Date: Thu, 6 Jul 1995 14:29:35 -0500 Reply-To: kellie , Julia Kosatka Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Julia Kosatka Subject: In the Dark, part 3/17 "I think I may have something here, Scully! Remember how the pattern indicated the killer was heading for the Northwest coast? It looks like he's either been there before, or maybe he lives there. Here are seven unsolved reports of decapitations, all in or around the Seattle area. This is interesting, some guy named MacLeod turns up in four of these reports. He was investigated in connection with the murders, but released for lack of evidence. Get this, he's an antique dealer!" Scully made the connection instantly. "Like Nash! It could be him, using an assumed name!" "It could be. There's only one way to find out, though. We're going to Seattle."Mulder grabbed the phone and started dialing. "So much for sleep," Scully said, her mouth tightening in a moment of self-pity as she thought of her hotel room, and its unused bed. He looked at her sympathetically. "It's..." he started, then his attention was diverted to the phone. "Yes, you can. I need two one-ways from Reno to Seattle on the next flight out. What? Yeah, I can hold." He returned his gaze to her. "Sorry, Scully, but isn't it worth a few hours sleep?" She nodded. "If we can keep him from killing again, I'd stay up for a week. I'll get the file on Nash and fax a photograph to the police there. We'll see if it matches this MacLeod guy." **** Duncan sat staring into space, feeling a distant sadness. It had been a wonderful evening, no mistake. He and Joe and Guinan had laughed and talked until nearly closing; but now he was alone, and remembering. Gods above, but sometimes he wished there were a way to turn memories *off*. What he wanted to remember often eluded him, and what he most wanted to forget slipped like fog from all the dark nooks and crannies of his mind. He'd tried various ways of forgetting over the years, alcohol, prayer, women, meditation, exercise. Some succeeded better than others, but all of them were, in the end, only temporary. So he sat on the low concrete wall that bounded the parking lot down the street from Joe's bar, and waited for the alcohol haze to clear from his mind so he wasn't a menace behind the wheel. A few hundred years experience had taught him how to tell when he was safe from when he wasn't. Right now, he wasn't safe, but he was remembering all too well. Sixteen-ninety-four. Greece. Thalassa. A small woman with a ready laugh and warm heart. Her hair had been thick, and curling, black as a raven's wing, her mouth as full and red as a cup of bordeaux. She too had been an Immortal, and they had found some comfort in the friendship of another like soul. They had been friends and sometime lovers for close-on a year then. He had, with reluctance, left for three weeks to help a friend with some business dealings, and had returned to find she had vanished from the small house they shared in a village on the Mediterranean coast. The overturned and broken furnishings, and deep metallic gouges in the walls made him suspect she had met another Immortal and fought there. Because she was gone, he was fairly certain she must have lost the battle, though he had thought her skills improving from their sparring partnership. Whoever she had fought must have disposed of the body. As he sat on the stoop, unseeing, unable to even grieve yet, the boy who lived across the way came out and touched his arm. Duncan had looked up to find the child looking frightened and sad. "What is it?" "Bad man." Duncan looked around, wondering if someone had been bothering the boy, needing a battle, and more than willing to take one on for the sake of a child. "Where? Has someone hurt you?" Niko shook his head solemnly. "Took her. I saw him." "Her?" Duncan felt a flash of hope. "You mean Thalassa?" He sat up, head clearing. "Took her? She was alive?" Niko nodded. "Where did he take her?" Duncan asked intently. Niko pointed toward the foothills the village backed onto. "There." "When?" Niko frowned, concentrating, then his expression cleared and he smiled triumphantly. "Wash day!" For a moment Duncan was puzzled, then he understood. Every Monday the village women did laundry together. If she'd been taken on Monday, that meant Thalassa had been gone four days. He almost despaired, the trail would be stone cold by now... but he had to try. Thanking the boy, he had gone into the hills, searching for any sign of her. Almost immediately he had found one of Thalassa's ribbons caught in a tree. A bit further on, he found one of her rings. He consistently found small signs, almost as if he had been left a trail. He soon came to realize that was exactly what had happened. The man who had taken Thalassa had meant for Duncan to find her. When he had, it had been one of the worst moments of his life. At a hundred and twelve years of age, he had thought himself inured to horror, but he found he still had the capacity for it. Dane had tortured her. If a normal human were tortured that way, they would simply die, and that would be the end; but an Immortal kept returning, to be tormented again and again. What had been left of Thalassa was a gibbering wreck, pleading for the true Death, with just enough mind left to tell him who had done it to her, and to convince him to deliver the coup de grace. After it was done, he had been sick. To gain a Quickening at the expense of a loved one was the worst thing he could imagine. He had never felt guilt like that before, not only because in a sense he had benefitted by killing her, but because he knew Dane had tortured her in retribution for his own interference in Dane's affairs a decade earlier. Knowing that Dane was so vicious that he had foregone a Quickening just to leave Thalassa for Duncan to find hadn't made the pain any easier to bear. "Hey there..." The voice in the darkness was soft. Startled, he leaped to his feet, his sword ringing as it left its sheath. For a moment didn't see the speaker, then he caught the gleam of streetlight on sable skin, and the curve of a broad cheekbone. "Guinan?" She nodded and stepped forward into the pool of light cast by the lamp. He felt a bit sick at how close he had come to harming her. "Damn it! Don't you know better than to sneak up on someone in the middle of the night?" Cold sober from the rush of adrenalin, he sheathed the katana, slipping it back into place much more quietly than it had emerged, but too late to keep her from seeing it. "You seemed sad," she said quietly. He was momentarily taken aback, having expected her to be ask why he carried a sword, not about his state of mind. It took him a few seconds to gather his wits, and he replied honestly. "Just memories, that's all." "Memories can hurt just as much as the original incident, sometimes more." He nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment. Finally he looked at her again. "You shouldn't be out here by yourself so late." She smiled slightly. "Neither should you." He shrugged. "I can take care of myself." "So can I." "I never doubted it," Duncan said gravely, sensing that it was something she felt strongly about. "I thought you went home." "I did, but I realized I'd lost something, and came back to find it." "What was it?" "A pin. It must have fallen off somewhere. I hoped it was in the bar." "Something valuable?" "No, not really. The bar's closed, though. I'll have to look for it tomorrow." He nodded. Silence fell again for a time. It was an oddly comfortable silence. After awhile, Guinan spoke. "Do you want to talk?" "About?" "Memories. I'm a good listener. I come from a long line of good listeners." Duncan shook his head. "No. I don't need to talk about it. I came to terms with it a long time ago." "Then why do you still feel guilty?" Her quiet words struck with the keen precision of a blade, sliding past his defenses, straight to the heart. He closed his eyes, not looking at her. "I don't," he lied. "You do. It's in your eyes, your voice, your body... come on. Surely there's a greasy spoon around here somewhere. Buy me coffee and we'll talk, you need it." He had to swallow before he could speak. There was an obstruction in his throat, and his vision was blurred. Neither had anything to do with alcohol. "I'm not sure I can," he whispered. "Then we'll sit in silence. You shouldn't be alone." That was the truth. He felt a sudden odd kinship with the woman at his side, a strong desire to turn her face to his and find out if her lips were as soft as they looked, to find out what her mask of serenity hid. But... there was Joe. He stepped back. "You wouldn't want the coffee at Mel's Place. That stuff'll kill you. How about you come to my place and I'll make coffee?" She cocked her head to one side and eyed him speculatively. "Step into my parlor?" He spread his hands. "Honest, I'm a gentleman." She gazed at him a moment, and nodded. "I know." He felt complimented. With a sweeping bow, he gestured toward the black Thunderbird in the lot behind them. "Your chariot awaits, milady." She laughed. "You do that so naturally." He shrugged. "I'm a bit of an anachronism." She paused, looking up into the darkness at stars she couldn't see, then shook her head and started for the car. "So am I." *** Subject: In the Dark 3/14 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- MacLeod's apartment was as interesting as his aura. An eclectic mixture of Eastern and Western influences, antique elegance, and modern comfort. She moved around the open loft examining various of his treasures as he busied himself in the kitchen. The paintings on the walls were all originals, the rugs on the floor hand-knotted. A black silk yukata hung stark against a white wall, an artifact in itself. Photographs graced another wall, again originals, from the early days of photography. On a shelf a scattering of small objects caught her eye and she stopped to look at them. It was a collection of carved fetish figures. One in particular seemed to call out to her and she picked it up. It was a turtle fetish, a beautiful thing that gleamed the translucent gold of amber and had inlaid turquoise eyes. Another fetish beckoned, and she touched it reverently. A frog, carved of some dark green stone. The style was distinctly different, she thought it might be Asian, rather than Native American. Both pieces were gorgeous. None of the others captured her interest quite as much. She looked up to find him watching her, and smiled, walking over to join him in the kitchen. There again, he was an odd mix of modern and archaic. The coffee maker was the yuppie sort that made everything from espresso to drip, and probably had a setting where it would wax the floor, but he was grinding the beans in an old-fashioned hand-crank grinder. She watched in bemused interest as he operated it, fascinated by the unconscious grace of his movements. As he set the coffee to brew, she finally spoke. "Is that a gym, downstairs?" "It's called a dojo; a school for martial arts. I own it. Sometimes I teach." "Ah, that explains it, then." "Explains what?" "The way you move." He turned from the refrigerator, a carton of cream in his hand. "What do you mean?" "You move beautifully, like a dancer." He chuckled, shaking his head, and rubbed the side of his nose. He seemed to do that when he was embarrassed. "I... ah... thanks." "For what? Stating the obvious?" He grinned. "Go on with you, what do you want?" "Do I have to want something?" "In my experience, most flatterers do." "I don't. No, I lied. Actually, I do. I want to know where you're from. Your accent slips in and out, and every time I think I've got it pegged, it changes." "I was born in Scotland, but I've lived all over the world. I guess I've picked up little bits and pieces from everywhere. Anything else you want to know?" "Are you any good?" His eyebrows lifted, his mouth curved. "At what?" he asked, his voice silky, and rich with innuendo. She returned his smile, her own voice just as seductive. "Swordsmanship, of course." She half expected him to make a double-entendre out of his reply, but instead he nodded, seriously. "I'm very good." "Why a sword?" she questioned. "For protection." "Wouldn't a gun be a lot easier to carry? I'm sure Freud would have some interesting things to say about your choice of weapon." That drew quick grin. "I'm quite comfortable with the size of my genitalia, thank you. Besides, when it comes right down to it, Freud would have had interesting things to say about *any* weapon. I carry a sword because it's honorable. You have to look a man in the eyes before you strike. With a gun it's too easy to forget who you face." She thought about that for a moment. "Interesting philosophy. Is swordsmanship one the things you teach?" "I can. My repertoire includes many weapons, many styles, many disciplines." "I've always wanted to learn to fence." "If you're as good with a sword as you are with words, you could be a master." She grinned. "Now who's flattering whom?" The coffee maker hissed steamily as it finished the brewing cycle, and MacLeod took two mugs from a cupboard. "Coffee's ready." He poured coffee into two mugs, handed her one, and picked up the other one himself. She added cream and sugar to her own, took a sip, and nodded happily. "Good coffee." "Thanks." "So... we were talking about memories." "Were we?" "Some time back. I asked if you wanted to talk, you said you didn't think you could. I think you can, you just don't want to." He studied her for a moment, sipping his coffee. "It's not a pleasant tale. I don't think most people would really want to hear it." "I'm not most people. Tell me." He walked away and stood, staring out the window into the darkness for several long, quiet minutes. After awhile, he began to speak. Guinan listened. Though there were odd hesitations here and there, and gaps in the story that she would have liked filled, it quickly became clear that she was listening to a man whose life had held more violence and sorrow than she could possibly have imagined. Who would have thought so young a man might have such things in his past? Was this what had shaped that brilliant soul? Was pain what brought out the promise inherent in this species? She shuddered at the thought. "Duncan, you can't blame yourself. From what you've told me about this man, he would have done it whether or not you had known Thalassa. She was a convenient target, and it was in his nature. You said yourself he had a reputation for torture, especially of women, and your having saved someone from him earlier was more than admirable, it was heroic." Duncan made a derisive sound. "Look what it got me." "Would you have been able to live with yourself if you *hadn't*?" There was a long silence, then the figure at the window moved minutely, his hand going out to flatten against the glass. "No," he whispered. "But to take her life..." "Would she have wanted to live as he had left her? Would she have lived more than a few days, at best, after what he'd done to her? You freed her. The soul holds only temporary residence in any body... she only needed your help moving on." "Do we have souls?" he asked bleakly. "Yes." she stated, firmly, unequivocally. "I wonder..." "Don't. You do." He turned and walked to the counter, set down his cup very carefully, as if it were eggshell thin and he were afraid of crushing it. "Maybe most do, but myself, I doubt." "Why should you be any different?" He smiled, but it held no humor. "Why indeed?" She moved to stand behind him. "Duncan, do you ever cry?" He turned, surprised. "I..." he stopped, and frowned. "Almost never." "Why?" "I don't know. I used to, when I was..." he stopped again. "A long time ago." "Why did you stop?" "Because, it doesn't help." "Yes it does. It's an admission of pain, of need, of humanity." "But I'm *not* human," he said bleakly. "Not any more." Guinan shivered, knowing he didn't mean that like her, he was not of Earth. "You are human, Duncan. No matter what you've done, no matter what you think you've become, you're still *human*. You are a child of Earth, and your heart will always be human." He stared down almost blindly at his hands where they were braced against the countertop. "You don't know what I am." "I know more than you think." He looked up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?" She shook her head. "You'll think I'm crazy." "No. I won't. I've seen too much in my life. Nothing's crazy any more." She studied him a moment, then nodded acceptance. "Fair enough. Well, I can sense things about people, things most people *can't* sense. You are... different. Very different, but still human. You feel pain, you feel love, you feel anger, hope, joy and sorrow... all the things that make humanity what it is. I don't know what makes you different, but I do know what makes you the same." She put one of her hands over one of his, and almost gasped as his `presence' flared into her. No wonder Joe was so fiercely protective of him, he probably drew people to him like moths to flame. Even without the aid of non-human senses, this man must shine like a beacon. He lifted her hand with his, and put his lips against her fingers for a moment. It sent a shock through her, a wave of desire. Still holding her hand, he spoke again, his lips so close to her skin that she could feel his breath with each word. "`I've seen sae mony changefu' years, on earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways o' men, alike unknowing and unknown.'" Oh, Great Ladies! A man who wasn't afraid to admit to knowing poetry! She wanted to melt against him, but knew better. He was so young, so human, so tempting... so against the rules. She pulled back. "As long as we're quoting maudlin Scots, perhaps a different one from Auld Robbie might be more appropriate; `O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us, to see oursel's as others see us!'" She sensed the change in his mood before he even smiled. "Ye've no' quite got the inflection there, but aye, you're right. Most times we have only our own eyes to see through, and our own perceptions can go awry. Ye hae the Gift, don't ye?" His accent was broad now, pure Scot, as if he had burned away all the other voices he'd acquired over the years. "You could call it that." "I've known others with it. 'Tis a singular talent." "A fairly useless one, most days. But not today, I think." He shook his head. "No, not today." He stared at her suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "There was no lost pin, was there?" She shook her head slowly, smiling a little. "No, just a lost soul." He shook his head, as if in disbelief, then looked to the window, and gestured to it. She saw the sky beginning to lighten with dawn. "Thank you, Guinan, for seeing me through 'til morning." "It was my pleasure." He grinned. "I would all women were so easily pleased. More coffee?" **** It was foggy and raining as Mulder stepped off the plane at Sea-Tac. He felt right at home. As they walked out of the gate, Scully nodded toward a tall, well-dressed Black man who held a sign with their names on it. Having not expected to be met, Mulder was curious, but cautious. Scully apparently had no qualms, since she stopped in front of the man and waved a hand toward Mulder. "I'm Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder. You are?" The man took a leather case from his pocket and opened it to reveal a badge and identification which he left open long enough for them to study. "Reed Bennett, homicide. I asked if I could come down and meet you after they showed me that fax you sent. You're the FBI agents working on that recent string of decapitations, right?" Mulder glanced around and satisfied himself that they weren't being listened to. "We are, though we'd prefer it not get bandied around. If the press picks up on it, we may lose our edge... if we even have one. You said you got the fax?" "Yeah, they showed it to me because a couple of the cases you were asking about were my cases. Unfortunately, I have to disappoint you. Your suspect doesn't look a thing like Duncan MacLeod." Bennett opened the portfolio he carried and took out a photograph which he handed to Scully. She took it, and her eyes widened slightly. Mulder tried not to be too obvious about looking over her shoulder, but even after she handed it to him he couldn't see what had elicited her reaction. It was a grainy black and white of some long-haired guy in a t-shirt and jeans, standing next to a younger man on a motorcycle. Neither subject bore the slightest resemblance to the photo they had of Russell Nash. He clenched his teeth against the disappointment, and cast around for an alternate explanation. "He could have had plastic surgery and dyed his hair." Scully looked at him and shook her head. "Not unless you know a plastic surgeon who can change someone's basic body structure. Look at this guy-- Nash is long and lanky, like you. MacLeod is compact and muscular. You could possibly change part of that with weight training, but not to this extent." "Damn!" Mulder swore softly, shaking his head. "I was sure we were onto something when I saw that both suspects were antique dealers." Bennett looked puzzled for a moment. "Antiques? Oh, yeah. I'd almost forgotten. MacLeod got out of the antique business about two years ago, after his lady-friend was killed in a robbery. Now he runs a martial arts studio." Mulder looked up. "Martial arts? So this guy knows weapons and hand-to-hand combat techniques?" "Yes, to both questions. If you'd like to see my files on him you're welcome to, but I don't think he's your man. Actually, to tell the truth I was kind of relieved to see that MacLeod and Nash were obviously not the same person. In the course of my investigations, I've discovered he's a nice guy." "Remember, sociopaths can be extremely charming," Mulder pointed out, still not quite willing to let go of his only theory. Bennett studied him for a moment, a touch of annoyance creeping into his expression. "I'm well aware of that, Agent Mulder." Before Mulder could reply, Scully stepped into the conversation. "It's very generous of you to offer to share your files, Mr. Bennett. You'd be surprised how rarely local authorities extend such cooperation voluntarily." Bennett turned his attention to her, chuckling ruefully. "I know the feeling. Some sheriff's departments can be pretty territorial, too. It makes it damned hard to get anything done. Would you like to go down to headquarters, or would you rather check into a hotel first?" "We'd like to get started, so if you don't mind taking us to your office, that would be fine. Perhaps later you can recommend a place for us to stay, something suitable for a government expense account?" Bennett nodded sympathetically. "You mean someplace cheap, but without roaches or drunks? I think we can find something that fits the bill. Did either of you check luggage?" Mulder shook his head, holding out his suit-bag and carryall, as did Scully. Bennett nodded. "I kinda figured that. Come on, my car's this way." **** "I still think we should watch him." Mulder said, mulishly. "Mulder, we have no logical reason to suspect this guy!" Scully returned. "We've gone through Bennett's files and found nothing there to incriminate him. Not only that, but he gives to charities like a madman, his martial arts school initiated a program to help keep local youth off the streets, he's an art patron. He just doesn't fit the profile! And according to Bennett, he hasn't even been out of town for the past month." "That we *know* of." Mulder corrected her. "In some ways he doesn't fit the profile, in others, he does. He's got money, he does a lot of overseas travel, he knows bladed weapons and how to use them. He wouldn't be the first killer in history to appear to be a fine, upstanding member of the community. Besides, with those points of similarity, even if he's not the killer, he still might know something that could be useful." Scully sighed. "Okay, I'll give you that. Besides... we haven't got any other suspects." She threaded her fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp. "I've got a headache, I need food, what I *really* need is sleep, but I know I'm not going to get that anytime soon. Can we call the local Bureau office and have *them* put someone on him so we can at least get food and an hour off?" Mulder nodded. "That's reasonable. I could use food too... maybe a shower. I always feel more awake after a shower." Scully closed her eyes and sighed. "A shower sounds like heaven right now. I'll go find Bennett and ask him for the name of that motel, you call the office. See if you can get us a car and a map from the motor pool, while you're at it. We'll need transportation." =========================================================================