Date: Mon, 14 Aug 1995 09:19:36 -0600 (MDT) Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Kellie Matthews-Simmons Subject: In The Dark part 1 of 9 - Revised This story copyright 1995 by the authors. Permission to distribute freely is given, provided you do not attempt to sell it. The X-Files is a trademark of Fox Television, characters not used by permission. Highlander is a trademark of Rysher Entertainment, characters not used by permission. Star Trek: The Next Generation is a trademark of Paramount, Inc., characters not used by permission. (Whew! That's a lot of disclaiming!) In the Dark was written during the summer of 1995, between Season 2 & 3 of The X-Files, and Seasons 3 & 4 of Highlander. Anything which occurs in future episodes of these programs may substantially impact the continuity of this story, unfortunately, there's not a thing we can do about it. HOWEVER, we are quite willing to produce scripts in order to maintain said continuity! ;-> As always, comments are welcome. NOTE: This is a story in two parts... or perhaps more properly it is two stories connected by a couple of common threads. After we finished it and ran it through our "beta test" audience, we had several comments on the difference in pacing between the two sections. We scratched our heads and thought about what the problem might be, until we realized that there was no problem, there was just a difference. The major drawback to writing crossovers isn't meshing universes, that's fairly simple. The hard part is blending styles. The X-Files, and Highlander, for example, is heavily plot- driven. TNG, on the other hand, was often completely character-driven, with plot taking a backseat. Neither is better or worse by definition, merely different. At any rate, we feel that we've succeeded in dealing with those differences and hope that you do as well. Kellie Matthews-Simmons // matthewk@colorado.edu Julia Kosatka // julia@bayou.uh.edu In The Dark, Part 1 c. 1995 Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka Joe Dawson wiped the long wooden surface of the bar, trying unobtrusively to observe the woman who had come in with the sax player. She was a black woman of moderate height and curvaceous build, not stunningly beautiful, but rather compelling in a way. She wore her hair in a myriad of long, narrow braids that were too neat to be dreadlocks. Her voice was low and throaty, and held a mischievous tone. When she laughed it was fullbodied and without reservation. She looked to be in her early thirties, but he knew from long experience that looks could be deceiving. The maddening thing was that he recognized her... almost. He knew he'd seen her somewhere before, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where. Almost as if she sensed his gaze, she turned and looked at him, then stood and walked toward the counter. He let his gaze range past her to the band and didn't return his attention to her until she was leaning against the bar. "Can I help you?" he asked, businesslike. "Would I be here if you couldn't?" she queried in an amused voice. "What can you make me that I've never had before?" He focused on her more fully. "Now that's an interesting question." Her generous mouth curved in a Mona-Lisa smile. "I like to challenge my bartenders." "I'd say so." Joe surveyed his stock of liquor critically, then snapped his fingers. "Got it! How high is your tolerance for alcohol?" "Higher than yours, I'd wager." He chuckled. "You'd be right, I'm a cheap drunk. Have you got someone who can drive you home, just in case?" "I do." "Good." Taking a selection of little-used bottles from the back of the bar and some more common ones from the front, he proceeded to create a drink he hadn't made in twenty years. It took two tries, and nearly fifteen minutes before he got it right. Finally, he turned and set the glass in front of her. She studied it carefully, checking off each layer from bottom to top. Red, orange, yellow, green, a dark blue, then a layer that was almost violet; she looked up, one almost non-existent eyebrow raised. "Impressive. What's it called?" "That, my friend, is a `Killer Rainbow.'" "Appropriate name, but is it drinkable?" "I'll let you be the judge of that." "Am I supposed to mix them together?" He shook his head and handed her a thin straw. "Nope. Your job is to try to get the straw into the glass without disturbing the layers, and then to drink it one layer at a time." She took the straw, and stood for a moment, obviously analyzing the best route to take. Finally she put the straw into the first layer, slowly easing it down until the end of the straw rested against the bottom of the glass. She looked up, triumphantly. He smiled encouragingly, and she settled herself onto a barstool and leaned over the counter, elbows resting on either side of the glass, looking for all the world like a kid at a soda fountain. She steadied the straw in her fingers, and started to drink. The bottom layer slowly disappeared, then she stopped to catch her breath. Joe waited a moment, then spoke. "Now you have to tell me what's in each layer." "Whaaat?" She sputtered indignantly. "Now, wait just a minute, that wasn't part of the deal!" "If you can tell me what's in it, it's free," Joe said, coaxingly. That seemed to mollify her. She sat back, studied the drink, and nodded. "Okay, you're on! The red layer was cherry heering." "Very good. Go on, but no looking at the bottles!" She leaned forward and drew on the straw again until the next layer had disappeared. "Hmmm... could be Grand Marnier, but I don't think so... it's too dark... I know! Mandarin Napoleon!" "You're two for two. Keep going." She worked her way through Benedictine and Midori, got hung up for a few minutes on the Blue Curacao, only to be completely baffled by the last layer. "Mister, I thought I knew every liqueur on the planet, but I gotta admit, this one's got me stumped. The damned stuff tastes like flowers smell. How much do I owe you?" "It's Joe." She looked puzzled. "The purple stuff is called joe?" He chuckled. "No, I'm Joe, Joe Dawson, not `mister.'" He held out his hand. She shook it firmly, without hesitation. "Guinan." He waited a moment, but when no second name was forthcoming, he nodded. "Nice to meet you, Guinan. Now, I guess I should fess up that this wasn't an entirely fair contest." "Oh? Why is that?" "Because, you wouldn't know that last one unless you were friends with a friend of mine. He has it specially made from an old family recipe, and the only reason I have it here at all is because he occasionally likes a shot. It's called Violette, and he swears it really is made from violets. And the drink is on the house, I haven't had this much fun in ages." Guinan looked at him skeptically, one corner of her mouth lifting in a quirky smile. "You should get out more." Joe laughed out loud, and nodded. "Touche!" Guinan looked over her shoulder suddenly, and stood up. "Danny's looking for me. I'll catch you later." "I hope so." Joe said, with utter sincerity. As she walked away, he wondered again why she was so damned familiar. It was going to drive him crazy until he remembered. He watched her rejoin her musician friend, and was surprised a moment later when she ascended the stage with them. The band launched into "My Funny Valentine" and she began to sing, her voice warm and intimate, doing a more than creditable job on the song. She was clearly untrained, but her style suited the song and the band. He let his relief bartender take over and settled down at one of the tables to listen, feeling a bit relieved as he realized that was probably why she seemed familiar. He must have seen or heard of her before. **** "Beautiful, isn't it? It shines like a living thing." "Beautiful." "But deadly, as well." "I-- know." "Are you enjoying that?" "Enjoy? No! How could I? You never said I had to!" "It's not necessary, but it adds a certain... something." "I can't believe they never told us it was possible!" "They were afraid that if they told you, too many would seize the chance. Better to let you think we are born, not made." "But they shouldn't have kept it from us. It's not fair that some know, and others don't!" "Why do you think I came to you? I felt you should know." "Thank you. When do we do the next ones?" "Tonight." "So soon?" "It must be so, for the power to fix." "Tonight, then." **** Though the bar had been closed for an hour, Joe was wide-awake from an ill-advised midnight mug of coffee. He sat at his computer, not tallying the night's receipts, but accessing the day's activity reports from other Watchers. Originally he had thought Adam's... he stopped, shaking his head. He still tended to think of the Immortal by the name he'd used as a Watcher. Anyway, he'd opposed Methos' creation of an electronic mail system for Watchers, thinking it a bad idea, but he had to admit, it was damned convenient. And with Methos playing sysadmin and watching the security like a hawk, he was less afraid of its potential misuse than he had once been. After the fiasco in Paris, he was sure Methos was being scrupulously careful. As the roster of familiar names scrolled by on his screen, along with location notes, he suddenly stopped and backed up. Two days earlier Tanner Dane had been spotted in northern California. Automatically Joe reached for the phone, then stopped, shaking his head. It was kind of hard to use the phone when the modem was engaged. Anyway, it was three in the morning, and though he was sure that Duncan would want to know Dane might be in the area, he was equally sure that he wouldn't want to be woken up to hear about it. He finished looking at the reports and logged off, then unlocked the bookcase that held the Chronicles and pulled out the most recent volume on Tanner Dane. Normally Joe relied on his own remarkable memory for details regarding Immortals, but Dane wasn't someone he normally dealt with, and it wouldn't hurt to read up on him if he was heading this way. He sat down in the old armchair he favored, got comfortable, and started to read. Engrossed in the revolting tales of Dane's exploits, he turned a page and sucked in a breath, momentarily stunned. There was a reproduction of a newspaper page from the late 1800's, carrying a story about a beheaded corpse. Dane's Watcher at that time had annotated the page, stating that the victim had been an Immortal named Wen Chiu, and that Dane had taken his head. Little fuss had been made over the death, even one so unusual, of an Asian national in turn-of-the-century San Francisco. That wasn't what held Joe's attention, though. Sharing the page was a cameo-like photograph of a woman in the elaborate dress of the times. He stared at it, stunned, knowing he had faced that same woman across a bar tonight. This was where he'd seen her before! It had been well over a year since he'd last pulled Dane's chronicle, but his mind had retained the image. He even remembered why. He'd thought it unusual to find a socially prominent Black woman mentioned in a turn of the century paper. He read the caption and his consternation grew. "Madame Guinan to Host Literary Reception." Guinan. The same name, the same face, more than a hundred years ago? Impossible! How could she be an Immortal, without the Watchers knowing of her? There weren't many female Immortals, other than those newly-Become, whose faces yet eluded the Watchers. He knew their descriptions by heart. Some were Caucasian, some Asian, Hispanic, even one Native American, but none of them were Black, and Guinan would never be mistaken for anything else. He put in the database disk and tried a search on all the known Black female Immortals, thinking he might have forgotten someone. That search proved equally fruitless. None of the photographs he found even vaguely resembled Guinan. He shut down the system and stared at the blank screen, unseeing, disturbed by what he'd found... or not found. Could they have managed to miss someone entirely? Could their efforts be that slipshod? Surely she had trained under someone known, had taken heads... no Immortal could live over a hundred years without doing so, could they? He thought of those rare Immortals who lived their lives on Sacred Ground to avoid having to kill. It was possible, just not probable, and unheard of in one who was not cloistered in some way. Whoever she was, she didn't seem a threat to Duncan or Richie, though it would be a good idea to tell them about her anyway. He had another reason to call Duncan now, to see if he knew her. It had been Joe's experience that there were few Immortal women Duncan didn't know... especially in the biblical sense. He tried picturing them together, and failed. Duncan didn't usually go for the earthy types... or was he just sour grapesing? He chuckled, admitting a twinge of jealousy at his friend's admittedly impressive track-record with women. Of course, he'd had a lot of lifetimes to perfect his technique. He looked at his watch. It was almost five. Three more hours, and he could safely call Duncan. He settled back down with the Chronicle and began to read again. **** "Mulder, I think you need to take a look at this." Fox Mulder looked up from the file he was perusing, and found his petite, red-headed partner standing in front of his desk holding out a folder. He took it, eyebrows lifted. "What is it, Scully?" "Something that looks like it might be up our alley." "Which alley would that be?" "A back one, of course. Just take a look, and tell me what you think." "You know, this is almost a first." "What is?" "You bringing me a case. This is only the second time that I can remember." "Well, maybe that means you'll read it sometime today?" she asked archly. He grinned and settled back, opening the file, eyes narrowing as he paged through the documents in the folder. When he came to the photographs, he sat forward suddenly, his attention firmly caught. Finally he looked up. "Some sort of ritual murders? Cult slayings?" "That was my thought, though as you know, that's extremely rare. Still, you have fifteen corpses scattered across seven states, all beheaded with some sort of sharp metal object. Half the victims have identical tattoos on the left wrist-- that can't be coincidence." "No, it can't. Any records of that tattoo in the cult files?" "Not that any investigation has turned up so far. So, are you interested?" Mulder looked at her as if she'd suggested they strip and make love on the desk. "Is the Pope Catholic? Do we have background files on all the victims?" "Not on all of them, but on several, yes. The oddest thing is, they all seem to be just ordinary people, with a few notable similarities." "Which are?" "They all were self-employed, traveled a great deal, and had income greater than their jobs would seem to warrant." "Interesting. Any connections to organized crime?" She frowned. "I don't know... I hadn't thought of that angle." "We can look into it ourselves. Do you have any idea what the murder weapon was? Axe? Chain-saw?" She repressed a smile, almost. "Nothing's been positively identified, though at least one coroner thinks a sword was used." He did a double-take. "A sword? Maybe it's the ghost of Errol Flynn, taking revenge for colorization... were any of the victims employed by Turner Broadcasting?" Scully didn't even grant him a dirty look. "That's not the only thing that's odd about this case. According to three of the reports, there is evidence of intense electrical activity around some of the corpses." "Electrical activity? Like what?" "Light fixtures blown out, windows shattered, electrical burns on walls and floors. Very weird stuff." "Hang on, this is starting to sound familiar..." Mulder went to the file drawers and began to dig. It took him a few minutes, but finally he found what he was looking for. "Here it is. 1985, New York City. Several homicides, all beheadings accompanied by signs of intense electrical activity, just like you just said. The police investigated a man named Russell Nash, a well-to-do antique dealer, but were never able to gather enough evidence to file charges. Shortly after that, he dropped out of sight, though someone fitting his description was seen not long afterward in Scotland. He has not returned to the U.S., at least not under the same name. Hmmm..." Mulder flipped through the file, then again, more slowly. "Interesting." He dug a box of push-pins out of the desk drawer and retrieved a foamcore-mounted map from between two file cabinets. A stippling of holes across its surface showed that it had been used for similar purposes in the past. Balancing it across his knees, he handed the folder to Scully. "I need the names of the cities where the bodies were found, starting with the earliest known incident." Scully nodded. "First incident, Miami, Florida." Mulder placed a pin. "Next?" "Atlanta, Georgia." He placed a second pin, and looked up expectantly. "Shreveport, Louisiana." When all the pins had been placed, there was a clear progression of killings moving across the U.S. from the south-east coast toward west coast, then turning north. The last report was from Reno, Nevada. "Interesting. We should alert law-enforcement in Oregon and Washington. "Why?" He looked up from the map. "Just a hunch. He's been moving toward the West coast, and seems to be going north now. That leaves Oregon and Washington as his most likely next destinations." "He?" Dana questioned him, eyebrows lifted. "Almost all serial killers are male. I wonder what the significance of killing in pairs is, and why he deviated from his pattern in California? Were the victims romantically involved? Married, or otherwise?" "I don't think so. Most of them were same-sex, and then there's that trio in California." "Neither of which means they weren't involved." "True, but the reports would probably have mentioned alternate lifestyles." "If it were known. That's something else we need to check on." "Do you think it's this Nash person?" "It could be. The last known sighting of Nash was in Scotland, Miami has a large international airport with several flights daily from the U.K. Nash was also wealthy, and our killer apparently has money, he can afford to fly to find his victims. "Why do you say that?" "Because of the timing. The first and second killings took place only eight hours apart but the killer couldn't have driven from Miami to Atlanta in that short a time, ergo, he flew. Same with the time elapsed between the second and third killing. Also, you may have noticed that most of the killings took place in cities with large airports. We should also check Interpol reports for similar killings." He looked at her, frowning slightly. "Scully, is this our case? Did you clear this with Skinner?" "It's no one's case yet, but I had planned to ask Skinner if he would assign us to it." "Would you? He's a lot more likely to okay a case request from you than he is from me. I'll go up to Travel Accounting and get tickets to Reno. If we're lucky, we can use my frequent flyer upgrades." Scully nodded and left the room, folder in hand. Mulder looked at the map a moment longer, and sighed. "What does it say about me that I can get into these people's heads?" he asked the room at large, not expecting an answer. **** The phone rang, startling Joe awake. He sat up, and the Chronicle he'd been reading fell off his lap onto the floor. He grabbed the phone as he leaned over and picked up the book. "Dawson," he said, squinting at the clock. It was eleven in the morning. So much for calling Duncan first thing. "Joe?" The voice on the other end was teary and female. It took him a moment to place it. "Kaarin? Is that you?" "Yes... Joe, I can't think of how else to tell you this... Tim's dead... it's just awful! Someone took his head, like he was one of Them! I can't believe anyone would do that to him, he never hurt anyone!" He felt as if he'd just fallen through ice into freezing water. "God... no! Kaarin, when did this happen?" "The police say it happened a week ago, but I just now found out. It took them this long to find me, I'd moved since he last put me on any of his `notification' lists, and they hadn't wanted to release the name to the press. I'd read about the killings... but I thought it was Them, it never occurred to me it could be Tim! My God, Joe... why would anyone kill one of us like that? It doesn't make any sense!" Joe shook his head. "I don't know Kaarin, maybe it's just a coincidence... maybe it doesn't mean anything..." "That's hard to believe." "I know. Kaarin, I'm sorry... I know you and Tim were close..." "We were talking about getting married." Joe flinched, knowing that particular pain. "I wish there were something I could say that would help, Kaarin, but we both know there isn't, not now. Wait, you said killings, plural. There was more than one?" "Yes, another man... they haven't released his name either, and didn't tell me." "Who was Tim Watching?" "Carlson." Joe thought for a moment, the Immortal concerned was not one he would have considered dangerous to a Watcher, even if Tim had slipped up and been discovered. Kaarin's assignment was a different matter. "What about Rachael Myers? Are you still assigned to her?" "Yes, but it wasn't her. She hasn't left her house in a week now." "But she's there? You've seen her?" "I... no, I haven't. Not for a couple of days. But I saw her go in a week ago, and according to the surveillance logs she's not been out since. She has a long history of periodic seclusion, I didn't think there was any need to worry about her." "You may want to see if you can get a look, but Kaarin, be careful. If it's her, you could be in danger, and you're not... well, you're upset." There was a long silence, then Kaarin finally replied. "Don't worry Joe, I'm not suicidal." "I didn't mean..." "I know. Thank you for caring. I'll let you know what I find out." She hung up before he could say anything else. He sat there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand, listening to the disconnect tone, then finally he hung it up and ran his hands through his hair. His back ached and he still felt muzzy with sleep. Beneath that his emotions roiled; anger, pain, sorrow balling up inside him like a fist in the belly. He almost reached for his guitar, wanting to play out his pain, but shook his head and instead stood and limped into the kitchen and put coffee on to brew. He had things to do before he could indulge himself. While he waited for the coffee, he splashed water on his face at the sink, drying off with a dishtowel, then poured a cup of coffee. Sipping it, he returned to his computer to see if Kaarin had reported Tim Byers' death. He opened the file and started searching for the standard message header used to alert the network to a Watcher or Immortal's death. He found one halfway through the entries and accessed it. "What the hell?" Joe snapped as he read, his voice sounding loud in the silence. Though the details were almost the same, the notification was about Marget Lin, not Tim Byers. She had been killed in the same way as Byers, as if she were an Immortal. In Marget's case, her Immortal, Natalia Tsilkovski, had also been killed, they had been found together. No one knew who had done it, which Immortal had gained the quickening from it, nor did they know why anyone would have killed Marget along with Natalia. Feeling uneasy, he scrolled down a page and saw another DECEASED notification in the subject line. That was Tim, no doubt. He selected that message and started to read, only to stop, his breath tight in his chest as he read. Marek Costas this time, and his Watcher, Allan Furman. Kaarin had said two bodies were found... he wondered if one of them was Carlson. There was a pattern developing. Who was doing this, and why? It wasn't unusual to lose two or three Immortals in a week's time, but their Watchers had never been at risk before! Scowling, he created a file and began to type an alert to the Watcher network at large. By now others would probably have noticed the unusual deaths, and be reacting, but he wanted everyone warned. Once he finished that, it was time for a phone call to Duncan. **** Even though it had become a familiar smell over the years, Mulder never quite managed to suppress his initial surge of discomfort at the eau-de-formaldehyde-and-decay of a morgue. Though it looked pristine, tile walls and floors spotless, steel tables and equipment gleaming, there was still that underlying scent of rot that made him shiver a little. He could look dispassionately on a body, but somehow the smell affected a more primal part of him. He watched Scully and the coroner as they examined the body. From where he was, he could see the edges of the severed neck. It was clean... astonishingly so. It looked more like something a Hollywood special-effects crew would have created than an actual wound. "The corpse was like this when you found it?" Scully's voice was slightly muffled by her mask. The other woman nodded. "Almost exactly. And it had been there for at least a day." "Indoors or out?" "Indoors, in an old warehouse, but there was no air conditioning, and a lot of broken windows." "What about the other one?" "Both bodies were found in the warehouse, but the other one is normal." "Interesting. What all did you look for?" "The usual stuff, staphylococcus, s. silbus, s. auresu, s. saprophyticus, the micrococci, and on, and on. There should've been all kinds of bugs on this guy, but there weren't. Not only that, but there were no viri in the blood samples!" "What about the internal organs?" "You may want to look at those yourself... it's pretty amazing in there. I've never seen organs like this in anyone over the age of six." "What do you mean?" "They're perfect, textbook perfect, almost. There are a couple of abnormalities... see here?" Rosall lifted one of the corpse's arms and peeled back a flap of skin in the underarm area. "Are those lymph nodes?" Scully sounded amazed. "But they're huge... and so many of them!" "Exactly! Ever see anything like that before? I haven't. The neck shows similar development, and look at this," Rosall did something in the body cavity. "Here, see the spleen?" "It seems to be enlarged." "I thought so at first, but look inside." Scully leaned down and examined the body more closely. "My god... that's odd! It's packed with white pulp!" "You should see it under the 'scope! I also found some rather unusual nerve development when I was doing slides as well. This guy is just bizarre." "You said he had no bacteria or viruses in his system... what about cancer?" "Nope, not a sign of it." "What's up Scully?" Mulder asked, tired of not knowing what they were talking about. She stepped away from the body and pulled her mask down a bit. "Aside from a complete lack of any kind of inimical bacteria or viruses, this guy also had some very peculiar physiology. Usually you find all kinds of bacteria on a body, some of it beneficial, like intestinal flora, but a lot of other stuff too. However, according to Dr. Rosall's lab reports, there is a complete absence of normal pathogens in this body." "Meaning?" "Meaning that this person is in unnaturally good health." "Aside from the minor problem of being dead?" Mulder asked dryly. Dr. Rosall let out a soft laugh, and he mentally marked his scorecard. It wasn't every day you got a coroner to laugh. "What made you test for the presence of normal bacteria? It doesn't seem like a `standard procedure' sort of thing." "It's not," she said, nodding approvingly at his question. "I began testing after noticing that the corpse had a substantively atypical pattern of necrosis." "Can I have a translation of that from Coroner-ese?" "It wasn't rotting properly." "Too much junk food?" Mulder asked, only half joking. Rosall shook her head. "Actually, preservatives in the diet can have an effect on decay, but not like this. I've saved the best for last, though," She walked over to the lightbox and turned it on. "Take a look a these babies." There were several x-rays on the box. Scully walked over to where she could see them clearly, Mulder followed, though he didn't expect to be able to make heads or tails of whatever the films showed. Scully studied them for a moment, then a soft gasp broke from her lips and she stepped closer. After a moment she shot a look of disbelief at her fellow pathologist. "That's impossible! No one could have survived that!" "That's what I thought. Amazing isn't it?" "What is?" Mulder asked, staring at the shadowy images on the film, wondering what was so exciting about them. "It looks as if he fell from a great height, or was beaten horrifically... crushed somehow. I don't know. It's weird." "Maybe he was a skydiver and his chute didn't open?" Mulder speculated blandly, still not seeing the problem. You don't understand, Mulder. These healed breaks appear to be approximately the same age, which means that at some time in his life just about every bone in this man's body was broken, but they healed! I've never heard of anyone living through damage of this nature! It's simply not possible!" "Scully, after all this time working with me, I'd think you would have dropped that phrase from your vocabulary. Show me what you're looking at." Scully pointed out the healed fracture marks, sometimes two or three to any given bone. He had to admit that it was pretty spectacular, especially considering that some of the worst fractures seemed to have been in the skull and neck area. "Even granting the possibility of someone surviving this sort of trauma, the victim would probably have been paralysed, and probably severely brain-damaged," Scully said, shaking her head. "Maybe he was. What do we know about him?" Rosall stripped off her gloves and put them in a container marked prominently with the biohazard emblem, then began scrubbing her hands as she spoke. "Very little, actually. He was a visitor, probably here to gamble, like most people who come here. He was staying at the Hilton. No one remembers anything unusual about him. His ID tells us his name was Frederick Corben, of Baltimore, Maryland. He was thirty-four years old, and his business cards indicate that he was an art dealer. People who spoke to him said he appeared perfectly normal, and I found no signs of muscular atrophy which would be consistent with paralysis." Scully had wandered back over to the body and was examining it, lifting the arms, turning them this way and that. Mulder wondered what she was looking for. She glanced up when Rosall stopped speaking. "He was thirty-four?" "That's what his records say." "Was he born in the United States?" "Yes, Houston, Texas." "But he doesn't have a smallpox vaccination scar." Scully ran a latex-sheathed finger over the corpse's upper arm. "I checked both arms." "A lot of people don't any more." "Not people this age, born in the U.S. They didn't stop giving vaccinations to babies until the late sixties, as I recall." "So you don't think he was born in the U.S.?" "No, I don't. And I'll bet those papers are faked. Mulder, have someone check that out, would you?" "Already on it, Scully." She looked up. He had his cell-phone out and was dialing. **** It was eight in the evening. Joe was behind the bar, fretting, having not been able to contact Duncan other than to leave repeated messages on his machine. Someone touched his shoulder and he turned quickly, almost losing his balance. "What?" he snapped, his voice rough and harsh. He regretted it a second later. "Guinan! I'm sorr..." he began, but she lifted a hand and shook her head. "No need. I can see you're upset... and so can your customers. Let Mike mind the bar and come talk to me." Not quite knowing why, he followed her to a table in the back, where the light was dim and the band not quite so overwhelming. She sat down, and indicated a place across from her. "So, tell me what's bothering you." Something about her voice and manner invited confidence. For a moment he was tempted, but then he shook his head. "I can't talk about it." "Can't, or won't?" "Can't. It would be betraying a confidence." She inclined her head, indicating understanding. They sat silent for a moment, then finally she spoke again. "What happened to your legs?" He was stunned silent for a moment. No one ever commented on that, they just pretended not to notice. "I ah... ah..." he stammered. "I've offended you," Guinan stated, looking regretful. "I'm sorry." "No, it's not that! Actually, it's kind of nice for someone to just come out and ask, rather than pretending not to notice." "You're very stubborn, aren't you?" she said, her head cocked slightly to one side. He chuckled. "What makes you think that?" "A lot of people would be content with a wheelchair. You're not." "You're damned right I'm not! If that makes me stubborn, then yes, I am." "I can see that. What do you do, besides tend bar?" "Play guitar." "I'd like to hear you." "Stick around awhile, you will. It's how I blow off steam when I get like this." "Like what?" "You know, you said it yourself. Scary to the customers." He growled for emphasis. She laughed. "You don't scare me. Your bark is a lot worse than your bite." He bared his teeth. "How do you know, little girl?" She studied him for a moment, a tiny smile on her face, and he had the feeling he was about to regret having said that. Before she could speak movement caught his eye and he looked up to see Duncan striding toward the table, his leather trenchcoat swirling around his calves. A feeling of unutterable relief washed through him. Duncan was all right. Though Joe knew quite well that it was against Watcher policy to get `involved' with the Immortals you were supposed to watch, he had become good friends with Duncan MacLeod. It would hurt like hell to lose him. Joe stood as Duncan came to the table. He saw no trace of the wariness Duncan usually displayed in the presence of another Immortal, though that did not necessarily mean he hadn't felt Recognition. If Duncan had sensed Guinan before Joe had noticed him, he might not have seen it. Guinan's face showed nothing other than curiosity, and a bit of the same slightly `dazed' expression women often displayed in Duncan's presence. "Joe, what's wrong?" Duncan's voice was concerned, his attention focused. "I got home and found eight messages from you on my machine!" Joe turned to Guinan. "I'm sorry, will you excuse me for a few moments? I need to speak to my friend in private." Guinan nodded. "Go ahead. I'll wait. I'm good at waiting." Duncan shot a curious glance at Guinan, and nodded at her politely, but his attention returned almost immediately to Joe as he followed him into the back room. **** Guinan watched Joe lead his friend out of sight, her curiosity more piqued than it had been in years. Joe was earthy, real, and warm, his mental signature simultaneously soothing and stimulating. But his friend... there was some indefinable difference about him, and it had nothing to do with his extraordinary good looks, though those certainly didn't put her off at all. What really drew her was the core of his personality, so much stronger than any of the others in the room that to her Othersenses he almost glowed. Even though she was young and her empathic skills only beginning to develop, she could sense a powerful difference about the newcomer. She was intrigued. What made him different? What set him apart? She'd never met a Terran who felt quite like him before, though some of her own people had similar auras, her father, for instance. He had once told her that sort of intense personality developed with age... which couldn't possibly be the case here. Humans were too short-lived to develop that sort of depth and brilliance. Perhaps they were occasionally born with such intensity? She would have to study that possibility. She wondered what they were to each other. She almost hadn't needed her budding empathy to sense the intensity of relief Joe had felt when the other man came into the bar. It had been written all over his face. Were they lovers, perhaps? No, she didn't think that felt quite right. It was a complex sort of feeling... with oddly mixed paternal and filial overtones, openness and secrecy, rivalry and friendship... very strange. She was fascinated. Humans were so interesting! She couldn't understand why her father was always pestering her to give up her studies on Earth. If there was any other species in known space that held more potential, she hadn't found it. Musing on that, she went to the bar for a coffee and returned to her seat, waiting. Perhaps Joe would introduce her to his intriguing friend when he returned. **** "What?" Duncan demanded, shaken. "Watchers too? But that doesn't make sense! There's no reason..." "I know that, but it is happening. Another pair were reported since I first realized what was going on this morning." "But who...?" "Your guess is as good as mine. All I can say is that whoever it is, is a sadistic son of a bitch. Our people aren't trained to fight! They wouldn't stand a chance!" Duncan nodded. "You're right about that." Joe was silent for a moment, then finally he looked up at Duncan, his face set. "Mac, you know I'm not supposed to do this, but I felt you should know. Tanner Dane may be heading our way. Duncan's shoulders tensed, but he kept his face expressionless. "Tanner Dane?" Joe nodded. "I thought you might like to know." Duncan's thoughts were chaotic... memories surfaced, terrible ones. It had happened nearly three hundred years ago, but even that distance wasn't enough to dull the pain of it. "Duncan?" His attention snapped back to the present, and he saw Joe watching him with concerned eyes. "You were thinking of Thalassa Demetrious, weren't you?" Duncan nodded, swallowing down the nausea that still surged. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that Dane should turn up now?" Joe nodded. "It did, I just wondered if you would agree. I'm trying to contact his Watcher to find out where he's been, but with Dane on the road Evan hasn't had a chance to check in. At least, I hope that's the only reason. He could be dead, too, if it's Dane, though how he would have learned about us, I don't know." Duncan shook his head. "Dane's not stupid. Sometimes you Watchers get careless. Remember, I found you... Kalas found you... it's not that hard." Joe flinched, but had to acknowledge the truth of Duncan's words. "It's a perennial problem, since we're primarily volunteer and only minimally trained. I'll see if we can match Dane to the vicinity of any of the killings. If we can just find out who's doing it, maybe we can warn people." "My people or yours?" Duncan asked, quietly. Joe looked at him, and there was guilt in his eyes. "Duncan..." Duncan shook his head. "I'm sorry, Joe. I shouldn't have said that. Thanks for the information. Even that's more than you should have told me." "If I could do more, I would." "I know." He had to change the subject, get away from the pain. He cast around desperately for a topic, and found one. "So... who's your friend? I haven't seen her around before, have I?" Joe looked surprised. "You mean you don't know her?" Duncan looked at him, frowning slightly as he tried to remember having met her before. "No, should I?" "I thought she was one of yours." "One of my what?" Duncan asked, intrigued. "An Immortal." Duncan focused on him, intent. "Why would you think that?" "Look at this..." Joe opened his desk and took out a book. Duncan recognized the Watcher sigil on the cover, and knew it must be a Chronicle. Joe opened it, and handed the open book to him. He studied the page, a photocopy of a newspaper from the 1800's. For a moment he wasn't sure why Joe had given it to him, then he really looked at the face in the photograph. His eyebrows lifted. "Astonishing resemblance," he said, studying the page. "But it's not her?" Duncan shook his head. "No, she's no Immortal." "You're sure?" "I think I would have noticed." Duncan said, drily. Joe chuckled. "I suppose that's true. The resemblance was just so uncanny... I had to ask." "You'd be surprised how many people look like their ancestors. If I had a dime for every time I've thought I saw a face from my past in a crowd, I'd be a rich man." "Duncan, you are a rich man." Duncan grinned. "That's beside the point." They both chuckled. "So, are you going to introduce me?" "On one condition." "That being?" "Try not to be so damned charming, okay?" Duncan's eyebrows shot up. "Blows the wind from that quarter?" Joe looked a touch embarrassed. "I didn't mean..." "Say no more. I'll do my best boor imitation." "Oh God, no!" Joe moaned theatrically, his head in his hands. "Anything but that!" **** There he was. Guinan sensed him getting closer, that seductively powerful aura like a torch in the room full of muddy, drunken souls. She looked up and found Joe and his friend approaching the table. Whatever Joe's problem had been, the meeting must have mitigated it. His surly expression was gone and she could sense that though he was still concerned, he wasn't frantic with worry as he had been earlier. As they approached, she was forcibly reminded of a pair of wolves; one grizzled and a bit the worse for wear, but still hell in a fight, the other younger, stronger, but perhaps more impulsive. She smiled privately at the comparison, and reminded herself that wolves hunt in packs. The younger man turned his chair around backward and straddled it, the already-taut denim of his jeans stretching to the point where she wondered why a seam didn't give. She pretended not to have been looking anyplace where she would have noticed. As he flipped his heavy coat out behind him, she flashed back to trying to sit down in a hoopskirt, and understood why he was sitting in the chair the wrong way. Joe waved a hand at his companion. "Guinan, I'd like to you meet a friend of mine, Duncan MacLeod, Duncan, Guinan. She sings with the band." "Only when they want to thin the crowd a bit." Guinan said, with a grin. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. MacLeod." "Call me Duncan, please. Being called `mister' makes me feel ancient." Joe shot an amused glance at his friend, who shrugged, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. Guinan wondered what that was all about, but refrained from asking. "All right, Duncan it is, then. I see you've managed to get Joe out of that nasty mood he was in earlier. Let me guess... you owed him money and you just paid up?" That drew a laugh from Joe, who shook his head. "I'm more likely to owe Duncan money than he is me. No, it was nothing like that, I just had some important information I needed to relay to him." She sensed undertones of protectiveness beneath his words. Whatever the information had been, Joe had felt his friend endangered by not knowing it. Now that he had passed it on, he was still not completely at ease, but far more so than earlier. "Well then, I guess you don't need me to keep you away from the bar any more." she pushed her chair back, and stood. "Hold on, where are you going?" "I thought you'd want to talk with your friend." "I can talk with him any time. You, I've just met, so sit down." She grinned and sat, as Duncan stuck his lip out in an exaggerated pout. "Well, what am I? Chopped liver?" "Not quite," Joe said, grinning. "Go get us a beer." "From chopped liver to errand boy! I can tell when I'm not wanted!" Duncan put his nose haughtily in the air and stood up. His coat caught the chair behind him and knocked it over with a resounding crash. Looking sheepish he straightened it and fought his way out of the coat. "Damned thing's a hazard." he muttered, draping it over the back of a chair. Guinan admired the way his sweater emphasized his chest and shoulders, and wished it weren't quite so long as he walked off to get the drinks. The track lighting gleamed on his hair, a sable cloak across his shoulders. So often long hair on men seemed affected, but his did not. It looked utterly appropriate. A second later Joe sighed, and she turned her attention back to him, to find him gazing at her with a rather resigned expression. "He's done it again, hasn't he?" "Done what?" Guinan asked, puzzled. "Never mind." She hated it when people did that. "No, I won't `never mind!' What?" "It's just that Duncan seems to have this... effect... on women." "Oh, that," she said, matter-of-factly. "He does, doesn't he? It probably annoys you." "It's petty, I know." "It's normal. It's a guy thing." Joe cringed. "God... what an awful thought!" "Well, take heart, I noticed you first." Joe lifted an eyebrow. "But would you have if we'd both been here last night?" She chuckled. "Good question. Unfortunately, we'll never know the answer. Besides, if you can honestly tell me you don't notice good-looking women, then you can bitch about me noticing good-looking men. I saw you checking out that blonde at the bar last night." "I did not!" "Yes you did." "Did not!" "It was a nice diamond necklace she was wearing, wasn't it?" Joe frowned thoughtfully. "She wasn't wearing a necklace." Guinan snorted. "I rest my case." Joe opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again without speaking, looking as sheepish as Duncan had a few moments earlier. Duncan made his way back through the crowd to the table, balancing a tray of drinks like a professional waiter. "I wasn't sure what to get, so I went with three draft Wickeds. I asked Jerry what the lady was drinking, and he said coffee, so I brought one of those too, just in case." Guinan sighed. "Isn't he sweet?" Joe snorted. "Give it a rest, Duncan." Guinan waved a hand at him. "Oh hush, Joe. The boy can't help it! Besides, you might learn something." "Boy?" Duncan echoed, incredulous. "I'm not calling you a girl, now am I?" "I'm older than I look." Guinan said. "So am I." Duncan returned. They stared at each other, narrow-eyed, for a moment, like a pair of cats circling before a fight, then Joe started laughing, which set them all off. Duncan almost dropped the tray, but managed to rescue it, with only minor spillage. He set it down and distributed the drinks. **** =========================================================================