Date: Tue, 7 Feb 1995 01:20:17 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha. Epilogue. p 1-6 c 1995 N.L. Cleveland (ok, so the story just wasn't done....these things happen, you know :D) Two months later..... The customs agent waved them through his station, hurriedly, after a cursory glance at their documents, and no search of their bags, uninterested in coming too close to a man with a loudly sneezing, coughing, wheezing child who was probably carrying some rabidly contagious, exotic strain of influenza. The man had glanced at the arrival manifest posted on his computer screen while the pair walked towards his gate. Freshly arrived from the Cook Islands. Who knew what nasty bugs were lurking out there. It was certainly no haven for the drug trade. Nothing to smuggle but coconuts and taro. And Hawaii had enough of both. He picked up his aerosol spray can after they passed and gave the space around his intake desk a good shot of lime scented bactericide. He still remembered the six weeks he'd been out, flat on his back, after he'd searched the suitcase of that little girl with the funny spots on her face and that tiny, inconspicuous cough. No way was he going to risk that again. No way. No more sick kids for him. All the agents knew better, now. Kids could carry the worst, absolutely the worst bugs... He turned back to his magazine, idly leafing through the glossy pages, glancing at the celebrities, wondering if he'd recognize the next one who passed through...waiting for another traveler to wander towards his desk. Smothering a yawn. 6 a.m. Only two more hours until the end of his shift. Honolulu's international arrival area was almost deserted as Jonathan gave his young companion a pat of encouragement, then hoisted the boy onto a more secure hold on his hip, and headed briskly across the air conditioned terminal. "Good job, Fujio. You had that man reaching for his sterile gloves and mask." He exaggerated the humor in his tone, to let the youth know he was pleased. The boy's sharp, thin face relaxed into a smile, at least what Jonathan could see of it, under the fluorescent Mickey Mouse sunglasses the child wore. No one would remember a blind child. Just another overdressed tourist's kid. All part of the disguise. All necessary, for their continued safety, here. Jonathan had sized up the most hypochondriacal looking agent and headed for him like a bee to honey. He'd picked up scuttlebutt in his travels about how customs agents felt about sick children. And the ruse had worked. Through five frantic flights, across five barely glimpsed countries. No one had looked closely at his documents, hardly dried when he procured them from a back alley contact in Osaka, just two days before. And no one had questioned his itinerary, or his traveling companion. He waited, impatiently, to pick up his bags. His katana. His nerves crawling with tension that he never would have felt, if he only had to worry about himself, alone. Now there was the boy. His responsibility. His child. Now, and forever. No other Immortal had challenged him, in the past two months. No other had even come near. No aura had intruded on his consciousness. None but those he already had, inside himself. And those were enough, more than a handful for someone as new and inexperienced in the inner tumult and turmoil as he. But he remained alert, always aware of the possibility of attack, appalled at what he'd learned from some of the others, of ways new Immortals had been tricked, killed, and died. He realized again how lucky he had been that he had encountered MacLeod, at that crucial juncture in his life. He only regretted that he had not spent more time with the man, had not listened, and learned. Had not set aside his human, mortal vengeance and plans. Old regrets. Regrets that would stay with him forever. But could never change. Pointless to dwell on that, now. He lifted his single nylon duffel bag from the turning metal rack. The locks were still intact. Through the fabric he could feel the outline of the scabbard. The blade was there. He turned and carried his hidden sword, and his disguised foster son, out, toward the small commuter plane, waiting, propellers turning, on the asphalt. Walked though the humid tropical air, the sweet scent of the ubiquitous white ginger mixing with deisel oil and the heavy sooty smell of exhaust. Heading towards the island known as paradise. Towards their new future, together. There were no metal detectors on this local island hopping flight. Who would want to hijack a plane from paradise? Pearl Harbor fell away behind the, and the flat blue sea stretched out across the horizon, unitl Maui's curved green coast grew in the window, and then disappeared in the early morning fog, as the pilot swooped in for his landing at Kahului. Jonathan directed a low voiced commentary to the boy's eager ears, describing for him what they were flying over, using the clan's short talk to avoid betraying the boy's sightless condition to the Japanese tourists who sat scattered among the Caucasians, on the plane. No one seemed to be paying the two of them the slightest attention, which was fine by him. On the ground again, he led the boy through the now oppressive early summer heat, around the tiny scattered kiosks that passed for an airport terminal here, and hailed a cab into town, where the rest of his preparations should be waiting. He directed the driver to drop them near the docks. In the seedy part of town, if a town this small could be considered to have a seedy side. Watching the bikini clad women, and their laughing, bermuda short clad mae companions, strolling along the sidewalk, showing tan skin against flower splashed fabric, heading for the beach, or to shop. A glimpse of dark glossy hair. A woman's sure, jaunty stride. He looked again. Could it be? No....just someone like her. Like his love. His lover. The woman who had shared his life. His heart called out to her. He wondered if she would come. Would join their final flight. Would throw aside her career, her last remaining ties to family, culture, nation. He had not wanted to force her to decide between her life there, and him. Had not wanted to tear open the wounds in her heart again, that losing another person close to her would bring. She had just seemed to be recovering from her grief over her parents' death. Recovering, and accepting the possibility that they would never know, never discover who had ordered her family's home to be destroyed, that night. That night that had brought the two of them together, had cemented their hearts together, for all time. Or once he had thought......until he saw that what he must do now could destroy her life anew, tear up those fragile roots she had put down again, into her job, her work her friends and family...and could not face that possibility, that certainty, of causing her more pain... And so, when he made his decision, he had not tried to pressure her. Had tried to discourage her, in fact. Tried to build some distance, some buffer, around her heart....Had not even told her, directly, where he and the boy would go. To keep her safe, if she did stay. Safe, in her ignorance. Told her only how to get in touch with them, through a blind advertisement, in the Asahi Shimbun,...if she needed to. If she decided to follow. He had someone checking the paper daily, already. Another old contact. But one who had no idea who he was providing the service for. Paid anonymously, by direct deposit into a computer coded account, from another series of intricately coded and layered accounts. Untraceable. Absolutely. Because this time, Jonathan Raven was dead. Would disappear from the earth, and not be seen again. Nor would the boy. The kidnapped child. Stolen from the so protective arms of the state. Jonathan bared his teeth in a half snarl, remembering the cloyingly sweet tone of the social worker who had told him, politely, firmly, that his and Mariko's application to become the boy's guardians had been denied. "I'm afraid that you just don't have the stable sort of background we look for in our adoptive parents." There was no sympathy in the woman's eyes. They glittered at him hard, cold. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Triumphant. Protecting a full blooded child of Nippon from being stolen from his culture, by a half western, half man. At least that was the message he had received. The silent, hidden message. He and Mariko, not good enough to be Fujio's parents. Especially not...him. "And your fiancee..." There was subtle, barely hinted at sarcasm, underlying that word. So subtle, he could hardly take offense. So subtle, it was almost not even there. Almost. "She has such an active career. So demanding, for a woman. Very rewarding, I'm sure." His hackles raised in memory of that tone, that mockery of his soon to be wife. "But hardly the sort of job that would allow her to spend time with the child. To be his mother. A good mother. A dutiful wife." The knife twisted in his heart, in his memory. The finality of that rejection. No appeal. He had barely kept his temper. Barely managed the stiff, formal nod as he rose, and turned and left that sterile room and its cool, indifferent occupant. He suspected there was more to the issue than his fitness...Mariko's fitness.. as a parent. He suspected that the ownership of the remaining resources of the Dragons, their complicated land and financial dealings, was very much the real point. With the child as a ward of the state, his property was also the property of the state. And the added hypocrisy grated even more, as he smiled and nodded and negotiated for one last day with the boy...one last supervised, carefully watched and monitored, visit, with the child he had hoped to make his son. The child who had already given him his trust. and love. One last visit that would never end. Not if he had his way. Not if they had escaped detection so far. Jonathan had asked the boy what he wanted. Had given him a choice. To come with him, or to stay. He had used the secret coded short talk of the Dragons, to pose the questions, under the watchful, listening ears of two guards. Fujio's answer, traced out on Jonathan's palm, in the hidden hand signals of the clan, had been emphatic. Unequivocal. He had said yes. And Jonathan's next words, his last recorded speech, on the monitors taping the child and the man, had been short, and to the point. "Trust me." Then the lights went out, the power failed, and the guards, when they recovered consciousness the next day, had nothing more to add. Nothing to say. Except that they had seen nothing. Remembered nothing. And held their aching heads, in sullen shame. And now, now they were here, thousands of miles from the boy's one time home. Thousands of miles from the ruins of the Dragons' lair. Where Jonathan, naively, had once believed he would be able to stay. To rebuild. To house the boy, close to his people. On his own land. Jonathan had paid his last respects to the clan. Alone. The boy still in the hospital, his ruined eyes still being examined, as if one hundred specialists looking could make them work again. He had returned, to the site of destruction. Had scattered a handful of blossoms, across the barren, twisted remnants of the clan's stronghold. Had offered up a prayer, for the souls of the dead. To the god of the dead. The god whose shrine he had used and destroyed to get his final access to the clan. He had brought another idol, for the shattered altar. Had left the carved image, sitting over its domain. A cone of incense, burning at its feet. To guide the shuffling steps of the spirits, on their final journey. Alexis. Aki. Hata. Tawara. All the others, from this time, and from that fatal, first time. From before. He had never prayed for them, then. Never offered a gift, to ease their passage to the other world. This would have to do. This would have to do, for all. He had tried to go back again, later, to begin to rebuild the shrine. To prepare it for the boy's and his eventual return. And had been turned away, by guards, police, who had fenced off the land. That was when he had started to prepare. Yes, the boy had been kept in the hospital too long. Yet that hadn't seemed connected to anything but an overly fussy, over concerned bureaucracy. As long as Jonathan could still see him, could still visit regularly, with no restraint on his coming or going, he felt no particular alarm. But when they fenced off the land, kept him out, he realized more was going on, and tried harder to get the boy released, to get him home. And met another fence. Another wall. Polite, implacable, and unmovable. And that was when he knew. And accelerated his own plans. He brought his mind back to the present, to the driver, stopped now, hand out for his fare. Jonathan shoved some crumpled bills at him, and ushered Fijio out Stood, while the cab pulled away. Watched it turn the corner. Disappear. Then led the boy across the street, down an alley, to an old garage, where a car he had arranged for ..had purchased, through another buyers agent..using double blinds again to pass the funds....waited. A battered, serviceable Jeep. Not too flashy. Not too new. But rugged. And hiding a revved up engine, and a few other surprises, under its hood. The mechanic eyed him disinterestedly. He was a large man, maybe half native, judging by his dark skin, his broad face and warm, deep brown eyes. Maybe half Irish, judging by his curling, reddish hair. There was no curiosity in his gaze, no special interest in this new howli...white man...come to buy a souped up car. Just the paperwork to sign, another false name scrawled across the documents, and the keys to exchange. And a small packet of bills, passed into the empty, waiting palm, to keep the transaction quiet. This garage saw more than a few cars come in, loaded off a barge at night or driven quietly here by day, with one set of plates and paint job, and go out, hours later, with another. They were used to discretion. Something else Jonathan had specified, to his buyer. He helped the boy into the car, and they headed out the alley. The engine hummed with an expensive, quiet power. This car was definitely more than it seemed. He just hoped that he would never need to use those extra capabilities. But it was always better, to be prepared. The child, so silent, so patient, now wriggling with ill concealed excitement, as he seemed to sense they were near to their goal. "Are we almost there?" His enthusiasm was contagious, and Jonathan smiled. Relaxed, a bit, for the first time he could remember. Yes....they *were* almost there. "Just about an hour, Fujio. We have to pick up some supplies first, and then we'll drive into the mountains." Into the mountains, where Jonathan had once purchased a secret hideaway. Long ago, under another name. That place had gone to Ski, with the rest of his estate, when he had disappeared. Separately, of course. And only Ski knew where it was, or who had owned it, once. And now Ski had sold it...to a very insistent Asian buyer. A land speculator, from Hong Kong. That was who had represented Jonathan in this last, final deal. Sold it "as is"....a condition the buyer had insisted on. So that all of Jonathan's work, his special modifications, would remain. He still felt guilt for never having had a chance to say goodbye to his old friend. But he realized it was better, much better, this way. It was, in fact, the only way. If Raven were to die, to disappear, then Ski certainly could not know he was still alive. And he knew the man would never come out here, from simple curiosity. His essentially urban character drew him to the noisy, flashy, busy life of the cities. While Jonathan had always been drawn to the silence, to the empty peace, of the wilderness. And this particular spot of wilderness had always been special, very special, to him. It held an almost magical quality, in Jonathan's memory. Exuded a tranquility, an almost otherworldly peace, that he had encountered so few places, so few times, in his life. That was why he was returning here. Looking for that peace, once more. Looking for a place where he and the boy could relax. Could learn about one another. Could begin to build that deep, abiding trust that would let the youth mature and thrive. A trust that would let him tell the boy, one day, what Jonathan had done to him. Who he was. What he had meant, to the child's life, and fate. Knowing that coming here was a calculated risk. A gamble. In more ways than one. But willing to bet....to bet that he had covered his tracks well enough that no one...not the Agency, not the Kyoto social welfare society, and certainly not the representatives of the rapacious Japanese government, could track him, and the boy, here. And willing to bet that he could build a relationship, could build a life, with this child. Could give him guidance, and structure, help shape his values and his character, and not lead him down that road that Jonathan had already traveled himself, so far, towards damnation and towards hate. He had not told the boy his name. Had used a Japanese name with him, whenever they met. Uejo. To the child, he was "Jo." The sham, the falsehood, troubled him. But he did not feel confident enough, not sure enough of his bond with the boy, to tell him all. Not yet. He pulled into the supermarket's parking lot and stopped the car. Left the boy there, guarding it. The child proud of his responsibility. Taking it seriously, as he now knew where Jonathan kept his extra gun, clipped beneath the seat, the chambers loaded. As Jonathan had shown him, before he left. Knowing the child would not use it, unless it was a matter of life and death. And never, never, willing to leave Fujio helpless, even for an instant, ever again. =========================================================================