Chapter Nine

Seacouver, 1995

Methos drew a deep sigh. "That was the one and only time I've ever been close to a baby who would become Immortal."

"Well," reasoned Duncan, "the Chieftain obviously took her advice."

"That's not the issue here."

"Would you mind telling me what the issue is?"

Methos fixed Mac with a level look. He said, "Lady Alice used me to make herself look like an innocent victim. And do you think that the Chieftain, a man set on having a male heir, would have accepted Clothilde, a girl who didn't even share his blood, as his own?"

Duncan smiled. Then he laughed. He could tell Methos wasn't pleased by that reaction. He didn't care. "What, may I ask, is so funny, MacLeod?"

"You," Duncan replied honestly. "From the way you tell it, you were more worried about Clothilde's head than your own."

"Much good that did me," Methos muttered.

Duncan still felt the grin on his features, but he tried to temper it when he saw Methos' scowl deepen. "Methos," he inquired, more seriously, "have you tried to find out if Clothilde is still alive?"

"No," admitted the older Immortal. "Not that I haven't wanted to. I just haven't had the time."

Methos' fear of what he might find hung unspoken between the two men. "You should try anyway," recommended Duncan.

It was a suggestion that would go unheeded, and they both knew it. "Maybe someday," Methos said glumly.

Duncan glanced at his watch. "In the meantime," he advised, "I have to be going. Why don't you go back upstairs and check on Laura and Jonathan?"

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Burke got up at the crack of dawn. It was his habit, ever since his Army days. Besides, he had a lot to do today. He began with breakfast in his room. The hotel went out of its way to provide room service for him at such an early hour, before the hotel restaurant was officially open for the day. Two slices of toast with butter, no jam, a scrambled egg, and orange juice. That was another part of his routine. He hadn't altered his breakfast selection in over twenty years.

Then a shower and his usual attire: dark pants, dark shirt, dark boots. Burke reached for his overcoat, which he had hung in the closet. He ditched the camouflage jacket not long after that night, and now wore the dingy brown. He preferred it; it concealed his sword better.

The sword. Ah, yes, he ought to tend to that before he left his hotel room. He kept the broadsword in a scabbard hidden in the folds of his coat. He pulled the sword out and retrieved a sharpening stone from his suitcase. Sitting on the corner of the bed, he began running the stone along the sharp edge of the blade, using long, even strokes. The repetitive motion calmed him, in a way. It helped him channel his energies and focus on the very reason he was there to begin with . . .

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Youngstown, Ohio, 1973

He and Melissa stared at each other for what seemed like forever. He despised the way she cowered from him, yet at the same time he knew she should be doing just that. Whatever she had to fear from him, she damn well deserved it.

"Well," he demanded menacingly, "what have you got to say for yourself, slut?"

"David, please. Let me explain. the twins, I found them in front of . . ."

"Forget it!" he commanded. "I don't want to hear it!"

He saw the glimmer of desperation in her eyes, and he wanted to smother it. "B-but D-david," she stammered, "you need to hear me out."

"Are you deaf?!" he screamed. "I said I don't want to hear it!!"

Before he realized it, he was on her. A quick, vicious back sweep with his hand, and the music box flew out of her hands. He grabbed her and shook her violently before shoving her out of his way. She went careening into the dresser, her right shoulder making instant contact with the corner. She stumbled but didn't fall, and her left hand gripped her sore shoulder. He didn't care. All of a sudden, Melissa didn't matter anymore. His mind was suddenly clear of everything except one conscious thought. There was another way he could make her suffer.

The twins were both awakened by the shouting, and one of them was wailing incessantly. He didn't pay attention to which one it was, or to the strange feeling he got when he came close to them. It didn't make any difference to him. He reached for one of the two pillows lying in the crib and pressed it down over the wailing one's face. Just a little pressure, and . . .

Pain struck him in the back of his head, blind, unyielding pain. he felt himself sinking to the floor even as he turned around. He was puzzled by the sight of the music box back in Melissa's hand. How did it get there? Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small flame making its way rapidly across the top edge of the other pillow in the crib. He vaguely recalled that there was a lit candle on the dresser when he stormed into to room. Did the candle fall over? He couldn't puzzle it out. His head hurt too much, and he was tired all of a sudden. All he wanted to do was lie down . . .

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Seacouver, 1995

By the time Methos returned to the loft, Laura had Jonathan dressed and laying on his blanket, which was spread out on Mac's bed. She hadn't noticed him, and he took advantage of the opportunity to study her. She was lightly tickling her brother's feet, softly singing an old lullaby to him:

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word, sister's gonna buy you a mocking bird . . ."

Methos doubted that she noticed the substitution she made in the song's lyrics. It occurred to him, as he watched her and Jonathan, that her guard had slipped completely. She was even smiling, a small yet open smile that showed the pleasure she was getting from playing with her brother. This Laura he could easily imagine as being helpless and innocent. This was the Laura that MacLeod saw.

He gave himself a mental shake a split second before she looked up and saw him standing there. Her eyes, so full of the emotion she held for Jonathan, clouded over the instant they registered his presence, and the smile on her lips disappeared. She didn't say anything, however, shifting her attention back to her brother. She began tickling his feet again, but didn't return to her singing. "So," he ventured, a tone of false brightness in his voice, "it's to be like this?" She ignored him. "I can take it if you can." With that, he went back to his card game.

Shuffle, lay out the cards, turn a few over, try to move one stack onto another . . . Methos couldn't concentrate. Laura may have gone silent, but she still distracted him. Drove him nuts, if truth be told. He stared blankly at the cards on the desk.

"Black nine on red ten."

Laura's voice made him jump. She was standing right next to him, her arms folded loosely across her chest. "I beg your pardon?" he asked her.

Her right index finger pointed to the card that sat face up on the fourth column of the seven he'd spread out on the table. "Black nine on red ten." Her finger moved to the card on top the first column.

"Thanks," he said flatly as he moved the appropriate card. Silence fell again as he pretended to be engrossed in the game.

"Adam?"

"What?" he responded reluctantly.

"It isn't fair, is it?"

He turned over the top three cards of the stack he held in his hand. "What isn't fair?"

"Jonathan and I were the ones who came to Joe for help. Shouldn't we be the ones talking to him now?"

Methos shrugged. "If you say so."

She came around the desk and stood in front of him. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that," she questioned archly, "would you?"

He carried on with his game, as if she weren't right there. "What do you mean?"

She was staring down at him. He didn't have to look to feel her eyes boring into the top of his head. "Yesterday, when I got out of the shower, Joe couldn't get out of here fast enough. This morning, Mac makes excuses to keep me from seeing him."

"Mac has a legitimate reason for telling you to stay here."

"And for telling you to keep an eye on me," she added pointedly.

"I assume you have a point to make," Methos remarked evenly.

She leaned toward him, her hands flattened on the top of the desk. Her shadow fell across the cards. "Did you say something to make Joe change his mind about helping me?"

Methos looked up and met her scrutinizing gaze with one of his own. "Now, why would I want to do that?" he said blandly.

Laura's dark eyes glinted with barely suppressed rage as she bent forward, her face inches away from his own. "Come on, Adam, you've made it perfectly clear we'll never be the best of friends. Why do you have it in for me?"

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Vancouver

Whenever she had to do her work at a research facility, Chloe liked to show up around seven in the morning, get her work done as quickly as possible, then retreat back to her hotel room and computer. Public places just didn't suit her. However, it was well past eight when Chloe finally stumbled in this morning. She blamed that on her continued jet lag and that wee-hours-of-the-morning phone call from Joe Dawson. She wished he would've waited until daylight, or e-mailed her back, but he seemed to think there was some sort of emergency. Whatever. She didn't ask him why time was of the essence. Field guys always thought everything was urgent, and if anyone behaved like a stereotypical field guy, it was Joe Dawson.

He started by telling her that the younger Kesslers were in Seacouver, where he was based. Then, after telling her about the discrepancy in the first name of Daniel Kessler's wife, he had her back in the database, looking up anyone, Immortal or not, with the first name Melissa. That's when it hit her. She knew she'd seen the older woman in the newspaper photo before. She'd be damned if she would tell Dawson how she recognized the woman, though. A story that she'd come across the woman's picture on another research project seemed to satisfy him well enough, that and a promise to create files for both the Kessler children. She also promised to copy and fax over everything she found on them so far.

She was doing just that when Clayton Ross approached her. "Joe Dawson called me this morning. He said he couldn't reach you on your cell phone."

"I shut it off after I spoke with him last night," she explained, a shame-faced smile on her lips. "I needed the sleep too much."

"Don't worry about it," said Ross. "He just wanted to thank you for the stuff you found on the Kessler kids."

Chloe recognized a hint when she hard one. "He told me that they were under the protection of his assignment." She didn't want to admit to him that she didn't bother asking Dawson who his assignment was.

"Yeah, they are. He's trying to set them up with a field agent in case they move on." Ross paused. "He even asked me if you wouldn't be interested in doing that."

Chloe made sure she displayed a look of mock horror on her face. "Good God, no. I have all the work I can handle already."

Ross laughed. "It's only a thought. I'm sure he'll find someone soon."

She let herself relax visibly. "Anyway, I've got to finish sending this stuff . . ." she indicated the pile of copies she made " . . . over to him, then I have to check my e-mail. My boss said he'd let me know when he needed me back east."

"After you're done with that, stop by my office and brief me on the Kessler situation."

"I'll do that."

She watched as Ross turned to head back to his office. He was about ten feet away from his door when he tossed out behind him, "You know, Chloe, Dawson's assignment will take good care of them, probably even teach the girl a thing or two about using a blade. MacLeod's like that, I hear."

Chloe thanked God that Ross couldn't see the expression on her face upon hearing that name.

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Seacouver

"Well?"

This was not a conversation he wanted to have with Laura right now. "You're being paranoid," he told her.

"No, I'm not. What are you hiding from me?"

He wanted to feign ignorance, even though he knew she wouldn't buy it. "Where do you get the idea that I'm hiding something from you?"

"You tell me."

He set the cards in his hand down on the desk and sighed in resignation. "Laura," he began, "listen to me. You come into Joe's bar asking for his help and claiming he and your father are old friends, when they haven't spoken in years . . ."

"And Joe still agreed to help," argued Laura.

"You also forged a death threat in order to get that help."

"I already explained that, if you'll remember."

"So you did." Methos took a breath. "There's also the matter of your . . . weapon. Seems to me like you'll go to any length to get what you want."

"Even kill?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

Methos admitted, unwillingly, "The thought did cross my mind."

"I think it did more than that." Laura stormed into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. "You had me convicted before I even had a chance to stand trial. I bet O.J. Simpson got better treatment from the Los Angeles police!"

As she pulled out a plastic carton of orange juice and plunked it on the counter, Jonathan cried out, upset by his sister's raised voice. "Laura," Methos admonished, "your brother . . ."

The orange juice momentarily forgotten, she raced over to the bed and lifted Jonathan into her arms, cradling him close and caressing him lightly. Once again, she became the girl he watched play with her baby brother. "Shh, sweetie, shh," she whispered to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I won't do it anymore. I promise."

Jonathan responded quickly to her soothing and settled down, yet she still held on to him. "You're really worried about him," Methos inquired, "aren't you?"

A brief flash, and it was gone again. The tender moment between brother and sister. It vanished the second Methos opened his mouth. He witnessed the hardening of Laura's face as she focused her eyes on him. However, she waited until she settled Jonathan back on the bed before she spoke. "What do you care?" she spat out as she walked back into the kitchen. She plucked a freshly washed glass from MacLeod's dish rack and set it on the counter next to the juice. She picked up the carton, twisted the cap open, and poured.

"Laura?"

"What?" she demanded as she finished filling the glass.

She didn't look at him. For some reason, he wanted her to. "Forget it," he said after a tense pause.

"I intend to." She closed the juice and returned it to the refrigerator. With glass in hand, she turned back toward her brother.

It happened without warning. Laura must not have had a tight enough grip on the glass, or maybe it wasn't completely dry yet. Before she took two steps, the glass slipped from her hand and crashed on the floor, sending shattered pieces and orange juice flying all over. "Oh, crap!" she cried in dismay. "Mac's gonna kill me!"

Her brother forgotten, Laura dropped to her knees and started picking up shards of broken glass. Methos joined her. "Here," he offered, reaching for the larger pieces as she tried collecting the smaller ones, "let me help."

"No, no, I've got it."

For once, she didn't bite his head off for his merely saying something to her. A rather nasty-looking fragment lay just out of his reach, and in going after it, Methos felt the right leg of his jeans grow wet from the spreading puddle of juice. He looked down at where his knee came in contact with the puddle, and wasn't watching where he put his hand. The next thing he knew, he was feeling a stabbing pain as the cut glass pierced his left palm.

"Son of a bitch!"

At the sound of his vehement curse, Laura's eyes shot up from what she was doing, and they instantly riveted themselves on the sight of him grasping his injured palm. "What happened, Adam? Are you all right?"

The pain was already replaced by frustration at his own clumsiness. He let go of his hand long enough to remove the offending piece of glass from his palm. "I just nicked myself a little, that's all," he managed to explain through his self-anger as he stood up and went to the kitchen sink.

"A little? There's blood running down your arm! Let me have a look at it."

She joined him at the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. "It's not necessary," Methos heard himself say. "I can take care of it."

"Adam, it may need stitches," she warned as she reached for his left hand. He succeeded in snatching it away before she got hold of it.

"Laura, please . . ." He knew he sounded desperate, and he didn't care.

"Don't be such a baby, Adam. At least let me bandage it for you."

She managed to get a hold of his hand this time, and she shoved it under the running water. By the time she turned his palm up to examine the injury and wash the blood away, the wound had already disappeared. Methos didn't bother stopping her ministrations this time. He didn't need to. The instant she took in the perfectly healed skin on his palm, she went utterly still, and her eyes met his in an expression that could best be described as abject, unimagined horror. The faucet still ran, forgotten in the wake of Laura's discovery.

MacLeod was right, Methos' inner voice declared. Laura is a new Immortal.