Date: Fri, 1 Jul 1994 21:07:25 -0600 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Richard Carter Subject: Is There Something... (4 of 4) Back in her own apartment, even with MacLeod a few meters away, Tessa felt more secure. "Well?" Duncan looked up. Tessa's voice was tinged with anger, "Is there something you want to tell me?" "You aren't going to believe me at first." "I don't doubt that." Duncan took off his long coat and placed it on a table. He rubbed his face with his hands as if to prepare himself. He turned to Tessa and began in his natural Scottish brogue, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. I was born in the Highlands of Scotland in the year 1592. There are others like me, some good and honorable, and some who are less particular. Tonight I killed the Immortal who killed Michele last night." Tessa was looking at him with her mouth agape. She was so confused. What he told her was said with such conviction and surety that it felt like the truth. But it couldn't be. Surely he must be mad. Duncan knew that she was going to need more than just his word. "Get a knife," he said as he began to roll up his sleeves. "A knife." "From your kitchen. The sharpest one you have." "But--" "Do it." Tessa didn't like this, but what else could she do? She went to the sink and picked up her chef's knife. "Bring it here," Duncan asked. Cautiously, Tessa moved toward Duncan. He extended his right hand, but kept his arm bent. When she was close enough and handing the knife to Duncan, he quickly straightened his arm and surrounded her hand with his. Her hands were very strong and sinewy -- he could feel every joint in them clearly. He slowly raised his left arm. For a moment, his mind flashed to a time when his Immortal trainer, Connor MacLeod, told him of this method of convincing mortals. "I am immortal," Duncan said as he plunged the knife quickly into his exposed forearm; the blade passing though and extending several centimeters past the exit wound. Tessa was shocked and felt a wave of nausea building again. She was finally able to wrest her hand out from under Duncan's loosening grip. He pulled the knife out of his arm and fighting through the pain said, "Watch my arm." Tessa stood transfixed. She looked at the arm that should be gushing blood. It wasn't. Tiny tendrils of what looked like electricity danced over the wound. Within a minute, the wound was healed. Only a few random spots of blood betrayed that any damage had been done at all. Tessa felt exhausted. Duncan picked up his coat and walked to the door. "I'll understand if you don't want me in your life, but I want to have you in mine." He paused. There was so much more he wanted to say. "Leave a message on my machine if you want to talk more." Duncan draped the coat onto his arm as he opened the door. He took a step out and hesitated. "I've fallen in love with you, Tessa Noel," he said before closing the door behind him. Duncan walked quickly down the stairs from Tessa's apartment. He didn't think that she'd come after him, and it served no purpose for him to loiter. Traynor hadn't been the only Immortal in Paris that wanted Duncan's head. Besides, Tessa might still call the police. He needed to find a place to spend the night. He certainly couldn't go back to his apartment. Putting on his coat and flipping up the collar to protect against the damp chill of the night, Duncan chose to take a walk towards the Seine. Like a ghost, the mustached man emerged from the dark recess of a doorway across the street from Tessa's apartment and quietly walked a course paralleling Duncan's. Had she seen what she had seen? Was Duncan really an Immortal like he said? Did he really love her? As night gave way to daybreak, Tessa was still sitting on her sofa trying to sort through the events of the past day. It was so hard to believe that at this same time yesterday, Duncan was sleeping where she was now sitting. Although she had only known him for less than a week, her heart told her that Duncan wouldn't have murdered Michele. But her heart also told her that Duncan wouldn't have murdered that other man. Yet he did. She'd seen him do it. It came down to one question: did she trust him? The spark of love that was trying to grow into a flame within her wanted to believe him, desperately. Her head warned her to be cautious. He didn't seem too disturbed by the death he'd caused. That probably meant that he'd killed before. She'd seen enough violence at her home as a child that she knew that she didn't want to be in a relationship with a violent or cruel man. But Duncan didn't seem that way at all. Even when he caught up to her last night after he'd killed that man, he just seemed to want to explain, and he didn't try to prevent her from doing anything. Tessa couldn't remember having ever been so frustrated. If only she could talk to someone who knew him. Unfortunately, Duncan didn't talk about himself much. Think. He must have mentioned somebody that he knew. Yves Cotin! That was it. She was sure of it. He mentioned the name the first night they had dinner together. There wasn't a more respected man of the fine arts in the city. * * * The room Tessa was in felt imposing. It wasn't extraordinarily large, but the wooden walls had the sheen of having been oiled regularly for centuries. The dark coloring of the large desk and the fine wooden chairs added to the feeling of weight in the room. She was sitting on a leather upholstered sofa. Sitting in a chair to her left was Yves Cotin. The ninety-six-year-old man sitting across from her was difficult to read. His gray-green eyes had the animation of youth as well as the slight cloudiness of mild cataracts. His face was so lined and folded that it looked like it might be better placed on outer walls of Notre Dame than on the failing body of an old man. The unkempt shock of white hair that sprang from his scalp added a sense of eccentricity and whimsy to the package. "Thank you for seeing me," Tessa said in French in a louder-than-normal, yet not patronizing, volume. "Nonsense," the old man replied. "I grieve with you. I knew Michele. I liked the boy." "Thank you." "What can I do for you? I'm sure a pretty girl like you has better things to do than waste an afternoon with an old man." Tessa was slightly taken aback by the man's directness. His tone of voice clearly said that he wasn't going to sit here and engage in small talk while she figured out a way to ask what she wanted to ask. "I was wondering if you might be able to tell me about a man I met recently. Duncan MacLeod?" "MacLeod?" "Yes sir." "You two--?" Yves finished the sentence with a gesture that was slightly rude, but easily understood. "No!" an astonished Tessa replied. "Heh, heh, heh. Mac must be losing his touch -- or else he's fallen for you? That's it, isn't it?" "I don't know. I--" "Of course you do. Don't bother denying it. So what about him?" "I-- uh, I was wondering if you could tell me something about... I'd like to get to know him better, but he doesn't talk about himself much." Cotin eyed Tessa. From his long experience, he knew that she wasn't being completely honest with him. On the other hand, she wasn't lying, either. "Duncan MacLeod. What exactly do you want to know? Is he rich?" "I don't care about that. I want to know something about the _man_." The old man sat back in his chair and thought about his answer. In a relatively gentle tone of voice that magnified the man's sincerity, "I don't think you'll find a more trustworthy man anywhere in the world. If you are his friend, he will never lie to you. If you ever need any help, he'll be there for you -- you only have to ask." Tessa visibly relaxed as if a heavy yoke had been lifted from her shoulders. Even through his aged vision, Monsieur Cotin could see the change, "It appears that was something you wanted to hear." "I think so." "Just remember -- all he wants is the truth in return. I don't think that's too much to ask. Do you?" "No. Not at all." "Then go." "If it's all the same to you, Monsieur Cotin, I'd really like to spend some more time here talking to you." "Heh, heh, heh. You make me feel like a young man of eighty." Tessa joined in with the old man's chuckling. He pressed a button on the intercom that was next to him. "Francoise, bring in some food and wine for two." He released the button and again turned his attention to Tessa. "I understand that you're something of an artist yourself." "I finished at the Sorbonne last year." "Tell me, how far do you want to go? What do you want do accomplish?" "I'm not sure anymore. Now that Michele's dead, the plans I made are going to have to change." "Maybe I could help some? Michele did speak well of you." Leaning closer to Tessa, and in a quieter, impish voice, "I'm not without a little influence. Ah! The wine!" perked Cotin as he saw his assistant enter with the tray. * * * Standing in the elevator, waiting for it to reach the main concourse of the museum, Tessa was feeling much less stress than she had when she first arrived. She wasn't quite ready to forget everything that had happened over the last couple of days, though she wanted to. She would at least hear what Duncan had to say. If he was really an Immortal like he said he was, then she knew that she probably would never meet a more interesting person in her life. The elevator doors opened to the marble colonnade of the museum's main lobby, and she stepped out. She headed for the nearby bank of phones. Before she reached them, she felt something substantial under her shoe that almost made her fall. It was a man's brown leather wallet. She bent down and picked it up. At the information carrousel, the same mustachioed man who had followed Duncan the previous night saw the sinewy blonde woman pick up a wallet; alarmed, he checked his inside coat pocket. Tessa Noel now had his wallet and his identity. Tessa looked inside the tri-fold billfold and saw an American driver's license with the owner's photo. She scanned the hall trying to find a face to match the picture. There! That man standing at information. Tessa walked over to him. "Excuse me, but did you lose your wallet?" she asked in English. The man gave the pretense of checking before he said, "I think I have. Thank you," he said as he extended his hand. Tessa took a small step back. "Not yet. Your name is--?" "James Horton." "That's what it says," Tessa replied as she handed the wallet back to its owner. "Thanks. And thank you for being careful," Horton said with a smile. Tessa smiled in return and again headed for the phone bank. Once there, she dialed the number to Duncan's apartment. She got his machine. "This is Tessa. I think... I'd like to talk to you again. I'll be at my apartment all evening." She hung up, and joined the rest of the normal afternoon crowd that was heading for the exit. Watching Tessa until she was outside, Horton then walked over to the phone that the woman had just used. He picked it up and dialed. "Andre? This is Horton. I've just been made." Even before he dialed, he knew he was going to be reassigned. A Watcher had to be anonymous to be effective. "Right. I'll leave in the morning," he said, and hung up the phone. * * * Duncan was already sitting at the bottom of the stairs when Tessa arrived at her apartment. He rose contritely as she approached. "Hi," he offered. "Hi," Tessa replied. "I--," she started, but stopped, thinking of what she wanted to say. "Do you kill these other Immortals of yours often?" Still direct, Duncan thought. He had to admire her mettle. "I try not to make a habit out of it, and I don't go looking for trouble. I'm not going to lie to you -- it does happen from time- to-time." Tessa paused. She didn't want him to leave, but was she willing to accept the consequences of being with a man like this? She could sense that he wasn't quite telling her the whole truth -- but then again he'd told her more than she really wanted to know. On the way over here, she'd convinced herself that she would see him again. But now, with him standing so close, the memory of him lopping off that other man's head kept replaying itself in her mind, and it started to weaken her resolve. She could still back out. For Duncan, the wait was agony. He could see the turmoil subtly dancing across Tessa's brow. This wasn't an easy decision for her, and he knew that it could go either way. But when she looked directly at him, like she just started doing, he didn't care; he was happy that she was near. It amazed him that he'd fallen so completely in love in so short a time. Tessa briefly lowered her eyes as she committed herself to her choice. There would be no regrets. She looked back up at Duncan. With one corner of her mouth rising slightly, she extended her right hand and said, "Hi, I'm Tessa Noel." Duncan was a little confused, but a long life prepared you for life's little confusions. He gently took her hand, "Duncan MacLeod. I'm very happy to know you." "I--," Tessa needed a second after noticing that she'd blushed. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out? There's a cafe just down the street." Duncan broke out in a huge grin. The weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. He grabbed Tessa in a tight hug, lifted her off the ground and spun her around a couple of times before settling down and kissing her. "Are you sure?" he asked. Tessa smiled, all of her reservations having melted away, and strongly kissed him in reply. * * * This won't be the last time I'll be in Paris, Horton thought, as he exited the museum into the waning light of another day. He'd had to abandon assignments before, but this time it felt different. Something had changed in him. Once outside, he stood motionless for several minutes in the midst of the crush of Parisians and tourists who were trying to reach their destinations unfettered. His destiny was tied to this city. Horton was trying to understand why. He was rudely bumped aside by a grumbling, hunched-over, old woman, and that distracted him enough to look around him. In this mass of people, he thought, any one of them (or several of them) could be Immortals -- head hunting murderers -- and he wouldn't know it. An ember started to burn in his soul fueling a resentment towards these beings he had been watching for so long. While these people around him barely concerned him, he knew that if he were Immortal then his feelings for them would be even less. Why should an Immortal care about mortals? For that matter, why should a mortal care about Immortals? Why should that Noel woman? Why should he? A chill rose up his spine. For the first time in his life, he felt the fear and anxiety of panic. The solution was so obvious, but darkly terrifying nonetheless. He was shivering from the shock of his destiny being revealed to him on this crowded city sidewalk. Slowly, and with a little effort, he sidled into the column of people moving in the general direction of his hotel. He now knew the purpose for his life: in the battle for dominion, the mortals must win. THE END -- CJ cj@rt66.com -or- richard.carter@loebbs.com =========================================================================