Chapter Five

Harvey took his third shot of vodka that morning. Drops of the alcohol splattered on the glass display case that doubled as his counter. Inside the shop the air was stale and humid. Streams of sunlight poured in through the door window flooding the old gray carpet. The place was a fire hazard. One entrance and one exit, and his entire inventory hung from the racks, or graced the display case. He had a tiny refrigerator off to the side but it had been broken for years, and wouldn't keep a woolly mammoth cold. There was no bathroom. You had to go that badly you locked the door and put up the "closed till" sign while looking for an empty bottle of booze. At the very least that discouraged people from trying to steal your liquor.

Business wasn't bad, when it was his usual dealings. Stolen watches, purses, and anything else he could get for cheap off the streets. He kept a loaded rifle behind the counter and a cell phone fully charged, so if you didn't like his offer the cops might. On an average week he could pull in just enough to pay the rent, sometimes more.

Then, over a drink at a bar, a friend told him of the latest fad to hit New York; swords. Yeah, big sharp medieval swords and battle axes and anything else that could send your head rolling. Apparently there was a huge market for them in this city. You could buy your ticket out of here with a few good sales.

Well, who could argue with that? Harvey sure as hell couldn't. So he invests in this neat little piece that his friend came across twenty years ago. French military issue, sword from about the year of Napolean's reign. Belonged to a ship captain who was killed by the British in the War of 1812.

Oh, what the hell? Harvey thought. I may never make a dime on it but at the very least it'd make a beautiful discussion piece.

So it sat there on a shelf on the wall of his shop. No more than a week went by and he was sure it was going to collect enough dust to fill the Grand Canyon. But then a buyer came in. Nothing to remarkable about the guy, and he seemed rather polite and clean cut for someone who would come to his shop. Four hundred thousand dollars cash! Straight up! If Harvey had been about a few decades older he'd have had a heart attack. Cash from a legitimate source! Who'd have figured it? Never had a customer been so eager to open up an account at the local Hammer & Rhodes bank!

So maybe his friend was right, he figured. And he went to town trying to buy up as many collectible swords and other ancient weapons as he could find. Soon word got out and Harvey Campbell gained a reputation as having the hottest sword shop around.

That was a year ago. A decent apartment and food in his stomach was what kept him from buying a better location for his shop. But he figured if he did business kept doing this well, pretty soon he could hire someone else to run the shop, and put a down payment on a beautiful townhouse in upper Manhattan.

But oh, if Duncan Macleod had never walked into his shop…if Harvey Campbell had never once heard the word "immortal" in his life. Who knew that the men and women who purchased his wares were then taking them to the streets in some never ending war?

Macleod was a totally different story though. Harvey was turning up so good a profit that Macleod actually wanted in on the action. So after taking the head of one of his opponents, Duncan would "sell" Harvey the loser's sword. Harvey was nervous at first, because they came to him bloody, and all the cops needed were a drop. Duncan agreed to bleaching the swords first, but it would cost a few extra thousand. To avoid being an accessory to murder Harvey guessed it was a fair price. Besides, the alternative was losing his own head.

The door flung open. Harvey jumped and grabbed for the rifle.

"It won't do you any good," Duncan said. His tone was soft but his face was poisonous. "Unless you want the cops to come after all."

Harvey lowered the gun and went for the bottle again. Duncan snatched it up and took a huge draught.

"The cops were all over here asking about you," Harvey said, accusingly. "Do you know how they traced you back to me?"

"Not a clue," Duncan answered, slamming the bottle down on the counter and wiping his mouth. "I hear Crime Stoppers offers a pretty heavy reward to anyone with information. I'm sure we just have some watchful people in the neighborhood."

"So where's the sword?"

"I thought I'd leave it with a friend." Duncan took another swig of vodka. "How'd you like to earn some cash this time?"

Harvey wiped some sweat from his forehead. "What are you talking about? I can't afford another screw up like this. Do you know what the penalty for accessory to murder is in this state?"

"I believe it's the death penalty. But if you get yourself to Canada after this job you shouldn't have to worry about it."

"Canada!" Harvey threw up his hands. "What the hell am I going to do in Canada?"

"It's a solution," Duncan said, trying to keep his cool. "Do you want to earn the cash or what?"

Harvey went into his refrigerator and pulled out a small bottle of brandy. He guzzled it for a while, ignoring the warm bitter taste and the burn on his throat. Duncan snatched the bottle again before he emptied it.

"I'll need you sober for this," he said sternly. "Or I'll just clue the cops in now and find someone who'll help me for cheaper."

Nausea swirled around in Harvey's stomach for a second. He wondered if he'd puke or pass out, and he honestly didn't care which at this point.

"How much?" He said, with a burp.

August 10, 2005: Current Timeline

At last the police left the scene, having found all they were going to find. The remaining officers questioned the homeless who frequented the area, and anyone else who might have heard something. But all in all it was a fruitless investigation that was probably going to get filed away in the back of some obscurely labeled drawer. One in a thousand murders that occurred in New York City, and unless the family hired a private investigator it was likely going to get incinerated. Not all crimes in New York were investigated as rigorously or with as much dedication as Law and Order and CSI would have the general public believe.

Yellow tape remained but there would likely be no more police investigations that day. Duncan watched from a distance with binoculars just to be sure. Anyone who saw him would think he just was bird watching.

When the bridge was clear Duncan made his way for it. His sword was tucked beneath his trench coat ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. No one was near the tunnel and fortunately no one was on top of the bridge either.

Duncan was careful not to disturb the chalk lining where the body had been found. He entered the tunnel, glancing behind him to make sure no one noticed. It was a wonder the police didn't spend more time examining the tunnel. The stones on the ground and the arch were scored with electrical burns. At a first glance there was nothing unusual about them, but when Duncan held his hand over any one of the stones he felt a faint energy pulsing from it.

Duncan gazed at the end of the tunnel. Something was different at the end of it, and he couldn't explain what it was. As he approached the other side he felt as though he were passing through something…an energy field of some kind. But when he stepped out at the other end of the tunnel he felt nothing else out of the ordinary.

He stepped out into the warm sunlight and looked around. Same luscious and green Central Park with hot dog vendors, children flying kites, elderly couples out for a stroll, and bikers out for their exercise. And in the city it was the same towering skyscrapers and business offices, and busy traffic and pedestrians rushing to get nowhere fast. Perhaps he really was being paranoid.

Duncan took a few steps from the tunnel when something caught his eye. A gentleman was walking his dog down the cobble road. The dog stopped by an apple tree to attend to business, and Duncan caught a glimpse of a pin on the man's lapel.

It was the World Trade Center painted gold and silver with the words: Thirty-Year Anniversary-2003.

A choir of questions arose and Duncan set about to answer them.