Chapter III: The Watcher
Sitting on a chair, Joseph Dawson pressed dimly with his left index the A string on the fifth fret of his Fender Stratocaster as he touched the string. Then, stretching his hand a lot, he pushed with the ring finger the B string on the eighth fret as he touched the string repeatedly, strongly at first, and then he began to go slower, as the sound faded.
He put the guitar aside, and took a pencil that was resting on his right ear. He grabbed a notebook, and stared for a second at a stave full of different notes. Then he drew the notes he had just played. He left the notebook and the pencil on the floor. A fine job he had done. All in one night. It was the finest song he had ever written. Someone else would have to write some lyrics for it, somewhere in the future. And title it.
The door ahead of him opened and a shape walked in. Blinded by the outside lights, he squinted at the slender form of a blue-eyed woman, whose short hair framed her cute face perfectly. The door closed and he could make her out properly. She grinned only. He had not seen her in a long time. But still he felt the grin was appropriate under the circumstances. He raised a hand and waved as he returned the grin. She approached and sat beside him.
"Is it true, Joe?" she asked softly. Her voice was painful, contrasting the composure of her face. He breathed out.
"Yeah. I helped MacLeod out of the Sanctuary." His face, till then sober, went hard as he did on himself. "I only regret not being able to take the others out. It is cold-blooded murder, and you know it."
"Joe..." she stopped, struggling with herself. "I know." She whispered. "But that's not what I meant."
"Then...?" And he knew what was coming. He had waited that moment for too long. His heart pounded heavily. His legs - the stumps he could call legs - shook. His fingers twitched as if he were playing the song with the fastest tempo ever. "What?"
"Are you my father?" She asked it head-on, staring right into his eyes. Looking away would not have been fair for her. He had to say what he had wanted to say for almost thirty years. He owed her at least that.
"Yes, Amy. I am your father." At those words, her eyes went moist. One by one, tears began to slide down her face. Her mouth shrunk. She began to breathe heavily. Joe himself was rather moved after letting out the secret that had corroded his heart for a long time. She stood up, probably deliberating whether to leave or stay.
"Why didn't you tell me!" She snapped. Her face had gone red. Joe began to lose his composure. He loved that woman very much. She was the only evidence that he had ever existed, and would remain there when he was gone. He couldn't stand to see her like that.
"I... your father..." he mumbled, unlevelled by the situation.
"You are my father, damn it!" she shrieked. Then she sat down again, not sure as to what to do next.
"I'm... I wish I could mend for all these years..."
She did not reply. She simply hugged him warmly. Joe let all the emotion i He shook his head. "Only I started too late... especially with you"
"But at least you did... how did you get the guitar?"
"My last dinner. After all, I'm not gonna die of starvation, am I?" She smirked and hugged him again, as she whispered something in his ear. "You will keep my cane, right?" he uttered.
She nodded, and tears rolled down again. She got up and wiped them away. "It's time I leave."
"So long, Amy. Try to make things right."
"I will." She opened the door and turned before leaving. "Goodbye... Dad."
Joe watched her leave, pounded by the odd desire that Amy's mother had spilt the beans earlier. He smiled hopefully. One way or the other, the only pending issue had been settled. He grabbed his cane and stood up. "Hey!" he called out. The door opened and a man with an automatic in his hands appeared. "I'm ready." The man nodded. Joe began to limp out.
-----
Stefano Zanetti looked at the open space with delight. There were five acres of green ahead of him. A line of seven men, all holding old rifles, stood firmly. To his left, Roberto Flores was talking on the cell phone. To his right, the line, and Goran Milosevic delivering orders to his second hand. He grinned.
He was the head of the watchers. When Kronos and Caspian unleashed the Water Disease, he made the reports. Altered them he had, to make it look like a plot of the entire immortal race. It had been a hard work, but that had moved Shapiro to reveal the existence of immortals to the world... and of the watchers. But Shapiro had been reluctant to go further, so Zanetti had him killed, beheaded by his loyal men. The blame was pinned on the immortal Alex Raven. The watchers hunted her down and took her head. As Shapiro's second, he replaced him as head of the watchers. He met with presidents and ministers around the world and convinced them that the eradication of the immortal plague was crucial.
A black van pulled up and the side door opened. Two armed men got off. They grabbed Joseph Dawson by the arms and helped him down. A third man got off after Joe. They began to march towards them. Zanetti noticed both Flores and Milosevic had drawn near him and were staring at the marchers, especially focused on Joe.
Dawson ended up face to face with the three of them. Flores extended his hand. He looked uneasy. Dawson shook it, nodding. Milosevic did likewise. Again, Joe shook it. Zanetti smirked as he offered his hand. Joe spat at it and swiftly threw a punch at him, which connected Zanetti's chin. The head of the watchers fell to the ground as the armed men held Joe back. Quite a pathetic image it was to see three well-built men struggling to contain an old man without legs. Zanetti got up again and wiped off the blood on the left side of his mouth. He grinned at Joe.
"You shouldn't lay your sins on me, Joseph. Think about your actions, and pray the Lord forgives you."
"I have no repentance, Stefano. None." It was a firm, defiant response. Joe was motioned towards a spot, some steps ahead of the line of armed men.
He moved forward and stepped where he was told. Ahead of him, the seven men were loading their guns. Here it would end for him. The atrocities of the watchers would continue, unless their weak points were tackled, or more accurately, the butchers inside the organisation were butchered.
He did not repent anything. Helping Connor MacLeod out of the sanctuary had been the right thing to do. He felt he had owed at least that to Duncan. That had been right after Joe had summoned Amanda to her bar, where the watchers had got hold of her by surprise, without his being able to do anything. There he had known he had to save Connor. Unfortunately, he was caught shortly after he sent the Highlander away.
The other immortals in the sanctuary were beheaded before his very eyes, one by one. In a so-called grant of kindness, most of the immortals received a quickening in their departure. The head of the first fell. The one next to him received his quickening, and as he received it, his head fell too. The process continued with the third, the fourth, and with the others until the last one standing lost his head as well, with no one to receive his power. Joe had watched detachedly how the blood on the ground increased. Mass beheadings... and on holy ground...
It didn't matter anymore. Relief possessed him, and he tranquilly smiled at the line of armed men. The sentence was being read aloud. He paid no heed to it. He could almost recite it. Joe Dawson... bla bla bla... for treason... bla bla bla... shot... bla bla bla... whatever. The men aimed at him. The words his daughter had whispered in his ear came to him as the rifles fired and seven bullets, each of which found a place to nestle inside him, pierced his body.
