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 2 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 2 c. 1995 Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka Scully sat back with a sigh, tossing her glasses onto the table as she rubbed her eyes and yawned. "You know, Mulder, I had no idea how popular decapitation was as a modus operandi. This is truly astonishing. Some of these occurred on the same day, close to the same time, but in different countries. Unless our killer can bilocate, they can't all have been done by the same person." Mulder looked up from where he sat on the bed, surrounded by stacks of paper, just as she was. "When I requested information from Interpol on unsolved murders involving decapitation, I expected a handful of reports, not hundreds! This is not making life any easier!" He yawned too, trying to hide it behind his hand. "Now you've got me doing it!" he said accusingly. "You know better than to yawn, it starts a chain reaction!" She grinned. "The fact that it's after midnight couldn't have anything to do with it, now could it?" "Not a thing." He dropped the stack of reports he'd been looking at and picked up a different one. "Maybe the U.S. ones will be more helpful... at least there are fewer of them." He started paging through the collection, then suddenly slowed, and started over, pulling out several sheets. "What is it, Mulder?" Scully asked, watching him with interest. "I think I may have something here, Scully! Remember how the pattern indicated the killer was heading for the Northwest coast? It looks like he's either been there before, or maybe he lives there. Here are seven unsolved reports of decapitations, all in or around the Seattle area. This is interesting, some guy named MacLeod turns up in four of these reports. He was investigated in connection with the murders, but released for lack of evidence. Get this, he's an antique dealer!" Scully made the connection instantly. "Like Nash! It could be him, using an assumed name!" "It could be. There's only one way to find out, though. We're going to Seattle." Mulder grabbed the phone and started dialing. "So much for sleep," Scully said, her mouth tightening in a moment of self-pity as she thought of her hotel room, and its unused bed. He looked at her sympathetically. "It's..." he started, then his attention was diverted to the phone. "Yes, you can. I need two one-ways from Reno to Seattle on the next flight out. What? Yeah, I can hold." He returned his gaze to her. "Sorry, Scully, but isn't it worth a few hours sleep?" She nodded. "If we can keep him from killing again, I'd stay up for a week. I'll get the file on Nash and fax a photograph to the police there. We'll see if it matches this MacLeod guy." **** Duncan sat staring into space, feeling a distant sadness. It had been a wonderful evening, no mistake. He and Joe and Guinan had laughed and talked until nearly closing; but now he was alone, and remembering. Gods above, but sometimes he wished there were a way to turn memories off. What he wanted to remember often eluded him, and what he most wanted to forget slipped like fog from all the dark nooks and crannies of his mind. He'd tried various ways of forgetting over the years, alcohol, prayer, women, meditation, exercise. Some succeeded better than others, but all of them were, in the end, only temporary. So now he sat on the low concrete wall that bounded the parking lot down the street from Joe's bar, and waited for the alcohol haze to clear from his mind so he wasn't a menace behind the wheel. A few hundred years experience had taught him how to tell when he was safe from when he wasn't. Right now, he wasn't safe, but he was remembering all too well. Sixteen-ninety-four. Greece. Thalassa. A small woman with a ready laugh and warm heart. Her hair had been thick, and curling, black as a raven's wing, her mouth as full and red as a cup of bordeaux. She too had been an Immortal, and they had found some comfort in the friendship of another like soul. They had been friends and sometime lovers for close-on a year then. He had, with reluctance, left for three weeks to help a friend with some business dealings, and had returned to find she had vanished from the small house they shared in a village on the Mediterranean coast. The overturned and broken furnishings, and deep metallic gouges in the walls made him suspect she had met another Immortal and fought there. Because she was gone, he was fairly certain she must have lost the battle, though he had thought her skills improving from their sparring partnership. Whoever she had fought must have disposed of the body. As he sat on the stoop, unseeing, unable to even grieve yet, the boy who lived across the way came out and touched his arm. Duncan had looked up to find the child looking frightened and sad. "What is it?" "Bad man." Duncan looked around, wondering if someone had been bothering the boy, needing a battle, and more than willing to take one on for the sake of a child. "Where? Has someone hurt Nico shook his head solemnly. "Took her. I saw him." "Her?" Duncan felt a flash of hope. "You mean Thalassa?" He sat up, head clearing. "Took her? She was alive?" Niko nodded. "Where did he take her?" Duncan asked intently. Niko pointed toward the foothills the village backed onto. "There." "When?" Niko frowned, concentrating, then his expression cleared and he smiled triumphantly. "Wash day!" For a moment Duncan was puzzled, then he understood. Every Monday the village women did laundry together. If she'd been taken on Monday, that meant Thalassa had been gone four days. He almost despaired, the trail would be stone cold by now... but he had to try. Thanking the boy, he had gone into the hills, searching for any sign of her, and almost immediately had found one of Thalassa's ribbons caught in a tree. A bit further on, he found one of her rings. He consistently found small signs, almost as if he had been left a trail. He soon came to realize that was exactly what had happened. The man who had taken Thalassa had meant for Duncan to find her. At a hundred and twelve years of age, he had thought himself inured to horror, but he found he still had the capacity for it. Dane had tortured her. If a normal human were tortured that way, they would simply die, and that would be the end; but an Immortal kept returning, to be tormented again and again. What had been left of Thalassa was a gibbering wreck, pleading for the true Death, with just enough mind left to tell him who had done it to her, and to convince him to deliver the coup de grace. After it was done, he had been sick. To gain a Quickening at the expense of a loved one was the worst thing he could imagine. He had never felt guilt like that before, not only because in a sense he had benefitted by killing her, but because he knew Dane had tortured her in retribution for his own interference in his affairs a decade earlier. Knowing that Dane was so vicious that he had foregone a Quickening just to leave Thalassa for Duncan to find hadn't made the pain any easier to bear. "Hey there..." The voice in the darkness was soft. Startled, he leaped to his feet, his sword ringing as it left its sheath. For a moment didn't see the speaker, then he caught the gleam of streetlight on sable skin, and the curve of a broad cheekbone. "Guinan?" She nodded and stepped forward into the pool of light cast by the lamp. He felt a bit sick at how close he had come to harming her. "Damn it! Don't you know better than to sneak up on someone in the middle of the night?" Cold sober from the rush of adrenalin, he sheathed the katana, slipping it back into place much more quietly than it had emerged, but too late to keep her from seeing it. "You seemed sad," she said quietly. He was momentarily taken aback, having expected her to be ask why he carried a sword, not about his state of mind. It took him a few seconds to gather his wits, and he replied honestly. "Just memories, that's all." "Memories can hurt just as much as the original incident, sometimes more." He nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment. Finally he looked at her again. "You shouldn't be out here by yourself so late." She smiled slightly. "Neither should you." He shrugged. "I can take care of myself." "So can I." "I never doubted it," Duncan said gravely, sensing that it was something she felt strongly about. "I thought you went home." "I did, but I realized I'd lost something, and came back to find it." "What was it?" "A pin. It must have fallen off somewhere. I hoped it was in the bar." "Something valuable?" "No, not really. The bar's closed, though. I'll have to look for it tomorrow." He nodded. Silence fell again for a time. It was an oddly comfortable silence. After awhile, Guinan spoke. "Do you want to talk?" "About?" "Memories. I'm a good listener. I come from a long line of good listeners." Duncan shook his head. "No. I don't need to talk about it. I came to terms with it a long time ago." "Then why do you still feel guilty?" Her quiet words struck with the keen precision of a blade, sliding past his defenses, straight to the heart. He closed his eyes, not looking at her. "I don't," he lied. "You do. It's in your eyes, your voice, your body... come on. Surely there's a greasy spoon around here somewhere. Buy me coffee and we'll talk, you need it." He had to swallow before he could speak. There was an obstruction in his throat, and his vision was blurred. Neither had anything to do with alcohol. "I'm not sure I can," he whispered. "Then we'll sit in silence. You shouldn't be alone." That was the truth. He felt a sudden odd kinship with the woman at his side, a strong desire to turn her face to his and find out if her lips were as soft as they looked, to find out what her mask of serenity hid. But... there was Joe. He stepped back. "You wouldn't want the coffee at Mel's Place. That stuff'll kill you. How about you come to my place and I'll make coffee?" She cocked her head to one side and eyed him speculatively. "Step into my parlor?" He spread his hands. "Honest, I'm a gentleman." She gazed at him a moment, and nodded. "I know." He felt complimented. With a sweeping bow, he gestured toward the black Thunderbird in the lot behind them. "Your chariot awaits, milady." She laughed. "You do that so naturally." He shrugged. "I'm a bit of an anachronism." She paused, looking up into the darkness at stars she couldn't see, then shook her head and started for the car. "So am I." **** MacLeod's apartment was as interesting as his aura. An eclectic mixture of Eastern and Western influences, antique elegance, and modern comfort. She moved around the open loft examining various treasures as he busied himself in the kitchen. The paintings on the walls were all originals, the rugs on the floor hand-knotted. A black silk yukata hung starkly against a white brick wall, an artifact in itself. Photographs graced another wall, again originals, from the early days of photography. On a shelf a scattering of small objects caught her eye and she stopped to look at them. It was a collection of carved fetish figures. One in particular seemed to call out to her and she picked it up. It was a turtle fetish, a beautiful thing of translucent golden amber with inlaid turquoise eyes. Another fetish beckoned, and she touched it reverently. A frog, carved of some dark green stone. The style was distinctly different, she thought it might be Asian, rather than Native American. Both pieces were gorgeous. None of the others captured her interest quite as much. She looked up to find him watching her, and smiled, walking over to join him in the kitchen. There again, he was an odd mix of modern and archaic. The coffee maker was the yuppie sort that made everything from espresso to drip, and probably had a setting where it would wax the floor, but he was grinding the beans in an old-fashioned hand-crank grinder. She watched in bemused interest as he operated it, fascinated by the unconscious grace of his movements. As he set the coffee to brew, she finally spoke. "Is that a gym, downstairs?" "It's called a dojo; a school for martial arts. I own it. Sometimes I teach." "Ah, that explains it, then." "Explains what?" "The way you move." He turned from the refrigerator, a carton of cream in his hand. "What do you mean?" "You move beautifully, like a dancer." He chuckled, shaking his head, and rubbed the side of his nose. He seemed to do that when he was embarrassed. "I... ah... thanks." "For what? Stating the obvious?" He grinned. "Go on with you, what do you want?" "Do I have to want something?" "In my experience, most flatterers do." "I don't. No, I lied. Actually, I do. I want to know where you're from. Your accent slips in and out, and every time I think I've got it pegged, it changes." "I was born in Scotland, but I've lived all over the world. I guess I've picked up little bits and pieces from everywhere. Anything else you want to know?" "Are you any good?" His eyebrows lifted, his mouth curved. "At what?" he asked, his voice silky, and rich with innuendo. She returned his smile, her own voice just as seductive. "Swordsmanship, of course." She half expected him to make a double-entendre out of his reply, but instead he nodded, seriously. "I'm very good." "Why a sword?" she questioned. "For protection." "Wouldn't a gun be a lot easier to carry? I'm sure Freud would have some interesting things to say about your choice of weapon." That drew quick grin. "I'm quite comfortable with the size of my genitalia, thank you. Besides, when it comes right down to it, Freud would have had interesting things to say about any weapon. I carry a sword because it's honorable. You have to look a man in the eyes before you strike. With a gun it's too easy to forget who you face." She thought about that for a moment. "Interesting philosophy. Is swordsmanship one the things you teach?" "I can. My repertoire includes many weapons, many styles, many disciplines." "I've always wanted to learn to fence." "If you're as good with a sword as you are with words, you could be a master." She grinned. "Now who's flattering whom?" The coffee maker hissed steamily as it finished the brewing cycle, and MacLeod took two mugs from a cupboard. "Coffee's ready." He poured coffee into two mugs, handed her one, and picked up the other one himself. She added cream and sugar to her own, took a sip, and nodded happily. "Good coffee." "Thanks." She could tell he didn't plan to talk. He didn't trust her enough. Not surprising, since they'd just met. She would have to push it. She modulated her voice carefully when she spoke, using tones she knew would draw him in. "So... we were talking about memories." "Were we?" he said, resisting. She nodded, and added a few shades to her voice. He needed to talk, she didn't feel guilty about using her unique abilities to encourage him. "Some time back. I asked if you wanted to talk, you said you didn't think you could. I think you can, you just don't want to." He studied her for a moment, sipping his coffee. "It's not a pleasant tale. I don't think most people would really want to hear it." "I'm not most people. Tell me." She laced the words with her strongest urging yet. He walked away and stood, staring out the window into the darkness for several long, quiet minutes. After awhile, he began to speak. Guinan listened. Though there were odd hesitations here and there, and rather noticeable gaps in the story that she would have liked filled, it quickly became clear that she was listening to a man whose life had held more violence and sorrow than she could possibly have imagined. Who would have thought so young a man might have such things in his past? Was this what had shaped that brilliant soul? Was pain what brought out the promise inherent in this species? She shuddered at the thought. "Duncan, you can't blame yourself. From what you've told me about this man, he would have done it whether or not you had known Thalassa. She was a convenient target, and it was in his nature. You said yourself he had a reputation for torture, especially of women, and your having saved someone from him earlier was more than admirable, it was heroic." Duncan made a derisive sound. "Look what it got me." "Would you have been able to live with yourself if you hadn't?" There was a long silence, then the figure at the window moved minutely, his hand going out to flatten against the glass. "No," he whispered. "But to take her life..." "Would she have wanted to live as he had left her? Would she have lived more than a few days, at best, after what he'd done to her? You freed her. The soul holds only temporary residence in any body... she only needed your help moving on." "Do we have souls?" he asked bleakly. "Yes." she stated, firmly, unequivocally. "I wonder..." "Don't. You do." He turned and walked to the counter, set down his cup very carefully, as if it were eggshell thin and he were afraid of crushing it. "Maybe most do, but myself, I doubt." "Why should you be any different?" He smiled, but it held no humor. "Why indeed?" She moved to stand behind him. "Duncan, do you ever cry?" He turned, surprised. "I..." he stopped, and frowned. "Yes." She smiled. "There you are." "What do you mean?" "Tears. They're an admission of pain, of need, of humanity." "But I'm not human," he said bleakly. "Not any more." Guinan shivered, knowing he didn't mean that like her, he was not of Earth. "You are human, Duncan. No matter what you've done, no matter what you think you've become, you're still human. You are a child of Earth, and your heart will always be human." He stared down almost blindly at his hands where they were braced against the countertop. "You don't know what I am." "I know more than you think." He looked up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?" She shook her head. "You'll think I'm crazy." "No. I won't. I've seen too much in my life. Nothing's crazy any more." She studied him a moment, then nodded acceptance. "Fair enough. Well, I can sense things about people, things most people can't sense. You are... different. Very different, but still human. You feel pain, you feel love, you feel anger, hope, joy and sorrow... all the things that make humanity what it is. I don't know what makes you different, but I do know what makes you the same." She put one of her hands over one of his, and almost gasped as his `presence' flared into her. No wonder Joe was so fiercely protective of him, he probably drew people to him like moths to flame. Even without the aid of non-human senses, this man must shine like a beacon. He lifted her hand with his, and put his lips against her fingers for a moment. It sent a shock through her, a wave of desire. Still holding her hand, he spoke again, his lips so close to her skin that she could feel his breath with each word. "`I've seen sae mony changefu' years, on earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways o' men, alike unknowing and unknown.'" Oh, Great Ladies! A man who wasn't afraid to admit to knowing poetry! She wanted to melt against him, but knew better. He was so young, so human, so tempting... so against the rules. She pulled back. "As long as we're quoting maudlin Scots, perhaps a different one from Auld Robbie might be more appropriate; `O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us, to see oursel's as others see us!'" She sensed the change in his mood before he even smiled. "Ye've no' quite got the inflection there, but aye, you're right. Most times we have only our own eyes to see through, and our own perceptions can go awry. Ye hae the Gift, don't ye?" His accent was broad now, pure Scot, as if he had burned away all the other voices he'd acquired over the years. "You could call it that." "I've known others with it. 'Tis a singular talent." "A fairly useless one, most days. But not today, I think." He shook his head. "No, not today." He stared at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "There was no lost pin, was there?" She shook her head slowly, smiling a little. "No, just a lost soul." He shook his head, as if in disbelief, then looked to the window, and gestured to it. She saw the sky beginning to lighten with dawn. "Thank you, Guinan, for seeing me through 'til morning." "It was my pleasure." He grinned. "I would all women were so easily pleased. More coffee?" **** It was foggy and raining as Mulder stepped off the plane at Sea-Tac. He felt right at home. As they walked out of the gate, Scully nodded toward a tall, well-dressed Black man who held a sign with their names on it. Having not expected to be met, Mulder was curious, but cautious. Scully apparently had no qualms, since she stopped in front of the man and waved a hand toward Mulder. "I'm Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder. You are?" The man took a leather case from his pocket and opened it to reveal a badge and identification which he left open long enough for them to study. "Reed Bennett, homicide. I asked if I could come down and meet you after they showed me that fax you sent. You're the FBI agents working on that recent string of decapitations, right?" Mulder glanced around and satisfied himself that they weren't being listened to. "We are, though we'd prefer it not get bandied around. If the press picks up on it, we may lose our edge... if we even have one. You said you got the fax?" "Yeah, they showed it to me because a couple of the cases you were asking about were my cases. Unfortunately, I have to disappoint you. Your suspect doesn't look a thing like Duncan MacLeod." Bennett opened the portfolio he carried and took out a photograph which he handed to Scully. She took it, and her eyes widened slightly. Mulder tried not to be too obvious about looking over her shoulder, but even after she handed it to him he couldn't see what had elicited her reaction. It was a grainy black and white of some long-haired guy in a t-shirt and jeans, standing next to a younger man on a motorcycle. Neither subject bore the slightest resemblance to the photo they had of Russell Nash. He clenched his teeth against the disappointment, and cast around for an alternate explanation. "He could have had plastic surgery and dyed his hair." Scully looked at him and shook her head. "Not unless you know a plastic surgeon who can change someone's basic body structure. Look at this guy-- Nash is long and lanky, like you. MacLeod is much heavier-boned and muscular. You could possibly change part of that with weight training, but not to this extent." "Damn!" Mulder swore softly, shaking his head. "I was sure we were onto something when I saw that both suspects were antique dealers." Bennett looked puzzled for a moment. "Antiques? Oh, yeah. I'd almost forgotten. MacLeod got out of the antique business about two years ago, after his lady-friend was killed in a robbery. Now he runs a martial arts studio." Mulder looked up. "Martial arts? So this guy knows weapons and hand-to-hand combat techniques?" "Yes, to both questions. If you'd like to see my files on him you're welcome to, but I don't think he's your man. Actually, to tell the truth I was kind of relieved to see that MacLeod and Nash were obviously not the same person. In the course of my investigations, I've discovered he's a nice guy." "Remember, sociopaths can be extremely charming," Mulder pointed out, still not quite willing to let go of his only theory. Bennett studied him for a moment, a touch of annoyance creeping into his expression. "I'm well aware of that, Agent Mulder." Before Mulder could reply, Scully stepped into the conversation. "It's very generous of you to offer to share your files, Mr. Bennett. You'd be surprised how rarely local authorities extend such cooperation voluntarily." Bennett turned his attention to her, chuckling ruefully. "I know the feeling. Some sheriff's departments can be pretty territorial, too. It makes it damned hard to get anything done. Would you like to go down to headquarters, or would you rather check into a hotel first?" "We'd like to get started, so if you don't mind taking us to your office, that would be fine. Perhaps later you can recommend a place for us to stay, something suitable for a government expense account?" Bennett nodded sympathetically. "You mean someplace cheap, but without roaches or drunks? I think we can find something that fits the bill. Did either of you check luggage?" Mulder shook his head, holding out his suit-bag and carryall, as did Scully. Bennett nodded. "I kinda figured that. Come on, my car's this way." **** "I still think we should watch him." Mulder said, mulishly. "Mulder, we have no logical reason to suspect this guy!" Scully returned. "We've gone through Bennett's files and found nothing there to incriminate him. Not only that, but he gives to charities like a madman, his martial arts school initiated a program to help keep local youth off the streets, he's an art patron. He just doesn't fit the profile! And according to Bennett, he hasn't even been out of town for the past month." "That we know of." Mulder corrected her. "In some ways he doesn't fit the profile, in others, he does. He's got money, he does a lot of overseas travel, he knows bladed weapons and how to use them. He wouldn't be the first killer in history to appear to be a fine, upstanding member of the community. Besides, with those points of similarity, even if he's not the killer, he still might know something that could be useful." Scully sighed. "Okay, I'll give you that. Besides... we haven't got any other suspects." She threaded her fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp. "I've got a headache, I need food, what I really need is sleep, but I know I'm not going to get that anytime soon. Can we call the local Bureau office and have them put someone on him so we can at least get food and an hour off?" Mulder nodded. "That's reasonable. I could use food too... maybe a shower. I always feel more awake after a shower." Scully closed her eyes and sighed. "A shower sounds like heaven right now. I'll go find Bennett and ask him for the name of that motel. You call the office and see if you can get us a car and a map from the motor pool. We'll need transportation." "I could use a walk to stretch my legs, why don't I find Bennett and you can call the office?" "Because you've antagonized him enough for one day. Honestly, Mulder, for once we get cooperation and you have to make the guy out to be a moron!" "I did not!" "What about when you lectured him about sociopaths?" Mulder looked a bit embarrassed. "Oh. I, um... guess I should say something?" "No, let it drop, just don't do it again, okay?" He nodded. "Okay. I guess I've got phone duty again. Hand me that phonebook, will you?" She handed it to him, and left to hunt up Bennett. When she returned a few minutes later Mulder was standing up, coat in hand. "All set. We can pick up the car whenever we need it. Meanwhile, there's a place within walking distance that I've heard is interesting. Come on, it'll do us both good to get some fresh air." She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and pulled on her own coat. "I just hope it's stopped raining." It hadn't, but it had turned to more of a fine mist than true rain. Scully didn't mind walking in it, in fact, the cool moisture actually felt good on her face, and helped dispel her sleepiness. As they walked, she studied the area, and thought it looked rather industrial. It didn't look like an area where one would expect to find a restaurant, particularly a well-known one. That got her thinking about how Mulder would have heard of it... and she started to have second thoughts. Mulder was not known for his gourmet leanings. Why would he have heard of a restaurant in Seattle, when he barely knew any in D.C.? Mulder stopped in front of a building whose gray concrete exterior and frosted glass-block windows made her think of various prisons she'd visited. Her feeling of trepidation grew at the sight of the neon sign which glowed on the side of the building. She was not encouraged by the single word, "Joe's", but gamely followed Mulder into a small, dimly lit... bar. There was no mistaking it for anything else. The lack of food on any of the occupied tables confirmed it. She pulled up short. "Mulder, this is a bar. I thought we were getting something to eat!" "Ah, c'mon Scully, they're bound to have peanuts or something." Mulder headed for the bar where a worn-looking man in his late forties was carrying on an animated conversation with a customer. Scully followed, seething quietly. As they approached, the man broke off his conversation and smiled at them. Seen at closer range, he still looked weathered, but was also quite striking. The silvering in his dark hair and beard made him look rather distinguished, and his eyes were bright with humor and intelligence. "Can I help you folks?" If he'd been a woman she would have described him as `whiskey- voiced', but somehow that seemed too feminine a description for his pleasantly husky voice. "Coffee." Mulder said, then looked back at Scully expectantly. The thought of another cup of coffee turned her stomach, so she tried desperately to think of something a bar might serve that was even remotely food-like. It came to her. "I'd like a Virgin Mary, please." The man nodded, and picked up a cane she hadn't noticed earlier, then made his way around to the rear of the bar and began to fill their order. Scully guessed he was a double amputee by the way he walked. Turning aside so as not to seem like she was staring, she studied the room instead. The space was spare, almost as industrial as the building's exterior. The ceiling had been acoustically baffled, though, and a small stage at the front of the room hinted that it was a live-music venue on occasion, though at the moment the stage was unoccupied and the smoky blues playing on the sound system were pre-recorded. A few tables were occupied, but the place was only half-full. At three in the afternoon, that was hardly surprising. "Here you go." The bartender set their drinks on the counter. Scully's stomach growled at the sight of the celery stalk that garnished her glass. She felt herself color as the man grinned, reached beneath the counter and came up with a basket of pretzels. "Sounds like you could use these." She smiled and took it. "Thanks. He promised me food." Both the bartender and the guy he'd been talking with laughed at that. Feeling somewhat vindicated Scully took her drink and the pretzels and sat down at a table a few yards from the bar, leaving Mulder to settle the bill. When he joined her a moment later, he reached for the pretzels. She pulled the bowl out of reach and shook her head. "Uh-unh. Mine. Get your own." He shrugged and sipped his coffee, practicing brooding. "So, spill it. Why are we here, Mulder?" As he opened his mouth to answer, a young man with close-cropped, curly red hair barrelled noisily into the room. "Hey, Joe! Did Mac leave my keys with you?" he called to the bartender from halfway across the room. The man in question rolled his eyes and opened the cash drawer, extracting a set of keys which he tossed to the newcomer. "Yes, he did. Now get out of here before they close me down for letting in minors." It was obvious that he was teasing the kid, because though he did look young, he was clearly over eighteen. The red-head stiffened indignantly. "I am not..." He realized, belatedly, that he was being baited and grinned. "Not nice, Joe! I'll get you for that!" With that good-natured threat he turned and dashed back up the stairs. Scully turned to Mulder, eyes narrowed. "That was the guy in the photograph with MacLeod!" she hissed. Mulder nodded. "This place was mentioned in Bennett's files as one of MacLeod's hangouts. I thought it wouldn't hurt to check it out." Scully took a vicious bite out of her celery stalk and chewed it with great vigor. "I hope that's not me you're visualizing there," Mulder said, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else. She smiled saccharinely. "Whatever gave you that idea?" He winced. "I ah... should have told you. I'm sorry." "For God's sake, Mulder! You should know better than to pull this kind of crap! We're partners! You remember how that works, right? You tell me what you're planning, and I do the same! Get your head out, will you?" He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "I don't know what it is about this case Scully. I feel like I'm stumbling around in the dark. I just can't seem to get a line on it, can't make a connection. It's driving me crazy! I feel like I'm missing something incredibly obvious!" He drained his cup and sat staring at it disconsolately. Scully felt some of her anger ebb. She knew that feeling all too well. "I wish we had something more to go on. It's really frustrating to see part of the pattern, but not know where it started or where it leads." "Exactly," Mulder sighed. "I'm going to get a refill. Want another one of those?" She shook her head and watched him walk over to the bar and extend his cup to `Joe', who took it and turned away to fill the cup. She saw Mulder straighten suddenly, and his face became intent. When `Joe' turned back and handed Mulder the cup, they spoke for a moment, and the bartender shook his head. Mulder shrugged, and returned to the table. "What was that all about?" "He wouldn't let me pay for the refill." "That's all? It seemed like you were awfully interested in something over there." "Damn, and here I thought I was so subtle. You're absolutely right. Our friendly neighborhood barkeep has a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist. I noticed it when he took my cup. Care to guess what it looks like?" It took a lot of willpower not to turn and look at the man behind the bar, but somehow she managed it. "A ring containing a kind of y-shaped bar across the lower quarter?" she asked quietly. "Bingo! You're good at guessing games. We should play charades sometime." "Potential victim, then?" "Who knows? Maybe they're all part of some secret society. In any case, considering the link between this place and MacLeod, it seems like maybe I wasn't wrong about him being a suspect." "Or another potential victim, maybe. Remember, pairs. One with a tattoo, one without." Mulder's head came up and he stared at her. "That's it! Scully, that's it! We need to find out if all the non-tattooed victims had the same sort of abnormal decay patterns as the one in Reno! If so, maybe what we have is a group of test and control subjects!" Scully stared back. "What sort of experiment would we be talking about here?" "I don't know. You said the guy in Reno showed abnormal lymph and spleen development. What would that affect?" Scully thought about it for a moment, frowning. "Well, commonly there would be two reasons to find lymph nodes and spleen displaying the sort of characteristics we saw there. First would be if the person was fighting off a massive infection of some sort, second would be if they had cancer. However, since neither of those things were the case, I am left positing that in Mr. Corben, the resting state of those organs was somehow enhanced, so that if a stress were to come along, his immune system would be better able to deal with it." "Immune system enhancement? I wonder if that's what it is? In this age of AIDS, it might be worth experimenting with." "I keep up with the literature, Mulder. I would have read about it if the FDA had approved any sort of experimental therapy on human beings." "Only if they were approved. Maybe someone's eliminating the evidence of unauthorized human trials." Scully shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense! If they were doing that, they'd do it in a way that wouldn't attract attention. Something that looked like natural causes, not a series of clear-cut murders!" Mulder sighed. "You're right. Damn. I really thought I had something there." "Still, it wouldn't hurt to check on similarities. I'll call around when we get back to the station." "Humoring the crazy man?" She smiled. "No. Too many of your hunches have panned out for me to disregard them now." Dana saw movement on the stairs that led up to the second entrance to the bar and glanced up, then stared. MacLeod. She recognized him, but she would have stared anyway. The man was just plain stunning. She'd noticed it in the grainy surveillance photo Bennett had shown her, but that had not prepared her for the reality of him. Beautifully proportioned, he had the face of a Renaissance prince; olive-skinned, with full, sensual lips, and dark, bedroom eyes. Even in faded jeans and an old, stretched-out sweater he was remarkable. "Did Fabio just walk in or what?" Mulder asked drily. It took her a moment to register what Mulder had said, but finally she did, and her attention snapped back to her partner as she stared at him in horror. He was regarding her with an amused expression, but hadn't turned around to see what she was looking at, thank goodness. "Uh... no, our suspect did," she said, matter-of-factly, hoping it was dark enough in the bar that he wouldn't notice her blushing. Mulder sat up straighter. "MacLeod?" he asked quietly. "None other." "What's he doing?" "Going over to the bar. He looks worried." Mulder looked at his full cup and swore. "Damn, why didn't I wait to get a refill? I could go eavesdrop!" Scully tipped her glass and finished the last of her drink. "I'll go. I need another celery stick anyway." She got up and walked toward the bar, placing a supporting pillar between herself and them for a moment to see if she could hear anything. "...got to thinking that the timing was strange." MacLeod was saying. He had an interesting accent, she thought it was Scottish but wasn't quite sure. He continued, obviously unaware that he was being overheard. "For her to show up now just seemed too great a coincidence, so I did some checking. It took me two hours of calling around to some of the other musicians just to find her name is Guinan Lawrence. Knowing that, it shouldn't have been hard to get some hard information on her, but there's nothing to find! She has no driver's license, no passport, no social security number, no one knows where she's from or where she lives. She doesn't even seem to have a credit history of any kind! It's like she doesn't exist!" "I can't believe you'd check up on her like that! That's pretty damned cold, Mac!" Joe was clearly angry with MacLeod, and had no qualms about letting him know it. Not the behavior of a man who felt he was threatened. "I'm worried about you! And about me, for that matter! With what's been happening, we can't take chances! I don't want to believe anything bad of her either, I like her, a lot, and she seems to be genuine, but what if she's not? Last night I told her things I've never even told most of my friends! I'd only known her a day. Don't you find that odd? I didn't then, but I do now. How did she do that? How did she make me trust her like that? Joe, What if it's her? What if she's working with Dane?" "No, I refuse to believe that. I am not that poor a judge of character." "Joe, I have two words for you. James Horton." That was met with silence. After a moment Scully decided she'd heard all she was going to, and moved from behind the pillar to set her glass on the countertop. It took a moment for the men to realize she was there. There was enough tension between them to practically electrify the air around them. MacLeod noticed her first, and stepped back. "I'm sorry, go ahead. We were just talking." She nodded. "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation, but I would like another drink." "Of course." Joe smiled. "Two celery sticks this time?" She smiled. "That would be great!" He was so pleasant to her that it was hard to believe that moments earlier his manner had been clearly angry. MacLeod stood unmoving, arms crossed in a slightly defensive posture. He remained silent as Joe fixed her drink and put two stalks of celery into it with a flourish. "Here you go, that'll be two even. And I'll throw in some free advice. Don't let him get away with being such a cheap date. Make him take you to dinner." She shook her head, grinning as she handed him her money. "He's not my date, we just work together." Joe shook his head in mock disgust. "Then he's even dumber than I thought." She laughed, delighted by the banter. "You, sir, are a flirt." He grinned back. "Sometimes." "When he's not being surly to his friends." MacLeod muttered behind her. She pretended she hadn't heard that and took her drink back to the table. "Enjoy yourself?" Mulder asked drily. "Actually, yes, but I also overheard some interesting things." She took a small notepad out of her pocket and jotted down the names she'd overheard. "Something about the way they talked makes me think they know what's been happening. They seemed worried, and MacLeod had been checking up on a woman he thought might be a threat. He also mentioned a couple of other names in that context. We can check those out, if nothing else." Mulder was frowning. "They know about the murders?" "I can't say for sure, but MacLeod talked about `what's been happening' and `not taking chances'. I suppose he could have been referring to just about anything, but considering the fact that the bartender has the tattoo, it seems logical to assume that they were talking about the murders." Mulder nodded, looking distracted. "Interesting. If they perceive a threat toward themselves as opposed to against someone else..." he shook his head. "I hate it when things get complicated. And I still want to know what those tattoos are all about. It's like it's some sort of secret club or something!" He suddenly sat up straight. "Let's go back to the station. I need to call someone, and I don't want to do it from here." Scully nodded and finished her drink. "I wonder if they have a vending machine at the station?" she said wistfully, digging a five-dollar bill out of her wallet and laying it on the table to cover the tip. "I still need food." "What, pretzels and celery sticks don't do it for you?" She shook her head. "You owe me lunch, Mulder. No, make it dinner. Seafood, preferably." "After we pick up the car we can stop by a Burger King and get you a Whaler." "Don't start with me, Mulder, or the next decapitation in Seattle is likely to be yours. With a plastic knife." **** Joe watched the woman finish her drink, and then she and her friend stood to leave. He nodded toward them. "Pretty lady," he commented quietly to Duncan. MacLeod shrugged. "Was she? I didn't notice." Joe shook his head. "You must be preoccupied. I've never known you not to notice an attractive woman before!" Duncan smiled a little and studied her covertly as she walked up the stairs. "She is, isn't she? Kind of a forties-look, with those lips. The suit's a bit too staid for her, though." "I don't know, it seemed okay to me." Duncan eyed him, taking in the flannel shirt he wore over an old Harley-Davidson t-shirt, and lifted an eyebrow. "Fashion wisdom coming from someone who's gotten into `grunge' at your age? That's coming it a bit strong if you ask me." "I haven't had a chance to do laundry, and these were clean." "You need a maid." "Not on your life! I don't want anyone poking around in my stuff, thanks. Neither should you, if it comes right down to it. If someone were to find the Watcher files..." "Point taken. Speaking of Watchers, any more news?" Joe nodded grimly. "This one's the worst yet, Los Angeles, three days ago, and this time the young woman our man was dating was also killed. She wasn't even a Watcher, for God's sake!" "Have you heard from Dane's Watcher yet?" Joe shook his head. "No, and I'm starting to worry. Dane could have killed him too." "It's possible. Three days ago... wasn't that the same day Dane was seen in northern California? Joe nodded. "Damn. California isn't all that far from here. Joe, I think you should start carrying your gun." "What for? It wouldn't do me any good!" "If you can put him down long enough that he has to spend time healing, it should give you the time you need to get away, or even long enough to use your Bowie to make it permanent." Joe nodded grimly. "You have a point." "Have you alerted the other Watchers here?" Joe nodded. "I put out a network-wide alert last night, and asked everyone to keep their eyes open for Dane." "Good. I told Richie this morning, and he's going up to warn Amanda and Michelle. Look, I know I shouldn't ask this, but will you tell me who the victims are so far? You don't have to give me the Watcher's names, but I'd like to know who the Immortals were." Joe sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then nodded. "You'll find out eventually anyway, but you're not going to like it." He grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen, and began to write. After a moment he handed the list to MacLeod, his mouth set. Duncan took it, ran down the list, and looked up at Joe, his face ashen. "Joe... these are all students of mine! Every one of them is someone I've mentored! Damn it, he's doing this to get to me!" Joe nodded. "I know, Duncan. I realized that last night." Duncan looked again at the last name on the list and closed his eyes, leaning against the counter. Kwame Bere. They had been friends since the Civil War, and they'd just spoken a bare three weeks earlier, trying to find time to get together. To his surprise he felt the sting of tears behind his closed eyelids... something he'd not felt in a long time. He remembered Guinan's words to him the night before and knew she was right. He also felt a stirring of guilt for wondering if she were somehow involved in all this. But how could he not wonder? "MacLeod?" He straightened and opened his eyes. Joe was watching him, clearly concerned. "It never gets any easier." Duncan said quietly. A moment later the pain was subsumed by anger. "I want him," he said, his voice flat. "And I'll have him." "You'd be doing the world a favor, but Mac, can you beat him? He's taken a lot of Quickenings lately, he could be stronger than you are." "He could be," Duncan admitted, then he lifted an eyebrow, "but I'm better." Joe grinned. "Don't get cocky." "I'm not. Just confident." Duncan stiffened suddenly. "Richie! I've got to..." "Settle down! Richie's fine, he won't even be back until tomorrow morning, remember? You gave me his keys to hold for him, remember?" Duncan relaxed, nodding. "Right. I'll tell him as soon as he's back." "Good." Joe looked up at the empty stage for a moment, then back. "Mac, you don't really think she's got anything to do with this, do you?" Duncan sighed. "I don't know what to think. I suppose it's just barely possible to exist in the world without a paper trail of some sort, but it certainly looks damning from here." "Your own past might look as mysterious to an outsider." Joe pointed out reasonably. "Once, perhaps, but in recent years I've always been careful to make an identity trail for every persona I've adopted. Joe, I know how to create a paper-trail. I know what a real one looks like and what a fake one looks like, but this is the first time I've ever come up against one that was utterly nonexistent! Why?" "There could be any number of reasons why someone might use an assumed name. She's a singer, it could just be her stage name." "True," Duncan admitted grudgingly. "But then why didn't she tell us her real name?" "Why should she? It's not like we're long-time friends. We've barely met. Who knows? Maybe she likes to play games." Was she playing some sort of game? The woman who had helped him through last night's bout of depression had not struck him as a game- player. Duncan had to acknowledge Joe's point that they were not close, though after last night, she had seemed so. He wasn't sure how Joe would feel about the time he'd spent with Guinan, so he didn't mention it, though in truth there was nothing to hide. Hiding... "Maybe she's hiding from someone." That idea made him feel marginally better. It was a motivation he could understand. "She doesn't seem the type to hide," Joe said, dubiously. "She doesn't seem the type to play games, either." "True." "Maybe you should just ask her," said someone behind them. Duncan spun, startled, to find the woman in question standing not three feet from him, her arms crossed, with an expression that looked suspiciously like amusement on her face. #### =========================================================================