They found Richie in the bedroom. He was lying on his back on the bed, his arms and legs completely outstretched. His clothes were torn and bloody and the blood had seeped had onto the sheets surrounding his torso and spread out in a dark stain that was concentrated around the small of his back. The blankets were kicked off and hung on the edge of the bed beneath Richie's feet. He still had his shoes on. His eyes were closed, but the expression on his face was unreadable, hovering somewhere between peaceful and pained. An empty prescription bottle was curled into his left hand, which hung off the bed from the wrist down, and Duncan's best scotch was sitting open on the nightstand, three-quarters empty.
"He's dead," said Joe, who was sitting on the other side of the bed still holding Richie's hand in his from when he had checked for a pulse.
"That's why we didn't feel him," said Connor.
"Judging from his clothes I'd say that he just barely won," Joe appraised, looking up at the two immortals hovering in the doorway. Connor then entered the room and bent down to pry the prescription bottle from Richie's hand.
"Wounds?" Duncan asked. His voice was barely above a whisper. He still hadn't moved from the doorway.
"Many," Joe informed him, finally putting down Richie's hand, almost reverently. "But all in various stages of healing." Duncan silently thanked God for that.
"Sleeping pills?" Connor questioned, showing the empty orange bottle to Duncan, who took it and absently read the label.
"I would crush them into tea," Duncan absently explained, still examining the bottle as if it were a rare specimen, "when I found myself out of Darius's blend."
"I'd say he chased them down with your good scotch, my friend," said Joe, pushing himself to standing and then facing the two immortals across the bed.
"The pills were small. I still had thirteen left," said Duncan, staring at Richie's lifeless form.
"How long would he be dead for?" Joe asked.
"Depends on when he took them," said Duncan.
"And how injured he was at the time," added Connor.
There was a momentary pause as the three simply regarded Richie lying dead on Duncan's bed with a mixture of relief and wonder. Then Duncan walked slowly to his bedside and knelt down. He made motion to brush his hair out of his face, idly thinking that Richie's shorter haircut, now growing out, didn't really suit him even though it served to make him look older, when his hand came away bloody. Duncan then said something that loosely translates to my poor little one in Gaelic as he stared at the blood on his hand.
"I'm gonna make that call now. It would be good to be sure that Renault is really dead." Joe spoke softly, announcing his intentions to no one in particular, as he couldn't bring himself to interrupt Duncan.
Yet Duncan didn't seem to hear him. He was too preoccupied with the rush of meanings and emotions for the symbol of Richie's blood on his hand. Connor silently left the room, feeling like an intruder on a private family moment.
When Duncan left the bedroom he found Connor at the counter again, gathering up the papers on Renault.
"Joe's getting reamed for placing a call at this hour," he told Connor, trying to make his voice sound light.
"Decided to give him privacy?" Connor asked, regarding Duncan critically.
"Yeah," Duncan admitted, but his smile a little too forced and didn't reach his eyes.
"You couldn't bear to see him like that," Connor concluded with finality.
Duncan didn't contest the point, but rather shut his eyes and exhaled deeply, grabbing hold of the edge of the countertop in a reverse grip to steady himself. Connor allowed him the moment.
"Is this what you felt?" Duncan asked at last, in Gaelic, without looking at his teacher.
"Not exactly," Connor replied, not unkindly, again in Gaelic. This time Duncan looked at him.
"I knew you were dead," Connor clarified softly and with no emotion in his voice. There was no need.
Duncan inhaled sharply and shut his eyes again, his fatigue from the weekend's ordeal making it difficult for him to keep his emotions in check. There was guilt over Connor, worry for Richie replaced quickly by relief, anger at both Renault and the misunderstanding that caused this mess, and even more guilt over the way Richie had handled the situation.
Connor walked around the counter and stood close behind Duncan protectively, but not actually touching him. "Do you remember how you reacted, when you learned that Canwulf had killed your father?" he questioned softly in Duncan's ear.
"I channeled it all into the fight," Duncan admitted, not turning around.
"Because you already knew who to blame," Connor informed him. "Richie had to figure that part out on his own."
"How'd he figure it out?" Duncan wondered aloud.
"Would anything have stopped you from knowing the identity of your father's killer?"
"No," breathed Duncan. He hung his head and Connor put a hand on his shoulder. Neither said anything about the parallels Connor had just drawn between Canwulf the Viking and Jean-Pierre Renault.
"I'm sorry," Duncan said at last.
"It's not your fault," Connor assured him. "I punched you, so we're even."
Duncan laughed at that, but it came out more like a choked sob. He turned around to face his teacher, one hand drifting to the upper arm of the hand Connor still had resting on his shoulder. Then they both slid their arms back, their hands finding forearms in a firm warrior's handshake. They pulled each other mutually into another embrace, this one brief and manly, held at a slight angle and done after a few pats on the back.
"Richie took Renault's head in the airport parking garage at nine p.m. Sunday night," Joe informed the two immortals once they had separated. He had witnessed three quarters of the scene that had just ended, but didn't feel like he was intruding because their conversation was in Gaelic, which he promised himself he would have Duncan teach him at some point. Instead he just waited patiently for the moment to end before delivering the good news.
"At least that's something," Connor declared.
"Renault's eleven hundred years old…" Duncan left his other thoughts unsaid.
"But Richie was the more motivated," Connor reminded him.
"So what do we do now?" Joe asked.
"What can we do?" Duncan returned. "Except wait for Richie to revive."
"Well, we can clean this place up a bit," said Connor, looking around at the remains of the kitchen.
"What about the bedroom?" Joe asked.
"I'll take care of it," Duncan declared in a tone that brokered no argument.
Duncan wanted to postpone touching Richie or the bed until the last possible moment. First he put the cap back on the Scotch and carried it out to the kitchen. When he returned to the bedroom he had a handful of wet paper towels, some cleaning solution, and a trash bag.
He saw that Joe had replaced the phone and decided to focus first on the nightstands. He picked up the lamps that had been knocked to the ground. One was totaled so Duncan put it in the trash bag. The other was potentially salvageable so he put it outside the bedroom door. The clock radio was on the floor but still appeared to be in working order except for the fact that the batteries had fallen out and the battery case door was missing. Duncan plugged the clock in and saw it immediately flash to twelve a.m. He made a mental note to search for the batteries and case door as he set the clock by his watch: three twenty-five a.m. Once Duncan made sure that the radio and alarm still worked he put it down next to the nightstand to begin cleaning it.
First he wiped down the nightstand, having to scrub hard in places to get the dried blood and scotch out of the antique woodwork. Satisfied with his work he placed the working clock back on the now-clean nightstand next to the phone. Then he checked the drawers to make sure everything was still there before moving on to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. There were a few beer bottles lying against the wall, dried streaks of beer adorning the top of the nightstand. Richie must have shoved all the bottles off in anger at one point. These he put in the trash bag before wiping down the nightstand and checking the drawer to be sure all its contents were still there.
Duncan saw that his wardrobe had escaped relatively unscathed, though he briefly wondered why as he ran his hands along it inspecting it for damage or stains. Then it hit him: Tessa had given it to him as a birthday present, and Richie had been with them. Although she was primarily a metal sculptor, she had done fine work carving the Celtic knots into its curved wooden doors. Duncan shut his eyes against the memory.
When he turned away he noticed a bottle behind the door. It was antique rum, a gift from Robert and Gina de Valicourt. The bottle didn't break so Duncan set it outside with lamp. He would wash it later and ship it to Paris to add to his collection. The full-length mirror on the back of the door that the bottle had hit didn't fare so lucky. The glass had shattered into spider webs but had not actually fallen off the frame. Resigned, Duncan simply shut the door, telling himself he'd carry it out to the dumpster later.
Once Duncan had straightened all the pictures and made sure any blood and alcohol had been cleaned off the walls there was nothing left to do but tend to Richie. He pulled the top sheet, blanket, and comforter out from underneath Richie's feet. The sheet he set aside to cover Richie with later, knowing that access to open air is best for the immortal healing process but not wanting Richie to be cold. Like you can be cold when you're dead he admonished himself as he balled the blanket and comforter up and placed them with the lamp and empty bottle. He would wash them later.
Duncan realized he needed more paper towels if he was going to clean Richie's body so he headed back into the kitchen carrying the lamp and the empty bottle of rum. Connor and Joe were standing at the counter looking at something on a laptop computer. Duncan put the lamp and the bottle on the counter where Joe and Connor had already started a pile of objects and gadgets that could be fixed or needed to be put away.
"Figured out how the kid got the information," Connor informed him without looking up from the screen. He was manning the keys while Joe stood watching over his shoulder. Upon closer inspection Duncan recognized the laptop as belonging to Joe.
"The watchers?" he Duncan, coming to stand behind Connor's other shoulder.
"He hacked the online database," said Joe, trying to decide if he was impressed by Richie or angry at the network's so-called security.
"I thought you said that thing was locked up tighter than Langley?" Duncan asked, obviously impressed himself.
"It was supposed to be," Joe defended. There was a pause as both men watched Connor deftly tapping the keys.
"Joe, how did Richie get a hold of your laptop?" Duncan finally asked.
"It was on the desk in my office at home," said Joe. "He must have broken into my place, but I don't get it. We don't keep anything on our home computers for this exact reason. That's why we created the online database in the first place."
"But your computer logged the server address," Connor pointed out. "He used that to find your network."
Joe frowned. "I thought I disabled that feature."
"You did," Connor said weightily, and silence followed. Then finally Connor finished. "Well the kid hacked into the system then guessed your passwords to give him root access," he informed them as he pulled up the files on Renault that matched the printouts lying on the other end of the counter.
Joe shook his head. "I'll be damned."
"He must have emailed the relevant files to himself then printed them out from your machine, kinsman," Connor continued, exiting the programs and shutting down the machine.
"But why would he do that?" Joe asked.
"He wanted to make sure I knew who'd killed Duncan, in case…" Connor's tone was grave, and he couldn't bring himself to finish that statement with Duncan standing right next to him.
"I need paper towels," Duncan announced mostly to himself after a brief pause. He grabbed another handful and wet them in the kitchen sink before returning to the bedroom.
Once he was gone Connor closed the laptop and unplugged it from the cable modem.
"Mac only recently went to high speed," Joe said absently.
"Does Duncan have a mop?" Connor asked, unsuccessfully trying to not sound as tired as he really was.
"Hall closet," said Joe. "I'll get it."
"No, I'll get it. Why don't you start on the living room?" Connor suggested, aware of how long Joe must have been on his feet—or rather, on his prostheses, and Joe was secretly grateful.
"How long has it been since you've slept?" he asked the immortal.
Connor tilted his head in thought. "I woke up at nine a.m. Sunday morning in New Delhi, or seven p.m. Saturday your time. That's when I got a message from Rachel that Richie had called looking for Duncan. It's nearly four a.m. on Monday, so that's… nearly thirty two-hours." Connor shook his head slightly in amazement at the time. Then: "What about you?"
"I dozed a little in the car, but I've been up since ten a.m. Sunday. That's sixteen hours. You win." They both laughed slightly at this.
"I tried to sleep a little on the plane," Connor admitted, "but…"
Joe didn't need Connor to finish his statement and nodded in appreciation.
"It's just occurred to me that we've never been properly introduced," he said suddenly, extending his hand. "Joe Dawson."
"Duncan's watcher," said Connor, nodding. "I figured as much." He took Joe's hand in a warrior's handshake. Only later, after Joe had slept, ate, and thought about it, did he get the meaning behind the seemingly odd gesture. He would feel as honored as he did the day Duncan invited him for a drink the day he declared their friendship, or the day when Methos told him that he trusted him to keep his identity a secret.
"I wonder if mine's caught up to me yet," Conner added after ending the handshake.
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"Well after I received Richie's message I had to charter a private jet out of New Delhi to Hong Kong, as that was the fastest way I'd get on a flight to Seattle. In Seattle I had to rent a car since commuter flights to Seacouver don't start until about five a.m."
"Wow…" Joe breathed.
Connor just shrugged and smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It was the fastest way," he admitted plainly.
In that moment Joe saw in Connor a protectiveness of Duncan that rivaled Duncan's feelings for Richie. Granted Duncan was older and more capable of handling himself than Richie generally was, so Connor didn't have to hover as closely as Duncan perceived he needed to with Richie, but the sentiment was still there. Joe had seen Duncan worry about Richie before tonight, but what would it do to him to know that Richie was dead? Joe imagined even more clearly how torturous the plane rides had to have been on Connor, and then saw their reunion tonight through wiser eyes. No wonder Connor hit him, he thought with a smile.
Back in the bedroom, Duncan had stripped off Richie's boots and socks. The boots he trashed, being too stained with blood to be salvageable. The socks met the same fate. Duncan then walked over to the side of the bed and sat down next to Richie.
"What amma gunna do with ye, laddie?" Duncan asked as he looked upon the dead form of his student, fatigue and emotion making his brogue more pronounced. He took a damp paper towel and gingerly washed Richie's face, neck, and hair. There were no wounds visible on those areas and very little blood, so Duncan surmised that his earlier encounter must have been caused by splatter from the fight.
Duncan debated briefly about stripping Richie's clothes off, but then decided that his shirt had to go. It barely clung to him, having numerous slices on the front and sides. Duncan grabbed his pocketknife and cut the shirt away, removing it without disturbing Richie's still-dead body. Richie's torso and arms were smeared with blood, streaked in places by sweat. He had faint scars all over him as well, their healing process impeded by the amount of drugs and alcohol in his system, but they were healing nonetheless. Duncan just sighed and shook his head as he did his best to clear the mess off of his student. It took a bit of time and nearly all his paper towels, but eventually Duncan was satisfied with his job.
He then turned his attentions to Richie's jeans. They were black and had a giant slice through the left thigh that had blood dried and crusted for inches around. There was also a smaller cut on his right shin: a glancing swipe that barely bled. Duncan decided to remove the jeans when he remembered that Richie habitually wore boxers. He removed Richie's belt and laughed slightly when he saw that it had miraculously been spared a great dosing of blood. Upon closer inspection Duncan recognized it as the belt he had bought Richie to match the first suit Tessa had bought him. It was a fancier belt and thus Duncan had hardly seen him wear it. Indeed, he had practically forgotten that he had given it to him. Duncan fought the sting in his eyes as he set the belt aside and proceeded to remove Richie's pants.
Duncan wasn't surprised to find that the blood from the thigh wound had dribbled all down his leg and absently remembered Richie's socks being considerably bloodstained. What did surprise him was the cracked athletic cup Richie wore. Duncan shook his head in amazement and wondered if he'd learned that trick from Methos. The crack down the center attested to its practicality. It hammered home that Richie was the one headhunting last night and that he had taken every conceivable precaution. Failure had not been an option.
Duncan used the pocketknife to cut off the cup and he put it with the belt. He then used the remainder of the paper towels to scrub Richie's legs clean of blood. Richie's boxers were also rather stained, but Duncan decided, after considerable debate, to leave them on. Richie had been through enough trauma this weekend, having him wake up naked wasn't one he wanted to add to 'I'm alive and uncle Connor's asleep on the couch.' He gently lighted the top sheet over Richie, kissed his forehead, and stood back to marvel at how the lad was still alive (relatively speaking), and what he must have gone through.
Satisfied that there was nothing more he could do for Richie, Duncan put the torn and bloody clothes in the trash bag and sealed it. He then carried it out to the kitchen along with the bedding for the wash. He put the trash bag in the kitchen with the others that Connor and Joe had managed to fill and carried the bedding over to the washing machine. He noted that the place looked livable again, but still needed considerable work.
Duncan found both Joe and Connor in the living room, the former sound asleep in the armchair, the latter sitting on the couch taking polishing solution to Richie's sword.
"There was blood everywhere," he said to Duncan without looking up. "The blade, the guard, even the hilt."
"Thank you," said Duncan, half-sitting, half-collapsing on the couch next to his kinsman.
"It will need another going-over, but that should be good enough for now," said Connor, laying the blade down on the now-spotless coffee table.
"Where did you find it?" Duncan asked.
"Sticking out of the kitchen wall," said Connor with a straight face. Duncan knew that he was too tired to be kidding so he just nodded.
"How's Richie?" Joe asked without opening his eyes.
Connor frowned. "I thought you were sleeping."
"Nah," Joe negated, stretching.
"He's still dead," Duncan answered the previous question. "But he seems to be healing. I cleaned him up as best I could."
Joe nodded. "I'm gonna go call a cab," he said, standing with much effort.
"I'll drive you," Duncan insisted, also standing.
"After how long you've been awake?" Joe scoffed. "Fat chance. I'm gonna go home, see how badly my locks are damaged, get some shut-eye, and then call headquarters to see if I can find out what really happened."
"Right," Duncan agreed, secretly grateful for Joe's insistence. He really was exhausted.
Joe made his way into the kitchen to use the phone he had spent ten minutes making sure was working properly. Connor and Duncan just sat in companionable silence, both too physically tired and emotionally drained to bother with conversation. Presently Joe returned from the kitchen.
"You two should get some sleep," he said, he himself yawning.
"Look who's talking," said Connor, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.
"I'll walk you out," said Duncan, rising. He and Joe descended the elevator and entered the main room of the dojo. Duncan picked up Joe's discarded suitcase and carried it outside, followed by the watcher. Just then they saw a cab approaching.
"Thank you, Joseph," Duncan said earnestly.
"You call me if you need anything," said Joe, equally as earnest. They stowed Joe's suitcase in the trunk and then Duncan opened the door so the watcher could climb in. "If I don't hear from you, I'll call you as soon as I learn something."
"Good night, Joe," said Duncan, smiling.
Joe returned the smile. "Good morning." Then he pulled the door shut and the cab drove away.
Duncan watched it go until it disappeared, grateful to have a watcher for a friend and not for the first time.
When Duncan returned to the apartment he saw that Connor hadn't moved from his position. Duncan smiled, thinking his kinsman was asleep, and walked over to a spot of carpet in front of the coffee table, grabbing a pillow from the couch on his way by, and made ready to go to sleep.
"What are you doing?" Connor asked with his eyes closed.
"Sleeping," said Duncan, non-committed.
"Here," said Connor, standing reluctantly. "Take the couch."
"What type of host would I be if I let my guest sleep on the floor?"
"You couch hurts my back," Connor informed him, making a show of stretching.
"Bullshit," Duncan declared, lying down on the floor.
"Why do you think I haven't lain down already?" Connor retorted, annoyed.
Duncan eyed the elder immortal critically for a moment, finally decided that he was too tired to care if Connor was too tired to lie convincingly, although the effort was much better than Duncan believed he himself could have managed.
"Fine," Duncan acquiesced with a long-suffering sigh. Then he stood and gestured to the pillow as he made his way to the couch. Connor walked over to the pillow, grinning when Duncan couldn't see his face. He decided it would be easier on his knees to just drop to the ground rather than lowering himself slowly. Duncan noted the way Connor seemed to melt into the floor and wondered in what pocket dimension his teacher had managed to hide his skeleton and if it was the same one that Methos used.
"Goodnight kinsman," Connor said in Gaelic, his eyes already closed.
"Good morning," Duncan returned, smiling slightly as he drifted off to sleep.