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hafitalTitle: Missed Connections
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.
Summary: He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives.
Missed Connections
by hafital
Part 3
~~~
Two detectives tag-teamed questioning. Where were you between the hours of midnight and two in the morning? What happened at the Chateau de Grosbois? They circled around him. They showed him grainy photographs, and a shiver went down his back when he realized the photos were taken by a security camera at the chateau. Do you know this woman? Do you know this man? They handed him a photo of Methos, his face looking up, his expression startled, the female Immortal impaled on his sword.
They asked about the swords.
He remained silent. They left him in a cold interrogation room with a row of mesh-covered frosted windows that allowed a gray, indifferent light to fall over the chairs and table, and the required two-way mirror on the opposite wall. His only company was a clock over the door and a silent television with accompanying VCR and DVD player sitting in a corner. It was ten minutes past eleven. At Methos's flat, his clothes had been missing and he'd hastily dressed in a pair of Methos's jeans, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt. He restrained himself from showing his discomfort, knowing he was being watched. Hunger distracted him from the leaden weight of anger squeezing his chest. It hurt, and the hurt made him angry. He welcomed the anger, wanting the heat that anger generated, the outrage, the fire. But his anger was a cold fury. Methos must have known, leaving before the police arrived.
Detective Laurent reentered the interrogation room. He was tall and lanky, well over six feet, and his dark, bushy eyebrows connected in the middle, giving the impression someone had played a trick on him while he slept by drawing a squiggly line across his forehead with a sharpie.
"Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, almost languid in his greeting. MacLeod noticed a flat plastic jewel case in his hands and a manila envelope. "Comfortable? Can I get you anything?"
MacLeod didn't answer.
The detective pursed his lips, and nodded. "It seems, Monsieur MacLeod, that we have a mystery on our hands. Perhaps you can help shed some light, n'est pas?"
MacLeod recognized the change of tone in the detective's voice--less interrogative and more requesting assistance, playing toward his instincts of cooperation. He eyed the detective calmly, having gotten the sense that the police knew less than they implied.
"At precisely 11:53 p.m. last night, I received an anonymous phone call to warn of an imminent murder. The caller wouldn't say where or when, only that a murder of a certainty would occur. The caller was female," he added after a pause, peering at MacLeod through the fringe of his impressive eyebrows.
"At 1:47 this morning," continued the detective, "we received notice of a disturbance at the Chateau de Grosbois. The alarm had gone off, the security system activated. Four police cars were dispatched but by the time they arrived, all they found was some blood on the stone floor and every single window of the Chateau shattered. There was evidence of an electrical disturbance; some of the glass had melted into the stone, and it took us the better part of the morning to extract this from the Chateau's security system." With a few pushes of buttons, Detective Laurent turned on the television set, sliding the DVD he held into the open, waiting slot of the player.
The video was a muddy black and white, with unclear, fuzzy images, but MacLeod could make out the courtyard at the Chateau de Grosbois. The camera was angled to see the entire courtyard, with the gate just visible in the upper left hand corner. The video had no sound, and at first there was also no movement, just another calm night at the chateau. Then he saw the female Immortal slice through the chain at the gate and enter, followed a second later by himself. Dispassionately, he watched the fight spill across the courtyard, taking note of his technique with a critical eye, watching her footing. Their swords were tiny streaks of light against the grainy, muddy background. It didn't seem real, like he was watching a bad episode of some reality television show. His heart sped up when the two figures on the television stilled and turned and looked to the gate. There was Methos, pale face shining in the light.
Outwardly affecting disinterest, he searched that tiny, pale face for a sign, a clue, something. In the video, Methos pulled his gun out and shot the Immortal in the chest.
MacLeod remembered lying in the dark of Methos's flat with the blue of moonlight and the occasional splash of light from the headlights of a passing car as Methos smiled, taking MacLeod's hand in his. MacLeod gripped the edge of his chair. The chill settled more firmly, deep into the muscles of his neck. His back hurt.
Methos impaled the Immortal; she whispered into his ear; he looked up, almost directly into the camera, directly at MacLeod sitting in the cold interrogation room. MacLeod shivered.
Reduced and flattened by the two dimensions of the video camera, the scene looked cartoonish, amateurish in the washed out grays and browns. You couldn't see the horror, couldn't smell the tang of coppery blood, or feel the driving wind.
Methos swung and took the Immortal's head. Lightning struck, and then the video abruptly ended and there was only the snow of static.
Switching off the television, Detective Laurent never took his eyes off MacLeod. "So, what do you have to say?"
Although the video was unclear and murky and lacking in details, it would be a stretch to claim it hadn't been him fighting with a sword. He was recognizable. "The things you can do with special effects and computers these days," he said with a little bit of a smile and a casual shrug.
Detective Laurent smiled and his eyebrows seemed to lower further down his face. "The blood found on the stones of the courtyard is real," he said. "As is the blood found in your barge, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod locked eyes with the detective. Under the heavy eyebrows, the detective's eyes were a matching heavy black.
"My story is not over yet," said the detective. "This morning, at about 7:30, I received a second anonymous phone call." He pulled out a small tape recorder and pressed play.
MacLeod looked down to his cuffed hands as he listened to Methos's voice, tinny and small, emerge from the tape recorder.
If you want to know about what happened at the Chateau de Grosbois, you should speak to Duncan MacLeod. You'll find him at 26 rue de San Germaine, No. 15. He is there now, but he won't be for long.
The tape recorder clicked off. "As you can see," said the detective, "that brings us to this point, here. Only, so far, you have not proven to offer much enlightenment, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod raised his eyes and looked at the detective. "Did you find the murder weapons?"
Detective Laurent's ink spot eyes flashed. "No," he said. "Nor have we found the body."
"Then, you don't have much of a case, do you?"
"As you say." The detective nodded, seemingly unconcerned, but those black eyes grew bright, becoming more like polished stone. "Who is the man in the video, Monsieur MacLeod?"
"I don't know." MacLeod answered without hesitation.
"You must know. You were there." Detective Laurent waved at the television. "The flat in which you say you are staying is rented by an Adam Pierson." He turned and looked at MacLeod, taking photos from the manila envelope in his hands. "The landlord identified this man, the same man from the video, as Adam Pierson." The photos of Methos were different from the ones they had shown him earlier. "These were taken this morning at De Gaulle Airport," he said. "Do you know the whereabouts of this person, this Adam Pierson?"
Macleod's mind spun, cogs falling into place. The cold anger from earlier finally bloomed into a fire. But he calmly answered. "You tell me. You should know. Check the passenger manifests," he added, helpfully.
"We did," he said. "But I want you to tell me."
They didn't know. MacLeod could tell by the shading of amused frustration coloring the detective's answer. Somehow, Methos had fooled them. "Oh, well, if that's what you're after, I really can't help you. I have no idea."
The detective pursed his lips and quietly sighed. With unhurried motions, he gathered all the photos up, put them back into the envelope, and ejected the DVD from the player. Then, he removed the cuffs from MacLeod's hands. "Your lawyer is waiting for you in the lobby," he said. "You are free to go, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod hid his surprise as the memory of that long ago day in Seacouver slammed into him. Ingrid. Agent Breslaw. Methos sauntering into the Seacouver Police station acting as his attorney. He started to rise, his heart doing jumping jacks with an insane, heady hope. But then, MacLeod realized it was impossible. Impossible. The police knew Methos's face. They had his picture. Whoever waited for him could not be Methos. He put a hand down on the table as reality hit him: it would be years before Methos could return to Europe.
The scrape of the chair skidding back hid MacLeod's awkwardness. He headed for the door.
"Oh, one more thing, Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, too casually. "Does the name 'Methos' mean anything to you?"
Blood drained from MacLeod's face. Detective Laurent's ponderous eyebrows twitched, his expression brightening with intensity, and MacLeod knew he had given himself away. "Sounds Swedish," he said, forcing himself to answer, his voice breaking.
After a moment, Detective Laurent smiled and nodded, and then led the way out of the interrogation room.
A man in a suit waited. MacLeod caught a glimpse of a blue tattoo on the inside of his wrist. With a shaky glance back at the detective, MacLeod moved toward the exit. The man in the suit looked back and forth between them and then hastily followed MacLeod.
MacLeod growled, "You're driving me to Joe's. Now."
With a sideways, anxious look at MacLeod, the man in the suit hurried through the front door. MacLeod followed, pausing to stand in the sun, face upturned, before following the man to his car.
~~~
He spotted the police tail four cars behind and instructed the man to pull over two blocks north of Le Blues Bar. "Wait fifteen minutes, then leave."
MacLeod got out of the car and entered the unmarked building, making his way through to a back exit. He came out in an alley. Watching for the dark sedan that had followed them, he crept along the streets.
He arrived at Le Blues Bar without notice. A "closed" sign swung from a hook on the front door, but as he passed through into the interior he heard the busy chatter of conversations and the low hum of music. A phone was ringing. There were several people huddled around a table with laptops and stacks of folders at their elbows. On stage, Joe's regular drummer was setting up for later. As his eyes adjusted, he saw others lurking in darkened corners.
The people at the table looked at him and watched as he crossed the room. Watchers. Joe came in from the back. MacLeod headed straight for him. "Where is he?"
Joe looked him up and down. He glanced at the group around the table and then nodded toward the bar. "This way. You look like you could use a drink."
MacLeod followed, but he would not be put off. "You know where he's gone. Tell me," he said, jaw tight, his anger still burning through him.
Joe went behind the bar and served two whisky shots. It was close to noon, late enough for a drink, but MacLeod hadn't eaten since sometime the previous day and his stomach felt like an empty, hollow sack. He declined. Joe slammed the shot back.
"What did the police tell you?" asked Joe.
For the first time since entering, MacLeod noticed Joe's pallor and blood-shot eyes. MacLeod put a hand on the bar; the grain of the wood was smoothed by countless hands. He found it comforting. "They had a video of the fight at the chateau," he said, dismissively, as if his stubbornness could dispel the video's existence. "And they spotted him at De Gaulle." He glanced at the Watchers still huddled around the table all pretending they weren't listening. MacLeod dropped his voice. "The police knew his name. His real name."
With barely an acknowledgement for MacLeod's concern about the other Watchers, Joe stuck his jaw out a little. His eyes were tired and sad. "They know," he said, quietly.
"What do you mean? Who knows?"
Joe indicated the Watchers. "They know about Adam. Methos. They know who he is."
MacLeod's fingers tried to dig through the wood. "Joe," he said. His hunger had morphed into a headache, pounding just behind his eyes.
Joe sighed. "What the police didn't tell you, or perhaps they don't know yet, is that he wasn't only spotted at De Gaulle, but also Orly. And at each he was booked as a passenger on at least three different flights going to different destinations. Probably more. Each under a different name, but every single one of them had a middle name of Methos," he added.
The anger MacLeod had cultivated all morning bled freely, spilling from the wounds created by Joe's words. Why would Methos do this? It didn't make sense. But he suspected that it did. It made terrible, horrible sense, and he just needed time to think it over. He needed rest, and a meal, and quiet. He needed Methos.
"It's the same at the train stations. Security cameras have him boarding trains, departing from different stations and going to different destinations all over Europe. Everybody knows," said Joe.
MacLeod caught the tone in Joe's words and pulled himself out of his shock. "What do you mean, everybody knows? What is it? What haven't you told me?"
This time it was Joe's turn to lower his voice with a quick glance at the Watchers to make sure they hadn't moved closer. "Everybody knows who he is. Everybody knows his face and his name. But he's left countless trails, too many to follow, probably none of them real. Mac, that video," he paused, his big strong hands gripping the whisky bottle. "I've gotten reports already from Watchers who say their Immortals are aware of some video being circulated on the Internet. A video that tells them who Methos is."
"But it just happened this morning," cried MacLeod. "Wait, are you telling me it's being sent around specifically to other Immortals?"
Joe's silence said it all. He offered no answers, no solutions. MacLeod's words spoken in jest to the detective came back to him: the things people can do with computers these days. The image of Methos's face as it appeared in the video wouldn't leave him: pale, looking startled, frightened, searching. Again, he wondered what she had whispered into Methos's ear. Did she warn him? Had he known about the recording?
"Misdirection," said MacLeod, unable to keep the weary exhaustion from his voice. "He created a diversion, booking all those flights. Smoke and mirrors. It was the only way he could disappear. He used his real name."
"One more thing," said Joe, reaching below the counter. "This was delivered here." He out a long, white, drawstring velvet bag and placed it on the bar.
Tightlipped, MacLeod picked it up. The bag dropped away, revealing the gleaming blade of the katana. It had been cleaned and sharpened. To MacLeod's exhausted mind, it was almost like an apology from Methos, for taking it, for leaving him.
"Thank you," he said. The chatter from the Watchers grew louder. The drummer started tapping out a rhythm. The noise clashed and collided, grew bigger and bigger. He needed to get out of there. "And thanks for the help with the police."
"Henri's a good man. He'll run interference with them, don't worry."
"They'll probably be tailing me for a while. It's better if they don't start questioning you."
Joe nodded. "All right," he said. MacLeod held out his hand and Joe took it. "Mac." The lines in Joe's face seemed to deepen in the low-watt lighting of the bar. His eyes searched MacLeod's.
MacLeod shook his head. He couldn't speculate, couldn't offer reassurances or even angry recriminations. He couldn't speak at all, his throat closed tight. He squeezed Joe's hand in both of his and then, taking the katana, he left the bar.
~~~
Without calling ahead, answering a need and an instinct that he let guide him, MacLeod drove to the de Valicourts' estate just outside Paris. He didn't want to think anymore. He rang their doorbell and Gina answered. With one look at his face, she let him in. "Duncan." She took his hand. "What is it, what's wrong?"
"Do you mind if I stay here, for a while?" he asked. He couldn't stay in the barge and wouldn't return to Methos's flat.
A little bewildered, she turned to her husband who came up behind her. "Of course. Right, Robert?"
Robert, smiling a little, was not as sensitive as his wife, but even he paused as he took in MacLeod's appearance. "The house is yours, naturally."
A look passed between them. MacLeod knew they wanted to ask what had happened, why he was there, why he couldn't stay at the barge. Gina showed MacLeod to a room, taking a moment to hold his face in her hands. Her concern and gentleness were almost too much and it was all MacLeod could do not to pull away, afraid she would get the wrong impression.
She left him alone. Pausing only to shower and eat enough to take the edge off, he collapsed onto the bed and even though it was only the late afternoon, gratefully sought the release of sleep.
He slept until the next morning, and then slept some more. When he finally woke, he saw that Robert must have gone to the barge, because his clothing had been brought and stored away. Grateful for the clean clothing, he was even more grateful Robert said nothing to him about the state of the barge, although MacLeod sensed an added layer of apprehension from both Robert and Gina.
They left him alone. He went outside onto the extensive grounds and ran through the woods. Up hills, down hills. When he was tired, he walked. For the next couple of days, that was all he did. Slept, ate a little, and then went outside and ran and walked for hours. MacLeod escaped into physical movement: action, sweat, blisters and aching feet.
He called Amanda, to hear her voice and make sure she was all right. She might have been a target, knowing both Duncan and Methos. But no one had challenged her. She was safe and anonymous. "I saw the video," she said to him. "Someone sent it to Nick. We have to do something, Duncan."
MacLeod didn't answer. Trying to hold back the spread of the video was like trying to hold a fistful of sand.
In the evenings, Robert joined him, coaxing MacLeod into a sparring match. MacLeod was comfortable fighting, retreating into that duende of exhaustion where movement was pure instinct. He was unrelenting, until Robert squawked in protest. "Enough," said Robert, panting, defeated, and MacLeod had to pull back, come down from the high of physical exertion.
On the fourth day, he entered one of the salons and Robert and Gina hushed when they saw him, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. Tense, he quietly asked, "What?"
Gina stepped forward. "Duncan," she said, her lovely face showing worry, confusion. "Is it true?"
MacLeod noticed Robert's laptop open on a table. He walked over and saw an active video file, paused on the image of Methos, looking up, startled. The file was captioned "The REAL Methos taking a head."
"Is Adam really Methos?"
MacLeod looked from Gina to Robert and couldn't answer the question. He just couldn't, but his silence was all they needed. Robert sat down, stunned, with an expression that showed him mentally reviewing every encounter he ever had with Adam Pierson, examining each word they'd spoken, each expression given, no doubt remembering their staged fight. Gina looked more thoughtful, but no less surprised.
"How did you get the file?" asked MacLeod.
It took a moment for Robert to register the question. "Oh, an acquaintance. Another Immortal. I don't think you know him. Someone else had passed it on to him. My God," he said. "How many have seen it? And Duncan, that's you fighting, as well. Who was she?"
MacLeod sat down and told them everything, everything he could put into words. After hearing it all, they remained confused, and good deal more horrified. "What are you going to do now?" asked Robert.
MacLeod closed his eyes. "Find him. Somehow."
~~~
One week into his stay with the de Valicourts, he was challenged outside of the nearby small village while running errands for Gina. The Immortal was a strong-looking man with a face advertising twenty years of age, maybe a little more. He was shorter than MacLeod and had tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his face. His Mohawk was dyed lemon yellow.
"They say you know Methos." The Mohawk pointed his sword at MacLeod. "You know how to find him."
MacLeod breathed in deep. "I won't play this game," he said. "I don't know where he is, and if I did I wouldn't tell you. You want to fight me, fine, let's get on with it. Otherwise, get out of my way."
They stood on the edge of a wood. Wildflowers grew at MacLeod's feet in a spray of festive colors--pinks, whites, reds, purples. Pollen hung in the air. The Mohawk grinned, baring crooked teeth; his neck tattoos appeared to crawl up over his chin and onto his face like tongues of flame. He threw his head back and laughed. "Damn. He's a wily bastard. I've been following his trail all over France. Eh," he scratched his chin and neck, frowning. "They said you didn't know any more. It was a long shot anyway." His eyes glinted as he looked at MacLeod. "But I suppose the head of a MacLeod isn't anything to sneer at."
The Mohawk attacked and MacLeod parried. They moved deeper into the woods, swords clashing in and around the young trees. The air smelled like honey.
MacLeod felt outside of his body, as if he watched from the canopy of leaves above. He could see the pulse of his own power, a tangible electricity. Without too much trouble, he took the Mohawk's head. He sank to his knees and accepted the quickening, the strange moment passing.
He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives. He knew one thing for certain, sitting there with a corpse near at hand and the memory of Methos lying in bed whispering goodbye in the wee hours of the morning: the real reason Methos had fled was to protect him. To protect them both. If MacLeod truly had no idea how to find Methos, the Immortals who would come hunting would have no reason to use MacLeod as leverage.
"Oh, Methos," he said. "You fool."
A week later, he was challenged again. And a third the week following. All looking for Methos, all seemingly hopeful MacLeod would know Methos's whereabouts but not surprised that he didn't. One stayed to fight and lost his head. The other fled.
It would go on like that, MacLeod knew, the steady stream of hunters slowly ebbing away as word circulated that MacLeod did not know how to find the oldest Immortal. Methos was right, but the cost had been dear.
~~~
Wind stirred, a gentle breeze lifting sand into the air. To the right there was ocean, to the left a sand dune that rose above his head, obscuring the view inland. Down the coast, far away, MacLeod saw a man waiting.
The man turned away. MacLeod called to him, but the wind picked up and carried his voice out to sea. He started running after the man. Running, running, but the sand made it difficult. It was too loose and kept shifting. He was tired. If he wasn't fast enough, the man would leave. MacLeod would miss him. He had to hurry.
But the ground was too uneven, and the sand seemed to grasp at his feet. In the distance, the man disappeared.
MacLeod woke in the night, adrenalin flooding his blood--but all was still, and the house slept and there was no sand anywhere.
~~~
MacLeod said goodbye to Robert and Gina, not wanting to bring a rain of power-hungry Immortals into their home. He returned to Paris and stood outside his barge. He hadn't returned since that night.
He entered, and his shoes crunched over broken glass. The blood had long since dried into brown smears. Grabbing a broom, he got to work.
As the weeks had gone by, his police tail grew more sporadic, the investigation becoming just another unsolved mystery. Detective Laurent showed up every three days or so, but there was nothing he could do. With the barge cleaned and cleared of all debris, almost ready to be put into storage, MacLeod slipped down the darkened Paris streets until he arrived at Le Blues Bar. Even traveling that short distance, he felt the brush of Immortal presence. He heard a bell chime and saw a young woman on a bike ride down the street, the bell chiming a second time. He felt the brush of presence again and saw a tall slender man leaning against a building. The man grinned and then disappeared around a corner. MacLeod turned again and saw a goat-faced man sneering, standing still in the midst of criss-crossing pedestrians. MacLeod rushed forward, but the man was gone.
When he arrived at the bar, annoyed and frazzled, it was near closing, almost empty and the band breaking down their equipment.
Joe's smile was warm when he saw him. They gripped each other's hands, took hold of their arms. "You look better," said Joe.
MacLeod grinned. "Thanks, I think. So do you." Joe nodded and waved him over to a barstool.
They drank in comfortable silence. MacLeod almost started telling Joe about the past few weeks, but of course Joe already knew. He wanted to ask if he'd heard from Methos and gripped his smooth glass instead, condensation slippery under his fingers.
Joe hung his cane on his arm and ambled behind the bar to a corner where a stack of books and folders waited. He grabbed the top folder. "Wanted to drive this over to you, but I figured--" He shook his head back and forth. "Well, I just thought the timing wasn't right. Here." He gave the folder to MacLeod.
Inside were photocopies of journal entries, computer printouts of Watcher reports, an index of photos and another index of warehouse inventories. "You found her."
"She went by the name 'Camilla of the Volsci,'" said Joe, leaning against the back bar.
The name rang familiar and it took MacLeod a moment to ferret out the meaning from his memory. "From The Aeneid?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.
Joe shrugged. "Yes. No. Maybe. Who knows? She could have just liked the name. She's Italian and the timing fits. She was difficult to find, let me tell you, buried in references across hundreds of chronicles, including Cassandra's and Kronos's. We never managed to watch her for long. She had a knack for disappearing and rarely interacted with mortals." He nodded at the folder in MacLeod's hands. "A researcher is compiling everything into a proper chronicle."
Cassandra's chronicle recorded the first death of a female pre-Immortal circa 300 B.C., described as a savage out of the untamed wildlands south of Rome. Cassandra had heard of her and sought her out. For a time, they lived together, both hunted and shunned as unnatural and strange. But Camilla, if that was her name, had turned on her teacher and would have taken her head if Cassandra hadn't managed to escape. After that, Cassandra avoided her student.
MacLeod turned page after page of Watchers describing an unnamed female Immortal who would appear only to take their Immortal's head and then disappear again, identified by her speed, her wolfish strength. On rare occasions she was attributed as Camilla. Finally, he turned to the pages from Kronos's chronicle.
He read the excerpts from Kronos's chronicle carefully. The first reference was in the late 1300s, in plague-riddled Europe. A woman, now assumed to be Camilla, had challenged him and won. Before she took his head, Kronos made her an offer of something valuable enough to stay her hand. After that, there was a thin ribbon of Camilla sightings threaded throughout his chronicle--always brief, always violent. But the relationship endured, a twisted version of teacher and student. He read one paragraph over again and couldn't help a little laugh. "She really was Kronos's girlfriend," he said, his amusement tempered by a stab of desperate sadness. But he couldn't make a joke of it without Methos.
"I've read that folder backwards and forwards at least ten times, and I still haven't figured out all of what happened," said Joe. "Considering how rarely we had a Watcher on Kronos, it's fortunate we were able to piece together anything at all."
Since the fight at Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had done nothing but examine from all angles everything that had happened after meeting Camilla under the Pont de Tournelle. Every action, word, expression, every touch. In MacLeod's mind, he saw threads attached to all of them: Kronos and Methos, Methos and Cassandra, Cassandra and Camilla, Camilla and Kronos. Round and round, chained together. He was in the circle, too, caught in their net. So tangled, it was impossible to see where one ended and one began. But even his brief interactions with Camilla and Kronos allowed him knowledge, insight and instinct strong enough to untangle the chains and reveal the twisted story.
"What's to figure out?" He rose from his stool. "I'm leaving Paris," he said. "Laurent called today, they're dropping the investigation. They have nothing."
"Should I bother asking where to forward your mail?" Joe stood as well, his voice gruff.
MacLeod smiled, noting the tone of concern. "I'm being challenged about once a week," he said. "And as long as that lasts, I can't search for him. They're all looking for Methos. If I start looking for him, I'll lead them right to his doorstep. I need to disappear for a while." He didn't say that part of him wanted the challenges. Because the more challenges he took, the fewer Immortals searched for Methos.
Joe sighed. "Yeah." He came around from behind the bar and walked MacLeod to the door. "You know, the funny thing is we've reopened the Methos Chronicles," he said. "For real this time. Doing nothing but attempting to verify Methos sightings all day."
"And?"
Joe shook his head. MacLeod tried not to feel disappointed. If the Watchers couldn't find him, chances are no one could, and that was safer for Methos. He pulled Joe into a hug before walking out of Le Blues Bar, uncertain that he would ever return.
~~~
Cassandra, with deliberate intention or not, had taught Camilla to admire the Four Horsemen, in particular Methos. But it was not the veneration one has for a hero or a mentor or even an enemy, but as a conquest. As a goal, a possession. So, once Camilla left her first teacher, she spent a large part of her life hunting in search of her prize, and eventually found Kronos. Between Kronos and Camilla, MacLeod thought the struggle for dominance must have surpassed anything he could ever dream up. The original power couple. Who could say which of the two succeeded in manipulating the other to do what they wanted, although MacLeod's money was on Kronos. MacLeod had no trouble believing Kronos could maneuver Camilla with enough subtlety that she would never know it. Enough to use her desire for Methos as a tool, perhaps an ace in his pocket. Kronos both loved and hated Methos; he would have done anything to exact revenge for Methos's betrayal. If he couldn't have Methos for himself, then Methos must be made to suffer. In the end, it probably didn't matter whether it was Kronos or Camilla who had orchestrated everything. Kronos hadn't survived Bordeaux, and Camilla was free to hunt Methos as she willed. Camilla said the last thing Kronos told her was how to find Methos. Yet she waited. Or maybe she used the time to study Methos, to discover the best way to harm him. The more MacLeod thought about it, the more he realized just how easily he and Methos had played perfectly into her plans.
When all was ready, she set the trap.
But it wasn't enough to catch Methos. She had to destroy him. Perhaps it was loyalty to Kronos. Perhaps she was offended by how small Methos had become--just a guy, not the great and powerful Death on a Horse. Or maybe, it was just how she thought, a convoluted, twisted mind. MacLeod didn't know.
And there were others, waiting in the wings. MacLeod was certain of this. For all that Camilla was a lone wolf, MacLeod had learned the hard way to trust his gut. There were too many variables; she had not acted alone.
Of all the things that had occurred, MacLeod wondered the most about that look of startled fear on Methos's face when Camilla whispered in his ear. What had she said to scare him so badly? That he was being filmed? That the police would retrieve a copy? That Methos's image would be sent far and wide? That Camilla had populated the Internet with instructions on how to find Methos: first, you hunt MacLeod, then you threaten to kill him. That she had friends, all of whom would hunt MacLeod to get to Methos? All of the above. None of the above.
Facing the ultimate destruction of his life as he knew it, and the promise of every Immortal knowing his face and his name and hunting him through MacLeod, Methos had done the only thing he could do. He ran, spreading his trail like white light through a prism. He made sure no one could follow him. Not even MacLeod. Especially not MacLeod, safely deterred the morning after by the kindly assistance of the police.
But before that, Methos had told MacLeod that he loved him.
Sitting on a plane flying to South America, MacLeod cried.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 4
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.Summary: He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives.
Missed Connections
by hafital
~~~
Two detectives tag-teamed questioning. Where were you between the hours of midnight and two in the morning? What happened at the Chateau de Grosbois? They circled around him. They showed him grainy photographs, and a shiver went down his back when he realized the photos were taken by a security camera at the chateau. Do you know this woman? Do you know this man? They handed him a photo of Methos, his face looking up, his expression startled, the female Immortal impaled on his sword.
They asked about the swords.
He remained silent. They left him in a cold interrogation room with a row of mesh-covered frosted windows that allowed a gray, indifferent light to fall over the chairs and table, and the required two-way mirror on the opposite wall. His only company was a clock over the door and a silent television with accompanying VCR and DVD player sitting in a corner. It was ten minutes past eleven. At Methos's flat, his clothes had been missing and he'd hastily dressed in a pair of Methos's jeans, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt. He restrained himself from showing his discomfort, knowing he was being watched. Hunger distracted him from the leaden weight of anger squeezing his chest. It hurt, and the hurt made him angry. He welcomed the anger, wanting the heat that anger generated, the outrage, the fire. But his anger was a cold fury. Methos must have known, leaving before the police arrived.
Detective Laurent reentered the interrogation room. He was tall and lanky, well over six feet, and his dark, bushy eyebrows connected in the middle, giving the impression someone had played a trick on him while he slept by drawing a squiggly line across his forehead with a sharpie.
"Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, almost languid in his greeting. MacLeod noticed a flat plastic jewel case in his hands and a manila envelope. "Comfortable? Can I get you anything?"
MacLeod didn't answer.
The detective pursed his lips, and nodded. "It seems, Monsieur MacLeod, that we have a mystery on our hands. Perhaps you can help shed some light, n'est pas?"
MacLeod recognized the change of tone in the detective's voice--less interrogative and more requesting assistance, playing toward his instincts of cooperation. He eyed the detective calmly, having gotten the sense that the police knew less than they implied.
"At precisely 11:53 p.m. last night, I received an anonymous phone call to warn of an imminent murder. The caller wouldn't say where or when, only that a murder of a certainty would occur. The caller was female," he added after a pause, peering at MacLeod through the fringe of his impressive eyebrows.
"At 1:47 this morning," continued the detective, "we received notice of a disturbance at the Chateau de Grosbois. The alarm had gone off, the security system activated. Four police cars were dispatched but by the time they arrived, all they found was some blood on the stone floor and every single window of the Chateau shattered. There was evidence of an electrical disturbance; some of the glass had melted into the stone, and it took us the better part of the morning to extract this from the Chateau's security system." With a few pushes of buttons, Detective Laurent turned on the television set, sliding the DVD he held into the open, waiting slot of the player.
The video was a muddy black and white, with unclear, fuzzy images, but MacLeod could make out the courtyard at the Chateau de Grosbois. The camera was angled to see the entire courtyard, with the gate just visible in the upper left hand corner. The video had no sound, and at first there was also no movement, just another calm night at the chateau. Then he saw the female Immortal slice through the chain at the gate and enter, followed a second later by himself. Dispassionately, he watched the fight spill across the courtyard, taking note of his technique with a critical eye, watching her footing. Their swords were tiny streaks of light against the grainy, muddy background. It didn't seem real, like he was watching a bad episode of some reality television show. His heart sped up when the two figures on the television stilled and turned and looked to the gate. There was Methos, pale face shining in the light.
Outwardly affecting disinterest, he searched that tiny, pale face for a sign, a clue, something. In the video, Methos pulled his gun out and shot the Immortal in the chest.
MacLeod remembered lying in the dark of Methos's flat with the blue of moonlight and the occasional splash of light from the headlights of a passing car as Methos smiled, taking MacLeod's hand in his. MacLeod gripped the edge of his chair. The chill settled more firmly, deep into the muscles of his neck. His back hurt.
Methos impaled the Immortal; she whispered into his ear; he looked up, almost directly into the camera, directly at MacLeod sitting in the cold interrogation room. MacLeod shivered.
Reduced and flattened by the two dimensions of the video camera, the scene looked cartoonish, amateurish in the washed out grays and browns. You couldn't see the horror, couldn't smell the tang of coppery blood, or feel the driving wind.
Methos swung and took the Immortal's head. Lightning struck, and then the video abruptly ended and there was only the snow of static.
Switching off the television, Detective Laurent never took his eyes off MacLeod. "So, what do you have to say?"
Although the video was unclear and murky and lacking in details, it would be a stretch to claim it hadn't been him fighting with a sword. He was recognizable. "The things you can do with special effects and computers these days," he said with a little bit of a smile and a casual shrug.
Detective Laurent smiled and his eyebrows seemed to lower further down his face. "The blood found on the stones of the courtyard is real," he said. "As is the blood found in your barge, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod locked eyes with the detective. Under the heavy eyebrows, the detective's eyes were a matching heavy black.
"My story is not over yet," said the detective. "This morning, at about 7:30, I received a second anonymous phone call." He pulled out a small tape recorder and pressed play.
MacLeod looked down to his cuffed hands as he listened to Methos's voice, tinny and small, emerge from the tape recorder.
If you want to know about what happened at the Chateau de Grosbois, you should speak to Duncan MacLeod. You'll find him at 26 rue de San Germaine, No. 15. He is there now, but he won't be for long.
The tape recorder clicked off. "As you can see," said the detective, "that brings us to this point, here. Only, so far, you have not proven to offer much enlightenment, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod raised his eyes and looked at the detective. "Did you find the murder weapons?"
Detective Laurent's ink spot eyes flashed. "No," he said. "Nor have we found the body."
"Then, you don't have much of a case, do you?"
"As you say." The detective nodded, seemingly unconcerned, but those black eyes grew bright, becoming more like polished stone. "Who is the man in the video, Monsieur MacLeod?"
"I don't know." MacLeod answered without hesitation.
"You must know. You were there." Detective Laurent waved at the television. "The flat in which you say you are staying is rented by an Adam Pierson." He turned and looked at MacLeod, taking photos from the manila envelope in his hands. "The landlord identified this man, the same man from the video, as Adam Pierson." The photos of Methos were different from the ones they had shown him earlier. "These were taken this morning at De Gaulle Airport," he said. "Do you know the whereabouts of this person, this Adam Pierson?"
Macleod's mind spun, cogs falling into place. The cold anger from earlier finally bloomed into a fire. But he calmly answered. "You tell me. You should know. Check the passenger manifests," he added, helpfully.
"We did," he said. "But I want you to tell me."
They didn't know. MacLeod could tell by the shading of amused frustration coloring the detective's answer. Somehow, Methos had fooled them. "Oh, well, if that's what you're after, I really can't help you. I have no idea."
The detective pursed his lips and quietly sighed. With unhurried motions, he gathered all the photos up, put them back into the envelope, and ejected the DVD from the player. Then, he removed the cuffs from MacLeod's hands. "Your lawyer is waiting for you in the lobby," he said. "You are free to go, Monsieur MacLeod."
MacLeod hid his surprise as the memory of that long ago day in Seacouver slammed into him. Ingrid. Agent Breslaw. Methos sauntering into the Seacouver Police station acting as his attorney. He started to rise, his heart doing jumping jacks with an insane, heady hope. But then, MacLeod realized it was impossible. Impossible. The police knew Methos's face. They had his picture. Whoever waited for him could not be Methos. He put a hand down on the table as reality hit him: it would be years before Methos could return to Europe.
The scrape of the chair skidding back hid MacLeod's awkwardness. He headed for the door.
"Oh, one more thing, Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, too casually. "Does the name 'Methos' mean anything to you?"
Blood drained from MacLeod's face. Detective Laurent's ponderous eyebrows twitched, his expression brightening with intensity, and MacLeod knew he had given himself away. "Sounds Swedish," he said, forcing himself to answer, his voice breaking.
After a moment, Detective Laurent smiled and nodded, and then led the way out of the interrogation room.
A man in a suit waited. MacLeod caught a glimpse of a blue tattoo on the inside of his wrist. With a shaky glance back at the detective, MacLeod moved toward the exit. The man in the suit looked back and forth between them and then hastily followed MacLeod.
MacLeod growled, "You're driving me to Joe's. Now."
With a sideways, anxious look at MacLeod, the man in the suit hurried through the front door. MacLeod followed, pausing to stand in the sun, face upturned, before following the man to his car.
~~~
He spotted the police tail four cars behind and instructed the man to pull over two blocks north of Le Blues Bar. "Wait fifteen minutes, then leave."
MacLeod got out of the car and entered the unmarked building, making his way through to a back exit. He came out in an alley. Watching for the dark sedan that had followed them, he crept along the streets.
He arrived at Le Blues Bar without notice. A "closed" sign swung from a hook on the front door, but as he passed through into the interior he heard the busy chatter of conversations and the low hum of music. A phone was ringing. There were several people huddled around a table with laptops and stacks of folders at their elbows. On stage, Joe's regular drummer was setting up for later. As his eyes adjusted, he saw others lurking in darkened corners.
The people at the table looked at him and watched as he crossed the room. Watchers. Joe came in from the back. MacLeod headed straight for him. "Where is he?"
Joe looked him up and down. He glanced at the group around the table and then nodded toward the bar. "This way. You look like you could use a drink."
MacLeod followed, but he would not be put off. "You know where he's gone. Tell me," he said, jaw tight, his anger still burning through him.
Joe went behind the bar and served two whisky shots. It was close to noon, late enough for a drink, but MacLeod hadn't eaten since sometime the previous day and his stomach felt like an empty, hollow sack. He declined. Joe slammed the shot back.
"What did the police tell you?" asked Joe.
For the first time since entering, MacLeod noticed Joe's pallor and blood-shot eyes. MacLeod put a hand on the bar; the grain of the wood was smoothed by countless hands. He found it comforting. "They had a video of the fight at the chateau," he said, dismissively, as if his stubbornness could dispel the video's existence. "And they spotted him at De Gaulle." He glanced at the Watchers still huddled around the table all pretending they weren't listening. MacLeod dropped his voice. "The police knew his name. His real name."
With barely an acknowledgement for MacLeod's concern about the other Watchers, Joe stuck his jaw out a little. His eyes were tired and sad. "They know," he said, quietly.
"What do you mean? Who knows?"
Joe indicated the Watchers. "They know about Adam. Methos. They know who he is."
MacLeod's fingers tried to dig through the wood. "Joe," he said. His hunger had morphed into a headache, pounding just behind his eyes.
Joe sighed. "What the police didn't tell you, or perhaps they don't know yet, is that he wasn't only spotted at De Gaulle, but also Orly. And at each he was booked as a passenger on at least three different flights going to different destinations. Probably more. Each under a different name, but every single one of them had a middle name of Methos," he added.
The anger MacLeod had cultivated all morning bled freely, spilling from the wounds created by Joe's words. Why would Methos do this? It didn't make sense. But he suspected that it did. It made terrible, horrible sense, and he just needed time to think it over. He needed rest, and a meal, and quiet. He needed Methos.
"It's the same at the train stations. Security cameras have him boarding trains, departing from different stations and going to different destinations all over Europe. Everybody knows," said Joe.
MacLeod caught the tone in Joe's words and pulled himself out of his shock. "What do you mean, everybody knows? What is it? What haven't you told me?"
This time it was Joe's turn to lower his voice with a quick glance at the Watchers to make sure they hadn't moved closer. "Everybody knows who he is. Everybody knows his face and his name. But he's left countless trails, too many to follow, probably none of them real. Mac, that video," he paused, his big strong hands gripping the whisky bottle. "I've gotten reports already from Watchers who say their Immortals are aware of some video being circulated on the Internet. A video that tells them who Methos is."
"But it just happened this morning," cried MacLeod. "Wait, are you telling me it's being sent around specifically to other Immortals?"
Joe's silence said it all. He offered no answers, no solutions. MacLeod's words spoken in jest to the detective came back to him: the things people can do with computers these days. The image of Methos's face as it appeared in the video wouldn't leave him: pale, looking startled, frightened, searching. Again, he wondered what she had whispered into Methos's ear. Did she warn him? Had he known about the recording?
"Misdirection," said MacLeod, unable to keep the weary exhaustion from his voice. "He created a diversion, booking all those flights. Smoke and mirrors. It was the only way he could disappear. He used his real name."
"One more thing," said Joe, reaching below the counter. "This was delivered here." He out a long, white, drawstring velvet bag and placed it on the bar.
Tightlipped, MacLeod picked it up. The bag dropped away, revealing the gleaming blade of the katana. It had been cleaned and sharpened. To MacLeod's exhausted mind, it was almost like an apology from Methos, for taking it, for leaving him.
"Thank you," he said. The chatter from the Watchers grew louder. The drummer started tapping out a rhythm. The noise clashed and collided, grew bigger and bigger. He needed to get out of there. "And thanks for the help with the police."
"Henri's a good man. He'll run interference with them, don't worry."
"They'll probably be tailing me for a while. It's better if they don't start questioning you."
Joe nodded. "All right," he said. MacLeod held out his hand and Joe took it. "Mac." The lines in Joe's face seemed to deepen in the low-watt lighting of the bar. His eyes searched MacLeod's.
MacLeod shook his head. He couldn't speculate, couldn't offer reassurances or even angry recriminations. He couldn't speak at all, his throat closed tight. He squeezed Joe's hand in both of his and then, taking the katana, he left the bar.
~~~
Without calling ahead, answering a need and an instinct that he let guide him, MacLeod drove to the de Valicourts' estate just outside Paris. He didn't want to think anymore. He rang their doorbell and Gina answered. With one look at his face, she let him in. "Duncan." She took his hand. "What is it, what's wrong?"
"Do you mind if I stay here, for a while?" he asked. He couldn't stay in the barge and wouldn't return to Methos's flat.
A little bewildered, she turned to her husband who came up behind her. "Of course. Right, Robert?"
Robert, smiling a little, was not as sensitive as his wife, but even he paused as he took in MacLeod's appearance. "The house is yours, naturally."
A look passed between them. MacLeod knew they wanted to ask what had happened, why he was there, why he couldn't stay at the barge. Gina showed MacLeod to a room, taking a moment to hold his face in her hands. Her concern and gentleness were almost too much and it was all MacLeod could do not to pull away, afraid she would get the wrong impression.
She left him alone. Pausing only to shower and eat enough to take the edge off, he collapsed onto the bed and even though it was only the late afternoon, gratefully sought the release of sleep.
He slept until the next morning, and then slept some more. When he finally woke, he saw that Robert must have gone to the barge, because his clothing had been brought and stored away. Grateful for the clean clothing, he was even more grateful Robert said nothing to him about the state of the barge, although MacLeod sensed an added layer of apprehension from both Robert and Gina.
They left him alone. He went outside onto the extensive grounds and ran through the woods. Up hills, down hills. When he was tired, he walked. For the next couple of days, that was all he did. Slept, ate a little, and then went outside and ran and walked for hours. MacLeod escaped into physical movement: action, sweat, blisters and aching feet.
He called Amanda, to hear her voice and make sure she was all right. She might have been a target, knowing both Duncan and Methos. But no one had challenged her. She was safe and anonymous. "I saw the video," she said to him. "Someone sent it to Nick. We have to do something, Duncan."
MacLeod didn't answer. Trying to hold back the spread of the video was like trying to hold a fistful of sand.
In the evenings, Robert joined him, coaxing MacLeod into a sparring match. MacLeod was comfortable fighting, retreating into that duende of exhaustion where movement was pure instinct. He was unrelenting, until Robert squawked in protest. "Enough," said Robert, panting, defeated, and MacLeod had to pull back, come down from the high of physical exertion.
On the fourth day, he entered one of the salons and Robert and Gina hushed when they saw him, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. Tense, he quietly asked, "What?"
Gina stepped forward. "Duncan," she said, her lovely face showing worry, confusion. "Is it true?"
MacLeod noticed Robert's laptop open on a table. He walked over and saw an active video file, paused on the image of Methos, looking up, startled. The file was captioned "The REAL Methos taking a head."
"Is Adam really Methos?"
MacLeod looked from Gina to Robert and couldn't answer the question. He just couldn't, but his silence was all they needed. Robert sat down, stunned, with an expression that showed him mentally reviewing every encounter he ever had with Adam Pierson, examining each word they'd spoken, each expression given, no doubt remembering their staged fight. Gina looked more thoughtful, but no less surprised.
"How did you get the file?" asked MacLeod.
It took a moment for Robert to register the question. "Oh, an acquaintance. Another Immortal. I don't think you know him. Someone else had passed it on to him. My God," he said. "How many have seen it? And Duncan, that's you fighting, as well. Who was she?"
MacLeod sat down and told them everything, everything he could put into words. After hearing it all, they remained confused, and good deal more horrified. "What are you going to do now?" asked Robert.
MacLeod closed his eyes. "Find him. Somehow."
~~~
One week into his stay with the de Valicourts, he was challenged outside of the nearby small village while running errands for Gina. The Immortal was a strong-looking man with a face advertising twenty years of age, maybe a little more. He was shorter than MacLeod and had tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his face. His Mohawk was dyed lemon yellow.
"They say you know Methos." The Mohawk pointed his sword at MacLeod. "You know how to find him."
MacLeod breathed in deep. "I won't play this game," he said. "I don't know where he is, and if I did I wouldn't tell you. You want to fight me, fine, let's get on with it. Otherwise, get out of my way."
They stood on the edge of a wood. Wildflowers grew at MacLeod's feet in a spray of festive colors--pinks, whites, reds, purples. Pollen hung in the air. The Mohawk grinned, baring crooked teeth; his neck tattoos appeared to crawl up over his chin and onto his face like tongues of flame. He threw his head back and laughed. "Damn. He's a wily bastard. I've been following his trail all over France. Eh," he scratched his chin and neck, frowning. "They said you didn't know any more. It was a long shot anyway." His eyes glinted as he looked at MacLeod. "But I suppose the head of a MacLeod isn't anything to sneer at."
The Mohawk attacked and MacLeod parried. They moved deeper into the woods, swords clashing in and around the young trees. The air smelled like honey.
MacLeod felt outside of his body, as if he watched from the canopy of leaves above. He could see the pulse of his own power, a tangible electricity. Without too much trouble, he took the Mohawk's head. He sank to his knees and accepted the quickening, the strange moment passing.
He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives. He knew one thing for certain, sitting there with a corpse near at hand and the memory of Methos lying in bed whispering goodbye in the wee hours of the morning: the real reason Methos had fled was to protect him. To protect them both. If MacLeod truly had no idea how to find Methos, the Immortals who would come hunting would have no reason to use MacLeod as leverage.
"Oh, Methos," he said. "You fool."
A week later, he was challenged again. And a third the week following. All looking for Methos, all seemingly hopeful MacLeod would know Methos's whereabouts but not surprised that he didn't. One stayed to fight and lost his head. The other fled.
It would go on like that, MacLeod knew, the steady stream of hunters slowly ebbing away as word circulated that MacLeod did not know how to find the oldest Immortal. Methos was right, but the cost had been dear.
~~~
Wind stirred, a gentle breeze lifting sand into the air. To the right there was ocean, to the left a sand dune that rose above his head, obscuring the view inland. Down the coast, far away, MacLeod saw a man waiting.
The man turned away. MacLeod called to him, but the wind picked up and carried his voice out to sea. He started running after the man. Running, running, but the sand made it difficult. It was too loose and kept shifting. He was tired. If he wasn't fast enough, the man would leave. MacLeod would miss him. He had to hurry.
But the ground was too uneven, and the sand seemed to grasp at his feet. In the distance, the man disappeared.
MacLeod woke in the night, adrenalin flooding his blood--but all was still, and the house slept and there was no sand anywhere.
~~~
MacLeod said goodbye to Robert and Gina, not wanting to bring a rain of power-hungry Immortals into their home. He returned to Paris and stood outside his barge. He hadn't returned since that night.
He entered, and his shoes crunched over broken glass. The blood had long since dried into brown smears. Grabbing a broom, he got to work.
As the weeks had gone by, his police tail grew more sporadic, the investigation becoming just another unsolved mystery. Detective Laurent showed up every three days or so, but there was nothing he could do. With the barge cleaned and cleared of all debris, almost ready to be put into storage, MacLeod slipped down the darkened Paris streets until he arrived at Le Blues Bar. Even traveling that short distance, he felt the brush of Immortal presence. He heard a bell chime and saw a young woman on a bike ride down the street, the bell chiming a second time. He felt the brush of presence again and saw a tall slender man leaning against a building. The man grinned and then disappeared around a corner. MacLeod turned again and saw a goat-faced man sneering, standing still in the midst of criss-crossing pedestrians. MacLeod rushed forward, but the man was gone.
When he arrived at the bar, annoyed and frazzled, it was near closing, almost empty and the band breaking down their equipment.
Joe's smile was warm when he saw him. They gripped each other's hands, took hold of their arms. "You look better," said Joe.
MacLeod grinned. "Thanks, I think. So do you." Joe nodded and waved him over to a barstool.
They drank in comfortable silence. MacLeod almost started telling Joe about the past few weeks, but of course Joe already knew. He wanted to ask if he'd heard from Methos and gripped his smooth glass instead, condensation slippery under his fingers.
Joe hung his cane on his arm and ambled behind the bar to a corner where a stack of books and folders waited. He grabbed the top folder. "Wanted to drive this over to you, but I figured--" He shook his head back and forth. "Well, I just thought the timing wasn't right. Here." He gave the folder to MacLeod.
Inside were photocopies of journal entries, computer printouts of Watcher reports, an index of photos and another index of warehouse inventories. "You found her."
"She went by the name 'Camilla of the Volsci,'" said Joe, leaning against the back bar.
The name rang familiar and it took MacLeod a moment to ferret out the meaning from his memory. "From The Aeneid?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.
Joe shrugged. "Yes. No. Maybe. Who knows? She could have just liked the name. She's Italian and the timing fits. She was difficult to find, let me tell you, buried in references across hundreds of chronicles, including Cassandra's and Kronos's. We never managed to watch her for long. She had a knack for disappearing and rarely interacted with mortals." He nodded at the folder in MacLeod's hands. "A researcher is compiling everything into a proper chronicle."
Cassandra's chronicle recorded the first death of a female pre-Immortal circa 300 B.C., described as a savage out of the untamed wildlands south of Rome. Cassandra had heard of her and sought her out. For a time, they lived together, both hunted and shunned as unnatural and strange. But Camilla, if that was her name, had turned on her teacher and would have taken her head if Cassandra hadn't managed to escape. After that, Cassandra avoided her student.
MacLeod turned page after page of Watchers describing an unnamed female Immortal who would appear only to take their Immortal's head and then disappear again, identified by her speed, her wolfish strength. On rare occasions she was attributed as Camilla. Finally, he turned to the pages from Kronos's chronicle.
He read the excerpts from Kronos's chronicle carefully. The first reference was in the late 1300s, in plague-riddled Europe. A woman, now assumed to be Camilla, had challenged him and won. Before she took his head, Kronos made her an offer of something valuable enough to stay her hand. After that, there was a thin ribbon of Camilla sightings threaded throughout his chronicle--always brief, always violent. But the relationship endured, a twisted version of teacher and student. He read one paragraph over again and couldn't help a little laugh. "She really was Kronos's girlfriend," he said, his amusement tempered by a stab of desperate sadness. But he couldn't make a joke of it without Methos.
"I've read that folder backwards and forwards at least ten times, and I still haven't figured out all of what happened," said Joe. "Considering how rarely we had a Watcher on Kronos, it's fortunate we were able to piece together anything at all."
Since the fight at Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had done nothing but examine from all angles everything that had happened after meeting Camilla under the Pont de Tournelle. Every action, word, expression, every touch. In MacLeod's mind, he saw threads attached to all of them: Kronos and Methos, Methos and Cassandra, Cassandra and Camilla, Camilla and Kronos. Round and round, chained together. He was in the circle, too, caught in their net. So tangled, it was impossible to see where one ended and one began. But even his brief interactions with Camilla and Kronos allowed him knowledge, insight and instinct strong enough to untangle the chains and reveal the twisted story.
"What's to figure out?" He rose from his stool. "I'm leaving Paris," he said. "Laurent called today, they're dropping the investigation. They have nothing."
"Should I bother asking where to forward your mail?" Joe stood as well, his voice gruff.
MacLeod smiled, noting the tone of concern. "I'm being challenged about once a week," he said. "And as long as that lasts, I can't search for him. They're all looking for Methos. If I start looking for him, I'll lead them right to his doorstep. I need to disappear for a while." He didn't say that part of him wanted the challenges. Because the more challenges he took, the fewer Immortals searched for Methos.
Joe sighed. "Yeah." He came around from behind the bar and walked MacLeod to the door. "You know, the funny thing is we've reopened the Methos Chronicles," he said. "For real this time. Doing nothing but attempting to verify Methos sightings all day."
"And?"
Joe shook his head. MacLeod tried not to feel disappointed. If the Watchers couldn't find him, chances are no one could, and that was safer for Methos. He pulled Joe into a hug before walking out of Le Blues Bar, uncertain that he would ever return.
~~~
Cassandra, with deliberate intention or not, had taught Camilla to admire the Four Horsemen, in particular Methos. But it was not the veneration one has for a hero or a mentor or even an enemy, but as a conquest. As a goal, a possession. So, once Camilla left her first teacher, she spent a large part of her life hunting in search of her prize, and eventually found Kronos. Between Kronos and Camilla, MacLeod thought the struggle for dominance must have surpassed anything he could ever dream up. The original power couple. Who could say which of the two succeeded in manipulating the other to do what they wanted, although MacLeod's money was on Kronos. MacLeod had no trouble believing Kronos could maneuver Camilla with enough subtlety that she would never know it. Enough to use her desire for Methos as a tool, perhaps an ace in his pocket. Kronos both loved and hated Methos; he would have done anything to exact revenge for Methos's betrayal. If he couldn't have Methos for himself, then Methos must be made to suffer. In the end, it probably didn't matter whether it was Kronos or Camilla who had orchestrated everything. Kronos hadn't survived Bordeaux, and Camilla was free to hunt Methos as she willed. Camilla said the last thing Kronos told her was how to find Methos. Yet she waited. Or maybe she used the time to study Methos, to discover the best way to harm him. The more MacLeod thought about it, the more he realized just how easily he and Methos had played perfectly into her plans.
When all was ready, she set the trap.
But it wasn't enough to catch Methos. She had to destroy him. Perhaps it was loyalty to Kronos. Perhaps she was offended by how small Methos had become--just a guy, not the great and powerful Death on a Horse. Or maybe, it was just how she thought, a convoluted, twisted mind. MacLeod didn't know.
And there were others, waiting in the wings. MacLeod was certain of this. For all that Camilla was a lone wolf, MacLeod had learned the hard way to trust his gut. There were too many variables; she had not acted alone.
Of all the things that had occurred, MacLeod wondered the most about that look of startled fear on Methos's face when Camilla whispered in his ear. What had she said to scare him so badly? That he was being filmed? That the police would retrieve a copy? That Methos's image would be sent far and wide? That Camilla had populated the Internet with instructions on how to find Methos: first, you hunt MacLeod, then you threaten to kill him. That she had friends, all of whom would hunt MacLeod to get to Methos? All of the above. None of the above.
Facing the ultimate destruction of his life as he knew it, and the promise of every Immortal knowing his face and his name and hunting him through MacLeod, Methos had done the only thing he could do. He ran, spreading his trail like white light through a prism. He made sure no one could follow him. Not even MacLeod. Especially not MacLeod, safely deterred the morning after by the kindly assistance of the police.
But before that, Methos had told MacLeod that he loved him.
Sitting on a plane flying to South America, MacLeod cried.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 4
