Date: Thu, 26 Jan 1995 11:23:00 GMT Reply-To: MB Overton Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: "Box of Tricks" Part 2 I hope this is being enjoyed. Grail HIGHLANDER "Box of Tricks" Part 2 The last piece of the jigsaw fitted neatly into place and Duncan Macleod smiled in triumph. Laid on the table before him was now a panoramic landscape of the Scottish Highlands, rolling and falling in their verdant splendour. Thinking that it must have taken a great deal of waiting (or an image processor) to catch the Highlands when it wasn't throwing it down with rain, Duncan rose from the sofa and went into the kitchen area of the flat. As he threw the 'on' switch on the kettle, he picked up an apple and bit into it. Life, for once in his hectic time, was treating him well. Nobody was chasing him to get his head, and there were no problems downstairs in the dojo. He was almost bored. The phone rang suddenly. Glad of the distraction, Duncan picked it up. "Hello?" *"Duncan? Duncan Macleod?"* Duncan recognised the voice almost immediately, and his face split into a delighted grin. "Malcolm! How are you, lad? I haven't heard from you in ages!" *"I'm fine at the moment,"* said the crackly voice of Malcolm Marsden. *"I'm across the street. Can I come up?"* "Sure." Duncan crossed to one of the flat's windows and looked down onto the street. A figure in a dark coat holding a cellular phone waved up at him. "Come on up." *"Thanks."* There was a click and a burr in Duncan's ear as the connection was broken. The man across the street, wearing the dark coat, started to cross the road, hurrying anxiously. He never saw the car which screeched round the corner, the youths in it laughing with drunken exuberance. Duncan opened his mouth to shout a futile warning, but his voice was lost behind the window's glass. The car hit Marsden in the right thigh, spinning him round several times like a child's toy. He toppled backwards and bounced off the passenger wing mirror, then was catapulted sideways to roll limply into the other lane. A Cadillac screeched to a halt just in time to avoid crushing the still form. Duncan's face was as still as a stone as he whirled and sprinted for the lift. He paced back and forth impatiently as it descended, then ran across the dojo floor and out of the exit, leaping the steps of the entrance in one go and landing smoothly on his feet to push his way through the crowd of ghoulish onlookers who had already gathered to look over the body. "Move back," he demanded. They reluctantly cleared a way for him until he could get in to see Malcolm. The man, still a slim thirty- five-year-old just as he had been a century and a half ago, lay motionless, blood trickling from his left nostril. "I've called an ambulance," said a blonde woman hesitantly from his right. "No ambulance," Duncan snapped automatically. "Are you crazy, man?" a man in his sixties demanded. "He's dying!" "He's a friend of mine," Duncan said, crouching down and lifting Malcolm in his arms. "He'll be alright. Cancel the ambulance." Marsden stirred. "Duncan," he said weakly. "It's alright," Duncan said quickly. "I'll take care of you." He pushed his way through the staring passersby and walked up the steps into the dojo. As soon as he had locked the door, he lowered Malcolm to one of the benches and leaned over him. "Rest," he directed, "you'll be - " He stopped and looked round suddenly, his sixth sense shivering violently with the approach of another immortal. The nearly- unconscious Malcolm murmured and shifted uneasily. Duncan quietened him, putting a hand on his shoulder, and turned to stare in the shadows near the lift up to the flat. "Who's there?" "It's me," Richie's voice said. Duncan relaxed. "What are you doing, skulking around?" He turned his attention back to Malcolm, whose breathing had eased somewhat with sleep. "You nearly got your head lopped off." "You like my company too much, Mac," Richie said lightly, emerging from the shadows. "I didn't want to interrupt in case I wasn't supposed to know about this. Who's your friend?" "His name's Malcolm Marsden. A friend of mine from yesteryear." Duncan rose from his kneeling position. "He wanted to tell me something, but he got run over as he crossed the street outside the dojo. Something important." "Like me then," Richie said. Duncan frowned and looked at him. "What?" Richie hesitated. "Mac, I know I can fend for myself. I just need some information. Do you know an immortal woman called Sandra Fowler? She was speaking with an English accent, but that probably doesn't mean much." Duncan shrugged and shook his head. "Never heard of her. Is she important?" Richie rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "You know I've been seeing the daughter of the English ambassador here? Alyson Carling?" "There's an English ambassador here? He's missed a bit if he's looking for Washington DC." "It's his second home or something. Anyway, I've been seeing his daughter for a bit. Last night we went to this ball he was holding for some reason. I ran into this woman calling herself Sandra Fowler." Duncan crouched down beside Malcolm Marsden again. Richie frowned. "Mac, are you listening?" "You went to a ball last night and met her," Duncan said. "Go on. I'm waiting to find out why this is so important." "She sort of disappeared halfway through. I followed her and found she was stealing files from the ambassador's computer. When I tried to stop her, she detonated some kind of mini-bomb she'd stuck to the ceiling. Right above me." Richie rubbed his head a bit more. "I woke up in the morgue with a big headache and lots of ceiling plaster in my hair. Alyson thinks I'm dead." Duncan turned and looked up at him curiously. "A mini-bomb? How did she detonate it?" Richie shrugged. "Some kinda bracelet." A hand gripped Duncan's arm painfully. The latter turned to see Malcolm's eyes were open, with a strange brightness in their green- grey depths. "That's her," he whispered. "She's back." "You sleep." Duncan pried Malcolm's hand away and put his hand back. "She's dead, she won't come back." He stood up again and guided Richie away from Malcolm. "Tell me more about this woman." "You know her?" Duncan nodded heavily. "Yes. Only too well." "Who is she?" "She calls herself the Magician." The woman who had used the alias of Sandra Fowler, and many other names down the centuries, tapped one last key on the computer keyboard and sat back with a smile, sipping delicately from the glass of wine in her hand. Ambassador Carling had been crafty, using an Acorn computer to store his most secret files; there weren't many people in America with knowledge of computers that didn't conform to the usual PC standards. Of course, the Magician had known well in advance what type of computer he was using, and had prepared accordingly; in any operation, she constantly repeated to herself, good intelligence was vital. In both senses of the word. The RISC-OS window flicked up and text scrolled down it neatly, being transmitted via email to the Magician's employers. She watched it approvingly. Someone knocked at the door. With a sigh - sometimes life could be so inconvenient - the Magician rose from her chair and descended the few steps from the main level of her flat to the door. She pulled it open and was surprised to see Anthony Fowler smiling at her. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "this is a surprise." "Aren't you pleased to see me?" he asked. She smiled, dazzlingly. "Come in." He stepped past her and into the flat, looking round. "You have a nice place here. Took me a while to find it." "I'm impressed," the Magician admitted. "Very few people do. How did you?" "You left me one clue. When you came by my house a few nights ago in that car of yours, there was blue mud on the wheels. This is the only part of the city with blue mud. After that, I just had to ask around." He smiled at her. "You're a very striking woman. Very distinctive." "Indeed. Would you like a drink?" "Not right now," he said a little too quickly. A smile flickered on her face. "You're being cautious, I see." "I flatter myself I can anticipate you. I knew you'd try and back out after you completed this job. You weren't making any arrangements with me about a second." "Oh? Do you have somewhere in mind?" she asked politely. "Yes. And I'd like you to help me." "I'm afraid not. I'm leaving the country soon. I've done what I was paid to do. It's time I went back home." Anthony smiled. "But you've forgotten something. I know about you, and what you've done. A man in my position has friends. I can stop you before you get out of the country, Sandra." A cold fury gathered in the pit of her stomach. She smiled prettily. "Such power. I can see you're someone who likes to.. dominate." "You have no idea how much." Anthony loomed over her, his six foot to her five and a half. "What's your answer?" The Magician looked up at him. Directly at him. "I'm afraid I don't give in to blackmail, my dear Anthony." His hand flashed out and gripped her by the chin. She was pushed backwards until she hit the wall. The fury in her built up. Anthony snarled. "That's not the answer I wanted to hear, *my dear*. You'll help me or you'll go to jail. I'm a respected businessman, the police will believe me. You're nothing. A common thief." She freed herself. "I'm anything but common." Her hand moved to her bracelet and adjusted a small dial. Anthony's hand shot to his throat. He staggered back from her making a small choking sound. "What - what have you - " he screeched. "That first night, Anthony dear," she said calmly. "I drugged you and made a small operation. I trained as a doctor nearly sixty years ago. I've kept up to date with medical knowledge." "Sixty - " "A small time compared with my total life span," she smiled. "There's a device implanted in your throat. Very small, almost undetectable. Unfortunately, it's just released a small amount of cyanide. Just enough to kill you." "You - " "But that would be boring," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. A small, hungry smile was on her lips. "I made one other addition. One tiny extra change. Another gift of mine." "What gift?" Anthony had fallen to his knees and was swaying back and forth unsteadily. "A bomb." The Magician lifted her wrist and pressed a tiny stud on her bracelet. There was a dull *crump* sound. Anthony's shattered body fell to the floor, his stomach an open wound pouring blood everywhere. The Magician made a little moue of distaste; she had been splattered with blood when the bomb detonated, and it had ruined her white silk blouse. "I hope you liked my gifts," she said. "She's deadly." Duncan looked down into his coffee. It was black, with no sugar in it. "I first met her in the late eighteenth century. Then in the 1830s with Malcolm. The early twentieth century, and then briefly in 1967, again with Malcolm. I thought she was dead." Richie frowned. "What makes her so special?" Duncan swigged from his coffee. "The Magician uses tricks, Richie. Any sort of tricks. Bombs, gas, missiles, electricity, acids, anything you can think of." A smile appeared briefly. "And probably a few more besides." The smile faded. "And then she uses an opponent's own sword to cut his or her head off." "Sounds like she did that to someone you know." Duncan nodded. "Yes." Richie decided not to press that one. "Anyway, Mac, she's here, right now. In the flesh, in the present day. And she's stealing secrets for some reason. I feel responsible. I think I ought to stop her. Any suggestions?" Duncan's face might have been set in stone. "Yes. Leave her alone. She's mine." =========================================================================