Chapter 11

Paris

Joe Dawson struggled with the accounts. He hated this side of the business. He loved owning Le Blues Bar. He loved playing genial host. Hell, he loved playing his music. But he hated the paperwork. Joe sighed and shook his head. He hated it, but he needed to be hands on about something these days… especially as he was no longer MacLeod's Watcher. He had way too much time on his hands.

Three days ago Mac had stopped in to tell him he was headed to Cannes for a week to ten days. "It's cold and I want to go where it's warm. Besides… I hear the scenery's great." Mac had grinned as he arched his eyebrows making it clear what scenery he meant.

Joe had chuckled. "Yeah… It sounds great Mac. Have a nice time."

"You could join me."

Joe's chuckle had turned into a full-blown guffaw. "At my age? I can see it now. The tall red-head and the tall blonde… one on each arm… wearing bikinis and kissing my cheek." Joe had waved him off.

"It could happen," Mac had teased.

"You know… I'm not your Watcher anymore… You don't have to tell me where you're headed."

Mac had sobered at that point. "No… but you are my friend. I'd want you to know where I was."

Joe had lifted a glass, "To friendship!" They'd drunk their toast… and Mac had left. Joe had remained behind. "Damn!" the old Watcher said as he leaned back in his chair. Thoughts of the Riviera danced through his mind and he could visualize Mac… dressed in tuxedo… dancing… gambling… meeting beautiful ladies… dancing…" Joe shook his head. Even though he didn't have the Chronicles… he still had his memories… and… he had something else.

Joe spun the dial on his safe, opened it and pulled out four bound journals in various stages of use. The thin one with so few entries was Richie Ryan's journal. Joe flipped through the entries. They weren't the official Chronicle of Richie Ryan immortal, initially dead at eighteen, finally dead for real at twenty-two. They were a record of the time the two of them had spent together… the conversations, the jokes, the good times.

Joe halted at one entry. "I still cannot believe it!" he'd written in 1994. "That kid took a bullet for me. I stood right over him while he tells me he'll be right back. It took about twenty minutes. I managed to pull him out of the way and keep an eye on him until he revived. I've seen MacLeod revive from a distance over the years, but I've never been up close. This kid… this young, smart-mouth, street-wise kid… threw himself in front of bullet for me. Even knowing he's immortal and can come back… that takes guts. I know… I've been shot before. It hurts like hell!"

He flipped through a few more pages and stopped. There was a photo taken one New Year's Eve at the bar in Seacouver. Richie Ryan… the All-American boy… and Joe Dawson. They were staring into the camera lens. Richie's arm was behind Joe and he'd stuck two fingers up behind Joe's head. "Good times!" smiled Joe and then sadly closed the book. Richie's life as an immortal had been far too short… not even four years. Joe laid the journal aside.

The next one was Methos'. Joe shook his head. The Watchers would be delirious if they ever got hold of this one. True, at least half of what Methos had told him over the years since Joe had learned who he was back in 1993 had to be part tall tale and part out and out lie. Still… the chance to even talk to someone who had walked the earth since the time of earliest civilizations… was truly mesmerizing. Joe thumbed through the entries until he got to the last one.

"He saved my life. The son-of-a-bitch likely put me in harm's way… and then he pulled out all the stops to be certain I survived. Anne tells me that until she forced him to leave, he sat at the hospital… covered in my blood. Now he's gone and I wonder if I'll ever be able to thank him properly." He hadn't seen Methos since that day. He'd spoken to him once… briefly… when he'd called to tell them that they had killed Nestor and ask if Joe could arrange for a clean-up crew to cover up the mess. Joe had been too relieved that Duncan and Methos had been successful to thank him. He hadn't heard from him since. Methos had vanished.

Joe closed that journal. There were no photos in there. Methos usually had jumped up to be the photographer or had somehow always managed to be out of the shot… "Part of my charm!" he'd smirked once. No… Methos' journal were mainly the ramblings of the old man to Joe about what he did remember… and what he was willing to tell of his long life… that, and Joe's exasperation about Methos and his secretive and sometimes duplicitous nature.

Joe's hand moved to the thick one next. This was Mac's journal. This was where he'd kept the unofficial record of his friendship with Mac… and all the things he'd done that broke his Watcher Oath… in the name of that friendship. That's really how all of this started. He'd wanted there to be a record… one in case something happened to him… Joe had wanted the record clear that what he'd done had to be done. Now… he truly hoped none of it would ever be general knowledge within the Watchers. Joe opened the journal.

There was a photo of Mac and him at the Eiffel tower back in 2005. They'd taken it in on the ten-year anniversary of his duel there with Kalas. Joe had asked a passing tourist to snap the shot. He remembered hoping that somehow Methos and Amanda could have been there too. But Mac didn't know how to reach Methos… and Amanda was busy.

"You two on the outs?" Joe had asked.

Mac had smiled, "No… she just has this little project these days."

"You know, Mac, you are getting as close-mouthed as Methos ever was," Joe had snapped at him.

Mac had smiled mysteriously and replied, "Am I?"

"Damn straight," Joe had said then and he repeated it again. "Damn straight." Joe closed the journal and opened the fourth one… Amanda's.

There was little in this one. But what was there showed Joe's appreciation of the female immortal. He read the first entry on her. "I met THE Amanda today. She is as beautiful and charming as any of the Chronicles ever described. She came with Mac to the bar and teased me about being 'one of those guys who like to watch.' She seems amused by the prospect of being watched. I just hope whoever is assigned to her in future years, knows to keep his distance. I have a feeling she might not really find being watched amusing." He flipped over a few pages and paused. "Amanda is determined to help me. She and Mac are going to steal this Cross of St. Antoine from Thorne's home. Amanda… who can and probably has at one time or another, stolen anything of note… is stealing this… to try and force Thorne to come to Mac… so we can prove he killed Lauren." Joe closed the journal. He missed Amanda. It had been eight years since he'd seen her, and that last time was all too brief. She'd been with that pre-immortal friend of hers Nick Wolfe. Joe wondered whatever had become of him. He'd vanished at the time of the Nestor affair… but Mac had never mentioned his being involved. When Joe had pushed about where he might be, Mac had merely said, "Oh… he's around. I see him occasionally." But he'd never said where.

Joe rummaged through his safe once more and pulled out from its hiding place another journal. This one was Ellie's. He still didn't know if he ever wanted this one read by anyone. He'd written it while recuperating from his gunshot wounds back in 2003… after Ellie had told him her story… while it was still fresh in his mind. Like Methos'… it was a story he wasn't certain could be believed… but he thought it truthful. The Watchers had no Chronicle on Ellie… They did not know she even existed… and Joe thought it best to keep it that way. At least for now.

As with Methos' journal… there were no pictures here. The only one he had of her… the old one from 1969… he kept in the Bauedelaire. That way… if anyone saw it… she was just Lee… his date for one evening… long ago. There was a clause in his will that both the book of poetry and the photo were to be mailed to L E. Edwards upon his death at a Post Office Box in Geneva.

"Joe," she'd said softly when she'd called him in Seacouver, from France while he was recuperating. "I'm going away where there are no phones."

"Will I see you again?"

"Honestly? I don't know, Joseph. But if you do… I expect real Chicago pizza… and a Cubs game."

"And a tour of Chicago," he'd added sadly.

"And a tour of Chicago," she'd repeated wistfully.

Joe hid the slim volume in the false bottom of the safe once more. He really did need to decide what to do with Ellie's Chronicle. Perhaps he'd give it to Amy… perhaps not. Securing the compartment, Joe replaced the others in the safe and closed it, twirling the dial and listening to the tumblers click.

"I'm not a Watcher anymore guys. All of you have moved on without me." Joe returned to his desk and poured a scotch. He lifted the glass sadly to the empty room. "To absent friends," he said and downed the whiskey in a single gulp.

London

"Tell me again why you want to kill this man."

The voice was low, unemotional, non-threatening. In the dim office, Cassandra, stretched out on the couch, closed her eyes and tried to be as truthful as she could.

"He raped me. He belittled me. He killed my… family… he has never paid for his crimes."

"Why not testify against him?"

Cassandra sighed. She needed counseling. She'd needed it for years. But to whom can an immortal go to help them deal with the horror of their lives? Where once she might have gone to Sean Burns… or even Darius, to find solace or absolution, now there were only mortal therapists.

"He is beyond the reach of the law," she finally said.

"And so you feel you must be the one to bring him to justice."

Cassandra's eyes snapped open. She shivered. "No. I just want him to pay for his crimes." She sat up, swinging her legs to the deep-piled carpeting, feeling the slight bounce as her booted feet landed. "I need to go."

"Why? Because we may be too close to the truth?"

"You know nothing." Cassandra glared at the therapist, legs crossed, a legal notepad in her lap. "I'll pay for the entire hour. But I won't be back." Standing she grabbed her long trench coat, shrugged into it, flipping her hair out of the collar with her hand.

"Sandy… I really think you need to stay. If you do not deal with your anger… your resentment of this man… it may destroy you."

"I am dealing with it. Just not in any way you can understand." Cassandra reached deeply into her pockets and grasped a handful of bills. She tossed them on the table. "That should pay my bill." Swiftly she strode to the door, opened it and headed out of the office without a backward glance.

At the elevator she barely noticed the man waiting with her, not even when he got onto the empty elevator with her and moved to the back. They were alone.

Cassandra barely registered surprised as the bullets hit her in the back. As she fell, the elevator lurched to a stop. Vaguely she was aware of being dragged from the elevator by rough hands. From far away she heard a voice… "Let Rawlins know, we have another one." It was the last cogent thought she had for some time.