Date: Thu, 16 Nov 1995 21:46:18 EST Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Adam, Part 10/11 Adam, Part 10 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Methos frowned as he rounded another curve in the winding forest road. He was fairly sure this was the correct road, but there were so many dips and bends that looked alike, and no landmarks aside from the endless trees. How long had they driven along this stretch when they came before? Had he already passed the place, or not come to it yet? Would he recognize it when he saw it again? Then he crested a hill and jerked straight in his seat as he glimpsed a lake and distant mountains through a gap in the trees. He remembered that view. If he went to the bottom of the hill, and perhaps a quarter mile further, there should be a place to pull off on the left side of the road. He parked the car and stepped out, half-smiling, but his satisfaction waned as he considered the size of the task ahead of him. They had carried Ryan's bike a hundred yards into the woods before ditching it; how much area would he have to cover to find Ryan's body? How far would he have to search before he could be sure the body wasn't here? Duncan easily found the broken lock that let him into the old sawmill offices. On the second floor of the building he came to the room that Methos had described, and his jaw tightened at the sight of the dried bloodstains on the floor. The dust in one corner was wildly scuffed and swirled, but there was neither a body nor a roll of carpet. He checked the other rooms of the office building mechanically, expecting nothing. The storehouses and lumber yard he searched more closely, looking for any sign of recent digging. There was no indication that anyone had done more than pass by this area in years. Lastly, he traced the perimeter of the property, both inside and outside the sagging chain fence. He maintained a feeble hope that he might detect a muted buzz, but there was nothing. Disappointed again, Duncan pulled out his phone and started to dial. Perhaps Methos would have better news. Joe Dawson squinted again at the survey map he had brought, and checked the notes Nick had copied from Hannah's notebook. He was certainly in the right ballpark, but how could he identify the place? Hannah had said it would be on the north side of the road, out of sight but not too far into the trees. That gave him a good hint, but he still needed to know where to start. He slowed down as another car became visible ahead, pulled over to the side of the road. A white Volvo, with out-of-state plates; interesting. Eyes narrowed, Joe drove around the next curve before parking his own van where it wouldn't be seen. He folded away the map, stuffed the excerpt from the notebook in his pocket, and reached into the back seat. It would have been nice to bring Macleod's katana, but that had gone down with Guise's boat. Fortunately Nicky had remembered where Alan liked to keep the mementos of his conquests, and among them had been Richie's rapier. Joe picked up the cloth-wrapped sword and tucked it under one arm as he climbed out of the car. He took his time looking over the area before he stepped cautiously into the woods. Beyond the birdsong and the rustling movements of squirrels through the leaves, Joe could just hear the regular tramp of human footsteps. He wasn't the first one here, and that meant he would have to be very careful. Methos knelt and brushed away the old leaves from a patch of ground. The leaves were muddy and unnaturally clumped, some of them clearly overturned from the positions they had lain in for months or years. The ground underneath was scarred and trampled, stamped down by heavy boots but still loose. Best of all, at the very edge of his senses, Methos could feel something. It was so faint that a younger Immortal would probably not have detected it, but somewhere beneath this patch of ground was a static, suspended quickening. Methos bowed his head with relief for a moment before getting to his feet and hurrying back to the car. He pulled out the shovel he had brought and slammed the trunk closed, then hesitated a moment. Macleod should know about this. Opening the driver's door, he picked up the car phone. There was no signal; he must be outside of the transmitter's range. With a scowl, Methos set the phone aside and headed back into the woods. It seemed he would have to do this alone. Richie had been awake when he was buried, waiting for the right moment to escape. He had recognized the voices of some of the mortals who lifted his bound body out of the trunk of the car and carried him into the woods; realizing that these were hunters who somehow didn't realize that his head was still attached, he had forced himself to stay limp, though mold and dust and bits of moth-eaten carpet tickled his nose and throat. He hadn't guessed what they planned until he was dropped roughly into a pit, and dirt started to rain down on his legs. By then it was too late; tightly bound by the carpet, stunned by his fall, and trapped in the downrush of earth, he had been unable to get free. As the weight piled on top of him and pressed the decaying material against his face, he had slowly and inexorably smothered to death. After a while -- he couldn't guess how long -- he had awakened, struggled again, and died again. And again, and again. The brief moments of panicked heaving for breath were never long enough for him to free his hands; he couldn't even move them from his sides. By the fifth awakening, he gave up and just lay still, trying to prolong the short span of life that was granted to him, trying to resist the gibbering terror that filled his chest as darkness, dizziness, and death descended once more. Eventually the periods of waking began to blur imperceptibly into each other, leaving him in a state that was not so much unconsciousness as a quintessence of helplessness. Then something brushed his senses and spurred him into an instant of real waking. He spasmed unthinkingly against the weight on his chest, wasting air until the blackness swept over his mind. But someone had been there; someone had found him. The next time he woke, he could hear the sound of metal biting downward through the earth. Already the mass above him seemed lessened. He could not make himself lie still; he screamed against the carpet that crumbled into his mouth, kicked, flailed, and heaved, until his time was up again. The last waking was different. There was no load bearing down on his chest, nothing but the ancient carpet keeping his hands at his sides. As he started to struggle, he could feel the other Immortal's presence clearly. Someone's hands pulled the carpet from his face. He sobbed at the scent of fresh air, and kept thrashing until he was completely free of the carpet. Every muscle in his body shook; he couldn't see, or stand up, or do anything but breathe for several minutes. When his thoughts began to clear, he looked up to recognize Adam Pierson kneeling at his side. The shadow of resentment that still lurked in his memory was nothing compared to the overwhelming rush of gratitude that he felt now. "When I get home," Richie said unsteadily, "I am going to vacuum, and dust, and clean up every scrap of mildew in the entire place. And I'm never going to live anywhere with carpets again." "I'm sorry it took so long to find you," Pierson told him. "We were --" "Don't trust him, Richie," another voice interrupted. Richie turned his head. "Joe? What are you doing here? How long was I in there, anyway?" He looked reflexively at the watch on his wrist, but it was so caked with dirt and dried blood that he couldn't see the readout, even if it still worked. Joe Dawson stepped around a tree and approached the two Immortals. He was holding a gun. "Back away, Adam," he growled. "Don't touch him." Pierson lifted his hands placatingly. "I'm not going to do him any harm, Joe. I came to get him free." "You're lying. You came to take his head. Like you took Macleod's." "What?" Richie's head snapped up. "Macleod is dead, Richie. Adam here tricked him, turned him over to the Hunters, and took his head." "That isn't how it happened, Joe," Pierson insisted, climbing to his feet. "You _bastard_!" Richie stood up. "He trusted you!" "We all trusted him," Joe said. "He's done nothing but string one lie to another since the first day I met him." Slinging his cane over one wrist, Joe pulled a long bundle from under his elbow and tossed it to Richie. "The way I figure it, he must be too much of a coward to fight by the rules, so he uses lies and trickery instead." "Joe, you've got it all wrong. Richie, I never meant you any harm. You or Macleod." Richie picked up the sword and unwrapped it, his eyes flicking uncertainly from one man to the other. "You're sure about this guy, Joe?" "I'm sure." Now that Richie was armed, Joe lowered the gun. "He killed Mac. I was there." Pierson shook his head and backed up another few steps. "You weren't there at the end, Joe! You never saw me fight Macleod. You never saw me take his head -- because I didn't!" "I saw the quickening." Richie brought his sword to the ready. "That was an electrical fire!" Pierson protested. "Look, Macleod's alive. He didn't want you to know, but -- I can take you to him. I can prove it." "More lies." Joe shook his head. "Give it up, Adam." "Why don't you just shut up and fight me?" Richie snarled, advancing with his sword up. Pierson looked despairingly at their accusing faces, then reached over one shoulder and pulled out his sword. "We don't have to do this, Richie. I never hurt Macleod. I wouldn't have hurt you." "You _did_ hurt me. Or have you forgotten about this?" Richie waved at his torn and bloody shirt and jeans. Before Pierson could respond, Richie attacked. For a lying, treacherous coward, Pierson wasn't a bad fighter. He kept his calm in the face of Richie's blind fury and set up a very solid defense. He wasn't counterattacking yet; he kept trying to speak whenever he could get breathing space. Richie increased the pace of his blows to forestall more protests. Finally Pierson resigned himself to the inevitable and began to fight in earnest. Richie, still shaken from the experience of burial and unbalanced by his own anger, found it harder to keep up. His reflexes and Macleod's training kept pulling him back to defend himself, when all he really wanted was to take Pierson's lying head. Pierson left him an opening deliberately, and at the expense of a cut on his left arm he bound their swords together at the hilt. With a wrenching motion, Pierson brought Richie's hand down hard against his jabbing knee, and Richie lost hold of his sword. Richie's eyes flicked from the broadsword leveled at his neck to his own rapier lying on the blanket of leaves. But Pierson was hesitating; Richie could see the reluctance in his eyes. He swept the other man's blade aside with his forearm and dove for the rapier. It was in the perfect position; when he came up from his roll, the point buried itself in Pierson's chest. Richie heaved himself to his feet as Pierson fell, gagging, before him. Gritting his teeth with triumph, Richie raised the rapier above his head and brought it down in one swift, lethal blow. Joe closed his eyes for a moment in relief when he saw that Richie had won. Then his training kicked in and he turned around, looking for anything that might be a source of danger during the quickening storm that was to come. Already the sky was turning black with ugly, roiling clouds, and a silvery glow had risen from Pierson's body to coil itself around Richie. There were no cables, electrical outlets, or machines anywhere near Joe's position, but just to be safe he moved back and stood close to a solid old oak tree. A moment later, he was glad of the move, for the world seemed to go insane around him. Bolts of lightning struck down from the clouds to Richie, to the headless corpse, to the ground nearby. Trees groaned and thrashed their branches as if frantic to escape the crackling vortex. Clumps of earth exploded into the air as they were struck by the searing energy bolts. Something heavy fell against the tree that was sheltering Joe, and broken branches rained down from above. He clunk to the trunk and wrapped an arm around his head, praying that the crashing weight above him would not drop any lower. The storm went on for several minutes. During brief lulls between the lightning strikes, Joe could hear Richie's voice raised in a tortured scream. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the quickening ended. The sky cleared in moments and the abused trees were left to tremble faintly and drop the occasional twig to the ground below. The birds and forest creatures were shocked into silence. Everything was still. Joe uncovered his head cautiously and looked up at the tall pine that had fallen against his oak tree. He was surrounded by a curtain of leafy and needled boughs, mixed together and tossed every which way. Slowly, he began to force a path out of the cage of limbs. The area where Richie had been standing looked as if a twister had touched down. A dozen trees or so had fallen away from the fight, and the ground was torn and blasted. Away from the center of conflict, the damage quickly grew less. Joe glanced once toward the road, hoping he hadn't destroyed another car; then he turned and searched the broken ground for Richie. The young redhead was just beginning to stir. His filthy, bloody clothes had been muddied even further by the flying dirt. Sitting up, he put one hand to his head and looked around dazedly. "Richie?" Joe called. The young man turned his head and looked at Joe as if he hardly recognized him. Then he stared down at the lifeless body on the ground. "Are you okay?" Richie looked up again, but didn't answer. There was no path that Joe could negotiate through the fallen branches; he could only watch as Richie slowly, shakily climbed to his feet and walked over to Pierson's body. He pulled something from the other man's coat pocket, picked up both swords from the ground, and started to clamber over the trees lying between him and the road. He passed some distance away from Joe, without a word. Cursing, Joe tried to pick a way back to his own car. He couldn't move quickly enough through the shambles the quickening had made of the forest; by the time he reached the road, Richie had already driven away in Pierson's Volvo. Joe climbed into his own car and headed back toward Hadleyville, speeding grimly. =========================================================================