Date: Thu, 26 Oct 1995 11:13:55 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Adam, Part 1/?? Well, I'm starting to lose momentum on the writing, so I have a feeling this story will be the last for a long while. It takes place in the fourth season, and also after my previous stories "Hold Fast" and "The Dark Side of the Mirror"; you'll find it easier to understand this one if you've read those stories first. "Hold Fast" is available by anonymous ftp from mithral.iit.edu, in the /pub/highlander/HLFIC-L/ directory, or you can ask me for the stories. Please let me know if you prefer installments or if your mailer can handle the story in one chunk. I know during Richie and Methos were in Paris at the same time during the episode "Methos," but I'm assuming they never met each other, and Duncan didn't tell them a whole lot about each other. Adam, Part 1 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Richie winced as a shaft of light from the setting sun pierced the shaded visor of his helmet and struck him in the eye. Perhaps he should get off the highway at the next exit and look for a place to get dinner. Perhaps he should look for a place to stay the night. He leaned into a curve in the road, then switched to the left lane as he saw a breakdown on the shoulder. A moment later his head began to throb with something that was not quite a noise and not quite a pain, and he felt as if he were in slow motion, floating above the road. He bobbled slightly, straightened out, and twisted his head around to stare at the stopped vehicle as he passed. A figure standing beside the open hood stared back. Richie pulled over a quarter mile down the road. He didn't want any trouble. On the other hand, the traffic here was heavy enough to make it almost public, and it was always better to meet a strange Immortal in public, if not on holy ground. He turned his bike around. The stranded driver was still watching him, one hand held up against the sunlight. Richie rode slowly back along the shoulder of the highway. He stopped several yards short of the Volvo and looked the stranger up and down. He was tall and spare, with a patrician nose and a glint of humor in his eyes, behind the wariness. A smudge of grease marked his cheek. His denim jacket was too short to conceal a sword, and he made no move toward the car doors. "I'm Adam Pierson," said the stranger. "I really don't feel like fighting today." He had an English accent. Richie blinked and pulled off his helmet. "Good," he said, "Neither do I. You having some trouble?" The slim shoulders twitched. "It seems so. Would you care to take a look?" Richie dismounted slowly and hung his helmet on the handle of the bike. He hesitated before stepping away. "Bring your sword, if it will make you more comfortable," Pierson suggested. "I don't mind." "No, that's okay," said Richie, leaving his bike behind. "What seems to be the problem?" "I don't know. No power when I press on the gas, or only intermittent power." "Uh-huh. You, uh, know much about cars?" Richie glanced sideways, trying to guess the stranger's age. "Well, I used to be quite a mechanic, actually. I do try to keep up with the times. But since computers came along, I've concentrated mostly on them. I suppose my automotive education is a little out of date." Richie moved a few hoses, looking for any sign of a leak. "So, what was the last car you worked on? Wait, let me guess. A Model T?" Pierson laughed. "No, that was more like the first car I worked on. Let me think. I used to have quite a nice little Edsel that I kept going a decade or two past its prime." _Ah-ha,_ Richie thought. _Must be at least a century old. Probably more. Sounds a little jaded._ "So, how old are _you_?" Pierson asked. Richie glanced up and shrugged. "Older than I look," he said non-committally. "But not by very much, eh?" "What makes you say that?" "Experience." Pierson smiled. "Don't worry, I said I'm not after your head. But you started it." Richie grimaced. "I guess so," he muttered. "Any idea what might be wrong?" Pierson asked, leaning his elbows on the corner of the hood next to Richie's. "My guess? Fuel injection system, from what you described. I'd have to give it a try myself, though, to be sure." "Feel free." Pierson stood back. "Fuel injection is a little outside my expertise." Richie started the car and listened to the uneven coughing of the engine. "Yep, that's the fuel injection, or maybe the fuel line itself," he reported. "Could be a bunch of things wrong with it. A break in the line, a clog -- lots of things." "Are any of the possibilities easy to fix?" "Uh . . . did it start gradually, or suddenly?" "Very sudden. No warning." "Well, let me check the fuse, then. If I can remember where to find it." Richie found the fuse after a brief search, and replaced it with a fresh one. "You won't be needing the radio, will you?" he called out as he scavenged beneath the dashboard. "Er -- no," Pierson replied uncertainly. "Good, then I can use that one." Richie pulled himself upright in the passenger seat. "Okay, give it another try." Pierson started the car and smiled as the engine caught and roared steadily. "Very impressive," he said. "Just a lucky guess," Richie replied with a grin. "Uh, you got any kleenex or anything?" While they wiped ineffectually at their greasy hands, Pierson said, "Seems like I owe you something in return. How about dinner on me?" Richie blinked. "Uh, sure." "You haven't told me your name yet," Pierson reminded him. "Oh, sorry. Richard Ryan." Richie stuck out a dirty hand, then pulled it back in confusion. Pierson looked at him sharply. "Not Duncan MacLeod's student?" "Yeah. You know Mac?" "We've met." Pierson frowned. "He never mentioned me to you?" "Adam Pierson? No, I don't think so. Are you a good friend?" Pierson ducked his head shyly. "Well, I haven't really known him very long. We just met each other a few times in Paris." Duncan opened the door to Joe's bar and nearly ran into a man coming out. "Excuse me," he said politely, and stepped aside. The man moved around him, wide-eyed, and hurried away. Duncan sighed and continued inside. He found Joe at the bar contemplating a small, neatly-wrapped package. "Was that man a Watcher?" he asked as he slid onto a stool. "MacLeod, hi there. I wasn't expecting you tonight. What'd you say?" "That man who just left. Is he a Watcher?" Joe frowned. "Why would you say that?" Duncan gave his friend an impatient look. "Something about the glazed look of terror in his eyes when he saw me. Like a deer caught in headlights." "Oh, that." Joe shrugged, his fingers busy with the twine around the package. "Don't worry about him. He was just dropping something off for me." Duncan gave Joe's assistant, Mike, a smile and a nod as a Scotch appeared in front of him. Joe stripped the brown paper away with reverent care. "Look at this!" he breathed. Duncan glanced at the well-aged book. "A chronicle," he identified it. That was an easy guess, since the Watchers' symbol was prominent on the leather cover. "Not just any chronicle. This is one of Avram Santi's books, in his own hand." Joe began to flip through the pages. "Oh. You don't say." Duncan sipped his Scotch. Joe sighed. "Okay, so you probably haven't heard of him. But Avram Santi is a legend among the Watchers. He was one of the best. Scrupulous details, accurate descriptions, illustrations . . . " He closed the book. "I'm taking this back where the light is better. Care to join me?" Duncan followed Joe back into the office behind the bar. Joe set his book on the desk and switched on the lamp above it. "Santi set a new standard for accuracy among the Watchers of his day, back when most historians thought creative embellishment was part of their job description. And he was brilliant when it came to surveillance and disguise. He followed Methos across Europe for twenty years." Duncan's eyebrows went up. "And he was never noticed?" "Never even suspected." Joe looked up briefly to grin at Duncan. "Adam's been collecting all the Methos chronicles he can find, but it never occurred to him to ask about Avram Santi." "So, are you going to send this along to, er, Adam?" Duncan asked, humoring Joe's insistence on calling Methos by his latest alias, Adam Pierson. "Not before I've had a good look at it myself," Joe said fervently. "Just look at these drawings --" he broke off. Duncan watched as Joe's frown turned from puzzlement to denial to deep shock. "What is it? What's wrong?" He leaned over the desk. Joe glanced up at him, hesitated, then turned the book so that Duncan could see the drawing clearly. It was a simple sketch in ink that conveyed a great deal with just a few strokes. It showed a man, mustached, broad-shouldered, with a faintly Asian or perhaps Mid-Eastern cast to his features. "Never seen him before," Duncan said. "Who's it supposed to be?" "Methos," Joe rasped. Duncan looked again. "Not a very good likeness," he decided. Joe shook his head. "Mac, this is _Santi_," he insisted. Duncan shrugged. "Oh, come on, Joe. What is this, the sixteenth century we're talking about here? The standard of art back then --" Joe threw up a hand and turned around, reaching out to the bookcase behind his chair. He pulled out a volume very similar to the one sitting on the desk; when he opened it, the handwriting was the same. He flipped the pages. "Here, look." Duncan looked. Another man, in Spanish court dress: a beard, a grin, grizzled hair pulled back from his face. "I've never seen him before, either," he said. Then he noticed the sword the man was holding and caught his breath. "Wait. Is that --" "Ramirez," Joe said. "Santi tracked him for a while, too. You recognized the sword, didn't you? As for his ability to draw a face . . ." Joe turned more pages. "Ramirez' last student." Duncan blinked down at a picture of Connor MacLeod in kilt and philabeg, wielding a claymore and frowning fiercely. The artist had precisely captured Connor's expression when someone was telling him something he didn't want to believe. "Maybe . . . maybe he was wrong. The guy in the other picture isn't Methos." Joe rubbed his temples. "He identified Methos from something Ramirez said, and Ramirez should certainly have known. Anyway --" He tapped the first drawing. "This is more what I would expect a five-thousand-year-old man to look like. The description said he was of middle height -- with the poor nutrition in those days, no more than five foot four. A good eight inches shorter than . . . Adam Pierson." Duncan sank onto the couch. "So -- in Paris, that wasn't Methos?" "We only had his own word for it. 'Why would I tell the truth?' he said to me once." Joe swallowed bitterly. "He lied to us, Mac." =========================================================================