Who Watches the Watcher?

A Highlander novel by Sisiutil

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

Chapter 2: MacLeod

"It's all in my report," Theresa was saying at four o'clock the next afternoon. She was seated at the bar in Joe's, an establishment owned by another Watcher, Joe Dawson. Dawson sat behind the bar. Normally he served drinks from there, but in mid-afternoon the bar was empty. The crowd would start to shuffle in when the workday ended in about an hour. For now, Dawson simply sat, occasionally stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, and listened to the young Watcher as she described the previous night's events.

Also at the bar, seated beside her, was Walter Simons, in charge of the Watchers' North American division. He'd flown in from New York the night before; normally he wouldn't have bothered, but he had a special relationship with Theresa. Only a few years before, Simons had been Theresa's mentor when she began field work for the Watchers. Simons had been Reginald Blount's Watcher then, and when Blount took on a student, it was the perfect opportunity for Simons to do the same. When Lizzy Knight had left Blount's stewardship, Theresa MacNeil had followed.

Simons, in the meantime, had abandoned field work and had moved up through the ranks of the Watchers quickly. Recent events—all traceable back to that renegade lunatic, Horton—had shaken the Watchers and reduced their numbers considerably. Which meant a proven, experienced resource like Simons had risen quickly and was putting his stamp on a badly-shaken organization.

"There was nothing you could have done, Terry," Dawson said, shaking his head sadly. "Believe me, I know—sometimes our lives are as dangerous as the ones Immortals lead. Porter knew that too."

"Joe's right," Simons chimed in. He was in his fifties now. He was balding, his black hair streaked with gray and combed back from his temples. He wore silver-rimmed glasses which sat atop his aquiline nose. He'd gained a few pounds since he'd left the field, but his tailored, conservative blue suit did a decent job of hiding that. "In fact, you did everything by the book, exactly as you were trained. Your presence of mind avoided another debacle for the Watchers."

"Thanks, Walt. Joe. Both of you," Theresa said, smiling wanly and shaking her head.

She had washed the black dye and gel out of her hair, returning it to its natural auburn color, though it was still much shorter than she preferred. She didn't know where she'd found the energy to do that; she was exhausted. Between helping the clean-up crew, writing full reports on both the battle and the field death of another Watcher, and now her debriefing by two senior Watchers, Theresa had managed to get three hours of sleep at most. Her normally-attractive face looked pale and wan; she had bags under her blood-shot eyes. When she finished with Simons and Dawson, she was going home and straight to bed. She planned on sleeping for at least seven or eight...days.

"I just...can't stop going over it," Theresa said sadly, staring at spot on the bar. "Wondering if I could have done something different."

"Hey, kid, don't torture yourself. It ain't worth it," Dawson told her. "Porter and I go back a bit. He started off with me, watching MacLeod. He knew what could happen out there in the field; that's why he never married. Lizzy Knight is the one who's responsible for his death, not you, and not even Marshall. She's the one who should be tortured about this."

Theresa smiled at Dawson and gripped his hand in thanks. She'd known the senior Watcher since she was a little girl; he'd been a friend of her parents, who had met and befriended him when he started working for the Watchers years before. He always knew what to say, what to do, to make her feel better. She didn't care if he was a maverick, didn't care if he'd broken several of the rules the Watchers lived by, especially about contacting your principal. She'd stopped calling him 'Uncle Joe' several years before, but he retained that title in her heart.

"Are you as torn up about losing Lizzy Knight?," Simons asked, one eyebrow cocked. Theresa glanced at her mentor.

"I wish I could say yes, but I can't," Theresa answered. "She deserved it," she said, looking Simons straight in the eye.

Dawson's eyebrows raised slightly, and he glanced from Theresa to Simons, waiting for the senior Watcher's reaction. Simons looked steadily at his former student for a moment, then nodded.

"It's hard to be impartial when you're confronted with someone like her," he agreed, his voice low. "I'm sorry she turned out that way. I know we both had high hopes for her. And I'm especially sorry your first Immortal went renegade. It's bad enough when they go evil, but when they start breaking the rules of the Game..." Simons didn't finish his sentence; he merely shook his head sadly.

"Well, if that's all, guys, I've got a pillow at home with my name on it..." Theresa said tiredly, pushing her stool back from the bar.

Simons and Dawson looked at each other. "Actually, Terry, there's one more thing..." Dawson said. Theresa sat back in her stool and looked from one man to the other expectantly.

"Yes, as you know, we're a little short-handed these days," Simons explained. "Especially when it comes to proven field agents. So now we have an Immortal without a Watcher: Lucas Marshall." Simons extracted a slender file folder from his briefcase and handed it to Theresa. "That's his file. Porter was his Watcher since we first became aware of him about a year ago. I know it's awkward to take over for someone because of an unfortunate incident like this, but Marshall has been a busy boy since he first appeared." Theresa cocked an eyebrow in grim amusement; she knew Simons meant Marshall had been taking heads. "We need someone on him."

Theresa nodded as she took the file. There wasn't much in it. Some reports from Porter, a couple of computer disks with digital versions of those reports, a handful of blurry photos of the Immortal. Theresa frowned, expecting more information.

"This is it?" she asked Simons. "I mean, I know he's new, but..."

"It's sparse," Simons admitted. "Porter tried to collect what he could on Marshall regarding his pre-Immortal life, but he couldn't find much, and his research kept getting interrupted when he had to follow his principal to another city."

"So why not assign a researcher to it?" Theresa asked, though she knew the answer to the question.

"Because as I said, Terry," Simons said with a sigh, "we're short of resources these days. Have you talked to your mother lately? She's swamped."

"Yeah, I know, Walt," Theresa said, pulling her lips back into a flat, resigned line and nodding. "It's just that...there was something about this guy. You didn't see him fight—it was like he'd been doing it for years. And when I say years, I mean years. And he said he knew Reginald Blount. No, wait, he said he was Reginald Blount's friend. You were Blount's Watcher for ten years, Walt. Do you remember seeing this guy or hearing his name before?" Simons shook his head. "Neither do I."

Theresa tossed the file folder on the bar. She crossed her arms and leaned back on her bar stool with a tired, exasperated sigh.

"What are you thinking, Terry?" Dawson asked her, reading her thoughtful expression.

"Something doesn't add up," she said.

"You think he could be a corker?" Dawson asked. 'Corker' was Watcher slang for an Immortal who disappeared for a number of years from the organization's radar, only to reappear again years, even decades later, their names and appearance often changed. Sometimes Watchers assumed the corker was a new Immortal until something—an extraordinary display of skill, an acquaintance with a much older Immortal, a passing remark—made them realize the Immortal was much older, and that they had popped back up to the surface like a cork in water. A corker.

Theresa nodded. "Now that you mention it, Joe, that's exactly what I think."

Simons raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "That's what Porter thought too, but..."

"But what?" Theresa asked.

"We have roughly one hundred and twenty-seven MIA Immortals on file," Simons said, using the official name for the Corkers. "Porter looked into it, but couldn't match this Marshall against any of them."

"So he hit a dead end," Theresa concluded. "Great."

Simons spread his hands. "Porter's conclusion was that this fellow simply must have had extensive martial arts training before he became Immortal. That would explain the display of skill you saw."

"And the friendship with Blount?" Theresa asked. Simons only shrugged.

"Listen, Terry," Dawson said, his voice concerned. "This guy Marshall, he's...well, he's dangerous. I know, I know," he said, holding up his hands when Theresa started to object, "they're all dangerous. But some more than others, you know? Like Walt said, he's been head-hunting since he first showed up. So...be careful, all right? Besides, anything happens to you, your folks will kill me."

Theresa smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine. I know the drill, okay? I've been trained by the best," she said, patting Simons' hand and smiling, "and I'm field-tested. In five years, Knight never even had a clue I was there, because I always kept a safe distance between us. So don't worry so much!" The two older men looked at each other and nodded. "Great, so it's settled," Theresa said. "How do I find this guy?"

"Go home. Get some sleep," Dawson told her. "Come here tomorrow night. I think you'll be able to pick him up then."

Theresa looked at Dawson and frowned. "He'll be here?" Dawson nodded. Theresa narrowed her eyes and gave her 'Uncle Joe' a sideways glance. "Joe...do you know this guy?" she asked.

"No," Dawson said, shaking his head. "But apparently MacLeod does."

The next night, at about eight o'clock, Theresa was sitting comfortably once again at the bar in Joe's. She'd combed her auburn hair into a pageboy; not her favorite look, but it would have to do until her hair grew back in. She wore a loose, burgundy long-sleeve blouse, black jeans, and dark brown Hush Puppies. Not excessively stylish, but a definite step up from what she'd been wearing to follow Lizzy Knight around, and more importantly, she didn't stand out in a crowd...at least not too much.

When she'd been training as a Watcher, Theresa had been warned, more than once, that her good looks—while normally an asset—would be a hindrance to functioning effectively in the field. It made a Watcher's job easier if they could blend in with the crowd, and the best way to do that was to be average-looking. While Theresa didn't have the harsh, striking good looks of a runway model, she possessed a simple, natural beauty that she found necessary to underplay in her role as Watcher.

So she wore loose-fitting clothing to hide her feminine curves. When her wavy auburn locks grew out, she would pull them back into a demure ponytail or bun. She applied as little makeup as she felt she could get away with to her oval-shaped face and its olive complexion; no mascara or shadow for her hazel eyes, no lipstick or gloss on her lips, just some foundation and a hint of rouge. She had often worn fake glasses—unnecessary, she had twenty-twenty vision—early in her career, but abandoned them when she began following Lizzy Knight into nightclubs where eyeglasses would have been decidedly out of place.

Theresa was doing her best to look anonymous and disinterested while nursing a drink at the bar when the front door to Joe's opened. Two men in long, dark coats walked in. They seemed to be in an extremely good mood, like two old friends who hadn't seen each other in a very long time.

"You struck out, MacLeod," one of them, sporting a clean-shaven head and a neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard on his face, said as they entered.

"I did not strike out. I wasn't even up to bat!" the other one, his wavy dark hair cut to medium length, said back.

"You asked her if she was busy later," the first one said, his arms spread wide. "She said some other time. Swing and a miss! Duncan MacLeod strikes out!" he concluded, and broke into pleased laughter.

MacLeod rolled his dark eyes. "I'm sorry I even told you..."

"Well, I could have told you not to bother with Alexis Raven," Marshall replied, still chuckling as he pulled out a chair and sat down at a table a few feet from the bar. "She's extremely choosy when it comes to her men. And no offense, but you're not her type."

Sitting at the bar, several feet away, Theresa could just make out the two Immortals' conversation. She caught the reference Marshall made to Raven, a female Immortal. She frowned slightly. For the second time, she'd heard Marshall indicate a familiarity with a much older Immortal. No, third—he was obviously an old friend of MacLeod's as well. She was going to have to look at the Corker file herself; Porter must have been mistaken.

She stole a brief glance at the two men when MacLeod sat down. Duncan MacLeod was definitely the more handsome of the two, she thought. At six feet, he was a few inches taller than his companion. He had a full head of dark brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, and chiseled features. He'd cut off his ponytail recently, but it didn't take away from his looks.

Marshall paled a little in comparison, but was no slouch in the looks department. A little under six feet tall, gray eyes, olive complexion. Clean-shaven head and a dark Van Dyke. She could see his nose was long and straight, and he had thick, sensuous lips. Both men had broad, strong shoulders and muscular frames. That wasn't surprising—an Immortal had to stay in shape to stay alive.

"What is her type?" MacLeod asked, one thick brow raised as he settled onto his own chair.

"She prefers her men to be a little more...devoted, shall we say," Marshall answered, doing little to hide the teasing criticism in his voice.

MacLeod was visibly offended. "I'm devoted!" he objected, "I can be very devoted!"

"For more than one night?" Marshall responded wryly, earning an angry glare from the Highlander. He stood up; "Oh, don't be so offended! Tell you what: as an apology, I'll get the drinks." Marshall, smiling, walked over to the bar, leaving an annoyed MacLeod to glare at his back. Marshall approached the bar and stood right next to Theresa. "Two pale ales," he ordered.

Theresa did her best to ignore him. She sipped her drink and stared straight ahead. In almost a decade as a Watcher, she had never been anywhere near this close to an Immortal before. Then, with her peripheral vision, she noticed Marshall had turned and was staring intently at her. It reminded her once again that being young, female, and good-looking was a definite disadvantage in her profession. Theresa knew she couldn't simply sit there and pretend he didn't exist; he was being provocative. Okay, pal, she thought, time for a healthy slice of Big Apple attitude.

"Can I help you?" Theresa asked sharply as she turned to glare directly at Marshall.

The Immortal blinked and one of the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile. "Only in my dreams, I suspect," he replied.

"You got that right," Theresa said contemptuously as she turned away from him to look straight ahead again.

She repressed a smile; as comebacks went, his was pretty good. And he was easy on the eyes; his looks improved on closer examination. Those gray eyes had seemed so cold during the battle last night, but now they glowed like embers in a fire. His smile was charming and not too salacious. If he weren't an Immortal and she weren't a Watcher, she might have had some fun letting the conversation play out. But she didn't have that luxury.

"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked nonchalantly.

"None of your business," she said without even glancing at him.

Dawson set the two mugs of beer on the counter in front of Marshall, and the Immortal paid for them. With her peripheral vision, she saw Marshall glance at her, then at Dawson, and raise his eyebrows in chagrined amusement. She saw Dawson shrug. Marshall turned to go and Theresa reached for her drink. Suddenly she noticed Marshall had paused and was still staring at her. She let out an annoyed sigh and turned towards him.

"What?" she snapped, feigning a little more annoyance than she felt. Marshall's eyes, opened wider in apparent surprise, seemed fixed upon her hand. When she turned towards him, he tore his eyes away.

"Nothing," he said, turning to leave. "Sorry to have bothered you."

Theresa turned away from him as he left and glanced at her left hand, which held her glass, and where Marshall seemed to have been staring. She noticed that the sleeve of her blouse had risen on her arm, exposing the top half of her Watcher tattoo. Her stomach clenched. Had she been made? Had he recognized the mark? Did he know what it meant? She couldn't turn around and risk revealing too avid an interest in him. She had heard him return to the table he shared with MacLeod; the two Immortals were engaged in a muted conversation she couldn't hear.

"Joe," she asked Dawson a few minutes later, feigning a request to refill her drink, "does Marshall know about the Watchers?"

Dawson's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Not that I know of," he said as he poured Theresa another club soda. "Why?"

"I think he spotted my tattoo, and it seemed to spook him," she answered in a low voice. "Do you think MacLeod told him?"

Dawson shook his head gently as he wiped down the bar counter. "I don't think so. I've asked MacLeod to be discreet about us. He wouldn't be spilling secrets to a new Immortal."

"I hope you're right," Theresa replied, and returned to quietly sipping her drink.

At their table, MacLeod and Marshall carried on their conversation in lowered voices.

"So," Macleod said, "what brought you to town, anyway?"

Marshall looked mildly offended. "Why, the pleasure of your company, Duncan! Your scintillating conversation, your droll observations on modern life...." MacLeod glared at him. Marshall sighed. "You're right, that was pushing things beyond the bounds of believability. I came here to settle a couple of old scores."

"Anyone I know?" MacLeod asked, lifting his beer glass.

Marshall nodded as he licked some foam from his lips. "You remember Reginald Blount," he said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

MacLeod set his glass down angrily. "Elizabeth Knight is in town? In my town?"

"Was, Duncan, was," Marshall assured him. He gestured for MacLeod to keep his voice down. "I took care of the little tramp last night." He could see MacLeod getting worked up, his jaw flexing as his teeth ground together.

"I would have taken her head myself if I'd known she was around," MacLeod declared sullenly.

Marshall's dark, arched eyebrows raised at that. "That's not very chivalrous of you, Duncan," he remarked.

"I got an earful from Methos about chivalry a while back, thanks," MacLeod answered. He leaned forward over the table, still seething.

Reginald Blount had been good friend. He and MacLeod had served together about two hundred years before under Arthur Wellesley—better known later as the Duke of Wellington—during the Peninsular Campaign in Portugal and Spain. Blount had gone out of his way, and paid out of his own pocket, on several occasions to ensure the protection and well-being of the Iberian peasants. Blount had always said that they were the people they were truly fighting for.

"Lizzy Knight robbed the world of a good man," MacLeod declared.

"A far better man than I," Marshall agreed.

"Or I," MacLeod said. The two Immortals glanced at one another and raised their glasses, then drank, in a silent toast to their lost friend. A moment passed. "Who else?"

"Hmm?" Marshall responded, stirred from a silent reverie by MacLeod's question.

"You said 'scores', plural," MacLeod reminded him.

"Yes" Marshall said, "I did, didn't I?" He said nothing more, but looked at MacLeod expectantly.

The Highlander straightened a little and frowned. "Ortega?" he asked quietly. Marshall nodded slowly. MacLeod exhaled. "Finally. You want some help?"

"Duncan!" Marshall said, slightly amused, "that would be against the rules."

"For him, it would be worth it," MacLeod replied.

Marshall smiled wistfully. "Thank you, my friend, but no. This is something I have to do on my own. I'm sure you understand."

"You'll come and tell me how it went, afterwards?" MacLeod asked.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Marshall said evasively. "But I'm sure you'll hear about it," he said, glancing at Dawson briefly.

MacLeod followed his friend's eyes and frowned. There was a tone of finality in Marshall's voice that he didn't like, as though he didn't expect to come back from this fight.

"I'd rather hear about it from you," MacLeod said, "when it's all over. We could meet here. I'll buy."

Marshall's eyebrows raised, and he smiled. "Well, that is a generous offer, especially for a Scotsman. We'll see," he said, then glanced at his watch. "I have to go." Marshall drained the remaining beer from his glass and rose from his chair.

"You're gonna miss Joe's set," MacLeod told him.

Marshall shrugged. "Another time. Good seeing you again, MacLeod," Marshall said, then raised his hand. "Ave and farewell, my friend," he said, then walked towards the door, watched by his fellow Immortal.

Theresa waited a beat, then rose from her seat at the bar. MacLeod would probably notice her and put two and two together, but it couldn't be helped. Marshall moved around a lot and she didn't want to lose him, and MacLeod knew about Watchers anyway. She followed Marshall out the door, avoiding MacLeod's eyes and giving him a wide berth.

MacLeod, well-known for his eye for feminine beauty, watched the attractive young woman with the short auburn hair stand up walk towards the bar's exit. He smiled to himself, reflecting on her good looks. Then the timing of her departure, so soon after Marshall's, struck him as odd. He turned around just in time to see Theresa walk out the front door. MacLeod looked at Dawson, who was also watching the young woman leave. Dawson then glanced at MacLeod and, chagrined that his Immortal friend was watching him watch a Watcher, made a point of studiously drying a glass.

MacLeod smiled, took his beer stein, and went back to the bar. He sat on a stool directly in front of Dawson.

"How come he rates such a good-looking Watcher and I'm stuck with you?" he asked in a voice of mock annoyance, an amused smile on his face as he studied the grizzled visage of his own decidedly unfeminine Watcher.

Dawson looked at him and shot an amused glower his way. "Bad enough you and I wound up friends, MacLeod. Can you imagine what would have happened if they'd assigned a woman to you? Given your track record?" MacLeod only smiled and shrugged. "Hey, listen, MacLeod," Dawson said quietly, growing more serious. "This guy, Marshall," he nodded his head towards the door, "...did you tell him about us? About the Watchers?" MacLeod looked at his friend silently for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, Joe. I didn't tell him about you. Can I get another?" he said smoothly, sliding his empty glass across the counter. Dawson studied his friend's expression for a moment, nodded, then walked over to the beer taps.

"You gonna hang around for my set?" Dawson asked.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," MacLeod replied.

Inwardly, he relaxed a little. He didn't like lying to Dawson. It wasn't a lie, he told himself. I answered the question honestly. I just didn't tell him the whole truth. He'd known Dawson nearly five years, and they'd been through a lot together. But five years, no matter how eventful, is not a very long time to an Immortal. The friendships and debts that date back centuries inevitably take precedence.