Date: Thu, 5 Jan 1995 00:30:15 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Final Repost Aloha Ch1.p15-21 Aloha c 1994 N.L. Cleveland (ch 1 p 15-21) The woman touched his arm. Softened her tone. "Wait. I'm sorry I was so abrupt. I get tired of men's reaction to me. My name is Toma. Yomoko Toma. "Look, could you give me a hand with this luggage? There doesn't seem to be anyone here to help." She indicated a pair of suitcases. She cradled a long embossed leather case in her arms. Duncan glanced around. The uniformed bellcaps were all gone, no doubt on their way to someone else's rooms. He leaned down and hefted one of the cases. Not too bad. He slung his own bag over his shoulder and picked up the other. Hmm. Maybe it was time to start weight training again. *Bit out of shape, aren't we?* The inner voices nudged at his consciousness. He ignored them. He'd grown used to the whispers from the other Immortals he'd killed, over the years. When he absorbed their Quickenings, fragments of their memories and emotions came too. Mostly they were just background noise, something he filtered out, part of the price of being an Immortal, and a victor in the Quickenings. But some of their knowledge, their skills, weare available to him, if he needed them. That was part of the prize, when he won. "Lead on, Ms. Toma. Your wish is my command." Her lips twisted oddly when he spoke, but he put it down to her general hostility to the world. He wondered, as he followed her into the lobby, why she dressed the way she did if she didn't like the attention. Several men, and women, paused for a moment as they passed, stunned by the sheer visual impact of Yomoko's vivid and colorful appearance. Her figure didn't hurt, either, he noted sourly. Her legs were perfect, long, tanned and slender, and he was getting a good look as he walked behind her to the registration desk. "My reservation must be here." She tapped her red nails on the counter, her voice exuding a cold wall of rage at the hapless desk clerk, who wilted and pulled nervously at his tie as he searched the computer database again. Duncan put the bags by her feet and waited his turn, listening idly to the conversation. "Madam, yes, we did receive your reservation, yes, for this weekend, but somehow it was deleted from the room assignments. I am terribly sorry, but there are no more rooms available in this hotel." The clerk was sweating now, despite the cool conditioned air. "All these conventions, you know." He gestured helplessly at the crowded lobby, bustling with pale skinned mainlanders. "I'm certain the manager will be able to find you other accommodations, on us, of course." He smiled, hopeful, placating. "That will not be acceptable." Yomoko spoke in a low furious voice. " I am here for a specific event being held in this hotel tomorrow. I suggest you find me a room. Now. The Penthouse suite is open. I know Don Carlos is not in town this week." The clerk signaled to the manager, and gratefully stepped aside as she walked over. Duncan wondered why Yomoko was so insistent on staying here. Certainly there were other 5 star hotels on the island. What could be so important about being here? Damn it, this was getting tedious. He stepped up to the counter, where Toma and the manager were still discussing why or why not someone else than this Don Carlos fellow could use the penthouse. Time for a resolution. "Pardon me, but I've got a reservation. I'm Duncan MacLeod. I confirmed it from the airport, so I know it's good. Miss.. Mrs. Toma, why don't you just take my rooms. I have no problem staying at the Hyatt or the Tradewinds." The manager smiled at him, relieved. Duncan smiled back, noticing a charming dimple that emerged on her right cheek. He glanced at her left hand, gauging the possibilities. No ring. She was Hawaiian, maybe with some Polynesian blood. Around 35, he guessed, dressed in a simple navy blue suit. Very professional, and obviously quite bright and accomplished to be handling the floor operations and staff of this hotel. His interest quickened. She was definitely possible. Yomoko turned sharply and glanced at him. She lifted her sunglasses and looked again. "Thank you so much for your kind offer, Mr. MacLeod, but I don't think a room next to the kitchen is quite what I had in mind. And thank you for bringing in my bags." She turned away, ready to do battle with the manager again. Duncan quelled the surge of anger than shot through him and caught the manager's eye. "Check my reservations, see if the rooms are satisfactory to Ms. Toma. If not, I'll keep them myself. I'll be in the bar." He turned on his heel, and left. He knew it had gone out of style, but still, he couldn't get used to being treated like he was the dragon. *You should have been born 400 years earlier.* The mocking chorus inside his head was unusually talkative today. He squelched their intrusions with a thought. At least the manager had a reason to come see him, one way or the other, without a crowd of impatient travelers watching every move and listening to every word. He envisioned her gratitude for solving a nasty client problem. Yes, that was enough to ask her out on. She probably knew a few good places for dinner, too. He smiled, sipped his Laprohaig, enjoying the smokey bite of the aged single malt Scotch as it slid down his throat, then tensed as the familiar warning buzz of another Immortal's proximity alerted him. He scanned the room. No one was looking at him, no one was responding to his presence. "Mr. MacLeod?" The voice came from over his shoulder. Damn, it was Yomoko. Not the manager. This was clearly not turning into one of his better days. He swiveled on the padded leather bar stool to face her. She had removed her sunglasses, and her dark eyes seemed shadowed, haunted, as she looked down at him. "Yes?" He kept his tone short, abrupt. She smiled. Was there a tentative note to that expression? He stared hard at her, trying to gauge what had changed her attitude. Surely not just his offer of the rooms... "I just wanted to thank you for offering me your rooms. I didn't realize you had the Presidential Suite. It would be more than adequate for my needs. In fact, I have a proposition for you. If it's not one you like, I'll understand." She paused, looking down at the dark, polished parquet wood floor for a moment. Duncan followed her glance, wondering what she had dropped, to warrant such a close examination as she seemed to be making of the intricately inlaid wood. "There are no equivalent rooms anywhere else. I don't expect you to sleep on the street, and I'd prefer not to. If you're willing, I'd like to share the suite." Duncan straightened his posture, coming fully alert This was hardly where he'd expected their conversation to go. She spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out quickly. "You know how it's set up, four separate bedrooms, two entrances. We could each use half." She paused again, bit her lips and then continued. " I know I seem abrasive at times, its the way I was raised. I wouldn't intrude on you, up there. I'll understand if you say no." Duncan paused himself, before responding. He needed a moment to think. The buzz was subsiding. He still hadn't pinpointed it, but it didn't seem urgent either. *Not urgent?* He ignored the nagging voices. He'd find out soon enough if someone wanted to challenge him. Since the counterfeit Tessa's death, part of a failed plot by a crazed Watcher to lure him to his death, he hadn't fought another Immortal. Hadn't even picked up his katana, or worked out. Somehow the urge for battle wasn't in him anymore. These thoughts were becoming more common. * We care! * ** You cared enough to take my head! ** He shrugged mentally. Why not be civil. He could try and chat up the manager later. A faint curiosity stirred in him. That leather case. Yomoko still had it. It was just the right size to hold a sword. Tomorrow's auction was by invitation only. Very few would be there, very little would be for sale, but what there was, was very special. If she was selling, he might just get a look at what she had, in advance. He turned back to her, and summoned a smile. "I'd be charmed, Miss Toma. Yomoko. I'm sure we can work it out. Please, have a seat." * * * * * * Jari glanced over his shoulder, then eased quietly out the back door. Once he reached the lawn, he started running. The light of the full moon silhouetted him clearly against the breakers. He scrambled down the sea wall and pelted along the beach. Jonathan watched him run out of sight, then lowered his binoculars, biting down a surge of disappointment. He hadn't been looking for the boy, specifically. He'd been prowling the perimeter of his land, searching again for traces of those unseen observers that he was still certain were there, and the unusual motion had caught his eyes. He sighed, exhaling the bitterness, the stink of betrayal that was creeping into his lungs, breathing in the sweet night air, instead. This was only the first night, and already the boy had snuck away. He'd wanted to believe him, wanted for the sake of his memories of Aki to trust him, but it didn't look good. He still felt that same unease that had dogged him for days, the boy's presence hadn't changed that, just clarified the direction of the threat. Perhaps. He considered which course to follow. He could stay and wait for Jari to return, or go find him, at one of the waterfront dives the runaways and pimps frequented, near the port. It really wasn't much of a choice. He got to his feet, already dressed in black jeans and t- shirt, slipped on some running sandals, and headed out the door. Several hours later, Jonathan pulled up his Jeep in another crowded parking lot. This was the fifth place he'd tried and he was ready to go home if Jari wasn't here. Music blared from boom boxes set up on the tops of vans, the heavy metal bands fighting each other in a pitched battle for dominance. His ears ringing, Jonathan threaded his way among a raucous crowd of beach bums, sailors and their assorted women. No tourists here. A blue neon sign blinked "Coconut Hut" on and off above a weathered wooden door. It looked like a machine gun had sprayed bullets across the front. As he entered, Jonathan's fingers lightly traced the holes, touched metal slugs at their base. Yes, there had been a shooting, and recently. The edges were still rough with tiny new splinters. The door itself, he noted, was solid steel under the apparently flimsy wooden exterior. The management knew their clientele, evidently. Not a good place to be an innocent bystander. Inside, a smoky blue haze half-obscured the far wall, where television screens showing blurry closeups of men and women grappling in the nude flickered in the thick air. His whole body smelled like an ashtray. Jonathan wondered if a shower would be enough to get the smoke out of his hair and clothes, or if he'd need to swim out past the breakers and let the sea cleanse him, cleanse his body and his mind, after tonight's work was done. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find the boy, to find out he was being set up in some pathetic sting attempt or burglary plot. It was all so depressing. But he was here. He might as well keep on. Jonathan paid the $10 cover to a hulking bouncer, and had the back of his hand stamped with a fluorescent green coconut in return. The crowd was the same as at the last smoky dive. Fresh faced teens with calculating eyes mingled with gray bearded, pony tailed refugees from the 60's and deeply tanned surfers and body builders, everyone on the prowl for something, a score, a hit, a deal. Furtive and blatant transactions were going on everywhere he looked. This was the underside of paradise. Jonathan scanned the bar, careful not to spend too much time staring at any individual or group. Tempers were touchy in these places, and any stranger was seen as a potention threat, competition or a possible undercover cop. He hadn't come to fight, and he tried to be inconspicuous as he moved slowly around the room, looking for one particular face. There, a sudden movement in the corner. A slender figure, half seen, turning. A glimpse of frightened eyes, mouth open in surprise, then the face was gone, hidden in the swirl of the crowd. Could it be Jari? Driven by urgency, Jonathan pushed through a group of bikers and found an empty table where the boy had been. A cigarette still shouldered in an ashtray. A hand landed on his shoulder with an audible thump. Jonathan turned. A fat bearded biker snarled at him. "You don't shove me around, tourist. You show some respect." Jonathan ducked as a fist swung at his head, and missed. Another leather clad biker reached for a bottle and swung it at him. Instinctively he kicked, moving into a karate yoko-kukomi, using the impact of his sword-foot thrust to twist away from the two men who were now staggering back into the arms of their still seated companions. He scrambled to his feet, and turned towards them. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Let me buy you all a drink." He spread his empty hands wide, and smiled. The pair rebounded from their friends, the entire group coming to their feet and moving to surround Jonathan in a loose half circle. There were no answering smiles on their faces. He glimpsed a flash of motion and slid to one side as a chair crashed into the wall behind him, thrown by the first biker, the one Jonathan mentally dubbed Big and Hairy. His pal Big and Ugly waved a beer bottle in each meaty fist and moved towards Jonathan.