Searching

3 May 2046, Caen, France

The morning after Margot's birthday party, Elena woke up late. Duncan was already gone. She ate and dressed in a hurry, grabbing a raincoat on her way out the door. The weather forecast called for rain.

The storm blew in after lunch, and she was wet and muddy when she got home. She didn't sense Duncan, which meant she could make him dinner and maybe even have time to slip into something sexy.

As Elena got out of the car, she was surprised to see Margot waiting at the door, huddled against the wall for shelter from the fierce wind and pelting rain. Elena waved and smiled in greeting. But suddenly Elena thought about why Margot would be at her door, alone, in terrible weather. Suddenly Margot reminded Elena of one of the military officers they send to the home to tell the family their loved one is gone. Elena hurried over and unlocked the door. "Margot? Please come in."

Margot went in, and Elena followed, waiting to hear the words, taking long breaths for control, to try to keep the fear at bay.

"Luz," Margot began, "I…"

"Please just say it. It's all right." It wasn't all right, of course, but Margot looked so miserable Elena actually felt sorry for her.

Margot had her hands clasped together in front of her as if she were praying. "A ship was sinking earlier today. Duncan was working the harness, as Ahmed is still sick. We got all the passengers off, but we were low on fuel and overloaded." She smiled wanly. "Duncan told us to head for shore. Insisted, actually." She took a deep breath. "He stayed behind."

"On the sinking ship?"

"No, of course not. We left him a life raft."

Elena nodded and slowly sat down on the couch. She nodded again. It sounded just like him. She smiled up at the other woman. "Margot, thank you for coming to tell me that he won't be home tonight. I would have worried." Though more about swords than water. This news was bad, but it was good to know one way or another.

Margot bit her lip and sat down next to her. "Luz… he should have been home tonight. We were going to back to get him right away, but… the storm… it blew up so quickly. We couldn't—" She swallowed hard then smiled at Elena. "We'll go as soon as we can. Those rafts are sturdy. Its beacon is still transmitting. He'll be fine."

Elena could tell that Margot didn't believe those reassuring words. They both knew how horrible La Manche could be. "That water's so cold. There's nothing we can do, is there," Elena said, hating how helpless she was, seeing that Margot hated it too.

"Not yet," Margot said. "As soon as the storm clears, we'll fly to the site. And I'll let you know what happens."

"Thank you for coming," Elena said again, the phrase mechanical and stiff, and Margot left with a hug and more empty reassuring words. Elena shut the door and slowly turned around.

The little house was empty, and terribly quiet.

Elena took a shower, as usual, but couldn't eat. Duncan had a dangerous job. This was bound to happen. "Ayudalo, Dios mio," she murmured. Help him. She had just poured a glass of wine, only one, she promised herself, when their landlady, Mme. Affellah, came to call, bearing a casserole of couscous and lamb.

"Such a terrible thing," she said, placing the dish in the kitchen. "To be lost at sea… But so brave, to give up his seat that way!" She shook her head then asked with unseemly eagerness, "Have you heard any more?"

"No," Elena said. "How did you hear?" Surely Margot hadn't made the rounds to everyone Duncan knew.

Mme. Affellah looked at her in surprise. "It's all on the news."

Elena flipped on her phone and waved her hand to turn on the wall screen. Once again, she watched newscasters burrow into the lives of people she loved. "We're standing by the station, waiting for the weather to clear, so they can begin the rescue attempt of Duncan MacLeod," said a dark-haired young man with breathless urgency to a perfectly coiffed blonde woman with manicured nails. They could have been French clones of Dacio and Serafina. Elena hated them on sight.

"Let's talk again to the people this heroic young man rescued earlier today," the female said.

The screen showed a middle-aged couple, and they spoke in English about the terror of their boat sinking and how happy they were when the rescue helicopter arrived. "It's such a wonder that Donald's camera still worked!" the woman exclaimed. Then came video, shaky and from up high, of Duncan crawling into a life raft then waving urgently for the helicopter to go home. The vantage tilted as the helicopter flew away, and Duncan soon became a tiny dot on an endless sea.

The English woman was dabbing at her eyes. "I do hope they find him tomorrow," she said. "He saved our lives." A photo from Duncan's personnel file appeared on the screen (short hair and no mustache), just above the dancing advertisement for Fruitee Oatee Bars.

"We're all hoping that," their interviewer said with utmost gravity. She looked straight at the camera lens to say: "I think none of us will get much sleep tonight. For as we wait helplessly for the weather to clear, all of France and all of England must be asking: 'What is happening to Duncan MacLeod?'"

What's happening is that he's dying, drowning, freezing to death, Elena thought. Aloud she swore, "Merde," clutching the wine glass tightly in her hand.

"And you both so young," Mme. Affellah said, patting Elena's shoulder.

"Thank you," Elena said, trying not to grit her teeth too obviously. "For coming here, and for the food. I'm sorry; I really would like to be alone now."

But even as Elena was locking the door again, her phone rang. Elena looked at the caller ID. Of course. She sighed and picked up the phone.

"Well?" Connor's voice demanded.

"He's at sea," Elena said simply, for there was nothing more to say.

"Think they'll find him tomorrow?"

"Maybe. But if he's not in the raft and they can't pick up his beacon nearby, they won't bother to look anymore." Duncan had explained the protocol to her. They'd logically assume he'd died of exposure during the night and sunk beneath the waves. She shuddered, remembering when she had crash landed into the frigid Mediterranean, a little over two years ago. This was the much colder English Channel. Cold water and darkness were a deadly combination; to this day she had nightmares about it. If he was in the water, Duncan wouldn't survive any more than she had, so she told Connor, "If he's not in the raft, he won't last the night."

"I know."

But two years ago Duncan had come looking for her. Now she had to find him, dead or alive, and get him out of that dark water. For that she needed a boat. A fast boat. "I'm going to get a boat to search when the storm clears," Elena told Connor, "just in case."

"Get three," Connor ordered. "Cassandra and I are on our way."

All night, the newscasters kept displaying Duncan's picture and the rescue video, over and over again, building suspense for a public addicted to vicarious thrills. Weather updates were given on the quarter hour. They interviewed doctors about hypothermia, and they examined the life raft and demonstrated its beacon and roof. They climbed into the rescue harness and rode it up and down. They even brought in a mathematician to explain fuel consumption and why the helicopter had had to leave one of their own behind.

They had cameras on the ground recording the rescue helicopter when it lifted off into pre-dawn rain, and they had more cameras in a helicopter that soon took off in pursuit, transmitting the hoped-for rescue of "that selfless and brave young hero" to the world.

The rescue helicopter soon zeroed in on the beacon of the life-raft, but it was empty, swept clean by the waves. The newscasters shook their heads gravely as they relayed the terrible news. "Our brave young hero was lost at sea during the storm." The rescued British woman sobbed into her handkerchief; her husband patted her on the back. Grief counselors were available by phone, it was announced, for just a small fee. Call now.

The rescue team briefly flew a search pattern, looking for the smaller beacon in Duncan's life jacket, but nothing was found. The newscasters went silent for three entire seconds while the lost hero's comrades solemnly tossed Duncan's coffee cup into the ocean, a ritual, the newscasters explained that had started twenty-six years before, when another rescue worker had been lost at sea. Then the helicopters all turned around and headed for shore. The newscasters began to chatter about an elephant who could read.

On a small boat in the English Channel, Elena switched her phone from Newsvid to Talk then called Connor to coordinate the real rescue of Duncan MacLeod.

For thirty-one hours, Elena and Cassandra and Connor criss-crossed the waves in search of Duncan, using both positioning systems: global and immortal. The boat captains shook their heads at the foolishness but took the money. One of the sailors brought food to Elena and she swallowed it down mechanically to keep up her strength, making sure to drink lots of French coffee to stay awake.

Cassandra sensed Duncan late in the afternoon of the second day, a faint whisper, and Elena and Connor came swiftly to her position, and the search went on. Eager now, exhausted but sensing they were close, Elena scrambled onto the roof of the cabin, hanging onto a rope and peering into the dark blue waves, desperately looking for a small orange lifejacket, praying. Her eyes watered; she rubbed them, came down for more coffee, and got up on her precarious perch again. But she was the first to see him, and so she was the one to pull him from the water, to hold him in her arms and weep grateful tears.

"How is he?" Connor demanded on the phone. She could just see him standing on the deck of his boat, staring across the waves at her.

Duncan was dead. He had probably been dead for a while, but she couldn't say that in front of the crew. Elena put her ear to Duncan's chest and heard nothing, but she replied, "Barely alive. And not so pretty right now." His hair was plastered to his skull. The skin of his face was stiff, like leather, his lips dry and cracked. She could see his swollen tongue sticking out of his mouth, and his hands were closed into fists. "But he hasn't lost any limbs." No sharks, thank goodness. "He'll be all right." She'd seen Duncan die before; he tended to revive quickly and unexpectedly.

"Good," Connor said, while Elena asked the two sailors to carefully carry Duncan to the cabin. She could see Connor wave a hand to his boat captain, and Connor told Elena, "We're going back," and turned off his phone. As the two other boats headed south, for the continent, Cassandra waved goodbye to Elena, and Elena waved back, thrilled and grateful that Duncan was immortal, that he would survive unscathed, that she hadn't lost him.

Elena told her captain to take them north, to the southwestern coast of England, for Duncan MacLeod was definitely dead in France.

As the boat chugged steadily across the English Channel, Duncan came to life, not "with a bang, but with a whimper," as the poet T.S. Eliot had said of the ending of the world. Duncan's tongue was so swollen he couldn't speak. He immediately began shuddering, and she pulled the blanket up to his neck then covered him with a second blanket. "Sleep," she told him softly "You're safe now."

Duncan looked at her, and he must have recognized her and felt safe, because his eyes fluttered and closed as he relaxed, his claw-like hands finally letting go.

When Duncan finally woke in an English hotel room, he had no questions. She was ready with water for his thirst then watered wine to warn him. Soup. He stopped eating long enough to take a long hot shower. Then he ate a roast beef sandwich. Two. Then fruit. More soup. More water. She remembered how thirsty and how ravenous she'd been when she'd first come out of the Mediterranean, and the kind Menorcan farmwife who had helped her.

"How long?" he finally asked.

"Two days," she answered. "You were in the water two days, longer than me after my plane crashed." They both shuddered at the memories. She smiled at him reassuringly and said, "I rented a boat and started searching for you as soon as the storm died down. Connor and Cassandra had boats of their own. With three of us, we could triangulate. I found you seventeen hours ago then brought you to this village. The immigration official was very understanding."

"And Connor?" Duncan asked.

"He and Cassandra went back to Austria," Elena said. "Exams or something. Oh, and I have your sword here. I picked up your car and got the sword from the trunk."

"Thank you," Duncan said, coming over to her and taking her hands in his. "I know I can always count on you."

She smiled at him brilliantly, recognizing the same words she had said to him. She was so grateful he was still alive, that she hadn't lost all her loves, even if her son wouldn't—

But this was no time to think of other men, or even to think at all, for Duncan was leading her to the bed. There, he showed her the best way he knew how just how grateful he was, and they didn't need any words.

At sunrise, they went to the balcony and looked out at the sea. In the early morning light, the water was beautiful, gray and silver. And deadly, let's not forget that, she thought. Duncan hadn't asked, so she told him, "Your memorial service is Tuesday. I told Pierre and Margot I'd be there. Henri Oiseaux will be there too." Duncan grimaced, and Elena understood why. The idea of being buried made her queasy too, but that was part of their lives. Their deaths, actually.

"No chance of a miraculous rescue at sea?" Duncan asked.

"After a storm like that and days in the water?" Elena shook her head. "Too many questions, from too many people. A lot of people."

Duncan shrugged. "Who would care?"

"Oh, about half of Europe," Elena said with a grin. "You died a hero, and you're all over the news." She turned on her phone and showed him some of the video of the last few days. The final clip was an interview with Pierre, who said, "We would like to name the station in honor of the intrepid Duncan MacLeod."

"Damn it," Duncan swore.

The next day, Elena left for France to go to Duncan's memorial service. It was beautiful and simple, in a small seaside chapel. Henri and Jacques had come, but Lucille was too sick. "She really liked Duncan," Henri told Elena. "So did we all. I'm so sorry," he said, his face full of the fear and knowledge that soon, too soon, someone would be saying the same thing to him.

Elena squeezed his hands and kissed Jacques on the cheek. She also kissed Margot and Pierre and Mme Affellah. Even Lucien, her parcours mentor, made it to the service, although he'd never met Duncan, and so did the couple whose husband Duncan had sacrificed himself for. Elena was grateful and said so in a few words at the front of the chapel. All cameras were banned from the service, and Elena avoided them outside when they went to throw a wreath into La Manche in Duncan's memory.

Then she went back to the house, where Mme. Affellah brought more food. Elena was glad she wouldn't have to cook that night. She thanked Mme. Affellah then packed some of Duncan's belongings, including his extra set of IDs. When she returned to the English seaside hotel, she found Duncan was letting his beard grow.

"You won't look like Zorro anymore," she sighed in disappointment.

Duncan, still amazingly handsome, just smiled at her then put the suitcase she had brought on the bed and opened it.

Elena sat on the bed next to the suitcase. "Amanda sent flowers to your memorial service," Elena reported. "An enormous bouquet of red roses."

Duncan said simply, "Oh," and didn't even look up from the clothes and papers he was sorting through.

Elena smiled to herself then graciously let it go, saying next, "People said very nice things about you. And so did I."

Duncan stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "Thank you," he said, and leaned over to kiss her. Then he sat down next to her, the New Zealander passport for one Justin Morris in his hand.

She flashed him a mischievous grin. "I told them the interesting stories at the wake."

"At least Duncan MacLeod won't ever have to face them again," he said, waving his new passport at her.

"And Justin Morris won't ever meet them," Elena noted.

Duncan nodded soberly. "I'm dead in France for fifty years."

That was part of their lives too. Moving, leaving, abandoning…

Duncan pulled her to him, holding her tight. She could feel his breath against her hair. "Where would you like to go?" he asked quietly.

She hoped he wouldn't be hurt, but she had commitments. He'd understand. She hoped. "Back to France," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Look, the race is in four months, and Mignone—oh, she's almost ready! She could win it, with just a bit more training, and I—"

"And you want to help," Duncan said with an understanding smile "And go to the race with her."

"I promised Henri," Elena said. "It's just a few months. I could still use your house."

"Yes, you could," Duncan agreed.

Elena smiled at him invitingly "After that…"

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then more firmly on the mouth. "After that," he agreed.

Elena didn't worry about the future details. They'd be together again, she knew, someplace, sometime. Right now, she was interested in what they could do today. And tonight. And in the morning.

She left England three days later. The first thing she did on arrival in Caen was to take some of the lavender she'd dried last year and make a sachet then mail it to Duncan.

As she was getting dressed the following morning to go back to the Oiseaux, she sensed an Immortal. "Damn, it's early!" she groused. Looking out through the front window, she saw a stocky man with a short red beard and light brown hair standing on the other side of the street. She didn't know him and was in no real rush to meet him, so she leisurely finished getting dressed then grabbed her sword, put on her cape and went outside.

He looked her over as she crossed the street to meet him, then smiled a little and nodded once in recognition before he greeted her: "Bonjour, Luz Marina—Elena Duran—Gutierrez. And welcome back. I've been waiting for you."

Damn those paparazzi. Her face was public knowledge now; or perhaps he knew her from her Immortal 'reputation'? And damn those chatty neighbors. "You are?" she asked.

"Eric Hunter. I'm looking for Duncan MacLeod."

He sounded Australian, or maybe Texan. Duncan had lived in both places, and he'd recently spent a quarter of a century in New Zealand. But was this Eric Hunter an old friend, or an old enemy? Piensa mal y acertaras! when it comes to Immortals, her father used to say. Think the worst. Enemy, then. "MacLeod was lost at sea," she began cautiously.

"Yes, his death was all over the news. A tragedy. And what a hero! Your own death was all over the news, too, and yet, here you are." Hunter waited for her to respond but when she said nothing, he asked, "Where is MacLeod?"

A thousand questions and a hundred comments came into Elena's head. She remained silent. She'd have to tell Duncan about Hunter, but she did not have to tell Hunter about Duncan.

Hunter squared his shoulders. "I have no quarrel with you, Duran. For now," he said, perfectly pleasantly.

Elena did not miss the real threat, plus she knew better than to get between Duncan and his many duels. The one time she'd tried protecting him in this way he'd gotten so furious at her, he'd actually frightened her. She guessed she was more afraid of Duncan than of Hunter! That thought made her smile. Well, Eric Hunter was Duncan's business, not hers. She shrugged. "If MacLeod survived La Manche, and if I should run across him…"

Hunter smiled and reached into his coat pocket. She tensed slightly, but he only produced a card and offered it to her. "When you run across him, please give him this," he said. "I realize he can't come to France. I'd be eager to come to him."

Elena took the card. They nodded to each other, understanding, and Hunter left.

Elena went inside and called Duncan. Enemy. She sighed, wished Duncan luck, and said a prayer for him. Then, dismissing the Immortal business from her mind, she drove to the Oiseaux stables.

"Luz!" Jacques called out, running up and giving her a big hug. Elena had to blink back hot tears of grief and pain, remembering when Marcellino used to give her hugs like that, when she could tell him she loved him and know he would say the same to her. When she had been part of a family, with a home and pets and a troublesome mother-in-law and Sunday dinners after church and all the other regular, wonderful things that made up a normal life.

But that story was done. Finished. At least for now. Unless Marcellino contacted her. It was still possible.

Henri asked, "Are you sure you're coming back so soon?"

Elena nodded. "Working with horses always makes me feel better." She was living alone again, and she had to go on. And keeping busy was always good. But it wasn't easy to smile as she asked, "Don't tell me you don't need me anymore?"

"Of course we need you!" Henri exclaimed, and she blinked back more tears at the warm welcome of his words. "Bienvenue a nouveau!"

The next afternoon her phone rang. "Duncan!" she cried out happily.

"Elena!" he answered happily. "Meet me in Evreux tonight, the Campanile hotel."

Elena finished early at the stables, took a quick shower, and caught the 5:12. She ate on the train, because she could tell by Duncan's voice that dinner was the last thing on his mind. Eric Hunter had obviously come to an untimely end. At the hotel, Duncan opened the door for her as she came up the stairs, grabbed her in the doorway and pulled her in, kissing her passionately.

The next morning, they said goodbye again. "What now?" she asked him at the train station.

"Walkabout," he answered. "But European style."

Next: Elena finds her way