Chapter Thirty-Two
Paris:

Dozing slightly in the sunshine of the garden, Joe Dawson was only vaguely aware of his granddaughter playing Chopin on the piano. It made for a lilting background to the muted sounds of Paris traffic on the far side of the protective wall. In the garden… the buzz of mosquitoes was the loudest sound he heard. He slapped at a slight prick on one arm and rubbed his arm aware that Abigail had stopped playing.

A few moments later his granddaughter appeared at the open French doors. "Grandpa? Mr. Pierson and a couple of friends are here."

Joe waved and geared up his chair to zoom toward the house when he saw Methos speak quietly to Abigail and then step out alone into the sunshine. He pulled the doors closed behind him.

"Hey Joe… old buddy. Thought we could speak more privately out here," he said easily.

"Don't you old buddy me!" snapped Joe. "Have you found him?"

Methos hesitated, looking slightly guilty. Then he shrugged. "Oh… you mean Derrick. No… I couldn't find him. Surely Amy's kept you abreast of that."

Joe nodded. "Thought maybe you knew more than she did. She said you left Niebos in a hurry after dropping your Watcher off. Damn it Methos… you know better than that."

Methos looked off into the distance. "You know better than anyone that sometimes Watchers get in the way. Speaking of which…" he gestured toward the house. "I have one in the house and I need you to debrief her. She's seen and may know things she shouldn't."

Joe peered at him curiously. "Suppose you start at the beginning as I have no idea what you're talking about."

Methos let out a long breath, nodded and dropped into a chair. Over the next fifteen minutes he brought Joe up to speed about the de Valicourts and their Watcher.

"Damn!" Joe chuckled. "Still… can't blame 'em for wantin' a deeper relationship." He winked at Methos. "How's Ellie?"

"Eleanor is fine," Methos intoned sharply. Then he smiled. "Sorry Joe. She's fine." He smiled thinly. It was sometimes hard to talk about his wife with a man who had once loved her… one she had once loved.

"What's that about?" Joe wanted to know.

"She's worried about Derrick," he said with a wave of his hand, "and I couldn't help alleviate that. He's still out there… on his own… and she's worried. Then Amanda called me about the de Valicourts and I had to rush off." He shrugged. "I miss her and the children." Joe was one of the few outside the inner circle of immortals based on Niebos who knew that J. D. and Marianna were their children and not adopted. Their parentage was still a carefully guarded secret.

"Yeah… don't spend too much time away from them… kids I mean. They grow up too fast even for us mortals." He gazed wistfully toward the house. "They grow up too fast." When Methos didn't reply, he looked at him; ready to make a remark only to stop when he saw something haunted in the old immortal's eyes. "Yeah… they grow up too fast," Joe repeated again lamely. "Ever figure out what you have to do once they're grown?"

Methos' head snapped up. "No," he said softly and shook his head sadly. "I've gone through all the old records I could find and have studied all the photographs on that computer file that Darius left us. I've found nothing. If the answer exists… it must lie with the original material."

"And you're no closer to finding that," Joe added.

"MacLeod keeps looking… and that's the other thing I want to talk to you about. I haven't heard from him in over a week. Amanda said he helped separate the battling de Valicourts and then left… but wouldn't say why. I want to know where he is."

Joe paled and looked away. Oddly… the street traffic seemed unusually loud.

"Joe," Methos pleaded. "Tell me where he is."

Joe took a deep breath. "Honestly… I don't know… not for certain. He came to me for some addresses and he left. The man I had on him lost him at the first one."

"What happened?"

Joe licked his lips, wishing that he had a good stiff drink. He glanced over at the pitcher of lemonade and sighed. "He was challenged by an immortal at the first address. The place went up in a fireball and neither man was seen again."

"Who was it?"

Joe shrugged. "A fairly young drifter named Lucas Delbert… a man with a mean streak and a penchant for cheating. Something you know a lot about," he said directly. "Neither Watcher was close enough to see who won. Then the place went up in flames. By the time my man thought to check the car… the local fire patrol was on the job. Mac's car was impounded by the police as evidence. Based on the car's papers, they've put his name out as a 'person of interest'."

"He's not dead," Methos assured him, although in truth it was based more on a gut feeling rather than anything he knew. "He's likely just laying low." His brow wrinkled in thought. "What did he want Delbert for?"

"He didn't" Joe admitted ruefully. "Their meeting was purely chance."

Methos glared at Joe slightly. "Then for whom was he searching?"

Joe glared back and then nodded as if coming to grips with his betrayal of his friend. "Alistair Craille. He didn't want any of you to know."

Methos sat back confused. "What would Craille have to do with anything? He's a minor player and somewhat of a fop. He woos women and lives off of them."

"He was dating Kate Devaney. Mac ran into them here in Paris."

Methos was stunned. "No wonder Amanda didn't want to talk about it. Mac's always had a soft spot for Kate… it's his Highland sense of guilt."

"Yeah. He and Kate and Craille were up to something. They ditched their Watchers and took off. Then Mac shows up here and wants to know where he can find Craille."

"He didn't tell you why?"

Joe shook his head. "Nope. But he seemed awfully torn up about it. All he said was that he had to find them."

"Them," repeated Methos thoughtfully. He had a sinking feeling he knew what this might be about. What else could it be? He knew that MacLeod and Amanda had discussed and ultimately rejected having a child. Amanda just couldn't see herself being a mother… and Methos recalled how devastated MacLeod had seemed afterwards. He glanced at Joe. Even their friend didn't know the whole story about the children. He didn't even know about Alisaunne's parentage. He didn't know how the children had come to be… They'd only told Joe that it had happened because of Methos and Eleanor's commitment to one another. Surely MacLeod wouldn't have jeopardized all that they were working for by telling Kate and Craille that immortals could have children… and then how. Surely he wouldn't have actually pursued this… or would he have? He sat forward, leaning his arms on his thighs, and shook his head. "Damn you MacLeod," he muttered softly. "Damn you."

"You know what this is about?" Joe asked.

"I may," Methos replied as he sat back with resignation. Right now… whether he was right or wrong… he couldn't do a thing about it.

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Geneva, Switzerland:

Duncan had managed to steal a cloth coat from an outside line as he'd traveled on foot through the countryside. He'd rummaged in his pants pockets and found a small wad of bills… change from some purchase at a roadside station that he hadn't put in his wallet… and pinned it to the line. It wasn't much… but it was all he had. He needed the coat… ragged at the cuffs but clean… to hide his sword. There was no way he was leaving it behind… and no way he could move through the streets of Geneva without it hidden in the coat.

His bank was accustomed to his having it. He'd have to produce it when the metal detectors caught it. But he'd be safe in the bank. They guaranteed it. He would be as safe as his money. The bank in Geneva wasn't open to the public. Their accounts were all Swiss numbered accounts and their clientele had to provide fingerprints, retinal scan, and a breath analysis to be admitted to the upper levels or to the vaults.

It was the vault, and his safety-deposit box, that Duncan wanted access to. He had extra identity papers, money and weapons in that box. While he didn't think he'd need the weapons… he did need ready cash and a passport.

He stopped in the entry cage as the metal detector went off and carefully pulled out his katana, which he put in a drawer. He hated leaving it here… but there was no other choice. If he'd had his car… he would have secured it in the trunk. But then, he grinned, if he'd had his car, he wouldn't need to be stopping here.

"I'm in antiques," he told them once with a shrug. "I'm making a delivery."

As always, the clerk nodded and said nothing, carefully locking the drawer from his station with a set of computer commands. The entry cage opened and Duncan was admitted. He signed in at the desk and provided the handscan, breath, and retinal check without any further problem.

Shortly after his identity was verified, a small, waspish man greeted him warmly and accompanied him to the locked elevator, which they rode to the vault floor. Duncan waited in a comfortable private lounge, sipping espresso while his box was located by computer and finally discharged through the automatic retrieval system onto a table. He rose and opened the box, carefully selecting identity papers and thumbing through the cash. He decided on $10,000 and was putting the rest back when his hand touched some papers he had stored there.

On top of the stack was the posthumous letter he'd received from Darius a few years ago. After he'd scanned it onto his computer, he'd put it here… with the things he most wanted kept safe. He slowly pulled the envelope out, recalling that day in Paris when Phillip had handed it to him. Gently he ran his fingers over his name written with a flourish in Darius' distinctive handwriting. He could almost picture his old friend sitting at his desk and writing that. He pulled the letter out and read it again.

Duncan,

If you are reading this letter, my friend, then two things have happened. I have died and you have met one of my oldest friends. He will tell you who he is himself when he is ready. I ask only that you listen to him and to what he has to tell you. You may find that he has a perspective on life that you have never considered.

I do not say that I necessarily agree with his perspective, but it has always been a valid counterpoint to my own. As to whether you should trust him? That my friend I leave to your decision.

Many years ago I began collecting objects and documents from around the world. Many you have seen in my room at the church. Most you have never seen. As I collected these gifts sent to me by others, I began to see in them a pattern, a connection that might offer a clue to our shared past. For what seems like centuries I have studied and tried to find the answers, but at last I am ready to admit defeat. There may be no answers.

I intend to leave my life here. I am ready to go. If all goes well, I will simply vanish from sight and fade into another life in another place. Yet if you are reading this, then I have died since leaving Paris. I do not wish the work I have spent my life on to be lost. I leave it for you and my other dearest friends to solve the puzzle that I could not solve.

Where first we met, there was a small chapel. It still exists. Go there. The answers you seek are there.

Go in peace, my friend,

Darius

But as often as he'd been to Waterloo in the intervening years… as often as he'd tromped on the battlefield or toured the chapel… now a small museum… he'd found nothing. He began to refold the letter and then paused. As he'd done with the envelope, he ran his fingers lightly over the handwriting. The "D" in Darius' signature drew his attention. It was uncommonly thick. As he rubbed it… he felt something there. Duncan closed his eyes.

For a moment he recalled Darius working with a Braille machine at his desk.

"What's that old friend?" Duncan had asked him. The year had been 1919, just after the First World War. Duncan had stopped by to see his friend before he left France.

"Oh nothing. One of my parishioners is blind and when I send her things… I use this so that she can read my letters herself." He'd set it aside with a shrug, as he was eager to hear all about Duncan's time on the front.

Braille? Was that what he felt? Had Darius hidden a clue beneath his signature? Desperately he tried to recall the Braille alphabet. He'd never had to learn it… but he'd studied it at one time… purely as an intellectual exercise. Finally he seized on the letter Q and the number 4.

Duncan stuffed the letter back into the envelope and slid it into his coat pocket. Quickly he closed his box and pushed it back into the wall, hitting the retrieval button as he did so. The opening closed and he could hear the soft whir of the machinery as his box, untouched by human hands, returned to its place in the vault. Glancing in the mirror, he smoothed his hair and adjusted his coat before opening the door.

The clerk was immediately at his side, chatting amiably as he escorted the Highlander to the elevator and returned him to the main floor. There, Duncan bid his farewells, stopped in the exit cage to retrieve his sword and hurried out into the blazing sun. He couldn't breathe. His chest hurt from the tension as he'd held his breath since finding the clue. He crossed the street to where there was a small park and settled onto an out-of the-way bench. Gently he pulled the letter out again, opened it, and closed his eyes as he let his fingers scan lightly over the entire letter. He found nothing else unusual besides the odd Braille under the signature.

Again he seemed to see his friend working on his rendition of the Battle of Gettysburg… a battle that neither man had seen.

The year was 1993… a few months before Darius' death.

"War in the abstract is a marvelous intellectual exercise," Darius was saying. "The reality, of course is much different."

Duncan had risen and stretched, standing over the battlefield… looking down on it and on all the tiny figures in their painted glory, preparing to meet their doom.

Another time, the battle Darius was working on was that of Agincourt. It was in 1980… just after Duncan had met Tessa.

"You've never done Waterloo," Duncan had commented.

"I was there," Darius smiled and shrugged. "I find battles I've never fought nor witnessed far more entertaining." His expression saddened. "Look at them Duncan. Like pawns on a chessboard… the kings and their counselors and generals used the peasants like we play chess. They moved units… some to be sacrificed… others to draw their opponent into a trap. Their lives were unimportant to the endgame."

Again… it was the late 1960's. The two were playing chess.

"One of these days… I'll beat you," Duncan was saying.

Darius had smiled mysteriously and shrugged that little shrug of his. "Knight to queen four," he said.

Duncan's eyes snapped open. "Knight to queen four… Q4." He rose to his feet and looked around. He needed a gift shop… a bookstore… someplace that had maps. After a visit to Waterloo battlefield not long after World War II, he'd given Darius a map of the battle, thinking he'd find it interesting. It hadn't been anything special… just a tourist thing. Darius had remarked on it and spread it out on his desk while the two of them had commented on the accuracy and inaccuracies of the marked troop movements. Afterwards, Darius had folded it up and set it aside.

"Napoleon should have won that battle. He had the numbers and the artillery on his side. But Wellington had the imagination to use the land… and his men to best advantage." He tapped his head. "The best generals can see the battle as the crow flies above. For them… it is as if they can remove themselves from the field of battle… and see it from a different perspective."

Duncan raced down the street, scanning the storefronts until he found one that looked promising… an upscale book and gift shop.

The bell over the door tinkled as he entered reminding him of the antique shop he and Tessa had owned. Inside, the air was redolent with a cinnamon fragrance… evidently some potpourri. Behind the counter a dark-haired woman in a navy suit and cream blouse smiled pleasantly at him.

Duncan nodded and turned to the maps… finally finding one of the battlefield that was similar in size to the one he'd given Darius. Then he looked about the store… his gaze finally coming to rest on some displays of chess sets. He found one that was similar in size to Darius', spread the map on the table and removed the chess pieces from the board he'd selected. He held it over the map… trying to decide what angle to use. Where first we met, there was a small chapel. It still exists. Go there. The answers you seek are there. It was a clue. Duncan located the position of the chapel and used its location as the beginning point. Then he set the chess board on top of it. He looked at the clerk. "I need a pen."

She handed him one from a display. Swiftly he marked the map with small lines indicating the endpoints of the board's grid pattern. Setting the chessboard back where it had been he contemplated finishing the grid pattern now. He'd need a straight edge. As he looked around, noting the puzzled look of the clerk. Mumbling his apologies… he pulled out some cash and handed her enough to cover the cost of the map and the pen… plus a bonus… "For your trouble," he said with a smile as he pressed the funds into her hand. She blushed.

"Merci," she said softly.

Folding the map up, Duncan headed back to the street. He'd need a vehicle. He could stop off at the battlefield on his way to London. After all… finding Kate was still important, but now that he had a clue as to where to look… he was determined to follow it up as well. He'd spent too many years looking at this too closely. He'd forgotten Darius' penchant for looking at battles from above… and his analogies of battles to games of chess. "… a different perspective…" the letter had said. Duncan smiled. A different perspective indeed.

As he stood on the curb… considering hiring a cab, he noted a police officer… PPC in hand… looking at him strangely… and then down at whatever was displayed on the screen of his device. Again he stared at Duncan and then recognition seemed to dawn on the officer.

Duncan took off running. Evidently the authorities had traced the ownership of his car and wanted him detained to question him about the fire. He'd known that might happen. But he had no time for that now. Behind him… he heard the whistle sounding. It looked like he'd be on foot for a while. He'd need to lose this officer and continue to stay under the radar of the authorities, the Watchers, and other immortals for a while longer.

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