Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:27:17 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 02 of 20 Realizing and accepting the morsel of truth in his accusations, twisted to further unbalance him, MacLeod slowly approached. DuBoise was doing everything possible to divert him with anger, doubt, and loss. {Definitely a student of Quince.} Connor had told Duncan of the sadistic games Slan played with his Immortal victims, destroying their lives before taking their heads. Like Connor's friend Hollie. Connor had tracked him down, catching up with the evil madman as he began tormenting Duncan. They had always been quite a pair, the MacLeod duo. {And now there are three of us. We must give other Immortals fits!} With that thought, Duncan shoved everything aside; emotions, logic, memories. Making room for the intense concentration needed to win. With a clang and sparks, the battle began. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "There can be only one." Duncan had said those words a little more savagely than usual, letting the anger and emotions finally wash over him. The tears from his eyes were partly from the agony of DuBoise's Quickening, but mostly for Amanda and Charlie. It was a long time before he noticed Dawson standing across the room, ready with a glass of alcohol. Duncan cared little about what it was, as long as it numbed the pain. Always the pain.... > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > Dawson had brought him to the wilderness to heal, along with Amanda's body. They buried her up here, within sight of the cabin, the best view in all the Northwest. Dawson had stayed a year with Duncan, doing what he could. It was the first time the Immortal had let anyone else help him bear the depression and loneliness of a lover's death. But time did not stop for the Watcher, and a year was as much time as he had to spare. He left, sad at the state Duncan had settled into; not quite living, not quite dead. Connor had come also, as expected. They argued as always, and Connor left angry as usual. Richie just stayed away. {Too busy? Respecting my needs? Who knows? He finally showed up, though.} And what only brought anger for his teacher, and resentment for his mortal friend, tugged a secret place when his student had asked. {Richie was right, I can't ignore it. Especially when he needs my help.} No matter the consequences, Duncan MacLeod would do almost anything for the young man he had taken in. Richie would get into trouble, and Duncan would put his life on the line to save his young butt. Even when it meant hurting him. {Sending you away was the only thing I could do, and it devastated me. I prayed every day for you.} Anger, love, need, hope; all mingled together into a swirl called 'Richie Ryan'. {MacLeod. Richard Ryan MacLeod. Why did you have to come here? Why did you have to need me?} It was dark when the lone man finally stood, stretching the tired legs, wiping the dirt from his jeans. There was no problem finding his way to the empty cabin, no difficulty packing his meager belongings and sword into a worn duffel bag. {I can be at the Outpost by dawn. Finding Richie shouldn't be too much trouble.} Firmly shutting the door, the man walked away. From the cabin, the silence, and the grief. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The taxi settled to the brick paved street, the passenger door rising. Handing the driver several bills, Duncan turned and faced the store, a familiar facade bearing the words "MacLeod's - Northwest." A far cry from when it simply said "Antiques." The taxi whisked off as the Immortal remembered a time long ago, with a French woman named Tessa, and toward the end, a street thief named Richie. A happy time, until... {No use thinking about the past. I don't understand why Richie bought this place, but he did.} The bell peeled as Duncan entered through the front wooden door, duffel bag on his shoulder. Inside was virtually the same. The stairs, the walkway, the split levels. The items were different, and never had Gregor Powers' work been displayed. {If it worked in New York...} A middle-aged man entered from the office area, momentarily taken aback when he saw his customer. Quickly rushing to welcome him after a double take, the gentleman almost tripped on the two steps. Duncan smirked, trying to place the face. Nothing came as the Immortal spoke. "Hello... I'm looking for the owner." The gentleman stopped, thrusting his hand out to shake the Highlander's. "Richie?" he asked. "He rarely shows up here, sir." The voice even sounded familiar, and Duncan had the odd feeling this man knew him. All about him. "I'm sorry to hear that. Have we met?" Duncan inquired, releasing the grip. "I guess you wouldn't recognize me. I'm Jonathan Davis." The wide grin clicked something into place in Duncan's mind, putting the face, name and voice together. "You're David and Angela's son," Duncan remarked, his mind going into overdrive. "My father spoke often about your parents. You did look familiar, but I couldn't place it. You're not quite the ten year old in the picture my father has." Duncan hoped this man would buy that story, and not place him as little Johnny's second favorite babysitter. {A baby sitter that hasn't aged in twenty years.} That can of worms he wasn't ready to open just yet. The man shyly grinned. "Come on, Uncle Mac. I really don't want to play that game anymore." Gesturing to the office, he escorted Duncan to a chair, and poured a cup of tea for him, settling behind the desk with his own cup. "So you're hunting Richie. Because of his visit the other day?" Duncan finished a sip of tea before replying, gathering his thoughts. "Yes. Do you know where I can track him down? Seems he forgot to leave his business card when he dropped by." Johnny Davis set down his cup, turning serious. "He said he was going to be in SanFran. At the Camelot offices. He didn't say how long. And he wasn't very happy." The proper gentleman shot Duncan a look of dread, obviously not enjoying the experience. "I know. Richie can be insufferable when he doesn't get his way. Could I possibly borrow your phone?" Duncan asked, leaning forward in the chair. "I need to make arrangements about my finances. Hell, I don't know if I even have any finances. Are you in a position to lend me some money?" "I know for a fact you still own the building across town. Max manages it and runs the dojo, when he's not studying. It's a safe bet you've got money, if the salary he's paying himself is any indication." Johnny laughed at the sight he mentally conjured. Duncan tried to picture a person he never knew running the dojo. "Little Maxey. What's he studying?" "Political science," Johnny answered. "And I wouldn't call him 'little' or 'Maxey' to his face. He's turned into a tank. I'll bet he could give you a run for your money. Then again, you look as thin as a match. Pardon me for saying, but wilderness living certainly hasn't been to good for you." "Don't knock it. I can still whoop you," Duncan joked, uncomfortable at how close to the truth the man really was. "I'll give *Max* a call after I get back in shape. Now about a phone..." Johnny waved to the vidphone on the desk. "Do you want me to punch up Camelot, and let Richie know you're coming?" He got up, motioning for Duncan to take his seat. Duncan came around the desk and sat, talking as he punched in numbers. "No. I want to surprise him. But you could book me on a flight down there." Johnny opened the hidden door leading to the workshop/living areas. "I'll get on it." He stopped and turned, adding an afterthought. "Everyone's been worried about you." "I know..." Duncan began, but the conversation was cut short as a pudgy faced man appeared on the vidphone screen. Johnny shut the door, leaving Duncan privacy for his arrangements. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Any luck on a flight?" Duncan asked as he entered the empty workshop area. At one time, it was filled with metal and sounds of sweaty work, but Tessa was dead and so was her art. On occasion Richie had worked on the bikes in here, more metal and sweat, but that was quickly over, Duncan becoming an old friend, no longer an intimate one. He had spent more time with the young man in a year and a half here, then in the following thirty. {I guess I can understand why he wants the place. It was one of the few real homes he's known.} Johnny broke the train of memories, indicating a tarp-covered object in the corner. "I had a better idea. Help me with the tarp." With a *fumph* of heavy cloth, a black Thunderbird convertible was revealed, roof down, shining in the work lights like new. Duncan smiled as he ran his hand down the side, marveling at its presence. "I thought someone would have gotten rid of it by now," Duncan commented. He looked at the pleased mortal. "I bought this when it rolled out of the factory, back in '65." "It's charged up," Johnny said, throwing the keys to Duncan, before leaning over and punching a few buttons on the dash. A monitor, something new, lit up, satellite maps flashing faster than Duncan could focus on. "Camelot's been downloaded into navcom, and she should get you to SanFran by dusk," he added, patting the vinyl dash. Duncan looked at his pocket watch. "In five hours?" he asked, confused. {That's about 160 miles an hour!} "We had her hover-converted about three years ago," Johnny replied, punching a few more buttons. Several digital gauges lit up. "Drive her like normal in the city, and when you get near the highway, the auto pilot will take over. Just make sure your belts are fastened and you're comfortable. This old girl will handle everything else. If I know her, she'll set you down in front of the Camelot offices in time for a marvelous sunset." "You're in a big hurry to get rid of me," Duncan joked, throwing the duffel bag in the back seat. He sat behind the wheel, resetting all the mirrors. Johnny shut the driver's door and leaned on it. "If Richie found out I held you up, he'd take more than my head. Godspeed, Uncle Mac," he said, holding his hand out again. Duncan firmly clasped it as he bid the gentleman goodbye. "Take care, Johnny. I hope I see you again." With a gentle push on the accelerator, the car sped through the open double doors to the alley, the car humming pleasantly at the exertion. A few more turns, and he was heading south, out of the city. He was surprised when the roof slid into place unexpectedly, warning him something was happening. The Highlander managed to get the belts on when the auto pilot took over, the car quickly rising into a flying lane of traffic, accelerating to a blinding 150 on the renumbered speedometer. {Hmm. I wonder what else has changed?} - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It was near dark as the car settled in the parking lot. Camelot's presence in SanFran was a Victorian house set on a cliff by the sea, a splendid view to see the sunset. On landing, most of the electronics shut down, plunging the Highlander into darkness. He glanced up the path to the house, lights blazing from most of the windows. Darkness never stopped Camelot, only people. Evil people. Duncan opened the front door, looking lost. With his duffel bag over one shoulder, unkept beard, and ragged clothing, he seemed a homeless vagrant. The pleasant seeming woman at the desk greeted him, vocally neutral. {But her eyes say everything. She wonders what I want.} He kept his gaze on her eyes, not wandering. Angie had warned all the MacLeod men to stay away from the secretaries. On pain of death. Or worse. "May I help you, sir?" she asked, sounding just a tad like a mechanical recording. Duncan flashed her his most electrifying grin. "I was wondering if I could speak to Richie MacLeod." {Angie didn't mention anything about hitting on cold, dead fish.} "Senior or Junior?" she quickly asked, still on automatic. Duncan looked carefully to see if she was even breathing. Or blinking her eyes. {Now that's a question. Let's see, if he's here, he'd be playing the young son. Unless everyone at Camelot knows about Immortals. He didn't mention any more kids, so....} "Junior, please." "May I have a retinal scan, sir?" she asked, motioning to a microscope type object mounted on the end of her desk. Duncan looked at it warily until she instructed him on what to do. A flash of laser light later, he waited as she examined her computer monitor. Within seconds she turned to him, confused. "Have you had any dealing with Camelot Industries before, sir?" "Not in several decades, miss," he replied, trying hard not to rub his eye. {At least she's human.} "Could I have your name, please?" With a deft movement, she pulled her keyboard into place. "Duncan MacLeod." The duffel bag was getting heavy, his eye still hurt, and the first gorgeous woman he had seen in twenty years was strictly off limits. {I'm liking the cabin more and more.} *Clack-Clack* went the keys. Her eyes grew wide at the response the monitor coughed up. She pressed a button on the vidphone, asking someone to come to the desk. A smartly dressed man, no more than thirty, appeared through a door, moving next to the receptionist. He quickly read the screen and asked, "You claim to be Duncan MacLeod?" Slightly irritated, Duncan weakly smiled. "That's what I said. Is there a problem?" Two decades ago, Duncan would have seen it coming, dropping to the floor and drawing his hidden katana in one graceful move. But twenty years of solitude dulled his reactions. He stood there as the gentleman drew a gun and shot him several times in the chest. Falling back, he heard the secretary scream, and then all went black. =========================================================================