Chapter Thirty-Eight
Waterloo Battlefield:

The squares were too big.

Duncan stood staring at the battlefield, still uncertain as to how to begin searching… and uncertain of what he was searching for… or even how to find it.

For a moment, it was 1920 and he had stopped in to see Darius who was opening a package from someone.

"Ah… I've always loved these," he said.

"Russian nesting dolls," Duncan remarked.

Darius nodded. "One inside the other. If you keep searching… you might find the prize." He began gently to open one doll and then the one inside it and the one inside it.

Duncan laughed. "By the time you get to the innermost one… whatever is there can't be much."

Darius laughed as he opened the last doll and popped a piece of candy into his mouth. "Depends on what you're searching for."

Duncan looked around for sticks and marked off the four corners of the square by sticking the sticks upright in the earth. "Once again, and then again and again," he mused. "Q4 all the way." He paced off the side nearest the chapel, and began again.

A dozen reductions later, he stared down at the meter-square area of field. He saw nothing. Had he measured incorrectly? Had he angled the grid incorrectly? He looked around and slowly paced about the square in an ever-increasing spiral outward. It had to be here… but what was he searching for?

Around him he noted summer tourists. A few stared at his odd movements and shook their heads. He was gathering too much attention. He needed to find what he sought and get out of here. He couldn't dig up the whole battlefield! He sighed and returned to the last square and stared at the now trampled grass. In one corner was a brick-sized rectangle of black rock. Duncan stared at it thoughtfully. Most of the stone in this area was granite or limestone… both a lighter shade of gray. He crouched next to the rock, deeply imbedded into the earth as if it had always been there. But had it? He touched it, feeling its slick glassy texture.

Now it was 1848 and Darius was working on something in the chapel garden.

"What's that?" Duncan had asked curiously.

"Black marble from near the Black Sea where I was born and lived until my first death."

Duncan had touched it, feeling its cold glossy texture.

"One of the mountains fell in an earthquake the year I was born. There was lots of this stone lying about. I sent for some years ago."

"What are you doing with it?"

"Carving it. The father of one of my friends was a worker in stone and made the most marvelous things. When I wasn't working for my father at the forge, I sometimes went to Ska's shop and watched him work stone." Darius had chuckled. "Maybe in another life… I might have been a stone-cutter."

"But what are you making?" Duncan had asked.

Darius had moved his hands and held up a small figure. "Chess pieces."

"You made your set?"

Darius nodded. "Centuries ago. Now… I make them for friends."

That Christmas, Duncan had received the set he'd kept in Paris… beautifully carved and reverently made… he'd used it often. After Darius' death… he'd thought of him every time he moved those figures. He also had Darius' personal set in storage. Perhaps he should give it to Alisaunne.

He dug around the rock with his fingers until he managed to pull it loose. Holding his breath… he turned it over and brushed away the dirt. At first he saw nothing. Then he did. Carved into the underside of the rock was the rune for friend. Not the arcane symbols of their collective past… but simply the rune… the one Darius had taught Duncan so long ago. Duncan breathed out forcefully even as his fingers rubbed the rune. But what did it mean?

He stared at the hole it had left and placed one hand in the hole… running his fingers along the sides and bottom of the hole. Feeling something smooth… he tapped the bottom and heard the unmistakable sound of metal. He dug into the hole until he pulled out a small metal tin box… the kind candy came in. He smiled and brushed the dirt away from it.

Carefully he opened the box and gasped. A scrap of MacLeod tartan lay before him. He glanced around at the other visitors and then lifted the scrap of cloth. Nestled on another piece of tartan were two chess figures… a white knight and a black bishop. Duncan lifted them before his eyes to examine them. He ran his fingers over the delicate carving on them, marveling at the detail and intricacy of the pieces. Darius had outdone himself with these. He turned the knight over to get a look at the base, wondering if Darius had left his mark there. He had… but not the one Duncan was expecting. It was the mysterious symbol for champion. Quickly he lifted the bishop… warrior it read.

"All right," Duncan murmured, "that can't be all." He shifted the other scrap of cloth and saw the piece of paper with his name written on the outside. His hand froze. This was it… it had to be. Carefully… as if afraid that the paper would crumble and the message be lost… he pulled it out of the box and unfolded it. His fingers caressed the thick vellum… the same as his other letter was written on he was certain.

Duncan,

It is the 12th of February in the year of 1993 as I write this. You are currently in America and I have no idea when or even if I will see you again. Yet if you are reading this, then all my fears have come to fruition and I have not merely left Paris as I intend, but have died.

I once told you that I sometimes have prophetic dreams. I'm having them again. I keep seeing men with swords on holy ground. I fear for what might happen.

I've hidden…

"Monsieur?" a nearby voice asked.

Duncan looked up at the docent and smiled as he quickly folded the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. He replaced the lid on the box and shoved the rock back into its hole. "Pardon si' vous plaî," he apologized. "Ma fiancée…" he shrugged, and tried to explain that it was a scavenger hunt.

The docent shook a finger at him and launched onto a lecture about the voluble nature of the battlefield and the importance of respect.

Duncan agreed with her, rose and stomped on the rock with a shrug and a smile as if to show her that no harm was done. He pocketed the tin box and left the battlefield. He'd find a place nearby to hole up while he studied the letter. Obviously what was in the box was only the next step on his journey. He'd searched too long for the answers for even his fears about Kate and her child to come first.

-----

Renting a room in a cheap hotel afforded Duncan a quiet place, away from observers to take the time to really study the contents of the box he'd found. He spread everything out onto the small scratched and chipped wooden table and took the time to first examine the box. Closing his eyes, he ran his fingers over it inside and out… to sense if there was anything there that he might otherwise have missed. There was nothing. It was perfectly smooth, its paint faded. "Sometimes a box is just a box," he chuckled and set it and the lid aside.

The tartan was apparently the same. It might have been cut from the same piece in which Darius had wrapped the Watcher's Chronicle that he'd stuffed in the wall for Duncan to find so long ago. He felt nothing in the cloth to indicate there was anything about the scraps that wasn't immediately apparent.

Next, he examined the intricately carved chess pieces. They were bigger and heavier than most chess pieces he'd seen. Their shapes, while still clearly that of the traditional knight and bishop, were nevertheless unusual. A man crouched low on the horse's head as if gripping the mane of a horse not fully carved. The small indentations indicating his eyes made it seem as if he stared at Duncan… no matter how he positioned the piece.

The same was true of the bishop. He slouched beneath the pointed miter, two-faced… each with eyes that found Duncan wherever he was. One face was twisted in anger… the other was benign and placid. "Your two halves my friend?" Duncan mused. "Who you were and who you became?" In one set of hands the figure held a sword… the other set offered benediction. Oddly… the sword was in the hands of the peaceful face. Duncan set the pieces aside and pulled out the letter, quickly finding the point where he'd stopped reading.

I've hidden much of who I am and who I was inside of the role I chose to play. I was always sincere in my words and actions, but my reasons for certain actions were often ones neither you nor my other friends might necessarily have understood. The mask is finally off.

No doubt you have met my friends by this time. I hope so, as it might take all of you to follow the clues to their proper end. Each of you will have something to bring to the table, as it were, which will help you see and understand the truths that await you all.

I have only just begun to understand them, and they amaze me in their complexity and their simplicity. The "innocents" among us hold the answers, but it is we who must unlock the door.

Charles leMartin

Duncan stared at the signature. Obviously the name was a clue… but to what? He looked over the entire letter, finally noticing the quotation marks around innocents. He stared out the window. The children being born were the innocents among them… but was there another reason to call attention to the word?

He beat his knuckles on his forehead in frustration and let out a strangled cry. Then he began to chuckle, recalling that he'd learned that Darius had frequently traversed the streets of Paris as someone other than himself. Likely he'd taken the artifacts to Cassius for photographing and scanning into the computer program… but then had removed them. Until this moment, Duncan had not thought about Cassius' role in this. The old Roman had not left his manor house to hide things… Darius had done so. The artifacts were still in Paris… and he thought he knew now where to go. He smiled and repeated the name… "Charles leMartin."

-----

Washington, D.C.:

The information dribbled in. Burt's contacts and passwords helped the Watchers hack into systems they normally wouldn't have been able to and get at records that they normally didn't see. The tax records of the film company and the partial plate of the car led them finally to an address.

Straightening to work the kinks out of his back from leaning over the shoulders of the researchers, Burt stretched his arms. "We've got him… or at least a possibility," he said. "Let's see what else we can find out about this guy."

What else was… not much. They did get the name of Art Hinkle from a copy of the papers sub-letting the apartment from Stan Monroe. "That's an old dodge immortals use. They sub-let to themselves to further hide their identities," Cecile suggested.

Burt shook his head. "We still have nothing to prove he is an immortal. Surely one would have been more careful in discarding the body parts of his latest victim." He rubbed his face and eyes, feeling like he hadn't slept in days.

"He wouldn't have known we'd be on him," Cecile insisted.

Burt stared at her. "If he was immortal, he would have. At least he'd have expected a Watcher to be on Manning."

"Not if he didn't know about them," Ryan Coltraine suddenly said. He shifted uncomfortably as everyone stared at him. "I mean Sarah didn't know about us. Maybe whoever this is doesn't either. Not everyone was affected by what went down a dozen years ago."

Burt nodded. "He's worth checking out… as is the apartment. But I don't want us to go in guns blazing, as it were. We need some subtlety."

"While we're being subtle… he could kill Sarah!" Ryan protested, leaping to his feet and gesturing impatiently.

Burt turned and grabbed the young man's shirt, wadding his fists into the material. "And going in too soon will guarantee it. For all we know… she is already dead." He shoved Ryan back into his chair and turned to face the others. "I want some suggested plans of attack for this place. Cecile… can you get me the blueprints?"

Cecile nodded and the group went back to work. In his chair Ryan balled his fists into his eyes and silently screamed.

-----

Sarah sat quietly in the chair as Kingsley placed a plate of food before her. She knew not to move until he was seated. She'd learned.

He slipped into the other chair and lifted his napkin, carefully smoothing it onto his lap. "I do so enjoy a formal dinner," he said genially. He gestured to Sarah.

She pulled the fine linen napkin from its ring and carefully positioned it on her lap… then rested her hands there… waiting.

Kingsley smiled. He gestured for her to begin eating as he made some inane small talk over the meal while buttering his roll and tasting his food.

If Sarah had had a knife… she'd have sliced his throat. Instead, she stirred the pasta with her fork and ate… managing not to gag… and swallowed a mouthful. Surprisingly… it was delicious. He hadn't cooked it… it was carryout from some restaurant. Their meal followed the pattern he'd been setting down for her. At first she'd been given no utensils and only finger food while he ate whatever he wanted. Then she'd had plastic while his were silver. She'd finally graduated to silver, but was still denied a knife. She supposed it would be that way for some time.

"What do you think?" he asked her.

Sarah froze… uncertain of what he'd asked her. Swallowing nervously, she smiled. "The food is delicious."

Kingsley slammed his silverware to the table and grabbed her by the neck. "You weren't paying attention. You have to pay attention!" Rising… he dragged her towards the torture room.

"No!" she begged, sobbing. "I'm trying. I'll be good! I'll pay attention!"

He paused and leered into her face. "I know you will." Then he opened the door and dragged her in for another lesson.

-----

Please note: I will be out of town for a bit and will not have regular computer access. I have uploaded the next few chapters and will try to continue to add them to the story as time permits. Please be patient. -elle