Date: Thu, 21 Sep 1995 16:31:21 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Dark Side, Part 8 The Dark Side of the Mirror, Part 8 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Connor tipped the porter while Amanda checked over the room. By the time he closed the door, she was already on the balcony. She had taken off her fashionable fur coat, revealing a skin-tight black body suit with a businesslike tool belt and a multiplicity of pockets. She leaned out over the railing. "Child's play," she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice. "We don't even need the ropes." Connor looked at her. "_I_ need the ropes," he said firmly. "Fine. Whatever you say." Amanda pulled her gear from the innocuous suitcase they had brought along, and started attaching it to the railing, testing for security at every step. "How did you know he would be out of his room at this hour?" Connor asked, watching. Amanda shrugged. "This is France. _Everyone_ goes out for a proper dejeuner. Daylight work may not be my specialty, but at least I know the basic principles." Connor's cheek twitched with amusement. "All right," said Amanda, satisfied with her preparations. "Put your gloves on. Don't move anything out of place. Don't talk above a whisper. Let's get in, find out what we need, and get out quickly." Connor nodded and shrugged into the harness. Amanda stood back while he stepped over the railing, then leaned forward to guide him down to the balcony below. Before he could send the harness back up to her, she swung herself down and landed lightly beside him. Connor glanced at the drop down to the parking lot. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he complained. "Whisper!" she reminded him, suiting actions to words. "It was quicker. The longer we're out here, the more likely someone will see us." She reached into the pouch at her belt and pulled out two metal probes which she applied to the lock on the sliding glass door. It yielded to her skill in less than a minute. The hotel room had little clutter. A briefcase lay on the desk, a few coats hung in the closet, and some toiletries stood on the bathroom counter. Connor was drawn to the long wooden case that stood atop the dresser. He opened it to reveal an empty nest of foam padding, the size and shape about right for a Spanish-type saber. Amanda gave everything a quick look, pausing to copy down a few numbers from the paper pad beside the telephone. She gestured to Connor to look through the dresser drawers while she worked on the combination to the briefcase. She had just gotten it open when Connor came to her side. "Look at this," he breathed. Amanda glanced at the book he had brought over. "I told you not to move anything!" she hissed, then stared. The small notebook held the Watchers' symbol on the front. Connor met Amanda's startled gaze and nodded, then opened it to the front page. He laid a finger on the name written there: Francois Duhamel. The notes on the following pages were in a complex code. "Who's Francois Duhamel?" Amanda asked, forgetting for a moment to keep her voice down. Connor shrugged and carried the notebook back to the drawer he had taken it from. "Macleod, look at this," Amanda said, carefully riffling the papers she had found in the briefcase. She dropped her voice again. "Internal police memos. Budget figures. Crime statistics. Results of committee meetings." "He's with the police?" Connor whispered back. "Not just _the_ police. There are files here from nearly forty cities, in half a dozen different languages." Amanda patted the papers back into place and stepped back. "It looks like this guy has strings to pull in police departments all around the globe. But why?" "To keep them off his back?" Connor suggested, then stiffened. "So he can use them against other Immortals, if they make problems for him?" Amanda shook her head. "I doubt it. Letting the police know about the affairs of any Immortals would just be asking for trouble. We'll have to think about this." She closed the briefcase and carefully returned the combination to the way it had been left when they came in. "Did you put everything back exactly where you found it?" she asked, with a hasty glance around the room. "Yes. Did you find anything that will help us?" "I think so." Amanda straightened up from the table. "Now, let's get out of here." She headed for the balcony door. Both of them froze as a low roaring began in their ears. "Dammit, he's here!" said Connor. "Don't slow down!" Amanda hissed. She pushed him out onto the balcony and locked the door quickly behind them while he pulled on the nylon harness. He gained the upper floor first and reached down to help her while she swarmed up the railing from the level below. As one, they moved for the door of the hotel room, only to pause as they felt the other Immortal's presence fading away. Connor slammed a fist against the door. "We scared him away again!" "Don't worry about it," Amanda said. "As long as he doesn't realize we got into his things, we can still use the information we found in his room." Inspector LeBrun stepped off the elevator and headed down the hall toward room 509. He was hoping to talk to M. Lenoire about this business of covering up the decapitations. Lenoire had influence with the Surete and most of the police officials in France. If anyone could counter the order of silence, it would be Lenoire. LeBrun stopped with his hand poised to knock on the door. Had he heard voices inside? He had thought M. Lenoire would be alone. But then, he was early for their meeting, and it was up to the distinguished gentleman if he wished anyone else to hear their discussion. He raised his hand again. This time he heard the voice clearly. It was a woman, and she said the name Francois Duhamel in an inquiring tone. LeBrun paused again. How could Lenoire or his -- friend -- have heard about Duhamel already? Ah, well, they had probably read it in the newspaper, he reasoned with himself. But he bent his head to listen some more instead of knocking. "Macleod, look at this," said the woman's voice. LeBrun's eyes widened. It wasn't Lenoire in there at all, but Duncan Macleod and one of his accomplices! Were they setting a trap, or a bomb? Was this Macleod's response to LeBrun's threats yesterday morning? He reached for his gun, then hesitated. He hadn't prepared for a firefight, and he knew Macleod could knock heads with the best of them. Perhaps he should try to find out what they were up to. He pressed his ear to the door once more. A minute later, he dashed for the stairs, slamming through the fire door just as the elevator pinged its arrival on floor 5. The elevator opened, then closed again on its black-coated inhabitant and started downward. Connor and Amanda were still arguing about their plans when they left room 609 several minutes after that, each one carrying a nondescript suitcase. They didn't notice the man who turned casually to walk along the hall behind them, and they wouldn't have recognized him in any case. Connor stared pensively through the rain-streaked windshield as they drove back to the barge. He didn't trust Amanda; she was hiding something from him. He wished there were someone in Paris that he could trust, but the past years had taken their toll on his friends. =================================== "Fitzcairn!" exclaimed the man in the monk's robes, rising from his prie-dieu. "How good it is to see you again. It's been too long. You are well?" "Very well, thank you, my friend," Hugh returned, clasping the priest's hands warmly. "But was it wise of you to come to Paris? It is not very safe here these days." "I know, but we came for the sake of a friend." "We?" the priest turned to Connor, who was gazing around the small chapel in amazement. "Darius, this is Connor Macleod, my -- traveling companion. Connor, this is Father Darius." Connor shook hands with the priest warily. "But I am being rude!" Darius exclaimed. "Would you care for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps? I have a new infusion that I fancy tastes quite good." Connor looked about to accept, but Hugh said quickly, "No, thank you, Darius, we just came here to find out if you could help us with a problem." "What problem?" "An old friend of mine and a clansman of Connor's, Duncan Macleod, has been brought to prison in Paris. We must find a way to get him free before he's taken to the guillotine." Darius lifted his chin. "Ah. I see. He's one of our kind, yes? That would be a problem -- though indeed, there are too many mortal souls who face the same fate each day, with no one to help them escape. But in fact I may be able to help you. I believe I know where your friend has been imprisoned . . . " =================================== Joe's phone rang just as he was about to get out of his car. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Dawson," he said. "Yeah, I think so. I'm about to find out right now . . . How do you think you can do that? . . . Well, I don't know. I suppose it might work, if we can get him to agree . . . All right. I'll get him there if I can." He tucked the phone between the seats of the rental car and opened the door. He had arrived at an old stone house surrounded by a compound of disused farm buildings. No one seemed to be around, but the hair lifted on the back of his neck as if he were being watched. With a sigh, he walked up to the front door. Joe studied the beefy young man who answered his knock. "I'm here to speak to Duncan Macleod," he said quietly. The man shook his head. "No one here by that name," he declared in a husky bass. Joe wedged his new aluminum cane in front of the door before it could close. "I think he _is_ here. Now, look. I'm not with the police. You can see for yourself I'm no threat to him personally. I'm unarmed -- search me if you like." The young man's eyes flicked up and down Dawson, lingering on his false leg and cane. He clearly came to the conclusion that Joe posed no danger. "If there is a Duncan Macleod here," he said slowly, "he must not want any visitors." "He'll see me." Joe reached into his pocket. "Just tell him that I'm here, and give him this." An antique Watcher's medallion gleamed on his palm. The doorman took the medallion and looked it over suspiciously. Then he stood back and jerked his head for Dawson to enter. In the foyer, he patted Joe down quickly and professionally, flipped through his wallet and returned it to him, then gestured wordlessly for him to sit on a bench against the wall. "Wait here," he commanded, and disappeared into the fastnesses of the rambling house. Joe restrained his curiosity enough to stay in place, but he noted every detail of the front hall. This house was clearly still dominated by the presence of Georges Dalou. Old war photographs lined the wall. Joe got to his feet to study one of them more closely. It showed four men in an old 40's style automobile, with young Georges Dalou in the driver's seat. Three of the men were grinning at the camera. The fourth had his head turned away, but Joe recognized Duncan easily enough. He smiled a little; Immortals were notoriously camera-shy, but sometimes they couldn't avoid being captured on film. A note in the corner of the frame gave the date as May, 1945. The beefy guard reappeared. "This way," he said, gesturing for Dawson to follow. They passed through the back of the house into a courtyard. Duncan was there doing martial arts exercises. His shirt had been cast aside, and rain and sweat streaked his torso. He moved with a frantic energy that made Joe frown in concern. Duncan came to a stop and brought his hands to his chest in a closing gesture, breathing heavily. Then he opened his eyes and turned to Joe. Despite the exhaustion that overlay his features, there was no peace in his expression. He looked haunted. "Dawson," he said curtly, staring over Joe's shoulder. "Why did you come here?" Joe glanced at the guard, wondering how much English he understood. "I came to get you." Duncan sighed. "What if I don't want to go back?" "I'm not taking you back to the barge. Amanda has an idea. She thinks she can help you." Duncan looked up sharply. "What does she know about what's wrong with me, or what will help?" He picked up his shirt and used it to wipe his face. "We'd all like to help, Mac. Connor thinks some of Cassandra's knowledge might come in useful here." "Cassandra?" Joe frowned, beginning to get really worried. "Connor told us about her, on the barge." "Oh . . . right." "Mac, will you come with me? We have to leave soon to meet Amanda." Duncan lifted his face to the light rain. "Where's my sword?" A shiver went up Joe's back, he couldn't guess why. "I brought it with me. It's in the car." Duncan's eyes closed. "All right, Joe. I'll come. Give me a minute to clean up." "Sure, Mac." Joe began to retreat from the strain on his friend's face. "Dawson. Wait." Duncan gestured to the guard to leave them. "Yeah?" "I'm sorry about -- on the quai." "Well, no harm done," Joe said in the lightest tone he could manage. Duncan's shoulders were bowed as if by a great weight. Joe wondered if they would begin to tremble, and he couldn't bear it. "Buy me a new cane and we'll call it quits," he said. Duncan took a deep breath. "I can't remember . . . where I was the night before last. I don't know if I went to Duhamel's hotel." He hauled himself around wearily to look Joe in the face. "I -- guess I could have killed him. I just don't know." "All right, Mac. It's all right. We'll find a way out of this somehow." Duncan's eyes were dark pits of despair. "A way out? Is a way out going to bring Francois Duhamel back to life?" There was a tightness in Joe's throat. "Come on, Mac," he said softly. "Let's get out of here." =========================================================================