Scene 3

The next day, Joe found Methos in a back storage room of Shakespeare and Company. Something was being delivered to the bookstore which "Adam Pierson" had inherited from Don and Christine Salzer, and the workmen were finishing as he arrived. They drove away in the delivery van.

Methos stood in the center of a room which should have been stacked with books. He surveyed with apparent dismay the crates crammed in around him.

"Hi Joe," he greeted ruefully.

"Adam. What's all this? It looks like ..."

But it couldn't be, could it?

"Yeah. He's storing them here. I'm hiding them for him."

"Hiding them?" asked Joe.

"Apparently there's some danger of the State appropriating them as national treasures."

"What?!"

"A certain art museum which will remain unnamed," Methos' tone was sarcastic, "one with strong connections in the Parliament, is pressuring for it. MacLeod's advocates can hold them off, but if they put any kind of lien on MacLeod's property, it's best if the paintings aren't there."

"Would this art museum's name start with an L?"

Methos pretended to think hard. "Yes, I think it does."

"You make it sound like you're talking about mobsters."

"Do I?" Methos replied with mock surprise. "I speak as I find."

Joe smiled to himself at the archaic phrasing. How had he known this man for ten years and never noticed things like that? Well, maybe Methos was less guarded now.

A knock sounded at the back door. Neal entered a moment later, his shirt and face smudged with dust, and grinned his greeting at Joe.

"Hi Neal," Adam said. "Did you have any trouble?"

"No." Neal handed Methos a clipboard with paperwork. "They just said they would credit you."

"I had to send two shipments back to the distributor just to make room for all this stuff," Methos complained to Joe.

"What about the cellar?"

"It floods."

"But I thought that's where you kept ..." Joe paused, not looking at Neal, "some other valuable stuff." Like the Chronicles you're researching.

Methos smiled. "Don't worry, Joe."

"Joe," Neal asked, irritating Joe again with his familiarity, "would you be willing to sell Darling Boy?"

"What?"

"Darling Boy. The portrait of Phillipe Cartier."

"Who's calling it Darling Boy?"

"The papers and the TV reporters. But they all think Duncan still has it. I could pay you the 300 francs for it."

"Sorry. It was a gift. Besides, I like it. Why do you want it?"

"I like it too. And ..." The boy paused, his open expression shifting through other emotions. But, before he could finish what he was saying, the bell on the door on the front of the shop tinkled. Neal snapped his head around to look into the store, and his face lit up like someone had just turned a spotlight on him. He shot out of the storeroom, into the bookstore.

Joe looked at Methos, who smiled a goofy smile. "Madeleine's meeting him here," he said.

They both peered around the corner at the young couple embracing madly among the books. Joe would have felt like a voyeur, except that they were just as visible to anyone walking by the window, or entering the shop. Clearly their worlds had shrunk to include only each other.

"Beautiful," Joe murmured.

Madeleine was a stunning young woman with fiery red hair, only barely tamed into a chignon. Her clothes were fashionable and attractive, making her a colorful contrast to Neal's grey trousers and dusty white shirt.

"Yes they are," Methos said dreamily.

"I meant the girl," Joe elbowed the other man in the ribs. "C'mon," he muttered, pulling the immortal's sleeve. "We're Watchers, not peeping Toms."

"Just a minute." Methos shook him off.

Shaking his head, Joe retreated to the storeroom.

He stopped before a piece of sculpture in a corner, pushed aside with a bunch of Methos' things. Sculpted from some white material, it was of a woman's body arched backward as if diving, but the arch was so severe that her flowing hair touched her heels. The form would have created a perfect circle, were it not for a break in the piece which made it look as if her torso had been cut in half. It was both breathtaking and disturbing.

And familiar.

"Adam," he called.

Methos ignored him.

"Adam!"

Methos came to the back. "What?"

"Adam, this piece ... do you know who ..."

Methos nodded. "It's an original Noel. I'm looking for the best place to display it."

"Somewhere where MacLeod won't see it, you mean?" Joe was surprised to hear the bitterness in his own voice.

Methos merely looked at him.

"Must be worth a lot more now that she's dead."

How dare he?

"It's not for sale," Methos informed him, his expression unreadable.

"No, of course not."

Quite a few Watchers became "collectors" of immortal memorabilia. Certain items, like swords, or "magic" crystals, were appropriated by the Watcher organization, but other items associated with immortals could end up in the possession of those who valued souvenirs. Joe had had his own collection at one time. Until he had seen the practice through MacLeod's eyes, and had been suddenly ashamed of himself.

Once, when he was being processed through customs for his return from Viet Nam, the man in front of him had been detained for the pair of enemy boots he had kept as a souvenir. The man was arrested when the boots were found to still have feet in them. He hated to think of Adam becoming such a collector. How could he?

"How many others do you have?" He failed to keep the anger from his voice.

"Of Noel's? Just this one. There was another piece I really wanted, but it was out of my price range."

"Don't call her Noel. You're talking about Tessa!"

"You got a problem here Joe?"

"Did you just have to have a piece of Tessa's work?" Too late, Joe registered the fact that Methos had said that he had paid for the sculpture. That was a bit different than using his knowledge as a Watcher to "acquire" items after an immortal's death. Tessa wasn't even an immortal, after all.

Methos' reply was interrupted by Neal and Madeleine. Neal led the girl into the storeroom, holding her hands. They were both flushed.

"What are you fighting about?" Neal asked, his grey eyes sparkling, like a kid who couldn't wait to show off his new toy.

Be fair, Joe chastised himself, struggling to disengage from his argument with Methos. More like a young man about to introduce the love of his life.

"We weren't fighting," Joe said.

"Yes, you were."

"No, we weren't," Methos said. He moved forward and took one of Madeleine's hands from Neal. "You must be Madeleine," he said, bending to kiss her hand. Joe raised his eyebrows and shrugged at the astonished-looking Neal.

Madeleine, however, smiled benignly at Methos, as if she were accustomed to having her hand kissed. And maybe she was, Joe reflected.

"Monsieur," she said. Joe guessed her to be a few years older than Neal. But then, he may have misjudged Neal's age.

"Madeleine, this is Adam Pierson," Neal said. "And Joe Dawson."

Madeleine reclaimed her hand, and Methos transformed back into the awkward student Joe knew. Madeleine approached Joe, hand held out. Joe took it, but he'd be damned if he was doing any hand kissing.

"Nice to meet you," he said.

"The pleasure is mine," she said. She had the trick of making the pleasantry sound as if she truly felt it. "It is so good to meet Neal's friends." She tipped her head toward the sculpture. "Is it this, what you were not fighting about?" she asked. "It's exquisite."

Methos smiled. "Yes, it is. I'm trying to find a place to display it."

Madeleine bent to examine the piece, and moved her hand just over the surface of it, rather like Neal had done with the portrait. "The artist is a woman, yes?"

"Yes," Methos replied, and Joe was oddly grateful that the immortal didn't correct Madeleine's "is" to a "was."

"When she made this, I think she was frightened?" Madeleine looked to Methos for confirmation.

"I didn't know her," Methos said. He glanced at Joe.

"Oh, she is not living, then? Did you know her?" she asked Joe.

This girl doesn't miss much, Joe thought.

"No, not really," Joe answered. Then some impulse made him admit, "I knew ... know ... her lover." It was always easier to say "lover" in France than in the States, Joe had observed. "We all do."

"Duncan MacLeod?" Neal guessed. Neal wasn't missing much, either.

Methos raised his eyebrows at Joe, and Joe began to think they'd better break this up before Neal and Madeleine knew all about immortals and Watchers!

"Why don't you ask him how to display it?" Neal suggested when no one denied his guess was right.

Joe laughed, and looked at Methos.

"He doesn't know I have it," Methos admitted.

Neal looked quizzical, but Madeleine moved to Methos' side and took his hand. "You loved her, too," she said sympathetically.

Methos smiled and removed his hand, gently. "No," he answered, "but I do like her work. And I don't know how he would feel about that."

Madeleine looked thoughtful.

Neal reached out to her, and tucked in some strands of hair which had escaped the chignon. Madeleine tipped her head to allow him better access; a gesture which struck Joe as more intimate than the passionate kissing had been.

Madeleine turned to Neal and slid into his arm. "I'm not expected back until dinner," she confided.

"I've gotta go," Neal grinned to Methos.

"Okay, here's your pay." Methos produced a wad of bills. Neal accepted them, frowning.

"This is too much."

"Consider it an advance. Go. Have fun. Stay clear of Delanoye."

Neal stuffed the money in a pocket, and the couple made their good-byes.

Once the front door had closed behind them, Joe said, "You paid him with Delanoye's money, didn't you?"

"Well, I haven't got any money for employees."

"You might if you kept the place open longer than just in the summer."

"Now, Joe, you know I can't stand being tied down like that."

"I thought you were going to break them up."

"I changed my mind. You saw them together. Delanoye and her father together couldn't have enough money to make it worth it. No one could."

"Now you're talking," Joe said, pleased.