The Price of Interference - Chapter 7
It's Wednesday morning and I'm reading the paper's horoscopes to Katie and Alexa when Jean-Pierre dashes in through the back door. He starts zipping around the bar like the Tasmanian devil. He's talking so fast it's hard to understand. "Morning Joe, front door was locked! Hey there Katie! Who's this? Nice to meet you!" He pauses in front of Alexa and gives her a blinding smile. It would be charming if he slowed down to normal speed. As it is, I feel exhausted just watching him.
Alexa glances pointedly at me. "Oh, that's Alexa. Alexa, Jean-Pierre. He's the one you're packing that picnic lunch for."
She looks him up and down. "Hmm. In that case, I'll pack more food." Alexa heads into the kitchen and Jean-Pierre darts towards Katie. I manage to snag his sleeve as he passes me sitting at the bar. Jean-Pierre freezes. Is the son of a bitch high?
Jean-Pierre spits some words at me, in quiet machine-gun style; his gaze is locked on my hand as it touches his sleeve. "Hey, Joe, almost ready to go? Not quite yet? I'll just see if Katie needs a hand, then. Bring your gun, okay?" I let go, and he immediately takes off.
Jean-Pierre isn't high. He's on the edge of panic. I'm tempted to call this off this little discussion about Rwanda. Being fucked up myself does not qualify me to help Jean-Pierre with his issues. At least I could put it off until another day when I've gotten a decent night's sleep. It would give Jean-Pierre a chance to calm down, too.
I watch him as he chats with Katie and then moves into the storeroom to get something for her. Jean-Pierre is wearing khakis and a simple blue sweatshirt. Grace's taste, probably. He looks like a well-dressed college student, except for the new hiking boots.
He bought a new pair of hiking boots before going walkabout in Ireland. If I let him off the hook today, I might never see him again. Scared as he is, he made it here today. God knows why, but he trusts me. Jean-Pierre needs to talk about it. So it's time for a little tough love. I can do that.
I flip to the weather page of the paper. Partly cloudy, 20 chance of rain, highs in the low 60's. MacLeod would move to one of the only places in the world where you need to know the difference between partly sunny and partly cloudy. Not bad weather for this time of year, and it should make it easier to get some privacy at the ocean.
I head upstairs to get my coat and gun. I always carry my Beretta when I leave home, which says something about my life. But it says something about my opinion of Jean-Pierre that I pack 2 extra clips in the harness today, just in case.
By the time I get downstairs Jean-Pierre has dragged four boxes out of the back for Katie, and is now juggling some limes in front of her. Christ. When he catches sight of me Jean-Pierre tosses the limes to Katie one by one, and picks up the picnic basket on the counter. I shepherd him out to the car, ignoring his frantic little cry that he needs to say goodbye to Alexa.
Jean-Pierre drops the basket in the back and slides into the passenger seat. He examines my hand-controls, and then takes possession of the radio. By the time I get us onto the highway he's flicked us up and down the entire dial three times, and I'm starting to understand why Mac finds him so irritating.
I turn off the radio and slap Jean-Pierre's hand when he tries to turn it back on. He blinks at me. "Jean-Pierre, let's talk, okay?"
"Sure, Joe. What did you want to talk about?" He sounds miserable.
Over the next half hour, as we travel north on the I-5, I conduct an odd type of interrogation. Jean-Pierre will answer any question I ask, but he doesn't initiate anything. I find out that Jean-Pierre flew in a plane once at a World's Fair but wouldn't want to travel in one. He missed Woodstock. He hasn't recorded since the 50's. He's seen Bugs Bunny but only in French. Jean-Pierre agrees with me that Clapton is a god on acoustic or electric guitar, but really shouldn't try to sing his own vocals. I also discover that Duncan MacLeod snores worse than an asthmatic camel.
Jean-Pierre's responses are delivered in a monotone with occasional flashes of animation. His fear is a solid presence in the car. It's like a big black dog in the back seat, panting its hot, stinking breath on the back of our necks.
As I pull off the highway and head west through a residential neighborhood, I try to dredge up another conversational gambit. "Jean-Pierre, why don't you eat more? Aren't you hungry?"
"Always, Joe." I wait, sure that he'll explain. "It is the only … control I have, over my body."
My sudden surge of rage almost swerves the car over the middle line of the road before I rein it in. The only control he has over his body? How dare he say that!
Jean-Pierre can dance all night and do Tai Chi the next morning. He'll never have to choose between the jagged edge of pain and the mindless fog of painkillers. He'll never have to miss a friend's wedding because he's too sick to get out of bed. He'll never need reading glasses. Jean-Pierre doesn't fear losing his music if the arthritis in his hands gets too bad. He'll never have to worry about lying around in his own shit until some bored nurse shows up to clean him. His body will never kill him because it's just too worn out to work any more.
My mouth floods with the bitter taste of envy as I pull over into an empty driveway. I remind myself of the other side. Jean-Pierre can never have a child. He'll always have to live a lie. He can never stay in one place too long, or people will notice he's not aging. And then there's the sword-wielding assholes coming after his head and threatening those he cares about, for the rest of his life.
I manage to pull myself together enough to look at Jean-Pierre. He is peering nervously at me. "I'm sorry, Joe. I don't think I expressed myself very well there."
No, really? Even running on a couple hours of sleep, I gotta admit that reaction was a little over the top. Guess my own mortality has been hitting me hard lately, hanging around with an eternally young, strong, and handsome Duncan MacLeod. It must be terrible for their lovers. And it must be devastating to watch a lover wither away and die from old age.
"Well, Jean-Pierre, why don't you explain exactly what you do mean?"
Jean-Pierre stares at his own reflection in the side-window of the car. "My flesh is immutable, unchanging. Time leaves no mark on it. Joy and laughter or grief and tears, it makes no difference. This is what I am, forever. When I was in …"
Jean-Pierre stops, licks his lips, and exhales sharply, before starting again. "When things got bad, there wasn't enough food. Sometimes there was none. What there was, we tried to save for the children. I was so hungry, especially after … coming back. Alone. I lost a lot of weight. My skin was loose." He plucks at the skin of his forearm. I can see that it still is.
Jean-Pierre turns to me blindly, eyes full of tears. "When I got out, my body wanted to go back to exactly the way it was before. But I didn't want it to. The things I had seen, felt, done. I'm not the same person I was, Joe. And for this body, this flesh, to be exactly the same, with no sign of it ... I couldn't bear that! So. I stay hungry."
I just meant to ask a casual question. I didn't mean to open up this can of worms, not yet. Jean-Pierre wanted to drive to the sea. We'll be there soon. I just need to calm him down a little first. "Well, you could always get a haircut. Or maybe a tattoo." Adam's Watcher tattoo seems to stay on normally.
Jean-Pierre gives a choked little laugh. "I'll make you a bargain, then. You agree to tattoo 'Joe was here' on my ass, and I'll agree to hold still for it."
"Tempting, but no." Between Jean-Pierre's torch song Monday night, him still being there when Katie showed up for work Tuesday morning, and me asking Alexa to throw together a picnic lunch for us today, the rumor-mill at the bar is already in over-drive. It wouldn't bother me, except that even the rumor that I'm sleeping with an Immortal could be a real problem if it got back to Watcher Headquarters.
I turn on the radio and tune it to KPLU. They always play instrumental jazz from 9-2. It's pretty mellow and should give us both an excuse not to talk any more until we get where we're going. Jean-Pierre huddles into his seat, turned away from me. I pull back onto the road.
We drive down the coast for a while, entering every dead-end and access road we come across. Finally I find a private spot, with decent footing for me. I park on the dirt road and roll my window down. The scent and sound of the sea flood into the car. I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to look at Jean-Pierre. His short, panting little breaths are slowing to match the rhythm of the waves. His shoulders had tensed nearly up to his ears, but I can see them relaxing now. Looks like Jean-Pierre knew what he was talking about, saying the sea would help him get through this.
Jean-Pierre turns to me, with a painful little smile on his lips. "Thank you, Joe, this looks good."
We get out of the car and walk down a slight slope. There's an old abandoned pier half-fallen into the water with a wooden shack on it. Between the road and the water is a creosote-soaked railroad track, a flat area covered in dune grass, and a seawall built of dark boulders. I carefully maneuver my way over the loose white rocks, splintering wood, and smooth metal of the tracks to get to the dune grass beyond. The rocks remind me of the nightmare from last night, and I can feel my heart speed up a bit. Some big logs have been dragged into a circle around a fire-pit. Looks like sitting on those will be my best bet. Wouldn't be easy to get up from without Jean-Pierre's help, but it's better than standing the whole time. I settle down onto the largest log.
Jean-Pierre takes off his boots and socks, and then rolls up his pants legs. He clambers down the seawall into the water. He bends down to take a double handful of salt water. Jean-Pierre touches it to his lips, and then pours it over his own head. I'm reminded of a baptism. He stares west across the water for a minute. In clear weather we'd be able to see the Olympic Mountain range on the other side of the Puget Sound, but today gray waves meet gray sky a few miles out.
Jean-Pierre climbs back up the seawall, glances at me, and walks about 12 feet away. He picks up a stick, and digs a circle through the grass around himself. What is this, some kind of ritual?
12 feet is a little far for a conversation, even if it weren't for the sound of the ocean waves. I have to yell a bit. "Jean-Pierre? Can you come a little closer?"
He lays the stick down and shakes his head. "No, Joe, this distance is good. You have your gun ready?"
I've been wondering about that. "Some special reason why you're asking?"
He settles in the exact center of the circle in a lotus position. "Yes – if I step outside this circle without speaking to you about it first, you should shoot me."
Sometimes I really can't tell if he's joking. "Are you serious?"
He stares up at me earnestly from inside his circle. "Very. Joe, I haven't told anyone about what happened in Rwanda. I haven't really let myself think about them. And you know, with Immortals, sometimes when we remember things, we relive them. I killed a man there. I wouldn't want to hurt you, too."
Oh, this is perfect. I should have brought a silencer. Vision-questing Immortal goes on rampage, Watcher shoots Immortal, concerned locals call the cops, and cops arrive just in time to catch Watcher and reviving Immortal. Maybe I could push Jean-Pierre's corpse over the seawall and drive away?
I have to wonder how much of this is Jean-Pierre's last-ditch attempt to avoid this talk. Whatever. I just need to get him talking. "Don't worry, I won't let you hurt anyone."
I dust off my best no-nonsense command voice, useful for idiot Watcher interns and bands that think they're gonna mess with my sound system. "We're all out of excuses. Tell me about Rwanda, Jean-Pierre."
He nods, swallowing nervously. "Sometimes, Joe, Mortals make the most amazing choices of mercy, self-sacrifice and love. Other times, they choose cruelty, hate, and evil. I've seen it many times before. What can I do? I smile, I sing, I listen to their stories and watch. I bear witness, and remember them. When it is too much, I walk away."
That jerks me up short. I know that most Immortals aren't heroes like MacLeod, but how can Jean-Pierre not even try to help? "Walk away? How can you do that?"
Jean-Pierre sighs and shrugs with one shoulder. "Joe, how old do I look to you?"
I don't see a connection here, but I'll play along. "Somewhere between 18 and 20."
"Exactly. I died my First Death a bit too young, Joe. I have the look of a boy about to become a man. Grace and Duncan can stay in a place 10 or 20 years without much trouble. I can stay 3 years, perhaps 5 if I come in looking and acting my youngest. Then people notice. Richie will have the same problem."
I wonder if Mac has talked to Richie about this? I doubt it. Richie still is the kid he looks like, in a lot of ways. Three years might seem like a long time to him now. But it's too small a slice of even a Mortal lifetime. For an Immortal… "That would be a lot of goodbyes, Jean-Pierre."
He nods, and is quiet for a minute. "It was hard at first, but it grew easier over the years. Now I rarely stay in a place for more than a year. So it was easy to walk away from the victims of evil. It was not my fate, they were not my people, and this was not my world. At first, I thought Rwanda would be the same."
Jean-Pierre's eyes grow distant, and his expressive features harden into an unemotional mask. "When the slaughter began I was killed along with the Tutsi family who had taken me in. I fixed their names and faces in my memory, and tried to walk away. But I couldn't escape it. I spent 5 weeks trying to walk out of Rwanda. I was careless, perhaps. I would try to get food for those in hiding, try to scout a safe path. And I would die trying. 17 times I died, in those weeks. Sometimes I died alone, sometimes as one of many. But I always came back alone. I was starting to feel that I would be trapped in that place forever."
Walk away my ass. Jean-Pierre was trying to help people escape. MacLeod did that, back in the 70's. I've read his Chronicle from the Cambodian War. MacLeod made several trips in-country. He smuggled out groups of nuns and orphans. On his last trip, the kids were all killed in front of him. Mac hasn't been back to Cambodia since.
Jean-Pierre shudders and uncrosses his legs. He hugs his knees to his chest and continues. "There were 27 of us, taking shelter in a Church. Holy Ground. We heard a jeep drive up outside. Someone from the village must have reported us. There were 8 of them. They were dressed in a mix of military and civilian clothes – militia. Militia was the worst. They had no rules holding them back."
"Three of the men had machine guns. The rest held machetes. The one in charge marched in the door, very confident. He looked us over, then strutted to a 12-year old girl and grabbed her chin. He twisted her head to the side, and then pushed her to the floor. 'Ugly,' he said. 'Not a decent looking woman left.' We were all frozen."
Jean-Pierre starts to rock back and forth slowly to the rhythm of his own voice. "The massacres had been going on for a month. The Tutsi whose instinct was to fight when frightened, they had died first. And then, the Tutsi whose instinct was to run, they had been killed. All that were left were the ones who would hold still, hide, be silent. And now it was our turn."
His voice grows even more distant as he stares over my shoulder into empty air. "The man, the one in charge, he ordered us all against the wall. This was familiar. I had died against a wall 7 times. And I was going to wake up in a Church full of corpses again. I had died 4 times, on Holy Ground. And the number of people who had died around me … I had lost count."
I can see Jean-Pierre's gaze unfocusing. Shit! This is not a good time for a flashback. "Jean-Pierre?" Nothing. I ease my Beretta out of its holster. "JEAN-PIERRE!"
He startles and looks up at me. "Yes, Joe?"
He thinks I had a question. Let's see what I can come up with. "Is that counting thing normal for you? Do you do it a lot?"
He thinks about it for a moment. "No. No, I don't think I have counted up my deaths, or Mortals' deaths, like that before."
"Probably a stress reaction, then. I've heard of guys doing that, counting things to keep some feeling of control over them."
Jean-Pierre's lips quirk in a poor imitation of a smile. "Well, that would explain why I panicked when I lost count of how many people had died around me in those 5 weeks."
Jean-Pierre takes a deep breath, then releases it, and continues with his story. "It was more than 200 dead, but how many more? How could I show those Mortals respect? I did not know their names, I could not remember their faces, and now I had even lost their numbers. If I did not remember them, no one would!"
He struggles awkwardly to his knees and starts speaking faster, gesturing broadly with his hands. "Suddenly it seemed so obvious, so easy, so right. I would kill this man, this man giving orders. Quick as a thought, my sword was in my hands. I lunged. He turned at the sound, and my sword slashed across his face. He fell back. His men shot me, of course. The impacts pushed me back, rolled me over."
Jean-Pierre's eyes are fever-bright now. The words spill out of him. "But I had gotten very used to being shot, and I moved through the pain. I was shot, I was choking on my own blood, and I was dying, but I kept attacking my enemy. I pierced his lungs, hacked at his torso, and gutted him."
Jean-Pierre's been creeping forwards throughout this grisly little tale. Now he's on all fours, right up against the edge of that circle he drew in the ground. I flick the Beretta's safety off with my thumb. I really hope Jean-Pierre doesn't cross that line.
"I didn't try to take his head. I knew he was Mortal. As I slid into darkness, I thought I heard Baron Samedi. The loa of the Dead was laughing at me." Jean-Pierre's head sags down towards the ground.
I put the safety back on. "Why him, Jean-Pierre? Why did you decide to kill that man, at that time?"
He backs up into the center of the circle and sits down. "That's the problem, Joe. I didn't decide to kill him. I didn't make that choice. I just … did it. And that makes me very afraid. Next time I pick up a sword, I might do the same thing again. I know how, and my hands remember the feeling of it."
I guess I can understand that. If you chose to do something, you can decide to never do it again. But I saw some guys in 'Nam who had just lost it, snapped. It would be hard to trust yourself, after that.
Jean-Pierre is holding his left hand in his right, rubbing his right thumb across his left palm in a circular motion. "So, I woke up in a Church full of corpses again. 5 times, on Holy Ground. First I heard the buzzing of flies and a strange meaty, thunk sound. Next I felt my own deep breath, and the pounding of my heart. Then I smelled … I worked in a Chicago slaughterhouse one summer, and it smelled like that. Blood rots fast in the heat. And there was blood everywhere. I could feel it tacky on my hands, soaked though my clothes. The flies were all over me. I opened my eyes, and I saw the man I had killed."
Jean-Pierre stares fixedly at the ground in front of him. "I had butchered him. The wounds were familiar. The ones I had seen before were made with a machete on the corpses whose faces I could not remember. These were made with a scimitar, with my own hands, on the man I had murdered. But the wounds looked very much the same."
"I looked for my sword. I found it, and I found the source of the strange noise. There was a living man in the Church, one of the militia. He had my sword. He was very organized, but there was madness dancing in his eyes. He would pick a corpse and drag it to the center of the room. Then he would h..."
Jean-Pierre stops, swallowing convulsively. He raises his arm to his mouth. I can see the muscles tensing in his jaw as he bites down hard. The pain seems to center him. Jean-Pierre lowers his arm. We both watch his Quickening sparkle over the bloody bite mark. He begins again.
"He would hack the corpse apart. Legs he placed in one corner, arms in another, torsos in the third. The last corner was for heads. When I stood up, he smiled at me in childish delight. I think he was pleased, to see one of his corpses moving about. I ran away, leaving my sword in his hands."
"You know, Joe, sometimes God moves in mysterious ways. And sometimes not. I had murdered a man on Holy Ground, and woke to a warning so clear that no Immortal could mistake it. That was my Death there in the Church. It was a warning, but not a punishment. Not yet."
"I did escape from Rwanda. I tried to shed my skin. I had left my sword; I burned my passport and clothes. Nothing from Rwanda remained. Nothing except me. I could not shed what I had done. And so I could not become someone new. I had no money, no papers, and no passport. Travel was hard. I walked at night, crossed borders in secret. I was frightened of everyone. It took me 5 months, but I finally made it to Paris. I had to see Darius."
"I stood outside St. Julian's in the rain. 5 times I had been killed on Holy Ground. 5 times I had revived in a Church full of corpses. And one of those corpses was a Mortal that I murdered on Holy Ground. A part of me was afraid to go into a Church again. But I knew that it would be all right, once I saw Darius. Darius's Presence had always been strong, as long as I had known him. I could usually sense him from the gates, but on that day I walked in the doors without a touch of him."
"There was an old woman kneeling in prayer. I waited until she was done. 'Excuse me, Madame, do you know where I might find Father Darius?' I asked. 'Oh!' She squeaked like a mouse. 'Have you not heard? It was a terrible thing. He was murdered, right here in his own Church! Why they say that the maniacs …' She came close to whisper this to me, 'they say that they chopped his head right off!'"
"I was in a Church with just one murdered corpse, punishment for the one I had left behind. I ran from St. Julian's, just like I did from the Church in Rwanda. There are patterns in life, and this is mine."
Jean-Pierre closes his eyes for a moment, and then slams his hand into the ground. His face shows raw anguish. "I'm 175 years old, Joe! I have so much knowledge, so much experience. Is this the best I can do? Feel afraid, feel guilty, and murder a man? I'm just like James Horton!"
"Jean-Pierre, you are nothing like James."
"Tell that to the dead man's grieving mother, Joe." Jean-Pierre slumps back to the ground, lying on his back. All I can see now are his sandy khaki knees. I holster my weapon and tilt my head back to watch the same slate-gray sky that Jean-Pierre must be staring at.
After a minute I hear Jean-Pierre's voice, husky from a tight throat. "Joe? You thought James Horton could atone, after he killed Darius. Can I atone? Can I be forgiven?"
We're a long way from Sunday school here. I've had my doubts over the years, seen plenty of things that made me think God, if He was even up there, must be a complete bastard. I don't know what I believe these days. There are no easy answers. But I can feel my grandmother's crucifix under my shirt, over my heart. If God exists, there has got to be forgiveness for a good man like Jean-Pierre. "Jean-Pierre, I'm sure of it. Come on over here."
Jean-Pierre stumbles to his feet. I pat the log next to me and he drags himself over to sit down. His face is marked with fresh tear streaks, and it makes him look heart-breakingly young. "I can't tell you how to find forgiveness. You need to look inside yourself for that. But I have a question for you. When you got out of Rwanda, besides Darius and Grace, was there anyone else you could go to?"
Jean-Pierre shakes his head no. He's shivering hard, and with him pressed hip to hip against me I can feel it. I throw an arm around his shoulders. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Look, you want some advice? Here it is. You said that people are connected to each other, but you are the least connected man I know. And it's killing you."
Jean-Pierre sniffles, and turns his head to look at me with wide, wet eyes. "What should I do?"
"Hell if I know, it's your life! Join a band. Join a kibbutz. Get a job. Get a freaking pen pal. Fall in love. Just … connect with people somehow." I rub Jean-Pierre's back in small circles like my mom used to do for me when I was sick. He leans into me a bit, and I brace with my other hand to keep us upright. Eventually the shivering stops, and his breathing slows down to normal. "You okay?"
Jean-Pierre lets out his breath in a long sigh. "I think so. Thank you, Joe."
I pat his shoulder, and he sits up. "Right, why don't you put on your shoes and grab that picnic lunch out of the car, then. Katie and Alexa expect me to feed you up while we're out here."
We eat our lunch in a deep silence, listening to the waves. Jean-Pierre falls asleep on the drive back. When we arrive back at the bar, he gets out without a word, waves goodbye, and walks away down the road through the drizzling rain. I catch sight of Gerard shadowing him just before he turns onto 4th Street.