Date: Mon, 9 Oct 1995 09:59:35 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: DL&J, Part 2/5 Death, Lies, and Jewelry, Part 2 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu ============================= Richie turned his head to stare at the palatial houses passing by on either side of his motorcycle. "Matt," he yelled over his shoulder, "what the heck are you doing, getting mixed up with people who live in a place like this?" "Hey, these guys are real professionals, Richie," his friend shouted in his ear. "We're talking big time here. No more small fry!" "Sounds like trouble to me," Richie said, but he kept it quiet enough that Matt couldn't hear. He cut the motor and coasted into the driveway his friend indicated. "Okay, I just need you to wait right here," Matt said in a nervous undertone. "Stay behind these bushes, okay? And be ready to move fast if we have to." "Matt, I really don't like this," Richie said uneasily. "These guys you're involved with are bad news, I'm telling you." "Yeah, well, they know what they're doing." Matt bent close to Richie's ear. "You hear about the Sanford necklace last week?" Richie turned to gape over his shoulder. "The museum robbery? You were in on that?" Matt nodded. "No way, man!" Richie stared at what little he could see of the house on the other side of the bushes. "That was pulled off by some serious dudes!" "Yep," Matt agreed, "with a little help from one of the locals. And now I'm here to collect my cut." He glanced around nervously. "Just hang out here and wait for me to get back. This shouldn't take long." "Oh, man, I _really_ don't like this," Richie muttered to himself as his friend disappeared. "Why can't he stick to the small stuff, like me? It may not pay as well, but it's one hell of a lot safer." He looked around anxiously for any signs of trouble. When trouble arrived, he didn't see it coming. Matt came pelting around the bushes and leaped onto the back of the bike hard enough to knock Richie's breath away. "Move, move!" he yelled. Richie gunned the bike and started down the driveway. Suddenly Matt gave a choked gasp and his hands loosened from around Richie's ribs. Richie braked to keep his friend from sliding off the back and clutched at Matt's hands. He managed to grab on to something and hold it, but the hands slipped out of his grasp. He skidded to a stop, ready to turn back and pick up his friend. Matt was lying in the middle of the driveway, motionless, with a knife hilt sticking out of his back. "Matt!" A figure detached from the shadows around the bushes. He wore a mustache and a predatory smile and carried a long, wicked-looking sword. Richie's eyes widened. "Oh, shit!" he breathed. "Not this again!" With one anguished glance at his friend's still body, he turned the bike and started to make his getaway. His mirror showed him the man pulling the knife from Matt's back and lifting it for throwing. Then he was in the street and riding for his life, with the pouch he had grabbed from Matt shoved hastily in one pocket. "Me?" Angie gasped. "Why me? Do it yourself!" "Because you're already eighteen, and I won't be for another month. Because --" Richie squirmed a little. "There might be some guys looking for me. They won't make any trouble for you, though, I swear." "Richie, what are you trying to get me into this time?" "The less you know, the safer you'll be," Richie promised her. "Oh, _that_ makes me feel really confident!" "Angie! I'm not asking you to do anything illegal. Just open a safety deposit box. I'm the one paying for it." Angie squinted at him. "What do you want me to put in it?" "I knew I could count on you!" Richie crowed. "Just this, nothing else." He handed her a small box, the kind bakeries used to hold pastries. "Don't open it," he warned. Angie opened it. "Angie! I told you not to -- aw, geeze." He threw up his hands in disgust. "Oh, my God. Richie, do you know what this _is_?" "Yeah, I know. I didn't steal it, I swear! I had no part in it. I came by it honestly. Well, almost." "Richie, you have to return it." "No!" "But there's a huge reward. If you try to fence it you'll be caught. You'll go to prison. Just take the reward, if you're not the one who stole it!" Richie grimaced. "I know that! I'm going to return it as soon as I can, just not yet." He looked around the small park nervously, to see if anyone was within earshot. "The guys who stole it are after me. I have to hang onto it for now as a safety guarantee. They can't kill me, so long as I know where it is and they don't." Angie was aghast. "Kill you?" "Yeah." Richie swallowed. "They killed Matt Garner." Her eyes widened. "He was knifed by gang members!" "No, they just set it up to look that way. I saw, I was there." "Richie, these guys are dangerous! You have to stay away from them!" "I can't," he said flatly. "Anywhere I go, they'll come after me. Besides, no way am I going to let them get away with killing Matt." "You're crazy! These guys are murderers!" "I know." Richie took a deep breath. "That's why I have to get this --" he tapped the box "-- someplace safe. Will you do it for me?" Angie stared at him. "I don't know . . . " "C'mon, Angie. I'm desperate here." He cast another haunted look around the sunny park. "All right, Richie. But if you get into trouble, I'm going straight to the police." Richie grabbed her and smacked a kiss onto her forehead. "Thank you. Thank you. I knew I could trust you. Listen, you better not be seen with me again. Just give me a call when you get it done. If I'm not there, _don't_ leave a message. I'll let you know where to drop the key." Angie shook her head. "Do you have any idea what you're getting into?" "Not really." He gave her a cocky grin. "But I think I know someone who can help." Richie straightened his shoulders and sauntered into the antique shop, trying to coax a whistle from his dry lips. He paused before a familiar-looking display case and swallowed. A knockout blonde straightened up behind the case. "Can I help --" She stared. "It's you!" Not only was she gorgeous, she had an accent fit to melt Superman's knees. Richie swallowed again. "Uh, yeah," he said. He held up his hands quickly. "I don't want to cause any trouble or anything. I was just wondering if I could talk to the boss. Is he in?" Her eyebrows quirked. "How do you know _I'm_ not the boss?" "Uh . . . " "As it happens, Duncan has been hoping to get hold of you. He should be --" she turned. A tall man stood in the doorway of the office, staring at Richie. He was poised like a dancer, or a bird about to take flight. His face looked dangerous, even discounting the alarming circumstances in which Richie had seen him before. "Duncan, it's Richie Ryan," said the lady. "He wants to talk to you." Something was sticking down from the man's hand, and Richie took a hasty step backwards as he realized it was the hilt of a sword. "Uh, listen," he gasped, "if I've come at a bad time . . . " The corner of the man's mouth twitched. "Not at all," he said in a surprisingly mild voice. "I've been hoping to have a talk with you." His wrist flicked, and the full length of his strange curved sword became visible for a moment. Then he set it on a shelf and turned to show Richie his empty hands. "Why don't you come into my office?" he suggested with a truly terrifying smile. "`Step into my parlor,' said the spider to the fly," Richie muttered under his breath. But he thought of Matt and stepped forward anyway. The office was a lesson in good taste, paneled in green, furnished richly but not ostentatiously. Interesting weapons hung on the walls. The man stepped behind the desk and sat in a chair upholstered in plaid -- real plaid, not the garish stuff that was about one notch above paisley on the fashion scale. "Now," said Duncan Macleod, waving Richie to a seat. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Richie cleared his throat. "I've run into a situation I think you might be, uh, interested in," he said tentatively. "Oh?" "What do you know about the Sanford necklace?" Macleod's brows went up. "Rubies, diamonds, and emeralds in an elaborate gold setting. Also known as the Christmas necklace. Dates from the seventeenth century. Once among the crown jewels of Prussia. The gems alone are worth millions. The necklace intact is a priceless piece of history. Stolen eight days ago from a traveling museum exhibit, here in Seattle." "Uh, yeah," said Richie, nonplussed. "That's right." "Antiques are my business," said Macleod, with his edged smile. He studied Richie. "What do _you_ know about the Sanford necklace?" "A friend of mine was in on the heist. A decent guy, you know, but not always real smart. I didn't find out he was involved until later. The whole thing was way out of his league. Anyway, either he tried to stiff his partners or they tried to stiff him . . . they killed him." Macleod hardly reacted. "What does this have to do with me?" Richie took a deep breath. "I think the guy who did it was -- like you." "Like me?" "Yeah. Your kind of a guy. You know." Richie rolled his eyes at Macleod's studiously blank expression. "He had a sword." Macleod became very still. "What kind?" "How the hell would I know? A sharp sword! He killed Matt with a knife, a throwing knife. I mean, I figure, anybody who uses a knife and sword instead of a gun has to be kind of -- well, I thought you might know something about it." Macleod got to his feet and circled the desk, frowning. "Why did you bring this to me?" "Because it sounds like your business!" Macleod stopped directly in front of Richie and stared into his face. "No, I mean, what do you want me to do about it?" "Get the guy!" "Why?" Richie gaped. "He -- he's a bad guy. He killed Matt. For no reason!" "No reason? Are you sure?" Richie patted the air. "All right, all right. Maybe Matt _was_ asking for trouble. But, geeze, he didn't deserve to die! This guy just killed him and then later set it up to look like some kind of gang hit!" A muscle leaped in Macleod's jaw. "Look," said Richie uneasily. "I saw him kill Matt. He knows I saw it. He got a good look at me. I think -- I think these goons may be after me." "So you came to me for protection." "Yes -- no! I'll take care of myself. I thought you would want to be the one to take out this guy with the sword." "Why should I _want_ to do anything of the sort?" said Macleod. Richie got to his feet angrily. "Fine. Fine! Just forget the whole thing. I'll get out of your hair. But I'm telling you, this guy is going down. One way or another, he's history. I just thought you might want a part of it." He reached for the doorknob. "Wait," said Macleod, not loudly but imperatively. He walked back to the desk and sat behind it. "Maybe we can make some kind of arrangement." Richie remained facing the door. "Like what?" "Tell me where to find this man. I'll go talk to him. If he really is one of my kind, I might be able to persuade him to give it up. I'll let him leave town if he promises not to come after you or cause any more trouble." "But what about Matt?" "I'm not interested in vengeance. If this man won't drop it, if he's -- a bad guy, like you said, or he threatens anyone else, _then_ I'll take him out." Richie sighed. He didn't believe anybody could have a reasonable conversation with that sword-wielding killer, but you never could tell what a couple of highbrow rich dudes would agree to overlook. But at least this would take care of his personal safety problem. He remembered Matt lying dead in the drive and swallowed a hard knot of fear and fury. "So what would be my half of this arrangement?" he asked guardedly. "I want you to move in here." "What?" Richie's jaw dropped and he turned to stare at the older man. "Move in. We have a spare room off the shop. I'll give you a job." "You'll _what_?" "A job." Macleod's mouth pursed humorously. "You know, work, paychecks, the IRS. No police, no fences, no irate shopowners?" "You'd trust _me_ to work around all this stuff?" Richie gasped, waving at the expensive decor. Macleod shrugged. "You kept the last bargain we made -- no one's come around asking about swordfights. And you're not stupid. You know a steady job and a chance to make it is worth more than a quick buck and a ticket to jail." Richie turned the offer over, stunned by the possibility that he could maybe live a legal, suburban, nine-to-five life. But what about Matt? He rubbed his chin. "All right," he said. "I'll do it for now, until this, uh, situation is cleared up. If you get the guy that killed Matt, I swear, you can trust me to guard a pile of gold bullion for you. If he walks, so do I." Macleod's eyes narrowed. "I'm not your hired killer," he growled. Richie raised his hands. "I didn't say you were. I'm only interested in justice here. That, and preserving my skin. I'm sure if you talk to the guy, you'll agree he shouldn't be allowed to go around menacing society." Macleod thought about this for several minutes. Richie felt opportunity slipping out of his grasp and wondered if he would really miss it. "All right," said Macleod finally. "You agree?" Richie squeaked. "On the terms you suggested. _I_ decide how to deal with this man. Afterward, we can discuss your plans for the future. But there's one more thing." His eyes bored into Richie's, and he pointed one finger at the door. "Tessa doesn't hear a word about all this. As far as she knows, you asked for a job, and I gave it to you. Is that understood?" "Yes, sir!" Richie snapped, stung to sarcasm by his tone. Then it occurred to him that, if this man was going to be his employer -- and bodyguard -- for a while, he should stay on his good side. "You have a deal, Mr. Macleod," he said in a more normal voice. "When do you want me to move in?" =========================================================================