Chapter 9 of 12

(elle-nora')

He'd had the painting installed in the house on Knob Hill, in San Francisco when he'd bought the place. It had hung quietly in the parlor and had elicited a number of comments from admirers and visitors to his home over the years he had lived there. He'd gotten a somewhat overblown reputation as a philanthropist... a man who'd made his money in gold or oil or silver... the specifics were unknown and a matter of speculation. He'd remained essentially under the Watcher radar at the time, just one more eccentric millionaire in a city with a hundred of them on Knob Hill alone.

He had not spared Johann Meinhoff a second thought in over a hundred years. Methos, currently using the name Benjamin Smith, made certain every single day of his life there... that he took time to stare at Isabela's painting and remind himself how easily his courtly manners could be lost... how thin was the veneer of civilized behavior in his soul. Scratch him deeply enough... and Death was still there. Death was a part of him and always would be. To deny that part of him was to give it power over him and he could not let it happen ever again.

It had almost been a surprise that warm day that he'd looked up to sense an immortal presence too near to be a coincidence. Johann Meinhoff glared at him from across the busy street.

Normally Methos would not have been in this area of San Francisco, down near the docks... but he'd been checking on the arrival of some cargo he'd ordered for one of his charities. He had decided that since the day was warm, the weather delightful, and he had the time, to take a constitutional walk back to his home, instead of a hired cab.

It had been a mistake. Methos did not make many mistakes, but this had been one of them.

Meinhoff had crossed the street and stood before him easily, confidently. His pale blue eyes sizing up his opponent's stance and attire. Already Methos could sense that the man had been busy in the one hundred and eleven years since he'd last seen him. From artist dilettante with a smattering of real talent... Meinhoff had likely turned himself into a master swordsman with a number of kills under his belt.

In one moment, Methos had known Meinhoff had practiced with one thought for the last century, to meet and best "Dr. Benjamin Adams". While Methos had continued to work out... continued to practice... he'd managed to avoid any serious challenges since that long ago night. He'd focused instead on easing suffering... and on keeping his mouth shut. His tendency to meet slights and insults with a snappy repartee... he tried to keep low-key. He'd forced himself time and time again to just walk away. The word coward could not take his head.

But Johann Meinhoff just might. Methos had realized that fact in the first moment he saw him standing there. When he crossed the street to challenge him, Methos had nodded in recognition.

"This time Doctor, I think we shall meet. I am at your convenience."

"And if my convenience is to walk away?" Methos had tried to pass him by only to be grabbed on the arm. He'd frozen momentarily and then calmly turned. "Kindly remove that hand or you may very well lose it."

Meinhoff had dropped the hand, "You will meet me, doctor, or I shall shadow your every step. I shall speak of your crimes in social circles. I shall destroy your standing in the community. Perhaps..." and he had leaned in menacingly, "I shall rob you as you once robbed me."

Methos had realized in that moment that Meinhoff had been watching him for sometime. That he knew of the doctor's "lovely wife" and that it might be she who would pay the price for the doctor's crimes.

He'd hesitated only a moment as he'd considered several options. Finally arriving at the best one, he'd snapped officially at the artist. "Very well, tomorrow morning, across the bay. There's some uninhabited land in that area. We meet at dawn." He'd turned to leave.

"Why not tonight?" Meinhoff had insisted; hatred had seemed to drip from his words.

"I have dinner guests this evening... a rather important charity function. I wish to settle a few things." Methos had leaned close to Meinhoff. "Or are you so ready to die?"

Meinhoff had blanched momentarily as he'd heard those words. Methos had let all the darkness of his ancient soul pour into the tone of those last comments. If Meinhoff got the message... then perhaps he'd decide life was rather to be lived and grievances to be forgiven.

Reluctantly he'd met the man the next morning at dawn. They'd stood for a few moments watching the sunrise in the east and the first rays of light inch across the surface of San Francisco Bay. Then they'd turned, briefly saluted one another and begun the duel. It had been fairly even and, as Methos had feared, Meinhoff might well win. Then fate stepped in.

The early morning calm of that April day was shattered, not by steel or by a quickening, but by an earthquake. While the quake lasted only a minute, the fires began almost immediately and spread with a horrifying speed to encompass much of the city. In his nearly five thousand years, Methos had seen many earthquakes, but none had ever prepared him for the swift destruction of the city by the bay... not from the quake itself as much as by the fire. The newly installed gas lines and gaslights ruptured by the quake fed the blaze into an inferno.

All thoughts of duel and challenge left Methos' mind as he realized the toll of human suffering that would occur and his overriding need to get home... he needed to be certain those he cared for were safe.

Meinhoff had lost his footing during the first tremors of the quake, slipping partially down the embankment, and Methos had seized the opportunity to leave. "Another time!" he'd called over his shoulder as he'd rushed into the hell that was the aftermath of the earthquake.

The human toll of the next few days and the horror had evidently touched Meinhoff too. He had not come after the "doctor", perhaps realizing that even a "sorry son of a bitch" doctor was still a necessity in the face of so much suffering. Meinhoff had moved on.

Methos tracked the artist for several years, being certain to stay away from him. He'd have shipped him Isabela's painting if he'd been able to. But while his home had been essentially free of major damage, there had been one small fire... in the parlor... a fire that had consumed the precious painting... and with it the only chance Methos might have had to apologize to Meinhoff.

Methos had not let himself feel guilt since the eleventh century... he'd decided letting guilt for his past actions consume him was self-destructive and he had wanted to survive. Thus, he'd turned his back on guilt... but he still felt regret over some of his choices... and his treatment of Meinhoff had been one such choice. If Johann Meinhoff was a "headhunter" and a black-hearted villain... it was his treatment at the hands of Methos that had made him such.

Now... almost a hundred years later, Methos might yet have to reap the fruits of what he'd once sown in anger. He might have to kill this man, and if he were honest... Methos knew he didn't really want to kill Johann Meinhoff... but neither did he want to die.