Getting back to Richie for a moment, did you know that Martin Cummins, who played Pete in “Unholy Alliance” was a runner up for the part of Richie? Good thing, too, since he went on to play Nick Boyle on “Poltergist:The Legacy” for four years, with much more screen time. But I always wanted to cross them, and with Pete dead as a doornail, it was tough. Until I thought up a crossover idea.
I’ve got about 75% of this written, and almost all the twists and reveals are in this section, so if you want to be surprised when this is finished and you read the whole thing, I’d skip it right now. If you’re dying for some Richie, enjoy.
Not adult, but will be a little on the graphic violence side when done.
Also, I have an idea for a sequel and vague notions of a series, if I ever get off my duff.
PROLOGUE
July, 1996
Anchor Studios Complex
San Francisco, CA
“Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhhh”
Richie’s scream pierced the air as the electrical energy jumped from body, to garbage bin, to the young Immortal. Wind blew the trash around the empty parking lot, obscuring the Quickening. Arms splayed as his body accepted the white tendrils, he shook from the force. Muscles overly taxed only moments ago tensed beyond pain into agony, forcing the man to his knees.
His throat gave out just as the whirlwind abated. Released from the powerful torment, he collapsed forward onto his hands, the dust dispersing to reveal the headless corpse in front of him.
Coughing, choking on his own gorge, he rolled onto his back, letting himself relax, feeling the tension and adrenaline ease away. He had been in a bad mood before the fight, now after a brief glimpse of hell he felt like he’d been spit out of the meat grinder.
Richie struggled to his feet, staggering over to his sword. He leaned against the building wall, thankful that everyone had left to go to a location shoot. His problems from earlier, being locked out of an empty studio when his bike broke down, had turned into a blessing. No crowd rushing outside to see what he had done. No one around for miles to see him kill another man. No cameras, in a place where cameras abounded.
Guess that would have pretty much destroyed his chances of getting a job in the San Francisco film industry.
His laughter bubbled up as he rested against the white wall of Studio 7. What to do for an encore? Fix the bike, or leave the bike? Steal the car or leave the car? Dump the body in with the garbage or take it elsewhere?
Shit…the man said something about an appointment. No one had stayed behind when the crew left over an hour ago…so someone was about to show up!
“Damn,” Richie cursed, his body exploding into action. He quickly picked up his opponent’s sword, smearing the blade in the pool of congealing blood. He wiped off the hilt with his T-shirt, adding more grime to the no-longer white cotton.
His tools slipped back into their bag and his sword into the special scabbard on his bike. With a wistful look at the car, he debated whether he could get away with taking it, make it look like a car jacking. “Held up by a crazy with a sword? Un-fuckinging-believable,” he answered himself out loud.
Before he had walked his motorcycle ten feet across the parking lot, he heard the sirens approaching in the distance. Apparently *someone* had seen the fireworks. With another curse, he manhandled the bike to the south, heading for the wooded area.
A voice shouted behind him. “Look, there he is!”
Without turning around, Richie shoved the bike over the curb, barreling headfirst into the underbrush with the machine. Suddenly, the ground fell away from him, his feet slipping on the soft dirt. Tumbling down the ravine, his mind fixated on one silly idea. Definitely no chance of a job in San Fran….
MONSTER IN THE HOUSE
Part One of the Sword of Damocles Series
A Highlander/Poltergeist: The Legacy Crossover
by Kevin H. Robnett
Since the beginning of time,
mankind has existed between the world of light,
and the world of darkness.
This journal chronicles the work of our secret society,
know only as The Legacy,
created to protect the innocent from those creatures
that inhabit the shadows and the night
From the Journals of Derek Rayne
Prefect, San Francisco Legacy House
“‘Scuse me — I’ll take another…”
Nick Boyle, hunched over the bar like a vulture awaiting his prey, waved his fingers at the empty glass in front of him. After three shots of the amber liquid, he found it harder to concentrate on the man behind the bar.
Even when the bruiser stood directly in front of him. “Last one, Nicky boy. Unless you plan of getting a room at the motel next door?” Taking the silent stare as a no, the bar tender picked up the twenty crumbled up on the stained wood and rung up the tab.
Relieved that more alcohol sat before him, Nick relaxed again. As long as there was another chance that a swallow could dull the pain, soften the memories that still haunted him. God, he’d been through worse, hadn’t he?
No, he hadn’t. With a sharp crack, he slammed the now empty glass onto the counter and stared at the sparkling reflections of the lights on the bar. Losing an entire squadron of virtual strangers had been nothing compared to one person. How unfair, that all those people meant less than one woman.
‘A woman you were about to marry,’ his mind pointed out.
Marry. He hadn’t even asked her, yet. But Julia had been the first person he’d even considered asking. Asking if she’d stay with him forever. She’d broke down walls he barely knew existed, showed him a life he’d never thought he could have. Philip hadn’t done that, nor Derek, or even his own father. She opened up his heart to the love…and now it burned with unfathomable pain.
Could have been worse, he reflected. Could have been an accident — a drunk driver, a boating mishap. Then who would he have to blame? Now he could curse Satan himself for her death. Or Derek.
Why hadn’t they stayed together? Why had Derek split them up? He could have protected her from…it. Why had Derek secretly kept the means to open an expressway straight to Hell hidden in the basement? That’s what caused it all — the fatal trip to Ireland, the demonic vision of him shooting Kat, the poor woman’s…
Nick trembled, his mind shying away from the more gruesome aspects of the last few days.
Why hadn’t he grabbed Julia and left the Legacy the moment he saw those seplecurs? Why hadn’t he stood up to Derek and insisted they stay together in that horrible little village? Why hadn’t he been the one to find the shop? Why hadn’t *he* died instead?
“Hey, buddy, closin’ time,” the bartender reminded him, giving Nick a nudge in the arm.
He slid off the stool, walking slowly but steadily to the doors. He’d be damned if he showed any weakness now. He’d go back to the way things had been before Julia. When he’d learned how to keep from hurting. When it had been Nick Boyle against the world. Mortal or otherwise, demonic or esoteric or just plain human.
He’d played it once Julia’s way. Never again.
—————————–
The trees sped fuzzily by as he raced down the mounta
in roads between the sleepy town he haunted when he needed to think and home. San Francisco never gave him a moment’s peace. Out here, he could speed along, let the wind whip through his thoughts when he took the convertible’s top down. Have time to get his emotions under control. San Francisco was about work, about duty. Up here, he had no worries. Just an endless stretch of road to follow.
Tires squealed as he took a corner too sharply. Barely enough moonlight to drive by. Nick was tempted to cut the lights on this deserted stretch of road, pilot the car by feel and memory. And hopefully wrap his Mustang around a tree at 90 mile per hour.
Was Julia in Hell? Would he join her there? Would there ever be anyone….
“Shit!!!”
A white blob appeared in his headlights, materializing like a spirit. He swerved, reflexes kicking in, shaky fingers turning the wheel just a tad too late. He hit it with the edge of the car, going God knows how fast. The obstruction shattered, breaking into at least two pieces. One bounced along the hood, crashing into the windshield and flying over the vinyl top of the car. The other scraped along the side of the vehicle, barreling sideways as the Mustang skidded.
Everything finally stopped, the glaring headlights illuminating the tree-filled roadside. Nick’s heart beat froze in his throat, a scream choked in his chest, mouth agape. His mind processed the activity, mentally replayed the scene in slow motion.
Unaware, his hands opened the door, letting his trembling body slide out onto the mountain road. He struggled to his feet, alcohol-fogged thoughts stuck on the *thing* hitting the windshield. Over and over.
Stumbling around the trunk of the car, he leaned against the cool metal, staring back down the dark stretch of road. Something, some dark object lay in a heap several hundred feet back. Nick still couldn’t focus, couldn’t begin to analyze what he had hit.
The shock began creeping up his body, sending chills through his limbs. He drew in a lungful of air, swallowing nervously. Could be a trap, he reminded himself. It took a moment for his nerveless hands to pull his gun out from under the driver’s seat. Showing more confidence than he felt, he moved toward the object, firearm pointed down and ready.
His feet stopped yards away, as his mind filled in the missing details. A body. Limbs thrown outward at bizarre angles. The gun fell from lax fingers as Nick fought to take a breath. It was a body. A man. Even with his limited field training, he could tell both arms and legs had been broken. The still chest, glowing white in the moonlight didn’t move. Darkness, blood, plastered against pale creamy flesh, dripping from nose and mouth and forehead.
He’d run over some poor hapless soul.
Nick fell to his knees, hands hanging limp beside him. It couldn’t be happening, not again. Hadn’t Julia just died? And now he’d killed another, accidentally. Was Death to be his constant companion? Was this some sort of punishment?
“Nooooooooooo!”
The scream of anguish echoed along the deserted road. He knelt there, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. Training took over, forcing him to his feet. His superiors must be notified. Even if he no longer belonged to the military, the steps were the same. Alert the authorities. Turn himself in. Face his punishment.
Senseless fingers slid over the cellular phone’s buttons, hitting the numbers to the San Francisco Legacy House by memorized feel alone. Whether from the alcohol or the tears, he could barely make out the buttons. He didn’t want to make out the details. To see the blood any more, to wince at the awkward positioning of the arms and legs.
A male voice finally answered after several rings. “Luna Foundation.”
“Derek?” Even in shock, Nick recognized the accent of his mentor and friend, the man he would now answer to. “Oh, God, Derek, I’ve…I’ve….”
“Nick?”
Even after a tour of duty with the Navy, then the SEALS, after years of unspeakable happenings with the Legacy, finding the words seemed impossible to Nick. His job was to protect, to guard. He had failed miserably. “I…Derek, I’ve killed someone…on the road….”
“Nick, where are you?”
Derek’s voice receded into darkness as Nick’s head swam. “It was an accident….I didn’t see….”
“Nick, just hold on. We’re trying to trace your cell phone. Keep talking.”
“I never meant to…” He drew in a lungful of air, trying to calm shaky nerves. The adrenaline high was fading fast, leaving a lethargic emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. It that moment of peacefulness, he heard it, a sound so impossible. An echo of his gasp, where an echoed couldn’t be. The cell phone tumbled from slack fingers. The poor bastard was still alive.
Somehow, Nick managed to stumble back to the guy, lifting the head up as the stranger coughed up blood. Eyelids fluttered open, revealing washed out pupils that flicked over everything. Carefully, Nick lifted the head higher, cradling it in his arms. “You’ll be OK,” he added, locking gazes with the young man.
“P…Pete….?” the stranger uttered.
The word sent chills through Nick’s chest, freezing his blood. With a start, he jumped back, the stranger’s head falling against the asphalt of the road. He ran back to the cellular phone, struggling to dial 9-1-1. No dial tone, no power. Broken, he realized when the plastic case shattered under his fingers.
Time to get help. If the guy was breathing, there still might be a chance to save him. Fueled with a surge of adrenaline, he rushed back to the stranger, dead lifting him into his arms. “Hold on,” he urged him, sprinting back to the Mustang. “I’ll get you to a hospital.”
Nick managed to open the passenger door and dump the stranger in, heedless of the injuries. A hand clamped over his arm as he reached for the seatbelt. “No…no hospitals.” The eyes were open again, boring into Nick’s soul. “Trust me Pete, no hospitals.”
“You need….”
Fingers dug into his flesh. “NO! Promise me.”
Something in the pale blue eyes that glowed in the faint dome light struck a chord. He had to give his word to this guy. This man no older than he, this man who felt more like a brother than a stranger. “All right,” he heard himself promise, prying the hand off his arm. Maybe that was his guilt talking. Or the alcohol.
Maybe all this was only a dream, and Julia would kiss him awake in the morning.
——————–
Derek Rayne, precept of the San Francisco Legacy House came out of the guest room and motioned over to Nick. Even in a robe, his hair in its usual disarray, Nick’s boss commanded power. He stared down at Nick, the start of a frown dragging the corners of his mouth as he pulled
open the leather jacket Nick still wore, checking that the blood on his T-shirt wasn’t from any obvious wounds.
A noise drew both their attentions back to the guestroom door. Frederick, the butler, headed downstairs, carrying a large bowl of bloody water. Derek turned back, releasing the jacket. “*You* weren’t hurt, were you?”
Nick shook his head, groaning as the pain blossomed from the movement. “No.” Hands slipped to either side of his head, holding it still. Fingers slid through his hair, checking his scalp.
“You didn’t hit your head on the steering wheel did you?” Derek’s accented voice, caused by years studying abroad, was clipped and sharp. Not at all concerned like Nick hoped it would be.
The younger man slung off the hands, moving backwards. “No, I didn’t. What’s with the physical?”
Derek shrugged. “Our *guest* may have a concussion, or possibly internal bleeding, but we couldn’t find a scratch on him.” The emphasis he gave the word ‘guest’ made Nick shiver. “Tell me what happened, again.”
Nick turned away, pulling the jacket tighter around his body. “He was in the road…I plowed into him. He flew over the car. I thought…. I thought he was dead, but he started breathing. Blood was *everywhere.* He had something with him, something big. I think I knocked it into the bushes beside the road.
“Why did you bring him here, to the island?” Derek’s voice came from right behind Nick, startling him. He turned back around, taking a step back, putting distance between them.
“He didn’t want to go to a hospital. Made me promise not to take him to one. I…I didn’t know what else to do…. I thought I killed him…I thought he was dying….”
Derek shook his head. “He’s not. No broken bones, no wounds…are you sure about what happened?”
Nick shook his head again, mindless of the pain still pounding between his eyes. He remembered something in that instance, something he hadn’t told Derek yet. “He called me Pete. Like he recognized me or something. Why would he call me Pete…?”
The look in Derek’s eyes cut right through Nick’s foggy brain. One step put Derek right back in Nick’s face, his hands grabbing the young man’s shoulders to keep him from moving away. “You’ve been drinking,” he pointed out, sniffing the air between them. “A lot.”
“So?” Nick almost screamed, jerking back and away. His knees bumped into a chair in the hallway, causing his legs to fold. His body, full of adrenaline and still in shock, crumpled to the carpeted floor. The last thing he saw as everything faded was Derek, looking down at him, sounds echoing into silence as blackness overtook him.
——————–
The pillow smelt of fresh spring water and flowers, warmed by the sun as it burst into the room from the window to the left. Without opening his eyes, Nick could tell he was in his own bed…alone. Frederick’s fabric softener always gave it away. Which meant he didn’t get too drunk last night. Then why couldn’t he remember driving home? There was something, right on the tip of his tongue. Something about a guy named Pete.
He cracked one eye open, not very surprised at the gargoyle looming over his bed. Well, at this early in the morning, even Father Philip Callahan, fresh from his morning run and holding a steaming cup of coffee looked like a gargoyle. A grinning, sweaty, diabolical gargoyle perched on the end of his bed.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Nick croaked out, shuffling deeper under the covers.
The dark haired priest, only a few years younger than Nick, took a sip. “Mornin’ to you. Heard you ran into a wee bit o’ trouble last night.” His Irish brogue aggravated Nick this morning, sending sharp tendrils of pain from ears to muddy brain.
Nick’s one eye popped open, glaring from the covers. “Wasn’t so ‘wee.’ More like a cow, at least.”
“I know,” Philip replied, finishing off his coffee. “I saw the front of the Mustang. Ouch. Since your friend didn’t have a mark on him, I’m off to find out what you *did* hit. A wayward tree, perhaps.”
Head pounding, and not at all happy to be awakened from his blissful emptiness and reminded of last night’s fiasco, Nick pushed down the bedspread just enough to uncover his face. “So I guess that means you’re back *in* the Legacy? At least for today.”
Philip halted at the door, his green eyes flashing as he looked back. The earlier twinkle was gone, replaced by something harder, colder. “Hangover remedy’s on the table,” he pointed out with a nod, his voice taking on a strange sing-song like quality. “You’ll be needin’ somethin’ to fill that mouth of yours.”
Nick blinked, shocked, and in that instant, Philip was gone.
“Just great,” he groused, throwing the covers off the bed, moaning as the pounding in his head returned with a vengeance.
——————–
“I take it you’re responsible for this?” Nick heard Derek’s voice as soon as he left his room. It came from down the corridor, the guest rooms. Silently, using tricks learned in his armed forces days, he crept closer to the open doorway.
“Yeah,” a strange voice answered. “I was on my way out of town when I got hit. How did I end up here? And where is here?”
Leaning a little forward, Nick could see most of the room through a mirror over a dresser, catching Derek as he tossed a newspaper on the bed. “You’re on Angel Island, in the bay. You were adamant about not going to a hospital. So, Nick brought you here instead.”
“Nick?”
“The man who ran into you last night,” Derek supplied, moving toward the side, giving Nick his first good look at the young man.
He looked much younger than Nick, muscular, close cropped hair. A look in the eyes that seemed very familiar. A man who had both killed and faced death. Someone Nick could easily have run into in the Navy, or any other branch of the armed forces.
“Nick,” the stranger replied under his breath. In a disturbingly similar gesture to Nick’s earlier, the young man nervously threw off the covers, starting to stand. “Well, thanks for letting me crash here, but I’d better be going.”
Derek hand on the stranger’s shoulder drew him back down. “I don’t think you should leave just yet, Mr….”
“Ryan. Richie…Ryan.”
“Mr. Ryan,” Derek echoed, walking toward the door. Nick slid back down the hall, waiting at the first turn, his ears straining to hear the conversation. “You may have a concussion, after all. We wouldn’t want any *more* trouble to befall you on your way out of town.” The way Derek said it clearly shouted ‘an order’ to Nick. “As it is, you can enjoy the hospitality of the Luna Foundation for another day or two.”
Apparently, Mr. Richie Ryan
understood as well as Nick had. “A day or two…. Fine.”
“Good,” Derek said. “I have a friend who can make sure your *problem* is cleared up. It just may take some time. You’re perfectly *safe* here on the island.” Other word Derek oddly stressed. “In the meantime, breakfast is downstairs. I’m sure you can find your way there.” A second passed in silence, then both men laughed. “I see your stomach agrees.”
The sound of a door closing took Nick by surprise. He didn’t bother moving as Derek rounded the corner, no hint of startlement on the scowling visage at finding him eavesdropping. The Prefect slid his arm over Nick’s shoulder, drawing him down the hall. “Philip’s gone to the site of your encounter. See what you can dig up on this ‘Richie Ryan’ while Alex keeps him occupied in the kitchen.”
“All right,” Nick answered.
They stopped at the upstairs library. Derek turned Nick to face him, his whole countenance grave and worried. “I don’t want him running into you just yet. I’ll bring up a tray for breakfast.” With a brief clench of his hands, Derek spun and retreated toward the stairs, leaving Nick alone in the vast, two-story room.
“Whatever you say boss,” he murmured, turning to the ancient lithograph of the world that covered one whole section of wall.
——————–
“What have you got to hide?” Nick asked himself as data started pouring into the Legacy Network. The closest entry was for upstate Washington, and once Nick got a look at the driver’s license photo, he knew he had found his man.
“Richard Ryan.” The words slid over his tongue, hauntingly familiar. There was an eerie sense of kinship, something less familiar than being in the armed forces together, or even the nebulous connection of the Legacy. It was possible they’d met somewhere before…but he felt confidant they hadn’t.
So why did he feel both comfortable and strangely frightened?
——————–
“So, anyway,” Alex Moreau continued, waving her fork in the air to draw Derek and their mysterious guest’s attentions back. “After Dr. Rauborne pointed out that the maker’s mark was engraved *backwards*, I ended up sneaking out of the conference before dinner had been served.” The exotically beautiful black woman speared another bite of pancake before continuing her story. “So it ended up being me and a four foot Mayan statue sharing a Happy Meal at the local McDonald’s.”
Derek’s laughter and the stranger’s chuckle gave her a chance to pop the morsel in her mouth. The three of them sat around the brightly lit table, the vista of San Francisco spread out behind them. “I wondered why I never saw that piece again,” the Precept added.
Alex nodded. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I slipped the secret decoder ring prize on its finger — for a joke — and could never get it off. Needless to say, I ended up looking like a fool in front of Rauborne.”
The guest, Richie, had barely spoken a word all morning, content to listen and shove his breakfast around the plate. In the silence that followed Alex’s tale, his words seemed oddly strange. “Just because it was a forgery doesn’t make it any less valuable. It still was a thousand year old discovery.”
Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, aware that her cursory impression hadn’t picked up a knowledge of antiquities, Alex hastily smiled. “And worth just as much. That’s what the curator told me in front of Raubourne’s face. For all we know, it was made by the twin brother of….”
Her word’s trailed off as Derek dropped his fork onto his plate. “Excuse me,” he added as he abruptly stood. “I need to check on a few things.” The sound of the outside door opening and closing ended the conversation as Father Philip strolled into the room.
“Ah, I missed breakfast again,” the priest exclaimed, looking forlornly at the table and the remains of their meal.
Alex swore that man had perfected the ultimate puppy-dog expression. She rose as well, reaching for her and Derek’s plates. “Not likely. I saw you wolfing a bagel on your way out this morning.” She walked over to the sink as Philip sat down next to Richie. The quiet young man slid his food over without a comment.
“Thanks,” Philip said as he reached over for the fork. “I can understand why you’re not hungry after seein’ the condition of your bike.”
“Is that what Nick hit?” Derek asked, sitting back down.
“How is it?” Richie’s voice exploded, his words tumbling on the heels of the other man’s.
Philip shook his head, swallowing the bite in his mouth. “I think it’s way past time to perform last rites,” he joked. As Richie’s face fell, he leaned over, giving the young man a nudge on the arm with his elbow. “Better a piece o’ metal than *you*.”
“Yeah,” Richie replied under his breath, strangely crestfallen at the sentiment.
Alex looked across the kitchen at the trio of men, each lost in his own world. The tableau oddly felt like a late night Legacy pow-wow, except for the normality of the morning. “Look, why don’t you take Richie out to look at his bike. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you make it sound, Philip. Maybe Nick can work some of his magic on it and give us an *expert* opinion.”
“Speaking of Nick,” Derek added as he stood again, “I’d better go check on the progress of his assignment.” He turned to the young man and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “Alex and Philip will take good care of you…and we’ll see about the bike.”
Richie nodded absentmindedly. “Thanks, Mr. Rayne.”
“Derek, please,” the Prefect replied with a smile. “I doubt I’m old enough to be your father.”
Alex and Philip exchanged a puzzled look that went unnoticed by their guest. He seemed to understand the cryptic remark. “Derek. Thanks.” Richie watched the man leave the kitchen, and then noisily let out a large breath of air. Even as his body slumped further down like a deflating balloon, he reached over and grabbed his commandeered plate, sliding it back in front of him.
Philip watched helplessly, a forkful of pancake balanced precariously on the utensil as it moved toward his mouth. “Hey! Wait a bleedin’ minute….”
A very quiet chuckle escaped Alex’s lips as she watched from the sink, rinsed dishes ready for the dishwasher. Far be it for her to complain when Philip picked up another stray. It had been the only spark of life in the quiet young man all morning.
——————–
“So, what have you found out?” Alex said as she walked into the Control Room. The sound of her the force field deactivating should have alerted Nick to her arrival, but the man still jumped when she spoke. “Sorry. I brought you lunch.” She held out the tray of sandwiches Frederick had prepared for lunch.
Nick smiled in an embarrassed way, wavi
ng her over to the console he was working at. “Just in time. I could run all this by you before I drag Derek and Philip in.”
Knowing Nick’s habit of understatement, a small point of uneasy curdled in her stomach as she set the tray down. “You found something.”
“Weird, weirder and even more weird,” he replied. “Our guest taken care of?”
Alex nodded, leaning over him and scanning the computer screen. “He’s muttering curses and shaking tools at his bike with Philip. You really did a number on it.”
“Yeah,” Nick answered softly. He motioned at the wall-sized screen across the room. “Mr. Richard Ryan,” he announced loudly, a current picture of their guest appearing on the large screen. Behind the photo, a facsimile of a police report slid into view. “Found in a trash dumpster by local firefighters at 3:04 am, September 21, 1975, Seacouver, Washington. Couldn’t have been more than a few hours old. Store across the alley burned to the ground. Someone heard him crying during the cleanup.”
A shiver slid through Alex’s body at the mental picture that formed in her mind. “Hardly delivered by a kindly white stork.”
Nick continued, his fingers tapping on the keyboard as he called up a photo of a smiling couple. “Turned over to foster care. Jack and Emily Ryan. Listed as parents on a birth certificate filed at Seacouver Memorial.” The document appeared, followed by a news clipping showing a blurry outline of a man holding a small child. “Age five, Emily Ryan collapses in a local pharmacy in front of little Richie, dies instantly. Autopsy shows a brain hemorrhage. Jack Ryan can’t be located. Richie’s tossed back into the Child Welfare system.”
“Not an auspicious beginning,” Alex mumbled to herself.
After that, several photos covered the screen, showing a young boy aging. “After that, he shifted through four foster families, two orphanages before he ran away and started living on the street.” The final shot was a police photo, the blank-faced kid holding his own name just under his chin. “Derek’s police friend got a look at his juvie record for me. Lots of petty theft, shoplifting, long list of breaking and entering. Since he was underaged, they gave him a slap on the wrist and let him go.”
Alex walked closer to the screen, her arms clasped around her chest, fending off a cold chill. “How long….?”
After years of working together, Nick could almost anticipate her questions. “First arrest was at 10 years, all the way up to just before his eighteenth birthday.” He leaned forward, giving the computer commands that cleared off everything but the police photo. “Broke into an antiques store, caught a few blocks away with the merchandise in his pockets. The owners didn’t press charges. Just gave the kid a little talk and everyone just walked away.”
“Not that it did any good,” Alex commented. So far she’d heard nothing more than a heartbreaking sob story. Nothing that qualified as “weird,” even to Nick. “So what happened after Mr. Career Criminal turned eighteen?”
“He ends up getting arrested for car jacking in a small town near Seacouver six months later,” Nick answered, clearing the screen. “Guess who’s car it was, and who *didn’t* press charges?”
“The antique store owners?” Alex guessed. Nick nodded and a photo of a well-dressed couple appeared. The man was dark-haired, in his thirties, and drop dead gorgeous in her opinion. The woman, identified in the caption as artist Tess Noel, was just as beautiful and blond. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this does. It occurred during one of the most interesting moments in Steveston’s history. A local eccentric, hermit really, had just been decapitated. Main suspect was a homeless drifter, but he was never charged. And then the new Sheriff disappears off the face of the earth.” Both the police report and photo of the Sheriff appeared on the screen. The look of the man was more predator than small town law enforcement and gave Alex the creeps.
“How nice,” she responded, wondering if Nick had turned up the cooling in the room.
“Moving along,” Nick continued, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “In the ‘Mysterious Death’ category, Richie’s listed as a friend of a guy who goes berserk from a drug overdose, breaks into the Seacouver Diamond Exchange — *through* the bulletproof glass — and swipes a handful of gems before collapsing and dying in the parking lot. The following month, Richie’s held hostage in a courtroom by terrorists…who all end up dead, one way or another. The last one was skewered in the heart as he sat in the judge’s chambers. With a rather sharp letter opener.”
Alex couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you sure you haven’t got this confused with one of those TV programs you and Philip like to watch?”
“Hold that thought. Couple of weeks later, Ms. Felicia Martins dumps her purse in a fountain in Seacouver, strips off her dress in an elevator as she rides to the top of a seventeen story building, hands it to a stranger, and proceeds to take a header during the lunch rush.” A driver’s license photo of a black haired woman fills the screen.
“And?”
Nick chuckled, bringing up both a morgue photo showing a woman in a black lacy slip and a scan of a business card. “She had a card next to her breast for ‘Richard Ryan — Antiques’. Apparently the owners he robbed turned around and not only hired him, but let him move in.”
After watching the effect their guest had on Philip earlier, she could *almost* believe it could happen without a nefarious reason. The kid was certainly slick. But Nick would probably be much more suspicious. “So where does the weird part start?”
“The body disappeared from the morgue.”
Alex shrugged. “So? It does *occasionally* happen, even nowadays. Or is there something strange about it that you’re not telling me.”
Nick shook his head. “No, nothing strange about it.” Even as he said it, he cleared the screen and brought up another crime scene photo. “A month later, three more people are found murdered outside of the antique store, bringing the death count to seven….”
Alex walked over to look at the screen over Nick’s shoulder. “And this all happened in how long a time period?”
The ex-SEAL called up a timeline he’d prepared, deleting events he hadn’t reached yet. “Eight months.”
“My God,” Alex whispered in amazement. She’d seen less mayhem in the same timeframe as a Legacy member.
“Next up for our guest — well, one of his friends — Ms. Noel witnesses a fellow artist pushed from a Seacouver bridge. She was also shot at, herself. Turns out Seacouver’s Police Commissioner was a hired assassin…who conveniently disappears soon after being identified.”
Alex shook her head. “You’d expect that from someone like that if they’re cover is blown.”
“With this group?” Nick shot back. “Things ease up for a year…until Ms. Noel is sho
t and killed in a mugging incident in suburban Seacouver. Trouble was, it happened outside a house where they found another decapitated body. Once again, no one was ever *charged*….”
“But you think it was somehow connected to Richie,” Alex finished.
“Isn’t everything? Right after that, he’s an innocent bystander that just *happens* to foil an assassination attempt of a foreign diplomat…and the woman he stopped throws herself out a twenty story window and plummets to certain death rather than talk to the Feds. Guess what?”
“Her body disappears from the morgue.” Alex was beginning to hate where all this was leading.
“Things get quiet for a while, but Richie ends up in Spain in the spring of 1994 as the chief suspect in a string of killings stretching from Madrid to Paris. He’s apprehended and charged…right at the feet of his friend, the antique store owner…who then lures what the police now consider the *real* killer out…who, by the way, conveniently ends up dead when he goes after Richie’s friend with a sword.”
Alex sighed. “The body disappeared from the morgue.”
“You are beginning to get with this program. I only have the Madrid police’s record — for some reason I can’t get a satellite uplink with the Paris House, but I’ve already faxed over a request for anything they can get their hands on.” With deliberate effort, Nick slid his chair down the console until he reached the sandwiches. “It frustrating, because it looks like from passport records he’s spent almost half of each year outside the country — at least since he’s turned eighteen.”
“Any more incidents?”
Quickly gulping his coke to wash the sandwich down, Nick shook his head negatively. “Not in the USA.”
Alex leaned against the console table, looking over the screen at him with a secretive smile on her face. “You don’t think it really went away.”
“*I* think he learned to hide the evidence better,” Nick acknowledged.
“I can see why you wanted to do a dry run before Derek. This will *really* get his attention.” Alex’s hand waved at the screen, at the various pictures and reports showing.
The telephone beeped, dragging their attention away from the wall. With practiced ease, Nick punched the speakerphone on as he moved back to the console. “Yeah?” he asked, clearing the screen of data.
Philip’s nervous tone brought activity to a halt. “Nick, I think you better come down to the garage.”
——————–
“What do you make of this?” the Irish priest asked, holding out an ornate sword swaddled in work rags. The gold and silver sparkled in the waning light of the afternoon, the shiny object drawing Nick’s attention.
At the last second, he stopped, not touching the weapon. “Where did you find this beauty?”
Philip gestured behind himself with a shake of his head. “It’s the only part o’ the bike to survive in one piece. ”
“A part of the bike?” Nick asked incredulously.
Father Callahan laid the sword on the side table, escorting his friend to the mangled wreck in three distinct piles on the garage floor. “Cleverly hidden away from pryin’ eyes. Easy to get to in a hurry.”
It wasn’t hard to tell where the weapon fit once it had been pointed out. Only a thorough and careful examination would have revealed the hiding place. Nick crouched down, marveling at the ingenuity that went into the deception. “You don’t think….”
“Mr. Ryan, like all good Irish folk, knows more than he’s tellin’?” Philip finished for him. “I’ve not seen a lad with such a gift of blarney in quite a while. He’s hiding somethin’. A big somethin’.”
Nick look around the small building before dropping his voice. “Like a really *long* string of unexplained decapitations in his wake?” The ex-SEAL eyed the weapon on the table. “I want to get a detailed scan on that as *soon* as possible.”
With the ease of long years together, Philip offered a hand and pulled Nick to his feet. Eye to eye, he looked down at the worried frown of his friend. “Mr. Ryan isn’t going to like that,” the Catholic priest pointed out, concerned and just a bit wary. Bad enough having one explosive temperament on the island.
“Speaking of our new friend, where is he? Is Derrick giving him the grand tour or something?”
“No, he lit out o’ here like a dark Northern,” Philip replied, pointing out toward the large expanse of front lawn that usually doubled as the helio pad. “If I’m not mistaken, this pile of scrap was the last worldly possession our friend had left. Besides the clothes he’s wearin’ and this sword.”
A shiny glint appeared in Nick’s eyes, unfocused and locked on some past memory. “It’s a tough life,” he commented. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he hefted the sword again. “I’ll go see what our guest has to say about his choice of…protection. See if he’ll give permission to let me scan this…” He waved the ornate weapon.
Philip shook his head. “You know he won’t.”
With a particularly evil grin, Nick swung the blade to rest on his shoulder. “Then I’ll just have to do it anyway,” he called back as he walked out of the garage.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – –
“Trouble?” Alex asked as Derek hung up the telephone.
The Precept shrugged. “That was the Archbishop. He wants to meet us at the Huron Street Abbey, right away.” With a nod, he pointed out the door, following Alex.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
With a hand to the back of the black woman, he led her to the stairs to the first floor. With the ease of long practice, they quickly shuffled down them, heading for the foyer coat closet. “Not really. Find Philip and both of you meet me at the car. I’ll tell Nick we’re leaving and see that he takes care of our guest.”
Frederick met them at the door with umbrellas. “You’d better take these, sir. The storm is arriving quicker than expected.”
“Thank you,” Derek told the butler as he accepted his. “You may want to go ahead and leave for the mainland yourself if you plan to make it home tonight.”
The old gentleman grinned at the pair. “Indeed. I’ll whip up some supper Master Nick can reheat later and finish locking down the house. Take care yourself, you two.”
The Leader of the San Francisco Legacy House smiled and gripped the butler’s arm. “We always do.”
——————–
Nick stood at the corner of the terraced lawn’s retaining wall, spying on the mysterious Mr. Ryan as the young man ran through several kata forms. His informed eye spotted the mark of serious and long-term training.
“Wonder where you found the time,” he commented to himself.
It surprised him that the stranger had stopped at his preferred spot for working out, using some of the same techniques. The odd coincidence felt unnerving. No way was Nick going to compare himself to this…this…guy. More talk. Less thinking.
“Pretty good. I’m surprised a punk like you could stick around long enough to learn anything as complex as that.” His comment, shouted from a distance, broke the smooth flow of their guest’s movements.
Richie’s face scrunched into a scowl as he noticed the sword Nick casually carried. “I see the good Father wasn’t as blind as I had hoped.” The young man walked over, holding out his hand. “Give it here.”
Laughing at the order, Nick shifted, brandishing the sword. “This? Know how to handle one of these, kid?” With quick movements, the ex-SEAL demonstrated his limited repertoire of fencing moves. “Or did you just steal it ’cause it was pretty?” He waved the point in lazy figure eights at the young man. “I’d think you’d choose a gun over this pig sticker.”
Using his forearm, Richie knocked the flat of the blade aside, moving in close. A snap of the heel of his hand on Nick’s wrist caused a sharp pain that made him release the sword into the waiting fingers.
Nick had been waiting for a move, but the suddenness of the attack and the focus on the sword surprised him. Before he could defend himself, Richie stepped back, holding his sword, not the standard move for a street fighter, but one which emphasized the sword…and who had it. Which meant the weapon was more important that Nick had originally thought.
Settling into what seemed a familiar fighting stance, Richie drew back the basket hilt sword, sighting down his outstretched left arm. His body turned sideways as he bounced on the balls of his feet, arms and sword in a perfect line. Poised next to his eye, ready to strike, the blade gleamed in the fading sunlight, a cobra waiting for a kill. “I guess you’d be surprised what I can do with this pig sticker.” His easy grin completed the “pissed off angry young man” look that Nick knew quite well. “It’s deadlier than it looks.”
“Against a defenseless whimp, maybe.” Embarrassed and not wanting to be outdone, Nick jerked the loaded revolver from the back of his jeans, extending his arm out to point the gun at Richie, unconsciously mirroring the younger man’s pose. “I’d say you’d be shit outta luck when you ran up against a real weapon.”
“Gentlemen!” Derek’s voice cut across the increasing wind.
——————–
Muttering to himself, his blood already at a boil, Nick stormed into the Control Room. It had been humiliating enough to be caught by his friend like that, threatening a guest and waving his gun around without a thought to the consequences…but to be left behind to continue his ‘research’ while the rest of the group handled an emergency….
Derek had had that look usually reserved for those times he ‘suggested’ a long, very relaxing vacation. That was the last thing Nick needed – time to think. To reflect. To remember Julia hung up on that cross like a scarecrow….
“Damn him!”
Only the Legacy computers heard his scream.
Knowing full well he was this close to damaging equipment better left alone, he flung himself into the chair he had occupied earlier, dragging the keyboard to him a bit more harshly than it deserved. Unable to connect to the Paris House – still – he racked his brain, trying to come up with a new avenue to explore, some obscure connection to dredge up to show Derek exactly how trivial this concern over Richie Ryan was and how they should be *out* there, *doing* something, anything, nothing, everything to smooth over this rough, gaping edged hole in his chest. Their chests. Julia’s blood-covered, motionless chest….
Aware that his eyes were full of unshed tears, Nick fought for control. Squelching the emotions and locking them away like the Navy had taught him. Like Derek had taught him. Like Philip.
Calm and collected once again, he reached out for the keyboard that had somehow been pushed back. He reflected on the events of the previous night, turning over each bit of memory he came across, finally typing in one word. Pete. Once the input was cross-referenced with ‘Richard Ryan’ and ‘Nick Boyle’ as well as ‘Derek Raynes’, ‘Duncan MacLeod’ and ‘swords’ for good measure.
The sandwiches from earlier tasted only slightly stale as he finished them off. Frederick wished him a good evening over the intercom before saying goodbye, and mentioning to Nick that Master Ryan was safely settled in front of the TV in the game room.
By then, the first of his inquiries around the states showed up. Many had no relevance and easily dismissed. A surprising entry from one of Derek’s early cases involved Nick’s father in Columbia, but the reference didn’t seem to be the same person Richie could be referring to.
The lights flickered briefly, a sure sign the storm had finally hit the coast, when an intriguing match appeared. Eager for any action, Nick opened the relevant file, only to be rerouted and asked for a password. The offending beep as his clearance was rejected almost sent him into another fit of rage. The fact the file was in his own personnel records, somehow locked and encrypted, made his blood boil. He savagely pounded in Derek’s login name and password. The computer beeped again, bringing up the screen for a retinal scan, the same system that granted access to the Control Room.
“God damn it!”
Nick knocked the sandwich platter off the desk as he cursed, jumping to his feet and kicking the chair out of his way. With a yell, he shoved his fist through the monitor screen, the pain from the jagged glass flying around him and the sharp bite of electrical current tempered the flush of betrayal. He pulled his hand back, still clenched in a bloody claw, staring at the red glistening blood that welled from numerous cuts and scratches.
Bloody. Julia bloody. The memory of the tangy smell on the rain, the dripping moisture of her life’s blood as it washed into the field of mud. The helplessness he felt, the curdling scream of denial, all the memories assaulting him at once.
Years of training, of requirements drilled into his brain by the armed forces took over. Calmly, he bandaged his hand using supplies from the first aid kit kept in the room, a blessed numbness of activity to drive away the demons. He had to know who Pete was. He had to know what the Legacy was hiding. He had to…had to…
…had to save Julia before it was too late.
——————–
It never failed to happen. As soon as Derek opened the door, his cell phone rang. Under the cover of the Range Rover’s cab, he dug in his coat for the instrument, watching both Alex and Philip cross to his side, standing in the rain and sheltering him.
“Hello,” he answered, hoping it wasn’t the Archbishop checking up on
them. The words on the other end were faint, drowned out by the cacophony of sound from the storm. “I can’t hear, can you say it again?”
This time, he heard plainly heard Nick’s almost screamed plea. “Who’s Pete?”
A quick glance up revealed his cohorts patiently waiting for him to finish. “We can talk about this later, Nick. We’re at the Abbey and….”
“We can talk about it now,” Nick barked, his voice louder, surer. The same clipped tone he had when Derek first approached him about following his father’s footsteps to the Legacy. “Why are parts my personnel records sealed?”
That damnable question, giving unasked for information, threw Derek’s plans into a spin. He nodded toward the rectory, raising his voice to be heard over the shrill howl as the wind suddenly picked up. “Go on ahead. I need to get back to the island.”
“Do you need a hand,” Philip shouted, his somewhat long hair whipping around his head.
“No,” Derek shouted back, not wanting any more witnesses than necessary for this little chat. “Go on and help the Archbishop as best you can.”
Once alone in the 4-wheel, he resumed his conversation. “Nick, is this Ryan boy bothering you?”
The line crackled as the sky off the coast lit up with a brilliant display of lightning. “…is about my personnel file being locked!” Although the words had been distorted, the angry tone came through clearly. “What…*Who* are you hiding?”
It was worse than Derek imagined. His plan to catch Richie alone and grill him on Peter needed radical re-thinking. “We’ll talk about this once….”
“YOU GOD DAMN BETTER TELL ME NOW!”
Unable to stand the mixture of hysteria and pain in his friend’s voice, Derek’s resolve crumbled. “He’s….” There really was no better way to tell him. “He’s you’re twin brother, Nick.”
The secret was finally out. Now to try and contain the consequences.
Derek thought the line was dead until Nick’s hesitant voice stuttered. “My…my *brother?*”
“Peter Andropolis Boyle was born two minutes after you were. You are identical twin brothers.”
The news really should have been revealed in person, Derek thought, imagining how shattered his colleague must be. It sounded clear enough over the phone even with all the static.
“Why the hell….” A sob interrupted, followed by a loud crash as something was thrown or fell to the floor. “Why didn’t I know. Why didn’t anyone tell me? And how does Ryan know?”
A question Derek wanted answers to as well. “It was thought too dangerous to raise you both together. The Head Precept decided to separate you shortly after birth. You were left with your parents, and Peter was sent to Canada to be raised by initiates of the Toronto house. Richie has probably run into him in his travels, and because of the darkness mistook you for him.”
“I have a twin brother,” Nick mumbled over the line.
Derek started the vehicle, knowing that now was a time Nick needed his Legacy family to support him. Especially after losing Julia so recently. “I’m on my way back, Nick. Just hold on….”
A bolt of lightning erupted in the sky around the Abbey, followed almost immediately by a deafening crash of thunder. The ground shook as the air hummed with power. After Derek cleared the spots from his eyes, he held the cell phone to his ear. Nothing. He tried to call the Legacy house again, with no better luck.
The phone was dead.
——————–
“I have a twin brother,” Nick murmured again, clutching the dead phone to his chest. It certainly wasn’t any stranger than the other bombshells in his life. “Sorry, son, but Daddy needs to go fight a demon or two now.” “Sorry, bro’, you’re on your own, I’m outta here.” “I’m sorry Private Boyle, you were the only member of your team to survive.”
He shook his head, trying to clear the voices out. Did he really expect anything different from Derek, from the Legacy? Secrets kept, information hidden, dark forces lurking without and within.
Before his imagination could conjure up any more black demons, the computer beeped for attention. Nick glanced at the large screen and the dialogue box informing him a connection had been established with the Paris House.
Unbidden, almost by magic, information began appearing larger than life. Arrest records, police files, a reoccurring name — “Inspector Lebrun.”