The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.


Move over Mary Sue - Chapter 10

I should have remembered - Duncan MacLeod is a man of his word. After five miserable days, during which I alternately hoped and despaired, he called.

"I have some things to take care of this afternoon," he said, as though everything was normal. "I'll pick you up at six."

"Are we going somewhere?" I asked, still in shock that he called.

"The play ... it's tonight, isn't it? A Streetcar Named Desire ... You said, your friend from aerobics class is playing Stella."

Angie's play ... I had forgotten. Tonight is opening night, and we had planned to go see it. "Yes, it's tonight," I said.

"Then I'll pick you up at six ... we can get something to eat, first."

Why do I feel like I've missed something? I'm Rip Van Winkle waking up after a hundred year nap. Everyone is going around taking care of business, but I'm totally confused. The safest thing to do is to play along. "Okay," I answered. "I'll see you at six."

All evening long, he's been wrestling with something. I can sense it. I can see it in his eyes, though he rarely lets them meet mine. I suspect he's trying to let me down gently, but I'd rather he just do it and get it over with. Yanking a Band-Aid off with one swift tug, hurts a lot, but it's better than the torture of doing it slowly.

I'm beginning to think maybe it's better when a guy you've been seeing just stops calling. My mother used to sing a song by Neal Sedaka - Breaking Up is Hard to Do - I think she gave it a 5 on the Bandstand scale. And Neal was right - it is hard to do, no matter how you do it - no matter which side of the break you're on.

Duncan takes my hand as we stroll out of the theater, trailing the small crowd. "Your friend's a pretty good actress," he says.

"I thought so," I answer, wondering when that sword's going to fall - that Sword of Damocles that's been hanging over my head. "Angie's had some walk-ons, but this is her first starring role. She's been trying to save money to go to New York - that's why she's teaching aerobics."

In front of the theater, the crowd disperses quickly. Cheerful voices echo all around us, then fade into the night. He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him. I savor every moment, as I reconsider having that Band-Aid yanked off - maybe slow is better.

"Do you mind walking?" he asks. "I'd go get the car, but this isn't the safest neighborhood in the city. I don't want to leave you here alone."

I glance at the dirty graffiti-marred bricks of the boarded up building across the way, and at the backs of the other theater-goers as they scurry off in all directions. Given the choice of walking a few blocks with Duncan at my side, or standing here alone for ten or fifteen minutes, I choose to walk. I'd probably choose to walk anyway, even though he apparently thinks I'm so delicate, I'll faint from the effort. His misplaced sense of chivalry is riding free again.

"It's a nice night, I don't mind walking," I answer.

"It's getting cold, though," he says. He stops to pull up the collar on my coat, then wraps his arm around me as we walk. "Want to stop for some coffee? Maybe, that little coffee house on the square that you like?"

"Sure," I answer as we round the corner.

He's setting me up, I can feel it. That's where he'll tell me it's over. I've already made up my mind. I will not plead. I will not grovel. If he wants out of this relationship, he'll take a large chunk of my heart with him, so I'll need to hang on to my dignity. It may be the only thing I have left to hold me together. A sudden chill catches me by surprise and I shiver.

"Cold?" he asks.

Actually, I'm not. I'm not sure what that was. A shiver of apprehension because I'm about to get dumped? Perhaps. Or perhaps I just don't like the looks of this street. Most of the lamps are out and suddenly I'm seeing things in the murky shadows.

One of the things I'm seeing moves out from a recessed doorway ... out of the shadows and into our path. "Well, well, well ... look what we have here." he croons.

Tall, skinny, with greasy blonde hair, the punk slides the edge of an open switchblade knife along his palm. The blade glints in the weak glow of the one street lamp that remains lit a few feet behind him. Shadows mask most of his face, but when he grins, his teeth add contrast, and I notice the ones on the right side of his mouth are missing. His torn and dirty jacket bears the colors of one of the local gangs. I don't keep up with that stuff so I don't know which one, but I've seen their signature skull mingling with graffiti on walls all over town.

Duncan nudges me behind him cautiously. "We don't want any trouble," he says, in a soft voice. It's a plea, but one with a definite undertone of menace. "And you don't either, so just let us pass."

"Trouble," the punk says with a cackle. "Man, I live for trouble. You might say it's my ... oc-cu-pation." He drags the syllables out slowly as he steps closer slicing the air with his knife to emphasize his point.

Duncan eases his feet apart and rebalances his weight as he squeezes my hand for a moment, then he releases it. I feel like an idiot, but I can't think. I grab a handful of his leather coat, then a random flash of clarity makes me realize I'm restricting his movement. I let go, and as I take a step back, I see the punk's gaze flicker to a spot behind my head ... too late. Strong arms encircle my waist from behind.

Duncan whirls around. "You don't want to do that," he cautions, but the first punk jumps him from behind. I'm on my own - at least temporarily.

I swing my elbow back and feel it connect with something hard. It wasn't a conscious action - merely a reflex rooted in self preservation - and I regret it instantly.

"Oh ... you wanna play rough," a harsh voice rasps in my ear.

The second punk jerks me around. He slaps me across the face with the back of his hand, then slams me against the building. I swallow a surge of nausea and the salty taste of my own blood as he clutches my throat with one hand and grabs my purse with the other. A warm rush of satisfaction assuages my fear momentarily as I note the dribble of blood flowing down his chin from a split in his lip.

"Hey Joey," he says leering at me - brown eyes wide, pupils dilated. "This bitch's got balls ... I like that ... can I have her?"

"Shut up, you fool," Joey answers.

Oh great. He's high on something, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, either. I chance a glance in that direction - long enough to see Joey and Duncan crouched into fighting stances as they circle each other a few feet away.

Joey's partner is focusing on the meager contents of my purse. It's a small one and the only things of value I have in it are my Visa card, my driver's license and about twenty bucks. I'm not even wearing any jewelry that's worth anything except my grandmother's ring. I don't remember when I slipped it off and into the finger of my glove, but it's safely stowed in my pocket. They are going to be disappointed in the take, and probably ticked off as well.

My mind is working strangely and I feel oddly disconnected from the fear that holds some other part of me hostage. Keeping my back to the building, I take a step to the side very slowly. If I can get away, Duncan is a martial arts expert - he can hold them off long enough for me to get help. And he can concentrate without having me to worry about.

My assailant is too busy thumbing through the bills he has pulled out of my purse to notice I've moved. Emboldened, I take another step. His hand lashes out, and he grabs my arm. "Where you think you're going, bitch?" he hisses.

Suddenly the whole scene jumps into fast forward. Frame by frame the action clicks by too fast for me to assimilate it. Duncan and Joey grapple for the knife. My attacker spins me around.

Some of the self-defense tactics, I learned years ago flash through my mind - more instinct, than clear thought. We struggle. Duncan forces Joey to his knees. He holds his fist poised for a blow.

Then the sharp report of a gun reverberates off the building walls.

A cold spear of dread strikes deep in the pit of my stomach. We slip into slow motion - freeze frame mode. Duncan reels, then falls backwards to the sidewalk. Joey stands, a gun held loosely in his hand.

The punk holding me, releases his grip. "Oh shit, you shot him, man!" he shouts.

Somewhere above us, the rumble of a window opening startles us into a bizarre tableaux.

"Hey, what's going on down there?" a voice drifts down from above.

My mind is numb, but my feet are moving - backing me away from the terror.

"Go ... get outta here," Joey says to his pal as he moves toward me slowly. He raises the hand with the gun.

"But you shot him," the other one wails.

I turn and run. The sound of two pair of sneakers slapping against the pavement follows me. I sense the sound of the gun almost before the echo of the shot reaches my ear. I dive head first into a picket of garbage cans standing guard at the entrance to an alley. The shot pings off one just above my head. I pull myself into a ball and pray he can't get a clear shot.

"Go," Joey shouts.

"Hey, what about the bitch, man?"

The footfalls come closer. I cringe waiting for the inevitable.

"Fuck her," Joey shouts, and the footfalls pass me, then fade away.

Silence reigns.

I sit up slowly, dizzy, gorge rising in my throat. Fear snaking around me, holding me fast. I turn my head and look around. Duncan! Oh my god, Duncan!

I run to him, drop to my knees at his side. He lies there pale, motionless. The red stain of his blood already covers most of his white silk shirt. I press my hand on his chest in a crazed effort to stop the bleeding. "Oh, Duncan, please don't die," I cry.

Deep within me some small part of my brain is still functioning, but it's voice is very weak. It remembers that I took a first aid course in college. But even if I could remember one bit of it, we didn't learn anything to cope with this. With tears streaming down my face and the tiny voice urging me on, I lean my cheek near his mouth, hoping to feel some small current of air, but he's not breathing. Mumbling long forgotten prayers, I feel for a pulse at his throat, but I can't even find a trace. This can't be happening.

"Oh god, this can't be happening!" I clutch my hair with my hands and fight the towering waves of hysteria. The tiny voice fades like a radio losing a signal.

Trying to recapture it, I rock back and forth. I have to hold on. If Duncan has any chance, I have to think - and think clearly. I remember to breathe ... a long deep slow breath. The tiny voice returns and with it a small measure of calm. I remember ... what do I remember? A phone booth! I saw a phone booth on the corner!

I lift my head to look around. Yes ... there it is. I'm torn. I can't leave Duncan, but I can't help him if I don't. I force myself to stand. One step at a time. I find the strength to run.

What if it doesn't work? Most of the public phones in this part of the city don't. I whisper another prayer as I reach for the receiver. My hand shakes as I lift it, and relief floods through me as I hear the drone of a dial tone.

Now, what's the number? I've heard it a million times, but now I need it, I can't remember it. My finger trembles, hesitating over the numbered buttons, then the memory emerges slowly - 911. I manage to touch the right buttons in the right order. How, I don't know. A woman's voice answers after just one ring.

"What is the nature of the emergency?" she asks.

"H-he's been shot ... they shot Duncan," I stammer. A faint stirring of anger - anger at those punks - anger at myself for falling apart - shakes me into clearer thought. I remember to breathe again.

"Are you in danger?" she asks, softly, calmly but with a reassuring tinge of urgency. "Is the shooter still in the vicinity?"

"I don't think so ... they ran."

Anticipating her next question, I look around for a street sign.

"Where are you?" she asks.

They can trace the call, but I guess it's faster if I tell them. Just that rational thought bolsters my spirits. I'm thinking ... I can do this. "Third off Piedmont ... in the middle of the block," I tell her.

"Stay calm," she says. "Stay with him ... don't leave unless you're in danger. We'll have someone there as quickly as we can."

Leave? How can I leave? They shot Duncan. Images of the obscenely large blood stain on his shirt fill my mind. The receiver slips out of my hand. It's slick with blood. His blood. And so are my hands. Leaving the receiver dangling from its cord, I race back to his side.

He hasn't moved. I sink down to my knees, and lift his hand to my cheek. His skin is cool where it touches mine. I feel so useless. I should be doing something, but I don't know what. Mouth to mouth resuscitation? I don't know where to begin. I clutch his hand to my heart as though I can transfer my life force to him. I hear the faint wail of a siren in the distance. "Oh please hurry," I whisper

I reach down to cradle his head in my lap, but before I can get my hands under his head, his eyes snap open ... wide open. He gasps - a loud rasping sound. Coughing, he pushes himself up.

For a moment, I can't move. I can't believe what I'm seeing. He's alive! "Oh god, you're alive," I shout. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and try to hold him close, but he's coughing, and struggling to get up.

He winces as he focuses on my face. "Looks like it," he says, smiling at me through another wince. The sirens grow louder as the ambulance ... or a police car gets closer. His eyes grow wide, and a look of alarm flashes in their depths.

"Help me up," he says. "We have to get out of here." He leans on my shoulder to give himself leverage.

He must be in shock. I tug on his jacket to pull him back down. "Duncan, don't move ... you've been shot."

He slips his hand under my arm and tugs in the opposite direction. "Come on," he says. "I don't have time to explain, but we've got to get out of here."

He wins the tug of war, and I stand next to him. He's bent over, his face contorted with pain, and he's clutching his jacket over his chest. This is insane. I put my arm around his shoulders, and try to remember what you're supposed to do with someone who's in shock, but my memory fails. "Duncan, please lie down ... the ambulance will be here in a minute."

"That's why we have to go," he says, pulling away from me.

Despite the gunshot wound in his chest, he's stronger than I am. He takes my hand and tows me after him. Where is he getting the strength? I saw that wound, and I struggle with a wave of nausea as I remember the look of it - it was nearly the size of my fist. I force the memory out of my mind as I grapple with my present problem - how to stop him from leaving before the ambulance gets here.

It has to be shock - I remember reading that people in shock can be very strong. Must be the adrenaline rush or something. I quicken my pace so I can get in front of him. "Duncan, please ... if you're worried about the police ... and whatever you're involved in, it doesn't matter, you need help."

Wincing again, he stands straighter as he grasps my shoulders with both hands. He looks at me with a desperate gleam of pleading in his soulful dark eyes. "I need you to trust me, please," he says. "I'll be fine, but we have to leave ... now."

Fine - that word again. He uses it like a magic wand ... just wave it and everything will be right again. Why do I believe him? What do I see in those dark brown depths that is so convincing? I don't know, except that I want to believe him. I want to know that everything will be fine. Numbly, I nod. I can think of nothing else, but to agree. He takes my arm and we race down the street and around the corner to where he parked the car.

He pulls his keys from his pocket, and holds them out to me. "Can you drive?" he asks, leaning against the car. "I don't know if I can manage."

He should be on oxygen. Connected to a heart monitor with a saline drip running into his arm, and he's worried about whether he can drive. I take the keys - of course, I'll drive.

I feel oddly disconnected from reality and a misplaced sense of calm settles over me, as we get in. I start the engine and pull away from the curb as though we are going on a Sunday drive.

"Go to the dojo," he says. "It's closer, than your place. You can take Market to Grand."

Typical man ... put him in the passenger seat and he starts issuing driving instructions. I know where I'm going ... and it's not to the dojo.

"You missed the turn," he says swiveling his head to check the street sign.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did - that was Grand," he says, turning back. "You're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm not."

Without warning, he reaches over, turns the key in the ignition, and yanks it out. Responding without thinking, I steer the car toward the curb.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, clutching the keys in his fist.

"What do you think you're doing ... you could get us killed pulling a stunt like that. What if there was someone behind us?"

"I told you to go to the dojo," he says. "And it's that way." He waves his hand with the thumb extended toward the back of the car.

I dig deep for some of that calm I found before. How do you reason with a person in an obvious state of shock? Using tender care, I stroke his hair back from his face.

"Duncan, you're not thinking. You need to go to the hospital."

But as the words leave my mouth, I realize that he's amazingly healthy-looking for someone who was mortally wounded a short time ago. I'm sure my eyes must be playing tricks on me, or maybe it's the lighting. But the color has returned to his face. He's no longer breathing heavily, nor grimacing in pain. He looks calm - a little ticked off perhaps because I'm not following orders - but calm, as though nothing untoward has happened.

He takes my hand in his, then he places a gentle kiss in my palm. "Please," he says. "You have to trust me." He holds up the keys. "Can I trust you to go back to the dojo?"

"But Duncan, you're--"

He interrupts my protest by dangling the keys in front of me ... by dangling his trust as well. The question is clear in his eyes. Can I trust you? he's asking and it goes far beyond the question at hand. He's asking me to prove myself worthy of his trust. With serious doubts about my sanity, I accept his challenge. I hold out my hand.

His eyes search mine for a long moment, then slowly he places the keys and his trust in my hand. As I slip the key back into the ignition, he crosses his arms over his chest, leans his head back, then he closes his eyes.

I'm in command. The decision is mine to make. He's left his fate in my hands.

I check for traffic in the rearview mirror, glance over my shoulder to make sure no other cars are coming, then I make an illegal u-turn ... and pray that he knows what he's doing.