Date: Fri, 17 Nov 1995 12:21:39 -0600 Reply-To: Julia Kosatka Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Julia Kosatka Subject: In the Dark, 6/21 (REPOST) ADULT 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 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 the 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 also on the bartender. His name's Joe Dawson, and the only thing in this file is a car accident about fifteen years ago... and he wasn't even at fault. It was a drunk driver. His wife and daughter were killed. There's an interesting connection there, though. James Horton was his brother-in-law." "Was he driving?" "No, he apparently wasn't involved in that, but Horton did have 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 a river in Paris about a year and a half ago. Shot to death, but get this... according to the autopsy he had recently recovered from what appeared to be a sword wound." 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. "Can I help you?" someone asked from behind her. Startled, she turned to find a man in a gi standing next to her. "I'm here to see Mr. MacLeod." "Why am I not surprised?" the man said, grinning. "Why don't you wait in his office?" He 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 you'll be fine." She 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." =========================================================================