
at--maybe store 'em for Mac since you've got a basement now."
"Somehow I don't think it's in
a Watcher's job description to store things for recalcitrant Immortals,"
Joe muttered.
"Is that a hint I should move
my stuff out of your basement?"
"Hell, no. It just means
I don't like hauling my ass out of bed at six in the morning. I'll tell
you when I want you to move your stuff out of my basement."
The last time they'd been inside the
barge together things hadn't gone too well and Joe's careful descent into the
barge's interior brought it all back vividly for Methos. It had been right
after MacLeod had left Paris without warning in November and Joe had,
erroneously but not unreasonably, assumed the Highlander had returned either to
Seacouver or the island cabin he owned off the Washington state coast.
The island was holy ground, and just the sort of place they might normally have
expected MacLeod to head for after the debacle of the past year, but Methos had
already known it was an empty hope.
He'd been roused from sleep at a
ludicrously early hour that morning by a private messenger from a Paris law
firm, informing him that "Adam Pierson" had been named sole executor
of Duncan MacLeod's American and European holdings and property. It
wasn't a step MacLeod would have taken if he'd simply meant to change addresses
for a bit and Methos still wondered exactly what Mac might have been trying to
tell him. If MacLeod had been any other man, Methos might have read it as
his way of saying goodbye. Mac wasn't any other man, though, and
ultimately Methos had decided it came closer to a peace offering than
anything--almost as if Mac were saying, "Hold this, I'll be right
back." Of course, "right back" in Immortal terms was a bit
nebulous, and Methos was never more aware of that than when he was with Joe
Dawson.
"Shoot the
old man," Methos remembered O'Rourke saying. His heart had leapt in
his chest in sheer response and there'd been no need even to look at
MacLeod. Mac's weakest moments were, quite predictably, when someone he
loved was threatened, especially when those he loved were mortal.
"You tell him to go to
hell!" Joe had shouted, but Mac's words were just as predictable.
"No one else dies because of
me, Joe."
Hours later they'd stood right
there, in front of that porthole, toasting each other with champagne, and Joe
had gripped MacLeod's shoulder through the white, roll-neck sweater and clasped
him just above the elbow. "I can't imagine my life without you,
Mac," he'd confessed. "Fact is, I don't want to."
And Mac had pulled him into a brief but powerful hug--the only hug Methos could
recall them ever sharing, and definitely not according to Watcher protocol.
"Damn," Joe said,
looking around. "He didn't leave much, did he?"
Methos shrugged. "Oh, I
don't know," he said. "I've left less when I cleared out of a
place." Truthfully, though, he'd almost forgotten how desolate the
barge had looked after Mac had returned to Paris. The Scot had eliminated
most of the furniture, keeping little more than some throw pillows for the
living area and a few low tables, one of which had once held the chess set
Darius had given him. Methos had already packed the chess pieces away in
a teak box meant for their storage and they now sat on top of the chessboard,
which was hinged and made of inlaid woods, light alternating with dark.
The built-in platform bed at the opposite end of the barge was there still, of
course, the mattress and pillows stripped of their linens now. The bed's
headboard was as empty now as it had been six months ago, as empty as the
seaman's chest shoved against the wall in the living area. Though there
was no need for their light this morning, the rustic black candelabra on the
tables and along the far wall remained, too, as did the wooden shelves mounted
to the wall on their wrought iron brackets.
As Joe watched, Methos tossed throw
pillows into the seaman's chest and then packed the few bottles of wine left on
top of the pillows. The ever-so-gentle swell of the Seine made the
bottles clink together almost imperceptibly as Methos pulled a decorative
oriental-looking bowl down from one of the shelves. It was an
interesting bowl, though Joe couldn't ever remember paying it much attention
before; probably an antique. It was about four inches deep with a round
bottom and stood on green curlicue legs of some sort--sea serpents, maybe, or
snakes? Engraved all around with some sort of characters, it had a
finger-ring of some sort on each side, too, like the handle of a cup, obviously
meant to allow the bowl to be carried.
"What's the writing?" Joe
asked.
"Ancient Chinese," Methos
said. "It's the story of a sea voyage around the world."
A smile flickered momentarily as he added, "It's fiction, most likely--it
was long before Magellan, of course." A long finger traced one of
the curlicue legs. "These are the sea serpents they
encountered."
"Old?"
Methos shrugged. "Seventh
century B.C." The curators of half a dozen top museums would happily
fight just for bidding rights on the bowl, and in a good market it would fetch
a small fortune at auction. Easily enough to pay off Joe's mortgage
and provide for a more than comfortable retirement. Not that Joe
needed to know that was what he had planned, of course. Methos
poured the bowl's scant contents out into the palm of his hand and handed the
bowl to Joe, who bent to tuck both it and the chessboard into the seaman's
chest.
The bowl's contents were as
unlikely as its story of a voyage 'round the world: an earring, most
likely Amanda's, a wire whisk Methos tossed negligibly into the seaman's chest,
and a scrap of wrinkled paper on which the Highlander had scribbled a phone
number.
"You don't think he's coming
back, do you?" Joe asked.
"What?" Joe's words
had startled him, and for a moment all Methos could do was stare.
"Of course he's coming back, Joe," he said then. "It's
only been six months--"
"If you don't count the two
years before that."
All right, he saw where this was
going, and in a way Joe was right. MacLeod had returned to Paris
before he'd really been ready, and it was very likely the reason he'd wound up
leaving yet again. "Joe," Methos said gently.
"He just needs some time away. He has to learn that he can go on,
with us and without us. It's part of the grieving process, that's
all."
"You mean he's still mourning
Richie."
Methos nodded.
"Richie," he said, "and his own actions. He needs to learn
that what happened hasn't changed who he."
"He thinks it has."
"I know. He feels guilty,
too, partly because he believes he should be past it by now, but mostly because
he knows his grief hurts those he loves most."
Joe was staring out the porthole,
unable to meet his eyes.
"Just give him time, Joe."
Time. It was easy advice
from an Immortal, but Methos knew better than to say more. Joe's
fifty-first birthday was coming up--not that he was an old man by any stretch
of the imagination, but there had been a time in Methos' recollection when
fifty would have been considered ancient. Joe had twenty, thirty, or more
years left to him still Assuming, of course, that he managed not to get
hit by any buses and steered clear of any Immortals who might wish him ill
because of the company he kept.
And speaking of Immortals--
"Methos! Methos, I know
you're in there--"
"Damn," Methos muttered.
"Amanda?" Joe asked, and
Methos nodded, shoving the earring and scrap of paper into his jeans pocket.
"I do wish she'd remember to
call me 'Adam' in public," he muttered. He mounted the few steps
nearest the bed, snatched the short coat lying there, and threw open the
bow-end door. "Damn it, Amanda," he snapped. "Would
you mind not shouting my name at the top of your lungs?"
She flapped one hand at him
dismissively. "As if anyone around here would care," she
said.
"I care," he said
pointedly.
It wasn't as if he were going to
pull a sword on her with the tugboat captain and his crew watching them, of
course, but her eyes narrowed, checking out of habit. The coat he was
carrying was too short to conceal his usual broadsword, but odds were there was
a sheath in the back lining designed to carry a short sword of some sort.
When worn the coat would place the sword grip in easy reach between his
shoulders, like pulling an arrow from its quiver. Gripped in one hand
like that, the coat was essentially a scabbard and he could produce the sword
in a heartbeat if needed. She, too, was carrying a different sword these
days but not because she'd changed her wardrobe. "Where's
Nick?" she demanded without preamble.
"Nick?" Joe
asked. He looked from Amanda to Methos, feeling as if he'd come in on the
middle of something.
"How the hell would I know
where Nick is?" Methos asked. "He's your friend."
"The truth,
Methos," Amanda insisted, following him. "He only knows two
you-know-whats in Paris. Well, three, actually, but Liam hardly
counts. He'd have to come to you."
"Amanda--" Methos started.
"Wait a minute," Joe
interrupted. "When did it happen?"
"What?" the Immortals
chorused, and abruptly Joe had the feeling the Joe-and-Methos team had become the
Methos-and-Amanda team.
Joe glanced at the tugboat captain
and his crewmen to make sure they were out of earshot. "When did
Nick become Immortal?" he asked.
Amanda's mouth opened and then
shut. Methos said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in Amanda's
direction. Ah. Back to Joe-and-Methos.
"Who said anything
about Nick becoming an Immortal?" Amanda asked.
"How long have you known?"
Methos asked.
Joe shrugged. "Since
Amanda faked her death in Toronto. She gave me her sword and said to make
sure it got to Nick." He looked from one to the other.
"Hey, guys, I'm a watcher. It's what I do."
"Makes sense to me,"
Methos commented to no one in particular. He turned, waving to get the
attention of the tugboat captain.
"So did he come to you or
not?" Amanda shouted.
"Nope. Not me."
"Metho--"
He rounded on her. "Adam."
"All right, Adam.
Are you lying to me?"
"You think I'd tell you if I
were?"
"Joe--"
"Uh uh, honey. You two
work this one out on your own."
"But you know he can
be such an ass hole about things."
Joe smiled. "Part of his
charm." He chuckled, watched Amanda roll her eyes and then take off
after Methos--Adam--and launch into him yet again while the man made
arrangements for two men from the tugboat crew to deliver the seaman's chest to
Le Blues Bar Deux and paid the tugboat captain for his services.
While everything was being arranged, Joe said a personal and silent farewell to
the barge, reminding himself that it was just a boat, for God's sake, and it
was just going into dry dock until MacLeod returned. By the time
everything was settled and the two Immortals had joined him on the quai, Methos
had given in under Amanda's verbal assault and was negotiating for terms.
"I didn't say I hadn't seen
him, I said he hadn't come to me. There's a difference, Amanda."
"Then he's all right?"
"His head was still attached,
if that's what you mean. He didn't want to talk about you, though."
"So what did you do?"
"What do you mean, what did I
do? I picked him up, dusted him off, and sent him on his way."
"Methos!"
"For heaven's sake,
Amanda! I gave the man a place to sleep, all right? What did you
think I'd do? Take his head?"
"No, of course not--"
"Hey!" They both
stopped at Joe's interruption this time and stared at him as if they'd
forgotten he was there. "So, who's driving here?" he
asked. "And where to, now that I think of it?"
Methos looked from Joe to
Amanda. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "He's at my
place." He shot Amanda a look. "Bring your own car--I'm
not running a taxi service." He sighed, muttering, "We might
just as well get this over with as not."
Chapter Four
Nick awoke around seven, stiff
from sleeping on the too-thin mattress of the hide-away bed that unfolded from
the couch Methos had offered him the night before. Swinging his legs over
the side, he hunched forward, arms on his thighs, and wondered--not for the
first time, but not seriously, either--exactly what might be involved in an
Immortal committing suicide. Wasn't there something in a Gilbert and
Sullivan musical about someone cutting off his own head? Nick's mouth
quirked. Methos would probably know. Hell, Methos pretty much knew
everything, didn't he? After all, he'd been Immortal since . . . Nick
hesitated, wondering exactly what had been happening 5,000 years ago. Let's
see--the millennium was coming up, so that was 2,000 years, which meant we were
talking roughly 3,000 B.C. here. That would make it--what? He
had a sudden image of Methos in a loincloth, helping to build the Egyptian
pyramids. From pyramids to hide-away beds. The idea was staggering.
Sighing, Nick stood and scrubbed one
hand over his two-day . . . no, three-day stubble. Hell, at this rate he
might just as well start a beard. When he'd walked away from Amanda that
night he'd simply wandered around Paris, not going anywhere, not wanting
to go anywhere. In the back of his mind had been the thought that he
should avoid his usual haunts--their usual haunts--because Amanda
would most likely be looking for him. She'd have wanted to explain,
and the last thing he'd wanted was for her to explain anything right
then. A wry grin had quirked his mouth, though he'd been largely unaware
of it. The thought had stayed with him though: After all, there
was plenty of time for explanations now, wasn't there?
There'd been two days of
simply wandering, sleeping on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens when he'd grown
tired, an arm thrown over his eyes in the afternoon, not caring how long he
slept or who found him. He'd managed on pastries and bottled water and
whatever else was readily available from shops and kiosks throughout the city
whenever his stomach thought to rumble loudly enough to command his
attention. On the second day he'd felt it, almost a physical sensation,
but not quite--the frisson that had to signal the presence of an
Immortal. He'd recognized it immediately, been bizarrely aware of his
head coming up, swinging around, his eyes searching for the other exactly as
he'd seen Amanda do a hundred times in the past--whoever he'd encountered chose
not to make himself known, however, and he'd been left mercifully alone,
standing on a street corner in a sudden, cold sweat, a hard knot of fear in his
belly.
It had left him wondering,
though. Exactly how many Immortals were there in Paris, anyway, or the
world, for that matter? Amanda, Methos, Father Liam--a dozen others
Amanda had run afoul of since he'd known her, Muhunnad and al Yabat, not to
mention all those in the Watchers database . . . oh, and him, of course.
Mustn't forget to count himself. Seven million people in Paris?
Hell, even if one in a hundred thousand was Immortal that was what?
Seventy or so, and all of 'em but Liam were carrying swords as far as he
knew. After that he'd thought about holy ground. Paris was full of
churches and Nick had a notion that a man could spend weeks memorizing them
all--American Episcopal Cathedral of the Holy Trinity; American Church in
Paris; Chapelle armenienne; four
Notre Dames; Sacre Coeur--he'd bought a tourist map from a bookstore and stood
there, running one forefinger down the list labeled "Churches, chapels,
synagogues and temples," and felt a strange urge to laugh, followed
abruptly by the unexpected start of tears in his eyes. That was when he'd
walked out onto Pont Royal and stared down at the murky water of the Seine and
thought first about suicide. He'd have almost considered it, too, except
for the thought that he'd float to the top and have to explain himself once he
revived.
He'd used the last of his cash for a
decent meal at the best kosher deli he knew in the city and then caught the
Metro back to pick up his car, feeling like a thief as he cased the area first
to make sure Amanda was no where in the vicinity. Still thinking about
holy ground, he'd driven to Cimetiere Montparnasse around eleven and found a
place to park along Rue Froidevaux--a feat in itself--and sat in the SUV for a
bit, just thinking. Eventually he'd gotten out and wandered toward Avenue
du Maine. He'd been near the huge Gare Montparnasse railroad station when
he'd realized he was being followed, and his first thought was to head for his
car. Barring that, he'd figured he'd be safe on holy ground. What
he hadn't counted on was his shadow picking up the pace, literally driving Nick
in front of him and forcing him toward Boulevard Edgar Quintet, on the opposite
side of the cemetery from his car.
It had thrown Nick at first because
he kept expecting to be able to feel the other--that he was being
followed by a mortal had simply never occurred to him until he realized the man
had actually drawn his sword as they neared holy ground. Unnervingly,
they'd been close enough in the nighttime shadows for Nick to hear him laugh as
he forced Nick into a headlong flight toward Notre Dame des Champs. Nick
had had some idea of losing him in the 60-plus acres of the Luxembourg Gardens
if necessary, but things hadn't quite worked out that way. Instead they'd
wound up at Musee Zadkine, and Methos had come to the rescue.
Methos. Nick
frowned. He'd gotten the impression--from Amanda?--that Methos was a late
sleeper, given the choice. Nick's wristwatch showed a few minutes past
seven. He didn't expect to be able to sense the other Immortal's
presence--at least, he hadn't been able to feel him after he'd left him alone
last night. Apparently there was sufficient distance between the two
apartments so they weren't irritatingly aware of each other moving in and out
of sensing range all the time, whatever sensing range was,
exactly. Did it vary from Immortal to Immortal? Did having
walls in between effect your ability to sense the other? Damn, Nick
thought. There was so much he didn't know. Experience
might be the best teacher, but where Immortals were concerned your first
experience could very well be your last. Methos seemed to have been aware
of Nick's presence last night before Nick was aware of his--or at least he'd
been ready and able to act while Nick had still been scrambling on the ground,
running for his life. Now that was an experience he didn't care
to repeat. An armed man chasing him around trees, statues, and what have
you, crashing through ornamental hedges toward him with a sword in his hand,
and then he'd run right into the unquestionable presence of another
Immortal. He hadn't even had time to clearly recognize Methos
before his attacker had been dead. Looking back on it, what Nick had
been aware of in that instant was the fact that he didn't want to die, fleeting
though the conviction might have been.
Pulling on his jeans, Nick reached
reluctantly for the sword he'd left lying on the sofa pillows, which were
stacked on the floor and leaning against the arm of the couch.
"Saber," Methos had called it, and in the light of day Nick
recognized it as the kind of sword he'd seen in dozens of old west
movies. There'd always been some officer, mounted on horseback, sword
raised to lead the charge, and this was the type of sword they'd used.
The saber's handle was shaped like the capital letter "D," and was
too narrow to feel perfectly comfortable in Nick's hand. Methos had said
they'd get him another sword in the morning. This morning.
Barefoot and bare chested,
Nick padded across the hall to Methos' apartment door, the saber in his
hand. Given the choice, he'd have left it where it lay, but he had the
feeling that he'd have to deal with some sarcastic comment from Methos if he
did. Where you go, the sword goes. Make sure you remember it.
Something like that, subtly and simply said, with the tone, the hazel eyes, and
one corner of the mouth adding all the subtext necessary to make him feel like
he was in junior high. Or boot camp, maybe. Marine boot camp.
He'd already done that bit and figured it was smarter to take the saber with
him than to face the humiliation of being sent back across the hall to get
it. Wondering vaguely if Methos had ever been a Marine, Nick was about to
knock when he saw the note on the door.
"Back shortly. Help
yourself to anything in the kitchen."
So Methos had come and gone already
this morning and Nick hadn't so much as roused. Hell, he could even have
looked in on Nick while he slept, for all he knew. Nick let himself in to
the unlocked apartment and stood in the doorway a moment, thinking a shower and
change of clothes would feel good. Well, one thing at a time. He
headed into the kitchen and was sprinkling ham and sharp cheddar cheese into
his eggs when Amy Thomas called "Knock knock!" from the front door
and let herself in without waiting for a reply. They froze, each staring
at the other, she from the entryway and he from the archway that led to the
kitchen. The main difference was that she was carrying a white paper bag
of pastries and he had a cavalry saber clenched in his fist.
"Uh . . . hi," Nick said.
Amy's eyes lifted from the sword to
his face. "Something you want to talk about?" she asked.
"Not especially."
Belatedly, he remembered to lower the sword.
"Okay." She cleared
her throat and stepped into the kitchen, setting the bag of pastries down on
the island counter between them.
The smell of smoke caught Nick's
attention and he glanced at the stove, where some of the cheese from his eggs
had dropped on the electric burner. He grabbed the handle of the skillet
in his left hand, still clutching the sword in his right, and stood there as if
unsure what to do with either for a moment. His dilemma was solved only
when Amy wordlessly placed a wrought iron trivet on the counter in front of him
and he set the skillet down on top of it.
"Thanks."
Amy nodded. "Methos
home?" she asked, and Nick shook his head.
After another moment Nick remembered
to turn off the burner. The cheese splotch was sending a tiny smoke
signal upward as it crisped to brown, and he decided he'd better wipe it off in
case Methos was picky about his stove. He set the saber down on the
island counter top, tip pointing toward Amy, and she reached out with one
finger, saying nothing as she gently pushed the point away from her. In
the meantime, Nick located a kitchen sponge, ran water over it from the tap,
and squeezed it out before swabbing the cheese off the burner. In the
next breath he was lurching for the sword again, startling Amy enough that she
stepped back half a foot or so. Alerted by the look on his face as much
as anything, Amy looked automatically toward the apartment's front door, which
was swinging open to admit Methos, Amanda and Joe. If she hadn't been
sure before, that cinched it--she'd seen the same look too often on Methos'
face not to recognize an Immortal's early warning signal when she saw it.
Her first questions were how and when. Seconds later she registered the
nonchalant expressions Joe and Methos wore and Amanda's concerned look.
That left just one question. Why was she always the last to know?
"Hey, Nick," Joe Dawson
said. "Morning, Amy."
Amy nodded and accepted Joe's
peck-on-the-cheek good morning greeting, but her eyes were on the three
Immortals in the room. Not that Joe could blame her--it wasn't every day a
Watcher got a front row seat in close quarters.
"Hi, Nick," Amanda said.
Nick's eyes flicked from Joe to
Amanda to Methos, leaning in the archway leading to the kitchen, arms crossed
over his chest. An unresentful realist, Nick hadn't expected any help from that
corner and wasn't surprised when none appeared to be forthcoming.
"I just--I wanted to be sure
you were okay," Amanda said.
"I'll live," Nick said
drily, fishing a fork out of the drain rack next to the sink. "You saw to
that. Now go the hell away and let me eat my breakfast in peace."
"Nick, please. I want you to
come back to the Sanctuary. It's holy ground, and while you're learning--"
"Do you want me out of
here?"
Nick's words were quite clearly
directed to Methos, who merely shrugged. "You can stay if you want,"
he said. "I'll let you know if you get in my way." With that he
pushed off from the wall and strolled into the living room.
"You're going to be his
teacher?" Amanda demanded. She whirled, staring through the archway at
Methos, who'd plopped himself down on the couch and was reaching for the
newspaper.
"Is there any reason I
shouldn't be his teacher?" Methos asked.
"About a million of them,"
Amanda shot back.
"Then you'll excuse me if I
don't invite you to list them."
"You can't--"
"Amanda, I'm 5,000 years old. I
habitually carry a very long sword around with me and I know how to use it. I
can pretty much do anything I want. Any more objections?"
"Nick!"
Using the fork to shovel eggs, ham,
and cheese into his mouth straight from the skillet on the counter, Nick just
shook his head. Amy shrugged at Amanda and reached for her bag of pastries, offering
Joe an almond croissant.
"But--" Amanda just stood
there, looking from Amy to Nick to Joe. Biting into his croissant, Joe shook
his head when Amanda opened her mouth to protest again. Damned Watcher oath,
Amanda thought. It's binding enough when he wants it to be. Her eyes
narrowed. All right--so it wasn't her decision, and they all knew Methos would
do exactly what he wanted to do anyway. And, quite truthfully, Nick could do
worse in the way of a teacher. Methos had been around for a very long time,
after all, and he'd . . . mellowed . . . in the last year or so. "I give
up," Amanda said. "You know where to reach me."
She turned her back on Nick and
headed for the front door.
"Amanda."
It was Methos, leaning back against
the couch cushions, right leg stretched out in front of him as he dug into his
front jeans pocket. He came up with a handful of stuff and laid it all on the
corner of the table in front of the couch. Sorting among it, he picked up
something small and tossed it to her. She caught it gently between her cupped
palms and opened them, curious. An earring.
"I found it at the barge,"
Methos said.
Amanda rolled the earring between
her thumb and forefinger. Her mouth twisted and she tossed it back to him.
"Keep it," she said. "It's not mine." What the hell.
She and MacLeod had never been exclusive, after all. It seemed almost fitting,
somehow, given the way the rest of her morning was going.
The door closed behind her.
Chapter Five
"Come take a look at this,
would you, Joe?"
Methos' request brought both Joe and
Amy from the kitchen into the living room. At almost the same time Nick
finished the last of his breakfast and wandered in to see what was up, leaving
the saber on the kitchen counter top and the skillet in the sink.
Joe settled himself into one of the
two overstuffed chairs near the black leather couch. "Whatcha
got?" he asked.
"A necklace," Methos
said. "Or something very like a necklace."
Amy came to sit beside Joe in the
second chair, stacking several books on the table to make room for the bag of
pastries. As usual, the book titles represented whatever Methos was
interested in at the moment--computer programming seemed to be winning out from
the look of things, although D.S. Lofton's new novel shared space on the table
with a book on England and one on primatology. You could just never tell
what was going to catch his interest, especially now that he'd resigned from
the University. While Nick took up a sentry's position behind Joe, the
Watcher examined the necklace Methos tossed him across the table.
Tiny metal balls, all linked
together in a long, flexible chain that could be poured into the hand almost
like sand--he'd worn one like it around his neck in Vietnam, with his Army dog
tags on it. In fact, he'd had it tucked away in the back of a drawer
somewhere or other until about twenty years ago. Talk about an
unexplainable nostalgic impulse. Some of the chain's balls had minute
rust-brown flecks that looked like dried blood, but Joe knew better than to
probe too deeply before Methos was ready to talk. "So?" he
said.
Methos shrugged, his shoulders
moving against the couch cushions. He sat up then, reached for the bag of
pastries and helped himself to the last remaining almond croissant before
settling into the cushions again. Shaking his head, Joe looked more
closely at the chain.
As with the chain that had held his
dog tags, this had a slip catch at the center back. At the corresponding
center front, however, there was a difference. The balls in the center
front increased in size so the middle three were larger than the others that
made up the chain. Frowning, Joe looked closer still. The letters
"L," "X," "X" were etched in the center three
balls. Now who in the world had initials like LXX? "Where'd
you get it?" Joe asked.
"A museum."
Nick's dark brown eyes snapped up to
catch the hazel ones, but Methos ignored him. The statement was true
enough, though it left out a few of the more pertinent details.
"You got me," Joe
said. "The chain looks modern, though."
Amy reached for the chain and Joe
poured the links into her palm. Like Joe, she examined the center three
balls. LXX. Not initials, she realized. LXX was . . .
"Seventy?" she asked. "They're Roman numerals, aren't
they?"
"I think so," Methos
said. He held his hand out across the table and she handed him the
necklace.
"What about the blood?" she
asked.
His shoulders moved against the
leather cushions, both leisurely and eloquent. "Nick," he said,
and Nick caught the necklace as Methos tossed it to him, only then getting his
first real look at it.
"Who'd you have to kill to get
it?" Joe asked, half joking.
"That's an excellent question,
actually," Methos said. "He wasn't carrying any ID, and he
didn't have a Watcher tattoo, but he was most definitely after Nick's head last
night."
"A mortal?" Amy and Joe
chorused, looking automatically at Nick.
"That's right," Methos
said.
"But how would anyone
know--"
"Especially if he'd just had
his first death what--yesterday? Day before?"
"Day before yesterday,"
Nick said.
"Who would know?" Amy
asked.
Methos shrugged. "Amanda,
obviously. Probably her Watcher. Who'd she kill the other day,
Nick?"
Nick frowned. "An
Immortal named Evan Peyton," he said. "High tech computer
theft, that sort of thing--"
"I know who he is," Methos
said. "Nasty bastard to have walking around in your head," he
commented off hand. "Okay," he said with a nod, "so that
leaves Peyton's Watcher, assuming he's got one. Joe?"
Joe snorted. "What?"
he asked. "You think I've got them memorized? Come on,
Methos--you were a Watcher long enough to know--"
"Just tell me who it is,
Joe."
"Gilliard--Julliard--something
like that. I'll have to look it up."
"Anyone else?" Methos
asked, an eyebrow cocked at Nick, and Nick shook his head. "You're
sure?" Methos asked. "There's no one else Amanda might have
told?"
"Well . . . you,
obviously. Your friend MacLeod if he'd been around--"
"Who's this 'Liam' she
mentioned?"
"Liam?" Nick
repeated. "Just a friend. He's a Catholic priest."
"Immortal?"
"Yeah." He
shrugged. "I guess she might have gone to Liam."
"Here in Paris?" Methos
asked, and Nick nodded. "Joe?" Methos asked.
"Father Liam Riley," Joe
said. "He's been a priest for, oh, 200, 225 years. Since
revolutionary war days. American Revolution," he clarified,
remembering who he was talking to. "I know we have a Watcher on him,
but I can't tell you who it is off the top of my head."
"Would you see if you can find
out?"
Joe sighed, a bit reluctant, but
nodded.
"What's Amy Zoll up to these
days?"
"What?" That
got his attention. "Methos, you are not dragging Amy Zoll
into this."
"Why not?" he asked.
"A trained historian and archaeologist--she could be very useful, you
know. Besides, she's still on suspension, isn't she?"
"She's been back to work for a
month now and she hates your guts. You're the one who got her suspended
in the first place, remember."
"Not true," Methos
said. "She screwed that one up all by herself. She could have
gone to the Tribunal instead of coming to me."
God--talk about selective
memory. "Methos," Joe said, "you're going to leave
Zoll out of this. In fact, you're going to forget she even exists.
I know she'll be happier that way, and I will be, too."
"Picky, picky,
picky." Methos sighed. "Oh--I know something I wanted to
do." For all his length, he came off the couch smoothly enough,
automatically brushing the tiny flakes and crumbs from his croissant onto the
floor and table. "Back in a sec," he said, heading for the
bedroom.
He emerged a moment later, carrying
three swords and a dagger of some sort toward the couch, blades all pointed
ceilingward as he managed their grips in his large, long-fingered hands.
For Amy, the image was irresistible. She had a sudden flash of Methos in
a tee-shirt with the words "Runs with scissors" emblazoned across the
front. Completely unaware of her thoughts, Methos laid the swords out one
at a time on the coffee table. "Come 'ere, Nick," he
said. "One of these should suit you well enough, but if not we'll
find another."
Nick stood staring down at the
swords, uncomfortably aware of Joe's eyes on him.
"What's wrong with the
saber?" Amy asked as Methos threw himself back onto the couch.
"Grip's too narrow for his
hand," Methos responded.
"Ah."
Swallowing, Nick stood there for a
full minute before he reached for the first sword.
"Gothic bastard sword,"
Methos said almost idly as Nick's hand closed around the hilt. "It's
a bit long for my preferences, but you're tall enough to handle it well.
It's a hand-and-a-half," he added. "You can use either one or
two hands on the handle as necessary, which is nice for fighting."
Nodding, Nick gripped the hilt in
one hand and then both. "It's not as heavy as I thought it would
be," he commented, working the sword in small and then larger circles.
Methos shrugged. "You can
tell me that again after a month of sword drills with it. It's not too
bad, though--just under three pounds."
"It's narrower than
yours--"
"Mine's right there,"
Methos said, pointing. "Give it a try."
Nick put the bastard sword down and
carefully took Methos' broadsword by the hilt. It was a few inches
shorter than the bastard sword, but about the same weight, the blade making the
difference. "Which is better?" Nick asked.
"Depends on what you mean by
'better,' " Methos replied. He took the Ivanhoe out of Nick's hand
and sat forward on the couch, working the blade easily in a figure-eight
rotation. "They're both cutting swords. The bastard is a
little narrower, but it can still cut deeply, and it's pointed enough
for thrusting, which has its benefits." He shrugged. "A
broadsword's designed for hacking, essentially, so thrusting with it's a bit
harder, but it can be done. Try the other one."
"It looks like Amanda's,"
Nick commented, and Methos nodded as Nick picked it up.
"Broadsword?" Nick asked, holding the blade ceilingward in both
hands.
Methos nodded. "It's
Moorish," he said. "The down-curved piece is the guard; it's
designed to protect your hand. The bit at the top that looks like a
silver ace of spades is the pommel. I like the grip on this one, but it
isn't a hand-and-a-half. It makes two-handed fighting a bit harder, but
I'll show you how to compensate."
"It's heavier."
"By about half a pound."
"And the
dagger?"
"There was a time when anyone
who could afford to carried both a sword and dagger en suite. I
always carry a dagger in the front of my coat, and sometimes two. Modern
sensibilities being what they are, a lot of people consider the second blade to
be cheating somehow, or dishonorable."
"You don't?"
"I think it's a matter of
personal preference. The trick is never to be surprised by what the other
guy does. Keep in mind, Nick--I've lived most of my life without the benefit
of 'modern sensibilities' and I'm not bound mentally, socially, or
psychologically by any notion of chivalrous fighting. On the other hand,
I obey the rules of Immortal fighting and I'll expect you to do the same."
Nick nodded slowly, pursing his
lips. At last, he reached for the dagger and pulled it from the wooden
scabbard. "I'll think about the dagger," he said.
"Fine. And the
swords?"
"I like this one," Nick
said, reaching for the Moorish broadsword. "It . . . feels right."
"Good. It's yours."
Nick looked down at him.
"It must be valuable," he said tentatively.
"What? In terms of
money? Nick." He waited for Wolfe to meet his eyes, waited for
the other man to nod. "When a teacher accepts a new student, the
teacher provides the student's first sword. It's just a tradition.
Besides, the sword's only real value is in keeping you alive.
Later today I'll show you how to cut and fashion a sheath to be worn inside a
long coat. You're going to need a duster of some sort, by the way, and
you'll have to get used to wearing it."
Nick nodded, just barely, and said,
"I've got one." Most of this he knew already, essentially, from
his association with Amanda. "What about the rules?" he asked.
Methos nodded. "Never
fight on holy ground--anyone's holy ground, Nick, whether it's Shinto,
Buddhist, Catholic, Muslim or Mormon. It's the only guarantee of safety
an Immortal has, so remember it." Methos glanced at Joe.
"The Watchers will tell you that the only Immortal duel ever recorded on
holy ground triggered the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Me, I'm willing to
assume it was a coincidence. Regardless, it's the first rule, and it's
essential. An Immortal who fights and kills on holy ground, particularly
one who would deliberately lure another of his kind to holy ground and then
take his head--"
"The only difference between us
and the animals?" Nick asked.
"Exactly. You may think
I'm overstating it or being melodramatic, but in 5,000 years that's the only
rule that's ever held in every country and in every culture. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Two: Never interfere if
two Immortals are already engaged in a fairly armed fight--sword to sword,
sword to axe, whatever. If an armed Immortal attacks an unarmed
Immortal, you're free to give a weapon to the unarmed Immortal if you so
choose. Whether you're morally or ethically obligated to do so is another
issue, and keep in mind it almost always pisses off the other guy. Mortal
against Immortal . . . like I said, it may be tough to decide who's the
good guy and who's the bad guy, so interfere only at your own risk and be
prepared to be wrong."
"Why'd you step in last
night?"
"We've been through this."
"No, we haven't. You put
me off when I asked last night and you're trying to put me off right now."
Amused, Joe Dawson blew his breath
out in a little puff. It was kind of fun, actually, watching the
youngster take on the old man.
"All right," Methos
said. "I'll tell you why I interfered. I interfered because I
knew you and I didn't know the other guy. I interfered because he was
armed with a sword and you had a lousy piece of pipe in your hands. I
interfered because I could tell you'd come into your Immortality and I wasn't
about to have to explain to Amanda that I let you be killed when I could easily
have stopped it. Does that answer your question?"
Ouch, Joe thought.
Nick had gone a bit red in the face and nodded silently in response to Methos'
question. Apparently taking on the old man was also something you did at
your own risk, but Joe could have told him that.
"Rule number three: Only
fight one-on-one," Methos said, and Nick nodded, obviously glad to be back
to the rules. "If you come upon a fight that's not one-on-one you're free
to interfere if you choose to. Again, whether or not you're morally or
ethically obligated to do so is a matter for the philosophers."
Methos hesitated, glancing at Joe. "That's pretty much it," he
said.
"Aren't you going to tell him
about the Gathering?" Amy asked.
"The Gathering?" Nick
asked.
Methos drew an audible breath and
let it out. "Sit down," he said. He'd set his broadsword
down on the table, and Nick laid his down as Methos moved on the couch to make
room for him. "All right," he said. "You've probably
heard Amanda say 'There can be only one.' "
Nick nodded. "Yeah:
'In the end there can be only one.' "
Methos nodded. "Do you know
what she meant?"
"Well, sure--the Game.
All the good Immortals are fighting the bad Immortals and have been since . . .
well, always, I guess. It's good against evil, isn't it?"
"Assuming that two 'good'
Immortals should be able to walk away from an argument on the strength of their
intelligence and common sense, yes. The Gathering is supposed to be a
time of increased fighting among Immortals--sort of an eliminations
tournament. When only a few Immortals are left we'll feel an irresistible
pull towards a far away land to fight
for the prize. The best fighters will weed out the
weaker ones and eventually you'll have just two Immortals left. They'll
be . . . driven . . . to fight. It's commonly believed that the Gathering
has already begun, by the way." He let Nick digest that for a moment
and waited for the inevitable question.
"So what happens to the last
Immortal?"
"Through the final Quickening
the last Immortal becomes the recipient of all the knowledge and power ever
held by the Immortals. He gains the ability to know what people are
thinking all over the world and can act as a mediator between them or can use
the power to dominate and control them. He will know each man's thoughts
and dreams. He will be able to have children, and will ultimately age
normally and grow old. For good or evil, he will have power beyond
imagination."
Nick's mouth opened and then
shut. He didn't want to be insulting, but . . .
"And you believe this?" he asked.
"Me personally?" Methos
asked. "No. But that's the theory."
"Theory?" Amy echoed.
"I knew you didn't
believe in the Game!" Joe exclaimed.
Methos shrugged. "A lot
of Immortals don't believe in the Game. Not that it matters much--"
"Why not?" Amy demanded.
"Why don't we believe in the
Game, or why doesn't it matter that we don't believe in the Game?"
"Both!"
"It's really not all that
complicated," Methos said. "Look--I traveled 'round the known
world for close to three thousand years without even hearing 'There
can be only one.' As long as there was a generally accepted pantheon, the
Immortals you met worshiped a variety of gods and didn't much question what the
other guy did. No one I knew believed we were locked in an
eternal battle between good and evil, or that there was a mystical prize to be
won by the last man standing. If you had something another Immortal
wanted, he challenged you. If you lost, he became the proud owner of your
two camels or whatever. If another Immortal's actions offended you or
your beliefs so that you felt compelled to eliminate him, you challenged him
and fought your best fight.
" 'There can be only one'
really only became a viable concept when the idea of a single God--capital
'G'--came to be accepted, and I don't just mean a Christian God. You'd
find Immortals buying into the idea anywhere a single god or goddess came to be
ascendant in a location. In Sumeria it was Matronit. In India, it was
Brahma. For the Egyptians it was Hapi, Isis, and Atum at another
time--they were always a bit fickle when it came to religion. In parts of
Africa it was Imana. In Roman Britain it was Mithras. I
was an initiate of Mithras for awhile, in fact. Before the idea of a single
god caught hold, though, well . . . where you had one dominant god or goddess
you might encounter an Immortal who was accepted as the god's champion, maybe
someone who had lived and defended the god for generations and was accorded a
type of worship for his service to the god, but that was about it. But
the idea that the Immortals were locked in battle for a single prize?
That's a modern concept, all things considered."
"What about Ramirez?" Joe
asked.
"Juan Sanchez de los Lobos Ramirez,
chief metallurgist to His Majesty, Charles the Fifth of Spain?"
"That's the one. He was
Connor's teacher, and he taught Connor there could be only one--"
Methos nodded. "And
Connor taught it to Duncan, who in turn taught it to Richie. I
know. Now, keep in mind, I never met Ramirez, but you asked me what I
believe, based on my own experience. According to Watcher records,
Ramirez is supposed to have been 2,437 years old when he sought out Connor
MacLeod and taught him 'There can be only one.' That means Ramirez was
born . . . oh, about 900 B.C. or so--about the time of the earliest Jewish
prophets and long after the Egyptians' own experiment in monotheism, aborted
though it was. Ramirez lived most of his life in a world that was heavily
influenced by the idea of the one God, good and evil, etc. Now, how do
you think the very Catholic Connor MacLeod would have reacted to an
attempt to teach him that his Immortality was sustained by a pantheon of pagan
Egyptian gods he'd never heard of, and whose very names were an insult to the
God he did believe in?"
"So you're saying it's
cultural," Joe said.
"Cultural, historical,
religious--you can call it whatever you want. I'm just saying the idea
isn't universally accepted. Joe--I know devout Muslim Immortals who
consider the very idea sacrilege. And in my personal experience,
it wasn't until well into the Christian era that the idea came to be widely
accepted in European countries."
"What about the
Quickening?" Amy asked.
"Oh, certainly the Quickening's
real enough. But it's a transfer of life force, of life energies, if you
will, not a literal transfer of knowledge, strength, or abilities. If I
kill an Immortal who happens to be a rocket scientist, I don't suddenly become
a rocket scientist or know everything he knew--it just doesn't work that
way."
"What about memories? Or
personality?"
"When an Immortal takes a
Quickening there's a transfer of memories, both good and bad, to some
extent. It may take a day or two to integrate the memories, to
consciously sort them out from your own, but you can always tell the
difference, and the received memories always fade fairly quickly on the
conscious level. Now, on a subconscious level? That's harder to
say. For a day or two you may occasionally find yourself acting on the
other guy's impulse, responding to someone or something as they would, but
that's unusual. That's really what we mean by a Dark Quickening, isn't
it? A case when a good man is overwhelmed by the accumulated energies and
personalities of evil men? But how many instances have the Watchers
recorded in the past two thousand years? Less than half a
dozen." He turned to Joe for verification. "You've seen
Quickenings, Joe, and you've been there for their aftermath. When MacLeod
killed--well, hell," he said, forced to laugh, "name anyone.
Slan Quince? Kalas? Xavier St. Cloud? Kronos? Any of them. It's not
as if he suddenly knew everything they'd known, did he? And can you
imagine how strong he'd be if the transfer of physical strength were
cumulative? He'd make Hercules look like a wimp."
"So what do you
believe?" Amy asked.
Methos pursed his lips,
hesitating. "I believe that the prize is Immortal religious mythology,
like the Tower of Babel reaching to the heavens before God knocked it down, or
Ezekiel wrestling with the angel. They're things half understood, or
entirely misunderstood, or created whole cloth out of a need to establish order
in the world. For whatever reason, men and Immortals are the only
creatures on this earth who deliberately choose to fight to the death, and as
social, psychological creatures, we need a reason for that.
Christianity and other monotheistic religions gave us a framework that could be
used to explain it, right or wrong, and as more and more Immortals were born
into Christianity, that was the model they were taught. Angels and
devils, fighting God's eternal war, and in the end there can be only one."
"A myth," Joe said.
"Have you ever discussed this
with MacLeod?" Amy asked.
"I thought I'd wait until he's
able to be a bit more objective on the subject. Assuming we both live
that long."
"That's why it doesn't matter
if you believe in the Game or not," Amy said suddenly. "As long
as the others do--"
"They'll keep coming
around. There's no such thing as conscientious objector status in the
Game, at least not at the moment. Maybe sometime in the future, though,
attitudes will shift or the concept of a pre-ordained battle between good and
evil will lose favor and we can go back to chopping each other's heads off the
more ordinary reasons. Maybe enough Immortals of Nick's generation will
find the whole idea so ludicrous, or so outside their normal frame of
reference, that they simply won't believe in it either." He
grinned. "Of course, it's a bit like reincarnation--if it is
true, it's going to happen whether you believe it in or not. Oh, and that
reminds me, Nick." He waited until his student met his eyes.
"Rule number four. If your head comes away from your neck, it's all
over, regardless of what you believe."
Chapter Six
Half a block down from Le
Blues Bar Deux, Dr. Amy Zoll pulled her car into the access alley just
behind the businesses lining Rue Oberkampf. Parking far enough away from
the rear doors that she wouldn't interfere with any deliveries, she locked the
car door and then backtracked, passing several inexpensive bars and small clubs
before reaching Joe's front door.
"Hi, Joe," she greeted
him. Unlike most of its neighbors, the kitchen at Le Blues Bar Deux
did a small lunchtime business, but not so much that the owner couldn't afford
ten minutes with a friend or colleague who happened to show up. The
result this particular day was that Zoll didn't feel bad about dropping in
unannounced, although the look on Joe's face indicated she'd caught him by
surprise. More a colleague than a friend, she was just back to work for
the Watchers after a 60-day suspension without pay. That, of
course, was the direct result of an ill-advised confrontation with Methos that
had involved her in too much personal contact with the oldest Immortal for her
superiors' comfort. Part of the Tribunal's official sanction had included
two grade reductions in rank for Zoll as well, which meant she was now
reporting to a supervisor on her work on the Methos Chronicles: Joe
Dawson.
"Amy," Joe said.
"Hey, I didn't expect to see you."
She smiled, waggling a manila folder
at him. "I've got that material you asked for," she said.
"You know, the literature search on that Roman numeral reference--"
Wondering how
many ways there were to make an Immortal die a really ugly and painful death,
Joe kept the smile fixed on his face as she slid the folder across the top of
the bar to him. "Oh, yeah," Joe said. "Thanks.
I'd almost forgotten." Methos was dead meat.
"It's a pretty archaic
reference," she commented. "Fascinating sidelights,
though." The only customers in the room were seated at a table
twenty feet away, so she dropped her voice and added, "Your fax said it
was in reference to the mortal who attacked Nick Wolfe? It's true then,
that Nick's become Immortal?"
Joe nodded. Zoll standardly
saw any reference that came in to the Watchers that even mentioned
Adam Pierson or Methos, so there'd been no sense trying to conceal anything
from her. And despite Joe's protests, the old man was right--Zoll had
almost twenty years of experience as a researcher in addition to her formal
training as an archaeologist and historian. If anyone could come up with
what LXX meant, she was the one, despite Joe's reluctance to involve her with
one of Methos' little projects.
"And Methos has taken Nick on
as a student?"
"Yeah."
"Why would he do that?"
Zoll asked, and a grin tugged Joe's lips apart.
Amy Zoll had been Adam Pierson's
nominal supervisor when he'd been attached to the Watchers. After
"Pierson's" resignation from the Watchers it had been Zoll who had
compiled all the bits and pieces of data and innuendo that had resulted in the
Watchers identifying Pierson not just as an Immortal, but as Methos
himself. Initially, Zoll had been both angry and humiliated--imagine
working for three years with a man who turned out to be the actual object of
your investigation. It had resulted in a convert's zeal, concealing at
least in part the fury she felt over the fact that she'd worked side by side
with him without ever suspecting a thing. Her first brush with Pierson as
Methos himself had left her shaken and a bit scarred, but her continued
fascination was predictable. There was a reason, after all, that Watchers
watched.
Joe shrugged. "To tell
the truth," he said, "at first I thought he took Nick on to annoy
Amanda more than anything, but they seem to be getting along well enough.
You know there's a second apartment at Methos' place?" he asked, and she
nodded. "Nick's moved in and they've converted the living area into
a sort of gymnasium. He's started learning sword fighting," he
added, grinning. "He ends up on his rump regularly, but he keeps
getting up. As a side-effect, Methos appears to be getting into better
fighting shape, too. They've been at it for about a week and a half
now."
Amy shook her head. "I'd
have never thought it," she admitted. "And he's left the
university?"
"Resigned at the end of the
semester. I gather they offered him a leave of absence, but he turned it
down. He told me he was bored with academic life."
"Well, it isn't as if he needs
the money," she commented. "Is he getting ready to fly the
coop?"
Joe hesitated. "I thought
so for awhile," he said, "but with a new Immortal in tow and Duncan
MacLeod still missing it seems unlikely."
"He put the barge in dry
dock."
"I know." Which
reminded him: There was a twenty-seven hundred year old Chinese bowl
sitting in his safe.
Zoll shook her head.
"Okay," she said. "Let me know if you need anything else.
Mind if I go out the back?" she asked. "I parked in the
alley."
"I'll walk you out," Joe
said.
The manila folder in one hand, he
watched from the rear door as Zoll crossed to her car and then waved good-bye
to him before sliding into the driver's seat. He had closed and locked
the rear door when there was a sound of a vehicle moving rapidly down the
alley, gravel shifting and crunching beneath the tires. There was a
metallic crash and then Amy Zoll's scream reached him as Joe fumbled with the
door's lock. He jerked the back door open just in time to see her car
door wide open and two men dragging her toward the open back door of a silver
Land Rover, a driver at its wheel.
"Amy!" Joe shouted.
His hand gun was locked in the safe, under the bar, a room away and out of
reach, and a cane hardly counted against two men half his age. Helpless,
he watched as Zoll was shoved into the back seat, the door slammed shut, and
the silver SUV backed up and then sped forward, sideswiping the left front
fender of Amy's car and jarring the car enough to make its open front door
bounce on the hinges. "Amy!" Joe shouted again. The best
he could hope for was a glimpse of the rear license plate as he made his way
into the alley and the Land Rover swung sharply right, headed up the access
alley that would let it onto Rue Oberkampf and the more heavily trafficked
streets of downtown Paris.
The second crash of metal into metal
surprised him, but no more so than the third. Other people were appearing
here and there as the few daytime employees of the other clubs along the road
stepped out into the alley as well now, curious at the noise. By the time
Joe had limped from his back door to the elbow-bend in the alley way that led
to Oberkampf, there were half a dozen people gathered, including Joe's own
lunch time patrons. Stunned, Joe realized that Amy Zoll's would-be
kidnappers had run into Methos' Range Rover in the alley, and then gone on to
jump the sidewalk on Oberkampf, where they'd crashed into the front
passenger-side door of Amy Thomas' blue Sunbeam wagon.
What Joe had missed was the three
kidnappers shoving Amy Zoll out of the car as they spilled from it to
flee on foot after colliding with the second car, and Nick Wolfe throwing
himself out of the passenger's seat of Methos' SUV, gun in hand, ready to
charge after the three until Methos' shouted "Nick! No!"
stopped him in his tracks and left him pacing at the mouth of the alley way,
both furious and frustrated as the kidnappers got away. By the time Joe
made it to the sidewalk in front of the club it was pretty much over. Amy
Zoll half stood and half slumped against the front of the club, gasping into
her cupped hands. Rational thought finally kicked in and Joe realized
belatedly she was crying and hyperventilating out of fear. The fact that
Methos stood with his arms wrapped around Amy Thomas' trembling shoulders
didn't even ring a bell until Methos kissed her gently on the forehead and led
her out of the street and toward the club.
Joe stood there for a moment, only
half aware that Nick Wolfe had collected the car keys from the two--no,
three--abandoned cars, pocketed them, and was busy assuring the bystanders
they'd call the police. "Joe?"
Nick said.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Joe said
automatically, staring at the kidnappers' abandoned vehicle. He realized
he still had Amy Zoll's manila folder gripped in one hand and made a conscious
effort to lessen his grip on it. Still numb, he walked into Le Blues
Club Deux through the front door, following Nick and Amy Zoll, who in turn
followed Methos and Amy Thomas. Joe snorted, realizing his lunch time
customers had disappeared--not that he could exactly blame them--and that he
could already hear the multi-tonal blare of a French police siren headed their
direction.
Amy Zoll had collapsed into a chair,
and Methos had apparently seated Amy Thomas as well. He'd pulled a chair
up so he could face her, watching her intently, hazel eyes never leaving her
face, taking her hands in his when she reached for him, his voice too quiet to
be heard by the others. Huh. Talk about a fascinating
sidelight. On a more prosaic level, Nick was playing bartender,
bringing Amy Zoll a tumbler full of water. Why did people always offer
you water in an upsetting situation, anyway? It wasn't as it if
helped any.
"Hey!" Joe snapped.
It came out more irritably than he'd intended, but at least it got Methos'
attention. "Does someone want to tell me what the hell just happened
out there?"
"You got me," Nick Wolfe
said. "We were just pulling in the alley when the other car came
barreling around the corner and headed right for us. Methos threw the car
far enough to the right that they didn't do much damage, but the next thing I
knew they were going over the sidewalk. By that time we'd recognized Amy
Zoll in the back seat, and Amy--our Amy--was driving right into their
path."
"You did that on purpose?"
Joe demanded.
"Well, yeah--" his
daughter stammered.
"And I suppose you've never
even heard the words 'observe and record'?"
"Joe," Methos objected
gently.
"You can stay the hell
out of this," Joe informed him point blank.
God, talk about lousy timing.
He came up out of his chair, forcing himself to remain calm. "How
can I stay out of it when I'm the one she's observing and recording?" he
demanded. "I'm already involved."
"This wouldn't have happened if
you had done what I asked just once in your lousy life," Joe
said. He threw the mangled manila folder down on the table next to
Methos, who looked down at it, only then realizing what Joe was talking about.
"Joe," Methos said.
"Uh uh. I asked you to
leave Amy Zoll out of this but you couldn't even respect a simple
request--"
"Request?" Methos
echoed. "You didn't request anything," Methos reminded
him. "You sounded more like Moses presenting the children of Israel
with the damned ten commandments--"
"None of which you seem capable
of obeying--"
"Oh, please," Methos
snapped. "I don't even remember the last time I owned a
golden calf."
"Excuse me?"
Sounding understandably confused, Amy Zoll looked first at Amy Thomas and then
Nick Wolfe for clarification. "I seem to have come in on the second
act," she commented. "Nick?"
Nick held up both hands in a gesture
of surrender. "Don't ask me," he said. Amy Thomas was
sitting upright in the chair Methos had pulled out for her, her face a play of
emotions. She didn't seem to have made up her mind yet, but Nick was
betting she'd settle on anger once she could get a word in edgeways.
"You want to know what this is
all about?" Joe asked. "I'll tell you what it's
about. I didn't ask for the research material. Methos
did. How'd you do it, Methos? Did you send her a fax from my
machine, maybe forge my name while you were at it? That would be about
your style, wouldn't it?" He turned to Zoll. "The week
and a half you spent digging through historical and religious esoterica was
spent working for him, in violation of your oath," he said.
"And on top of that he nearly gets Amy killed--"
"Oh, now, that's enough!"
Methos said. "I did not--"
"Would you please, both of you,
just stop it!" Amy Thomas snapped. "Joe, you know perfectly
well Methos had nothing to do with what happened out there. And you're
the one who said you have to do more than just watch!"
"Not when it means
putting your life in danger!" Joe and Methos chorused, predictably
if abruptly finding themselves on the same side of the argument.
The silence was broken by Nick
Wolfe's failure to control the laughter he'd been attempting to smother and the
arrival of two uniformed officers from the Paris traffic division, a fact Nick
was grateful for, given the dirty look Methos turned his direction. As
described by Joe Dawson, Amy Zoll, Nick Wolfe and Amy Thomas, it took some time
for the exact details of the kidnapping-cum-car accident to be resolved into a
single coherent narrative--a narrative Nick noticed was conspicuously absent
Methos' voice. Once the details had been sorted out, however, one of the
uniformed officers radioed for a detective, and in all too short a time Police
Inspector LeBrun was walking through the door to Le Blues Bar Deux as
Methos leaned both elbows back against the bar, asking, "Doing traffic
detail these days, Inspector?"
Oh, crap, Nick Wolfe
thought. The Inspector's presence in the room reminded him rather
suddenly of a certain headless body, stuffed into a wood box about a week and a
half ago, and that was something he'd just as soon not be reminded of.
Curiously enough, despite detailed attention to the daily newspaper and a
variety of news sources since then, there'd been no indication that anything
had ever come of that little escapade. Methos' silence on the
matter Nick had taken as a matter of course. But LeBrun's presence was
another matter.
"Ah, Monsieur Pierson,"
LeBrun acknowledged, sparing Nick a smile. "Traffic detail? Non.
But a kidnapping attempt? Yes. Now, please--one at a time,
beginning, I think, with Monsieur Dawson."
Joe glanced at Amy Zoll.
"Well, it was the end of the lunchtime trade. Dr. Zoll had come in
for a bite to eat. She'd parked out back, and asked me to let her out the
back door. I walked her out, watched her unlock the car door, and then I
closed and locked the back door to the kitchen. A minute later I heard
her scream, but I couldn't get the door open quickly enough to do anything
about it—"
Zoll nodded. "I had
just gotten into the car and put the keys in the ignition," she
said. "I was facing . . . west. There was a car coming toward
me--not fast at first, but then it accelerated. The driver remained
behind the wheel. Two men jumped out of the back seat and pulled me out
of my car and shoved me into the other car. One of them put his hand over
my mouth and held me--" She swallowed her automatic reaction at the
memory and glanced at the others. "They turned south, headed for the
street, but M--Mr. Pierson's car was in the way."
"We'd just pulled into the
alley," Methos said, "and here's this car, barreling down on us with
no sign of stopping. We barely had time to recognize Dr. Zoll in the back
seat and realize she wasn't happy to be there. The driver of the other
car turned the wheel right--to his right, that is--and went up on the
sidewalk." He shrugged. "Miss Thomas was just coming down
the street and they ran into her car."
"Miss Thomas?"
Amy nodded. "They hit my
car, bashed in the passenger-side door, and then ran off," she said.
"And why would someone try to
kidnap you?" LeBrun asked.
"I don't know,"
Zoll replied. "It makes absolutely no sense."
"The only thing I can imagine
is that they thought you had the Chinese bowl on you," Methos said.
"Chinese bowl?" LeBrun
asked.
Yeah, Zoll thought, staring
at Methos as if he were a magician she sincerely hoped could pull a rabbit out
of his hat. What Chinese bowl?
Methos stepped behind the
bar and calmly opened Joe's safe, pulling out the Chinese bowl he'd picked up
at MacLeod's barge. "I'd asked Dr. Zoll to do an appraisal on an
antique for me," he said. "Joe had it stored in his safe."
He set the bowl down on the bar, adding, "It's really quite a nice
piece."
"Valuable?" LeBrun asked,
looking at Dr. Zoll.
Amy swallowed. It was
gorgeous. "Seventh or eight century B.C.," she said, her
eyes moving from the bowl to Methos and then back again. "If it's genuine,
yes, it's quite valuable." And, on the surface at least, it was more
than enough reason for attempted theft or even kidnapping.
"But you didn't have the bowl
on you," LeBrun summarized.
"No," Joe said. His
gaze wavered between LeBrun and Methos. "I'd forgotten to have her
take it with her."
"Apparently a fortunate
oversight on your part," LeBrun commented. "Can anyone have
expected you to be transporting it?" he asked Zoll.
"Well, we were discussing it
quite openly the other day, weren't we, Joe?" Methos said.
"Anyone might have overheard us."
No one contradicted him, and LeBrun
nodded in the face of their continued silence. "I see," the
Inspector said. "Let me suggest, then, that a police escort might be
the wisest course. Assuming, that is, Dr. Zoll, that you still intend to
transport this bowl to--um--"
"The National Museum of
Antiquities," Methos said.
"Yes, of course," Zoll
said, not even surprised to hear herself agreeing. She was looking for
some sign from Joe Dawson, even for the briefest moment, but his expressionless
face gave her no clue what was going on behind those ever intelligent
eyes. She'd even arrange for the damned appraisal, if that was what it
took. It seemed a fair enough trade for the neat little illusion Methos
had just effortlessly created for the Inspector's and--she had no doubt--his
own entertainment. An illusion that, with luck, would prevent a very
real investigation into things like Watchers and people who lived forever if
you didn't cut off their heads, and the variety of entanglements said
individuals might conceivably get themselves into if they weren't
careful. In fact, she thought, given that she was sworn to maintain
the secrecy of the Watchers' very existence, you could almost say it was in the
best interests of her oath to go along with Methos' little game, at least in
this case. Another glance in Joe Dawson's direction told her she'd do
better not to pursue that particular question too far. Was this what he
meant, she wondered, when he'd cautioned her some months ago against looking a
gift Immortal in the mouth?
Chapter Seven
"What the hell just happened
here?" Nick Wolfe asked sotto voce ten minutes later. They
were standing together on the sidewalk outside of Joe's bar, having ascertained
that their cars needed body work but were all still operable, and were watching
the police tow truck maneuver its way to the curb to haul away the kidnappers'
abandoned car, which LeBrun had assured them would undergo a thorough forensics
investigation. Amy Zoll had opted to leave her car parked out back with
Joe's permission, and Inspector LeBrun had volunteered to drive her--and the
Chinese bowl--to the National Museum of Antiquities, where it could be properly
appraised.
Joe Dawson made a sound half way
between disgust and amusement. "I'll tell you what just happened
here," he said, watching LeBrun's car disappear up Rue Oberkampf.
"The Ancient One here just pulled a fast one on me, the cops, and
Amy Zoll, and we all have to just stand here and smile while he manipulates
things to suit himself. That's what just happened here."
Shaking his head, Joe turned back to the bar and headed inside, followed by the
others.
"What'd you do with the folder,
Methos?" Joe asked wearily, and Methos produced it from inside his coat.
"You didn't want me to leave it
out where LeBrun would see it, did you?" he asked, and Joe just shook his
head.
"You'd think I'd know better by
now, wouldn't you?" Joe asked.
"Oh, come on, Joe," Methos
said. "You know you were going to give in eventually."
"Nick? Amy?
Anything to drink?" Joe cut Methos off with a wave of his hand
before he could speak. "I know what you
want," he informed him. "I'm talking to the paying customers
here."
A few minutes later they were seated
around a table together, sorting through the pages in the folder Zoll had
brought. Joe sighed, reading aloud. "References to
'seventy' are almost exclusively biblical or religious in nature. Old
Testament references include Exodus 24, Numbers 11, and Ezekiel 8. There
is also the tradition of referring to the Greek translation of the Old
Testament as the Septuagint, which translates to 'seventy,' a reference to the
Jewish belief that it was made in seventy days by 72 elders from Jerusalem. The
'seventy' are also referred to in Luke, in the New Testament. As in modern
Christian churches that use the term, it usually refers to men who are members
of an elect priesthood, called to serve as missionaries and/or
preachers." He looked at Nick. "So your friend from the
other night was a preacher?"
"A preacher with a very long
sword," Nick muttered.
"There were seventy elders of
Israel who went up with Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu and saw the God of
Israel," Methos mused.
"I take it this was God with a
capital 'G'?" Amy asked.
Methos nodded. "The
Hebrews' general administrative officers were also appointed in groups of
seventy."
"Any tie between 'seventy' and
'lucky seven'?" Joe asked.
"Not for Nick there
wasn't," Amy commented.
"The seventy were priests and
prophets in ancient Israel," Methos said. "Luke wrote that the
devils themselves were subject to them, and that their names were written in
heaven."
"There's this," Joe said,
scanning the sheet of paper. " ' . . . the Lord appointed other
seventy also, and sent them two and two before his face into every city and
place . . . ' " He paused, glancing at Nick. "Does that
mean what I think it means?"
"What?" Nick asked.
"They travel in twos,"
Methos said. "Your attacker has a friend out there somewhere."
"Oh, well, that's good to
know." Nick rolled his eyes. "What's this?"
Methos caught the photocopy Nick
flicked his direction and studied it for a long moment. "The Angels
of St. John," he said, reading Zoll's printing on the back. It was a
line drawing, an artist's rendering of a medal of some sort, rough-edged and
not perfectly circular, indicative of its great age. The medal showed a
barefooted man with a halo and an old-fashioned monk's fringe of hair being
borne up into the clouds by angels. A multitude of sword-bearing angels
surrounded them, apparently guarding the saint. "But what it has to
do with--" Oh. Of course. Zoll had included an
enlargement of the first photocopy. In the close up you could just make
it out. LXX, LXX, LXX, LXX, over and over again around the outside of the
saint's halo. From the look of the photocopy, Zoll had had to enlarge the
image several times even to make it show up.
"John the Baptist?" Joe
asked.
"John the Beloved," Methos
said. "Also called John the Revelator."
"The guy who wrote the book of
Revelation," Nick said.
Methos nodded. "Look closely at the
enlargement of the halo."
"LXX," Joe said.
"Angels with swords?" Nick
asked.
"There's a fairly modern
theory--"
"Define 'modern,' " Amy
interrupted, and Methos grinned, ducking his head slightly.
"Mid- to late-1960s," he
said. "About the time the translation began in earnest on the Dead
Sea Scrolls."
"Okay," she said.
"Go on."
The smile lingered as he said,
"The theory holds that a number of words in the King James Bible actually
represent other things that were mutually understood by the original authors
and their intended audience--the ancient Jews, that is."
"They wrote in code?" Joe
asked.
"Essentially. The Dead
Sea Scrolls were written by the Essenes and pre-date what you're used to
thinking of as the Bible by hundreds of years. When they used the word Kittim--originally
used to designate the Chaldeans--they're supposed to have meant the
Romans. Since the Jews were under Roman rule you can see where it
wouldn't have been safe or politically correct to criticize them openly, so the
use of a code would have permitted a certain . . . liberty . . . that would
have been lacking otherwise. The word Babylon was also
supposedly substituted for Rome. Anyone who was in the know understood
that they were reading a contemporary commentary about Rome, but someone who
didn't know the code would simply think they were reading an historical commentary
about the Babylonians."
"So?"
"So some of the oldest known
writings in the world have been found at Qumran, among them the Essenes' Angelic
Liturgy. It's essentially a list of coded definitions and
pseudonyms, which would at least appear to support the theory of a word
substitution code. 'The Word of God' was the code for the man who came to
be called Jesus Christ. 'The lion' was code for the Roman Emperor.
'The poor' was code for the highest priesthood members, who were obligated to
consecrate their worldly goods to the community as a whole."
"So, when the Bible says 'the
poor shall always be with us,' it means we'll always have the priesthood of God
with us?" Amy was frowning.
"At least according to this
theory," Methos agreed. " 'Angels' were priesthood holders
whose responsibilities included acting as bodyguards for the highest officers
of the community."
"And bodyguards could
reasonably be expected to carry swords in that day and age," Nick said.
"There's a scripture,"
Methos said. " '. . . he that hath a purse, let him take it, and
likewise his script: And he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment,
and buy one.' Luke something or other--"
"Chapter twenty-two, verse
thirty six," Joe said. He laughed at the look Nick shot him.
"Hey," he said with a shrug. "It's one of the Watchers'
favorites."
"And John the Beloved?"
asked Nick.
Methos shook his head.
"Heathen. Didn't you ever go to
Sunday School?"
"Only when they could catch
me," Nick admitted with a grin. "Okay, okay--I know he was one
of the twelve apostles, and in the picture of the last supper he's the one on
Jesus' right hand. And when Jesus was on the cross he asked John the
Beloved to look after Mary."
"Remind me to have you read the
Bible as part of your training," Methos said. "The scriptures
describe John as one of two sons of Zebedee, whose designation among the
Essenes was 'Lightning.' Jesus called John the Beloved 'Boanerges,' though,
which is Greek for 'the son of thunder,' another designation the Essenes used
for their highest priests. There's a spot in the scriptures that says
something about the Lord of Hosts being received upon the mountain with thunder
and lightening. If you buy the word substitution theory, it means that
the highest priests of the Essene order saw God.
"At the time of Christ,
'Thunder' referred to Jonathan Annas, the High Priest of the Sadducees.
'Thunder' and 'Lightning'--Annas and Zebedee--were two of the highest ranking
priests in the community, so whether John was Zebedee's son or the son of
Annas, he would have been part of a powerful and influential family. And
even if he wasn't Annas' son by blood, the designation 'son of Thunder' might
have indicated he was part of the priesthood line that was headed by 'Thunder,'
in which case John was designated as an heir to one of the most powerful
offices among the Essenes." A look at Nick's face showed he was
losing him, so Methos did a quick backtrack. "You've heard of Annas
and Caiaphas, haven't you?" he asked. "The two high priests
Judas went to when he betrayed Christ?"
"Sure," Nick said.
"The guys who paid him thirty pieces of silver."
"The very same," Methos
agreed.
"That Annas?"
Nick asked. "Jesus was betrayed by the father of one of his
disciples?"
"Assuming Annas was John's
father. Remember, the Bible says Zebedee was his father. It's the
Essene code words that complicate things."
"I've got a question for
you," Joe said quietly. He waited for Methos to look at him.
"You've said 'is,' 'was generally believed to have been,' and 'could
indicate.' Exactly how well did you know these people?"
"Not all that well. I
wasn't a member of the Essene community, if that's what you're thinking, but I
was living in the general area. I'd been permitted to study in lesser of
the Essene libraries."
"So you at least met
them."
"Some of them."
"Uh huh. Including Jesus
Christ."
"Once," Methos said.
"Uh huh." Joe looked
skeptical.
"Hey--you asked, I
answered."
"You met Jesus?" Amy said.
"Look, we're getting
sidetracked--"
"Oh, come on!" Nick
said. "You can't claim to have met Jesus Christ and expect us not to
ask questions about it!"
"All right, all right,"
Methos conceded. "Ask your questions."
There was an abrupt silence around
the table.
"So . . . was he?" Nick
asked.
"Was he what?"
"Was he the son of God?"
Amy asked.
"He didn't say."
"Damn it, Methos!"
It was Joe, agitated.
"Hey!" Methos snapped back
at him. "Don't jump down my throat--you asked and I answered.
I am not the font of all knowledge, and I don't have the answer to any personal
religious crises you may be experiencing, okay? I saw him one time, in
Bethany, and from a distance. I'd been studying in the chief libraries in
Jerusalem, and had been invited to stay at the home of Syrus Jarius--he was the
chief priest at the synagogue in Capernaum and rich as Midas." He
smiled just a bit, adding, "I think the old dog hoped to convert me, but
since it was the finest offer of hospitality I'd had in over a year I didn't
care--"
"Bethany," Joe said.
Methos nodded.
"Right."
"You're telling me you saw
Lazarus raised from the dead," Joe said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm telling you what
happened. You can draw your own conclusions." He drew a deep
breath. "Lazarus was Jarius' son--twenty-five years old, strong,
generous, intelligent, everything a father hopes for. They were
devastated when he died, absolutely distraught. Four days later the
family went out with a crowd to greet Jesus and I went along out of curiosity.
I'd been hearing stories of his miracles, just like everyone else, and I knew
Jarius' children were devoted to him. They'd told me that Jesus and
Lazarus had been friends since they were boys, and they stopped at Lazarus'
grave so he could have a few minutes there. The older of the two
daughters had been inconsolable since Lazarus died four days before, and she
said something about Lazarus not dying if only Jesus had been there to prevent
it. I took it for the ravings of a grieving woman.
"And then he looked at me, and
I could tell he knew who and what I was. He was mortal, Joe--at least he
was at that moment--but he could sense me. In three thousand years I'd
never encountered a mortal who could tell who and what I was just by looking at
me, and I haven't encountered it since."
"What about Lazarus?" Joe
asked quietly.
Methos nodded and
ran his hand through his short
cropped hair. "Okay," he said. "We were at the
gravesite. It was . . . just a
cave, with a stone rolled across the mouth to keep out animals that might have
spoiled the body. Lazarus' sisters were sobbing." Methos
sighed, shaking his head. "Jesus pointed to the stone, and told some
of the men to roll it away. When they moved the stone you could smell the
rot, Joe. Four days dead in one hundred degree heat--Lazarus was dead
when Jesus stepped inside that cave, I'll swear it. And when he walked
out, Lazarus was well, and whole, and alive, and standing there beside
him."
"It wasn't a coma?" Amy
asked.
"No. After 5,000 years I
know dead when I see it, and Lazarus was dead when they buried him."
"And you're sure he wasn't just
an Immortal, slow to revive after his first death?"
"He wasn't any kind of
an Immortal, slow to revive or not," Methos replied. "He was
mortal and he was dead. And then he was brought back to life. To mortal
life, by the way."
"He raised the dead," Joe
said.
"I don't know for sure what he
did," Methos said. "I just know what I saw."
"And John the Beloved?"
Nick asked. He lifted the photocopy of the medal of St. John and the
angels from the table to wave it at his teacher.
Methos took the photocopy from
him. "This? This is another story altogether, because John the
Beloved was an Immortal."
"Now that I could have
guessed," muttered Joe Dawson.
"How?" Nick demanded.
"Easy," Joe said.
"Christ promised that John the Beloved would remain alive on the earth
until the second coming."
Nick stared at Joe. "So,
what's the big deal?" he asked. "I mean, no offense, but the
guy's an Immortal, right? And Christ told him he'd remain alive until the
second coming? It doesn't seem that much of a stretch to me."
"Look at it this way,"
Methos said. "We're Immortals, and neither of us has the same
promise."
"So . . . you're saying this
was--what? A prophecy? Or a blessing of some sort?"
"Of some sort."
Nick just sat there for a
moment. "And what would happen to an Immortal who tried to take this
guy's head?" he asked.
Methos shrugged. "God
knows."
"Damn it, Methos, I hate it
when you do that!" Nick exclaimed, shoving himself back from the
table. "I can never tell if you're joking or not!"
"And you think the rest of us
can?" Joe asked.
"Nick," Methos said,
"I'm sorry, but you're asking me to answer a question I can't possibly be
expected to know the answer to. Look--I keep trying to tell you people
I'm just a guy, but you insist on seeing me as some all-knowing Machiavellian
figure, and I'm really not. Yes, I'm damned good at thinking on
my feet, and yes, given the opportunity I'm practiced at turning a situation to
my own advantage, but I've had 5,000 years to practice! Beyond that I'm
as much in the dark as anyone here."
"So what about these guys who
came after Nick?" Amy asked.
"Mortals don't just attack
Immortals without reason," Methos said. "The odds are too much
against them. Even Hunters have a specified reason for coming after
Immortals, illogical as it may seem. And we have to assume Nick's
playmate from the other night knew he was Immortal--otherwise he got
damned lucky and just happened to pick the one weapon that would do him any
good, and that's too much coincidence for me. So what are we looking
at?" He counted the points off one at a time on one hand.
"One: A group exists that knows about the Immortals. They are
not Watchers or Hunters, or at least we're assuming they're not--otherwise
Zoll's research would have turned up a connection, and she'd have had no reason
that I can think of to conceal the link from her own boss. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Joe
said. Just a bit begrudgingly, he silently forgave Methos whatever
subterfuge he'd used to guarantee full disclosure of the facts from Zoll.
As much as Joe hated to admit it, there was usually a good reason for what
Methos did, whether you liked it or not.
"Two: This group not only
knows about Immortals, but they successfully identified at least one brand new
Immortal within days, maybe even hours, of his first death. That means
they have to have been watching Nick and/or Amanda independently, or through
either Amanda's Watcher or what's his face's Watcher--Evan Peyton. They
might even have originally been following either Amanda or Peyton and switched
their sights to Nick since he's the easier target."
"Gee, thanks, teach."
"Just trying to keep you
humble. Three: This group, which I, at least, have come to think
of as the Septuagint, is somehow linked to St. John the Revelator, who,
coincidentally or not, also happens to be an Immortal."
"What?" Amy said
suddenly. "You think he's got his own private set of Watchers to
keep track of other Immortals?"
"It's a possibility,"
Methos said, "even if it's not what I would expect."
"Granted that you haven't seen
him in 2,000 years and people change," Joe threw in.
"Granted," Methos
acknowledged, "but I just can't picture it--"
He was interrupted by the phone,
which Joe moved around the bar to answer. "Oui? Le Blues Bar
Deux." A pause while he listened to the caller, his eyes swinging up
to meet Methos' across the room. "No, I'm sorry. He left, oh,
well over half an hour ago. He was going to the Museum of Antiquities
from here. No problem." Hanging up, he stood there a
moment. "That was the French police," he said.
"Inspector LeBrun was to have contacted them when he and Amy arrived at
the Museum of Antiquities. He hasn't called in. Of course, it's
only been, oh, about forty minutes ago."
"Try Zoll's phone," Methos
said.
"We couldn't be that unlucky,
could we?" Joe asked, punching in numbers.
"The way things have been going
lately I'd rather know sooner than later."
Joe stood there, the phone to his
ear. On the fourteenth ring he pressed the disconnect button.
"Shit," he said.
In a way, that said it all.
Chapter Eight
Joe stood behind the bar, his
left hand tense over the phone's receiver still, his right hand resting on the
phone in a fist. "Okay," he said half to himself, and started
punching in another of Paris' ten-digit phone numbers.
"Joe, wait," Methos
said. His hand came down over the face of the telephone, interrupting the
other man's attempt to dial out.
"What?" Joe snapped,
irritated. Automatically he pulled the phone away, but Methos' hand came
down on top of it, forcing it down, and clamped it tightly to the surface of
the bar. It was no contest, really, and Joe knew it. To all
appearances Methos was whipcord thin, but his hand wasn't budging if he didn't
want it to. "Methos!"
"Just tell me who you're
calling," Methos said reasonably.
"Who do you think?" Joe
asked. "A Watcher has just been kidnapped. I'm calling the
Paris office."
"Oh, no no no no no no--"
"Back off,
Methos," Joe said. "You're not the only one involved
here."
"Joe, listen to me."
For all that the bar was between them, there was less than a foot separating
the two. "Joe, please. Just give me a minute to work
through--"
"There's nothing to work
through," Joe said. "Two people have just been kidnapped.
You do what you have to, and hopefully that will include some sense of
responsibility to Amy Zoll, but I'm calling headquarters." Joe
tugged at the phone and, no longer resisting, Methos let him pull it from under
his hand.
"I wish you'd--"
"Forget it, Methos. Joe
Dawson for Irene Fiedler. Yes, I'll hold." The last was said
into the phone as the call was answered at Watcher Headquarters. There
was a moment of silence as Nick and Amy exchanged a look; Methos shrugged when
Amy looked at him; and then Joe's call was put through. "Irene--it's
Joe. Thanks for speaking with me. There's . . . a bit of an
emergency. I need to meet with you personally. Uh huh.
Okay. At six."
"Joe, please," Methos
said. Then, as Joe started to interrupt, "No--just listen to
me. Please. That's all I'm asking. If you go to the Watchers
with everything we've got, if they get territorial and go rushing in . . .
Joe--there's no telling what's going to happen."
"And if I don't? What
then, Methos? Tell me you've got a master plan ready. Tell me you
anticipated the kidnapping of a Paris police detective and a Watcher you don't
give a damn about."
"Joe--"
"Uh uh. The subject's
closed." He put the phone back in its customary place on the shelf
under the bar. "I don't doubt you'll get over it eventually."
Methos shook his head.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Nick--"
The younger Immortal looked up,
meeting his eyes, and Methos sighed.
"Time for your work out,"
Methos informed him. "And then I need a priest."
"A priest?" Amy
echoed. "What do you need a priest for?"
"They say confession's good for
the soul, don't they?" Methos asked.
"You're going to
confession?" She couldn't have sounded more disbelieving if she'd
tried.
He shrugged. "Why
not?" he asked. He headed for the door, trailed by Nick.
"I didn't even know you were
Catholic," Amy called after him. She turned from watching Methos and
Nick disappear through the door to look at her father. "You
okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." He
smiled. "Hey--it's not the first time we've pissed each other off,
you know."
And no doubt it won't be the
last time, either.
Gathering her things, she wore an
irresistible smile. "Confession," she mused. "Now
this I've got to see."
"Be careful!" Joe called
after her, and she waved from the door, grinning. Huh.
Confession, my ass.
* * * * *
"Nick!" It was
close to five when Father Liam Riley broke free from the group of gangly French
teenagers he was playing basketball with and trotted across the cement toward
the chain link fence enclosing the court.
"Hi, Liam," Nick
replied. Not surprisingly, the mere sight of Liam made him smile.
As gangly as the teenagers he was coaching, Liam was too thin, his tousled hair
making him far too innocent-looking for him to ever be taken for an Immortal at
first glance, but the moment Nick had spotted him he'd been able to sense the
ring of presence Liam was projecting--had presumably always
projected--and knew Methos had picked it up as well, quite possibly even before
Nick had. Although the sense of Immortal presence was undetectable to any
but another of his own kind, it reminded Nick of having your own secret
handshake or being a member of a secret society--no, not a society, Nick
corrected himself. That implied too much shared closeness to truly
describe the relationships between the Immortals he'd met. The links
between Immortals were too tenuous for them to be that, even if they did have
their own shared culture and mythology. Or maybe they were a
society, but it was a worldwide society, defined not by geography but by
something else. Something that could get you killed if you weren't
careful.
Liam had grabbed a white towel from
one of the benches surrounding the fenced-in court, and he emerged wearing it
over his shoulders almost as if it were part of his vestments. He
squeezed Nick's shoulder as soon as they came close enough, simultaneously
looking with curiosity at Methos, a stranger to him, but obviously someone
accepted without reservation by Nick. "Who's your friend?" Liam
asked.
"Adam Pierson," Methos replied
easily. He and Liam shook hands.
"Adam," Liam echoed.
"Like the Ancient of Days."
Something like that, Nick
thought. "Liam, have you seen Amanda?" he asked.
Liam nodded. "D'you mind
if we walk?" he asked, nodding toward the basketball game, still going
on. "I don't want to stand still and get chilled." They
turned their backs on the game and strolled across the parking lot and grass at
a leisurely pace, letting Liam lead the way to the tiny apartment that was his
in the residential wing of the church. He left them sitting one on the
edge of his bed and one in the room's only guest chair while he washed up in
the bathroom, talking with them through the half open door.
"Amanda came by, oh, a
bit more than a week ago," he told them. "She told me what had
happened between you, said you'd found a teacher. Nick, she's quite upset
about things, you know. You ought to talk to her at least."
"She killed me,
Liam," Nick said.
"Yes, and if she hadn't, we
wouldn't be having this conversation," Liam said.
"Besides," Methos
added. "You're not upset because she killed you. You're upset
because she didn't tell you what you were." The quiet interjection
stopped Nick in his tracks, but Liam merely nodded, as if it, too, made perfect
sense.
"You didn't tell me you knew
Sigmund Freud," Nick snapped.
"There are a lot of things I
haven't told you, Nick. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Liam knew better than to interfere
between student and teacher, but he found himself nodding nonetheless.
"He's right," Nick," he said. "You can't blame Amanda
for not telling you that you were Immortal. If you're going to do that,
you might just as well blame me. Mortal life is a precious
thing. Too precious to be tainted by the anticipation or dread of what
you might become. Just as Immortal life is too precious a gift to be
tainted by the regret of what's been lost or left behind." He rung
out the washcloth he'd used for his sink bath and tossed it over the shower
bar, emerging from the bathroom smelling of soap and feeling quite a bit
better. Crossing to the chest of drawers, he pulled out a long sleeved
shirt and put it on, buttoning it up as he glanced in the mirror, running a
hand negligently through his hair. As long as he didn't look like he'd
embarrass the Diocese, appearance was not his top priority.
"So," he said.
"Not that I'm not glad to see you for its own sake, but what can I do for
you?"
"What do you know about the
Order of the Angels of Saint John?" Methos asked.
Liam's right eyebrow canted upward,
the surprise plain on his face. "It's not a subject that comes up
with any regularity," he said, "but as an Immortal I have an
understandable curiosity about them. I have to tell you, though, they're
anathema in the formal structure of the Church. Their doctrines were
unorthodox to begin with, and they were declared heresy in the Fourth Century
A.D. All the members of the Order were excommunicated."
"The Church doesn't consider
the protection of St. John the Beloved a priority?" Methos asked.
"The Church recognizes the fact
that St. John the Beloved is under the protection of God and needs no earthly
bodyguards," Liam said. "Especially bodyguards who are, shall
we say, a bit overzealous in the pursuit of what they perceive as their
duty."
"But they exist as an
organization in modern times." It wasn't a question.
"Oh, yes, but entirely outside
of the Church, and with the severest sanctions against them. They're made
up exclusively of men who are direct descendants from the original Seventy,
following the male lines only. Rather sexist by today's standards, of
course, but there you have it. You know that's what they call
themselves? The Seventy, I mean? The current term is actually
Septaguent--sep, taj, you, went--it's a corruption of the Greek--"
"Septuagint, yes, we
know. What do you mean 'overzealous'?"
"Well, you have to take the
oldest stories with a grain of salt, of course, but there are statements from
witnesses, defectors, I suppose, who claimed that the Order practiced human
sacrifice."
"To what end?" Methos asked,
and Liam burst out laughing.
"No, no, I'm sorry," he
apologized. "It's just that, usually, when you mention human
sacrifice, people don't ask 'to what end?' In the current vernacular the
reaction I expected was something along the lines of 'gross,' or 'you're
kidding.' As a matter of fact, though, your question is right on
point. My best guess is that they sacrificed an outsider whenever one of
the original male ancestral lines died out. The new member's line was
'sanctified' like the original seventy, through the rite. Think of it as
sort of a blood initiation--"
"Or literally as a blood
initiation," Methos said.
"Well, yes," Liam said,
"I suppose that makes sense."
"And how is the sacrifice
accomplished?"
"Well, they beheaded--"
Liam stopped cold, realizing Methos had used the present tense.
"Wait a minute," he said. "You're not telling me you've
encountered them recently? Here in Paris?"
"One came after Nick just after
he'd had his first death," Methos said. "Which leads to my next
question: Is there any chance that they're not sacrificing mortals, but
Immortals?"
"I--" Liam hesitated,
staring at him as the thought sank in. "There's an old book,"
he said finally. "Come with me."
He led them out of the small
residential quarters, outside, and then up a flight of stairs to a door that
required a key. "We have a small library of sorts," he told
them. "I was actually rather surprised to learn we had a copy of the
history of the Order. It's a secular text, of course, and no doubt a copy
of a copy of a copy, so I can't vouch for its veracity, but it is
fascinating." He pushed the door open and flipped on the overhead
light, leading them inside. It took him a few minutes to find the book he
was looking for, but he handed it over to Methos willingly enough.
"Assuming they're
mortals," Nick said, "how do they know when they've got an
Immortal?"
Methos shrugged, flipping through
the pages of the book. "There are only three ways to tell," he
said. "The easiest way is to have someone in your number who happens
to be an Immortal and is able to identify other Immortals for you.
Alternately, they could have identified Immortals generations ago and maintained
histories to the present day so they can be easily traced. They might
even know their locations as a matter of course. Or--" He
paused, staring at one of the pages of hand-drawn pictures in the book.
"Or what?" Liam asked.
"Or," Methos said slowly,
"you kill anyone you suspect and wait to see if they revive or not."
"And if they revive you behead
them?" Nick asked.
Methos nodded.
"You really think they're
killing Immortals?" Liam asked. Then, abruptly, his face changed and
he said, "Oh, God, of course. The Septaguent was given power over
the devils themselves. What would seem more demonic than someone who
returned to life after you killed them? It must seem to violate every
natural law they know." He shook his head and crossed himself.
"But Saint John's an
Immortal," Nick said.
"No," Liam said, and
behind the priest's back Methos shook his head minutely. The message to
Nick was clear: Don't contradict a good man's beliefs.
"Saint John was granted immortality by Christ," Liam argued.
"Our immortality would seem a mockery of everything they hold
sacred."
Methos handed Nick the book he'd
been leafing through, held open at a page of line drawings, and Liam looked
over his shoulder, scanning the page as well. Uncertain what he was
supposed to be looking for, Nick recognized it as a detailed drawing from a
stained glass window. In one of the frames, two angels bearing swords
stood over a kneeling figure. Jagged lines radiating out from the figure
were either solder joints to hold the mosaic together, or representations of
the crackling lightning that accompanied a Quickening.
"You said their rites had been
declared heresy and they were cut off from the Church," Methos said to
Liam. "Does that mean their names were blotted out as well?"
Liam nodded. "Blotted out
in the Book of Life," he said.
"Yet their names were written
in heaven," Methos mused.
"So where's heaven?" Nick
asked, and Methos grinned.
"Good question," he
said. "Originally it had to be Qumran--"
"How old are you
anyway?" Liam exclaimed
"Old enough to know
better," Methos responded. "Stay with me now, Nick, this is
important. Where would heaven be after Qumran was destroyed in the Second
Jewish Revolt and the Essenes' view of the world failed to come to pass?"
"Rome?" Nick hazarded.
Methos shook his head.
"No. Rome was the enemy originally." He smiled slightly
at Liam. "By the time Rome became a true seat of religious power the
members of the Septaguent were well on their way to excommunication."
"Chartres," Liam said
suddenly, and Methos looked at him.
"Why?"
"The Cathedral sits on land
believed to have been sacred long before the time of Christ, and we know that
France--modern day France--was one of the most receptive areas for the gospel
after the Crucifixion. The original altar at Chartres was built above the
Grotto of the Druids, which was called the 'Womb of the Earth'--the equivalent
of the inner room or the Holy of Holies in the ancient temple." He
tapped one finger on the open pages of the book, grinning. "And
unless I miss my guess, the window shown here is part of a larger edifice that
still survives from the Chartres Cathedral."
"On holy ground," Methos
said.
"Well, it makes sense that
heaven would be on holy ground," Nick said. "Doesn't it?"
"But your attacker chased you
off holy ground. You said he seemed to have no respect for your being on
holy ground."
"No," Liam
interrupted. "If that's what happened, I think you're
misinterpreting it. Remember, we said part of the Septaguent's legend is
that they have authority over the devils themselves. If they see
Immortals as devils, they're not likely to invite them onto holy ground--"
"--or tolerate them being
there, or have much remorse over killing them," Methos concluded.
"All right, so not the cathedral itself, but somewhere near by, close
enough to be convenient." He paused, thinking. "The
cathedral's made partially of limestone, isn't it?"
Liam nodded. "Yes, from
quarries south of the town."
"And that means there are
tunnels and carved archways underground to stabilize the ground it's built
on."
"Probably hundreds of
them," Liam agreed. "Chartres has been partially destroyed by
fire several times over the centuries. Every time it was rebuilt the
architects would have added more tunnels. It should be a regular warren
by now, much like the catacombs beneath Paris."
"And leading who knows
where," Methos said. "I suppose a map would be too much to hope
for."
"I'm afraid so," Liam
said. "But even if they existed, they'd likely be more
representational than accurate."
Methos nodded, glancing at his
student. "All right," he said. "We appear to be
boring young Nick to death here--"
"Oh, no, not at all," Nick
objected. "Who am I to question it if you two think a discussion of
medieval architecture has significance--"
Chuckling, Methos shook his
head. "Everything has significance, Nick," he teased.
"The trick is learning to see the significance in what lies before
you. You were a cop. You should know that. Thank you,
Liam," he added. "I appreciate your help."
"And you'll let me know how
things work out," Liam said, prompting the others to nod. He walked
them to the parking lot and stood with Nick while Methos unlocked the Range
Rover. "And don't you go forgetting about your Immortal soul,"
Liam told Nick. "Confession is good for us, too, you know."
"Hey, yeah," Nick
said. Spotting the perfect way to deflect Liam's scolding onto Methos, he
said, "You said you were going to confession."
Liam turned, his look one of
amusement.
Methos climbed into the driver's
seat of the SUV. "I lied," he said.
Deadpan, Liam nodded. "I
don't usually receive confession in the parking lot," he said, "but
with Immortals I take what I can get. Say ten Hail Marys and try not to
do it again."
Chapter Nine
St. Julien le Pauvre church was
sandwiched between three streets and the Seine in the Latin Quarter, just south
of Pont au Double. Joe knew the area well, partly because it had been one
of Duncan MacLeod's regular haunts before Darius was killed by Hunters.
More than that, though, the Paris branch of Shakespeare & Co. was located
just four blocks west of the chapel, across St. Michel. Yes, Joe knew the
area, and Square Vivani, located just behind the chapel, featured not only the
oldest tree in Paris (it said so, right there on the plaque), but several
wrought iron and wooden benches where you could find a comfortable seat while
waiting. And though Irene had offered an early dinner engagement nearby
as her reason for picking the square as a meeting place, Joe suspected she had
chosen it at least in part because of her concern for his comfort.
"Hello, Joe." She
was in her mid-fifties, and her smile was genuine as she greeted him. She
wore a simple shirt dress, green, with a pearl necklace beneath a brown wool
blazer flecked here and there with just a nub of the same green as her
dress. Her blonde hair had been pulled back for business, but its natural
waves framed her face beautifully: No one looking at Dr. Irene Fiedler,
First Tribune of the Watchers, could mistake her for anything other than a
woman of grace and considerable intelligence.
"Irene. Thanks for
meeting me."
"You said there was an
emergency?"
Joe nodded as they sat down.
"I hate to hit you with this out of the blue, but I think Amy Zoll's been
kidnapped."
Fiedler's face showed little, but
her blue eyes lit with interest. "Go on," she said.
"She was doing some research
for me on a group that attacked a new Immortal--"
"Nick Wolfe."
"Yeah."
"And these are mortals?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
Oh, shit. He did the
mental equivalent of gritting his teeth. "Because Methos killed the
one who tried to kill Nick. There was no Quickening."
"I see. And the
body?"
"I stashed it," Methos
said, and Joe jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice.
"Damn it, M--Adam!" Joe
barked.
"Sorry, Joe." He
didn't look sorry, and neither did Nick, just visible over his shoulder, a
hundred yards or so away near one of the square's clusters of trees.
"You followed me!"
"Worse yet, I deliberately
eavesdropped on your conversation."
"How?"
"I turned up the volume on the
phone's speaker when you were trying to dial out."
Of all the--
"Irene, I'm sorry. This is really . . . awkward--"
"It's all right, Joe,"
Irene said calmly. "I thought he might do something like
this." She offered him her hand. "Mr. Pierson," she
said with just a trace of irony. "I'm glad we finally meet."
"You could have dropped by
anytime when I was in research," Methos said, hands in his coat pockets.
"Yes, I suppose that's
true," she admitted. "My apologies, then, on our delayed
meeting."
Her hand never wavered and he
finally took it.
"Please," she said.
"There's no reason for your student to be so standoffish."
"Nick!" Raising his
voice, Methos waved Nick over and the younger Immortal walked toward them with
a grin.
"Sorry, Joe," Nick said.
"Yeah, right," Joe
muttered. "At least I know whose idea it was."
"Well," Irene Fiedler
said. "You must understand, Mr. Wolfe--meeting the world's oldest
Immortal and the world newest Immortal really is quite an event for me. I
assume either Joe or Mr. Pierson has explained what the Watcher Tribunal
is?"
"I know the basics," Nick
said. "So--do I assume the 'no contact' rule just went out the
window?"
"Under normal circumstances,
no. We really do believe the Watchers' role is to observe and record
without interfering. Obviously, though, since Joe revealed himself to
Duncan MacLeod--" She hesitated. "I'm sorry," she
said. "You don't know MacLeod, do you?"
"No."
"Ah. Well, since Joe met
MacLeod a few things have changed. Watchers have always enjoyed
significant latitude in how they do their job--a fact Mr. Pierson can testify
to--and the Tribunal knows you can't hold the tide back once it's started to
roll in. So, while it's unorthodox, we've given at least tacit permission
for Joe to continue his relationship with MacLeod--and with your teacher, for
that matter," she said, nodding toward Methos.
"Classic justification,"
Methos said. "Since you can't do anything to prevent it, you order
it to continue."
"Not at all," Fiedler
said. "Joe is free to discontinue his relationship with you any
time, as he well knows. He's also free to request a change of assignment,
or to leave the Watchers all together. On the other hand, the
contributions he's made to Duncan MacLeod's chronicles since they met have been
extraordinary. Priceless to us, both as Watchers and historians.
The same can be said for the Methos Chronicles since he took over a few months
ago. You know he's been Watching you unofficially, been keeping private
journals on you since MacLeod first identified you for us?"
"Sure," Methos said.
"I've read most of them."
A fact that was news to Joe, but he
bit off his instinctive growl.
Fiedler shrugged. "And
despite the fact that you knew he was Watching you, you chose to continue to
associate with him. Even when Amy Thomas learned your identity.
Even when MacLeod disappeared. And you've put yourself at considerable
risk for your friends more than once. I'd say it's worth quite a bit to
know such an Immortal better. Especially when that Immortal happens to be
Methos."
"If you start genuflecting and
calling me 'the oldest of the old' I can't be held responsible for my actions."
She smiled. "I'll
consider myself warned. But if we have all of that out of the way,
perhaps Joe could finish telling me about Amy Zoll."
"And Inspector LeBrun,"
Methos said.
Irene looked at Joe.
"He just does that to annoy
me," Joe said on a sigh. "Unfortunately, it works. LeBrun
is a Paris police inspector. We've run up against him half a dozen times
or so in the last several years. He doesn't know about Immortals--at
least, I don't think he does--but he's come awfully close a time or
two, and not because anyone planned it that way."
"The bowl," Methos
prompted.
"What? Oh, right. I
told you Zoll was doing some research. Well, she brought over what she'd
found and dropped it off at my place. She'd just left when the first
kidnapping attempt occurred."
"First?"
"Quite accidentally, it
failed. It's a long story--" he said, and she nodded, indicating he
should skip unnecessary details. "Anyway, the police showed up, and
we had to explain why anyone would try to kidnap Amy Zoll. Methos sold
them a cock and bull about Dr. Zoll doing an appraisal on an antique Chinese
bowl he had in the safe. He did have an antique bowl in the
safe, I mean, but Zoll didn't even know it existed until that moment--"
"I get the picture,"
Fiedler said.
"LeBrun offered to drive Zoll
to the Museum of Antiquities to get the bowl appraised. That's when the
second attempt took place, and this time they succeeded."
"And exactly who are 'they'?"
Fiedler asked.
"They're called the
Septaguent," Methos said.
"The Seventy?"
Fiedler said. "You're sure?"
"Fairly sure," Methos
replied. "How do you know about them?"
"We do have a few
resources, Mr. Pierson," she replied, a smile shaping her mouth.
"Surely you were in research long enough to know that."
"Yeah, but I never ran into the
Septaguent."
"Perhaps you weren't looking in
the right place. Besides, a long time ago I was a religious history major."
Nick snorted and Methos shot him a
dirty look. "Infant," Methos said. "Hush or I'll add
a five mile run on the end of your work out."
Irene Fiedler nodded.
"There's an ancient Septaguent site--well, all right," she corrected,
remembering who she was talking to, "I suppose old is a better
word . . . It's Fourth or Fifth Century--"
"In Chartres," Methos
said. "Yes, I know."
"It's rumored to have been
built over an earlier site, possibly even mid- to late-First Century. If
that's the case, it may be underground now as a result of subsequent building
on the site, or it may have been constructed underground originally.
They've always been fairly secretive--"
"Unlike some other people we
know?"
"Point taken," she
conceded. "But the Septaguent is sworn to the protection of St. John
the Revelator. Why would they kidnap a Watcher and a French police
inspector?"
"I think Zoll was the real
target," Methos said. "Leaving LeBrun behind would have meant a
witness, though."
"All right," Fiedler
said. "But the only thing Zoll could possibly be is bait for
you." She looked up at him. "They assume you'll come
after her."
Methos nodded. "If Nick's
friend is right, they need an Immortal for a blood rite--"
"They think you'll trade
yourself for her?"
Methos smiled. "They
don't know me very well, do they?"
Fiedler shook her head in
disbelief. "There are rumors, just stories, really, that they kill
an Immortal to sanctify a new member's bloodline in the
Order. It's part of the secret
literature on them. The Quickening is supposed to enter the initiate so
he and his descendants will have some . . . essence, I suppose . . . of St.
John's immortality. I always thought it was fiction. I mean, it's
almost the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake."
"And of course it's ridiculous
to believe in things like Quickenings, Immortals, and secret organizations that
run around Watching them."
She smiled. "I stand
corrected. Remind me not to argue religion with you. What are you
going to do about Dr. Zoll?"
He shrugged. "Go after
her, I guess, assuming I can figure out how to do it without getting a lot of
people killed. I don't suppose you've got any suggestions?"
Irene Fiedler shook her head.
"No. I'm sorry."
"Then I guess we'll just have
to wing it. As usual." Methos stood. "Joe? I
think we're going to get a bite to eat. D'you want to join us?"
"Where?"
Methos glanced at Nick.
"Au Bascou's good," the
younger Immortal offered, and Methos nodded.
"Over on Reaumur?" asked
Joe. "All right, I'll meet you there in about forty-five minutes. I
want to stop by the bar first."
"What about Amy?" Methos
asked.
"I assume she's trailing you as
usual. D'you want me to call her?"
"No--I've got my phone with me.
Too bad we don't have Nick's Watcher identified yet," he commented.
"We could all do lunch. Dr. Fiedler?" Methos asked. His mouth
was quirked in a smile, but the invitation was sincere enough and she smiled
back.
"Thank you," she said,
"but I have reservations at La Bucherie, and I'm late at that.
Another time, perhaps."
"We can sit at separate tables
to avoid any appearance of interference."
"Of course," she said,
eyes sparkling. "We wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong
idea."
It was something of a blessing, Joe
supposed, that Methos didn't wave as he and Nick left. "Sorry about
that," Joe said, and Irene shook her head.
"Don't worry about it,
Joe," she said. "Frankly, I've been dying to meet him. Your reports
made it clear enough this was the kind of thing he might set up."
"And then he wonders why he has
a reputation for manipulation," Joe said, shaking his head. "Still,
it would be nice if he'd occasionally let me in on some of his
arrangements."
"Ah, but then he wouldn't be
Methos, would he?" Irene asked with a smile.
"And that's a bad thing?"
She chuckled. "He is unique,
I'll give him that," she remarked. She glanced at her wristwatch and then
smiled. "I gather the Paris police are involved in looking for Amy Zoll
and their man--what's his name? LeBrun?"
"Right. They've already
interviewed me, and have taken the car used in the first attempt into custody
for forensics examination."
"I suppose the best thing we
can do under the circumstances is to gently misdirect them, at least for the
moment. Certainly we'll want to misdirect them from Chartres. All right."
She nodded as if to herself and then stood, conscious of her dinner engagement.
"Thanks for contacting me, Joe," she said. "Listen, I've got to
go, but I'd like you to keep me informed."
"I will. And thanks,
Irene."
"Not a problem," she said.
"I'll be glad to help if and when I can."
He stood, thinking she looked as if
she meant it.
She smiled. "What do you think
he'd do if I took him up on his dinner invitation?" she asked.
Joe laughed. "Methos? He'd
probably leave you with the bill."
She was still chuckling as she
walked away, leaving him alone in the square.
Twenty minutes later Joe was pulling
into one of the three parallel parking spaces he'd reserved along the rear alley
of Le Blues Bar Deux, thinking they were one of the smartest
investments he'd ever made. Granted, the yearly fees he paid to the Rue
Oberkampf merchants association was exorbitant, but they guaranteed him parking
within walking distance of his own back door, and that was virtually unheard of
in a city of ten million. One of the three spaces was likely to be
occupied by Methos' Range Rover about half the time--Joe had considered
charging a third of the expense to the Watchers as an operating expense--but it
also gave Amy a place to park. In fact, one of the three spaces was
occupied at the moment by her used blue Sunbeam wagon, its right front door
dented and scratched from today's traffic accident. Seeing the damage
gave Joe an odd sensation somewhere low between the ribs. She could have
been killed, or at least seriously hurt today, but she had walked away from it,
even laughing at the unlikelihood of Methos going to confession.
Methos. That, of course, was
the crux of the problem. Remembering Methos in the street today, Amy in
his arms, Joe could picture the look on her face as she caught her breath and
her hands had gripped Methos' shoulders, holding on out of shock, or fear, or
something Joe was hesitant to name. It was natural enough, right after
the car accident, he supposed, for Methos to have been concerned, and
predictable, too, that Methos had reached Amy before Joe. He'd been
closer to begin with, after all, and he had Joe's mobility beat all to
hell. Still, there'd been something unusual between the two, and Joe
admitted to himself that Amy Thomas would hardly be the first Watcher to become
a bit infatuated with the Immortal she'd been assigned to Watch. Hell,
Duncan MacLeod practically exuded sex appeal--but . . . Methos?
Well, all right, that was hardly
fair. Methos was a good man in his own way. If he stopped to think
about it consciously, Joe had to admit it wasn't really Methos' fault things
were happening the way they were, but it was easy to blame the Immortal for
things. And Methos did seem to attract trouble, especially since
MacLeod had left Paris. Unlike Duncan MacLeod, however, Methos' role in
such things was less well defined. It was easy to cast MacLeod as the
hero, riding to someone's rescue with all hell breaking loose around him.
With Methos . . . well, the fact of the matter was that it was easier to see
him as part of the problem than as part of the solution. Maybe it was
because he'd spent so long studiously avoiding becoming part of the
solution. Yeah, Joe thought. And maybe it's because your
parental radar kicked into high gear and you don't know to do about it.
"Luc, have you seen
Amy?" Joe came through the back door to Le Blues Bar Deux just
as his relief bartender was writing the night's dinner special on the
chalkboard mounted over the bar. It was early still, the first dinner
patrons just starting to show. Like most clubs, though, Le Blues Bar
Deux wouldn't really get going until about nine.
Luc Sole turned from the chalkboard
and shook his head. "Haven't seen her since yesterday," he
said.
"You sure?" Joe
asked. "Her car's out back."
"Maybe she went upstairs,"
Luc said.
Joe nodded. One of the
benefits of having established a relationship with his grown daughter was that
Amy had come to think of the bar and Joe's apartment as an easy place to stop
off during the day. In fact, she was almost as casual about dropping by
these days as Methos was. Now there was a thought. "Thanks,
I'll take a look," Joe said.
"Hey," Luc added.
"I almost forgot. This came for you." He retrieved an
envelope from the shelf under the bar and handed it to Joe.
"Thanks." Joe walked
back into the kitchen, the smell of la cassoulet coaxing a rumble from his
stomach, and was glad they were headed for supper as he stepped into the
elevator. As the elevator made its rumbling way to the second floor and
his apartment above the bar, he looked at the small envelope Luc had handed
him. Yellowish brown, it was the kind that was lined with plastic air
bubbles to cushion the contents, and squished in your hand. The front of
the envelope bore Joe's name and the bar's address in fat Magic Marker
strokes. Flipping it over, he saw the outline of a stylized hand and
forefinger stamped there, the forefinger pointing to a red zip strip that you
pulled to unseal the envelope. Opening the envelope as the elevator doors
slid back, Joe stepped into his apartment.
Amy wasn't there, but the telephone
answering machine light was blinking on the wall-mounted phone in the
kitchen. Joe crossed to the kitchen with the odd, rolling gait his
prostheses forced on him and tossed the envelope on the table as he made a stab
at the machine's "Play" button.
"Since Dr. Zoll informs us the
older of your Immortal friends could scarcely be bothered to come after her
we've decided to up the ante a bit, Monsieur Dawson. Mademoiselle Thomas,
it would appear, has rather more value. Very well. You can find her
in Chartres. Think of it as a test of your friend's ingenuity."
His hand fumbled for a grip on a
chair and Joe sank into a sitting position. Oh, God. How could
they have left her unguarded? His mouth dry, out of the corner of
his eye he caught a flash of gold: A bit of chain had spilled out of the
envelope he had tossed so casually onto the table. He pulled it out of
the envelope with shaking hands. A round medallion on a chain. He
hardly needed to glance at it to recognize it as identical to the medal in the
photocopy Amy Zoll had made for him, showing St. John being borne up into the
clouds by a multitude of sword-bearing angels. Joe swallowed, gripping
the medal in one hand. Since the wall-mounted phone seemed an impossible
distance away, he pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his
jacket. Fast dial button "B" was keyed with the number of
Methos' cell phone. He picked up almost immediately, the soft sound of
gently clanging cutlery and dishware in the background telling Joe that he and
Nick had already arrived at the restaurant.
"It's Joe," he said, his
voice sounding odd in his own ears. "They've taken Amy. I need
you here."
Methos' voice came back
instantly "Don't do anything until I get there. Nick--"
The phone went dead in his hand and
for a moment all Joe could do was stare at it. Not for the first time in
his life, he had the oddest feeling that the world was spinning out of control
and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. It wasn't a feeling
that inspired confidence.
Chapter Ten
"Let me guess," Nick
Wolfe said. "You've been up all right."
"I got a couple of hours on the
couch around three," Methos said.
Yeah, Nick thought. He looked
it, too.
"There's coffee in the
kitchen," Methos told him. "Keep it down, though. Joe's
asleep and I'd like to keep it that way for a bit."
"Huh." Nick wandered
into the kitchen for coffee, stopping habitually to stick his head in the
refrigerator, but there wasn't much of interest there. No wonder Methos
ate out so often, Nick thought. One of them really had to do some
shopping. After Joe's news they'd met the Watcher at his apartment over
the bar and Joe and Methos had spent the better part of two hours shouting old
and new recriminations until they were both hoarse and glowering at each
other. Nick had offered a truce in the form of three big bowls of Luc's
le cassoulet, but what had passed for dinner had been eaten in a chilly silence
worse than the shouting that preceded it. Around nine they'd made the
trip across town to Methos' duplex so he could use his computer for what he
called "research." Having seen him at work before, Nick wasn't
surprised when his research included breaking into both the Watchers' archives
and the French police's database on ongoing investigations, internal and
external, as well as a detailed geological and topographical survey of Chartres
based on geopositioning satellites. He'd been deep into a handful of
reports based on archaeological digs employing x-ray techniques when Nick had
crashed.
"So what do we know today that
we didn't know last night?" Nick asked, emerging from the kitchen with a
cup of coffee for himself and a refill for Methos.
Methos sighed, wrapping his hands
around the steaming coffee cup. "I've decided your friend Liam is
probably about half right," he said.
"Half right about
Chartres? What do you mean?"
"Come look at this,"
Methos countered.
Nick maneuvered behind Methos' chair
where he could lean against the wall and see the computer screen.
Centered in the screen was an animated image of a round maze. As Nick
watched, a red line traced the correct path through the maze: straight
ahead, left, right, straight ahead, a half circle to the right and then right
again, doubling back on itself, on and on, growing too complicated visually and
moving too quickly for him to follow easily. "So?"
"This is the Chartres
labyrinth," Methos said.
"A maze? Like a
puzzle?"
"Not exactly," Methos
said. "In a maze, you can get lost or run into dead ends. But
there's only one way through a labyrinth, and nothing is designed to fool
you. The Chartres labyrinth is supposed to symbolize the path to
Jerusalem, but ultimately all religious labyrinths symbolize what they consider
the one way to God. All you have to do is follow the path that's laid out
and you'll end up in the center, right where you're supposed to be."
"Okay," Nick agreed.
"So, this is what? A room divided up with walls, like at a fun
house?"
"Not even that," Methos
said. "It's just an etching in the stone floor of the nave, about
thirty feet across. Pilgrims sometimes crawl the entire distance on their
hands and knees, or 'walk' around it on their knees as an act of
devotion."
"Sounds painful."
"Bare knees on a stone floor,
around and around in circles? Yes, I'd say so. The Chartres
labyrinth is supposed to be a duplicate of the minotaur's labyrinth in Knossos,
but that's debatable."
"You mean you don't know for
sure?" Nick asked innocently.
"We'll discuss my misspent
youth another time," Methos said. "Right now I want to focus on
this question: Why would the entry to a first century site be through an
edifice built three hundred years later? We know the Chartres Cathedral
is built on top of earlier religious sites, so it could be coincidental or part
of a logical, historical building pattern. A point of entry could also
have been preserved deliberately, but that assumes a secret connection of some
sort between the fourth century builders and members of their faith who had
just been declared heretics. Or ask it the other way around--why would
those who built a fourth century Catholic church provide an entry to what would
be, essentially, a first century Jewish site? Again, the answer seems to
suggest a connection of some sort between two groups that shouldn't be
connected. In fact, between two groups that should be anathema to one
another, at least according to your friend Father Liam."
"And the conclusion?"
"That there is no connection
or, if there is, that it's coincidental at best and quite possibly unknown to
one or both parties."
"Which is why you said Liam is
half right."
"Exactly. We know
Chartres is the right location, but the cathedral isn't the front door."
"So the front door has to be
somewhere else," Joe said from the door to Methos' bedroom.
"That would be my guess."
"Hey, Joe," Nick said.
"You want some coffee?"
"Unless you've got something
stronger."
Grinning, Nick slipped out from
behind the computer and went to get the older man a cup of coffee from the
kitchen.
"You look like hell," Joe
rumbled.
"You're not exactly as fresh as
the morning dew," his host responded.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks,
Nick." This as he, too, accepted the coffee Nick brought him,
sipping gingerly. "So where's this 'front door' you're talking
about?"
Slipping back in behind the
computer, Nick could hear the dual pop as Methos rolled his shoulders.
"At a guess," Methos said, "the old Jewish cemetery."
"But I thought these guys were
Christians," Nick said.
"No. There weren't any
'Christians' per se for a good eighty to a hundred years after the
crucifixion, Nick, at least, not what you'd recognize as
Christians."
Meaning not what modern people
in general would recognize as Christians, of course.
"These people were
Jewish. Hell, Jesus was Jewish. There'd been Jewish
communities throughout the world for centuries, including France. There
was usually a synagogue of some sort in the major population areas--usually
just a courtyard of some sort, maybe with a fountain. It was like going
to a market that doubled as a school or community center, and not just for the
Jews. People of all faiths gathered there to trade news, or discuss the
politics of the day. And the synagogue in Chartres was one of the oldest
known in the world."
"So, you think there's a door
of some sort leading from this cemetery to . . . what?"
"An underground site of some
sort, probably a cave or grotto. The geological surveys of the area show
it's honeycombed with them, mostly the result of seepage from the River
Eure."
"We're looking for a
cave?"
"A cave that's been there for
centuries and is large enough to function as a meeting location for at least
seventy people."
Nick drained his coffee and put the
cup down on the corner of Methos' desk. "You're absolutely serious
about this."
"Yep."
"And what do we do once we find
this cave of yours?"
"With luck, they'll have Amy
somewhere near by--"
"You don't know that for
sure," Joe said.
"No, I don't," Methos said
quietly. "But it doesn't make sense to take her as bait if they're
not going to dangle her within sight. Joe, this is their game.
They're the ones making up the rules."
Reluctantly, Joe nodded, and Nick
pursed his lips. Interesting, he thought, how both Joe and Methos had
redefined their quarry from Zoll, LeBrun, and Amy to simply Amy Thomas.
It made him wonder if he could be just as easily dismissed from the older
Immortal's thoughts.
"What about the police?"
Nick asked, and Joe shook his head from across the room.
"As of yesterday they were
focusing their search for LeBrun to Paris," the Watcher said.
"The inspector I talked to wouldn't say much, but I got the impression
they're working on two possibilities. The first is that LeBrun may have
been the target of a kidnapping, possibly the result of a grudge from someone
he may have arrested. In that case, Amy Zoll is just along for the ride,
at least as far as they're concerned. The second possibility is the one Methos
planted in their minds--they think Zoll may have been the target of a
kidnapping herself, possibly because of the Chinese bowl she was transporting
to the museum."
None of them mentioned that the one
thing they had managed to agree on the night before was that the
French police were not to be brought into Amy Thomas' kidnapping. In
fact, it amazed Nick that the possibility hadn't even been mentioned, but it
was something neither Joe nor Methos had even considered.
"Right now I want a shower and
a change of clothes," Methos said. "Nick, why don't you give
Joe a ride home? He can check in at his place and get cleaned up.
I'll meet you there in an hour. We can get some breakfast and make a few
decisions about how to proceed."
"Sure," Nick said, fishing
his car keys out of his jeans pocket and moving from behind the computer.
Keys in hand, he looked from Methos to Joe.
"You think they're meeting
tonight for their initiation--their whatever you call it," Joe said
suddenly.
"It seems reasonable,"
Methos said with a shrug. He stood, opening his desk drawer.
"It's the seventh, after all," he said. He sounded a bit
distracted as he moved a few things in the drawer and came up with a burgundy
leather box with a hinged lid. He opened the lid, exposing what looked to
Nick like a Luger handgun, nestled in a foam rubber padding that was cut out to
accommodate it. Next to the Luger was a silencer, and as they watched
Methos removed both and calmly attached the silencer to the barrel of the
gun. "The Septaguent seems a fairly ritualistic bunch to me,"
he said, "so I assume they'd choose a night they deem significant.
It's also the night of the full moon, and secret societies do love the
full moon. Now, there's just one more thing I want to do. Nick, is
that an old shirt?"
"Yeah, why?"
The gun went off twice and Nick
Wolfe crumpled to the flagstone floor, his head cracking painfully as it hit,
blood flowering from the region just above his heart.
"Shit, Methos!"
Joe was moving as quickly as he
could, but Methos had reached his student almost instantly. He knelt,
easily fending Joe off with one arm. "Sssh," he said,
fingertips just brushing Nick's lips. "It'll be all
right." Then, "Shut up, Joe. I need to concentrate."
Over his shoulder, Joe could see he
had something in his left hand--a stop watch, of all things, and as Joe
watched, stunned, two things happened simultaneously: The light went out
of Nick Wolfe's eyes and Methos set the stop watch in motion.
"You bastard," Joe said.
"I'm his teacher,
Joe," Methos said. "I have to know certain things about him,
like how long it takes him to revive. He has to know how long it
takes him to revive." Irritated, he looked over his shoulder at the
other man. "What did you want me to do, Joe?" he asked.
"Have him stand up against the wall while I took aim? Believe me,
it's easier if you don't know it's coming."
The seconds crept by as Methos
glanced from the stop watch to Nick's face and back again repeatedly, waiting
for some sign of a return to life. To Joe, whose heart was thudding as
painfully as he'd ever known it to, the time stretched out impossibly.
He'd seen MacLeod and Methos killed probably half a dozen times, seen them both
revive just moments after taking a gunshot, but it had never occurred to him to
time it. Truth to tell, he'd usually been busy simply trying to
stay alive at such times. Now . . .
"Are you sure--"
"Shush," Methos said, his
eyes on the stop watch. "It's been less than two minutes. Just
give him time."
Joe glanced down at Nick and
swallowed. Immortality was assumed by the Watchers to be a latent trait,
triggered by a violent "first death." That had been true in
Nick's case, when Amanda had shot him through the heart rather than have him
die of poisoning and lose his Immortality. Looking at Nick, cold and
undeniably dead on the stone floor, looking like a broken doll, Joe had to
wonder if an Immortal had ever failed to revive after a subsequent death.
Some Immortals came back to life inside morgue drawers, he knew, or--in earlier
days, anyway--after having being buried. That meant it could take hours
for them to revive--long enough for modern day police and medical professionals
to have done their thing, and for the Immortal to have been declared legally
dead--
There. It was the
change in Methos' posture that cued Joe. Nick's eyelids fluttered,
though, and simultaneously he drew an agonizing breath, his chest filling to
capacity and then spasming into coughing. Methos' eyes were still on the
watch's second hand. Two and a half minutes had passed.
God, Joe thought. Talk
about a long two and a half minutes.
"Pretty goddamned not
funny, Methos," Nick said as soon as he was able to talk. Eyes
watering, he sat on the floor still, knees hugged to his chest, looking very
annoyed. No, Joe thought. Make that 'looking absolutely pissed.'
"It wasn't meant to be
funny," Methos said. "Look, I'm sorry--I know it's a hell of a
way to start the morning, but I had to know how long it takes you to
revive." A half smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he
crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his desk.
"What?" he asked. "Were you afraid it wouldn't work
again?" He started to laugh. "For heaven's sake, Nick,
you're an Immortal--"
Nick shot him a dirty look and said
nothing.
"Nick, look at me."
The laughter was gone and Methos waited until he had his student's full if
grudging attention. "I'm sorry I laughed. It honestly never
occurred to me that you might . . . " God, I'm too old for
this. I am not cut out to be a teacher, especially when they're
brand new. He let it trail off. "Now listen
to me," he said. "You're Immortal, Nick, but it takes some
getting used to. There are certain things you need to know about
yourself, and how long it takes to revive is one of those things. Coming
back to life the first time wasn't a miracle and it wasn't a fluke. It's
just the way it is with you, and it'll work every time.
Every time, Nick, as long as you don't lose your head. Clear?"
"Yeah." It was
grudging, but said clearly enough as he watched Methos detach the silencer from
the Luger and set both aside. For cleaning, he guessed. Mustn't
leave a dirty gun or a bloody sword lying around untended.
"Right. Now go change
your shirt and take Joe home. I'm going to get a shower and into some
clean clothes. I'll meet you at Joe's in about an hour." With
that he straightened, tossing the stop watch gently into Nick lap as he headed
for the bathroom.
Nick stared at the stop watch and
then looked at Joe. "Two minutes thirty-five seconds," he
said. "That's a long time to be out if shit's happening."
Joe nodded, saying nothing.
He'd seen Amanda revive, but
couldn't have said how long it took her. Maybe it depended on the
severity of the trauma to the body. "Is Methos faster?" he
asked.
"It . . . varies . . . from
Immortal to Immortal," Joe said, "and depending on the damage--"
"Just tell me, Joe."
"I've seen him revive in about
half a minute after being shot and killed."
Nick nodded. "And
MacLeod?"
"He's a little slower. It
may be a function of age," he added. "We just don't know,
Nick. I don't know that they--that Immortals even know for sure.
Methos is the fastest I've even seen, though, and I've been Watching for half
my life. If anything happens you can count on him reviving quickly enough
to deal with it." Assuming he doesn't lose his head, of course.
Nick sighed, ran a hand through his
dark hair, and levered himself up off the floor. "He nearly scared
the shit out of me, you know," he admitted, setting the stop watch on the
desk next to the Luger.
Joe nodded sympathetically.
"I know," he said. "I didn't see it coming,
either." He grinned. "Look at it this way--what he lacks
in social skills he makes up for in charm and grace."
"Not to mention his superb
teaching abilities."
"I heard that," Methos
called from the bedroom.
"And tact," Joe added,
winking at Nick and raising his voice. "Don't forget his tact."
"And his willingness to freely
and fully share information--" Nick called loudly enough to be heard over
the sound of running water.
They headed for Nick's apartment so
he could change shirts.
Chapter Eleven
The French police showed up
about the time they were ready to leave for Chartres and delayed them for
another hour with useless questions about Amy Zoll, Inspector LeBrun, and
Methos' now-missing Chinese bowl. While Joe and Methos fielded questions,
Nick kept waiting for one of the French Inspectors to mention a beheading at
the Zadkine Museum on the nineteenth of May, but the subject never came
up. Eventually the police went on their way and Methos plopped himself
down in the chair opposite Joe while Nick leaned against the bar.
"Well, that was fun," Nick
quipped, earning a frown from Joe and a raised eyebrow from Methos.
They took two cars for the
drive, Joe's specially fitted van with both the gas and brake pedals designed
to respond to hand-operated controls, and Methos' Range Rover with its slightly
banged-up driver's side door, souvenir of yesterday's car crash. South of
Orly the A10 took them toward Le Mans, and from there it was a simple matter of
following the road signs toward the Beauce region and Chartres. It was
after eleven when Methos led the way into the parking lot of Le Grand Monarque,
where he'd booked a three bedroom suite.
"Best Western?" Joe asked.
"You have something against
Best Western?"
"This isn't a day trip,
Methos--"
"No, it's not," Methos
replied, "but American hotels always have their bathrooms en suite,
and quite frankly we may need the privacy." He didn't say for what,
and Joe knew better than to ask. Shaking his head, he followed Methos and
Nick across the parking lot with his measured pace, each carrying an overnight
bag with a change of clothes. He caught up with them in the lobby just in
time to hear Methos talking to the desk clerk. "We should have a
reservation in the name of Montrose."
"Yes, sir--"
"You're shitting
me!" The look on Nick's face should have said it all, but his anger
overrode his common sense.
"Not here, and not now,"
Methos said wearily. He'd taken the key from the desk clerk and was
walking toward the elevator, so Nick really had no choice but to follow him.
"First you shoot me and
now--"
"A little louder, Nick, I don't
think they heard you in Philadelphia."
"You could have told
me you called her!"
"And what purpose would that
have served?" Methos asked. He walked to the elevator and stood
there, his back to Nick, his overnight case dangling casually over his left
shoulder as he waited for Joe. "Nick," he said, "we may
need Amanda's help."
"Nick?" Joe drew
even with Methos and turned to look at the younger Immortal, standing six feet
away on the polished tile of the lobby, a look of disgust on his face.
Nick shook his head. "I'm
sorry, Joe. I can't do this. Not this way." Not his
way. He looked at Methos, willing him to turn around and face
him. "I quit," he said.
Joe looked at Methos, who stood
looking inside the elevator, holding the doors open with his body.
"You can't do this!" Joe exclaimed, and for just a moment he wasn't
sure if he was talking to Nick or Methos.
His face expressionless, Methos
stepped into the elevator and leaned his back against the rear wall.
"He's a grown man, Joe. He makes his own decisions." He
was looking out into the lobby as the doors closed. The last thing he saw
was Nick's back as he walked away from them.
"Damn it, Methos, do
something!" Joe said.
"I did, Joe, I let him
go."
They rode to the second floor in an
agitated silence. As the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened
onto the hallway, Methos looked at Joe. He sighed. "Joe,"
he said quietly. "He'll be back, but it has to be his
decision."
"Yeah?" Joe grated.
"And what if you're wrong?"
"Then it won't be the first
time."
"Well, you'll excuse me if I
don't find it all that damned funny!"
"What's not funny?" Amanda
asked, greeting them at the door to their suite. "I could hear you
halfway down the hall." She kissed Joe as he brushed past her,
moving into the living room, and then rose briefly on tiptoe to kiss Methos'
cheek. "Where's Nick?" she asked Joe.
"He left."
"What do you mean he
left?"
"Ask the Sphinx there."
She looked from Joe to Methos.
"Well?" she asked. When he said nothing, she rolled her
eyes. "Would one of you talk to me for heaven's sake?
Now, where's Nick?"
"We had a slight disagreement
in the lobby," Methos said.
"Over what?"
"You."
"You didn't tell him I was
coming?" Her voice escalated, her tone growing sharper.
"No, I didn't tell him you were
coming," Methos replied, his own tone dangerously close to mockery.
"If I'd told him you were coming he'd still be in Paris. This way
he's pissed off at me, but at least he's pissed off at me in the right city and
not fifty miles away, all right? It seemed a reasonable compromise."
"Compromise--" Joe
started.
"Damn it, Methos!"
It was Amanda, slicing through Joe's protest with her own. "You know
what your problem is?" she demanded. "You always forget that a
compromise requires two people, both in the know--"
"And does it occur to you that
this particular compromise has nothing to do with me?" he shot
back. "That it requires the two of you to reach some sort
of arrangement?" He threw his overnight case on the floor and looked
at her, his throat tight. "Amanda, I am very probably going to need
help that Nick can't provide. If MacLeod were here, I'd have asked
him--" He let it go, swallowed, and drew a steadying breath.
If MacLeod were here, he wouldn't have had to ask. "I don't have
that many friends. But those I do have I need here."
"And you couldn't have said
that downstairs?" Nick Wolfe tossed his overnight bag on the floor beside
Methos'. "Hey, Joe," he added, closing the door.
"You know how to catch two Immortals unawares? You wait until
they're at each other's throats and then you walk up real quiet and get the
drop on 'em."
The joke fell flat and the four
stood there, looking at each other.
"Why'd you come back?" Joe
asked.
Nick shrugged. "You want
the simple answer? I got as far as the parking lot and remembered I
didn't have my own car. I don't know how to drive yours, and I figured
Methos would be really pissed if I took the Range Rover."
"You could have hot wired Amanda's
Mercedes," Methos said.
Nick smiled. "The thought
did cross my mind."
"Well, I, for one, am glad you
didn't," Amanda said. She reached for his hand and sank onto the arm
of the flowered couch, pulling him slightly forward with her.
"Nick--"
"I know," he said.
"Look, I'm sorry I acted the way I did. I just needed some space
between us. I still do, for that matter--no, don't get me wrong. I
understand why you didn't tell me what I was, or what I was going to
become. I really do. I understand why you had to shoot me that day,
and to tell the truth I'm . . . I'm glad you did. I mean, I'm glad I'm
alive, and I'd like to stay that way. But what we had
before--" He shook his head. "It's different now, at
least to me, and I still have to figure out exactly how it's
different. I still can't see you as my teacher, if that's what you're
thinking."
"How about as a friend?"
"Now that I think we
can manage. That is, if you guys will stop shooting me."
Amanda's mouth opened to protest and
then the words sank in. "Who else shot you?"
Joe and Nick looked at Methos.
"What'd you shoot him
for?" Amanda demanded.
Methos shrugged. "I
wanted to know how long it takes him to revive. Besides, it isn't as if
it did any permanent damage."
"You killed him?"
"Amanda," he said
reasonably, "you killed him first."
Oh, lord. She rolled
her eyes, picturing Nick suffering at the hands of the ever practical Methos.
"And?" she said.
"Nick?"
The younger immortal nodded his
permission.
"Two minutes thirty five
seconds," Methos said. "And while I'm thinking about it, Joe,
that little fact should never be written down anywhere, ever."
"I'd already figured that
out," Joe said. He could well imagine that an Immortal wouldn't want
a record of that sort available for anyone's eyes, and no matter the security
it might be kept in during this century, Joe couldn't vouch for the security of
Watcher files at any time in the distant future.
"Right," Methos
said. "So, is everyone straight on this?"
"I thought . . . maybe I owed
you an apology," Nick said.
"For what?" Methos
asked. "If that's the worst argument you and I ever have, and if
it's over nothing more serious than whether or not I tell you I've asked for
Amanda's help with something, we have nothing to worry about."
"So, you're saying I should
expect you to leave out details regularly."
"What? Amanda never failed
to mention a detail here or there?"
"Frequently, and it always
wound up getting me into trouble."
"Well, we wouldn't want your
life to get boring."
"Methos--"
"Nick, you were the one who was
going to apologize to me, don't forget. Look. It's true--most of
the time I probably won't tell you everything. It interferes
with focus and it's the way I'm used to doing things. Oh, and while we're
on the subject, I'll probably only tell you what you do need to know
at the moment that works to my own best advantage. I'd say I was sorry,
but after five thousand years you're pretty much stuck with me the way I
am. But I'll promise you this--as long as you're my student, I'll give
you every advantage I can. Until you take your first head, you're under
my protection. And that means I'll put my life on the line to guarantee
you come to no harm. Of course, it would help if you'd stay close enough
by that I could actually do some good if you do happen to get into
trouble."
All of which made him feel even more
of an ingrate, but he figured Methos meant well. Maybe.
"Fine," he said. "I won't apologize and you won't tell me
anything I don't need to know. So, Amanda, what's new with you?"
"I've found the Jewish cemetery
Methos wants to check out, or at least I think it's the one. It doesn't
seem old enough to me, but it's where you said it would be--old town, off Rue
aux Juifs, runs parallel to the river. It's actually part of the
recommended tourist walk. If you want, you can even rent a cassette
player and tape from the local tourism office and take a self-guided tour in
English or French."
"I think we can probably do
without the cassette players," Methos said, "unless you think they
might provide a bit of camouflage. They might help us blend in with
anyone else who happens to be poking around the area. I assume the
cemetery's open to the public if it's been designated an historic site."
Amanda nodded. "I was
there this morning with no trouble at all. Part of it's roped off for an
archaeological dig of some sort, so there are people coming and going--students
and volunteers helping with the field work, along with a couple of Indiana
Jones types to supervise things, all very colorful. A few more people
will hardly be noticed."
"Good," Methos said.
"I need to look around a bit and see what I can find."
"What do you want us to
do?" Joe asked.
"I'd like Nick to see the
cathedral, or more precisely, the labyrinth inside the cathedral.
Remember the one I showed you on the computer?"
Nick nodded. "You think
the labyrinth in the cathedral is duplicated underground?"
"It seems likely. And
it's just possible there's some place inside or around the cathedral that leads
underground. I'll be looking for the same thing at the cemetery."
"If you find it at the cemetery
why do we need to look at the cathedral?"
"Because there's no guarantee
I'll find it at the cemetery, and because it would be very nice if there
turned out to be more than one way in and out."
"You mean a front door and a
back door?"
"It would be convenient in case
things got sticky."
"So how do you want to handle
this?" Joe asked. "Nick and I can check out the cathedral--"
"I'd like Amanda to go along,
too," Methos said. "No offense, but I'll feel better--"
"--if Amanda's along to baby
sit," Joe said.
"Well, I wasn't going to put it
like that, but we know from the way they attacked Nick that they're not likely
to show much self-restraint around a new Immortal. A new Immortal in
public, on the other hand--particularly one who's not alone--is more than
likely going to be safe enough."
Not to mention the graybeard who's
tagging along after him, Joe thought. "And you don't need anything
more to worry about. Yeah, I know. Okay. I don't like it, but
I won't fight you about it." Not when Amy's life was in the
balance and Methos was the best chance they had.
Chapter Twelve
They split up, Nick,
Amanda and Joe headed to the Chartres cathedral, and Methos--after a stop at
the tourism office for headphones and a pocket-sized cassette player--headed
for old town Chartres and the Jewish cemetery.
Rue aux Juifs was south of the cathedral;
the street itself, he discovered, became known as Rue Petrault further
down. Amanda had been right about the archaeological dig, too. It
was small scale, though, with perhaps a dozen people in khaki colored shorts
and tee shirts visible through the wrought-iron fence that separated the
cemetery from the street. The gate opened easily and when he got close
enough to tell what was going on he found himself one of a handful of
on-lookers, tourists mostly, all staring at three commercial-sized pieces of
poster board someone had tacked up with at least a rudimentary explanation in
French and English of what the archaeologists were doing. It wasn't a bad
idea, actually--it probably saved some questions and interruptions, at
least--but more importantly, the curious on-lookers provided the type of
camouflage he couldn't have hoped for otherwise. Smiling slightly, Methos
slipped the lightweight headphones in place over his ears, turned the cassette
player on, and began wandering about the cemetery.
It didn't take long to learn that
the oldest headstones in this part of the cemetery only dated back to the
fourteenth century. To the south, though, there were older stones--the
oldest stones, the tinny voice on the tape informed him, dated to the fourth
century A.D., and were located in the southeast corner of the cemetery, in an
area fenced off for its protection. He found it easily enough, behind a
chest-high black wrought iron fence of decidedly modern construction, but that
only left him frowning. A fourth century headstone was impressive enough
by today's standards, but it was still several centuries off the mark as far as
he was concerned. Idly, he wandered back toward the roped off area
claimed by the archaeologists.
The nearest sign informed him that
the scientists were excavating what was believed to be an earlier, third
century synagogue, and the "artist's conception" tacked up along with
the explanation showed what appeared to be essentially a long courtyard of some
sort, with a low wall partially screening it from the rest of the area and a
roof of sorts over the structure. From the sketch, Methos would have
assumed the dig itself would have covered about twice as much ground, and that
made him look more closely at things. The dig was centered around a
pedestal fountain several feet in front of a wall. What struck Methos as
odd, though, was the fact that another wall bisected the first at a bizarre
obtuse angle, rather like the blades of a pair of scissors that had been opened
up. To the modern eye, trained to seek balance in design and structure,
it had to be odd indeed, and Methos was fairly liberal in his definition of the
word "modern."
"Excuse me," Methos
said. He'd removed the earphones, letting them rest on the back of his
neck, and snagged the sleeve of one of the young women involved with the dig as
she walked by him. From the looks of her she was a student or volunteer,
pretty in a dark way, about twenty-two or so, with long raven hair pulled up in
a ponytail. He smiled. "I was just wondering where the other
fountain is."
She chuckled. "You've got
a good eye," she commented. "Most people don't even realize
there is another one. It's over there, on the Catholic side of the
wall."
"The Catholic side?"
"Yeah," she said.
"What we're standing in now was part of the ancient synagogue, not the
cemetery itself. About seven hundred years ago the Catholic church
acquired a lot of the property and built a sort of dormitory on the other side
to house travelers. Chartres was a pilgrimage spot for the early
Christians, so there's a history of all sorts of people coming and going back
to the first century. Anyway, that's why the cemetery isn't laid out on a
square or rectangle at this end--the property line runs at an angle, cutting
between the two fountains. When the Nazis occupied France the Catholic
priests dug out a tunnel behind their fountain--it's all limestone, you know,
and riddled with subterranean tunnels. Anyway, the priests used the
tunnel to smuggle Jews out of Chartres and save them from the Nazis.
There's a lot of talk about restoring the original wall, but the Catholics
won't sell, even if it is deconsecrated ground."
"Deconsecrated."
"Yeah, ever since they bought
it." She shrugged. "Personally, I'm with them.
Who's to say restoring a fourth century wall is more important than the entry
to an underground railroad? Besides, you can see the fountain. All
you have to do is go next door and ask. It's not advertised or anything,
but the brothers will show it to anyone who asks."
"Thanks," Methos
said. Sure enough, just north of the cemetery was a plain,
Romanesque-looking stone building bearing a bronze plaque that detailed the
structure's history as a spot along an ancient pilgrimage route and listing the
date of the site's deconsecration. A plain door let him into the
building--small and dark by contemporary standards, though glass windows had
been added sometime in its history. A lay brother smiled and nodded at
him from a small office area, just big enough for a chair and a desk, with
bookcases behind it. A few of the tourists he'd seen earlier in the
cemetery had also made their way here, but there was little enough to see--the
obligatory artists' renderings of what the place might have looked like half a
dozen centuries before, mounted behind Plexiglas on waist-high pedestals for
easy reading; a collection of religious and small, personal artifacts left
behind or lost by pilgrims over the centuries, carefully displayed in a
Plexiglas box and looking out of place on their artistically arranged velvet
background; and, in one corner of the room, another plaque, this one detailing
the story of the church's role in protecting the city's Jewish populace during
World War II.
There was, Methos noticed, no
mention of a fountain on any of the plaques. A door in the opposite wall
was open, leading to a tiled porch and herb garden; there the obligatory plaque
informed him that an herbalist would have gathered his organic medicines from
just such a garden to treat any of the pilgrims' ailments as they rested along
their journey's way. Methos had his doubts about that, seeing
few of the herbs he'd have expected twelve hundred years ago, but it hardly seemed
worth mentioning. Paving stones marked a walkway through the garden, and
there were, in fact, three fountains bubbling away, one each on the north,
south, and west walls. The fountain nearest the south wall corresponded
to the one in the cemetery . . . No, come to think about it, it
didn't. It was, in fact, several feet too far forward--
"May I help you?"
The lay brother had followed him out into the herbarium and stood smiling.
"This fountain," Methos
said. He pointed to the fountain nearest the south wall. The man's
smile remained, and Methos had the feeling he was merely waiting for him to
reach the right conclusion. "This can't be the original."
The man chuckled, nodding.
"I'm Brother Thomas," he said. "Please, let me show
you. We're fortunate the Nazis weren't all as observant." He
walked toward the open doorway and pushed the door shut, closing them in the
herb garden. With the door shut, a second, hidden door was visible on the
man's right--a smaller, cruder door that had, in fact, been concealed entirely
when the larger door stood wide open, inviting one into the garden.
"With the first door open," the brother said, "this one is
concealed. And if anyone should notice it and demand entrance,
it's merely a shed." It was true: A harmless collection of
gardening tools were hung on one wall, and the opposite wall held a bench
littered with pots and a small stack of paving stones. There was no
electrical connection, apparently, and with the rear of the larger building
blocking it, little sunlight reached beyond the doorway itself.
"If one knows the secret,
though," Brother Thomas continued, "there is yet another door, and
another beyond that--" He shifted a rake and several planks of
lumber and pushed, revealing an even deeper darkness beyond. "This
lets into what appears to be nothing more than a covered space between the two
walls. Originally--that is to say, back in the twelfth century or
so--this was a barn of sorts. It was no longer used in the 1940s, and had
been walled up--it's a rather inconvenient wedge-shaped space of no conceivable
use to anyone, so the Nazis didn't question it even when they discovered
it. Beyond it, though, there's another false wall. When it
is moved, the original fountain can be seen, roughly in the center of a space,
oh, perhaps eight feet on a side Again, it appears to be just a left over
bit of space, and rather awkwardly shaped at that. The official story
during the war was that the church had sealed the fountain up for future
historical and archaeological study, given its great age. In fact, one of
the town's Nazi commandants demanded to view it--many of them were history
buffs, you know, and they were fascinated by mysticism."
"And the fountain itself?"
Brother Thomas nodded.
"When moved, an opening in the floor is revealed beneath the
fountain. The opening leads to an underground passage, and the passage
some distance away, under the river. Of course, the fountain itself has
been rebuilt many times over the centuries. The current facade is perhaps
eighteenth century--old, but not the prize they're unearthing next door, and
even two hundred years ago it no longer supplied water. We're close to
the river, though, so perhaps that wasn't a problem--" He
smiled. "I've never explored the caverns myself, though I've been
tempted. I have claustrophobia, you see, and the idea of being
underground, or even much beyond this point, makes me a bit nervous.
Still, if you'd like to come back later in the day, I could ask Brother Eustace
to show you the fountain. No one is allowed to go into the underground
chambers, of course--insurance and safety concerns, you understand. There
is a book, though--"
He closed up the hidden door,
shifting the camouflage of rake and lumber back into place, and led Methos back
into the main room. Rummaging behind the desk, he found the book on the
shelves. "Here it is," he said, handing it to Methos.
It was just a thin booklet with a
cardstock cover; the pages revealing its age: Produced perhaps some
thirty years ago, the blue ink on the pages were the product of an
old-fashioned typewriter and mimeograph machine, and had simply been stapled in
the center to create a book of twelve or so pages in French. In the
center of the booklet was a drawing of the not-so-famous fountain, perhaps as
tall as a man, perhaps a yard in diameter--two cubits, more like, Methos
thought with an inward smile--and beside it on the floor an opening that led
underground. Yet another "artist's rendition," the sketch was
suggestive but hardly informative. On the opposite page were four smaller
sketches of the fountain as it had appeared in earlier ages, and Methos stood
for a moment, studying the pages. Although there was no way to judge the
accuracy of any of the renderings, he found it interesting that all five
sketches had one thing in common: Each fountain was decorated with a
lion's head, centered above what looked like the U-shaped half-circle crown of
laurel leaves once used to decorate a conquering hero's head in Roman
parades. All in all, he mused, it was a very odd decoration for what was
essentially a Jewish fountain.
"Very interesting," Methos
said, handing the booklet back to Brother Thomas. "I have a friend
who might be interested in the fountain--"
"We're open until five if you'd
like to come back," Brother Thomas said. "Brother Eustace comes
on at two today. He isn't bothered by close places and is generally quite
happy to show the fountain to visitors."
Methos nodded. "Thank
you," he said. "We may stop by again." In fact,
Methos thought, you could more than count on it. In the meantime, he
decided to try his luck again at the cemetery dig and flagged down the young
woman who had talked with him before.
"Did you see it?" she
asked. Smiling, she wiped a smear of dust from her forehead with the back
of her hand and seemed glad to spend another minute chatting with him.
"No--the brother on duty is a
bit claustrophobic--"
"Oh, that's Brother
Thomas. He's sweet, but you need Brother Eustace to show you the
fountain."
"Yes," he said.
"He'll be available later in the afternoon, and I may stop by again.
In the meantime, though, I wonder . . . Brother Thomas showed me a little
booklet--" She nodded, and he went on, pleased she knew what he was
talking about. "The drawings of the fountain--of course, they're not
very good, or even necessarily accurate, but I wondered about the lion's head and
the laurel leaves."
"Oh," she said.
"The lion's head is easy--it's the lion of Judah. But it isn't
laurel leaves--I'm not surprised you couldn't tell from the sketches,
though. It's stylized angel wings, one on either side of the lion's
head."
"Ah," he said. Of
course.
"I don't suppose
you're free for lunch or dinner?" she said, and he smiled.
"Not today, I'm afraid. I
do want to thank you, though."
She shrugged. "No
problem. Look--" Grinning, she unclipped a felt tip pen from
the pocket of her camp shirt and popped off the top, reaching for his
hand. He chuckled as she scribbled her phone number on the palm of his
hand, along with her name. "Give me a call sometime," she
said. "We'll talk ancient fountains and . . . things."
"I just might do that," he
said. "Thanks again." He glanced at what she'd written as
he walked out of the cemetery. It was smudged a bit, but he could make it
out. Emilie Well, the number was clear enough, anyway. Maybe
he could pass it along to Nick.
Chapter Thirteen
Around eleven thirty,
Amanda, Nick, and Joe nominally joined one of the regularly scheduled tours of
the cathedral, following along at a leisurely pace with no real concern to keep
up with the rest of the group. Joe made a point of relying openly and
obviously on his cane, inviting any observers to conclude that his handicap
required a slower pace than it actually did. Amanda contributed to the
image by linking one arm casually through Joe's, apparently lending additional
support, while Nick strolled along slightly behind them, hands shoved into his
jeans pockets while he kicked pebbles and idled at a much slower pace than he'd
have picked for himself, the sword at his side a very real reminder that his
life was quite different from what it had been not too long ago. To
anyone watching they appeared to be--what? Nick wondered. Father
and daughter, perhaps, trailed by a boyfriend or husband? The fact that
Amanda was considerably older than any daughter of Joe's could ever be reminded
Nick inevitably of Amy Thomas.
Except for the two hours Joe and
Methos had spent shouting at each other right after the kidnapping, no one had
so much as mentioned Amy, and it had Nick wondering about the lives Immortals
and Watchers lived. He realized he'd taken it for granted that Immortals
were often involved in life and death situations. A year's association
with Amanda had more than demonstrated that fact to him, and as far as he could
tell, Methos was no exception to the rule, despite the fact that the old man
insisted he preferred a low key existence, well out of the public eye.
Amanda had told Nick about Methos' years among the Watchers as an anonymous
researcher no one ever looked at twice, and Nick remembered laughing at the
ancient Immortal's ingenuity. The ruse had worked, too, Nick gathered,
until Duncan MacLeod--and through him Joe Dawson--had stumbled upon the old
man. Amanda had met Methos through MacLeod, he knew, and the rest was . .
. well . . . history. And while it wasn't in Nick's nature to avoid a
fight, he had no problem understanding that the world's oldest Immortal might
be number one on a head hunter's hit list, so he hadn't questioned Methos'
choice of survival tactics. All things considered, laying low seemed
quite reasonable. The real question, Nick figured, was why Methos had
stuck around once he'd been exposed.
After just less than a month of day
to day interaction with the man who had become his teacher, Nick realized he
knew precisely three things about Methos. One: He preferred to
sleep late in the morning if the situation allowed. Two: His wiry
slenderness was deceptive in the extreme, a fact he demonstrated every time he
dumped Nick on his ass regardless of what Nick thought he'd learned the
previous day. And three: He was, Nick had just realized, in love
with Amy Thomas. And thinking back on it, Joe Dawson seemed to have
arrived at the same conclusion just the other day. Studying the other
man's back as he and Amanda strolled arm-in-arm a few feet ahead of him at the
moment, Nick remembered the look on Joe's face as he'd watched Methos holding
Amy in the street immediately after the car crash.
In retrospect, it was fairly obvious
to Nick that Joe wasn't sure he liked the idea, but he was well aware there was
nothing he could do about it. Nick shook his head. Did Amanda
know? Probably, he thought. Amanda had a way of going right to the
heart of things whether she said anything about it or not. Joe's
daughter, Methos' Watcher--and more, whether it was acknowledged or not--and
not one of them had spoken her name since the previous night, or mentioned Amy
Zoll and Inspector LeBrun. Were they afraid of jinxing things? Or
was silence just their way of dealing with things no amount of discussion could
change?
"You didn't tell
him I was coming?" Amanda had demanded, and even from a dozen feet
down the hall Nick had known she was talking to Methos. Her escalating
voice had been sufficient clue, not to mention the old man's dry and mocking
reply.
"No, I didn't tell him you were
coming. If I'd told him you were coming he'd still be in
Paris." Like it or not, Methos had called that one correctly, but it
hadn't made it any easier to hear. Was everyone else that predictable,
Nick wondered, or was it just him? Regardless, the old man had known
exactly what buttons to push to get the desired result, and Nick felt as if
he'd swallowed something sour. Unbidden, he'd remembered Amanda some
months before, describing the oldest Immortal as "more Super-manipulator
than Superman, regardless of what Duncan MacLeod may think."
"Damn it, Methos!"
Amanda's voice had been clear enough from the hall, cutting through something
Joe was saying to demand, "You know what your problem is? You always
forget that a compromise requires two people, both in the know--"
"And does it occur to you that
this particular compromise has nothing to do with me?" Nick had
heard Methos shoot back. "That it requires the two of you
to reach some sort of arrangement?"
Guiltily, Nick had recognized the
truth behind that accusation as well, but he'd been unprepared as he approached
the door to the suite to hear Methos' voice, low and intense, the words forced
out of a throat that had obviously been tight with tears.
"Amanda," Methos had said. "I am very probably going to
need help that Nick can't provide. If MacLeod were here, I'd have asked
him--" He'd broken off, and as Nick stepped into the doorway, the
stronger presence of the two Immortals already in the room masking his
approach, Nick had seen Methos draw a steadying breath. "I don't
have that many friends," Methos had said. "But those I do have
I need here."
No, Nick thought. Methos
probably didn't have that many friends. Immortals in general seemed to
live fairly solitary lives, and a man in Methos' position was no doubt more
solitary than most, and with good reason. In fact, it had surprised Nick
more than a little that Methos had agreed to take him on as a student--the most
he'd hoped for when he'd first broached the subject had been a sort of
temporary asylum, perhaps time to get his feet on the ground away from Amanda's
over-protective tendencies. Nick had counted on the willingness Methos
had demonstrated in the past to frustrate Amanda's desires, and he hadn't been
disappointed--a fact, he abruptly realized, that meant he'd been doing a bit of
manipulating of his own.
Amanda and Joe had slowed their
saunter to let him catch up with them, and he realized only then that he'd been
lagging behind, lost in his own thoughts and paying little attention to his
companions or their surroundings. The tour group was long gone--a fact
that bothered none of them--and abruptly Nick found himself remembering
something Liam had said. Stopping in his tracks, he asked, "Ever
heard of the 'Grotto of the Druids'?" he asked Amanda.
Amanda frowned minutely, glancing up
at the sun, which was climbing toward its noontime high.
"Sure," she said. "It's one of the pre-Christian religious
sites associated with Chartres. Why?"
"Because Methos thought it
might be important. Wouldn't a grotto be a cave, or an underground
site?"
"Assuming you can take the name
at face value," Amanda said. "I mean, a grotto is a cave,
sometimes natural, sometimes--"
"Manmade," Nick finished
for her.
"Right."
Letting Joe set the pace, they
doubled back to the Cathedral's north door and stepped from the bright sunlight
into the massive interior. Nick was always struck by how dark European
cathedrals were compared to the more modern American versions he was used to,
and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When
his eyes were fully adjusted, it was the blue of the stained glass that he saw
first, particularly the massive rosette window, so much like that of Notre Dame
de Paris. "There's supposed to be a maze of some sort," he
muttered.
"It's over there," Amanda
said. She smiled slightly at the surprised look they both gave her.
"What?" she asked teasingly. "It isn't like this is my
first time here, you know. I have done a bit of sight seeing
over the years. Let's see--" She started forward, leading them
toward the cluster of chairs filling the nave. "It's a religious
labyrinth, etched into the floor. Here."
She led the way down the center
cathedral aisle and pointed. "See?" she asked, and Nick nodded,
recognizing the same general outline as the maze Methos had shown him on the
computer display, though it was partially obscured by the additional seats that
had been set up to accommodate the cathedral's visitors. You could see
the entrance clearly enough, and unbidden he remembered the pattern into
it: Straight ahead and then to the left, the pattern traced by a red line
on Methos' computer screen. Seeing it at full size, he saw now something
he hadn't noticed before. The maze's center looked like a child's drawing
of a daisy, its circular center surrounded by six "petals" of some
sort. He tried to visualize it the way Methos had suggested, reproduced
many times the size of the representation that lay before him here. Could
they be rooms of some sort, surrounding a larger, central room of some sort?
"The maze is thirty feet
across," Amanda said. "That's the same size as the Rose
Window."
"Is that a coincidence?"
Nick asked.
"Oh, no," she said.
"Almost all cathedrals incorporate a kind of 'sacred geometry' where one
element mirrors another. It's part of the mystique. People have
believed Chartres to be a repository of ancient wisdom for centuries.
It's like Stonehenge or the Great Pyramid of Egypt."
"Or the Temple in
Jerusalem?" Nick asked.
"The Temple of Solomon?"
Amanda asked. "I never really thought about it, but I suppose it all
connects somehow. If so, the center of the maze would probably represent
the Holy of Holies, wouldn't it? Anyway, you know there have been several
fires here? The cathedral has been rebuilt half a dozen times over the
centuries, and at least one of the earlier cathedrals was supposed to have been
built by the Knights Templar. I don't know if I believe that or not, by
the way--the Templars are everyone's favorite pseudo-historical whipping boys,
so you hear all sorts of things about them. Anyway, the first time I was
here I was about MacLeod's age--"
Amanda was about 1200 and
MacLeod was a third her age. That meant . . . . Nick froze.
"What year was it?" he asked.
"What? About 1200 or
so. 1198--somewhere in there. It was right after the last fire that
burned down the cathedral. You wouldn't have known the place--the entire
city was leveled, and they had to build from the ground up. Less than 25
years later, though, the entire cathedral had been completed. It was
amazing."
"So you saw the foundation as
it was then?"
"Well, of course," she
said. "You could walk right across the ground, and pick your way
through the stones--"
"Was there a way
underground?" he asked.
"Nick--"
"Amanda, please. Just
answer the question. Was there a way underground?"
"Yes, of course. There
were half a dozen places scattered around the substructure, all of them leading
to underground caves--"
"Grottos?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"There was an outcropping along the west wall that used to be a
well--"
"Could you find it today?"
She looked exasperated.
"Nick, you can't be serious--" She shook her head.
"That was centuries ago!"
"The west wall," he
said. "Was the alignment the same as it is now?"
"Yes," she said
hesitantly. "The modern cathedral is bigger, but it encompasses the
original subflooring--"
"Show me."
"This is crazy," she
said. She looked at Joe for support. "Joe?"
The Watcher nodded.
"Methos seemed to think getting access to the underground caves was
essential," he said.
Amanda looked from one face to the
other and sighed. "All right," she said. "Come
on."
Exiting the cathedral required
another moment's pause while the three stood and blinked to adjust to the
brighter light of day. While their vision adjusted, two busloads of
French school children were shepherded past them by a small and harried-looking
group of teachers and parents. Not ten feet away a cluster of oriental
tourists was gathered around one of the stands selling postcards and small
souvenirs, and as Amanda began leading Joe and Nick toward the cathedral's
western wall half a dozen pig-tailed girls in blue and white smocks ran past
them, laughing, apparently having escaped their escort's less-than-watchful
eye. Just a typical tourist-filled day at the Chartres Cathedral, Nick
thought, except that one of the tourists recalled a subterranean entrance she'd
noted near the western wall on an earlier visit--a visit made, oh, roughly 830
years before . . .
Outside, Amanda paused, assessing
who knew what as she led them along the walkway bordering the western
wall. Exactly what landmarks would you look for, Nick wondered,
to test your memory against the architectural changes wrought over nearly a
millennium? Say he were to return to this spot in another 800 years or
so. What would he find? Would there be any sign that he and his
friends had come this way today, or even that a great cathedral had once stood
on this spot? His concentration wavered as another tour group moved past
them, the guide walking slowly backward as she gestured toward the cathedral
edifice, indicating this and that feature. The language was . . .
what? Not Japanese. Korean, maybe? He lost the thought as
Amanda moved toward one of the cathedral's great buttresses and then another as
he trailed after her, cutting across the grass.
Cold. The stones of the
cathedral were massive and as cold as could be, each buttress taller than a
man. You had to admire them, those medieval builders who had constructed
not just this cathedral, but the thousands like it around the world. Nick
thought fleetingly that he'd never really appreciated what an incredible feat
the construction of even one massive cathedral must have been in
ancient times. He remembered a world history course in college, when his
professor had taught them to picture medieval Europe as a series of tiny
hamlets sprung up around either a castle or a cathedral on some raised point of
land, each with its own bit of water to support fishing, farming, travel, and
perhaps some light industry. It was all right here, at Chartres--the
cathedral in the center, the town spreading out around it, the River Eure
beyond that, and all around the flat of fields, ripening with cereal grains
year after year. And somewhere just beneath their feet, who knew what?
"Here," Amanda said.
"I think this is what you're looking for."
"The buttress?" Joe
asked. He frowned, looking at it, and then at the one on either side of
it, identical in all respects as far as he could tell.
"This one's not solid,"
Amanda said. "And," she added, "it has this--"
This, Nick realized, was a
waist-high appendage of some sort, half concealed behind bushes that had been
allowed to grow up around the cathedral's walls. Essentially a circular
outcropping, it was missing on the other buttresses they'd examined, and was
obviously manmade. It had been plastered over to match the buttress, but
around the circular lip the plastering had flaked off to show
the--original?--rough stone construction, some of which had been replaced with
what looked like cement. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Nick
wondered. At least it suggested that the well got perfunctory repair and
attention from its modern-day caretakers. It was small—a little
over a yard across--and sealed with a cap made of wooden planks, with a metal
handle set in the center, flecked with rust.
"So, what do you think?"
Joe asked.
Nick shrugged. "Won't
know 'til we look," he said.
"What?" Amanda
asked. "You don't mean now?"
"Why not?" Nick asked.
"I'll tell you why not--"
Amanda said, but she was too late.
With an experimental twist to the
left and a good tug, Nick had the cover off and was peering down the shaft.
"Nick--"
He'd set the cover aside and hitched
one hip up over the edge, perching there as casually as he could manage while a
group of boys in matching school uniforms wandered by under the supervision of
a nun who was--thank goodness, Amanda thought--too busy with her charges to pay
them much attention.
"This is not a good
idea," Amanda hissed. She and Joe had their backs to him now, sick
smiles plastered to their faces as they attempted to provide what cover they
could.
"Oh, relax, would you?"
Nick muttered. "It's not like anything permanent can happen to me,
you know." Well, okay, there was one thing, but the odds against
that weren't something he was going to discuss with Amanda here and now. He
swung both legs over and sat on the narrow, curved edge, peering into the
blackness below. It looked as if there might be a ladder of some sort
bolted to the wall. He'd have to stretch a bit, but it was
manageable. Pushing off the edge, he balanced painfully on his palms for
a moment, absurdly aware of the nothingness beneath his dangling feet
and legs, his arms trembling slightly as they supported his body weight.
For a moment he hesitated, but the trembling had increased in his arms and the
only way he could relieve the trembling was to change the demand he was placing
on them. Resolved, he lowered himself bodily into the shaft, his arms
supporting him but protesting as he felt every moment of his workouts and sword
drills over the past two weeks coming back to haunt him, the length of his
sword banging slowly and repeatedly into his left leg.
"Nick, I really think you
should talk to Methos about this first," Amanda said. It
was the most effective deterrent she could come up with, and of course the last
one she wanted to resort to. "Nick--"
Nothing, followed by the sound of a
heavy crash somewhere below, muffled by considerable distance.
Oh, shit, Amanda thought.
She and Joe abandoned their stance
of pretended casualness simultaneously and stood staring into the mouth of the
converted well, neither one saying a word. No two ways about it, Amanda
thought, she was personally going to kill Nick Wolfe, assuming of course that
he'd survived the fall. Without even hesitating, she threw one leg over
the edge of the well's mouth, levering first her sword into position and then
her other leg. "Joe, go find Methos," she snapped.
"Bring him back here."
Joe opened his mouth to protest, but
she was already shaking her head, anticipating his objections, and he had no
doubt anything he said would be a waste of breath.
"Go on, Joe," she
said. "You're no good to me here and you know it. Look at the
Jewish cemetery for him, the tourist bureau--maybe at the hotel. Tell him
what happened." Unbelievably, she actually managed a smile for
him. "Oh, and Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell him I think we found his
damned underground entrance."
Chapter Fourteen
Methos dropped his rental
headphones and cassette player on the office of tourism's service counter
around noon, collecting his deposit without ever looking at the money the clerk
counted into his hand. Shoving the bills in one pocket, he reached for
the handle to the "Exit" door just as it swung open, forcing him to
step back a pace or two. Three teenage boys tumbled into the office,
laughing and talking in mixed French and English as they brushed past him.
He'd have thought nothing about it if the frustrated clerk hadn't shouted at
them for their carelessness--boys of that age were always careless, after all,
and the "Exit" door worked just as well as an entrance. Since
the doors were made of glass Methos had seen them coming in plenty of time to
avoid a possible collision, so he saw no reason to get worked up about
it. He put it down to a harried city employee letting off a little steam
and nodded, smiling as he accepted the boys' somewhat mechanical apologies.
It wasn't until he reached for the door handle again that it occurred to him.
Of course. The exit would
work equally well as an entrance, if only one knew where the exit was.
"Excuse
me--" Shamelessly taking advantage of his adult status and the fact
that he'd just been speaking with the clerk, he turned, pushing his way through
the boys now clustered at the counter. It was easy enough to catch the
clerk's eye since he was at least a head taller than the boys, and that fact let
him cut right through their babble. "I was at the Catholic church
earlier, you know, the one just north of the Jewish cemetery? I was
interested in seeing the hidden fountain there, but it just occurred to me to
ask about the route the priests used when they helped smuggle the Jews out of
the city."
"Of course, sir," the
clerk said. "I have a map you can use. Unfortunately, you
can't follow the actual route--it's far too dangerous for the city to permit
anyone to enter the underground chambers, you realize. You can, however,
see the fountain with the priests' permission. The route ends on the
other side of the river, west of town, some distance from a cereal mill that's
still in operation. There''s a water wheel--it's really very
picturesque, as well as being historically important. During the war the
family that owned the mill would help to smuggle people out of town hidden in
an old wooden wagon with a false bottom. The people would be hidden
beneath the false bottom, with sacks of milled cereals on top, bound for
market. I believe the wagon is still on display at the mill, if you're
interested."
"Please," Methos said, and
the clerk sorted through half a dozen stacks of brochures on the shelf beneath
her counter and came up with the right one, handing it to him over the boys'
heads. "Thanks again," he said.
Her "Have a nice day" was
as automatic as the boys' rush of questions and demands, nearly drowning out
the clerk's words.
The map was predictably sketchy,
having been designed to discourage exploration of the town's subterranean
chambers. There was no way to know if the buildings that had been used to
mark the route actually corresponded to an underground route or not, but it
didn't really matter since it was the exit he was interested in. After a
few minutes' study he'd worked out where that was and it took another fifteen
minutes for him to find his way through the old city to the southern-most
bridge crossing the Eure.
Just short of the bridge he stopped
at a chemist's and invested in a fanny pack. The name made him smile, but
he couldn't argue the item's practical design. It took him another ten
minutes to fill the pack with a flashlight and extra batteries, half a dozen
high energy bars, two plastic bottles of water with resealable tops and a small
pocket mirror. A pair of workman's leather gloves completed the pile of
things he set down next to the cashier's station. While standing in line
he studied the collection of souvenirs beneath the glass, toying with the idea
of buying the compass he'd first mistaken for a pocket watch. He decided
against it ultimately, deciding that a compass would do him little good
underground and was largely unnecessary, given that religious labyrinths were
designed not to confuse or confound the user, but to lead one to their
centers. At the register he paid the cashier and stashed the lot into the
fanny pack, zipped it shut, and then strapped it on around his waist.
That done, he pulled out his portable
phone and called the desk at Le Grand Monarque to check for any messages.
There were none, but he left one each for Amanda, Nick, and Joe in case they
called in. There was an additional message for Duncan MacLeod at Methos'
apartment in Paris, where either Joe or Nick would find it eventually, and a
computer file encoded for Irene Fiedler that would be delivered to her by a law
firm if Methos didn't call to veto the arrangement within 72 hours.
Having liked the woman almost immediately, Methos had included additional
messages for his friends for her to deliver if and when appropriate, amusing
himself by having the unflappable First Tribune of the Watchers act as his
personal messenger. "I'm easily amused," he'd once told
Joe. Of course, the joke's punch line hinged on his own very permanent
death, but those were the chances you took. What was it they said? Dying
is easy. Comedy is hard. Yeah, right. He knew which he
preferred. Amy Thomas he didn't allow himself to think of except in the
most abstract of terms: Goal, method, alternatives--there were only so
many alternatives he could calculate at this point, and none were under his
immediate control, so he proceeded on automatic pilot, resisting his own
preference for definitive information and multiple options. It did not
amuse him to realize that the tight line of his mouth was one that Kronos would
have recognized.
As he hiked northward up the damp
riverbank he was glad for his usual hiking boots and faded jeans, and the gray
sweatshirt he'd pulled on after his shower that morning. For all his
teasing about MacLeod's boy scout ways, "Be Prepared" was as much
Methos' motto as the Scot's, and the modified and silenced German Luger he'd
shot Nick with that morning was stashed in a hidden holster at the small of his
back. If he'd had more time, he'd have thrown in rappelling gear and a
portable halogen light, but he hadn't wanted to alarm Joe needlessly.
Instead, he figured, he'd just have to do things the old fashioned way.
He found the mill with its
picturesque water wheel easily enough, and from there the map directed him
northward a bit more, through a copse of trees that had no doubt served to
screen the Jewish refugees and their escorts from prying eyes across the river.
Just where he'd expected the copse to be heaviest of all, though, he had a
surprise. He'd been anticipating the slit mouth of a cave, and he might
have passed it if the map hadn't alerted him to its location. The trees
thinned out, though, and the difference between what he'd expected and what he
was actually seeing made him pause and backtrack slightly. It wasn't
until he actually spotted the cave with its grated mouth that he figured out
what must have happened. The city fathers had sealed off the cave
entrance with a metal grate and padlock to prevent anyone wandering into the
caverns. A plaque above the grill informed him that he'd actually found
what he was looking for, and a thoroughly modern-looking caution sign warned
the curious away in half a dozen languages, all phrased in the strictest of
terms. They had, of course, deliberately thinned out the trees as well,
to expose anyone attempting to break into the cave to the view of those across
the river.
There was just one problem from the
point of security. No one was actually watching from across the
river, and Methos was a firm believer in taking full advantage of whatever
fortune chose to throw his direction. He snagged his lockpicks and set to
work. Amanda would have been proud of him. He'd been practicing,
and the industrial strength padlock surrendered in a matter of
seconds. With that, he simply opened the grill and let himself in,
pulling the metal gate closed behind him and slipping the padlock back in
place. To the casual observer, the cave entrance and its grate would
appear undisturbed. And if anyone were to discover his trespassing, he
was counting on the tendency of most moderns to let the proper authorities take
any necessary action rather than becoming personally involved. At worst,
he could expect some of the town's more adventurous teenagers to follow him
into the cave--any of those he'd encountered at the office of tourism would fit
the mold--but even the likelihood of that was small in the extreme. Unless
he missed his guess, the local spelunkers would long ago have found their own
ways in and out of the warren of underground caves he expected existed in the
area, and the cavers could be counted on to ignore local law enforcement
restrictions by mutual if unspoken consent. The only real traffic he had
to worry about would be members of the Septaguent, and he was betting it was
several hours before any of them would venture into the tunnels since they
could reasonably be expected to know the way in and out and didn't have to
worry about running into a reception committee.
Some fifty yards inside the mouth of
the cave Methos shut off his portable phone and buried it with his
wallet. Using a rock the size of both fists, he broke the pocket mirrors
into small, rough-edged pieces and half-buried a broken shard in the sand,
leaving just enough showing to mark a spot six paces from the phone and
wallet's location. The rest of the mirrored glass he dropped back into
the fanny pack, planning to use them to mark his path as necessary. Like
Hansel and Gretel, he thought, marking their route with bread crumbs, except
that no birds would be tempted to eat his flecks of mirrored glass. The
action made him realize that some part of his consciousness had already slipped
into a tactical mode to deal with such things. He would either retrieve
the wallet and phone later or not, but either eventuality was preferable to
unnecessarily handing information over to an enemy. Kronos had called
this his thinking self--the Methos who watched and calculated and judged on a
dozen levels simultaneously, always ready to make this or that change in
response to things the more visceral man was hardly aware of. "And
now that we have Methos," he'd said, "we'll have a plan."
This part of him, he knew, was the
Methos that Amanda--and, he supposed, Nick as well--thought of as the remote
and calculating super-manipulator, and he supposed it was a fair assessment as
far as it went. Even Joe, who usually saw more than most Immortals did,
had once remarked that Methos in this mode was as cold a bastard as he'd even
seen. The only comfort Methos could take from that was the knowledge
that--if nothing else--Joe Dawson's relatively shorter lifespan would prevent
him from ever personally experiencing many of the things that had fashioned
Methos into the man he was. Still, Joe had inevitably passed his opinion
on to MacLeod. A bit naively, the Scot had called it Methos' cynical
side, little knowing that it wasn't something conscious or deliberately
nurtured over time, but simply Methos being Methos, for better or worse.
Never mind the fact that it had kept Methos alive for five thousand years and
MacLeod himself had benefited from it in a variety of situations.
"Don't go, MacLeod," he'd said. And then, apropos of nothing but the helpless sense of anger and frustration the Scot usually engendered in him: "It doesn't matter what I say, does it?"
Of course it hadn't mattered, he
realized, kneeling in the cool sand of the cave's floor. Teachers were supposed
to be forever railing against the rash and incomplete judgments of their
students. That's what teachers were for, after all. They were meant
to take the brunt of things and to run interference for the younger generation,
weren't they, in the hope that their students might learn from the
experience? And when the situation warranted it, they were supposed to
hold the student's feet to the fire to guarantee the learning stuck. Of
course, the only thing he seemed to have taught MacLeod of late was that you
got older if you breathed in and out enough times. For a race bent on
ritual suicide, though, perhaps that wasn't a bad thing. After all, Mac
hadn't even managed to pass that much on to Richie. Now if only the Scot
would listen occasionally.
Methos straightened, dusting the
sand of the floor from the knees of his pants and moving further inside the
cave. Teachers were the strongest hope the Immortals had for survival as
a race, and MacLeod was the best Immortal he'd come across in 5,000
years. Of course, you had to weigh that against the fact that Methos
himself was--or at least had been--the worst Immortal he'd come across
in 5,000 years. All right, all right, he thought, maybe it was a slight
exaggeration, but it wasn't that far off the mark, was it? Aside from the
fact that it annoyed the hell out of him, it was perfectly predictable that it
boiled down to some sort of balancing act that could only be equated with an
attempt at redemption. With his flashlight in one hand, Methos trudged
silently through the cave, following the only possible avenue available since
there were no branches leading left or right, his thoughts the only
accompaniment to his quiet footfalls.
So he and Mac were both seeking
redemption. All right, he could live with that. He didn't
particularly like it since he knew how hard redemption was to come by, but he
could live with it. Four or five years before he'd have sworn he didn't
believe in redemption and that acceptance was the best you could hope for, but
that truly was the cynic in him. You accepted who and what you
were, and you got on with life. It had been the only gospel he could
afford for a very long time, after all, and he'd nearly lost that when Kronos
had found him again. A short time ago he had been forced to play Kronos'
lackey and he'd seen the hurt on MacLeod's face and the belief, so plain in
those dark eyes, that it was his true self. It was exactly what
he'd intended, of course, exactly what Kronos had to see and believe, but it
had hurt like nothing had hurt in a very long time, and it had taken a long
time to regain the younger man's trust after that. In fact, he'd been
trying ever since to redeem himself in MacLeod's eyes, to be what MacLeod
wanted him to be, perhaps even what he wanted to be . . .
For as long as he could remember,
he'd had a chameleon's tendency to blend into the background, but it was more
than that, really. Just as a chameleon had no choice in performing its
chameleon magic, so he'd always seemed to inevitably take on the coloring of
those around him. After a couple of millennia, it became a survival skill
and if there was one thing he was good at, it was survival. The
result? Good company, good Methos. Bad company, bad Methos.
It was an oversimplification, of course, but true in essence, as Kronos could
have told anyone who asked. Methos had survived ten years among the
Watchers by being just what they expected--a slightly naive, bookish scholar
with more interest in the doings of a 5,000 year old mystery than in the real
world around him. He had become Adam Pierson initially because it had
offered him a unique way to keep track of the other Immortals, but he had
remained Adam Pierson because people he'd liked--Joe Dawson included--had made
it easy for him to do so. Surrounded by Watchers, he'd become a Watcher.
He couldn't begin to calculate how
many times he'd been the third party at a late night session at Joe's
while Dawson and Don Salzer rehashed stories of the various Immortals they'd
heard of, read about or encountered over careers that jointly spanned close to
fifty years with the Watchers. More often than not, Dawson's stories had
revolved around Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and in time Methos had
found himself spending numerous hours in the Watchers' libraries and archives,
reading the young immortal's chronicles when he was supposed to be doing
research for the Methos Chronicles. Truth be told, MacLeod had both
fascinated and amused him from the start. It seemed the infant Scot was
forever rescuing damsels in distress or some such thing, and Methos had enjoyed
following his exploits from a distance. When Kalas had killed Don, Methos
had known without even thinking about it that Dawson would send Duncan MacLeod
to look after Kalas' next likely target. That was the kind of man Dawson
was. And MacLeod being MacLeod, there'd been no doubt that the Highlander
would oblige Dawson and show up on Adam Pierson's doorstep. He'd considered
absenting himself from Paris, of course, but for some reason he'd decided to
stay. And thereby hangs the tale.
Buried somewhere among the books
littering the top of his coffee table was a paperback copy of The Hero with
a Thousand Faces, which he'd begun reading again for the enjoyment of
Campbell's lyrical yet somehow perfectly ordinary use of the English
language. There was a passage he'd memorized without even realizing it
until he'd come upon it again the other day: "The doctor is the
modern master of the mythological realm, the knower of all the secret ways and
words of potency. His role is precisely that of the Wise Old Man of the
myths and fairy tales whose words assist the hero through the trials and
terrors of the weird adventure. He is the one who appears and points out
the magic shining sword that will kill the dragon-terror, tells of the waiting
bride and the castle of many treasures, applies the healing balm to the almost
fatal wounds, and finally dismisses the conqueror back into the world of normal
life. . . ."
So here he was, Merlin to an absent
Arthur.
"You knew he was going to do this!" Joe had accused.
"That last night we were all together--you knew it!"
"And you didn't?" Methos
had asked, the meek and mild pseudo-Pierson he sometimes still wore evaporating
abruptly. And for a moment--just a moment, thank goodness--he'd forgotten
that Joe Dawson didn't see things from his own perspective of 5,000 years of
living. "When has Duncan MacLeod done anything but walk away in the
past hundred years?" he'd snapped. "When Little Deer and her
people were slaughtered? After Slan Quince forced him back into the
game? Or maybe when Tessa was shot? No. No, wait, I've got
it. When Richie was killed--"
"Yeah?" Joe had
demanded. "And what about you, Methos? Like you're not on the
next stage every time something happens!"
His anger had evaporated as
quickly as it had appeared, and he'd felt himself smiling the way he always did
when Joe got in a good one. "Yeah," he'd said quietly, hazel
eyes glittering as he'd run one hand through his close-cropped hair.
"Well . . . I'm nobody's best hope, am I?" he'd asked. There
was silence for another moment and then Methos had exploded in frustration,
"Oh, come on, Joe! You're his Watcher, for heaven's sake. You
had to have seen this coming!"
The fact, of course, was
that Joe hadn't seen it coming. On the mortal scale Joe lived by he'd
been unable to imagine MacLeod walking away for a year or three years or a
dozen years without a backward glance, and that was precisely why Methos had
remained in Paris when common sense urged him against it. He should have
disappeared years ago, when Duncan MacLeod had first come calling. He
certainly should have disappeared after he'd taken Kristen's head, but he'd let
himself fall in love with Alexa instead, and then he'd thrown himself headlong
into the debacle surrounding MacLeod's dark Quickening. And if that weren't
enough, he'd nearly gotten himself killed by Gina de Valicourt in a
hare-brained scheme only Duncan MacLeod could have talked him into. And
the result of that? Nothing much, except that he'd been conveniently
front and center when Jacob Galati came gunning for Watchers to kill.
God, what a farce. He'd found himself in the middle of a full-blown
identity crisis only to discover that it didn't much matter how you defined
yourself when the past came calling, and at 5,000 there was so bloody much of
it!
He'd had a mere six months after the
Horsemen to get back into MacLeod's good graces--Byron and Steven Keane beside
the point--and then Richie Ryan had died at MacLeod's hands and the whole thing
had gone to hell in a handbasket again. Nothing--nothing--would
ever take away the memory of Duncan MacLeod kneeling in front of him that
night, begging for death, or the sound of Joe's sobs, loud in his ears as
Methos stood there, offering the only comfort he could and knowing exactly how
inadequate it was.
"Please," MacLeod had whispered, holding the katana out to Methos. And Methos had turned his back on him. "Absolutely not," he'd said.
Was it any wonder that
Joe had been so pitifully anxious to pretend that things were back to normal
despite all evidence to the contrary?
What people tended to forget--Joe
Dawson included--was that you had to learn how to be a teacher and you
were bound to make a few mistakes along the way. And the fact that Methos
had begun to think lately that he'd been the student and MacLeod, damn
him, had been the teacher, didn't help a whole lot. And to make matters
worse, he'd said yes when Nick Wolfe came looking for a teacher, and he'd done
it just to keep Amanda around, figuring it was one more way to make sure Duncan
MacLeod kept in touch when he returned to Paris. So now what? Based
on past experience it was a fair guess he'd screw up two students' lives for
the price of one. Happy thought. If Duncan MacLeod were smart, he'd
stay as far away from Paris as he possibly could and forget he'd ever even met
Methos . . .
He hesitated, playing the beam of
his flashlight ahead of him again. Instead of the beam being swallowed up
in the yawning darkness as it had been before, it was reflected back to him now
as a rough circle, dust motes swarming in the beam of light.
Experimentally, he swept the light to the other side, satisfied when it came
back almost immediately, another rough circle on a wall that was surprisingly
close on his right-hand side. He'd come to the elbow juncture of two
walls with a new tunnel branching off to the left, just as it should, and
overhead he could just make out an artificial something. Curious, he
reached on tiptoe and brushed his fingers over the surface of the limestone, sifting
dust into the air. There. YHWH--the four Hebrew consonants that had
come in time to represent Yahweh, the One God of the Hebrews.
"El-Asherah-He-Anath," he whispered. Originally it had stood
for Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, four members of a Heavenly Family
worshiped in one form or another throughout much of the world. In a
patriarchal world the gods' duality had been expressed as Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost, with the feminine aspects of the godhood all but erased.
YHWH. Here they could represent only one thing: the way to God.
The labyrinth at Chartres measured
30 feet across. He expected this one to be roughly the size of a football
field, divided into a series of intricately interlaced hallways, each circling
around and back over and over again. Imagine bare knees rubbed raw and
bloody on bare stone across that distance as an act of devotion. Imagine
an Immortal, deliberately beheaded in a perverse blood rite to
"sanctify" the induction of a new member of the club. And their
names were recorded in heaven. Too bad he'd left his pneumatic drill at
home. It was hard, at the moment, to remember why he'd eschewed such
conveniences. Oh. Right. He hadn't wanted to alarm Joe
needlessly.
Sighing, he moved into the tunnel,
his confidence increasing when, some 70 cubits in, the tunnel turned undeniably
and abruptly to the right and he found himself retracing the distance he'd just
come down a narrow hallway whose walls he could brush on either side with
outstretched fingertips. Regardless of the outcome, it had begun; and
that, at least, was something. Too bad, though, that he'd left his magic
sword at home along with his drill. Still . . . Methos squared his
shoulders, letting the broadsword he did
carry pull his coat into its own preferred alignment. It looked like the
old fashioned kind would just have to do. Fortunately, he'd come
prepared.
Chapter Fifteen
He couldn't say how long
had passed since he'd entered the labyrinth. One hour or two,
perhaps--immortality had made him less clock-conscious than most a very long
time ago, and as a result he'd been late to class more often than not when he'd
taught at the University. Joe Dawson--who probably should have known
better--was forever harping at him about getting a watch. As usual with
Joe's sermonizing, Methos tended to listen with both amusement and a vague
affection and then went about his business, secure in the knowledge that Joe's
advice would be proffered numerous times in the future with ever-increasing
annoyance on his friend's part.
Never totally happy in close
quarters, Methos had simply followed the winding path of the labyrinth,
occasionally allowing his fingertips to brush the walls to either side of him
while he pushed forward in silence. Since he could do nothing more than
what he was already doing, he didn't think about what might lay at the end of
his journey. For awhile he'd counted his silent footfalls, but inevitably
that had grown boring in the extreme so he'd begun instead to amuse himself
mentally with a series of meaningless lists, the product of both his fondness
for reading and a copious memory. Eventually he'd run through the
Phoenician and Egyptian dynasties from memory and, since it seemed fitting,
he'd begun mentally reviewing the genealogy of the royal house of David.
He was trying to remember if the second King Mattathias came before or after
the second King Joseph when the gentlest brush of air against his left hand
cued him to stop abruptly.
Was it growing lighter? Too
gradually for it to have registered, the labyrinth seemed to have grown
marginally less pitch black, and his senses were beginning to tell him that
there was light somewhere ahead. The curving walls were designed to
reintroduce those who followed the labyrinth to the light so gradually that he
hadn't been consciously aware of the change--it was part of a deliberately
structured religious experience, the journey of the initiate or one of the
faithful through total darkness toward the light. In religious terms, he
knew, walking a labyrinth involved three stages: purgation, or letting go
of distractions as you walked in, symbolic of abandoning the physical world;
illumination, or receiving the knowledge or blessing sought by reaching the
center; and union, a joining with the sacred as you completed the experience
and walked out of the labyrinth. Of necessity his own perception was
limited to a more practical level at the moment and he raised his right hand in
front of his face and spread his fingers experimentally. Well, all right,
truthfully it was hard to say, but he at least thought he could detect
a difference between the solid flesh of his hand and the gaps between his
fingers. Not that you'd want to bet your life on it . . .
The change in the air was
interesting, though. He touched the walls to his left and right and
willed himself to stillness, feeling the faintest whispered touch of air
moving. That, at least, was real; he was sure of it. It argued for
increased caution, but the fact that his hand was actually on the hilt of his
sword before he realized he'd reached for it surprised him a bit. Calm,
he told himself. This was the Septaguent's home territory and the fact
that he'd been invited didn't make him welcome. They were mortals,
though, every bit as mortal as the three they'd taken to draw him here.
There was an additional consideration, though. By definition the
labyrinth was holy ground, as was what lay beyond it. Quite deliberately,
he stopped himself, taking his hand away from his sword. Calm.
These were mortals. The Luger would be more than adequate. And
that, after all, was precisely why he'd brought it. The sleek handle came
into his hand every bit as naturally as the Ivanhoe and stayed there as he moved
slowly, silently, forward again.
Another ten minutes or so passed
while he negotiated a dozen or so turns and halls, the light increasing
gradually but noticeably now, so that he was beginning to be able to see the
end of the next section of the labyrinth as he turned each corner. He had
begun to blink, his eyes adjusting themselves to the increasing brightness, and
he'd slowed his pace, listening intently and consciously now. He stopped,
emerging into a section of the labyrinth that was, for all intents and
purposes, simply a long, slowly curving hallway. From the shape of the
hall he guessed he had reached the outer ring of the labyrinth. It should
be a simple matter now of negotiating the perimeter, and if memory served him
right there would be a single turn to the right before arriving at the
center. Ahead now there was the steady glow of electricity where he might
once have expected the flickering light of torches. Well, he thought, why
not? He, too, had a definite preference for hot water and clean sheets,
so perhaps modernization was to be expected. Still, it made him realize
that he'd quite unconsciously pictured the Septaguent as dark-robed initiates
mouthing centuries-old chants in their underground cavern. If he
recalled correctly, the one who had attacked Nick had been wearing a standard
business suit. Of course, that didn't change the fact that he'd been
carrying a U.S. Army cavalry saber and had fully intended to take Nick's head.
The wall ahead of him hooked to the
right. If he had a pick-ax handy and cared to attract attention to
himself by battering away at the wall in front of him he figured he would
emerge essentially where he'd begun, and a sharp left would take him back to
the surface. He didn't have a pick-ax handy, though, and this particular
journey required a sharp turn to the right, into the brightness of the electric
lights that beckoned to the center of the labyrinth.
Abruptly he found himself
remembering the last night he and MacLeod had been together or, more precisely,
the last argument they'd had. After Amanda had been kidnapped by O'Rourke
they'd left Joe's bar and returned to the barge, Mac going down the steps
first. Methos had watched as the Highlander plucked a wedge of cardboard
from the softened rim of a burning candle and paused to read what was written
there.
"Oh,
please tell me that's not written in blood," Methos had said as he came
down the stairs behind MacLeod.
"It's Amanda's
lipstick," the Highlander replied.
"First Amanda, now
Joe." Methos remembered trying for a light tone despite the
worsening situation. "I see a very worrying trend developing
here."
"No, this is where it
stops," MacLeod had responded, already headed out again.
Half wondering why he bothered,
Methos put himself between MacLeod and the door. "Don't go,
MacLeod--"
"I have no choice."
Stalling for time to think,
Methos had protested, "That is existentially inaccurate!"
It had no effect, of course, and he'd surrendered in almost the same
breath. "All right! I will come with you."
"It's his rules," Mac
insisted, and Methos had been unsurprised by the set, stubborn look on the
younger man's face. "The notes says alone."
"Rules?" Methos had
demanded, caught between impatience and a kind of macabre humor.
"What rules? You think O'Rourke is taking Amanda and Joe to play by
some set of rules?"
"He'll kill them!" Mac
had shouted at him
"Yes," Methos had
agreed quietly. "And he will kill you, too."
So just who was making up the rules to this little game? There was a metallic taste in his mouth as he recalled Joe's recountingof the message that had brought him to this time and place:
"Since Dr. Zoll informs us the older of your Immortal friends could scarcely be bothered to come after her we've decided to up the ante a bit. Mademoiselle Thomas, it would appear, has rather more value. Very well. You can find her in Chartres. Think of it as a test of your friend's ingenuity."
Ingenuity. It didn't take much ingenuity when someone else was pulling all the strings, of course, but it definitely simplified things.
"Don't
go, MacLeod--"
"I have no choice."
"That is existentially
inaccurate!"
Hah. Wrong again.
Imagine that. And MacLeod had known all along, no doubt. Without
a word, Methos rounded the final corner and moved toward the center of the
labyrinth.
At the end of the hall was an archway,
man-tall and more, leading to a circular room beyond. From the archway
you stepped out onto a white stone balcony of sorts that ran the circumference
of the room and was accessible from four doorways laid out at right angles, one
directly opposite him and one each to the left and right. Stairs led down
from each doorway to a circular room below that--at a guess--would measure
thirty feet across, the same as the Chartres labyrinth. In fact, he
thought, stepping closer to the edge of the balcony for a better look, a copy
of the labyrinth appeared to be cut into the floor here, and he shook his head
in appreciation, wondering which of the two was the original. Hmm . . .
multiple doorways argued for other pathways through the labyrinth, or even
other labyrinths, possibly accessed from other starting points. More
important though, was the extraordinarily detailed carvings on the walls of the
room. Turning from the edge of the balcony he looked at the columns on
either side of the archway he'd come through and then at those flanking the
other three doorways. Each was topped by an elaborately carved angel in a
late Renaissance style, arms thrown out and surrounded by curlicue etchings
deep in the stone that was, doubtless, meant to suggest wind. The symbolism
was unmistakable, and the words came unbidden to mind:
And after these
things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth, holding the
four winds of the earth that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the
sea, nor on any tree.
And I saw another angel ascending
from the east, having the seal of the living God: And he cried with a
loud voice to the four angels, to whom it was given to hurt the earth and the
sea.
Saying, "Hurt not the earth,
neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in
their foreheads."
And I heard the number of them which
were sealed: And there were sealed an hundred and forty and four thousand
of all the tribes of the children of Israel.
There it was, excised from the
domed ceiling almost as if it were real: the ascending angel, presumably
in the east, bearing a seal the size of a shield in the crook of one arm, sword
at the ready in his free hand. One hundred and forty four thousand.
Dividing by 70 produced an improbable figure, but if you remembered that a
"Seventy" actually consisted of 72 members--the 70 lay members plus
the two priests or elders who headed the group--you came up with a nice round
2000. It seemed appropriate for millennial fanatics, he thought, though
he put less stock in such things, having lived through four millennial changes
already. It was unpleasant though, to think there might be 2000 groups of
fanatics roaming the earth, hunting Immortals in the name of religion. If
he recalled correctly, there had been twelve thousand members from each of the
12 tribes of Israel--Aser, Nepthalim, Manasses and all the rest--totaling
144,000. And the names of the Seventy were recorded in heaven . . .
There they were, cut into
the columns on each side of the four angels: Name after name after name,
recording all the generations of the Angels of St. John in a genealogist's
dream come true, generation after generation from the time of Christ, the names
growing more modern as they progressed through the centuries. And when a
direct descendant's bloodline ran out, a new member was adopted into the order
by blood rite and an Immortal was killed to sanctify the new member's
bloodline. What was it Fiedler had said? The Quickening was
supposed to enter the initiate so he and his descendants would possess an
essence of St. John's immortality.
It was ridiculous, of course.
If nothing else, the Chronicles on the Hunters made clear what happened to a
Quickening that was released when no Immortal was present. How many
Immortals, he wondered, had lost their Quickenings here, or in rooms like this,
assuming the Septaguent existed in other nations and on other continents?
He laid one hand on the nearest column, feeling the cool stone beneath his
palm. Were their names also recorded in heaven, or were they anathema,
unknown, uncelebrated, unrecorded? No, he thought abruptly. Not
unrecorded. What had Irene Fiedler said? Something about
secret literature. "I always thought it was fiction," she'd
said.
Fiction, my ass, Methos thought.
"We do have a few resources, Mr. Pierson," she'd said. "Surely you were in research long enough to know that."
To observe and record, but
never interfere. Huh. Blindsided by a mortal. Good God, he
could be so dense sometimes. Probably came from thinking 5,000 years of
living meant you'd seen and done things no one else could imagine. You'd
think he'd have learned by now how wrongheaded that particular notion
was. And she'd done everything but come right out and hand it to
him. There was a Watcher on John the Revelator and possibly had been
for decades, even centuries--or, at the very least, the Watchers had penetrated
the Septaguent and were observing them, possibly tracking the Revelator for
their own reasons. And he'd left his cell phone buried in the shallow
sand at the mouth of the cave's entrance. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Contacting
Joe or Nick and Amanda was out of the question, of course, and his only consolation
was the likelihood that his phone wouldn't have worked this far underground
anyway.
Well, there was no sense putting
off the inevitable.
Carefully and quietly, he moved
down the stairs to the room below. Here, too, the walls were rich with
carvings drawn from the book of Revelation, showing the seven churches and
seven spirits--shown as angels here--kneeling before the golden throne of God,
surrounded by angels and strange beasts. A multitude worshiped a Christ
descending in glory from the clouds, the Greek symbols for Alpha and Omega
carved in his palms where the holes from the crucifixion nails should have
been, the one truly discernible member of the worshipers plainly meant to be
John the Revelator, a rainbow-arc of seven-pronged menorahs appearing to hover
in the air above him as he stared up in adoration at the Christ:
And he had in his
right hand seven stars, and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword, and
his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength.
And when I saw him, I fell at his
feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me,
"Fear not: I am the first and the last. I am he that liveth,
and was dead: and behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen."
Above the right hand of Christ were seven seals encircling a closed book, and on the opposite wall the tree of life, surrounded by martyrs and the four and twenty elders of Israel, in their midst the seven-horned lamb with seven eyes. And there--impossible to keep his mouth from quirking at the sight of them, etched deeply into the wall and nearly life-size, obviously the work of a master artisan: There stood the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
And I saw, and
behold a white horse, and he that sat on him had a bow, and a crown was given
unto him, and he went forth conquering and to conquer. . . .
And there went out another horse
that was red, and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from
the earth, and that they should kill one another, and there was given unto him
a great sword. . . .
And I beheld a black horse, and he
that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. . . .
And I looked, and behold a pale
horse: And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with
him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to
kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the
earth.
The four horsemen of the apocalypse, symbol of his angry adolescence and what Kronos would have made of him again.
"I go with the winner," he'd told MacLeod, hoping the Highlander would see in him what he couldn't show Kronos: Make sure you're the winner.
John, of course, hadn't known the
true story of the four horsemen--he'd merely borrowed the imagery from an oral
history that was old before Christ had walked the earth, a story brought by the
Jews out of their Babylonian captivity and codified centuries later as
scripture. The same was true of the story of the flood--a cataclysmic
event out of pre-history had come in Judeo-Christian terms to represent an
apocalyptic past and, in John's hands, the horsemen had come to represent an
apocalyptic future. In time the biblical telling had outstripped the earlier
sources, so that only obscure scholars and history buffs had any real sense of
the originals now--unless, of course, you happened to have been there . . .
He paused, hand outstretched as if
to stroke the mane of the horse before him, his head turning automatically
toward the sound. A soft sound, like a sigh, or of fabric brushing
against the roughness of a rock-hewn wall, followed by a voice he knew. Amy.
At first glance each of the
four stairways appeared to be a solid brick structure. Given that the
rest of the room was cut from stone, that in itself seemed to deserve
attention, and he focused on it immediately. Interesting, too, that the
center of the wall appeared to be recessed a few inches. He arched his
brows and pushed against the wall experimentally. Immediately the
recessed portion of the wall slid back, accompanied by the breathy, pneumatic
sound--talk about modernization--and he found himself face to face
with Amy Thomas.
Chapter Seventeen
"Joe Dawson?
I'm Ian Laine. Irene Fiedler sent me."
Joe made a half-hearted attempt to
rise from the deep cushioned green and white striped seat that was the hotel's
notion of casual dining comfort, but Laine waved him back down, obviously aware
of Dawson's artificial legs and wanting to spare him the effort. While he
appreciated the man's courtesy, it made Joe wonder what else he'd been apprized
of. Not that it was something he could just come out
and ask, of course: "So, did Irene
tell you you're to turn your guy over to my guy, no
questions asked?" Not that Methos was his
guy, or not exactly, anyway. It was . . . complicated, both
personally and professionally, and getting more so with each passing moment.
"And you were told--?"
"To render any and all
assistance required, although no one seemed anxious to discuss exactly what
that might involve. It struck me as pretty damned irregular, but the
orders came from the top." He signaled the white-shirted waiter and
ordered coffee, his look inviting Joe to order something as well while they had
the waiter's attention, but Joe shook his head, marginally happier when the
waiter departed and they were alone again. "You want to tell me what
this is all about?" Laine asked.
"Sorry," Joe said. "My
orders come from the top, too." All right, it wasn't anywhere near
the truth, but at this point he figured Irene deserved what she got.
"But you are
Joe Dawson?" Laine asked abruptly.
"I mean, I've heard about you and Duncan MacLeod,
of course. And now you head the Methos Chronicles."
Hesitantly, Joe nodded.
"Then he really exists."
"Oh, yeah," Joe said
wearily. "He definitely exists."
"And he's here? In
Chartres?" Without waiting for an answer, Laine shook his head,
asking, "What in the world does Methos have to do with John the
Revelator?"
Joe's smile was a bit
lopsided. "That depends on what you can tell me about John the
Revelator," he said.
"Well, I can tell you that he's
real, and we've been Watching him for almost as long as there've been
Watchers. D'you know your bible?"
"I was raised Catholic.
It's not necessarily the same thing, but I've been getting a review
lately."
Laine nodded. "Saint
John, John the Revelator, John the Divine, John the Beloved--the title varies,
but it's the same man. In the bible he refers to himself as 'the disciple
whom Jesus loved,' though none of the other gospels recognize a special
relationship between them. In fact, originally he was a disciple of John
the Baptist, who was Christ's cousin. Presumably he met Christ through
that association. Officially John was the son of Zebedee, a priest who
held the Essene title of 'Lightning.' It isn't just a nickname, you understand,
but a formal title among them, one of the three or four highest designations
they have--"
"Have?" Joe
interrupted. "You mean 'had,' don't you? They died out--"
Laine was shaking his head before
Joe could even finish. "Not true," he said. "Trust
me. The Essenes are alive and well."
"The Septaguent?" Joe
asked, and Laine's face lit with something that looked like pleasure.
"You've heard of them?" he
asked. "The Seventies? They're almost pure Essene, passed down
from father to son, and called to the earthly protection of Saint John."
"So why did Jesus call John
'Boanerges,' if he was the son of Lightning?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know--Boanerges,
'son of thunder.' You know that 'Thunder' referred to Jonathan Annas, the
High Priest of the Sadducees?" When Joe nodded, he continued.
"Well, there's a story--just a story--that Annas was John's real
father. Of course, since we know John's an Immortal it's unlikely either
man was his real father--unless you want to get into a theoretical
discussion of where baby Immortals come from?"
"Not today, thanks," Joe
said, and Laine nodded. "I'd appreciate anything you can tell me
about the Essenes, though."
"Well, let's see . . . all
Essene marriages are arranged by the priests of the Order, and except for a few
weeks every year men and women alike live as celibates. In September
there's a betrothal ceremony for new couples, followed by what's called a
'First Marriage'--a three month celibate period known as an espousal.
It's sort of a get acquainted period when husband and wife live together but
don't have physical relations. That's what the bible means when it says
that Mary was the espoused wife of Joseph. They were in this probationary
period, living together without having intercourse.
"In the first half of December,
after espousal, members of the religion are allowed physical relations for two
weeks with the goal of conceiving a child. Those couples who conceive go
through what's called a 'Second Marriage' when the woman is three months
pregnant--it's their way of formally legalizing the marriage. Couples who
don't conceive can stay together if they choose, but they can also separate if
they choose to--it's sort of a guarantee that the man doesn't get stuck with a
barren wife. It's not exactly politically correct these days, but that's
the way it works. You know when the bible says that Joseph was thinking
of 'putting Mary away privily'? It was because she was found to be pregnant
during their espousal, before they'd been together sexually. The natural
assumption would have been that she had broken the rules of celibacy and was
pregnant by another man."
"And when the angels told
Joseph she was pregnant by the power of the Holy Ghost?"
"Oh, well," Laine said,
abruptly reminding Joe unaccountably of Adam Pierson, erstwhile graduate
student. "That's quite a different story, of course."
Curious, Joe found himself staring
into the man's mild blue eyes. "Are you a cleric, Ian?" he
asked, and Laine drew back in mild surprise, humor lighting his eyes.
"Me?" he
asked. "Hardly. I'm an archaeologist and religious historian
by training."
"And John the Revelator?
The 'son of thunder'?"
"When Christ called him
'Boanerges'--the 'son of thunder'--I think it was a reference to the fact that
John was heir to one of the most powerful offices among the
Essenes. Under normal circumstances, he'd have become the next 'Thunder'
himself, after Annas died."
"But John died first? And
became Immortal?"
"Possibly. Not
surprisingly, there's no written account of his first death, although it
probably occurred during Christ's lifetime. Not that it matters
much. I mean, after Christ was betrayed by Annas, John turned away from
the existing Essene structure and they were all but destroyed within 60
years. John never became 'Thunder.'"
"What did he become?"
"In essence, he became what the
Essenes call a Joseph--the highest priesthood authority among them. In
that role he set up his own religious sect, and continues today as their
leader."
"They know he's Immortal?"
"Oh, yes. It's a tenet of
their faith."
"The poor shall always be with
us," Joe said, and the other nodded enthusiastically.
"You know it, then?" Laine
asked. "The Angelic Liturgy and the word substitution
code? I had no idea you were such a scholar."
"Let's just say I have a good
tutor," Joe said drily.
"I should think so. Um .
. . about Methos? Is he hunting John?"
"You
mean headhunting?" Joe asked. "No--that's not his
style." Or at least it wouldn't have been . . . what?
God, when was the last time he'd have felt perfectly secure telling someone
else just what Methos' style was, anyway? He'd begun noticing a real
change in Methos about the time the oldest Immortal had eliminated Morgan
Walker from the Game. Without a doubt, the Methos who had calmly stalked
and killed Walker's men was very different from the man he'd come to think of
as Methos in the three years before that time. He was so different, in
fact, that Joe had begun to wonder just how well either he or MacLeod had known
the old man in the first place. He'd long ago accepted the idea that the
man he'd known for ten years as Adam Pierson had been a convenient
facade. It was harder to accept the idea that the Methos he'd known for
the past three-plus years might also have been a facade. What was it
MacLeod had said?
"You didn't
see his face, Joe."
It had been one of the few times
the Highlander had ever talked to Joe about what had happened when he and
Cassandra had followed Methos' trail to Bordeaux. Kronos had established
a base at an abandoned naval facility on the outskirts of the city and MacLeod
had traced the Horsemen there to challenge Kronos on his home ground. He
and Kronos had fought, and Kronos had ordered Methos to kill Cassandra.
"His face was
so--" Words had failed the Highlander, and for a moment he'd just
sat there, staring straight ahead. "He looked so different,"
he'd said at last, and they'd both known how inadequate the word was.
"I go with the
winner," Methos had said.
For just a moment Joe felt the
weight of those words stabbing through him as they must have stabbed through
MacLeod.
"I go with the
winner."
Knowing Methos as he did, Joe had
read the subtext that was there whether MacLeod had divined it or not: Make
sure you're the winner. Methos had hung everything he was and
everything he might become on MacLeod at that moment. Make sure you're
the winner, Old Man, Joe thought, because there's at least as much at stake
here as there was in Bordeaux, and MacLeod's not around at the moment.
"I need you to get me into the
Septaguent's meeting tonight."
There. He'd said it. Of
course, it hadn't come out exactly the way he'd had in mind, but once the words
were spoken they couldn't be called back.
"Just you," Laine
said. "I won't lead Methos to him."
With any luck, you won't have
to. Hardly daring to trust his voice, Joe nodded.
"What about your . . . "
Laine gestured toward Joe's legs, and Joe realized the man was asking about his
ability to get around in possibly difficult circumstances.
"I manage well enough,"
Joe said. "You get me there. I'll take care of the rest."
Laine nodded. "All
right," he said. "They'll meet this evening around eight.
I can get you inside."
"You'd normally be there?"
Joe asked, and Laine nodded again.
"To observe and record,"
he said.
But never interfere. Unspoken,
the words hung between them, a promise Laine took for granted and one Joe
Dawson had no intention of keeping. He'd learned a long time ago that
there were times when you had to do more than just watch.
Chapter Eighteen
"Methos," Amy breathed.
Bars separated them, but only
momentarily. He reached between the bars, took her face between his hands,
and kissed her without even thinking about it.
"Not 'Adam Pierson'?"
Inspector LeBrun asked from the opposite corner of the small cell.
Next to him, Amy Zoll smiled
apologetically and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. She doubted it was the
only surprise the Inspector was in for. "Any time you two care to
come up for air," she said drily, looking at Methos and Amy Thomas.
They separated at last, Amy looking
a bit stunned. Methos looked . . . well, Zoll thought, to be perfectly
honest Methos looked like someone who'd just returned home after a very long
time away. The look on LeBrun's face was priceless when Methos produced a
zippered case from inside his coat and without comment inserted one of a half
dozen lockpicks into the lock. Zoll shook her head, imagining what the
Inspector would say if--or more likely when--he got a good look at the
sword Methos was doubtless carrying also. There was, she had to admit,
something bizarrely funny about the whole thing.
Ever the policeman, LeBrun had to
move closer to the door to watch as Methos matter-of-factly went to work,
stepping back only when Methos met his eyes and said, "You're in my
light."
LeBrun blinked once, then realized
the overhead light behind him was throwing his shadow in front of him,
darkening Methos' work area. "Oh. Sorry," LeBrun
muttered, moving to the side. Zoll, he noticed, looked as if she didn't
know whether to laugh or cry. Neither she nor Amy Thomas seemed at all
surprised that Adam Pierson--this . . . Methos--appeared to routinely
carry a very expensive and illegal set of lockpicks or that he knew how to use
them.
"Damn it." Methos
stopped working the lock momentarily, switched to a different pick, and then
added a second to it, playing one against the other. Muttering something
that sounded very like "Where the hell is Amanda when I really need
her?" he went back to work on the lock, his brow creased slightly. A
few minutes later he returned both lockpicks to their case and dropped the case
back down the concealed pocket in his coat.
"Now what?" LeBrun asked
quietly.
Methos gripped one of the bars, long
fingers drumming in a slow and silent tattoo. Without comment, he reached
to the small of his back and produced the sleek brown and black Luger he had
holstered there, prompting a surprised intake of breath from LeBrun.
"I do recall, don't I," LeBrun said slowly, "that you told me
you were a linguist and historian?"
"I was an associate professor of
both at the University of Paris," Methos said idly.
Unapologetically, he slid the bolt back on the Luger, chambering a round.
"Of course, I've since resigned the post," he added.
"Of course," LeBrun
agreed.
"You're not going to shoot the
lock open are you?" Amy Zoll asked.
"No," Methos said.
"There's no sense advertising my presence if they're not already aware of
it." He unsnapped the holster from his belt and handed both through
the bars to LeBrun. "However, they won't necessarily expect you to
be armed and we might need the advantage."
LeBrun nodded as he attached the
holster to his own belt and checked the gun's safety. "I take it
they will expect you to be armed?" he asked. His only reply was a
tight smile. "Right. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who
'they' are?" he asked. "Neither of your friends here has been
inclined to talk about it."
"I can't imagine why not,"
Methos said. "You see, I'm an immortal." This as he
pulled a ringed dagger from inside his coat and calmly slid the tip into the
lock. "Your kidnappers--" He rammed the 14 ½" blade
firmly into place. "--are part of a 2,000 year old organization
dedicated to John the Beloved. They kidnapped Zoll," he said,
working the blade back and forth, "because they thought I'd come after
her. When she told them I wouldn't, they grabbed Amy Thomas to make sure
I'd play their game. Unfortunately--" this was accompanied by a
particularly wicked upward shove on the dagger's handle--"you got caught
in the middle." The lock popped open abruptly and the cell door
swung open.
"An immortal," LeBrun said
slowly. He looked from Methos to the dagger and back again.
"They always fixate on that one
point," Methos commented to no one in particular.
"I can't imagine why,"
Zoll said. She shook her head and snagged the sleeve of LeBrun's suit
coat, tugging gently to get him to move. Amy Thomas needed no such
persuasion.
With them all out of the cell,
Methos slid the wall back in place and resheathed the dagger.
"You're telling me that you . .
. cannot die," LeBrun said.
Methos sighed. "There are
only so many ways of putting it," he said.
"And I suppose you, too, are
2,000 years old?"
"Closer to . . . um . . . five
thousand . . . actually."
Half way through the remark Methos
seemed to lose interest in what he was saying, his head coming up as if he were
searching for something, the gesture reminding LeBrun of a hunting dog catching
a scent on the breeze.
"Don't tell me," Amy
Thomas said.
At the same moment Methos pulled a
very long sword from some hidden recess inside his coat.
"What?" LeBrun asked as
Zoll turned to shush him. "Now what?"
"Company," Zoll
hissed. "Immortal company."
"And they're also carrying
swords?" LeBrun asked, his eyes on Methos' broadsword. He sounded
almost resigned and despite herself, Zoll couldn't hide her grin.
"Odds are," she replied,
pressing her back to the wall.
Methos gestured for them to stay put
and then stepped quietly from the shelter of the stairs into the center of the
room, feeling very much alone there. Alone was good, he reminded
himself. Alone meant there was no one around to try to take your
head. Of course, with the sense of Immortal presence increasing it was
unlikely he'd be alone for very long and that made him wonder why he was the
one, lately, who kept pulling out a sword and going out to play hero. He
might as well have a bulls eye painted on his chest
for all the protection the open room offered. Still,
it was a nice place for a sword fight if it came to that. Plenty of room, nothing to get in the way . .
. Except for the stairs and the fact that it was holy ground, it was just about
perfect.
"Methos!"
Nick. What the--
Methos straightened from
his stalking pose as Nick Wolfe burst through one of the archways above and
spotted him. Returning his sword to its sheath, Methos said nothing while
Nick clattered down the stairs toward him. As soon as Nick was close
enough to hear him, however, he grabbed the younger man by the shirt front and
hissed, "Where the hell is Amanda?" Not that there was any
particular need for quiet, given the amount of noise his student had made--was
continuing to make--but whispering had the desired effect of riveting Nick's
full attention on him and damn it all, Nick had more sense than to come unarmed
into another Immortal's presence, even if he did think it was Methos .
. . . "And where the hell's your sword?" Methos snapped,
raising his voice just a bit.
"They took it," Nick
said. "They took it and they took Amanda--" To his
credit, the account came out lucidly enough and Methos wasn't left guessing at
any meanings. "Methos, we ran into them in the maze--the
labyrinth. Seven or eight of them; I'm not sure. They took
Amanda. They took my sword and told me I'd find you here. They let
me go."
"Run, infant, run," they'd shouted. "Run to your teacher--perhaps he can save your head!"
Nick colored, red to the roots of his hair, but Methos only nodded and Nick
swallowed, forcing the words out of his mouth. Accompanied by a short
bark of laughter, the words had an edge of fury to them and more.
"They let me go and I thought I could warn you, so I ran. Damn it, I
turned my back on her and I ran."
"It's all right, Nick, but I
have to know. Was there an Immortal with them?"
Nick nodded. "Yes.
I could feel him, sense him, I mean. I ran, Methos. I left her
there and I ran."
"Nick. You did the only
thing you could do. She knows that. Did they say anything?"
"What?"
"Think, now, it's
important. What did they say? What did they say about Amanda?"
Nick blinked and Methos watched his
face carefully. "They said . . . they said she was the mother of
demons. One of them said she was a witch."
"A witch." Thou
shalt not suffer a witch to live. "All right."
Methos waved the others toward him. "Nick, I want you to take the
others out of here. Can you do that?"
"But Amanda--"
"Amanda is my responsibility,
not yours. I need you to do this, Nick. All you have to do is
follow the labyrinth."
"I--Yeah," he said.
"All right." He swallowed again and started to nod.
"Good. I'll meet you at
the hotel--" Or maybe not. Nick's head had come up
and around in time with his own, instinct pointing them both toward the source
of the silent signal of another Immortal emerging on the balcony above them.
"Amanda--" Nick was
three steps up the stairs when Methos grabbed his arm and whirled his student
around to face him.
"Nick! This is my fight,
not yours." A moment and then, reluctantly, Nick nodded, dragging
the back of one hand across his mouth. "All right," Methos
said. "Here." He started to hand Nick the dagger he had
stashed in his coat, but Nick shook his head.
"I have my own," he said.
"Well, good for you," Methos
said. "Don't draw it unless you absolutely have to. If I'm
right about these people they'd just as soon kill you as look at you,
especially around John the Divine. Remember, Nick--every one of them has
sworn to die to protect him, and they know exactly how to kill an
Immortal."
They were robed and hooded in white
and entered one at each door, four mortals wearing swords at their sides,
dwarfed by the elaborately carved angels cut into the walls behind them:
And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth . . . And I saw another angel ascending from the east--
--followed by a fifth whose presence rang out, raising the short hairs on
the back of Methos' neck and making his gut roll; followed not by 144,000, but
enough. Sixty-six at a guess, the five "angels" raising their
number to 71, with the man he'd killed bringing the number to a nice round
72. At about the same time two of those present pushed forward from their
midst with Amanda squirming between them, holding her in front of the Immortal
both Methos and Nick had sensed. A third stood by with her sword.
"Been having trouble getting
girls lately?" she asked, and the Immortal raised his hand to strike her.
"John bar Zebedee," Methos
said abruptly. "Or do you prefer John bar Annas? Boanerges, he
called you, the Son of Thunder. Why was that, I wonder?"
The Immortal froze at the top of the
stairs and turned to stare at him, recognition dawning slowly. Gradually
he lowered his hand and moved slowly down the stairs to the center of the room,
followed by the four Angels who had preceded him into the room, all with swords
now drawn. "Methos the Gentile," John said calmly.
Methos smiled. "You know,
I'd almost forgotten you used to call me that."
"So, guys--is this old home
week, or can anyone play?" Amanda asked. Her captors had hustled her
down the stairs between them and she raised her chin to Methos, indicating the
two robed men. "Start with these two," she suggested.
"Or give me your sword and I'll take care of it myself."
"Witch!" The
single word was accompanied by a sudden backhanded slap from John. He was
poised to deliver a second blow when Methos snatched his wrist in the air and
shoved him back.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you
it isn't nice to hit women?" he asked. All it earned him was a quick
frisking by John's bodyguards, who relieved him of his sword.
Having recovered from the force of
the slap that had sent her head snapping painfully to one side, Amanda raked
John up and down with her eyes. "Maybe next time you could try to
make it hurt," she purred seductively.
"Whore!" he shouted at
her. If Methos hadn't been between them, she was sure he'd have charged
her. Instead he turned to the group of men descending the stairs and
shouted, "Do you see? She is the mother of abominations!"
"Hey!" Amanda
snapped. "I'm nobody's mother."
"Liar!" John
bellowed. "She is a demon and the mother of demons. It is
through her and her kind that the false ones are born, like him and
him!" He pointed to Methos and Nick, causing his followers to start
muttering and to draw back a little. "They are the Devil's
imitations of Eternal Life, bred by Satan through her and her kind!"
He turned to Methos, eyes piercing. "If she speaks again, I will
have her head, as God is my witness."
"No!" Nick shouted.
"We're on holy ground!"
Livid, John whirled. "Do
you think we would bring your kind to holy ground?" he growled, his voice
low and dangerous. "The very words are a blasphemy from
your mouth! Because of you we buried one of our own two weeks ago--one
killed by you!"
"Nick didn't kill him,
John," Methos said. "I did. If I hadn't, he'd have taken
my student's head."
"Liar!" John threw the
word at him furiously. "Father of Lies! None of the Seventy
would violate his sacred oath! Gilliard would have taken only his mortal
life, and only for so long as was needed to bring him here so the rites could
be performed!" He pointed to Nick. "Through me he would
have been purged and sanctified!"
"Through you he would have been
dead," Methos said.
"Kill him!" It was a
woman's voice from the top of the stairs, and as they watched she threw back
her hood and brought a handgun to bear on those below.
Nick dove in front of Amy Zoll as
Methos tackled Amy Thomas, driving her to the ground beneath him. At the
same time Inspector LeBrun pulled his borrowed handgun and went down on one
knee, shouting "Police!" as he fired two warning shots into the
air. Beside Joe Dawson, Ian Laine shouted "Emilie! No!"
and threw himself forward.
And through it all Methos heard
Emilie Gilliard crying, "He killed my husband!"
The gun fired once, twice, Joe
Dawson's heart lunging in his chest in time with the shots, the two 9mm slugs
slamming into Nick Wolfe's side. Amanda screamed and shouted Nick's name
as he went down, his shirt covered in blood. With her captors momentarily
stunned, Amanda brought her right foot down hard on one's instep and threw
herself headlong into the other, jerking free of them both. The man who
had confiscated her sword had bolted with many of the others in the confusion,
his abrupt departure sending her light broadsword clattering down the steps
toward her. Amanda grabbed her sword on the bounce even as Methos rolled
off of Amy and realized in the time it took him to blink what was about to
happen.
"No!" he shouted. He
scrambled to his feet, lunging at the man who had relieved him of his own
broadsword a moment before. They collided and Methos brought the man's
wrist down painfully across his raised knee, wrenching the sword from his hand
and shoving the man to the ground. Doing the only thing he could, Methos
lunged at Amanda as she bolted toward John. With John scrambling to get
away from her, Amanda half pirouetted, her sword coming down in a follow
through that couldn't possibly miss as John fell to the ground.
"No!" Methos choked out,
his own sword raised in a murderous two-fisted grip. He chopped downward
in time with Amanda's stroke, aiming for the sword's weakest part, where hilt
and blade joined, haunted by a vision of accidentally lopping off her hands at
the wrists. The adrenaline-charged swipe was true, though, connecting
with Amanda's blade with tremendous force, forcing it down, down, down while
John scrambled back, back, back.
Too quickly for anyone to see
clearly, Methos' stroke forced Amanda's blade to the stone floor, the floor
providing the brace he needed. Her blade snapped at the hilt as his own
continued downward on top of it, her blade ringing with the sound of metal as
it clattered, bounced, and clattered again on the floor. Furious and all
but incoherent, Amanda rounded on Methos, who stood over John the Beloved,
protecting him with his own sword.
"You bastard!" Amanda spat
at Methos. "You bastard! I could have taken his head--"
And that, of course, was precisely
the point.
Somewhere in the room there was the
sound of a woman sobbing still as her father rocked her back and forth in his
arms, and of a man's careful steps as he negotiated stairs too steep to be
truly comfortable for a cane and dual prostheses. And while a stunned
Inspector LeBrun watched, Amy Zoll and Amy Thomas welcomed Nick Wolfe back
among the living.
Chapter Nineteen
"Where's Methos?" Irene
Fiedler asked.
Joe Dawson lowered himself to the
green and white striped cushions of the chair wearily, levering his cane out of
the way and his prostheses into a reasonably comfortable position.
"He didn't come back to the hotel with us," he replied.
"At a guess, he's with John still, trying to sort things out. I
assume you had extra Watchers on him just in case."
She nodded. "It seemed
prudent," she said.
"You could have told me,
Irene."
"Yes, I suppose I could have,
but the other Tribunes voted against it. There are three of us, you
know."
Yeah, he knew. He also knew
that she was First Tribune, and she had veto power over the others if she chose
to use it. "Now what?" he asked.
"Emilie Gilliard will probably
be hospitalized," she replied. "We'd suspected her of
interference in the Game for the past two years. Peyton was the last of
three different Immortals she'd been assigned to Watch, and they'd all
disappeared under curious circumstances. We suspected they'd been turned
over to the Septaguent. She doctored their terminal reports to make it
look like they'd been killed by others in the Game, but the facts didn't add
up."
"She's Ian Laine's
daughter?"
Irene nodded. "Gilliard
is her married name," she confirmed. "What we didn't know was
that her father's . . . enthusiasm . . . for his job had led him--and her--into
the Septaguent. Apparently Peyton was next in line for
'sanctification.' When Amanda killed Peyton, Emilie fed them Nick in his
place."
"A Watcher who became more than
a Watcher," Joe said.
"Yes." She sipped
coffee--black, no sugar--from one of Le Grand Monarque's best cups.
"What about Inspector LeBrun?" she asked.
Joe shrugged. "We'll try
to recruit him, of course," he replied. "In the meantime, Amy
Zoll has convinced him that he owes it to her to hear her out fully on what
happened tonight before there's any police involvement. I'm pretty sure
it'll work. He was . . . impressed enough with our friend Methos before
things started happening that he's more than curious. I think he'll give
us the chance to persuade him."
Irene nodded and it gave him the
opening he needed to ask his own question. "What happens to
Laine?" he asked.
"Leave it alone, Joe," she
said, and he fell silent, staring at her. He recalled standing in front
of a session of the Tribunal several years ago when he'd been charged with
betraying his oath, consorting with an immortal, and falsifying
Chronicles. The verdict, given by Jack Shapiro, had been death by firing
squad, and they'd lined up in a courtyard, all nice and neat, to see the
sentence carried out. Irene Fiedler had been there, as a member of the
Senior Watchers' ranks at the time, an observer only. About a dozen men
and women had died that morning, Watchers all, shot by Jacob Galati.
Irene Fiedler had survived, as had Joe Dawson. He'd been reinstated and
in time he'd even been given tacit approval to continue associating with
MacLeod, Methos and Amanda. The privilege, it appeared, did not extend across
the board.
"And John?" he asked.
"John is an Immortal,
Joe. We have no control over what he does."
Chapter Twenty
"You let him go,"
Amanda said.
Methos leaned against the wall of
the cave tiredly, flipping his flashlight on. The beam flickered back
from a mirrored piece of broken glass, indicating where he'd buried his wallet
and cell phone, but he was too tired at the moment to kneel down in the sand
and dig for them.
"He was going to kill Nick, and
you let him go."
"Yeah." There didn't
seem to be much sense in talking about it, but he knew she wasn't going to let
go of it.
"You should have killed the
bastard."
He took a deep breath and let it out
in a sigh, sinking to his knees on the damp sand of the cave floor and shaking
his head. He really was getting too old for this sort of crap.
"Just because you think he's
supposed to live until the second coming," Amanda said.
"That's what Father Liam would
tell you."
"You're not Father
Liam," she spat at him.
"No, I'm not."
The silence stretched out between
them and he pushed the sand aside, slowly unearthing his wallet and cell
phone. He shifted, sitting in the sand and looking at them, wondering why
he'd bothered. Hell, he'd probably ruined his cell phone and he was
getting sick and tired of having to replace them all the time.
"That's two swords you owe
me," Amanda said, and Methos nodded.
"I know. Tell Nick he's
to give you the swept hilt rapier at my place. You'll know it when you
see it. It's about the right length for you." He'd rather not
have parted with it, but fair was fair even if it was his favorite.
She looked sideways at him.
"What do you mean 'tell Nick'? Where are you going to be?"
"I'm taking off for a
bit. Not long--a couple of months, probably. I'll be back."
"And you figured I'd babysit
Nick for you."
"Try to keep him from getting
shot more than twice a day, would you? It's not healthy."
She dug the toe of her boot into the
damp sand and nodded. "He's not going to like it."
"I know."
"What about Amy?"
Amy. Good question.
He tipped his head back until it rested on the cave wall. He suspected
he'd blundered badly there. She'd expected him to ride to her rescue, all
right, but the kiss had obviously been a mistake--he'd read that much in her
posture and the few hesitant glances she'd spared him since. Well, it
wasn't as if it were the first time he'd made that particular mistake. He
just hadn't made it since . . . well, since before hoopskirts were in
style. Well before.
"Something you want to talk
about?" Amanda asked.
"Nope."
"What do you want me to tell
Joe?"
"You're a very capable woman,
Amanda. I'm sure you'll think of something appropriate." It
reminded him, though, and he reached into one of the deeper interior pockets of
his coat and came up with the Chinese bowl he'd retrieved. Tiredly, he tossed
it to her. "Have Zoll see what this will bring on the open market,
would you?" he asked. "It should add a nice sum to Joe's
retirement fund. Not that he needs to know about it, of
course." That done, he rose on one knee and shoved his wallet into
the back pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed something inside the
pocket and closed around a torn corner of crumpled paper with a phone number on
it in MacLeod's handwriting. Oh, right. He'd retrieved it
and an ear ring from the barge not quite two weeks ago. At a guess, the
number wasn't Amanda's either and it would be better to let sleeping dogs
lie. He shoved it back into his jeans pocket without comment and frowned
at his phone. Damn. He'd probably end up replacing it
whether he wanted to or not.
"Methos." He stood
and looked at her, but he didn't say anything. "Damn it,
Methos--don't you pull a MacLeod on me," Amanda snapped.
It struck him as funny and he
started to laugh. "Is that what you're afraid of?" he
asked. "I said I'd be back."
"Give me one reason I should
believe you."
"Oddly enough," he said,
"I can't think of a single one." She kept staring at him and
after a moment he said, "I've been in Paris too long, you know.
Twenty-five years with no more than a year away at a time, and never once a
real change of identity." Twenty-five years. Almost half
Joe Dawson's lifetime and nearly all of his daughter's. "The
other day I was in Place St. Michel and I bumped into a woman I had an affair
with 23 years ago. She recognized me. Called me by name."
"It happens."
Right. Not to me, it
doesn't. "I've gotten sloppy, Amanda. I got involved with
people I came to care about and I got careless. MacLeod found me, Kalas
found me, and Kronos found me. I'm having a real hard time figuring out
why I should stick around to see who's next."
"You let MacLeod find
you," she said.
"Which doesn't mean I have to
do the same for the next guy on the list."
"Nick was the next guy
on the list," she pointed out.
He raised his shoulders in a
shrug. "You can train him every bit as well as I can."
"I can teach him to use a
sword, but I can't give him the perspective you can."
"My perspective's not all that
unique. I'm just a guy who's trying to stay alive."
"You know, false modesty
doesn't really suit you."
"Yeah, well, I'm fresh out of
the other kind."
"You would be." She
snorted and threw her arms around his neck. "All right. I'll
watch Nick for a couple of months, even if he doesn't like it." She
kissed his mouth after a moment and said, "That's for MacLeod if and when
you find him. I'll understand if you prefer to wait until I can give it
to him myself." He ducked his head, chuckling, and she caught his
face between the palms of her hands, her eyes searching the lean, angular
face. She kissed him gently this time. When they parted, her eyes
met his. "That one's for you," she said, "so you'll
remember there are people here who love you and miss you."
He smiled. "I'll
remember," he said.
"Too late I stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--"
She watched him walk away.
* * * * *
Continued in "Season of Rest."
