By Kevin H. Robnett
Drip
Drip
She had been pretty-once. Young. He stood over her as the blood dripped off the sword…
Drip
…into the ever-widening pool of blood surrounding her body. He hadn't meant to hurt her so much, but she fought back. Surprisingly hard. And once his anger burned bright in his gut, he couldn't stop…couldn't think…until she'd been carved up. Dead, by then. Didn't suffer long.
Drip
Eyes open, her face relaxed in peace. "Peace. Hell, there is no peace." Just emptiness. Emptiness where his heart had been ripped out, bloody as the floor beneath his feet. Emptiness, loneliness, anger.
Anger-that's all he felt now. Anger and the desperate, black need to hurt someone. And he had found someone. He hadn't really planned this…this…mutilation, but it would certainly get attention. Send the message.
Drip
"Payback's a bitch, Powers."
"You have reached 555-1972. At the sound of my screech, leave a message. If this is not the number you were trying to dial, leave a message anyway. Barbara, the check is definitely in the mail!"
BEEP
Once more in recent memory, Gregor Powers wished for the simpler life. Before answering machines, phones on planes, heck, even the delights of aviation. Back when he didn't have to call his assistant to remind her to pick him up at what he expected was a busy and packed airport. No, back in the days when Gregor grew up, all he had to do was fall off his horse in the vicinity of his destination.
The wind flying through his hair felt good, as did the sound of the thundering hooves. Spitfire jumped over a small tree blocking the rough-hewn trail, powerful legs pounding out the miles toward the Northwest Territories. Already Gregor was surrounded by green, living things, so different from the mountains behind him and the plains beyond. For a moment, the Immortal flew through the air, untethered to the ground below....
Of course, back then, he wouldn't have been returning from a successful holiday shoot in Paris or being paid so many zeros for a few colored photographs of undernourished waifs. Still, he'd made a living at being a doctor, if any hack in the 1800s could be called a doctor.
"Whar's my boy, Gregor?"
"You killed my boy!"
The speakers crackled again as he felt the plane drop.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our decent into the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.."
The rest of the announcement Gregor knew by heart. Having found a modest success shooting fashion models and travel brochures once he gave up the gruesome and disturbing black and white shots that were his earlier forte, he seemed to spend more time in a plane then at home, lately. At least one or two trips a month in the past year.
It was small, barely above a two-room hovel, after his office and examination room had been set up. A few pieces of furniture, augmented by whatever Duncan could steal from his last home, where he had been shot and killed very publicly. One item had come with him, the only possession to survive his many recent travels. The shingle proclaiming him a doctor of medicine. He hung it on a nail outside his door, ready to begin his life again.
Home. Gregor always hated the familiar images the media associated with that word. Hearth and home, home is where the heart is. Blah, blah, blah. Like now, like always over the past couple of centuries, home had been a nicely decorated, empty apartment with a smattering of belongings. Nothing to tie him down, nothing to make it special. No one to make it more than a house.
He'd explored the issue ad nauseam with his shrink. Once Duncan had found him a suitable, Immortal psychiatrist on this side of the pond, the Highlander had urged Gregor to be truthful, thorough and painfully detail-oriented.
Certainly having his dysfunctional life ground into the dust hadn't been MacLeod's intention. Examining his faults and shortcomings would supposedly make him feel better about himself. How could it change almost a century of habits and routines? Keep him from devolving into the uncaring, crazed blackness he descended into every time he though he had clawed his way out of it?
Depression. Such a clinical, scientific term. As a doctor, he could appreciate the whole cleanliness the term imposed. But it came nowhere near describing the nothingness, the sheer horror of the state. Maybe anyone who had plunged to the depths Gregor had sunk, pretty much died before being able to describe it to someone sane enough to attach a better label. Maybe no one sane could understand it. Hell, maybe no one was sane, period.
The explosion rocked the saloon, blowing Gregor and the men around him away from the bar. He could hear Harrison's insane laughter mixed with the moans and screams of the dying. Trapped beneath a table, he could only wait for the Immortal to approach and finish everything. Like blowing up fish in a barrel, he thought. When did the world go crazy?
He giggled, a little too maniacally for his own tastes. Time for another session with the shrink. The flight attendant paused oh-so-briefly as she passed, but thankfully refrained from any comment. That's all he needed, to be met at the gate by white coated attendants with a wheelchair and a hypodermic.
"Gregor," he whispered to himself under his breath. "You seriously need to get yourself laid."
That was the problem Gregor had figured out, with a little guidance from the shrink and a healthy dose of honesty. Familial attachments. Interpersonal relationships. When he was with someone, had someone to hold, to think about, to help keep the nightmares at bay, he was fine. Peachy. Normal.
He had to laugh at the cosmic irony. Immortals didn't come with family-or the ability to create a new life. Their existence rested on killing their fellow man. So they had to make do with mortals, brief infinitesimal lives that exploded into existence and quickly faded away.
He'd tried that, several times. Falling in love with mortals. But most people can barely deal with their own demons, let alone shoulder the burden of guilt and denial he carried or his secret lifestyle-his Immortality. He told them what he wanted, what he needed, what he was and they fled. Left. Sometimes right then or days later. They always left.
"I'm sorry Gregor, my husband knows," she said, reaching up and stroking his cheeks with her gloved hands. He knew it was over, but for these brief goodbyes. "He'll take me back, but I can never see you again…we're moving to San Francisco as soon as possible. Harrison wants…."
"Meet me one last time, Alice," Gregor urged, taking her hands in his. "One last time, that's all I ask."
"One last time," she agreed.
Immortals were no better. Duncan MacLeod was an easy man to love-and a hard man to live with. Especially when one was the Highlander's student. Others either wanted his head…or lost theirs one dark night. Either way, he ended up alone.
He took the curve too fast, hearing her scream as the wagon tipped over, throwing them to the side before flipping on top of them, bones breaking, trapped between the rocky ground and hard wood....
And the weight driving Gregor down grew heavier and darker and more powerful-and all he could do was shut down and internalize and throw up those walls, those bleak forbidding shields, until his heart was a black as his wardrobe.
Then this unfeeling, emotionless thing he had become would walk on this earth, existing, breathing but little else until the horrible weight couldn't be felt any more. Somewhere deep inside, behind the stalwart barricades he erected, that frightened him. Terribly. At that point he'd do anything to feel an emotion. Any emotion. Go to any lengths to grab a moment of what he had buried away.
"Please, Doctor, you must call me Alice. It's so nice to have such expertise out here in the middle of the wilderness."
Sometimes it worked. He'd pull himself out of the depths and try again. And fail again. Lately, though, nothing worked. He took up photography, in a desperate attempt to chronicle everything, anything he tried, an attempt to scientifically find an answer that would make him human again.
But his pictures didn't help. They just drew him down deeper as he recorded other people's emotion, the dark and brooding pits of Hell he had sunk into. He tried making others feel, in a last-ditch effort to awaken something inside himself. To be human, again.
That didn't work either. Nothing worked.
The body lay scant feet away, limbs bent in bizarre, unnatural angles, her eyes open to the sky. All that blood, scattered around, and nothing hurt. His body had repaired itself. His heart. empty. He turned, barely blinked, and walked away, away from the accident, away from his practice, his home. Away from everything.
Beyond hope, he thoughtlessly agreed to a showing with some old, dying broad, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. The irony of the whole thing, a woman slipping further away presenting such light and a man who lived forever showing so much darkness. That his Teacher, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, lived there didn't even consciously register. It wasn't until he was in the city, new owner of a dilapidated warehouse on the docks, that he scrawled a short invitation to his one-time friend.
"How do you do it, Duncan?"
The Highlander looked away. "One day a time."
Something had to give. After driving the Highlander to the breaking point, Duncan finally breached his walls, helped by a small remaining spark of the healer Gregor had once been. At one time, long ago, he had revered life more than anything else. It had been enough to keep his head attached to his body. He wanted to live, some part of him felt enough to fear death. To want to live.
Duncan, bless his Scottish soul, made him choose. Not blackness or light, not Heaven or Hell. Life or death. The easiest choice. Change or die.
Gregor looked within himself, his own sword at his throat. The doctor he had been chose life. The photographer chose to change. And as the walls came crashing down around him, he stuttered his answer, begging for help from the one person he told himself he never would ask.
God, he'd remember that moment for the rest of his life.
"You let her die, you bastard!" Harrison screeched as the sword came perilously close to his neck. Blocked from the left and right, with the enraged madman attacking from the front, there were few choices left. Live or die. Not much of a decision. Too weak to raise his sword anymore, Gregor threw himself backward off the cliff, plunging into the dense brush below as a scream tore from his throat.
"Sir?" the flight attendant asked, startling Gregor out of his ruminations. "We've landed."
His head flew up, taking in the empty seats around him. "Thanks," he stuttered, clawing at the seat belt. The attendant moved on down the aisle, her pleasant company face on no matter how strange the passenger. He had to get out of here, out of the plane that suddenly felt cramped. Had to get out and get some water.
With his carry-on clutched to his chest, he hurried up the aisle toward the front of the plane and freedom. He really needed to take a pill.
The terminal, crowded and busy, felt much worse. Gregor stumbled out into the milling throng of travelers, trying to catch his bearings. He managed to spot the sign pointing out the restrooms and hurried in that direction. Medication would make everything better.
In his haste, his carry-on slapped into several people, causing him to turn around and offer his apologies. The noise, the smells, the back and forth of his head mixed into a confusing haze. For a brief moment, he lost his orientation, unsure which direction he needed to head. Each way looked the same, people, lights, noise.
"I'll find you, Gregor! No matter where you run, no matter how well you hide!"
Frustrated, he stopped moving, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes tight, trying to will away the mounting pressure behind his sinuses. He needed to relax, to calm down. Head things off before it turned into a full blown attack. Deep breaths.
One.
"Run away with me, Alice."
Two.
"Yes!"
His body suddenly tensed as a familiar but unwanted sensation crawled up his spine. His fucking curse reared its ugly head, and he knew another of his kind had just stepped near. And his sword, packed with his checked luggage, lay far from his hand.Deep breaths forgotten, Gregor turned around, checking everyone he saw for a weapon, a grin, some instinctual signal that this person was the other Immortal. Too many people, too many distractions, milling about him as he stood defenseless in the middle of the crowded concourse.
People suddenly moved out of his way, his body freezing as his eyes lit upon a face from his past, the icy blue eyes…
…opened wide in terror. His young face above the hand closed tightly over his throat, pinning him to the door, choking off his air supply. Blue eyes flickering in the faint light that permeated the store.
Playing cat and mouse had always left Gregor hungry for more, and this mouse…Duncan's brave, stupid mouse had been as delicious as he'd ever tasted. A fine mix of bravado and vulnerability, all wrapped up in adrenaline and hormones. On the precipice of reliable manhood, and he-Gregor-would have the honor of taking him over the edge.
"At the edge of the bridge…right before lift-off…."
Such a trusting, young fool. Blindly uttering those magical words that he thought would protect him. "Lead the way, my friend," he had asked. And Gregor had led him, shown him. Taken him under his wing and dragged him to the pit before dangling him over the rim.
"I want to know what it feels like… to die…"
…and the eyes, alight with the cold fire of fury, drilled into his soul. Eyes of a man, who had seen things, done things, and promised all that to Gregor with just a look. Lips, whose edge curled up slowly into a haunting feral grin. Face, lined with burdens instead of age. Hair cut short, almost to the scalp-a man who hunted without the trivialities of grooming. A man with a mission.
Gregor knew, deep in his heart, that Richard Ryan had found his objective. And he was about to get the answer to his question from so long ago. Personally. And it scared him to death.
Trapped by the piercing gaze, he felt his knees shake, from either the lack of medication or the sheer terror he no longer had an emotional shield for. He backed up a step, too panicked to bolt outright and run.
Richie only stood there, staring at him, as if imprinting his face at this moment forever. Then someone crossed between them, snapping the tension like a severed wire.
With a start, Gregor leaned back, his balance thrown out of whack. He wobbled on his feet as he searched the crowd, frantic to spot the young Immortal again, to know when the attack might come, even here in the busy airport. Each face walking by became an enraged visage for just a second, each noise the whish of a wielded sword. Each suitcase or bag a weapon about to be raised in anger.
"I'll find you, Gregor!"
"Burn in hell, you bastard!"
"You let her die."
"Greg."
The hand on his shoulder came from nowhere, as did his name. Instinctively, he slung his carry-on backwards, slamming it into an unprotected stomach. About to turn and follow through with an uppercut on his attacker, he realized the other Immortal was no longer around. Richie had left.
And behind him, bending over and clutching his stomach was his friend, Peter Jamison, one of Dallas PD's finest detectives. Groaning. Loudly.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Gregor spat out, dropping the bag and sliding to his knees. With a doctor's gentle touch he examined the cop, quickly satisfied he hadn't broken any ribs or caused any internal bleeding. "It's OK. You've just had the wind knocked out of you."
"Like I hadn't noticed," Peter rasped, shaking his head and making his short blond hair wave about. Even for a physically fit thirty-something man, a slug in the gut hurt. A lot. "I see you finally took that self-defense class I pointed out to you."
Still shook from the sudden encounter moments ago, Gregor squeezed the shoulder under his hand, refusing to let go as he stood and helped his friend straighten. "I wasn't expecting anyone to grab me, that's all."
Peter took one last deep breath and released it slowly before lowering his arms to his side. "Yeah, well, if you'd turned around after I called your name three or four times." He looked Gregor over twice and glared. "You look like shit."
"Meds," Gregor replied, feeling brave enough to resume his hunt for a water fountain. "It was a rough flight." He started walking in the direction the overhead sign pointed, pulling on the cop's shoulder. When Peter resisted, Gregor looked back, noticing the rumpled, overweight man behind them. He jerked his hand back, unconsciously reaching for his sword's usual resting place.
Noticing the frightened reaction, Peter held a hand up. "Wait." He nodded toward his older companion. "My new partner, Detective Alvin Bruskow." He jerked a thumb at Gregor. "Al, Greg Powers, photographer of the stars."
"Nice move," Al said as he reached out to shake the Immortal's hand. "Pete hasn't been roughed up since. what? The little old lady at the mini-mart last week?"
Gregor smiled as Peter winced, more from the embarrassment than his injury. "Excuse me, let me get a drink." Reaching into his carry-on as he walked, he palmed a pill into his hand and swallowed it as he leaned over the spigot. Sipping the cold water deeply, he drank enough to wash the sour taste of fear out of his mouth. "I'm surprised to see you here-something come up the local security can't handle?"
Having followed along to the restrooms, Peter stood carefully out of Gregor's space. "No, we were looking for you. You need to come to the station."
Right at that moment, the furthest thing from Gregor's mind was filling in for Dallas PD's overworked, understaffed forensic photographers. Even though he had done so on numerous occasions, because of his friendship with Peter. Even if said friend had personally traveled out to DFW to pick him up.No, he wanted to be driven home by his quiet, unassuming assistant, lock himself in his apartment and drown his nerves in a tub of hot water, a bottle of Scotch and all the General Hospital episodes he had taped while away. Not walk around a dirty, bloody crime scene and snap photos. No way, no how.
"Sorry, guys, I'm beat, no camera, and I'm waiting for Karen to show and take me home." At the mention of his assistant's name, he saw Peter visibly flinch. Not good. His voice dropped half an octave. "What happened."
The anguish in Peter's eyes tore all thoughts of Immortals and Jacuzzis out of Gregor's mind. "I'm sorry, Greg… that's why we're here."
The pieces snapped harshly into place in Gregor's mind, each event in the few moments cementing. Karen was dead-or badly injured. The station….so she was dead. Richie killed her, for whatever reasons, then came out to the airport to kill Gregor. Or gloat. Taunt him like he had done so many years ago to a frightened young man all alone in the dark.
"THAT'S BECAUSE YOU CAN FEEL, BOY!!!"
Shaking off the memories, shoving the pain aside for however long his crumbling walls could hold it, he turned back to the overhead signs, looking for the closest exit. "The station it is," he growled, low in his throat. The two detectives followed closely behind him as he stormed off in the direction the arrows pointed. "And then I have some catching up to do," he added under his breath.
Almost an hour later, he stood in the morgue in downtown Dallas, shivering from the cold and the gloom. The draped body had been wheeled over, reminiscent of his student days back in Germany, many centuries ago. From the warnings Peter had uttered, he assumed the carving had already been done.One quick look was all it took. He had seen bodies in much worse shape, but how could he tell anyone that? He took a moment, looking around the gleaming surfaces surrounding him, before answering. "It's her. Karen Bloom."
Vocalizing those fateful words, saying anything at all, broke the fragile control he had been keeping all the way from the airport. Peter was the only one with him, that and the morgue attendant hovering in the background. In just a blink, his eyes watered, filling with tears, blinding him to the sight still before him.
Unmoving on the ground, her blue dress stained with darkening red, she stared at the sky, at Gregor looking down on her like an insect, dead inside, as the darkness and cold settled around him even in the hot summer sun.
The sheet once more covered the body as the attendant pushed the cart away, back into the dark bowels of the place. He must have made some sound, although he only heard pounding in his ears, because suddenly strong arms pulled him around, clutching him to a warm, firm chest as his head ended up tucked beneath Peter's chin. Soothing words murmured in his ears, but he couldn't care about that, couldn't focus on anything but Karen's cheerful, quiet voice chatting away at him.
He let himself be rocked by his stalwart friend until he felt drained and empty. "I can't do this any more," he whispered into the tear-drenched shirt. "Not any more." This feelings shit was totally for the birds.
"We listened to the answering machine and heard your message from this morning about the flight. That's how we knew to meet you." Peter shook his head at the image locked in his memory. The trio sat all alone in the squad room, filling in the details for the Immortal. "She hadn't been dead all that long. Some neighbor got upset about her TV being too loud and called us in."
Gregor's mind locked on one insignificant detail. "So there was only one message on her machine?"
With hot coffee in hand, Al Bruskow sat down, distributing the Styrofoam cups. "Yep. And no fingerprints."
"So someone could have heard any of the numerous calls I made last night and today." Not a comforting thought. Gregor shifted away from the window and reached over for a cup, smiling thankfully at the steaming liquid. "When did you get flavored coffee?"
Al looked pleased. "I bring my own."
With a chuckle, Peter gulped his also. "Why do you think I let the brass saddle me with this old has been?" The group grew silent then, each contemplating their own thoughts as they drank the fresh brew. "Look, Greg, I think we got everything we need here." He shifted through the forms one last time. "Yeah, this is enough paperwork to get us started."
"Thanks," Gregor replied as he stretched with a groan. Sometimes he felt all two hundred and twenty eight of his years. "I wished I'd gotten a better welcome home present."
Peter nodded his agreement, moving around the desk and lightly grabbing Gregor's arm. "I'll walk you out and get you a ride home, buddy. Be back in a moment, Al."
Once they were alone in a hallway, Peter stopped, turning on Gregor. "You ran into someone at the airport." It wasn't a question. "Someone who scared you. That's why you were so jumpy when I touched you."
Gregor's shoulders twitched in a shrug. "I was mistaken."
"Damn it!" the detective cursed. He looked quickly around the corridor to see if anyone was drawn by his outburst. His hand tightened on Gregor's arm. "Who'd you piss off this time?"
"No one," Gregor spat, shaking off the grip.
Peter's hand clenched the empty air. "Look, Greg, I know you've said my family has more than made up for you saving Great-Great-Grandpapa's life all those years ago. But you're in trouble. I know it." After a scathing look from the Immortal, he added, "and I want to help." He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest, and rested against the wall. "Is that so bad?"
Grateful for the show of support, Gregor turned and leaned back until the wall supported him. "I hear you, my friend." He moved his head from side to side, working out the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. "Really, the list of people pissed off at me is way too long to worry about. All I saw was someone I thought I knew at DFW. I didn't get a good look. And who's to say whoever hurt my assistant is after me?"
"Butchered your assistant," Peter pointed out. "You want to give me a name, anyway?" He took the silence as a no. "Well, time to get your old bones home. Carlos, over here. Got a minute?"
A young Latino, walking down the lonely corridor from Records, veered over. Black hair, dressed in the blue patrolman's uniform of Dallas' finest. He looked at his watch before smiling at Peter. "Sure, Detective. What can I do for you?"Peter slid his arm over Carlos' shoulder and presented him to Gregor. "Officer Sandoval here will give you a lift home. He patrols the area near your loft and…" He shook the patrolman. "…will check up on you now and then. Right, Officer Sandoval?"
"Right, Detective Jamison," Carlos agreed, nodding his head and smiling again. "Anything for Homicide."
Leaning in close to Gregor, pulling Carlos in as well, Peter stage-whispered, "Carlos is trying make detective by sucking up around here." He looked around the empty corridor again. "He's doing a fine job at it."
Laughing and giving Peter a punch in the ribs, Carlos stepped away. "That and a near perfect score on the detective's exam."
Peter motioned to Gregor, his face turning serious which softened Carlos' exuberance. "Mr. Powers will give you directions to his place. Take good care of my friend, Officer." He added a brief glare at the Latino before turning back to the Immortal and shaking his hand. "Go home and try to rest. I'll call as soon as I hear anything."
Waiting a moment while the detective walked away, Carlos then cleared his throat, drawing Gregor's attention. "I'll let you ride in my patrol car, as long as you don't ask to run the lights and siren." His easy smile offered a moment away from the heartache in Gregor's chest.
"I appreciate the thought," he replied, even while he shook his head negatively. "I've had enough of sirens and lights for now." A nod from the patrolman, and then they headed for the elevator to the basement garage.
"You really didn't need to walk me to the door, Officer." Gregor started, pausing a moment to look behind at Carlos bringing up the rear.
A casual shrug, making the bags in the Latino's two hands shift from side to side, was the only answer he received. Thankfully, or perhaps knowingly, the man had remained quiet during the ride across town, only opening his mouth to clarify Gregor's directions. No lights or sirens either. Even the radio, usually blaring if all the TV shows were accurate had been reduced to a soft murmur in the patrol car.
The two men entered the warehouse through a garage door that opened by a device on the Immortal's keychain. "Pardon the mess, but they only started renovating the place." Once inside, he lead the way to a side stairway, resigned that this watchdog Peter saddled him with would follow him all the way home. "Just don't expect me to feed you," he muttered under his breath.
"What?" Carlos asked, most of his attention fixed on navigating the stairs.
"Nothing," Gregor answered back, finally dropping his bags in the third floor hallway and digging through his keyring. "End of the line, I'm afraid. Home sweet home." He reached for the knob, sliding his key into the deadbolt lock. It only entered halfway. "That's funny," he commented, sliding the key in and out, trying to force it in. "My key doesn't work."
"Sir?" Carlos asked, sliding between Gregor and the door, gun already drawn. With practiced ease, he examined the lock and door, studying it intently for a moment. Then, the patrolman cautiously turned the knob and gently pushed the unlocked door opened. "Were the renovators working on your apartment?," he asked Gregor while reaching for the radio at his belt. Getting a negative nod, he lifted the receiver to his mouth and softly spoke, "Dispatch, this is unit 814. I have a possible breaking and entering at…"
"3700 Truck Street, the Matera Paper Warehouse," Gregor supplied in his ear.
"…Matera Paper, 3700 Truck. Requesting backup." Carlos listened for confirmation before turning back to the Immortal. "Go back to the car and wait for the other officers, sir."
Such a young puppy, grabbing on to anyone's pants leg, growling for all he was worth, eager to have his mortal flame snuffed out. He wanted to shout "I can't be hurt, you fool!" but refrained from speaking. Instead, he waited in the hallway as the patrolman slipped into the dark loft. "Be safe," he whispered, knowing who should be inside, glad that he wasn't. Or anyone that might have an unfair advantage over the mortal policeman.
Carlos returned before the promised backup arrived, looking only slightly miffed at having his instructions ignored. "It's clear," he informed the Immortal, standing aside and talking to his radio, calling it in, his focus on the radio, letting Gregor enter his home.
Even before his hand reached the light switch, Gregor knew something was wrong. It just smelled different. Once the gloom was dispelled, he could see it looked different. Brick walls were covered in miles and miles of white paper interspersed with red splotches and streaks.
The sheep had been gutted in the middle of the hotel room, its entrails scattered over the furniture and his luggage. Blood still dripped from the walls as the open, dead eyes looked at him from the head resting in the middle of the floor.
The red made sense of the smell, the coppery cloying tang permeating his home. Blood. One smell a doctor, no matter how long out of practice, could recognize in his sleep. The white took a moment, as his eyes focused on one patch, then another. Pictures. Black and white pictures. Of violence and destruction. Of hate and dismay. Of knives and guns and skinheads and death.His work. His life's work, so recently destroyed back in Seacouver. All of it, the photographs, the negatives, the frames. all destroyed. Now littering his home, wall papering his house. Cemented by Karen's blood.
Gregor barely flinched as the table flew off of him, forcefully kicked away. Even though he felt blessedly numb, he still recognized the Immortal standing over him, face a mask of rage and hate. He could care less, about his life, about his safety, about anything. The alcohol sheltered him from Harrison's rage. From his own self-loathing. Micah stepped up to stop the sword, trying to staunch the proverbial flood down the riverbank and died just as quickly.
He couldn't stop the agonized moan that tore out of his throat, or his knees giving way making him collapse to the floor. Couldn't stop anything.
Especially the walls crashing down.
"Come on, buddy." Soft words and a light slapping on his cheek drew Gregor from the black pit he lost himself in. The Immortal found himself hunched over on his bare wood floor, clutching his knees to his chest, curled in a ball to protect himself. Protect himself from the past, from the present.
Peter knelt beside him, gently drawing him back to the living. All around he heard radios and talking, his home invaded by the police force, doing all those things a police officer does in this situation. Carlos stood over by the kitchen island, answering the questions of a man in a suit, all the while watching the pair on the floor.
Damn if he didn't take Peter's request for protection seriously.
Gregor tried to smile at the patrolman, sucked unwittingly into his horrific life. Peter took the action as a good sign, switching from slapping him silly to murmuring cooing noises and rubbing his back.
"I'm okay," Gregor almost shouted, pushing Peter away. "I don't need a babysitter. I'm fine."
Detective Jamison sat back on the floor, crossing his booted feet in front of himself. "You don't look fine. In fact, doctor, you look pretty shitty." He gestured around the room. "I take it this isn't another of your usual tacky decorating attempts?"
"Not hardly," Gregor quipped, finally taking an objective look around. Besides the new wallpaper, his furniture had been thoroughly trashed and the coffee table sported deep gashes. Pictures formerly on the wall had been smashed against the kitchen island, and most of the cabinet doors had been pulled off.
"You want to tell me about the new decor?" Peter asked, waving his fingers around.
The Immortal winced, not ready to shatter all of his friend's illusions. But since when had the universe gone his way? "They're…mine," he admitted, waiting for the inevitable questions. None came, just a cock of the head and Peter waited for him to continue. "My…work. That's what I used to photograph." He laughed, a weak chuckle bubbling from his lips. "I did a show up in Seacouver. Washington. and that's when it all came crashing down."
After a moment of silence, Peter motioned Officer Sandoval over. "What happened?"
"I destroyed them all," Gregor whispered. In a louder voice, he added, "the negatives, the photos, everything. I destroyed it all." He looked over at his mortal friend. "And I didn't feel a thing."Alice was dead, and he didn't feel a thing.
Carlos knelt down, looking between the pair. "Most of them are photocopies. Only five or six real photographs," he added. He cleared his throat, as if something had caught in his throat. "They're still typing the blood."
"I need a name," Peter said, looking hard at Gregor. Who he saw at the airport was the unspoken question. That Gregor's apartment had been trashed only confirmed he was a target, and Karen's death had been a warning. Or a promise.
The Immortal shuddered, knowing he betrayed the Game by answering. But to kill Karen? That broke all the rules, especially for a student of the Highlander. "Richie. Richard Ryan."
Detective Jamison turned to Sandoval. "Tell Bruskow to check Richard Ryan and Seacouver, Washington."
"Yes, sir," Carlos replied, standing. He walked away, leaving the pair alone.
The glass clinked noisily on the hotel table as Peter set the shot of whiskey in front of Gregor. "You want to tell me about it?" the detective asked, retrieving his own drink.
The chair was as uncomfortable as the conversation, in the Immortal's opinion. He reached for the alcohol with a shaky hand. Silence was as good an answer as any he had.
Frustrated, Peter paced the small room, checking behind the patio blinds for anything out of the ordinary. "Well then, what do you want to talk about?" He waited a moment in the silence. "How about we talk about Ryan?" He shuffled through the faxed sheets on the table. "Fingerprints match some of the partials we pulled at your apartment. Twenty-one years old. Orphan. Juvenile delinquent. Breaking and entering. Wanted for questioning. Any of this ring a bell?"
"I don't need police protection," Gregor mumbled around his glass.
"IT SPEAKS!" Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. "I don't know if you've realized it yet, but it's looking like we have a bloodthirsty maniac running around the Metroplex after you. That qualifies for police protection."
Finishing off the liquor, the Immortal slammed the empty glass down as he stood up. "Hey! I'm the one who can't die around here. You should be…."
"What?" Peter shouted, getting angrier with each breath. "Out making sure your friends are safe? You don't have any, Greg. Catching the killer? We have no clues except a juvie from the other side of the country and the main witness won't TALK TO ME!" With a restrained yell gurgling from his throat, the detective grabbed his overnight bag and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Gregor slipped his cell phone out of his luggage and waited before the shower came on to dial. "About friggin' time," he muttered as information for Washington state answered and the call went through. Even though roaming and long distance cost a fortune, it never hurt to keep such things off the hotel bill where Peter could find it out rather easily.
There was no answer at Duncan MacLeod's residence. Gregor knew his teacher had moved after Tessa's death, and currently lived over a dojo he owned. Another call to information got the number to Desalvo's Gym, once the Immortal remembered the name. This time a recorded voice, presumably pleasant, informed him the line was no longer in service, without a forwarding announcement.
"Damn it, Mac, where the hell are you?" Knowing he was running out of time, he called information one last time.
After a lengthy ten rings, someone answered. "Yeah, man?"
With an audible sigh, Gregor relaxed. "Gumshoe, it's Powers. I need a favor." Trevor Ford was one of those eternal grad students at Seacouver U., fluttering from one subject to the next, never quite completing any kind of degree plan. A lover of the 'unconventional', Gregor's photography had provided a brief interest, culminating into several discussions. Not a close friend, but a good enough acquaintance to call up at a moment's notice. "A friend of mine isn't answering his phone-could you take a quick trip over and see if anything's up? His name is Duncan MacLeod and he lives...."
"Whoa, dude!" Trevor interrupted. "Yeah, I know about the Prof. Sort of a campus mystery."
Not liking the sick feeling settling in his stomach, Gregor closed his eyes. "What happened?"
"Didn't come to class one day, oh, last February. The department head was, like, freaking out. Someone eventually called the cops, and rumor has it they found blood all over the gym he lived at. A real mess. No one's seen him since, either."
Gregor felt faint. "Damn," he muttered into the phone.
"Yeah, cops are lookin' for an employee, see if he knows anything. I keep expecting the Prof's face to show up on my milk carton. But, now, it's been so long and nothing's happened, it's sort of slid to the bottom of the barrel. Sorry, man. That's all I know."
Hearing the shower stop in the bathroom, Gregor knew time had run out. "Thanks, guy. It's been a real help. Catch you later." Hanging up on Trevor's response, the Immortal sat on the bed, his mind coming up with various scenarios, each ending with MacLeod losing his head and Richie....
Either Richie was in town, on the run from whoever managed to beat MacLeod, or the kid had done it himself, and armed with the rush of the Highlander's Quickening, come to settle old scores. Neither offered a pleasant outcome, and besides that, why kill Karen?"What does it feel like… to die?"
"It's what we do, we kill people. Mortals, each other, it's what we're good at. Playing doctor won't hide what we are… you are. You killed her…."
"No!" Gregor cried out, throwing up his arms to ward off the blow.
The bathroom door slammed open as Peter rushed into the room, clutching a towel around his waist as he brandished his gun with the other. He circled the room, searching for an intruder, finally stopping in front of the bed. "What's going on?"
If things hadn't been so bleak, the sight of the dripping detective would have been comical. Instead it sent Gregor straight into hysterics. He felt his only friend sit on the bed where he was curled back up into a ball. Hands rubbed his back in soothing circular motions as Peter mumbled, "I am not going to make a habit out of slapping you around. No matter how much I enjoy it."
But it was far too late. Not even the strong medication Gregor ingested could stop the terrorized tumble into blackness.
SLINGGGGG
The sword slid out of the scabbard as he stood outside the older house. It desperately needed a paint job and some new shingles. Sort of like the analyst that lived and worked here, an old warhorse who spent all his time helping others instead of worrying about himself. Easy pickings-and secluded enough from the other houses that the Quickening would be hopefully ignored.
Why did he run toward the house and kick the door in before the old man could react? Why cut his legs off at the knees as he reached for the sword conveniently stored in the umbrella stand? Why slice each of the Immortal's forearms so he flopped helpless on the wood flooring, unable to get up? Why listen to the pathetic screams before chopping off the head and silencing the screams forever?
Because here is where that bastard came for absolution.
And for his crimes, Powers should find none.
None at all.
Pacific Northwest, USA 1884
The town was like any other in the new land, still mostly untamed wilderness and wild abandon. Starting over again, Gregor moved slowly, waiting for the locals to come to him for help, hiding out in his little shack instead of socializing during the rare parties and get-togethers.
Out here, such gatherings were the lifeblood of the community, release from the day-to-day drudgery that existed in everyone's lives. To ignore that brought speculation, distrust and wariness. Perfect for a brooding Immortal.
Duncan MacLeod managed to visit twice, each time bringing a few remnants of his former life, before disappearing one day out of Gregor's life. By then, the locals tolerated him, some calling him by name when he ventured out for foodstuffs or fresh air.
At least the cholera epidemic in his last location failed to spread this far. memories of the dead and dying, the tents, the ever-present smell of medicines were unbearable even now. It was as if God had raised his hand and everything returned to the beginning, when Gregor trekked to this new land on MacLeod's assurances alone.
He wished to God that his pain could be removed just as easily.
Another Immortal lived in town, one felt but never glimpsed. Missing for long stretches, Gregor finally relaxed his guard. Whoever it was must feel no need to bring the Game into the untouched paradise they both hid in. Careful to note the comings and goings of the trappers and guides that stopped by on their way here and there, he guessed his mysterious kin to be one of them-just like MacLeod and many others of his kind. Always on the move, never in one place too long.
With that in mind and the painful lessons of his last medical practice all too recent, he worked hard to remain unobtrusive and unmemorable, all the while doing his best to keep the inhabitants well and healthy.
It was one such summer afternoon that a young lady -young for this part of the world -came calling for his medical opinion. Alice Harrison was her name, spouse to the local railroad baron and thus a member of the elite in the territory. And she was as beautiful as a morning daffodil, in Gregor's opinion.
A vision in white with a parasol on her arm, she needed the doctor's assurance of complete confidentiality before discussing her condition. Or lack thereof. So Gregor professed his trustworthiness, escorted her to the room he used as both office and sleeping area, and listened carefully while averting his gaze unless absolutely necessary.
For more than two years she and her husband had performed carnal acts in the hopes of conceiving children. Nothing had blossomed from their love, and fearful of failing her wifely duties, she came to the town's medical doctor for advice and help.
To sit there, imagining their attempts was pure torture to Gregor. After the disaster in Boston and the Wellington-Winter's daughter that precluded his escape West almost five years ago, and Duncan's continued aloofness, he had abstained from sexual intercourse. And this vision of beauty walks into his life and proceeds to detail such activities to him in the most embarrassed voice.
God must be punishing him for something. To be ethically bound to squash his manly urges and treat this woman as any other patient was torment unseen out of Tartarus. Imagining her as a lumpy shepherd's wife, or rakish school marm did not work. Actually touching her during the course of the initial examination almost made him lose control. He finished quickly, finding no obvious cause for her sterility.
The next step would be a more thorough examination, but weak-kneed and almost undone, Gregor pleaded time to consult by telegraph with colleagues in the East, putting off any more chances at caressing her silky white skin until he was better fortified.
Even weeks later, his ardor had not diminished, instead growing each time she appeared at his abode. Finally, after his limited ability had been exhausted, he informed her of his lack of findings, and recommended the name of several fine physicians in both California and Illinois, two places her husband traveled frequently.
Downcast, she thanked him for his kindness, and turned to leave. Unable to let this chance go without at least an attempt at happiness, Gregor took her arm, blocking the door, and proceeded to kiss her with all the restrained passion he had bottled up inside himself these many weeks.
She responded just as passionately.
As the consultations continued, only suspended while her husband was in town, Gregor found himself growing happy again, a feeling long missing from his life. Always the fount of discretion, their illicit affair was made up of brief meetings deep in the woods, or quick couplings on his examination table late at night.
It was a year later that Gregor finally realized that his mysterious Immortal and his lover's infertility problem were one and the same. By then his heart was so captured by Alice that even the certain disaster of the situation failed to move him from his course. For now he knew he loved her, more than any other person in his over two hundred year existence.
And like everything else for those two hundred years, it disappeared as quickly as he had found it. One midnight too close to her husband's return, they met. He was stuttering his desire to flee with her south to San Francisco and from there anywhere in the world even as Harrison pounded against the barred door to his practice.
Her hasty agreement spurred him into action. They fled out the back window while Gregor shouted answers to Harrison's insults at the front. By the time the other Immortal realized they were gone, the pair sped down the rough trail in his wagon, Alice clutching his arm.
Before they had gone very far, Harrison appeared behind them, gaining as he spurred his black stallion onward. Between the wild ride, the terrified woman at his side and his inhuman opponent behind, Gregor took a turn far too fast, causing the wagon to tumble to the side and spill out the occupants. He was thrown clear, ironically enough, but Alice found herself trapped under the cart, its heavy weight crushing her body beyond earthly repair.
She died in Harrison's arms, her last breath fading as Powers approached on foot. Carefully, the other Immortal rocked her, calling out her name as Gregor stood frozen, shocked and light-headed after the accident.
Harrison faced him, Alice in his arms, and looked him squarely in the eyes, hate blazing from them. "You BASTARD!"
Gregor turned and ran into the woods, not stopping until his body failed, unconscious as he fell to the ground, blackness seeping into his body until...
…he jerked away with a start, the shrill ringing of a cell phone disturbing the quiet in the hotel room. Peter was already off the bed, digging through his jacket. "Hello?" the detective asked when he got the instrument to his ear. "Uh-huh. How long ago?"
Gregor looked at the clock wondering for a moment if it was six in the morning or evening with the heavy curtains drawn over the balcony doors. Whatever it was, it gave the Immortal the willies as the detective finished his short conversation.
"Get dressed," Peter told him after hanging up. Already stripping off the sweats he wore to bed, he motioned at the phone on the table. "We think our friend has been at it again."
"Who's Harrison?" Peter asked as they stopped at a light, not glancing from the roadway. "You called out his name in your sleep."Gregor shook his head, then realized the mortal might not see the gesture. "Just another ghost from my past."
"Like the Ryan guy?" After a moment, Peter slowed the car to examine the street signs. "You know why we're out here?"
"Doctor Rossburg. My shrink," Gregor informed the detective as they turned the corner. That was the only person he knew in this part of town. Fairly secluded in an older section of Turtle Creek, houses out here were their own little domains, walled compounds with lush growth surrounding eclectic houses.
Already, news crews fought with uniformed officers at the yellow police barricade. Flashing his badge, Peter escorted the Immortal through the main gate, nodding as Carlos Sandoval walked toward them in the early morning light.
"Well, I was just about to go off-shift when the call came in…thought you could use the help."
Peter smiled at the Latino, glancing over to the crime scene. "Forensics finished in there?"
"Yes, sir," Carlos replied, leading the detective away from Gregor and the cluster of cars. The two cops paused at the coroner's wagon, opening the black body bag and taking a quick look.
It felt surreal to the Immortal, leaning alone against someone's brown Buick. Like on a crime drama, without any of the sound. Light flashed in his face from the many patrol cars in the neighborhood. Death had become such a spectator sport. So many people huddled about, some talking quietly while drinking coffee, no different from the morning klatches around the water cooler in offices across the country. Pictures taken, some by news media, a few by 'official' personnel, to record, to clarify, to forever freeze the moment in black and white amber.
Dying had been so much easier, back in the olden days. A simple burial, small gatherings. It took weeks if not months for the families to be notified, sometimes word never reaching far away clans. A simple hole in the ground, a few shovelfulls of dirt. A sheriff or lawman, a gun and a horse. So simple, so elegant.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today." The words echoed over the breeze, finding Gregor alone in the woods at the outskirts of the cemetery. Any closer, and Harrison would know he was there. "…ashes to ashes…dust to dust." Such a small, intimate affair.
Now, the term 'circus' had never been so apt. So many people fondling the body, examining it, to be violated so much before waking up cold and alone in the morgue.
Peter reached the front door as two uniformed officers exited, carrying the plastic-wrapped head between them.
Gregor cried out as he saw Sebastion's head sitting quietly on his small table, surrounded by the antique lace shawl Alice had worn. Harrison's work. Always Harrison's work. Death and destruction followed him everywhere, touched everything he held dear.
Ever since the accident, the grief-maddened Immortal had hunted Gregor, striking out in the quiet, peaceful moments to rain destruction down on him. In each new city someone died, both mortal and Immortal, fair targets for his wrath. From city to city Gregor fled, no rhyme or reason, just blind panic. Slowly the harbinger of ruination followed, sometime months behind, sometimes days.
Sebastion had only risen Immortal a week ago, suffocating in a mining accident. His family and friends were grateful for the miraculous recovery in Gregor's care after being dug out of the awful blackness. Had barely been told about the Game or Quickenings before his chances disappeared like gossamer mist.
It took only a moment for Gregor to pack his few belongings, reaching for his dwindling supply of cash. If only he had a moment of peace in which to think, a breath of stillness to gather his thoughts. but like a pack of wolves on the scent of wounded prey, Harrison nipped at his heels.
Gregor paused, tears streaming down his face as he looked to his friend one last time, face frozen in the rigor of terror. He could well imagine Harrison's enraged visage as he killed the lad, he'd seen it often enough himself. In the stillness of this little town, the shrill train whistle…
...drew him back, ringing shrilly in his coat pocket. "Hello?" he asked, once he had the mouthpiece to his face. His hand shook, making it difficult to grasp the sweat-slicked plastic. "Hello?"
"You know how hard it is to find an unlisted cell phone number, friend?"
The tenor voice, emotionless except for the utter disgust of the final word, chilled Gregor to the bone. Not just a glimpse in a crowded terminal, but a soft hiss of sound beside the quiet car. His stomach churned, grumbling in counterpoint. "Oh, God." he whispered, too shocked to bend over and curl into a ball.
"Think I have a talent for interior decorating? I took a few pointers from your exhibit."
The image of bloody walls, desecrated corpses of his many friends impaled like art on white stucco flashed through his head, his rumbling stomach rolling into dry heaves as the Immortal wretched into the grass. Laughter echoed in his ear, Gregor too weak and occupied to smash the offending instrument against the ground.
"Where!" he managed to spew out, knowing that Richie would understand the question. He found it difficult to breathe in the chill morning dawn, gasping for air as he waited an eternity for the answer. Any answer.
A cry built up in his throat, clawing it's way out when his tormentor answered. "Highland Park Baptist. One hour." The dial tone harmonized with his scream for the brief moment before he smashed the phone again and again until it was in pieces on the Buick's hood.
No one heard him. No one came to check on him as he stumbled away from the cars. As he quietly crossed the police line and disappeared into the gathering crowd
No one saw him hail a taxi and ride off into the dawn.
Only one remained.
One who befriended an emotionless monster.
One who turned a blind eye to the evil in black leather.
One who terrorized his soul as surely as.
And then there would be none. And then he would be done.
Churches always had so many doors, Gregor realized as he stood before the red brick cathedral. Ins and outs, always open, always welcoming. Shelter from the storm, sometimes shelters to the storm. He could feel the other Immortal inside. Waiting. Holy Ground. A chance to talk. He was glad he'd skipped breakfast this morning.
Richie graced the foyer, sitting on a chair near the nursery. The kid looked angry, and tired, and barely glanced up as Gregor entered. Seemed Immortality had been a hard life so far.
Not liking the enclosed space, Gregor stepped on into the main area, sliding into a pew a quarter of the way down and turning sideways to watch the room. His tormentor ambled in, sitting across the aisle, not looking around, not looking at Gregor. Staring at his hands, apparently.
"I'm here," Gregor hissed, the words slipping out his tight lips.
Hands clenching into fists, Richie closed his eyes. "I hate you. I hate what you did to me, what you put me through back then. I came up with millions of things to say to your face when I finally saw you again, try to make you feel what I felt. To do unto you what."
Gregor was in no mood for games. "I'd say you've done a pretty good job, kid."
The moniker made Richie look up in rage, his face turning red. "I was a naivé idiot back then. I'm not any more. I understand it all, you see? I can be as mean and nasty as any of you, now." His hands gripped the pew in front of him, white from the strain. "I'm not a kid any more."
"MacLeod teach you all that?"
Richie flushed even redder, his eyes narrowing at the name. "That was the last thing the fucking Highlander taught me. I'm an Immortal now. And rule number one is 'Get them before they get you.'"
"So you and MacLeod.?" The silence was answer enough. A moan choked off Gregor's breath. It had to be true. Richie had gotten the drop on MacLeod and was now a vicious headhunter. A young, impetuous fighter who killed everyone he met, with the energy of rage augmenting what little skill he had. A brutal killing machine.
After his head now.
Leaving a trail of corpses leading up to the main event.
"This ends now," he spat, knowing if the Highlander had failed, it was his duty to stop this monster before he could kill anyone else, mortal or Immortal. He stood up and motioned for the doors. "You first."
Before Richie could stand, the door flew open, numerous men in blue pouring through the doorways. "Police! FREEZE!" Within seconds, both Immortals had guns pointed at them, Peter and the puppy leading the pack.
"Just fucking great," Gregor mumbled, raising his hands.
By sunset, they were no closer to any answers. In Gregor's opinion, that was both good and bad news. Richie had been processed, and had remained terse throughout the several hours of intense questioning, even after the lawyer from the public defender's office had arrived.
Peter felt absolutely livid, both at Gregor for disappearing and Ryan's continued muteness. So far, they had broken several departmental policies on interrogations, but since neither the suspect nor the lawyer had raised a fuss, the inquisition continued.
"So, tell me again, kid, why you were out at DFW on Tuesday," Detective Bruskow asked, for the second time in an hour.
The voices sounded grainy through the speaker system in the next room, but Richie's glance at the empty water glass was clear even with the one-way mirror between them. For a while, the suspect answered a few questions based on a reward system. One, he got something to drink. Two, he got to use the bathroom. Three, they left him alone for five minutes. But once through his select few stock answers, he had clammed up again. Even the mousy public defender looked bored and tired. Richie looked almost like a wraith in the harsh halogen light.
"Getting a part for my bike," Richie mumbled, breaking his silence.
Peter tensed next to Gregor, turning his attention from the myriad paperwork to the scene in the other room. "At least that's partially true," the detective added.
Bruskow, latching on the suddenly vocal suspect, continued. "And you were in the secured area because."
The glare from Richie could have melted granite if it hadn't gotten old hours ago. Sweating heavily in the oppressive heat and harsh light, he cradled his head on his arms. But his voice was still clear. "I was hungry. There's nothing to eat out in the baggage area."
"And you just happened to see Mr. Powers, by chance."
"Yeah." So far, nothing new. Except the belligerent tone in the young Immortal's voice. "I did break into Greg's apartment, I did throw some furniture and stuff around, I don't know anything about any blood-or his assistant-or his shrink-or why you think someone who travels with a sword is more likely to go around killing people than someone with a gun."
Peter leaned over, holding out a new piece of paper to Gregor. "Forensics confirms that there's blood residue on the sword but no DNA match to the victims. He killed them with something else."
Gregor wasn't sure about it, any more. Or anything else.
Exhausted, his eyes closed as he suddenly yawned. "Sorry," he muttered as his friend nudged him. "Been a long day." More like a nightmare that never ended. All he could wish for was home, peace, a warm bed. what he thought about was death, decay and destruction. By him and to him. And by extension, to others.
Bruskow leaned over. "Why carry a sword? Hidden, no less? You like cutting people up?"
Richie glared. "You like bondage games with handcuffs? I'm better with a sword than with a gun. And I don't have to spend money on bullets."
"Duncan MacLeod," Detective Bruskow brought up to Richie.
The Highlander, Gregor's savior, who had taught him like any good Teacher, who had watched as he faded away into a shade of himself-an angry bitter ghost who could a century later terrorize a young, impressionable kid. Richie. A kid who probably ended up taking the Highlander's head and leaving a bitter path of dead bodies leading up to Gregor's doorstep. Circular logic-always a lovely exercise.
"He was fine, last time I saw him," Richie spat. And remained mute afterwards. There the interrogation would hang, until it started over again minutes, hours later. Same questions, same answers, same results.
"And you left Seacouver because..." Bruskow continued.
Silence.
It was late, tempers were flaring, everyone dead on their feet. The cops would always bring in fresh interrogators, hammering away, but the suspect…the suspect couldn't rest, couldn't regain his bearings. Until he cracked in the box under the harsh white lights. It always worked. Including now.
Whatever tenuous hold the young Immortal had finally shattered. Too quickly to reach, he lashed out, knocking the water glass and tape recorder off the table. Glaring at the detective in the interrogation room with him, the kid ignored the crunch as they broke against the cement block wall.
"Fine. I'll tell you what happened. He came after me." Richie glanced right at the mirror, piercing Gregor's soul. "Threw me around, beat me up. Laughed at me. Played with me like I was dog food or somethin'." With a deep breath, he wiped his spit drenched lips with the back of his forearm before slamming his hand down on the table again. "He was gonna kill me. Had a…knife and everything at my throat."
Clearly, from the look on Al's face, the detective wasn't impressed. "And you got away." The words and tone mocked the story.
"FUCK!" Richie screamed, slamming his fists down, hard. The table split with a loud crack, echoing like a gunshot in the bare room. "He was…fine…when I turned tail and ran. And ran. Never stopping, always looking behind me. He was FINE! As fine as a psychopath can be."
Gregor latched on to the slip, the one word substituted for the expected "alive." The young Immortal had managed to kill MacLeod, long enough to slip away. Was it the truth, was Richie terrified of the Highlander? If it was all a pack of lies, why stumble over the word? But Duncan would never….
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He watched Officer Sandoval enter the interrogation room and speak quietly to Bruskow. Peter took the moment and turned to Gregor. "Sounds about right."
Absolutely lost, he glanced away from Richie and the livid expression the kid was trying so hard to get under control. "What?"
Fumbling through a folder, Peter found the report he was looking for. "Same night MacLeod dropped off the face of the Earth, police were called to a dispute at a warehouse bar in Seacouver. Seems the good professor assaulted a woman there, and almost took on four guys with a baseball bat. Not to mention a sighting during a gas explosion near the Interstate. Either he snapped, or had a history of violence he hid pretty well."
That didn't sound at all like Duncan. The Highlander was the most honorable, do-gooder alive. Hadn't Gregor only recently pointed that out to him? "Duncan wouldn't."
"So you do know him," Peter interrupted. The folder was closed, and the detective's full attention was on Gregor. A spider watching the fly trapped in his own web of lies and cover-ups.
Detective Bruskow cleared his throat, the harsh sound worsened by the speakers. All attention was focused back on the interrogation room, where Carlos was escorting a rather large, well-dressed man into the room. "I hope you can repeat all that to..."
"Powell." Richie's glared lessened in intensity until he shook his head, resting it in his arms on the table as his body closed in around itself. Not a good sign when the suspect goes catatonic.
Barely giving the Dallas officers a glance as they left, the Seacouver detective started up with the questioning. The silence from Richie didn't seem to phase him in the least, until he flipped a photo on the table. "MacLeod was spotted in France just last week, apparently the new headliner in a circus act on the way to Moscow. Looks like he found someone to replace Miss Noel."
The tension level dropped almost immediately as Bruskow and Sandoval hurried into the darkened room with Peter and Gregor. "What did he say?" the Latino asked.
For a moment, it was difficult to tell if Richie was crying or convulsing, even as he looked up with tears on his cheeks. "Amanda," he choked out with a snort, clutching his stomach as he continued to laugh, as if the whole situation made clear, perfect sense. "Just…fuckin'…great!"
"One mystery solved," Peter pointed out, his finger circling around the room at the other three like a laser pointer. "I still want to nail him for the murders here."Gregor immediately sobered, the giddy relief of hearing of his Teacher's continuing health was dampened by the horrors still in Dallas. "I still want a shower and bed. My bed."
"No more running off on your own, you hear?" Carlos added, shaking a finger at the Immortal while smiling. "I'm not going to chase a taxi on foot for the license plate every time you want to give Peter the slip."
Reaching over to flick off the speaker system, Peter began ushering everyone out of the room. "We'll let Ryan entertain our guest for a while. Al, when they're done, shove him into a holding cell. It's too late for night court, so schedule him sometime tomorrow for his bail hearing. That'll give everyone a chance to get a few hours rest before coming back. Because he's going down on two counts of murder one. That's the plan-bail, nail, jail. Everyone clear? Bastard deserves to fry like a fish if I have any say."
After the rest had split up, leaving the Immortal alone in the hallway, he shook his head. "No, my friend," he muttered, "that's not what he deserves at all." Gregor had a more permanent solution in mind. "And you have no say in it."
He was ready, this time. After months of running scared, hiding in dark holes like a mouse, he had finally let his rage run free. It gave him the energy to fight back, to think, to plan. And so tonight, like the last three evenings, he waited in his hotel room, hiding behind the door, waiting.
The bed covers concealed his saddle packs and pillows, squished together in a lumpy body-like shape. Enough to fool someone for a moment in the darkness. His black coat looked almost like his head of hair in the moonlight that filtered in between the heavy curtains.
The night was almost over. Gregor had been leaning against the wall, sword drawn, for hours. Ever since he stumbled upstairs, acting like he had much too much to drink. But that, like his gambling before and frightened scurried movements, had all been a facade. To draw the cat into reach.
Can you hear the bell ringing, Harrison?
Ever since arriving in Emerald Gulch, he had sensed eyes watching him. No Immortal appeared to challenge him, but somehow, Harrison kept a firm gaze on his prey, either from a distance or through a third party. So Gregor gave the performance expected. The same as he had behaved for real in San Francisco, Middletown, Whisper Valley and Fort Bragg. But this time was different.
The telegraph message pressed against his heart, the paper edge scratching his chest each time he moved or breathed. Two words, finding him in his darkest hour. Courage, Duncan.
For his mentor, he would be strong. For his friend, he would fight Harrison, fight his grief, his guilt and win. Fight out of the blackness and emptiness and claw his way back into the light. He owed his Teacher no less. And MacLeod's strength bolstered his, for a moment, captured in two little words. Courage. Duncan.
He tensed as footsteps clumped on the stairs outside, forewarned that the enemy approached. He was ready for the door bursting open, slamming itself into his upraised hand. Without thought, he shoved the door out of his way, pushing it shut as he swung where he mentally pictured Harrison's neck to be. Fought hard, and sliced his way through skin, muscle and bone.
All Hell broke loose.
In his agony, thrashing on the floor of his room, flames exploding from the suddenly lit gas lamps on the wall, he screamed. All his rage, his anger, his frustration rolled into one savage yell of release. He flung his arms wide, welcoming the Quickening, accepting the power and energy. Light faded, darkness claimed him, as he fell forward on his face, landing hard on the carpeted floor.
God, it was finally over.
Gregor unsteadily rose to his feet, glad that it was done, when he heard the war cry behind him. Twisting sharply, he raised his broadsword again, shocked as a shadow ran toward him. It veered left, sliding its sword into. Karen! She begged, clutching her stomach as the blade sliced her through. Then right, beheading Doctor Rossburg, but not waiting for the Quickening. Still the shadow came, until Gregor recognized it as Richie Ryan, covered in dripping blood and snarling like a beast.
It took all his strength to parry the first overhand blow. Still, Gregor was driven to his knees as Richie kicked out. "Die!" the ghostly young Immortal screamed, morphing into MacLeod, dark hair loose and flying. "I should have killed you years ago," the Scot spat, attacking again with his katana.
Suddenly Gregor was Richie, blocking the blow from the dojo floor, whimpering as the Highlander disarmed him and held his sword to his neck. Only when he looked up in the face of his opponent, it was Gregor himself, dressed in black leather, black eyes, black rage contorting his face into a demonic version of himself. "I'm much better at living than you are," the doppelganger whispered, slicing deep as he stepped away.
Gregor landed hard on the floor, feeling his life's blood spurting out his neck, the energy crackling, waiting to be released. The emptiness, blackness spread over his body, claiming it once again, as it had done so often. As he had allowed it, no, welcomed it over the years. The cold emptiness of living death, emotionless life. The unfeeling existence that he embraced when it hurt too damn much.
"Please," he begged, listening to Duncan/Richie/himself laugh. A sword whispered through the chill air, biting deep into his neck and dragging out a scream…
…as he sat up in bed, chilled and drenched in sweat. His hand clutched the soaked sheets, his flesh covered in goosebumps as he shivered uncontrollably. Too dark to see, too frightening to search for the light switch. He sat there, gasping for breath, feeling horribly adrift, then curled into a ball and screamed through clenched teeth.
He eventually struggled out of bed, tangled up in the covers. Crawling on the floor, he reached for the light on the night table and then his medication. Unsteady hands twisted the child-proof cap, finally getting the bottle open. Nothing left inside.
Shaking it with a growl rumbling in his throat, Gregor prayed for another pill, another miracle to magically appear and take control of his nerves. "Fuck," he yelled, throwing the bottle and watching it gouge a mark in his bedroom wall.
Maybe a drink. Definitely a drink. It took a moment to untangle the sheets wrapped around his legs, another to stand and not have the room spin uncontrollably. He reached the liquor cabinet, grabbing the first thing his hand made contact with, familiar enough with the layout to not need a light. Something in a large bottle burned as it went down his throat.
But the alcohol didn't help. Didn't ease the growing rage churning in his belly. He almost threw this bottle against the wall, only to collapse bonelessly on the floor as his body failed him for a second. His head fell back and hit the antique cabinet a little too hard. A sharp knife of pain lanced through his aching head. "God," he whispered, both a curse and a prayer.
If Sal still lived, Gregor would have speed-dialed him immediately. But his anchor had been murdered, leaving him alone. Duncan, his Teacher, his friend had severed all ties and disappeared into Russia with his long-time lover. No call, no letter. Duncan didn't care.
Maybe…maybe someone else, someone who could help him, just for the moment. Trembling, he managed to make it to the desk, barely turning on the lamp without knocking it over. His address book was there, and the phone. Not bothering with time zones, he dialed a number in England.
"You've reached the offices of Dr. Sean Burns. Dr. Burns is no longer in practice. If you need assistance call, Dr. Sinclair, at the Royal Edinburgh…"
"Damn!" Gregor choked, slamming the phone down in its cradle. No help there. He took another swig of liquor, the bottle where he left it beside the phone and handy. His head felt like it was about to explode, the pressure still building behind his eyes. "No," he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed against the pain. His legs failed him again, his body slipping to the floor.
Everything hurt. Every breath a fiery, choking heave. Alone, tormented, no help for the wicked. Insane. He had tried, tried so hard. He felt the cold, hardwood floor beneath his legs, the rough brick against his naked back, the blinding light stabbing into his brain.
He wanted it to stop. Wanted the agony to end. The Immortal felt the energy drain out of his arms, leeched into the floor, the bottle falling on it's side out of his weakened grip. The blackness, blessed emptiness darkened the light, cooled his forehead, chilled his blood.
Gregor wondered who would find his empty husk on the floor. Would Carlos drive by one too many times, see nothing had changed, get worried and come running like Master's faithful hound? Would Peter notice his star witness had disappeared? Would they even care?
Jamison. He smiled, a brief flicker at the corners of his mouth. He'd always liked that family. George, trapped with him in a Southern interment camp, dying by inches. Samuel, who helped him get his start out West. Aaron, faithful enough to open his home to a madman, strong enough to throw him out when his children were threatened. And Peter-bright, happy Peter-who always smiled, always seemed interested.
Called him for help when he needed an ear to grind. Introduced him around the station, inviting him to the late-night poker games. Saw a spark of interest in forensic photography and did everything possible to get him hired as a backup photographer.
Damn if he was going to fade away without trying all his options. Too tired to stand one more time, he felt behind him for the phone cord, pulling the instrument down to his level. His fingers knew the number by feel, his hand lifting the receiver to his ear, his voice choking as Peter answered.
"Hello?"
The detective sounded beat and crabby. Gregor almost dropped the phone, too afraid to speak, but a whispered "Peter" passed his lips.
"Greg? Is that you? Are you in trouble?"
Worried now, a hint of panic in the voice. Gregor sobbed at his friend's distress. "Yes. No." He wasn't sure what question he answered, nothing made much sense.
"Where are you? Are you at home? I'll be right there."
Wincing as Peter's voice grew louder with each sentence, Gregor choked "no!" before he had to focus on his trembling hand to keep from releasing the phone. His lifeline. His salvation. He could do this. "Can I…can I…come over?" he finally asked. Tonight was not a night to be alone, and he certainly didn't want to stay here. Even in the faint light, he could still imagine the blood on the walls.
A moment of silence, and then Peter audibly exhaled. "Come over? Of course…you know you're welcome here…anytime. Or I could pick you up, if you don't feel like driving."
Gregor couldn't help but smile, his jaw muscles aching from the movement after being clenched so long. Carlos had nothing on the Jamisons. "No…no. I can get a cab. I want to."
"Well, okay." Peter's chuckled echoed in the Immortal's ear, sounding rich and hearty in the silence of his loft. "I was about to make a sandwich and take a shower. Let yourself in."
A plan. He could do this, focus on this. One step at a time, toward a goal, away from the blackness. Follow the plan. Hang up, get dressed, start the. no, call the cab. "Okay," he replied, echoing Peter's answer. "I'll be there in a few." He almost hung up then, but he put the phone back to his ear. "Thanks, Peter. I just…I don't want…I…."
"I understand," the detective cut in, stopping Gregor's stuttered speech. "Get your butt over here, and we'll watch the Cowboy game from this weekend. Take as long as you want."
He was not going to cry, sprawled on his floor at four in the morning with Peter on the phone. Not at all. He had to get dressed, find his keys, call the cab company and-giving a loud sniff-take a shower himself. "Thanks, anyway. I'll talk to you…later."
Peter said bye as he set the phone down, struggling momentarily to get it back on the cradle. Shower, clothes, call cab. Sounded like a good plan. He rolled to the side, using the desk to help him stand on still-shaky legs. He eyed the bedroom doorway, beyond that the bathroom and shower. Yes, he had a plan. A plan to get to Peter's. He could do this. Didn't need Sal, Duncan, Sean, or anyone but Peter. He could make it through tonight, just like he did every other night. And worry about tomorrow when it came. Right now he had to shower, call, clothes, keys, cab.
Not once did he acknowledge the blackness at the edge of his sight.
The more time he spent awake in his apartment, the more he hated it. Even though Peter had arranged for everything to be cleaned, it still felt. dirty. He packed a small case, hoping to impose on Peter's open invitation, at least for a bit. Until he felt safe enough to be alone. Give them some male bonding experiences. Even though Peter was a total neat freak. No way would Gregor put up with anal cleanliness for very long, but for a little while. Had to be better than being stalked by a crazed headhunting Immortal killing machine.
"Okay, so it's a draw which one is worse," he mumbled to himself as the cab turned onto Peter's street. Nice houses lined the road, a very family oriented division. Quiet. Peaceful. Gregor could do that. The silence soothed his body as he walked up the driveway to the front porch, cheerily lit against the blackness.
"Hello?" he called out, knocking on the door, bypassing the still malfunctioning bell. With an ear to the wood, he could barely hear the shower running in the distance. He let himself in, calling out as he entered. "Peter? It's Greg."
Still no answer from the bathroom. He eyed the plate on the table, with the half-finished sandwich and chips. With a shrug, Gregor confiscated it, devouring the comfort food. Battling personal demons counted as hard work.
Running a hand down the island counter, he briefly debated turning on the TV to some infomercial or old movie instead of something soothing on the stereo. As he reached the end, the phone rang, shattering the calm silence.
He resisted the urge to grab the cordless, instead letting the answering machine pick up. Thinking it might be police business, he froze as the first words issued from the speaker. "I know you're there, Gregor."
His first thought was that Richie had somehow escaped, but the voice was too cultured, too low to be the young Immortal. Pieces clicked into place in his head, the puzzle finally making sense. Richie wasn't the killer.
"Pick up the phone, Powers."
The voice was unfamiliar, even to the exacting memory of an Immortal. He found himself reaching, unable to stop his hand from picking up the cordless headset. "Yes?" he asked as the answering machine clicked off, rewinding and resetting itself. His finger quickly tapped the memo button, letting it record the conversation. Better to have this on tape, proof that Richie wasn't the only stalker after him.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" the voice asked rather harshly.
Gregor still had no clue and kept silent, slipping his own cell phone out of his pocket. Peter's precinct was handily kept on the speed dial.
"Uh, uh, no calling for help."
A hasty look around showed several open windows, any of which this bastard could be watching him from. Was it safe to call out for Peter or….
"Does Timothy Ragstone ring a bell?"
Enchanted Circle, New Mexico, USA Spring of 1993
The geek sat motionless on the dirt bike, eyeing the machine nervously. "Come on, Greg, you know I don't like to do this kind of thing."
Gregor had already tightened his helmet and stared at the kid, glaring until the mortal caved and put on his own. "It's a real easy race, Timmy. No one drives these mountain roads anymore with the new Interstate nearby. It'll be fun." Why spoil the surprise by adding that the road had been closed-condemned-for more than a month.
They sped off, the Immortal showing off by popping a wheelie and still out-racing the young high school student. He let the kid catch up and pass, pulling in behind him, dogging Timmy through the tight turns and rough patches of crumbling road. "Faster," he shouted over the roar of the wind, barely tapping the kid's back wheel but still sending the motorcycle off balance.
"Faster," he yelled again, slipping to the outside and turning sharply, driving the mortal into the inside of the turn. The kid was visibly frightened, looking for a way out, a place to stop and get the madman off his back. But Gregor was too good, too experienced a rider, herding him faster down the treacherous road.
It felt good to goad the mortal, tasting the adrenaline and excitement as they flirted with death. The terror almost made the Immortal feel alive, a brief moment of living outside his shell of emotionless existence. "Faster," he cried, laughing and throwing his arms wide, begging life to fill his soul.
He had no control of the bike as they turned a sharp corner. A tanker truck was parked on the road where no one should have been. Too late to stop or swerve, the pair slammed into the back, sparks flying as the liquid gasoline inside ignited through the sudden rip in the tank and exploded, drenching both men in fiery hot molten flames.
Gregor walked away before the ambulances arrived, led by a search and rescue helicopter. Timmy was in the CCU for several weeks, covered in third degree burns over most of his body. He died soon after, watched over by his widowed father in a cold, clinical hospital room….
"Sherril Ragstone." The name just popped into his head.
"I see you remember," the voice laughed, a crazy, horrible chuckle. "I've been watching you, waiting for the right moment. It's time you joined Tim in Hell, you bastard."
Courage, Duncan. His mentor was alive, and he needed that knowledge, that strength, now. "We end this now. Just tell me where."
The bedroom door behind him opened, as a gray-haired man pulled Peter in front of him as a shield. Mouth gagged with tape and hands hidden behind his back, the detective wore his usual tank top and boxers for relaxing around the house. "We're right here," Ragstone announced with a grin. "And we've only just begun."
With a yell, Gregor launched himself at the pair, heedless of the gun in the old man's hand. It went off, the sharp report louder than his scream, as something kicked him in the chest, slamming him backwards and down, down, down, down.
His wrists hurt, crossed in the small of his back. So did his shoulders. His stomach protested violently when Ragstone's boot slammed into it. With his hands bound behind him and something tied tightly around his throat, thin like baling wire, writhing on the floor in pain seemed to be the only option. "Get up you bastard," a rough, gravely voice barked. One edged with quite a bit of alcohol.
Then the tightness around his throat squeezed worse, cutting into his skin. Despite the agony, he shuffled awkwardly to his feet, raising his head up off the concrete floor. He stood unsteadily on his toes, choking from the thin noose around his neck.
Years ago, Duncan had told him about being hanged, but it hardly seemed to compare to this biting torment. He eyed the older man warily, watching as the other end of the wire got tied around a waiting support, trapping Gregor in the painful position.
Wrists and ankles bound, he made a human punching bag, unable to defend himself from even the weak jabs the old man threw at him, making him dance with the leash around his neck, torturing himself.
After Ragstone got tired of hitting him and pummeling him, he spun the Immortal around like a top, letting Gregor see the warehouse that served as his jail. He struggled to stay standing and to keep the wire from biting into his skin.
The madman stopped his thrashing, hands digging into his sore sides. He faced Peter a few feet away, tied down to a chair. The detective, unconscious and pale, still wore the boxers and tank top from earlier. A few slaps from the old man woke him.
It took a second for the situation to sink into the mortal, his police training and imagination filling in all the small details. He struggled against the ropes as Ragstone moved away. Still gagged with duct tape, he could only moan at Gregor, his eyes communicating all the sorrow the mortal felt.
"It's okay," Gregor choked out, feeling his eyes watering. "You didn't know."
From nearby, a sharp noise and Ragstone's voice shattered the stillness. "Of course you didn't know, Detective!" The old man appeared in Gregor's vision, brandishing a knife in his direction as he yelled at the cop. "This piece of scum didn't tell you about the boys he killed…or maimed." His hand reached into Peter's hair, pulling his face up and into the light. "For years this psychopath has tormented anyone close to him, destroying their lives. I've watched him. And I let him. Took an oath to protect his dirty little secret. Until he hurt my Timmy. You think this piece of shit has reformed? You think he's been Mister Clean since he got here to Dallas? I don't think so." His face etched with rage, the old man plunged the wicked looking dagger into Peter's bare shoulder, eliciting a scream from both his victims.
The old man walked around his captive, leaving the weapon in the detective's body, blood steadily dripping from the wound. "Did he mention he kills on a regular basis?" Peter moaned as the knife was twisted in his shoulder. Ragstone leaned close and whispered in the mortal's ear. "Did he tell you what an abomination he is?"
Shit, he knows about Immortals.
Peter jerked his head away, turning his eyes from the Immortal hanging before him. Gregor almost wept in relief, his friend had a lot of defiance left in him. But severely injured, strength slowly dripping from the restrained body as the blood soaking the white tank top, their tormentor held all the cards. And the crazy bastard seemed out for pain.
A second knife toyed with the straps of the tank top, running over Peter's chest near the ropes holding him. "Did he tell you what he did to my son?" the old man asked, slicing the cloth until it hung in tatters over the detective's torso. "How he lured him in, telling Timmy whatever he wanted to hear, listened to him, and then drove him to his death?"
Gregor moaned, hearing in lurid detail his shameful past, unable to stop the madman or protect his friend. "He's not a part of this, Sherril. Let him go!"
"Let him go?" the old man asked incredulously. The knife skimmed over Peter's cheek, his hair trapped in a firm grip. Eyes alight with pain, they flashed with each movement of the silver blade. "He's your friend, Gregor Powers." The weapon bit into skin, drawing a thin line of blood. "I want you to know what it felt like, sitting there, watching my son slowly fade away, trapped in a world of pain and agony."
Like the scenario Ragstone had currently orchestrated, Gregor watched his friend slowly dying, helpless to protect him or to save him. Another in a long line of mortals, stretched out behind him through the past. "Please…." unashamed, he begged.
That only set the old man off. He slammed into Gregor, waving the knife in his face. "Were you there when Timmy begged me to let him die? Were you there when Tom Green-another of your victims-finally jumped off the ledge of that building? I know everything you've done your entire inhuman existence. I've read your…." Ragstone stopped, his eyes fluttering close. "Nice try, bastard, but you won't draw my attention for long." To prove it, he pulled the knife out of Peter's shoulder, sending the detective into fits, fighting against the restraints.
After watching the crazed madman almost blind the detective's right eye, Gregor settled into true hopelessness. No one had heard his screams, his pleas. No one came to rescue his friend. Peter sat limply in the chair, bleeding slowly from many numerous cuts and wounds all over his body. The detective looked more like ground beef than a human being. Purple bruises covered his fair skin, dried blood making patterns all over his flesh.
They had several long rest periods, time in which Gregor prayed to any god that would listen, counterpoint to the small whimpers coming from the shivering body tied to the chair. In all his sick existence, Gregor never tormented his victims like this, had he?
Peter gasped, a quick sound from his nose, and then quieted, his body slumped limp in the chair. Gregor panicked and thrashed, the wire noose digging deeper into his neck. He couldn't see Peter's chest move, or his eyelids flutter. "Ragstone!"
The old man chuckled behind him. "And now that you know what I felt like, watching Timmy drift away, I thought we'd finish up with letting you see how Timmy felt, laying there helpless with third degree burns, watching the fire eating away his flesh. Screaming in agony." The Immortal could hear liquid being sloshed in a can. "Coward that you are, you can probably jerk hard enough and let the wire slice your head right off. If not…." Another slosh. "I've heard of other Immortals being burned alive before. I understand it's not pleasant!"
The old man started dowsing Gregor with fluid, gasoline if his nose could smell anything but the sharp tang of blood. It evaporated off his skin quickly, sending goosebumps down his arms.
When the liquid splashed on the detective's numerous wounds, Peter thrashed weakly, his body trembling in the bonds. So his friend still lived, barely, and would share this atrocity with him.
Ragstone whistled again, splashing the gasoline between them, Gregor futilely averting his face. Still the liquid got into his eyes, burning them, causing him to thrash harder. He couldn't see, couldn't move, barely could keep himself steady. "Ragstone!"
The warehouse stilled, silent except for almost inaudible groans from Peter and Gregor's own harsh breathing. Empty except for the loud, unmistakable whisper of wood across treated paper, and the whoof as the matchhead burst into flame.
"Rot in Hell, monster," the old man cursed softly, not dispelling the aura of timelessness, as Gregor could imagine the match burning brighter, ready to fall and ignite the gasoline along with their soaked clothing. "Oops," the old man stuttered as the sizzle of the dying match elongated the hiss of the word. "How clumsy of me. I forgot to open the marshmallows."
Taunted by an unfunny man. What an absolutely horrible way to die.
After all he'd done, all he'd seen, everything he'd destroyed both willingly and accidentally, his life ended again in a choice. Slow and painful, burning to death, feeling his flesh melt and crack, his eyeballs burst, only to heal and probably be ignited again and again, inflamed until Ragstone took pity on his blackened corpse and ended it with a sword. Or he could decapitate himself, throwing his body around until that thin, merciless wire did its unfeeling task.
Drawn out, like so many of his victims. Or the easy way, leaving Peter alone to his hell. Such a young man, dying in agony, helpless to save himself, alone with a madman while the Quickening probably would destroy the building. But Gregor would already be dead.
"Courage," MacLeod's deep voice echoed in his head, thick with the Scottish burr of the Highlander's homeland.
Gregor's eyes watered, finally focusing on the dark shadows around him. "Thank you, Duncan," he whispered to the ghost of his friend, his mentor. He would stay with Peter, die with him, maybe meet him on the other side, wherever in Heaven or Hell that might be. "I'll be waiting, Ragstone," he called out, twisting in one last futile attempt to free his wrists. Oh, shit, how much more melodramatic could this get?
He heard another match struck, imagined the waves of heat pouring towards him. Then a click, echoing in the frozen warehouse, followed by a shout.
"Drop it!"
Another Immortal had just arrived.
Suddenly, shadows moved inside the warehouse, detaching from dark corners and stepping into the light. A handful of policemen, all with guns, all pointed at Gregor and Peter. What a hell of a moment to regain his vision.Time stopped, briefly, that slight pause as the large fucking moose stared into the speeding car's headlights and you knew life was about to get really, really complicated. Then the moose blinks.
Well, Gregor couldn't see Ragstone blink, or flinch, or whatever, but suddenly shots rang out. The Immortal danced and just waited for the flash as the gasoline ignited and he turned into a giant smore at a campout.
Several uniformed officers ran by him as Bruskow started yelling orders. Gregor watched Carlos run up, barely glancing at Peter before looking over the Immortal's nasty predicament. "Ouch," the Latino exclaimed.
"Let me help," someone spoke from behind. Someone that sounded suspiciously like Richard Ryan. Then hands wrapped tightly around his waist and lifted, giving Carlos room to carefully open the wire noose, just enough to slip the bloody metal over his head.
It felt good to have that fatal accessory removed. In his excitement, Gregor jerked his head back sharply once it was free, just the same moment Richie set him on the ground. He could feel his head slamming into soft cartilage and heard the pained shout as Richie let go.
Unbalanced and still tied up, they fell backwards to the ground, Gregor landing the other Immortal. Richie might be many things, but soft as a pillow he wasn't. And pillows usually didn't grunt in pain.
"We need an ambulance here," Bruskow's gruff voice called from Peter's direction. Then the detective stepped over the crumpled pair of Immortals, checking on Gregor before glancing at the other. "Hey, kid, you were supposed to wait outside."
Gregor felt hands on his wrists, testing the knots, tracing the ins and outs. He jerked when more shots rang out, someone shouting "he's getting away" off in the distance. He couldn't see Peter, hidden by a mass of people working at getting him free, trying to stop the blood flowing from his body.
"Damn," came Richie's voice from behind him, hands still working on his wrists. He almost laughed, aware of how crazy it seemed to know the young Immortal's voice instantly. To know that he came, helping the police, and helping him. He could smell the fear, the salty tang he tasted the last time Ryan had been terrorized. Still the kid did this for him.
More shots. More shouts. Something whizzed through the air close by.
He turned his head to the side, trying to see behind him. "Help him," Gregor stuttered. "Protect Peter," he managed to grunt, hoping whatever god still listened, still worked on the miracles.
The hands stopped with a final grasp of his aching shoulder. Richie's face appeared in his field of vision, surprisingly compassionate. "You got it, man." Then he was gone, his footsteps masked by another round of gunfire, echoing in the large space.
"Let me see if I can get that undone," Carlos added, stepping around behind Gregor. Nimble fingers traced the knots, working them loose and finally freeing the Immortal.
A bearded man appeared next to Gregor, his badge easily identifying him as a Texas Ranger by the Immortal. "We've got him pinned down in an office. Trivette's also found an explosive device, set to go off in less than two minutes. Let's get them out of here."
"Got it, Ranger Walker" the Latino replied, leveraging Gregor under his arms until he stood on shaky feet. The Ranger moved to help the team of people around Peter as they lifted the chair with the ropes still binding the unconscious detective, forming a makeshift stretcher.
"Forty seconds!" someone shouted and everyone began moving quickly to the doors.
Using Carlos as a crutch, Gregor limped behind the crew carrying Peter, cursing the slowness of his unnatural healing abilities. He could see how fast they were progressing, the closest door blocked by the group ahead of them. "Not gonna make it," he finally admitted, ready to push Carlos away, urging him to run to safety.
"My ass," the Latino grumbled, stopping suddenly and pivoting Gregor around until they faced each other. The policeman knelt, jamming his shoulder into the Immortal's still sore stomach and Gregor folded over easily, lifted quickly into a fireman's carry. "Got you," the patrolman murmured as the Immortal settled. Carlos Sandoval, Dallas' finest.
"And what a fine ass it is," Gregor mumbled.
Everyone ran, scurrying like rats deserting a sinking ship. Gregor grunted at the jostling, more worried about Peter and the cops than himself. Bright sunlight flashed into his face, blinding him. He could hear vehicles starting up, moving away, running feet everywhere. Then he heard the warehouse explode.
Carlos apparently stumbled, falling forward, laying Gregor out hard on the cement as heat flared behind them. The Latino crawled up on top of the Immortal, his weighty body covering him, pressing into him as flaming metal landed close by. Arms wrapped around his head, protecting it. He could still see the blue sky, though, filled with smoke trails and chunks of corrugated aluminum.
If any of the flaming debris ignited his soaked clothing….
"I need a blanket over here!" Carlos screamed, adding a loud "ahhh" as something landed on his back. Face etched in pain, the policeman slipped off, keeping his body between whatever landed on him and Gregor. Trembling, the Immortal lay helplessly as firemen and med techs ran toward them. One with an extinguisher wrapped Carlos in a cloud of white, silencing the panicked cries.
EMTs rolled the Immortal onto a blanket, turning his body and wrapping it in the cloth, covering him, suffocating him. Gregor struggled, fighting against the smothering cloth. "I'll be fine," he called out, stilling as hands left him alone. A quick peek showed everyone around Carlos and Peter.
It hurt to look at the tortured detective. Gregor, with his decades of experience as a doctor, cataloged the visible injuries. Things didn't look good for his mortal friend. He couldn't bear to look any longer. Instead, he watched them lift a jagged piece of metal from behind Carlos, black and smoking.
"You're lucky, son," one of the medical personnel informed the Latino, face still etched in pain as they examined his back. "Just a few scraps and burns. Let's get him over to an ambulance."
Gregor sat, watching them carry the patrolman off. There was nothing else to look at but the still blazing warehouse and the crowd he wasn't going to see. Peter was as good as dead, no matter what bag of tricks anyone could come up with. Gregor's lifeline died with him.
Shivering in the mass of blankets, he pulled them closer, sealing out the world, trapping himself inside them. The panicked urgency disappeared, leaving a calm afternoon behind. Several heavily suited men searched the wreckage as firecrews battled the dying blaze. No warmth reached Gregor. Only the cold chill of the growing dusk.
Carlos came back after a bit, shirt hanging open and abdomen bandaged. Quietly, he slipped to the ground beside the Immortal, watching the lingering flames and people walking back and forth. Peter had disappeared long ago, taken in one of the many ambulances to whatever hospital was closest. If he thought about it, he might be able to come up with the name. Why bother?
He blinked, finding the Ranger from before in front of him, talking to Carlos. Ranger…Walker. Something about Ragstone, or nothing about Ragstone. No one could find a body. In the confusion of the explosion, he could have easily escaped. Teams searched the nearby warehouses and more units were called in to assist in a door to door. In the growing night, he could quickly spot the helicopter searchlight going from neighborhood to neighborhood. Even though it was much too late for Peter, for Sal and Karen, even for Gregor, they still whipped up a manhunt.
They wouldn't find him easily, not unless someone had looked outside the box. They expected the fugitive to flee, to hide, to abandon everything in a bid for freedom. Actually, it was so simple, or maybe he just had a bit more personal experience with deranged madmen bent on revenge. Ragstone still wanted Gregor's death over his own life.
God, it was getting old. But the more he sat, and did nothing, the easier it felt. The calmer he became. Like putting on an old coat that had been in the closet too long. Just a minute of strangeness, until the body remembered, and welcomed the familiarity. The emptiness.
Ragstone was at his apartment-somewhere in that half-renovated warehouse. And Gregor was going to kill him.
Carlos asked him something, but the words were whipped away by the wind. He walked away after Gregor's unintelligible nod. Finally, with the day's light fading and what people were left busy with their own tasks, Gregor stood up. He tossed off the blankets, glanced around for an available weapon, and turned and left when he found none.
He'd kill the bastard with his bare hands.
By the time he made his way to the street just south of his apartment, night covered the city. He always thought he had a marvelous view of the skyline, all lit up in the dark. Out here, where the railroad had purchased way too much land for their tracks, it almost felt like being in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by a large metropolis.
Leaning against the brick wall of the last building on the row, he glanced a final time up the street to the dark hulk where he lived. Wishing he had his sword, wishing he felt anything for the death of his friend, wished…he didn't sense an Immortal close by. Damn.
"You're a hard man to keep up with," Richie almost whispered, sliding up against the wall next to Gregor. He struggled with his jacket for a moment, then handed over Gregor's broadsword. "I found this in your apartment."
Knowing he should be thrilled at being armed again, but feeling nothing, he grabbed the sword out of the young Immortal's hand. "Must be old home week, all this unlawful breaking and entering." He could feel Richie stiffen at his snide tone.
Then a hand reached up, grasping his shoulder tight. "I know it hurts, having a friend die." Low tones and a voice full of compassion whispered in his ear. "I'm sorry."
"I don't.," Gregor began, ready to contradict this person who knew nothing about him, when the hand patted the black leather jacket and gave one last squeeze before letting go. He didn't care about Peter, about the mortal's death, did he? Hadn't he given up emotions again, welcomed the blackness and emptiness and darkness? That wasn't a sharp pain in his stomach, was it? He didn't lean toward Richie, seeking the comfort and warmth of the missing hand? He felt nothing. "I'm not."
Someone ran up to them, gasping hard and clutching his side. Carlos leaned over, unable to stand up, on the other side of Richie from Gregor. "I wish." A heavy round of panting interrupted him. "I wish you'd get out of the habit. of slipping away. every time I turn my back." The Immortal just silently watched as the Latino catch his breath. "Damn, it's been too long since the Academy training runs."
Gregor was definitely not amused. Not exasperated. Not angry, not put off by the interruption of what was to be a simple 'get him before he gets you' as Richie had put it so elegantly earlier. He most certainly didn't feel anything. "I don't remember asking for your help."
"Tough," Richie replied, slapping Carlos on the back, causing him to grunt. "Moe and me are part of the package. Look, he even has a gun. We're unarmed, remember?" He slapped Gregor's stomach, right where he held his sword against his body.
Gritting his teeth, and sure the kid could see him blushing, he stuffed the rather long weapon under his jacket, hoping nothing shiny was sticking out at an odd angle. "Gun. Got it. Anyone have any bright ideas?"
Carlos choked, then cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I go inside, you go get help and stay outside and play it safe?" His voice climbed really high at the end of the silly question.
"Not," Richie bit back with a rather obnoxious tone. "Three against one, throw in a large, spooky, deserted warehouse. last one in is a rotten egg."
Before Gregor could react, Richie slipped past him and started jogging toward the building. All right, now he was starting to feel a little put out. Miffed. Pissed off. One of those rulers-on-the-knuckles type emotions. He wondered, briefly, what Duncan would say when the Highlander found out he'd given Richie a rather hard spanking for being a naughty boy.
Carlos panted somewhere behind him, close though. The Dallas policeman was keeping up. "What is it with you all and running. Haven't you heard of cars?"
Nope, that wasn't a chuckle coming out of his mouth as he jogged up to Richie, who was waiting next to the short metal stairs that led up to the main door. "Only recently."
Getting Carlos to agree to split up had been easy. After the patrolman opened the front door, Richie went around to the back and Gregor skipped to the side, leaving the Latino alone. His soft string of Spanish curse words floated along the night air before the door slowly clicked shut.
Gregor moved carefully, opening the locked dock door and sliding it up enough for him to roll under it. No sound greeted him as he slipped into the old freight elevator, a large box with a slat-wood door that raised and lowered. His key fit the lock and his thumb brushed the top button.
He winced as the old thing groaned loudly into life and creaked upwards to the third floor loft. Aware that he had just made a really stupid mistake, he slid his sword free, and waited in the back of the lift for someone to attack him.
Silence greeted him once the elevator had stopped and the barricade slid up. For a few seconds at least.
"What the Hell are you doing, Powers?" Carlos fairly shouted. The lights flicked on, and the Latino caught sight of the sword. "Were did you get.?"
There was no time for Gregor to do much beside watch as Richie, brandishing a two by four, slammed the lumber into the back of Carlos' head. The patrolman slumped to the floor, his gun thankfully not discharging.
"Why did you do that?" Gregor barked, waving his hand at the unconscious mortal sprawled on the floor. Of all the dumb-ass, stupid, unthinking.
Richie shrugged. "He was asking too many risky questions."
No wonder Duncan always switched to Gaelic when the subject of the kid came up. Gregor just shook his head, wondering when his life had turned into a Monty Python skit, praying that it all was one long nightmare and he'd wake up on the plane again with the pretty stewardess handing him a barf bag.
No, his fertile imagination couldn't be this melodramatic. "So you bean him one?"
Stepping over the Latino, Richie picked up the gun, checking the number of bullets before slipping it into his pants. "We can always say it was Ragstone. It's not like you wanted him to watch us kill the old man."
"Let's just find him," Gregor growled, turning to his left and heading toward the unwired section of the building. He couldn't help mumbling under his breath, snatches of Gaelic he learned from Duncan. The Highlanders were always creative when it came to cursing.
No one was on the tar covered roof, or the electrical room. The third floor heating and cooling area was clean. He walked through every inch of the second floor, large sheets of plastic separating the asbestos-removal areas from the painting areas. No old man hiding, nor shouts of destruction before a rain of bullets. Just eerie, spooky quiet.
Gregor reached the first floor, surprised that he hadn't met up with Richie yet. The young Immortal had started in the basement and should have finished the first floor by now. Once he stepped off the stairs, he sensed the kid, ready to call out and give up. Maybe he wasn't such a great psychiatrist as he thought.
"Going somewhere, Powers?"
Just the slimy tone, all alone in the silence, gave the Immortal the shivers. The gravelly voice of Ragstone, whispering behind him. He turned, sword ready in front of him.
Sherril stood there, bathed in the moonlight glow from the window. A flick of the old man's finger and the worklights blazed, illuminating the first floor. His other hand held a gun, pointed at Gregor, and the bastard grinned like a fool.
"Hold it!" Richie yelled from the side. Both men turned, startled, but Ragstone managed to get a shot off before Richie could even pull his own trigger. Two more followed in quick succession. With a grunt and a thud, the kid's body hit the floor, as the gun swiveled back to Gregor.
The old man chuckled. "Who's going to save you now, freak?"
The gun exploded, a bullet slamming into Gregor's arm, the pain making him almost drop his sword. With a yell, he ran forward, struggling to brandish the heavy weapon. More gunfire, and he fell to his knees, just short of his objective.
His body hurt, limbs crying out in the pain. Ragstone just laughed, heartily now, walking around him, staying just out of reach. A leg kicked out, knocking the sword away from Gregor. The Immortal's damaged body was barely alive. He could feel the blood draining from wounds all over his body, slowly healing. Not quick enough.
Ragstone finished his walk, ending up at the sword laying outside Gregor's reach. The old man leaned over, carefully, hurting each inch he had to bend to pick up the heavy weapon. It took almost a minute for him to stand, still holding the gun on the Immortal.
Tingles jumped up and down Gregor's body, wounds slowly closing up, the lightheadedness from blood loss fading away. But the Immortal stayed on his knees, still too shaky to stand. He risked a glance toward Richie, but the kid lay unmoving on the ground, dead. Time was quickly running out.
"I'm tired of playing, monster!" Sherril barked, waving the sword at Gregor. "Tired of living when my Timmy is dead." The gun hand slowly raised, extended from Ragstone's body, pointing at the Immortal. "You won't ever wake up again." How many bullets left in the clip? One was enough.
Something on the gun clicked into place, and the angry mortal sighted down his arm at Gregor. "For my Timmy," Ragstone breathed and pulled his finger.
"NO!" Carlos shouted, just as the gun went off. The patrolman's body slammed into the old man, hurling down the stairwell from the second floor. Both mortals landed in a heap on the cement as the bullet slammed into Gregor, his chest exploding in pain.
It hurt, damn it hurt. He could hear the two men rolling around nearby, grunts of pain and fists slamming into soft flesh. He couldn't breath, couldn't think, all he could do was flounder and feel the agony, the sharp white fire squeezing his lungs.
Something slammed into a stack of crates, tumbling the containers to the ground. He couldn't expect the Latino, probably concussed, to do more than distract Ragstone, even if the mortal was an old man. A man fueled by hate and vengeance with nothing left to live for but to kill.
Gregor rolled to the side, the first step to standing back up, when he saw it. Laying there, alone on the floor, only a few feet away. The gun Richie appropriated from the cop. The one that still had bullets in it. Only a few feet away. Hell, he'd crawled through worse for less.
Each foot he pulled himself, he grew stronger, his head clearer, the pain slowly fading away. It became easier to breath, to hear the labored grunts as Ragstone beat Carlos senseless. Quiet enough to hear the metallic hiss of a blade lifted off the floor.
His fingers closed around the gun and he rolled, turning to face the mayhem behind him. The old man stood there, wobbling side to side, but he held Gregor's sword, raised it carefully, glancing down at the moaning Latino sprawled on the floor, barely conscious. Helpless. Defeated.
In that second, the picture molded itself on Gregor's mind, driving out all other memories, thoughts, every moment of his previous three centuries, every death, every lost friend, each dark spot on his soul. The scene tattooed itself on his very being, etched in living color, full blown IMAX, you are here with Dolby Surround Sound and became the whole world for the Immortal. Change or die. Gregor changed.
The fear, the rage, the frustration-he embraced it. Welcomed it. This person, this friend was not going to die because of him.
It was simple, really. Just like a camera. Point and shoot.
One.
Two.
Three. Sherril finally dropped the sword and stumbled back from Carlos.
Four.
Five. The old man's legs gave out and he sat abruptly against a wooden crate, his shirt stained red with blood. Eyes no longer seeing.
Six.
There was no seven. Nor eight. Just empty clicking of the chamber as Gregor squeezed the trigger and squeezed the trigger and squeezed the trigger until Richie's hand closed over his and gently pried the firearm out of his grip.
"...and may our good friend find peace, wherever he is. You deserve it, Pete."
Al Bruskow finished, tossing his white rose onto the coffin. The afternoon calm echoed with the sniffs and sobs of the gathered, as many of Peter Jamison's friends and colleagues gathered.
Gregor watched from off to the side as the rest of the police added their own sentiments and flowers. Finally, only the family stayed, Peter's mother and several older aunts and uncles. The Jamison family tree withered with his passing, the last of a long line.
Next to the Immortal, Carlos Sandoval shifted, before walking over to the casket once most of the mourners had gone. He stood in his crisp dress uniform, head bowed as he spoke a few words carried away by the wind. After a moment he came back over, tears staining his cheeks. "Will you be all right, Mr. Powers?"
A small smile curved the Immortal's lips. "I think after what we've been through, you can call me Greg."
The Latino shook his head. "You're my landlord now, I have to call you Mr. Powers. And I insist you tell me what the rent is."
"You're welcome to that apartment for as long as you want to live there," the Immortal replied. "I don't think I'll ever be comfortable there again, and it's paid for another year, at least."
Carlos crossed his arms over his chest, his face a stubborn scowl. "You own the building."
They stared at one another. Gregor blinked first. "Darn, you're good. We'll discuss it, some day. Today." He glanced over at the casket, slowly being lowered into the dark hole. "Today, accept it as a gift, for Peter's sake."
"Peter," the patrolman acknowledged, his eyes glancing over as well, coming back glistening. "So, you have some place to stay?"
The Immortal nodded, not caring that he was crying as well. "He left me everything." Everything but what mattered the most. "I think I'll stay at his place, for a while. Maybe a long while. It's. quiet. Stop by and visit when you want to get away." He clasped the Latino's hand in a firm grip, trying to offer comfort and peace through the grasp. "Peter wouldn't mind, and neither would I." Even though every breath hurt, his stomach aching from the pain of losing his friend, he felt his lips curve into a smile. There could be a little joy, even in the middle of great despair.
Carlos had a small smile of his own as his other hand covered both of theirs. "Quiet sounds good right now."
After another moment of silence, the policeman stepped back, giving the Immortal one last brief look before turning and walking away to the line of cars across the cemetery.
Nearly alone, Gregor turned, glancing at the dark shadow further back, close to one of the large oak trees gracing the lawn. He walked over, shaking his head at the jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket the other Immortal wore. "You didn't have to come."
Richie shrugged, looking around the peaceful plots. "I remember how shitty it is at the funeral of a friend. Besides, Mac would want me here."
The questions rested on the tip of Gregor's tongue, about MacLeod, what happened in Seacouver and what lay between them in Dallas. The young Immortal had disappeared after the Ragstone's death, only to resurface here three days later. "What about the police?"
A small grin tugged at the corners of Richie's lips. "Well, since someone told them I had permission to be in your apartment, and they could blame everything else on Ragstone, I got off with a 'sorry for any inconvenience our Nazi act may have caused you' speech. And my sword."
Gregor shook his head. "No, I mean how did you convince them to let you help with the raid on the warehouse?"
That brought a sheepish grin, barely glimpsed as the younger Immortal turned his head and coughed into a fist. "Yeah, about that. After they finally let Jo…a friend post bail, I kind of tracked you down. Being right outside casing the place when they pulled up, they sorta let me in on the action."
"Oh." That surprised the photographer. For some reason, it also sent a warm tingly feeling up his spine. "Well, thanks. It's nice to know if the police hadn't found me, that. well. It's nice to know." He looked behind Richie's shifting form, at the loaded bike, waiting by the roadside. "You could stay, you know. I've got plenty of room and all. And I think. we're not so hostile to each other any more."
Another shrug. Richie started ambling slowly to the motorcycle, not looking up as Gregor joined him on the walk. "Police off my case, the bike's fixed. Dallas is a little hot right now." He stopped at his bike, still looking at the ground. "I've got my own garbage to deal with. But. it's nice to know I'm welcome. Maybe after I sort things out. like Mac."
Duncan MacLeod, who had left Seacouver under strange circumstances and played circus on another continent while his student traveled lost and alone. "We are cool, right?" Gregor suddenly asked, blurting out the question. "You've forgiven me for that whole mess I dumped on you in Seacouver."
"Right," Richie answered, finally looking up at the other Immortal, his blue eyes flashing as a grin tugged on his lips. Such a change from the airport, so recently ago. Maybe this meeting had helped in some way with those demons Richie fled. "Even if I still think you are an asshole."
Maybe not. "You know my cell phone number," he added, ignoring the comment. "As soon as I get it replaced." The young Immortal snorted as he nodded, throwing his leg over the motorcycle and settling on the seat. "Use it," he offered, holding out his hand. "I mean it, my friend. And come back this way. soon."
White teeth flashed from Richie's smile as his hand reached up, the pair grasping forearms like Duncan had shown both of them. "I'd like that. My friend." With a jerk and a jump, he started the bike, revving the engine a time or two before buckling on his helmet.
"Wait! How did you know where we were being held?" Gregor shouted over the noise of the engine. Richie cupped his hand over where his ear would be, motioning a negative before shrugging. Before Gregor could shout again, the young Immortal gave a mock salute, goosing the bike and popping a wheelie as he took off down the tiny cemetery road.Gregor Powers just watched him drive away down the tree-lined asphalt, holding his hand up to shadow his eyes from the setting sun. With a snort, he realized how cliched but accurate the picture had been painted, Richie riding off into the glowing sunset.
Feeling better than he had for a long time, he turned away after Richie had faded into a speck against the red and purple sky. One last shake of his head, wondering if he'd ever figure life out, he strolled back to his own car, the last left, while mentally picturing the wake that was being thrown at Mulligan's for Peter's friends both inside and outside the force.
Ragstone was dead, a monster created when Gregor terrorized and killed his son, who in turn terrorized Gregor and killed his friends. What goes around, comes around.
Peter was dead, having given his life for Gregor, like the Immortal had done for his ancestor so many years ago, who eventually gave life to Peter. Reap what ye sow.
Carlos. Just as everything in his life falls apart, in steps a most remarkable man. Brave, loyal, honest, compassionate. Such a rare person in this day and age. Every door that closes opens a window. Boy, what a window.
Richie. How to describe his relationship with the young man? He'd never really know many new Immortals, more at home with his medical practice and then his own problems. Certainly not another student of Duncan MacLeod. It felt comforting, knowing someone else out there knew what he had gone through, what waking up from certain death and studying under that frustrating Scot had been like. Friends, sure. Maybe comrades in arms. That's what Duncan would say. Brothers? Something. Duncan, Gregor, Richie, Duncan.
He turned back one last time, looking down the road where Richie had disappeared, seeing only blackness. But now the dark held a handful of possibilities, not lonely emptiness.
Maybe everything would turn out right some day.
Maybe it already had.
Now if he could just get that "Circle of Life" song out of his head.
