The Previous Thursday

Richie pushed his bike into high gear, teetering dangerously close to ninety miles per hour. Normally the drive from Seacouver to school took nearly an hour and a half. That was, of course, because Richie was in no great hurry. The trip from school back to Seacouver took him less than an hour.

Today Richie was in a hurry because he was in a good mood. He had convinced his history professor to let him take the midterm a day early so that he could have all of Friday off and spend the long weekend at the dojo with Mac. It was just after five now, and Richie would be home by five thirty. He would make Mac take him to dinner, and Joe if he wasn't busy. They would ask him all sorts of questions about the year thus far, and that's when Richie would show him his history paper: a report of the infamous ghosts of the Clan MacLeod. He had gotten an A of course, but his biggest problem was making the research fit the facts that he already knew.

Richie was in a good mood.

It was five thirty-two when Richie pulled his bike around behind the dojo. He noted that the T-bird wasn't there. Go figure, he thought. Well it's not like he was expecting me 'til tomorrow.

Richie grabbed his saddlebag from the bike and headed upstairs. He paused in the elevator after lifting the grate, taking in the comfort of the familiar surroundings. It was the first time he'd been home since going off to college in September. Granted he'd had an apartment of his own, but Duncan had decided that he should save on rent and commuting time and just live at school, crashing at the dojo over the breaks since he'd be there most of the time anyway.

Richie took the laundry bag out of his saddlebag and went to the washing machine. Bringing his dirty laundry home was a pain, but it saved a bunch of quarters. He decided that he would wait for Duncan to get back before doing anything about dinner.

So he waited. And waited. And waited.

It was nearly ten when Richie decided that he wasn't going to wait anymore. He didn't know where Duncan was, but wasn't all that worried. After all, the highlander didn't know that anyone was expecting him. Probably has a hot date or something. Richie scribbled a note and left it on the counter:

Got home early.
Went to Joe's.
Join me there.
Richie

He grabbed his helmet and his jacket, carefully arranging his sword so it wouldn't interfere with his riding (something he learned the hard way), and headed out the door.

Richie figured that Duncan was at Joe's and by the time he got there he would have staked money on it. When he found the parking lot empty he circled around back. Neither the T-Bird nor Joe's van were there, nor were Mike's Honda or even Methos's SUV. Methos is in Europe dipshit, Richie chided himself. Still, the prospect of Joe's being closed on a Thursday was new to him. It used to be open every day, with Mike and Joe shuffling days off. Richie circled around front again and parked the bike. He went to the door to check the hours. Still open every day. What the…

That's when Richie noticed the sign. It was scrawled in Mike's sprawling script on a piece of notebook paper and taped on the glass.

Closed Due To A Death In The Family

Richie swore. If it were Joe's family then Mike would be here, and Richie probably would have received an email telling him that Joe wouldn't be around this weekend. If it were Mike's family then Joe would be here. But they're both gone!

Then it hit him. Must be something to do with the watchers. Richie sighed and got back on his bike, feeling thoroughly out of the loop. So Joe and Mike are on watcher business somewhere, Methos is in Switzerland, and Mac's on a hot date somewhere. Welcome home Richie. He strapped the helmet on and, dejected, drove back to the dojo.

Richie stopped at an all night burger place first, easing his irrational feelings about being left out with lots and lots of grease. He knew these selfish reflections were just a mask for the growing concern in the pit of his stomach, but he adamantly refused to let those thoughts see daylight.

Richie got back to the dojo around eleven, his spirits lifted by the fact that Mac was on some hot date that he'd probably be bringing back to his place, where he could surprise them. He would smile his best innocent smile and tell Duncan that if he would give him the money he'd crash at a hotel that night. Watching the moral dilemma play itself out across his teacher's face would more than make up for spending the evening alone thus far. Richie showered and changed into sweats. He settled down on the couch in front of the TV and waited for Duncan and his new femme fataleto return home.

And that's how Richie woke up.

He was still on the couch, his late-late-late night movie having been replaced by infomercials. Richie groaned. It was seven a.m. Knowing that he would have either heard the elevator or felt the presence of another immortal, he realized that Duncan hadn't come home at all. A check of the bedroom confirmed it: the bed hadn't been slept in. So he spent the night at her place. Richie mumbled something about never having such luck with women and made his way to the coffee machine.

By eight o'clock Richie had indulged in three cups of coffee and a full egg and pancake breakfast. He couldn't blame Mac for not being around. After all, he wasn't supposed to be back until this afternoon. Richie could, however, make himself quite comfortable in the apartment and use as many of his former teacher's things as possible. Petty and undeserving revenge of course, but Richie hadn't had a real meal in weeks.

By nine o'clock Richie had decided to go for a run. It would kill time and give him an excuse to use up more of Duncan's hot water. He scribbled another note to that effect and headed to the door. Absently Richie wondered if his teacher would notice that he was in a bit better shape since going back to school, eating less and exercising more doing its job correctly.

At some point Richie found himself standing outside the townhouse that was Methos's apartment, Adam Pierson residing on the second floor. He'd never actually been inside, but he remembered which windows were his, so he figured that he could place it well enough once he got in the building.

Once inside Richie ran up the stairs, thankful that Methos had given him a key, for emergencies only or not even Mac can save my head, Richie mused, remembering their conversation as he opened the door to the apartment. Dust covers adorned the furniture and Richie sighed. Methos hasn't come back, so it can't be too serious. Richie locked up the apartment and left to finish his run, only belatedly realizing exactly why had had gone to see Methos's apartment in the first place.

Richie finished his run around eleven, every muscle screaming at him for the oppressive duration of the workout. He checked the back lot and saw that the T-bird was still missing. He could have come back and left again Richie thought hopefully as he entered the dojo, but that thought was proved incorrect when Richie ascended to the apartment. His note was still on the counter. Richie crumpled the note and threw it at the trash bin with frustration. He grabbed a glass of water and headed to take a shower, wondering what type of woman could keep Mac in bed this late.

Richie stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Upon emerging he noticed that it was nearly noon, and Mac still hadn't come back yet. He went to the phone and dialed the voicemail for the dojo. A few messages from patrons wondering when it would be opening again that dated since Wednesday. So Mac was gone all day yesterday…He decided to not delete the messages, but the uneasy feeling he had been ignoring only intensified.

With a sigh Richie picked up the phone again. He knew it was prying, and that he probably shouldn't, but Richie needed to do something about that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He called Mac's personal voicemail number, thanking God that he hadn't changed the key code after Richie had 'accidentally' discovered it. There were a few messages from telemarketers, but nothing substantial.

Then the last message played.

Hey Mac, it's Joe. Meet me at the auto shop over on Jackson Street, and don't take your time.
Beep.

That feeling in the pit of Richie's stomach grew to immeasurable size. He hung up the phone, his hand shaking. Joe… His voice sounded agitated on the machine. Richie's mind flashed to the sign on the door to the bar: death in the family… Richie only barely remembered to grab his bike helmet before running out the door. He took the stairs, or, at least some of them, and was out the door in seconds flat.

Richie sped over to Jackson Street and found the repair shop. A quick glance around and he spotted Joe's van. The mechanics were inside working in the garage, and Richie calmly walked up to one.

"Excuse me," he said, addressing one of the mechanics, who then looked up from the hood of a BMW in annoyance.

"Can I help you?" He asked, his voice not masking his displeasure at having been disturbed.

"I'm a friend of Joe Dawson's. He was wondering when his van would be ready," Richie said innocently, surprising himself by appearing as just the errand boy and not having his voice give his concern away.

The mechanic's face twisted in thought. "Oh yeah," he said at last, "the clunker with the hand controls that dropped its transmission. I won't have the parts 'til after the holiday."

Richie surprised himself even more by keeping the smile off his face. Joe's car had broken down, plain and simple. He just called Mac for a ride! No wonder he sounded upset… Richie accepted this information, but still wasn't completely satisfied.

"Tuesday?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "But he dropped the thing off here on…"

"Wednesday," the mechanic supplied. "But hey, parts for that model year aren't exactly easy to come by."

Wednesday? That's the same date as the dojo voicemail…"I guess so," Richie agreed, trying to sound charming and unassuming. "My friends and I aren't gonna like having to cart his ass around all weekend though."

"Yeah," agreed the mechanic. "The guy who picked him up didn't look too happy about it."

Richie forced all the surge of emotion under and did his best retain the neutral look and tone he'd been using. "Mac doesn't like taking the T-bird anywhere near repair shops. He's kinda superstitious that way," Richie informed the mechanic, silently hoping.

"It was one sweet ride," the mechanic said wistfully. "I would kill to get my hands under that hood."

Richie laughed, mostly through relief at what the mechanic had said. "Yes it is," he agreed. He was about to turn to go when:

"It didn't even stop here and I've already got people askin' about it."

Richie clenched his jaw before forcing himself to relax. "Oh?" he asked casually.

"Yeah. Some guy came through here Wednesday, just before closin,' sayin' he'd seen the T-bird here and asked me if I knew whether or not the owner was interested in sellin' it."

"Really," said Richie, failing in his attempt at sounding surprised.

"Yeah. To be honest, if your friend was sellin' I'd be interested too, not that I could outbid that guy on a mechanic's salary."

"He was rich?"

"Let's just say blue collar life doesn't seem to be in his nature."

Richie nodded, the uneasy feeling returning. "Did he leave a name? Number?"

"Why? You think your friend might be interested in sellin'?"

"Maybe. If the price is right."

"He left a card. Hold on, I have it here someplace."

Richie watched the mechanic disappear in to the repair shop's office. Immortals have lots of money. Especially old immortals. Richie felt the uneasy feeling start to rise out of his stomach.

"Here." The mechanic handed over the card.

"Jean-Pierre Renault." Richie read the name on the card. Mac's been in France too often to not have lots of immortal French enemies… "Thanks," he said as he pulled out his wallet. He slipped the card inside and handed the mechanic three twenties and a card of his own. "If he comes by again, give me a call."

"Hey, sure thing, pal," said the mechanic said with a smile, shoving the money and card into his wallet.

Richie thanked the man and went back to his bike. His uneasy feeling was nothing if not increased as he headed back to the dojo. Mac picked Joe up on Wednesday and hasn't checked his voicemail since then. He and Joe are missing, and so is Mike. And the bar's closed because of a death in the family. These thoughts spun through Richie's head as he drove. He wasn't able to ignore it any more; he was flat out worried.

It was nearly two when Richie got back to the dojo. The T-bird wasn't there, and upon ascending to the apartment Richie knew Mac wasn't home either. He grabbed a beer and sat down at the table, hoping the alcohol would take the edge off. Must be why Methos drinks so much of it. He grabbed a piece of notepaper and a pen from the counter and returned to the table, making notes of what he knew so far:

Mac and Joe haven't been seen since Wednesday. The bar is closed due to a death in someone's family. Methos is still out of town. Joe's car broke down. Some wealthy French dude has been asking about the T-bird.

Richie did not like the direction the evidence was pointing.

"There has to be a rational explanation for all this!" he exclaimed aloud, staring at the paper like it was his chemistry homework. There had to be a pattern to it, but damned if Richie could see it. "I need more information," he announced. Then he downed the rest of his beer and rose to his feet.

Richie went downstairs to the dojo and headed into the office. He went through the things on the desk, and the drawers, nothing providing anything of relevance.

"Wednesday's mail," he mused as he began rifling through it. It was all bills and junk mail. At a loss for anything else to do, Richie pulled out Duncan's Rolodex. It wasn't that full, comprising primarily of business associates. He sighed and picked up the phone.

It was two thirty when he had finished with the Rolodex. Mac's lawyer, insurance agent, travel agent, electrician, plumber, phone company, power company, internet service provider, mechanic, and dojo equipment supplier hadn't heard from him recently, and he left messages on the answering machines of the cable company, building inspector's office, accountant, and exterminator. Richie decided not to call Detective Bennett or the hospital where Anne worked just yet.

Richie banged his head on the desk a few times but found it did nothing to ease his worries. He found himself staring at the office computer.

"No clues here," Richie announced dejectedly a half hour later. He had just finished checking Duncan's business email address, which he kept specifically for the dojo, and inspecting the dojo records—financial and otherwise, and had come up with nothing. It was now three o'clock on Friday. Mac would be expecting me by now… Richie wanted to head over to Joe's again and then maybe to Joe's apartment to see if he could learn anything, but he didn't want to be gone in case Mac showed up, this being the time he was expected to return from college.

For lack of anything else to do, Richie trashed the junk mail and paid the bills, being sure to enter the correct amounts into the computer program that kept track of such things. Fifteen minutes later four neat envelopes were sealed and ready to be mailed. Richie decided to check the checkbook against the computer program to see if anything didn't match. Not like Mac would let anyone blackmail him… A half hour later and Richie had checked every financial record from now back three years to when Duncan had bought the place, and nothing seemed out of place. Richie sighed and went back upstairs. It was a quarter to four.

Upstairs, Richie grabbed another beer. He added the names of people and companies that he had called, crossing out the ones that had confirmed they hadn't had any recent contact with 'Mr. MacLeod.' He then added nothing financially out of whack with the dojo to the list of clues.

Richie sat in silence drinking his beer and staring at the piece of paper. Like solving Chemistry problems in Greek, he thought to himself. At just after four Richie decided that it was time for drastic measures. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and went into the bedroom and took Mac's personal phonebook out of the nightstand drawer. He flipped through it absently, wondering who he could rationalize calling.

The thing that struck him the most was the amount of names that had been crossed out. Sean Burns, Darius, Charlie DeSalvo (the only mortal Richie knew), Hugh Fitzcairn, Rebecca Horne, Koltec (that one made Richie shiver), Mei Ling Shen, and a bunch of other names that Richie didn't recognize.

"Gathering's a bitch," he mused absently as he took another swig of the beer.

Richie flipped through the book again, trying to decide whom he could call. He was surprised to learn that he recognized fewer names of those still living than he did of those who had died. Amanda had just a pager listed, but Grace Chandal had a cell number that he might try. He saw Anne's home phone and debated giving her a call. The proprietor of the general store ten miles out from the island was a must as well since Mac always stops there on his way to the cabin. Connor had several numbers and Richie recognized some of them as having a New York area code. Methos's numbers were for his apartments here and in Paris, neither of which would do him any good. Carl Robinson had an address but no phone number. Then Richie saw his dorm number listed. Taking another sip of his beer for courage, Richie picked up the phone and began dialing.

Twenty minutes later Richie didn't have any more information than when he began. He paged Amanda but doubted if she'd get back to him, even if he did leave Mac's phone number. Grace hadn't heard from the highlander in months and Richie had to lie through his teeth in order for her to believe that he wasn't concerned and merely curious about his teacher's whereabouts. He left a message on Anne's answering machine, figuring that she had to be at the hospital. The proprietor of the general store hadn't seen him since the summer. Rachel Ellenstein had said that Connor was out of the country on business, so he probably didn't know anything. Richie debated having Rachel pass the message on to Connor, but decided against scaring the elder MacLeod unless he had definitive proof that something was wrong. Richie wasn't surprised to get no answer at Methos's Paris apartment, and he couldn't leave a message since there was no answering service. Probably disables it when he's gonna be gone for months, Richie thought.

The only number Richie had recognized that he hadn't called was his own. What the hell… He picked up the phone again and dialed his room, hoping to catch his roommate at home.

"Hello," came the familiar voice over the phone.

"Pete, it's Richie."

"Oh, hey man. 'Sup?"

Richie's noticed that his roommate didn't sound like there was anything wrong. So the bad guy hasn't tried to find me at school yet, Richie thought with an air of cynicism.

"Not much. Hey listen, Pete, did I get any messages after I left?"

Richie heard his roommate curse.

"Yeah man, I'm sorry. Your dad called just after you left."

"He did!" Richie exclaimed, sounding more enthusiastic than he wanted to. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Just that he had some things to take care of and that he might not be there when you got in."

Richie fought against the bile rising in his throat. Things? As in 'immortal things'?

"You did tell him I was on my way home right?"

Silence.

"Pete, right?"

"I'm sorry Richie," was the regretful reply, and this time it was his roommate that heard a curse through the line. "Hey man, is everything alright?"

Richie noted the concern in his roommate's voice. Poor Pete, he doesn't deserve an immortal for a roomie. "I hope so," he said heavily.

Richie hung up the phone and went back into the kitchen. He added Mac left on 'business' Wednesday to his list of clues. He then made a new column of names and crossed out Grace, the island, Methos, Connor, and his roommate. That left just Anne and Amanda to get back to him since the businesses he had called wouldn't be calling until after the holiday weekend.

It was nearly five p.m. on Friday.

Richie finally decided that he couldn't ignore the rumblings in his stomach. He fixed himself a sandwich as he considered his options. Remind me to apologize to Mac for all those times I came back late to the loft, he thought to himself. Now knowing that he had been pre-immortal and therefore detectable to the radar of every other immortal out there made Mac's overbearing concern not seem so misplaced.

As Richie ate, his mind wandered to all those times he had waited for Mac to come back from a challenge. When he was first living at the antique store, Tessa would worry the most. He had comforted her, reassuring her of just how good Duncan really was. After all, he had seen him kill Slan Quince on the bridge and easily beat other seasoned immortals like Felicia and Reinhart. Mac could easily tackle whole gangs of mortals provided they weren't well organized or heavily armed, having done so several times in Richie's defense. Even the times when he hadn't witnessed Mac's challenges, he always had this belief that somehow he would manage to win, like he was invincible. Mac was always right, didn't have any faults, and knew exactly what to do in every situation. It's safe to say that Richie had been a little star-struck while he had been mortal.

It took Grayson to instill in him the sense that Duncan was not infallible. He remembered going to the cabin to train. It was holy ground, and for some reason Mac had wanted Richie with him. He could have trained harder and gotten some meditation time in had Richie not been there, but he brought Richie along anyway. Richie vividly remembers their conversation by the fire that night. Mac hadn't admitted that he was afraid to face Grayson, but who wouldn't be at least a little timid of facing an ancient immortal who'd spent over three times your lifetime as a warlord? It was a side of him that Richie had never seen before. Duncan had also told him stories about Darius, which Richie remembered only much later as having been when he had first mentioned the prospect of a dark quickening to Duncan. Ironic…

It was also when Mac had mentioned Connor for the first time since telling Richie of his immortality. If you ever have a problem, you can go to Connor. He'll help you. Richie didn't realize it at the time, but Mac had been planning for all contingencies. If Grayson took his head he knew Connor wouldn't rest until he had avenged him, but more importantly he knew that Connor would teach Richie when he became immortal if Duncan wasn't around to do the job. The thought amused Richie momentarily: the chivalric white knight who worries over every good cause he finds and helps every friend or mortal that needs him with no real thought to himself has his own Sir Lancelot to worry over him. Richie remembered Connor fighting with Duncan over who would fight Slan and had to laugh. He had argued similarly over fighting Mako, and Harrish Clay.

These thoughts quickly turned sour, however. Telling Connor that Duncan was dead was not something he was looking forward to doing. Especially since if Duncan really was dead, then he'd want to be the one to avenge him and he relished having that argument with Connor even less.

Richie was only saved from the morbidity by the ringing phone. He sprinted to answer it.

"Mac!" he practically yelled into the receiver hopefully.

"Richie?" came a woman's voice. It was Anne.

"Oh, hi Anne," he said, trying not to sound disappointed and failing miserably at it.

"Richie, what's wrong?" Anne's voice was full of concern.

"Oh, nothing. I was just hoping you'd be Mac calling. You haven't heard from him, have you?"

"Not since Mary's birthday," she said hesitantly. "Why, is something wrong?"

"Nah, I'm just trying to get a hold of him," Richie reassured, sounding more casual than he was feeling.

"Ok," said Anne at length. He could tell that she wasn't entirely convinced. "Call me again if you need anything."

"I will. Bye."

Richie hung up and went to cross Anne's name off the list. It was five thirty. Richie only debated a moment before going to the closet to get Mac's laptop. He removed it from the case and set it up on the table, plugging in the network cable. He knew it was prying, and if Duncan found out he probably wouldn't be thrilled, but Richie signed online to hack his personal email account.

"If he's alive I'll take whatever consequences he hands me," Richie said out loud to himself, making mental note that Duncan only puts his laptop away when he's planning on going away. Or fighting a challenge? Richie wondered. Several minutes later Richie was staring at Duncan's Outlook Express login page trying to figure out his password. Knowing Mac to be a creature of habit, as Methos had pointed out numerous times, Richie guessed that it would be a name or number that held some personal significance and not some random code. 'GlenFinnan' was the password to the downstairs computer, and Richie wasn't surprised to see that it didn't work up here. Mac's more careful than that. After nearly fifteen minutes of trying Richie finally guessed correctly: 'leonasset.'

"Tessa's name backwards," Richie mused, knowing that Duncan probably hadn't changed his password in years.

Unfortunately all he found in the inbox was spam, and both the outbox and the trash folder were empty. Of course.

Richie was beginning to believe that he had to accept the possibility that Duncan might be dead. The thought was not a pleasant one. He shut the laptop down and put it away, hoping that Mac wouldn't find out about his little hacking adventure when he comes home! Richie went back to the table and stared at the sheet of paper, adding nothing out of place on Mac's laptop to the list with a heavy sigh.

Richie decided that since he was having difficulty proving that Duncan was alive he would just have to try and prove that he was dead, knowing that he would turn up evidence to the contrary. Richie grabbed another beer and sat down with the yellow pages.

Twenty minutes later Richie knew that Duncan's body hadn't turned up at any hospitals or morgues, and no John Does matched his description. He had spoken to the police (thankfully to no one they had run into before) and learned that no one had filed a missing person's report and nor had his name come up in any police investigations. That's a switch, Richie thought, trying his best to find amusement in all this. When he finally hung up the phone he returned to the table and the notepad. Hospitals, morgues, and cops dead ends he added to his list of clues.

Richie then considered his options. He couldn't file a missing persons report yet, even though it appeared that Mac had been missing since Wednesday. He would have to wait twenty-four hours after he was supposed to see him, so as far as the police were concerned Duncan had only been missing for a few hours. His other thought was to report the T-bird stolen, but he wasn't the owner so that idea was out. It was six twenty.

"People don't just disappear off the face of the earth!" Richie stood up and began pacing, frustration and worry making it impossible for him to sit still. But immortals do… Richie suddenly remembered that if Mac had lost a challenge then either his opponent or the watchers would most likely dispose of the body through private means. The thought of Mac lying in some shallow, unmarked grave made Richie nearly expunge the beer from his stomach. Or, if the watchers found him, they could be shipping his body back to Scotland right now…

"I need to know if this Renault character is immortal or not." I need a watcher. Richie grabbed his helmet and headed out the door, leaving a note telling Mac not to leave the dojo under any circumstances until he got back but not believing that Mac would show up to read it.

Richie drove by the bar and circled around. No cars and the sign was still up. If Joe and Mike are still gone then something has to have gone down. Richie then decided to head to Joe's house. It was clear across town, but Richie's last concern was for the rush hour traffic. When he got there he rang the doorbell and knocked for a full five minutes. He's not home or else he would have heard me. Richie then went around back, removing his pocketknife and lock picks from his pocket.

It took Richie ten minutes to bypass the alarm system that he had insisted Joe have installed. Once inside, Richie made a quick sweep of the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The beds hadn't been slept in and the milk had gone bad in the refrigerator. Joe's been gone a while. Richie went out the front door and headed for the mailbox. When he opened it he found that it was overflowing. He brought the mail inside the house and picked up the papers as well. The papers were only today's and yesterday's, but the mail dated since Wednesday. He's been gone since sometime Wednesday afternoon.

Richie checked Joe's answering machine. Only one message wasn't a telemarketer.

Hey Joe, it's Allen. Just wondering if you're gonna be at the funeral tomorrow. Did you get a hold of the kid? I know he and the old man were close. Give me a call. Bye.
Beep.

"Funeral…"

He wasn't about to let that convince him, however. Richie went back upstairs and grabbed Joe's laptop from the desk. God bless satellite internet! Richie knew that the watchers would be a bit harder to hack than Duncan's personal computer so he would need outside help. As an afterthought Richie flipped through Joe's Rolodex and wrote down Mike's address and phone number. Mike didn't answer the phone so Richie decided to pay him a visit. The guy always liked me, but then again he's my watcher…

It was dark by the time Richie made it to Mike's apartment. He pressed the buzzer for five minutes before accepting that Mike wasn't home and that no one would let him up to the apartment. He must be with Joe somewhere. Richie left Mike's apartment and headed back to the dojo. The T-bird still wasn't there, and when Richie ascended to the apartment he didn't feel anything nor was the note touched. Cursing, Richie went to the phone to call his roommate.

"Hey Pete, it's me again."

"Hey Rich! Did you get a hold of your dad yet?"

"Not yet. Listen, you got any plans for tonight?"

"The guys and I were gonna head to a party. Why?

"Listen Pete, don't go yet. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

"Alright man. See ya!"

Richie hung up the phone and went back down to his bike, thanking God that he had a hacker for a roommate. It was seven forty-five.

Richie made the drive in thirty minutes and took the stairs to his floor two at a time. He found his roommate and a few of their friends eating pizza and drinking soda.

"That was fast man," said Pete, tossing Richie a coke.

"I was in a hurry," Richie said, casting the coke aside and putting Joe's laptop on his the bed.

"Well grab a slice," said a tall, thin, blond student sitting on his roommate's bed.

"Thanks Brad," said Richie, helping himself.

"The party doesn't start 'til ten. We were gonna pre-game before that in my room," said a shorter brunet student in glasses.

"No thanks Trent," Richie said, in no mood for college antics right now. "Pete, I need to rape your brain."

Richie's roommate turned sharp green eyes up at Richie from the spot on the floor he was occupying.

"Sweet!" said the other student, tossing his long brown hair off his shoulders as he shut the door. "I love watching the man work!"

"Not this time Steve," said Richie, opening the door again to indicate that he wanted the bystanders to leave.

"No way man," said Trent. "If it's illegal there's still no way to prove we were in the room."

"And if it is illegal and you don't let us watch, we'll go tell the RA on you," Brad threatened casually. Pete still hadn't said anything, or even stood up.

Richie suppressed the urge to remove his sword from his jacket and took a deep breath, counting to ten, in French. "Ok," he said at last, seeing no way around the situation. He knew that his friends wouldn't rat Pete out, but he couldn't take the chance. A chorus of cheers rose from the three students as he went over to the bed and activated the laptop.

Pete stood and kneeled in front of the bed, Richie right beside him.

"Lock the door," Pete directed. Steve locked the door and went to take his place with the other three looking over Pete and Richie's shoulders.

"I need to hack an online database," Richie informed him.

"Gonna change your grades, Ryan?" Brad asked. Richie ignored him.

"Connection?" Pete asked.

"Satellite," Richie provided.

After fifteen minutes Pete was finally able to trace the address of the online network. A blank screen with username and password prompts appeared.

"We've only got three tries before it locks us out permanently," Richie warned.

"Do you know the password?" Steve asked.

"What about the username?" Pete added.

"Joseph Dawson, but I don't know what variant to use," Richie said.

Pete flashed a devilish grin and went over to his own laptop. He began retracing his steps to the online watcher database when Richie stopped him.

"Don't use your own computer!" Richie barked in warning, putting Pete's laptop screen down.

"Chill man" Pete said, raising his hands in submission. "I have a program that'll take care of the encryption."

"Well use it on that one then," Richie said, pointing to Joe's laptop. His tone left no room for argument. Pete sighed and went over to his bed, pulling out a Tupperware bin from underneath it.

"Is any of that shit legal?" Steve asked when Pete opened the lid.

"What do you think?" Trent snapped. Pete returned to the laptop with a bootleg CD, which he put in the appropriate drive.

"What's that?" Brad asked.

"Just a little program I came across…"

Richie watched as Pete deftly tapped at the keys and the program installed on Joe's laptop. Shortly thereafter the code-buster was working on accessing the database. Richie watched in amazement, momentarily distracted from the force of his worry.

"Voila!" Pete exclaimed as the username filled in, DawsoJ, followed by nine bold dots for the password.

Richie held his breath. "Push it."

Pete hit the login button and the screen immediately changed. A soft white background appeared, a giant image of the watcher symbol layered on top of it slightly off-center. There were two link options at the bottom of the screen: immortals and watchers.

"Immortals," Richie instructed.

Pete clicked on the link. A search engine appeared containing fields for name/alias, location, date, and watchers.

"Dude… What is this?" Brad asked. Richie was at a loss for how to answer him.

"It looks like an online RPG," Trent offered to Richie's great relief.

"I didn't know you were a gamer," Steve teased.

"Since 1993," Richie informed them dryly. Then, to Pete: "Search for Jean-Pierre Renault." The screen flashed to blank while the page loaded.

"What's this game called?" Trent asked.

"The Gathering," Richie answered with a straight-faced.

"Never heard of it," Trent replied.

"This is the moderators' website, isn't it," Steve breathed. "You're cheating."

The truth of the statement struck Richie as ironic. He was cheating to get his information. He didn't refute the statement.

Just then the page loaded. A picture of a man in what appeared to be his early forties with wind-blown silver-blond hair appeared. It was a close-up brought to you by a powerful zoom lens. He wore a black coat and a red scarf that was blowing slightly in the wind. The picture was captioned 'Nice, 1995.' Richie's worst fears were starting to be confirmed.

"Who's that?" Brad asked.

"Another player," Richie said icily.

Pete tensed in reflex as he awaited his next instructions. There were several links below the picture: mortal life/first death, teacher information, chronology, confirmed kills, known aliases, known associates/enemies, and watcher history. The link to closing report was inactive.

"Are these the character stats?" Steve asked.

Richie nodded. "Something like that. Then to Pete: "Click the associates and enemies option."

Pete did so and a new page appeared with two columns of names: one for friends and one for enemies. Richie clenched his jaw when he saw Duncan's name listed near the top of the known enemies. The list was long, but most of the other name links were inactive. He doesn't keep his enemies alive for long.

"Isn't that your dad?" Trent asked when Pete automatically moved the mouse to hover over Duncan's name.

"Yeah." Richie's tone was unreadable. "Go back," he told Pete. Pete did as he was told. "Click on the chronology." Once again the screen flashed blank as it waited to load.

"Your dad's a gamer, too?" Steve asked, astonished.

"Yeah. He stopped for a while when he met my mom. After she died, he got me interested in it to take my mind off things." Richie smiled at how much truth was in that statement.

"So you game together?" Trent asked.

"Very rarely," said Richie. Then the page loaded. The first bullet point said: first death 874, Paris, France – stabbed in a bar fight during a murder gone awry.

"First death?" asked Brad. "How many deaths do you get?"

"If you're an immortal, your first death is how you enter the game," Richie explained. "You don't get much choice in it."

"So if you want to enter the game you have to die?" Steve asked.

"Something like that."

"How'd you 'die'?" Trent asked, putting a bit of inflection on the word 'die.'

"Shot during a robbery," Richie said matter-of-factly. "Scroll down," he instructed Pete.

"Wait, what's that teacher thing?" Steve asked.

Pete scrolled back up. The second bullet said: first teacher – Grayson. Richie swore under his breath. The guy has to be good then.

"I get it," said Trent. "Your 'teacher' is like your sponsor right? The one who brought you into the game?"

Again Richie couldn't help but smile. "Pretty much," he said. "Scroll back down."

"So this is like, an invite-only game? You're teacher brings you in by telling you how you died for the first time thus making you immortal?" Trent continued. Richie didn't refute the point.

"Then what's the object of the game?" Steve asked.

"To find other immortals and fight them to the death," Richie answered, paying more attention to the screen than to his friends.

"But I thought you said you were immortal?" Brad asked.

Richie sighed. He figured that he'd have to explain the whole thing to him or else they'd never give up. "I did. Immortals can only die by decapitation, so we fight each other with swords, axes, stuff like that. Killing another immortal is like a power-up. You get points for each immortal you kill, which vary depending on how many immortals they've killed. We can't fight on holy ground and the fights have to be one on one, and no other immortal can interfere once a battle has begun. In the end, there can be only one."

"Cool!" Steve exclaimed.

"Who moderates?" Trent asked. "You know, makes sure you all obey the rules and keep track of the points and stuff."

"The watchers?" Pete supplied nonchalantly. Again Richie didn't refute the statement.

"So this is that dude's character history?" Brad asked, reading the screen as Pete scrolled.

"Yeah…" Richie agreed absently. "Hey Pete scroll to the end, would ya?"

Pete did as he was told. The final bullet read: 8 October 1997 – landed in Seacouver airport from Chicago.

"That's two days ago," Steve informed them.

Richie cursed under his breath and stood up. "Yeah, it is. Pete, would you email all that stuff to me?"

"Sure, Rich."

The others backed away, sensing that their foray into the illegal was over.

"You think that dude's gonna challenge you dad, don't you." Steve announced. It wasn't a question.

"It crossed my mind," Richie admitted, instinctively feeling the weight of his sword in his jacket.

"Hey Rich?" Pete called.

"Yeah?"

"Something's been added to the chronology."

"What?" Richie asked gravely, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

"He's booked on a flight to Portland that leaves… tomorrow night at six."

Richie inhaled sharply. It wasn't a confirmed kill statement, but why would the guy leave town? He's obviously not in any hurry, Richie thought, which lead his thoughts immediately towards the only logical conclusion: he's already killed Mac, and isn't worried about anyone bothering him about it yet.

"So, are you like, gonna go warn your dad or something?" Brad asked, returning Richie's mind to the present.

"It's been emailed," Pete declared before Richie could answer the question.

Richie shut the laptop down and picked it up off the bed. "No," he said, tucking it under one arm. "I'm gonna avenge him." Then he turned towards the door.

"But you cheated!" Steve's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Only in finding the information. The fight is going to be won fair and square," Richie declared, determined.

"Jeez, Rich... " Pete said, standing and regarding his roommate earnestly. The unfinished statement was met with an icy glare that quickly shifted to the other three students in the room.

"Not a word," Richie said to them. His tone caused them to drop whatever wise cracks they were planning on making and just stare blankly at him.

"We wouldn't…" Steve promised softly.

"Yeah man, we'd never…" Trent followed.

Richie just nodded curtly and left the room. Pete caught up with him halfway down the hall.

"Richie!" He called after him.

Richie stopped but didn't turn around. His patience was wearing thin.

"That was no RPG I just hacked," Pete said once he'd caught up with Richie.

Richie sighed. Pete knew his craft too well.

"Richie, what's going on?"

Richie turned around and faced his roommate, his angry, pained eyes meeting Pete's innocent ones. "Nothing," he managed to say at last. He hated having to lie to Pete, but the truth would be worse.

"Nothing my ass!" Pete retorted. "You're a freshman and already one of the best fencers on the team. You keep your foil by your bed at night."

Richie closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

"You're acting like this is real."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Richie didn't sound very convincing.

"Is it?" Pete asked, not buying Richie's explanation.

"I'll see you in class on Tuesday," Richie said, turning back around to continue on his way.

"Yeah, right," Pete scoffed. Richie just kept going.

The ride back to the dojo was methodic. He wasn't thinking about anything but Duncan, navigating by autopilot. Mac's dead was the only thing that rolled through Richie's troubled mind.

He wasn't surprised when the T-Bird wasn't there, nor was he surprised that his note still hadn't been touched. Mac died Wednesday. Probably tracked him down using the license plate. Mike and Joe are taking care of the watcher stuff. They'll contact me soon.

Richie shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it on the floor. He took his sword over to the table, intending to polish and sharpen it. That's when he saw the notepad. All his hopes at being able to track Duncan's whereabouts had proved futile. Richie picked up the pen and crossed out every name, each slash more deliberate and angry than the last. When scribbling all over the paper didn't work, Richie stood up and grabbed his sword. He swung the sword overhead and brought it down on the table. In his anger he had missed the notebook but severely chipped the table. With renewed rage at the paper, Richie swung his sword again, hitting the paper this time, but he didn't stop there. Richie swung again and this time the solid oak of the tabletop splintered and the table fell in two, the pieces of notebook landing on top of one of the halves. Richie swung into that half repeatedly until there were barely shreds of paper—and table, left. Then Richie stood and stared at the destruction he had caused, but he didn't feel any better for it.

In the aftermath he sighed heavily, mildly surprised that he hadn't started crying yet. It took me 'til the funeral to cry over Tessa, he remembered. He and Duncan had been standing side by side, staring at the headstone that was all that's left of their beloved Tessa, long after the funeral had ended and the guests departed. Long after Fitz, Grace, and even Connor had departed. They had been standing silently, lost in their own thoughts, until the banter had started. Somewhere in there his vision blurred. He remembered trying to hide his silent tears, but somehow Duncan had seen them. The next thing he knew Duncan's arms were around him and he was bawling like a baby, and he vaguely remembered Duncan crying too, but he was too focused on himself at the time.

"No!" Richie screamed as he knocked the breadbox off the counter, along with the steak knives, cutting board, and dishes he had used to cook breakfast. Four years is a new record for you to keep a family, Ryan he thought as he wound up a punch to the refrigerator door. He stopped just short of putting all his power into it, his knuckles still contacting the door but not enough to damage it. Then he opened the door and removed all that was left of the beer. Methos won't mind, he thought as he used his teeth to open a bottle. He took it—and the rest of them, into the bedroom, kicking off his shoes in the process. Once there he collapsed on top of the bed, determined that he was going to finish every last beer until he passed out or died of alcohol poisoning. He didn't have to worry about Renault until tomorrow evening. Until then he just had to keep the bad thoughts and dreams at bay.

He finally passed out after his eighth beer. The clock on the nightstand said eleven thirty p.m.