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 3 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 3 c. 1995 Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka Guinan stood at the entrance to the bar and waited for the couple who were coming out. They were a good-looking pair, the woman short, rounded, and red-haired, the man tall, lean and dark. At odds with their looks, they appeared tense, distracted and almost grim. The man studied her as he moved past, his gray-green gaze disturbingly sharp and analytic. She nodded politely as he passed, wondering vaguely why he looked so suspicious. Had she ever met him before? She didn't think so. They paused a moment beneath the overhang to fasten their coats against the rain, and she caught just a bit of their conversation as she opened the door to the bar. "...on those autopsy reports from the other killings, and find out if there are any similarities. Who are you going to call?" the woman was asking her companion. "An old professor of mine from Oxford. He's a medieval historian, but he sidelights writing pop books on secret societies like the Templars, the Rosicrucians, that sort of thing. If anyone can identify that tattoo, it's probably him." "Secret societies, Mulder? That's a bit farfetched," the red-head chided softly, fond amusement in her voice. "What about this case isn't?" the man answered her, then stepped out into the rain. Guinan shivered. Not a pleasant subject at all. No wonder they looked grim. They must be police officers. That would account for the man's mannerisms. She pushed open the door to the bar and found the atmosphere inside no less somber than that outside. Duncan was at the counter, apparently arguing with Joe, his bright aura dampened by strong emotions. She sighed. So much for the work she'd done with him last night. He was in pain again, and this time there were nuances of fear and anger as well. Joe's normally calm presence seemed substantially awry as well. She moved closer and listened to them for a moment. After a few sentences she realized with some amusement that they were arguing about her. She had sensed that they were both attracted to her, but this didn't seem like that sort of alpha-male bickering. She had to admit that she felt rather attracted to both of them, unfortunately no matter what the attraction, one of the first rules of Visitation was that you simply didn't get involved with the natives that way; which at times was both a damned shame and a real nuisance. However, she thought she ought to break this nonsense up before it got any worse. She moved forward, and stopped just behind them. They didn't notice. She crossed her arms and waited for them to look up, and they didn't. Finally, she interrupted their tennis-match of a conversation. "Maybe you should just ask her," she said quietly. Duncan turned, obviously startled. Joe looked just as surprised. It was hard not to be amused by them, but she did manage not to smile. Was that a blush beneath Duncan's five-o-clock shadow? What had they been discussing? "Ah... Guinan... hi," he stammered, clearly at a loss. "Hi yourself. So what is it you boys wanted to know?" she asked deliberately, then the mischief-maker inside her prompted her to go on. "And no, I don't do threesomes." Duncan exchanged an incredulous look with Joe, and then both of them burst out laughing, a bit nervously, but it was still laughter, and that was a vast improvement. She had to repress a smile at the simultaneous surge of interest she sensed from both of them. Even if she couldn't act on it, it was still flattering. Males. So predictable, no matter what the species. "That's better. But really, what are you so upset about? I'd hate to think all this--" she waved her hand vaguely in the air, "atmosphere-- was because of me." "No, not at all..." Joe began "Well, sort of..." Duncan said, simultaneously. Guinan sighed. "I guess I'd better give you two a chance to coordinate your stories, hunh? I'll be right back." She headed off in the direction of the ladies' room. Her hearing was good enough that she could still hear them from there. She hadn't been kidding when she said she came from a long line of listeners. "Well?" Joe said, after a moment. "Well what?" Duncan responded, sounding somewhat churlish. "Are you going to ask her?" "Ask her what, for God's sake? `Oh, by the way, are you somehow connected to this fiend who's been murdering my friends'? What sort of cretin do you think I am? I don't want to suspect her, I just don't know what to think after what I found out." The shock that went through her at Duncan's words kept her from hearing Joe's response. Murder? Well, that certainly explained the conversation she'd overheard outside the bar. But why would he think she might be involved? What could she have done to make him think such a thing? A wave of hurt surged through her, then she managed to push it back. He had followed the thought with an expression of concern. Whatever his suspicions, he was obviously disturbed by them. Feeling rather subdued, she went back out and joined them, looking from one unquestionably uncomfortable male to the other. "So," she started, knowing she would have to be the one to initiate this conversation. "Something's wrong, and it has to do with me. What is it?" "It's-- hard to explain," Duncan said, having trouble meeting her gaze. "Try. You know I'll listen, you know I won't judge." She gazed at him until he met her eyes. He looked into them a moment, then nodded. He thought for a moment, then began. "Remember the man I told you about last night?" Joe did a rapid double take at Duncan, who was watching Guinan and missed it. "Go on," she said, keeping her voice carefully even. "I think he may be killing again, killing friends of mine." She stiffened, outraged. "And you think that I..." she began, only to have him interrupt immediately. "No! I don't! I don't want to, anyway. But... Guinan, who are you? You're a mystery!" She went cold. He knew. Nonsense, he couldn't know. She took a deep breath. "I don't understand." "Because of what's happened, I started to wonder about you, about the timing. I asked some questions about you, and found nothing. You have no past. It's like you never existed until we met you. Who are you? What are you doing here?" Relief washed through her, intense and ecstatic. "Is that all?" Both of them looked surprised by her response. "What?" Duncan asked. "Is that all you're worried about?" "Well, yes." He admitted warily. She gave a silent prayer of thanks to a divinity this world had never created for having had the foresight to create a background that people could actually check out. It hadn't been all that hard, the computer systems on Earth were no match for hers, even though she'd never expected to have to use it. She glanced around and leaned forward confidentially. "Well, I will tell you who I am, and what I'm doing here, but you have to promise not to tell Danny or the other guys." "Danny? The guys?" Duncan asked, blankly. "Danny's the saxman in the band. I'm a cultural anthropologist, and I'm working on the subculture of jazz and blues musicians. If the guys find out who, or rather, what I am, it would skew my research. My real name is Guinan El-Aurian, you can check that out if you like. I guess I can't blame you for being suspicious, with someone like that psycho hunting you." "Anthropologist?" Joe asked, looking a bit stunned. "El-Aurian?" Duncan asked. "No wonder I didn't find anything under `Lawrence.'" She nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, it just never occurred to me that it might cause a problem." Duncan leaned against the counter with a sigh, his big body going almost boneless. "I canna tell you how relieved I am." "Sure you can. In fact, I'd like to hear it." "Why don't I show you instead?" he asked, and without warning enveloped her in a hug. She was startled, and momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him, then she managed to slam down her mental dampers and stop wallowing in him. Her nose was about even with his sternum. She hadn't realized that he was quite so... tall. Or was it that she was short? She patted him on the back in what she hoped was a friendly fashion, managing somehow not to move her hands down to a slightly lower portion of his anatomy, then stepped back. "That's better." She looked over at Joe expectantly. "Well?" He grinned and hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her in for a hug. Joe was a couple of inches shorter than Duncan, but not a lot, her nose came just about to the same place on him. Before he let her go, he planted a quick kiss on her mouth. Duncan frowned, crossing his arms on his chest. "Not fair, Joe." Duncan said, shaking his head. "Don't be such an old fogey, Duncan." Joe returned, with peculiar emphasis. "I'm not!" "Are too." Joe retorted, chuckling, loosening his arms from around her. A good deal more flustered than she ought to be, Guinan quickly stepped out of reach of both of them, clearing her throat, still feeling the imprint of lips on her own. "Well, I... ah..." she stammered, not really sure what it was she wanted to say. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that rule?" She blinked at Duncan. "Excuse me? What rule?" He grinned. "The one about no threesomes." "Duncan!" Joe exclaimed in scandalized tones that she could tell were utterly fake even without using a smidgeon of empathy. She giggled, and put a hand over her mouth, horrified. Giggles? At her age? Tai'ai'la, these two were dangerous! "That is quite enough," she managed to say sternly. "I am not that kind of girl!" "Oh? What kind are you?" Duncan inquired ingenuously. She tried, she really tried not to laugh, but she couldn't. She had to sit down because she was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Joe went behind the bar and poured a glass of water, then handed it to Duncan who passed it to her. She managed to drink it, and came up gasping, but not laughing any more. When she'd finally recovered enough to speak, she looked from one to the other of them, shaking her head. "Maybe I should be doing my thesis on bartenders and their friends." They exchanged one of those looks that maddened her, because she knew damned well they were hiding something, then Joe shrugged nonchalantly. "It wouldn't be a very interesting study." Duncan nodded. "Boring, in fact." Guinan sighed. "I wish I could remember why I like you two." "Probably my dashing manner," Joe said. "And my butt." Duncan added, eyes on the ceiling, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he desperately tried to keep a straight face. She giggled again and stood up, decisively. "Okay, that's it! I'm getting out of here before I do something I'll regret. When I come back, I expect the two of you to behave yourselves!" She fled the bar, trying to remember why on earth she'd gone in there in the first place. It didn't come back to her. A few steps down the street a sudden odd sensation swept over her and she stopped, looking around. What was it? That... feeling, almost like what she sensed when Duncan was present, but at the same time so, so different. She shuddered, and hurried on toward her car. Whatever it was, she didn't like it at all. **** "That one." "Her?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because she means something to him. To both of them." "But I..." "It has to have meaning or it won't do anything for you, I've told you that before, haven't I?" "Yes. Her, then." "Perhaps others. We'll see." "When?" "Soon." **** Mulder sat in the local FBI superintendent's office, making airplanes out of paper from the recycling bin, and waiting for the phone to ring. It was the middle of the night in Oxford, he hoped Professor Drexler and whoever he was rousting out of bed to turn on a fax machine would forgive him for this. If it weren't so damned important, he would have waited until it was a reasonable hour there, but he couldn't afford any delays. He never had understood the European habit of turning off fax machines at night. What was the point of having one if you didn't leave it on? Scully poked her head in the door, smiling. "Yates is making a deli run, want something?" "He's a saint!" Mulder said, grinning, "I want a pastrami and swiss on rye, please! Have you got those sketches ready?" She nodded. "One more set coming through as we speak, once I've got that one, we're set. You have a fax number yet?" He shook his head. "Still waiting." She smiled encouragingly. "Hopefully not much longer, though. Let me know. Oh, and guess what..." "What?" "It looks like you were right. So far I've contacted eight of the coroners who've worked on these killings, and all the untattooed corpses show unusual rates of decay. All the tattooed ones seem to be normal, for whatever that's worth. I'm going to go put in our orders." She ducked out again, leaving him alone with his airplanes. His cellular shrilled at him, and he grabbed it, extending the antenna. "Mulder." "Hey Mulder, it's Tony." For a second he didn't place the voice, because he was expecting a cultured British accent, not a downtown Philadelphian one. "Tony? Oh, Tony! What's up, man?" "You wanted me to research the ID on that corpse in Reno, right? Well, I just finished the search, and your suspicions panned out. The real Frederick Corben died back in 1961, a few days after he was born. Whoever this is, he ain't Corben, but he-- or someone anyway, has been using this ID for a long time. I found a social security number issued to him in 1964." Mulder stared blankly at the wall. The man who had died in Reno would have been three years old in 1964. Why would someone have gotten a three year old a social security card? Giving children social security numbers wasn't common practice back then. Strange. "Tony, keep checking on him. In fact, check out the ID's of some of the other victims too, especially the ones who didn't have tattoos." "You've got it. I'll let you know if I find anything else." "Thanks." He thumbed off the cellular and set it on the desk, then stared over at the desk phone as if he could make it ring. "A watched phone never boils," he muttered to himself. Scully came back in, holding a stack of loose papers. "Here's what I've been able to find on that James Horton guy MacLeod mentioned, and There's an interesting connection there, though. James Horton was the brother-in-law of Joe Dawson, the bartender with the tattoo." Mulder whistled. "Brother in law? The plot thickens." "So it seems. Horton had some pretty strange stuff in his file; I had to get a bunch of it from Interpol. Apparently he ran some sort of international corporation, and was suspected of arms trading, among other things. He was found dead in Paris about a year and a half ago, stabbed through the throat. According to the autopsy he had recently recovered from what appeared to be a sword wound in the thoracic region." Mulder frowned. "Swords again! What'd these guys do, piss off a medievalist?" Scully shrugged. "Could be a Tong thing, some of the gangs in Pacific Rim countries still use swords." "True. And if Horton was an arms dealer there could be connections to organized crime all over the place." "I've asked for more information on him, we'll see if anything else turns up. I'm going to go back out to see if my last fax has come in yet." "What about the woman they mentioned, or the other man?" "Guinan Lawrence?" Scully shook her head. "I've had as little success there as Mr. MacLeod apparently did. I haven't come up with a scrap using that name. I don't know whether that's suspicious or not. They mentioned something about her and musicians, so it could be a stage name I suppose. I just wish I had some sort of description of her. As for the other name, it was just a single name and I don't even know if it's a first or last. That makes it kind of tough to check out." Mulder nodded, frustrated. "Thanks for doing all the legwork on this, by the way." Scully nodded. "Next time it's your turn." The phone rang, and Mulder picked it up as Scully left the room. "Mulder." "Hello, Mr. Mulder." This time the accent was right. "Dr. Drexler! Did you find someone with a working fax?" "I did, though I'll probably have to buy them a bottle of sherry in return for waking them up at this hour. Here's the number," he rattled off a number which Mulder scrawled onto one of his paper airplanes. Stretching out the phone-cord unmercifully, he went to the door, and looked out into the bullpen. Spotting Scully, he waved at her until she looked up, and then sent the airplane sailing over to her. She looked startled, but caught it and saw the number, and nodded. She picked up a folder and started to dial a number on the fax machine. "My partner is sending the information through to you as we speak, and if you send me the bill for that sherry, I'll reimburse you." "I shall. What's this about, Fox?" "I can't say, really, but it has to do with a case. These tattoos are just about the only clue we've been able to come up with so far. There's no record of anything similar to them in our cult activity files, but they looked like something a secret society might use. Naturally, I thought of you." "Naturally?" Drexler sounded amused. "My hobby made that big an impression on you? I had always wondered why you stuck it out in my classes." "You were the best, why else?" "Well, I thought perhaps it had something to do with that young woman who usually sat in the front row." Mulder chuckled ruefully. "I'd have been better off paying more attention to you and less to her, as it turned out." "Well, that's always gratifying for a teacher to hear. Ah, here we are, the fax is coming through now. Let me see here..." There was silence for a few moments broken only by the distant rustle of paper. Finally Mulder broke the silence. "Well? Have you seen these before?" "I'm afraid I have, but I don't think what I can tell you will be of much use. I think someone may be playing a game with you." "Why? What are they?" "These symbols belong to a mythical group known as `The Watchers.' Have you read any of the `Witch' books by that woman who writes all those vampire novels?" Mulder frowned, puzzled. "Yeah, why?" "Do you recall the secret organization she invented, the ones who watched the witch family?" "Yes." "These `Watchers' are similar, in that they were supposedly organized hundreds of years ago in order to observe certain unusual individuals and keep accounts of their activities." "Unusual individuals? What sort of unusual individuals?" "Here is where the story takes a detour into fantasy, Mr. Mulder. These `unusual individuals' are supposedly immortals." "Immortals? As in, they can't die?" "Not under most circumstances, no. They don't seem to become ill, and your `everyday' lethal wounds simply heal. They can be permanently killed only one way. Decapitation." Mulder almost dropped the phone. "What did you say?" "They can be killed by decapitation. According to legend, these beings practice a kind of trial-by-combat ritual wherein the winner gains a sort of mystical energy that is released when the loser dies. Really dies, that is, as opposed to temporarily dying." "This is incredible!" "I did tell you that it was rather fantastical. I'm sorry I haven't been more helpful." "No, Professor, you've given me exactly the information I needed. I can't thank you enough!" Mulder hung up, and sat staring at the phone until Scully poked her head in the door. "Well? Did he have anything?" "Yes... but I'm not sure what to make of it. It's pretty bizarre." Scully's eyes widened. "You think it's bizarre? I'm all ears!" She pulled out a chair and sat down, looking at him expectantly. He explained briefly, and by the end of the explanation, she was scowling. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you? Besides, they're either immortal or they're not. If they can be killed, they're not immortal. They may be pretty resistant, but they're not immortal." "Hell, Scully, I don't believe it, why should you? And I didn't name them, either. However, if Professor Drexler knew this information, it's a safe bet that other people do too. There may be a group of people who've been playing at being these... immortals, and watchers, it may explain what's been happening. Someone's gone over the edge and is trying to make fantasy a reality." She nodded, eyes distant. "That makes sense. Kind of like those Dungeon and Dragons scares back in the '80's." Mulder sighed. "No, not at all like that. Didn't you know that whole thing was just media hype? We're not talking about a bunch of kids playing games, or weekend re-creationists here. These are adults, and they're deadly serious about this, or at least some of them are. I think it's time to talk to MacLeod, and that bartender, what was his name? Oh yeah, Dawson. We can split up and each take one of them. They must know about this, but they're probably reluctant to go to the police because of the more bizarre aspects of this case." "Which reminds me, I just got back the ID's on the last month's worth of long-distance phone bills from Kwame Bere, one of the men who were killed in Los Angeles. Guess whose number showed up twice?" "MacLeod's?" "Exactly. The last call was about three weeks ago." "So, does that put him back to being a suspect, or is he still a potential victim?" Scully shook her head. "I don't know, Mulder. I just don't know." Mulder hauled a quarter out of his pocket. "Heads or tails?" "Gambling's illegal in most states, Mulder. If I'm going to break the law, I'd at least like to know what I'm gambling on." He grinned. "Dawson or MacLeod." She grinned back. "Tails." He spun the coin and caught it, then slapped it onto his hand. "Tails it is." She smiled. "Good." He looked up, lifting an eyebrow. "Good? Why good?" Did he imagine it or did she look a little discomfited by his question? "Because I'm curious about this Immortal thing, and I want a closer look. Maybe there's some sort of physical abnormality I can spot." That sounded reasonable, but remembering the man in the bar, and looking at her, he felt a sudden trepidation. "Now that I think about it, maybe it's not such a good idea to split up. Maybe I should go with you." "Nonsense, Mulder, why? Time is of the essence and we can cover more ground this way. Are you afraid he'll hurt me?" "He is a lot bigger than you are. He's an expert in martial arts... he could be dangerous." "I thought we agreed he's not a suspect." "You agreed. I only agreed that it seems likely he's not, but the possibility is still there. You could get hurt." She crossed her arms, chin lifting. She clearly sensed a battle. "Who is it that's always getting beat up, me or you? You never know when a bartender will get mean... you could be in a lot of danger yourself." He had to acknowledge her point. The score was definitely weighted in his direction. He made a disgusted face. "You would point that out. Tell you what, I'll watch out for Dawson's cane and the liquor bottles, if you promise to watch out for Mr. Fists of Fury. If he really is immune to gunshot, you could be in trouble." "I've got my trusty Swiss Army knife. If anything happens I'll aim for the throat." Mulder had to smile at that, and raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, go on, but be careful, Scully." She nodded. "You too, Mulder. One other thing... remember you've got the cellular this time, and don't go haring off without telling me!" "I promise." She nodded and left the room, keys in hand. He realized he'd have to commandeer a second vehicle. Oh well. **** Standing in the doorway of DeSalvo's Martial Arts, waiting for the class to end, Scully was trying hard not to stare. It wasn't every day she was treated to a spectacle like watching Duncan MacLeod work out. The man moved like a panther, all sleek, dark grace and power. He also seemed to have pretty infinite patience. You'd have to, working with a class full of ten- year-olds. Watching his manner with the kids, it was hard to imagine him as either a victim or an aggressor. She could see him in a fight, yes, but never one he'd picked. She winced as one of the kids caught him just above the knee with a kick that was hard enough to stagger him a little. A few inches higher and that would have been damned unpleasant, she imagined. He didn't react angrily, but rather took the kid aside and showed her how to correctly execute the move. She got it, and returned to the group, beaming proudly. "Which one's yours?" someone asked from behind her. Startled, she turned to the middle-aged woman standing next to her. "Excuse me?" "Jada's mine," she said, nodding toward the group. "She's the one that just messed up." "Oh!" Scully realized that the woman thought she was parent to one of the kids in the class. She shook her head. "None of them are mine, I'm just here to see Mr. MacLeod." "Lucky you," the woman said, grinning. "Why don't you go on in and wait in his office?" She pointed to the glassed-in cubicle across the room. "Is that okay? I didn't want to interrupt the class." "Just don't walk on the mats and no one will mind." Scully nodded and stepped into the room, wishing her heels didn't make quite so much noise on the wooden floor. She saw MacLeod look up as she crossed the room, and a slight frown drew vertical lines between his heavy eyebrows. He was trying to place her. She wondered if he would remember her from the bar. She slipped into the office and sat down, looking around. The room was neat, disciplined. Not too surprising, she thought, for someone who taught a craft whose very essence was discipline. The only threat to order in the room were a mug of cold coffee, and a small book which lay open on the desk. She looked at the book, and her eyebrows lifted. Novalis' "Hymns to the Night." Interesting choice of reading material. She picked up the book and read a few lines, "As life's innermost soul it's breathed by the giant-world of restless stars, and swims dancing in its blue tide-- the glittering stone breathes it, the peaceful plant and the animal's so many formed, Ever moved force-- Many-colored clouds and breezes breathe it, and above all that splendid stranger with sensuous eyes, with gliding gait and with sounding mouth." Abruptly she put it back down, feeling that the poem was far too well suited to the thoughts she'd been thinking as she watched him. `Splendid stranger' indeed. Maybe she should have let Mulder talk to MacLeod. Was she going to be able to be objective? She looked into the work-out area, and saw the kids lining up in front of him. He had his back to her. They bowed, then he bowed. She studied the view. Nice. Realizing what she was doing, she looked away as the kids began to file toward the stairs. The dressing rooms must be up there. Apparently class was over. MacLeod turned and looked at her, still seeming a bit puzzled. He must not have recognized her. He took a step toward the office, then stopped, shot her an apologetic glance and held up a finger, obviously indicating that he'd be with her shortly, and disappeared up the stairs. She tapped her toes and played with the handle on her briefcase, then glanced around. Seeing no one watching, she picked up the rolodex on the desk and looked through it. Bere, Kwame. There it was. She checked for some of the other names. Frederick Corben wasn't there, nor were several others, but near the end of the alphabet she found another one. Natalia Tsilkovski. That couldn't be a coincidence. Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement on the stairs and she put the rolodex down quickly, nudging it into place with a fingertip, her pulse racing. It was just a kid. She relaxed a bit, but didn't pick up the file again. It wouldn't look very professional for him to catch her snooping through his things. She glanced at the clock. He'd been in there six minutes now... what was he doing? A steady stream of kids were now clomping down the stairs, and being picked up by their parents. Still no MacLeod. Several adult men came out and began to warm up. She sighed, eyeing the rolodex again. Finally she picked up the book and began to read again. "Do you like him?" a voice asked. It was nice voice, a rich, warm, baritone, with a noticeable United Kingdom accent. She looked up, startled, into curious dark-brown eyes. She put the book down. His hair was damp, and he had changed out of his white gi into snug jeans and an equally snug t-shirt. That explained what he'd been doing. Trying not to ogle him too obviously, she realized he was still waiting for a reply, and attempted one. "Um... yes, though to be honest I haven't read it since my college days. One of my history professors used this book in a class on nineteenth century Europe." "Good choice, it's very evocative of the period, though it's very early." He held out his hand. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I figured I'd be less offensive if I showered. I'm Duncan MacLeod, what can I do for you?" She stood up, assuming a more professional stance as she drew out her identification and extended it toward him. "Agent Dana Scully, FBI. I have a few questions I need to ask you." He looked startled, and let his hand fall. "FBI?" She nodded. "What's this about, then?" "Were you acquainted with a man named Kwame Bere?" His color faded, and the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. "Yes. He was an old friend." "Was? So you've heard about his death?" He nodded. "I heard last night." He closed his eyes, drawing a ragged breath. "I couldn't believe it. Not after..." "After?" she prompted. He shook his head. "Nothing, really. It's just that we were planning to get together. I'd spoken to him just a few weeks ago. We were going to do some fishing." He picked up the coffee cup and made a face at the contents, then suddenly looked back at her, the shock of recognition in his eyes. "Joe's! That's where I saw you before!" She nodded. "Yes." "You were checking me out?" "It was my partner's idea. I thought it was rather pointless." "D'you think I had something..." "We have to investigate all angles." He nodded. "I understand. What else did you want to ask me?" "Were you aware that a woman named Natalia Tsilkovski was also murdered last week? In much the same manner as Mr. Bere?" He looked at her, the sadness in his eyes so intense that she felt the sting of tears in her own. "Yes." The single word was whispered hoarsely. "Do you have any reason to believe that the two deaths might be connected?" He hesitated, clearly trying to find a way out of answering the question. She was surprised at how expressive his face was. For some reason she'd expected him to be better at concealing his emotions. When he spoke, it was tonelessly. "I don't know. Possibly, I suppose." She opened her briefcase and removed a sketch of one of the victim's tattoos from it. "Have you ever seen this symbol before?" He was good, she'd give him that. His expression didn't change, though his eyes narrowed a tiny bit. He studied it for a long moment. "It looks like kind of like the hood ornament off a Mercedes." It did. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. "You've never seen it anywhere else?" "I don't know, I might have." She gave him another point. He didn't want to lie, so he was attempting misdirection. "Do you know anyone with this tattoo?" He looked at it again. "That one? No." Score one more. Literalism. She had to admire his style. "Do you know anyone with a tattoo which resembles this sketch?" she clarified. He was caught. His eyes met hers, rueful acceptance in their depths. "Yes." She nodded. "I appreciate your candor. Mr. MacLeod..." "Duncan." he urged, interrupting her. "Mr. MacLeod," she repeated, insisting on the distance that formality put between them. "Are you aware of the significance of that tattoo?" "I'm not sure I know what you mean." "Have you ever heard of an organization known as The Watchers?" That got him. He sucked in a breath, clearly startled. Seconds later he realized he'd betrayed himself, and the muscles along his jaw flexed. His gaze pinned her uncomfortably. "Have you?" he asked. She didn't pretend not to understand. He was asking what she knew about The Watchers. She nodded, and saw his fists clench. He really was nervous about this. She tried to read his body language, his face... she didn't see guilt. Apprehension, pain and anger, yes, but not guilt. "Mr. MacLeod, do you have anything you'd like to tell me about Mr. Bere's death, or Ms. Tsilkovski's? We're here to help." He turned back, clearly startled. "Help us?" "We help whoever needs it." He smiled an odd, secretive smile. "I see." For some reason that annoyed her, but she tried not to let it show. "Good. Then perhaps you'd like to make a statement?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I doubt that you'd believe me if I did, anyway." She laughed. "I wouldn't bet on that. Not after some of the cases I've been involved with over the last couple of years." He studied her for a long moment, obviously curious, and finally lifted an eyebrow. "That sounds like a challenge, Ms. Scully." "Take it as you like." He smiled. "Bravo, you play the game well. But I still can't tell you what you want to know." Frustration got the best of her for a moment. "Damn it, people are dead!" "Don't you think I know that?" MacLeod rasped harshly, pacing the floor like a restless bear. "Most of them were friends of mine!" "Tell me who it is!" She saw the answer form on his lips, he almost spoke it aloud, then he stopped and shook his head. "Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you. My friends are my responsibility." "It certainly is not your responsibility. Once this serial killer crossed state lines, his crimes came under Federal purview. I assure you, Mr. MacLeod, if we can find out who he is, we can stop him. Tell me his name." "I can't. I don't even know it." "A description then." "A man, like any other, but unlike any other." He started to pace, then he stopped suddenly and looked at her shrewdly. "You know about the Watchers, but do you know what they watch?" She studied him, noticing the tension in him, the leashed anger. She was glad it wasn't directed at her. Something about the heavy line of his neck and shoulder made her think of the peculiar lymphatic system on that corpse in Reno, . While it could merely be muscle, such bulk could just as easily be the result of oversized and overabundant lymph nodes. That clicked with what Mulder had told her. Overactive immune system, atypical nerve development; bones that healed from impossible fractures-- a man who talked, walked, and gambled when he should have been institutionalized at best, and more likely buried. Things were adding up that weren't supposed to. Slowly she nodded. "We know." His eyes held her. "But do you believe?" She phrased her answer carefully. "Do I believe that a group of humans exist whose super-efficient immune systems and remarkable recuperative powers make them virtually immortal; that they have been tracked through the ages by a secret society; and that members of both groups are now in danger from a single individual?" She sighed. "Sometimes, no matter how improbable something appears, I would like to believe, but I'm a doctor, Mr. MacLeod, a scientist. Without clearcut and irrefutable evidence, that's impossible for me. However, sometimes, especially under circumstances like these, all that matters is that someone believes it." "I see." He slouched back against the wall and studied her for long enough that she started to get uncomfortable, then finally he spoke again. "It's too dangerous." "It's my job." "You could be killed." "I could be killed walking down the sidewalk." He shook his head. "You don't know what you're dealing with." "Then tell me!" "I can't!" he said, clearly frustrated. They stared at each other, in a standoff. The phone rang, startling both of them. MacLeod picked it up. "DeSalvo's, this is MacLeod." He listened a moment, and his face changed, becoming focused and intent, like a predator. She was almost shocked by the transformation. Seconds later the mask was back in place, and putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he turned to her. "Would you excuse me? This is personal." Though she wanted desperately to hear what the call was about, she had no excuse to stay. She nodded and stepped out of the office. He closed the door behind her and turned away to speak so she couldn't try to read his lips. Reading his posture was something else again; she knew she was watching a man who was coldly furious. His responses to the caller were low-voiced, though, so she could not hear a thing. He hung up the phone carefully, and she watched him scrawl something down on a notepad, and for a moment she had hopes of trying the old impression trick to find out what he'd written, but he pocketed the note and the pad as well. When he opened the office door and stepped out, his `public' face was back, but his eyes were distant. "I'm sorry, Ms. Scully, but something's come up. If you have any other questions for me I'd be happy to meet with you later to discuss them." She gritted her teeth. "I do have other questions, Mr. MacLeod, and I'd like to ask them now." "I'm sorry, this can't wait, I've got to go." She stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Is it him?" He lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent. "Damn it, you can't..." she began. His other eyebrow went up this time, and a hint of a smile curved his mouth. "Tsk, tsk, Agent Scully, such language. Am I under arrest?" "No," she managed through gritted teeth. "Then I can go?" She sighed. "Yes. But I have questions I need to ask. Here's my card, don't lose it. You can reach me on the cellular any time." "I'll call you in an hour or so, Agent Scully." She nodded and moved toward the door, thinking that he seemed awfully certain of that. Maybe he wasn't going off to find his nemesis; either that, or he was extremely confident of winning. She remembered his movements in class, and the look on his face when he'd answered the phone, and thought he might have good reason to be confident. She stopped in the doorway to the dojo and looked back to see him enter the old-fashioned elevator in the corner of the room. She wondered where it led. Descending the stairs, she turned and studied the tall, red-brick and white limestone building. It looked like it had probably started life as a school sometime in the early nineteen-hundreds, and at some point been converted to private use. She knew the dojo took up almost all the second floor, and the first appeared to house small shops, but that left the two upper stories. She set her briefcase on the hood of the car, pulled out the file on MacLeod and looked up his home address. Sure enough, it was the same. He lived up there. It occurred to her that she might be able to get away with following him when he left. She checked the file and found he drove a black '65 Thunderbird convertible. She grinned. That wasn't exactly an inconspicuous car, it should be a snap to follow. She studied the parking lot, and sure enough, there it was, parked just a few steps from the back door. She hurried to her own car and pulled up behind a tree to wait. MacLeod emerged a few minutes later, wearing a long brown trenchcoat and carrying a gym bag. She eyed the bag suspiciously. It was a big bag, big enough to conceal a rifle... or perhaps a sword. He pulled out of the parking place and entered traffic. She let two cars pass her before she edged her own car out. She followed him for about six blocks, and he made a left turn. She waited a moment, then followed. He drove several more blocks, then made another left. She followed him through two more left turns, and suddenly he was pulling back into the parking spot he'd just left. She passed him and found a spot down the block to watch from, wondering if he'd forgotten something. He got out and went back into the building. She waited, impatiently glancing at her watch, wondering what he was doing. A tap at the window nearly sent her through the roof, and looked up into MacLeod's amused face. He must have gone out the front of the building and walked around the block to come up behind her. He motioned for her to roll down the window, and she complied. "Did you forget something, Agent Scully?" "No, I was... waiting for a call from my partner." He grinned. "Well then, I'll let you wait in peace." She sighed. "You've made your point, Mr. MacLeod." "Good. I'll see you in an hour or so." He walked back to his car, got in, and drove away. Feeling like seven different kinds of idiot, she leaned her head against the steering wheel, face hot with embarrassment. Finally she managed to unclench her fists, muttering to herself under her breath. "Way to go, Scully! Spotted like some ignorant trainee! If he'd been the killer, you'd be dead!" She sighed, and started the car, glanced at the map and headed back the way she'd come. **** Halfway home, Guinan felt that feeling again. The something- crawling-out-from-under-a-rock sensation she'd gotten outside the bar. She shivered despite the fact that her brisk walk had made her feel a bit warm. Whatever it was, she didn't want to meet it in a dark alley, and the day was darkening quickly. She quickened her pace. She'd never felt unsafe here before. Capitol Hill was a maze of narrow streets bordered by a mixture of old Victorian houses, 1950's bungalows, and modernist architectural edifices. Most of her neighbors were young people on the edge, but not so far on the edge as to be dangerous to anyone but themselves. She'd always liked the energy and tension of her surroundings, but today, for some reason, it made her nervous. She drew her jacket closer around herself and looked up the street. Only three blocks to go. She relaxed a little and drew a deeper breath, wishing that other feeling would go away. She noticed an expensive sports car parked half a block away. The windows were darkened, so she couldn't tell if it was occupied, but the feeling seemed to emanate from it. She slowed, unwilling to walk by it, but not having much choice. She squared her shoulders and forged ahead. Nothing happened as she passed it. Feeling silly, she shook her head at her fantasies, when a man stepped out from behind a tree a few feet in front of her. He looked harmless enough, a good-looking blond guy in his early thirties, wearing a nice suit. He did look rather out of place here, though, where most of the denizens wore leather and multiple body-piercings. Maybe he was just lost. "Can I help you?" she asked him, smiling helpfully . He shook his head, and began to walk forward. "No, thanks." She backed up, keeping her distance. "What do you want?" She pitched her voice hard, putting control notes into it. He faltered momentarily. The creepy sensation seemed to grow stronger behind her as she neared the car again, then a voice spoke in her ear, a smooth, European-sounding tenor. "Why, we want you, my dear." Pain exploded through the back of her head and her knees buckled. The man who'd spoken caught her and began to drag her toward the car. She struggled wildly, but the blow had left her dazed and uncoordinated. She bit the blond viciously on the wrist as they tried to shove her into the vehicle, and he swore, then slapped her across the face so hard that her vision hazed over. By the time it returned, she was in the car. Her hands had been bound together with some sort of heavy silvery tape, and there was something in her mouth preventing her from talking. Damn, that was her best defense! With her vocal control she could manipulate almost any human. Unwilling to just lie back and let herself be taken, she kicked out at the blond who sat beside her, and he grabbed her feet and wrapped the silver tape around her ankles as well. She subsided, fuming, wishing her developing mindways were more advanced. She could use a little coercive ability right now. Satisfied that she was going to leave him alone, he settled back, shoving his sleeve up so he could examine his wrist where she'd bitten it. Her eyes fastened on the mark there, and widened. Joe had the same tattoo on his wrist! Was he somehow involved in this? The second she thought it, she dismissed it. No, he wasn't involved, but there was a connection. There was only one thing that made any sense. The feeling she got from the man driving the car was eerily similar to the overwhelming sense of presence she felt in Duncan; only this man's aura was dark rather than brilliant... a black hole instead of a living star. Duncan had spoken of an old enemy. She knew this had to be Tanner Dane. She didn't know who his companion was, no associate had figured in Duncan's story, nor did this second man have that same powerful immanence that the other gave off. He was an accomplice, but one who was no longer fully in control of himself after being sucked in by the gravitational whirlpool of Dane's dark personality. She realized the two of them were planning to use her as a lure. Remembering Duncan's story, she felt nauseated-- she knew she couldn't face that, nor could she allow herself to be used as bait. Dane didn't know her kind, though, he didn't understand how far she would go rather than allow him to hurt her, or to use her to hurt someone else. Visitations had gone awry before, so before coming to Earth she'd been taught to control her physical processes in anticipation of just such a need. Stilling her body would be easy enough; and once she was gone, Dane would have nothing to use to control Duncan. The thought of death did not particularly frighten her. She believed what she'd told Duncan, that souls merely moved on to another body, so she knew that she would return. It would be sad to leave this body, she liked it and was comfortable with who and what she was, but if it was necessary, she would take that step. She closed her eyes, feeling oddly at peace. Having reviewed her options made the situation somehow less frightening. **** =========================================================================