Date:         Fri, 17 Nov 1995 12:22:07 -0600
Reply-To:     Julia Kosatka <JKosatka@UH.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Julia Kosatka <JKosatka@UH.EDU>
Subject:      In the Dark, 7/21 (REPOST) ADULT

       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!  He's
doing this because of me!"
       "Who is?"
       She saw the answer form on his lips, he almost spoke it aloud, then
he stopped and shook his head. "I can't.  It's my responsibility.  I have
to stop him.  You can't."
       "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."
       "It would do you no good.  He has hundreds."
       "A description then."
       "A man, like any other, but unlike any other."  He started to pace.
"You know of 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 that corpse in Reno, the peculiar
lymphatic system.  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, and 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 difficult for me.  However, sometimes,
especially under circumstances like these, all that matters is that
someone believes it."
       He slouched back against the wall and studied her for long enough
that she started to get uncomfortable, then finally he spoke.
       "Only one of us can stop him.  I can't involve you.  It's too
dangerous."
       "It's my job."
       "He'd kill you without a second thought."
       "He could try."
       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.  "Would I tell you if it were?"
       "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 do want to see you after you do...
whatever it is you need to do.  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 in front of the building she turned and
studied it.  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 got into her car
and drove around behind the building.  Sure enough, there it was, parked
just a few steps from the back door.  She backed her car up behind a tree,
and waited.  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.  You do
realize, don't you, that I've more experience at being followed than you
could possibly imagine."
       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 again felt that 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.

                                     ****

       Mulder wandered back into the bar.  It was happy hour, and the room
was full, the noise level high, and the scent of alcohol heavy in the air.
There was a different man behind the bar now, a younger, heavyset guy with
a receding hairline.  A cocktail waitress moved among the tables, laughing
with the customers and taking orders.  He wondered if Dawson had gone
home.  That would be frustrating.  He made his way over toward the bar,
hoping to ask the bartender, but by the time he'd reached it someone else
had too.  The guy looked wild... not his appearance, which didn't differ
that much from Mulder's; but there was desperation in his eyes and his
face.  As he reached across the counter to grab the bartender's arm,
Mulder saw blood on the cuff of his shirt.  His eyes narrowed and he moved
closer, listening in unashamedly.
       "...gotta get him for me!  It's urgent!  Tell him it's Evan
Conroy!"
       "Okay, man!  Take it easy!  I'll get him.  Wait here!"
       The bartender signaled the waitress to come over and watch the bar,
and then went through a door that led into some back room.  A moment later
he emerged, followed by Dawson.  The bartender pointed at Conroy, and
Dawson's expression went from recognition to relief to concern.  He moved
quickly to Conroy, his limp made more pronounced by his haste.  He
motioned the younger man to move around the partition at the end of the
bar, and Mulder edged closer, straining to hear them over the din.  As it
was, he picked up only every few words.  Still, it was enough to make some
sort of sense out of the conversation
       "Evan!  For God's sake.... been?  ...Dane's after MacLeod's....
Watcher's too!  We thought... you too!"
       "...fine... right... is after...  got someone...  came to find you!
...can't...  happen again!  ...woman... not even one of Them!"
       "A woman?  Who?"  Mulder heard every syllable of Joe's response to
that one.
       "I don't know... not far from... Black woman... dreadlocks.  ...no
idea who... can't let it... have to help!"
       Joe moved around the end of the bar, reaching for the phone next to
the register.  Mulder turned away and pretended to girlwatch.  Now that
they were closer he could hear better.
       "I'll call Mac.  Where did he take her?"
       "Some old warehouse near the docks down in the south part of the
city, I don't know the address, I'll have to show you."
       "That's fine, Evan.  You did the right thing."  Dawson dialed a
number and waited.  A moment later he was speaking.  "Mac?  It's Dawson.
Evan Conroy showed up here.  Dane's got some woman, Evan says she's not an
Immortal and from the description she sounds like Guinan!"
       There was a pause, then Dawson spoke again. "I don't know for sure.
A warehouse in the old south dock area, I'm going to take him up there and
see if we can find the place.  Take your phone, I'll call you when we find
it."  Dawson hung up then, and spoke to Conroy.  "Do you have
transportation?"
       Conroy shook his head.  "I took a cab here."
       "Okay, I'll get my car, wait for me out front."
       Mulder watched the younger man leave the bar and after a moment he
followed, walking down the street to the car he'd borrowed from Agent
Blanchard.  He got in, and pretended to look at the sunset glowing to the
west while he waited for Dawson to pick up Conroy.  A few moments later a
blue late-model sedan pulled around the corner and stopped in front of the
bar.  Conroy got in and the car moved off, heading north.  Mulder pulled
out and began to tail them, keeping a careful distance behind and trying
not to be too obvious.  He remembered Scully's admonition to be sure to
call her and almost reached for his phone, then stopped.  It would be
better to wait until he had an address.
       Once his quarry got onto the highway, following them proved to be
more difficult than he'd hoped.  He experienced a severe sense of deja-vu
as he noticed that everyone seemed to be driving a good ten miles an hour
over the speed-limit, and had forgotten what turn indicators were for.  It
was like driving the DC beltway, only not as many people were putting on
their brakes for no discernable reason as they did there.  He did manage
to stay with them though, and even made the exit.  Then he ran into
trouble.  There was almost no traffic in the area they traversed, and
feeling too conspicuous, he dropped back a bit.  That got him caught at a
red light.  He watched in frustration as the other car made a right turn
three blocks down the street.
       There were no cars coming from any direction so he ran the red, but
by the time he made the turn the sedan was nowhere in sight.  He swore,
and began to cruise the street, peering down each intersection, hoping for
a glimpse of it, but had no luck.  Finally he pulled over and got out his
map.  Unfortunately, the detail on the map was just not good enough to
help, so he sat there for several moments trying to think of what to do
next.  His stomach rumbled, reminding him that the pastrami sandwich he'd
had for lunch was long gone.  A neon sign half a block down the street
advertised a restaurant called Canino's, and he eyed it, half-tempted to
see if they did take-out; and as he thought it he realized what he should
do.  He got out and locked the car, then hurried into the restaurant.
       It was small, the tables boasted candles in chianti bottles, and
the air was redolent of garlic and basil.  The smell made his mouth water.
The bored-looking teenager at the register brightened as he neared.
       "Can I help you?"
       "You might be able to,"  he said, doing his best to look sheepish.
"I'm a little lost.  I was supposed to meet someone to look at some
property near here, but I've misplaced the address.  All I remember is he
said it was a warehouse not far from the docks.  Any ideas?"
       She nodded.  "Probably the old Fisher warehouse, it's been for sale
forever.  It's not far from here, but it's kinda confusing trying to find
it.  I'll draw you a map."  She took a paper placemat and turned it over,
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