A few minutes later we're upstairs. My place isn't much, just a plain efficiency, all the walls stacked high with books, records and CDs. Still, for a guy who sleeps under bridges, it should be comfy enough.
Jean-Pierre unbuttons his shirt. He slides the silk down over his shoulders sensuously, folds it and lays it on a chair in the corner. Is he always this neat, or is it just because the shirt is borrowed? His torso is lithe, but much too thin. I can count his ribs under the skin. It's a little hot in here.
Why am I watching Jean-Pierre get undressed? Not part of my job description. Hey look, it's still nighttime outside the window.
"Are we sharing the bed or do you want me on the couch?" Jean-Pierre asks in a dark, suggestive tone. His emphasis on the word 'want' pushes it past flirtation into seduction. I can't believe I arranged for him to stay here over-night.
I don't even want to know what's going on in his head. No, I take it back. I deserve to know exactly what is going on in there!
"What the hell is wrong with you, Jean-Pierre? First you pull that bloody scene downstairs earlier tonight to convince me you're not human, and then you proposition me? What am I, some kind of Watcher psychology experiment?"
Jean-Pierre blushes. He actually blushes. "I'm sorry Joe, I didn't think of it like that. I'm just … feeling better tonight than I have in a long time. I thought it would be fun. And you have great hands, very sexy."
Lauren loved my hands. A memory of her gasping as I run my hands down her naked back raises a flush of arousal chased by a spike of grief. She's gone. Get a grip, Joseph. It's been a year.
Somehow I doubt that my hands are sexy enough to suddenly throw Jean-Pierre into lust with me, so what's his deal? He's probably just a little crazed right now, and a lot lonely. Sometimes, when you need intimacy, you settle for sex. I've done it myself. It never seems to work out well.
Now, Joseph, you've been a musician for 30 years; you should know how to turn an offer down gracefully. "Thanks, Jean-Pierre, but no. You get the couch. I'll be on the bed. There's some extra bedding in the closet over there. Feel free to take a shower. I could use a little privacy to get ready for bed."
Jean-Pierre is peering at me, looking a bit concerned. He shrugs and saunters towards the bathroom. At the last moment he turns, a mischievous grin on his face. "You're sure? After all, I got to watch your hands stroking that Gibson all night long, but you only got to enjoy half of what I can do with my mouth."
It surprises a laugh out of me. "Yes I'm sure! Now get in there, and make it a COLD shower, for Pete's sake." Scamp.
I'm feeling strangely cheerful, as I get ready for bed. I'm not sure how much is the ego-boost of being propositioned by an attractive young (looking) man and how much is finding a Watcher rule I actually haven't broken, when given the chance. I should dig out that "Watcher Purity Test" Adam emailed me back in '91, see what my score is like these days. I'm sure he'll get a kick out of hearing about it.
Getting ready for bed I hear Jean-Pierre turn on the water. He starts singing in the shower. The words must be Creole, but the beat is slow and strong like one of the old Negro spirituals. The sound lulls me to sleep. And if my dreams that night were filled with bright eyes, sleek thighs, and a hot mouth both playful and passionate – well, who could blame me.
The next morning I wake to the soft creak of my floorboards. I squint through the morning light leaking through the windows to see Jean-Pierre performing some bare-ass kata. Wonder if he always works out that way, or if it's for my benefit. Checking my bedside clock, I see it's a little before 10am. No nightmares for either one of us last night. I'm a bit surprised, with all we dredged up.
I work my way up to a sitting position and watch Jean-Pierre with professional interest. It's different than the kata I've seen Mac work through. This is a softer martial art, a Tai Chi variant. Jean-Pierre slides in slow motion from one form to another, holding each position until I can see his muscles quivering from a few feet away, then flows smoothly into another.
By daylight, he looks even more painfully thin than last night. Ribs, spine, and hips all protrude enough to cast tiny shadows on his skin as he moves. But I'm glad to see him doing something vaguely martial. It's a sign he might be willing and able to protect himself if Challenged. Finally Jean-Pierre reaches down to put his hands flat on the ground. He pushes off into a handstand, and then flips back to his feet and shakes all over like a dog.
Jean-Pierre turns around with a grin. "Morning, Joe! Sorry to wake you. I would have gone downstairs, but I wasn't sure what time the morning shift came on."
"No problem, Jean-Pierre. I'm sure Katie would have enjoyed the show. Where'd you pick that up?" So I'm nosy. It's considered a valuable asset in Watchers.
"A mean old man taught me this in a San Francisco park back in the 60's."
I yawn and stretch. "A Mortal? What was his name?"
"No idea. We didn't have any languages in common. I called him Grandfather, and I believe he mostly called me 'clumsy fool'. I slept in the park one night, and woke up at dawn to see him doing this. I stood behind him, trying to follow along. After a while he turned around and let me mirror, cussing me out in some language I'd never heard before and fixing my form whenever I made a mistake. We met every morning in the park for about a month, then he stopped coming. Never did find out what happened to him. But I still practice what he taught me."
It's an odd form of Immortality, to be remembered by a person who might live centuries.
By the time I take a shower and get downstairs, Jean-Pierre is cutting up some limes and flirting with Katie. He's drinking some of the industrial-strength coffee she brews up every morning, but it takes both of us to bully him into eating something.
I check the work schedule for the week. I'm not signed up for any shifts tomorrow, so I arrange to drive to the ocean with Jean-Pierre then. I'm just finishing up my omelet when MacLeod sweeps into the bar.
MacLeod pauses to check that the Immortal he senses is Jean-Pierre, and then strides towards me, beaming. Well, someone's in a good mood. I wonder if it's because he had the loft to himself last night, or because he didn't? Mac won't kiss and tell, but I'm sure Maria will let me know.
Grace follows Mac in the door. She and Jean-Pierre hug and chatter away in animated French.
"Joe! Good morning!"
"Morning, Mac. How you doing?"
MacLeod pulls my earplugs out of his pocket and returns them to me while shaking my hand. "Good, thanks. That was a great idea, getting Jean-Pierre up on stage to sing last night. He was like a different man. And such a voice! So …" I see his lips twitch. "expressive."
He is gonna rag me about that Romeo and Juliet thing for years. "Yeah, well, you're just lucky you weren't up there with him, Mac. Jean-Pierre probably would have made you tango with him."
MacLeod grins. He and Amanda nearly set the place on fire dancing the tango once when she was in town. I have to wonder, would Amanda see Jean-Pierre as a fun new playmate, or as competition? "So, how did it go after we left, Joe?"
"Not quite the way I expected. Things got a little dicey there for a while." I can't help but glance over at the gouge on the floor, under the table next to the stage. I'm not sure whether I should buff it out, or leave it there to remind myself not to get complacent around Immortals.
MacLeod's looking concerned.
"Nothing serious, Mac, I just didn't realize that Jean-Pierre was dangerous."
The crease is back in MacLeod's forehead, and he's moved so that he could draw his sword without me getting in the way. I don't think Mac's even aware of it. I swear, the man's as protective as a Rottweiler. "All Immortals are dangerous, Joe. But I didn't think Jean-Pierre was a danger to you."
I shiver at the echo of last night's conversation. No Immortal is human … All Immortals are dangerous. I sit down on one of the bar stools and gesture for MacLeod to join me. Katie's in the kitchen, and Jean-Pierre and Grace are on the other side of the bar. They are laughing and, judging by their gestures, discussing Mac and I in ways that would make me blush to hear it. We can have a quick private conversation. MacLeod sits down and leans in close.
"Mac, when you told Jean-Pierre about the Watchers, he immediately assumed that we killed Darius. That's why he wanted to speak to me last night." Mac looks confused for a moment, and then pales.
"I'm just lucky that he's not a 'behead first, ask questions later' kind of guy. We worked it out."
"Joe, I never meant to put you in any danger."
"I know." I wish I could leave it there, but I can't. "But the fact is, you did. I need you to stop telling random Immortals about the Watchers, before you get me killed, Mac."
If not by a homicidal Immortal, then by the Watcher's Tribunal. By putting it this way, I've made it impossible for MacLeod to refuse.
"Of course, Joe."
"Thanks, Mac." Well, there's a victory. 'Course, using emotional blackmail against a friend doesn't make me feel great about myself. But it's better than having some Immortal out for vengeance against the Watchers for Darius's murder. If it turns out there are Hunters still running the Watchers, I'm going to need some maneuvering room.
But if it is true, and Adam and I can't handle it, I'll write out the envelopes and lick the stamps for MacLeod to tell every Immortal he's ever met about the Watchers. Hunters won't have the chance to take out Immortals unaware of them ever again, not on my watch.
Time to regroup. "So, what are your plans for the day?"
"Oh, I've got a class to teach this afternoon at the University. Grace is going to take Jean-Pierre clothes shopping. Do you know he came to Seacouver without anything but the clothes on his back?" MacLeod radiates adult disapproval.
"Come on Mac, cut him some slack. When you were his age you traveled foot-loose and fancy-free plenty of times."
MacLeod opens his mouth to deny it, then sighs and raises a hand in surrender. I can quote dates and places, and he knows it. There are advantages to being an expert in a friend's personal history. "I guess that's true, Joe. Is there anything else I should know?"
Mac's really asking if there's anything he can do to help. The two of them do have one thing in common. They both deal with their stress by moving: pacing, running, dancing, katas. "If you can, try to get Jean-Pierre to go on one of those dawn marathon runs with you tomorrow morning. We'll be driving to the sea, to talk about what happened in Rwanda. It'll probably be easier if he's tired out, instead of keyed up." It can't hurt anyway. And Mac needs to feel useful.
Once the three Immortals clear out I leave Katie to finish the prep work. I have a stack of paper work to file. There's the Sighting Report on Jean-Pierre, Request for Assignment of a Field Agent who can keep up with him, Request to Expedite Assignment so the guy arrives before Jean-Pierre leaves town, and then the forms of Suggested Additions to a Third-Party Immortal's Chronicles for the stuff Jean-Pierre told me. At least I get to sign-off on all those forms myself, since I'm Area Supervisor. That means I'll be able to look Maria in the eye and tell her it's all taken care of when I meet her and Gerard for lunch.
Jean-Pierre is leading me on a wildflower tour. Never something I thought I'd try, but it's the perfect day for it. Mt. Rainer is lush and green, the air is warm, and the sunshine is golden honey. The dirt path is on a gentle incline, and he's roped us together for the hike. "Its part of the mountain-climbing experience," Jean-Pierre claims, with a little glint in his eye that makes me think I'm missing a joke.
We walk around an outcrop, and the path changes. The slope is steeper now. Instead of dirt, it's covered in little bits of rock that move when you step on them. Scree, I think it's called. About ten feet downhill from us is a sheer drop-off. This doesn't look safe. I hesitate, but Jean-Pierre blithely continues along the trail. He reaches the end of the rope and turns to look at me.
"Come on Joe, the field's just ahead." He beckons me on with a smile. "You've never seen anything like it." Jean-Pierre gives the rope a little tug, and it almost knocks me over. Now I'm a little scared, and definitely pissed off. What the hell am I doing hiking a mountain trail? It's not safe, and I do not belong here. "No way, Jean-Pierre. I'm going back."
A look of exasperation flashes over Jean-Pierre's face, quickly replaced by a fond smile. "Look, Joe, it's perfectly safe. I could walk this trail with my eyes closed!" Like the smart-ass he is, Jean-Pierre closes his eyes, stretches out his arms and starts walking back towards me like an acrobat on a tightrope.
The bit of rock under his foot slides away. With a gasp, Jean-Pierre opens his eyes and tries to catch himself, but now that whole part of the slope is moving. He's slipping down towards the cliff, and the slack on the rope isn't going to last much longer. I look around for something to hold onto, but there's nothing
Just as Jean-Pierre goes over the cliff I'm jerked off my feet by the rope. Shit! He might survive this, but there's no way I will! I'm on my ass on this nasty rock slope, but there's no force pulling me downhill. What happened? "Jean-Pierre? Are you down there?"
MacLeod's voice reaches up to me from the edge of the cliff, calm and confident. "Joe! Don't worry, I'm fine. There's a bit of a ledge here." Whew! I should have known, Mac has everything under control. I feel some movement at the end of the rope. "But I can't … quite reach the edge, to get back up. I just need an extra foot or so. Pull me up, Joe."
I should be strong enough for that. I get a good two-handed grip on the rope and pull. For a moment nothing happens. Then the rocks under me start to slide. I stop pulling on the rope and slide another 6 inches down the hill before I'm stable again.
I hold very still, gasping for air. Ian's voice, tightly controlled but with some real fear underneath, drifts up to me. "Joe? I don't mean to alarm you, but this ledge isn't very stable. I'm relying on you to pull me up, and I need you to do it now. Slow and steady, that's the ticket."
There's no chance Ian can survive that fall. Maybe I can do this, if I go slow enough. Very gradually I pull the rope towards me. Think molasses. Think glaciers. Ever so slowly I slide another few inches downhill. It's not going to work.
Lauren's shriek grabs me by the throat. "Joe! Joe, I'm scared! Please, help me! Pull me up!"
Jesus, Lauren! I try, I really do. I haul on that rope and slide three more feet down the hill. Any more and I'll be over the edge myself. There's no way I can save her. It's impossible.
I'm so close that I can hear Lauren's quiet sobs, and the faint cracks and groans from the rock ledge below. Numbly I unhook the carabineer. I'm holding the rope loosely between my fingers when I hear the crash of the rock giving way. I let go. James screams out his shocked betrayal as he falls.
I jerk awake, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Fuck! I switch on the bedside lamp. James's scream hangs silently in the air. I grab for the CD remote and hit play. Janis Joplin's vocals push their way into my little puddle of brightness. I can feel the dream out there in the darkness ready to pounce if I fall back asleep.
Well, that's a new and different nightmare. I thought renting 'Cliffhanger' would help me relax. Guess not. No way am I getting back to sleep tonight. Might as well get up; try to get some work done. I glance at the clock. Hell, I got less than 3 hours sleep. Won't that make tomorrow fun?