Date: Mon, 5 Feb 1996 00:10:37 EST Reply-To: Russet McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russet McMillan Subject: Mortality Rate, Part 7/8 Mortality Rate, Part 7 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu "Hey, Rich!" Joe greeted me as I walked into the bar. "Where've you been? We thought you'd head back this way first." "I did," I said, sliding onto a stool and dumping my jacket on the bar. "But I ran into Anne Lindsay." I looked around. The band was up on stage having a rehearsal. Right now they were talking in blues-speak, with lots of A's and B's and reps and riffs in their conversation. Barbara was sitting near the edge of the stage, waiting for them to start playing instead of talking. "So?" Joe leaned on the bar. "Did you ask her about the Pirelli woman?" "Yeah," I returned heavily. "I know the whole story now, the way it really happened. It wasn't the husband at all." Joe frowned. "How do you know?" "It was her, Sarah. She wanted to die. She'd been trying to kill herself for a couple of weeks. Once she learned about Immortality from Anne, she knew how to do it right." Joe's eyes flicked around nervously, the way Macs do when he senses another Immortal. "Are you sure about this? It couldn't have been the husband?" "He was probably trying to stop her. Or maybe she talked him into helping her, I don't know. But it was definitely her idea. She was all torn up about losing that baby, and then when she found out she couldn't have another . . . " I shrugged. I know about despair and dark moods, I know that feeling that you'll never have a chance to be a parent -- but I don't really understand wanting to kill yourself over it. A little voice whispered in the back of my mind that if I tried to, I could understand. I could know what suicide felt like from the inside. I could _remember_ it. Then the band got their cues and comps straightened out and started on something loud and fast, jolting me out of my thoughts. "Richie . . . " Joe looked serious as he raised his voice. "There's something you should know. MacLeod was here a few minutes ago." I straightened up. "You didn't tell him about this, did you?" "He asked about the damage to the bar. What was I supposed to say? He could tell it was from a Quickening." I pounded my thigh. "But you didn't tell him her husband did it, did you? Did you?" "He wanted to know who was responsible." From Joe's unease I could picture exactly how Mac had reacted to the news. A woman that Anne had recommended to his care, a new Immortal, a potential student -- he would really be pissed. That, on top of his weird mood the past few weeks . . . "Damn it!" I snapped. "You think he's gonna go after the guy? But he doesn't know where to look." I might still have time to find Mac and make him see reason. "I told him," said Barbara behind me. She looked defiant when I turned to stare at her. "I gave him the address. How else are we supposed to get justice, when we can't even tell the police that the murder ever happened?" I clenched my fists. "It wasn't murder, it was suicide!" "How can you be so sure? He had the sickle. Mike saw him running away from the scene!" "Look, why do you think she nailed that crosspiece onto the sickle? It's not easy to cut your own head off, but she wasn't expecting any help. He was probably there to stop her!" Uncertainty sprang out in the lines around her eyes. "But . . . it had to be him." "It wasn't!" I was yelling now. "Face it, not everybody's a jerk like your husband! It was Sarah's idea all along." I grabbed my jacket. "I gotta get over there before Mac tears him apart." "Richie," Joe called behind me, "don't you think Mac can --" I was out the door before he finished his sentence. The door to unit G was standing open when I arrived, and Mac was inside. Like I said, there's no explaining why the buzz feels the way it does, but I swear I could tell something was wrong with Mac even from outside the building. His buzz was all fluttery, like the way you feel after one too many cups of coffee. I swallowed hard and stepped inside, ready for anything. They weren't on the first floor. I followed the buzz to the basement door and stood at the top of the steps. " . . . so you killed her?" Mac's voice floated up to me, bubbling with anger. After a moment, an unfamiliar voice responded. "Yes. That's right. I killed her." There was a tremor in it, but I couldn't read the voice at all -- was he scared? Crying? Laughing, even? I went down a few steps. They were almost directly below me. Mac had to know I was here -- didn't he even care? I had left my sword with my bike to avoid misunderstandings, but he couldn't know that. "Why did you do it?" Mac demanded. "Why did you have to kill her? Because she wasn't human anymore? She wasn't like you?" This time the man's answer was a hoarse whisper, as if something was pressed against his throat. "Yes, of course. That's it exactly." "Well, I have news for you, you bastard." Mac's voice was low and deadly now. "_I'm_ not human either!" And I knew he was pulling back for a blow. "Mac, wait!" I yelled. I jumped over the railing and tackled him. He rolled and I sprawled, and somehow I managed to stay between him and Mr. Pirelli. Mac bounced to his feet and came after me, sword in hand. "Mac, it's me! Richie!" I yelped, and jumped back. His first swing missed me by inches. Now, Mac is a real demon to fight with, as I know from years of working out with him. And with him armed and me barehanded, I didn't stand a chance. But his moves were slower than usual, and jerky. If I had been moving like that, Mac would have told me to relax and let it flow. That stiffness saved me. I ducked under his second swing and slammed my shoulder against his stomach, and he staggered back, off balance. "Get a grip, Mac, it's me!" I yelled again. He got his feet under him and came forward again, his expression as dangerous as I've ever seen it. I realized that his eyes were fixed on my neck, and I started to feel very vulnerable. The sudden fear threw me off stride, and I didn't dodge the next strike fast enough. I managed to deflect it with my left arm, and my blood spattered the floor. I moved back, and back again, and then my foot hit something and I fell, trying to roll clear of Mac's next blow. My knee came down on something sharp and metallic -- the bloody sickle. I grabbed it up, right hand on the handle and left hand on the crosspiece, and caught Mac's katana on the inside of that wicked curve. Rising to one knee, I twisted the ugly gardening tool around the ancient steel blade, and ripped it out of Mac's hand. I blinked as the katana chimed on the floor off to my right. I had actually disarmed Duncan MacLeod! But it wouldn't stop him for long. Already he was about to dive after the sword. "Mac, wait!" I dropped the sickle and reached out a dripping red hand. "Just listen for a second, okay?" He looked straight at me for the first time, and the blind fury on his face cleared a little. He looked just like he did the time he pounded a total stranger into pulp, after Darius was murdered. "Richie." He was heaving for breath. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "I had to stop you, Mac. I had to tell you --" I waved one hand at the man still flattened against the wall; I hadn't even gotten a good look at him yet. "He didn't do it. He didn't kill her. She killed herself." Mac's face changed again as he remembered why he was here. "He said he did it. He admitted to it!" "It was suicide, Mac." "It was murder." "No, _this_ is murder!" My voice cracked as I waved again at the unseen Mr. Pirelli. His dark eyes bored into me. "This is justice." And he bent to pick up his sword. "Mac, no!" I stepped in front of the mortal. "Don't you remember what you told me? There is no justice -- only mercy." Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to remind him of Tessa's killer. "Mercy . . . " he croaked slowly, "is beyond me today. Now get out of the way." He lifted his katana. "No. I won't. You want him, you'll have to go through me." I held my breath, watching the suspended blade and waiting for sanity to return to MacLeod's face. There was a sharp report from the other side of the garage. Mac's eyes widened, and his arms drooped from their ready position, and he crumpled slowly to the floor. The sword clattered across the cement. Barbara stood in the back door to the garage, a smoking pistol in her hand. I felt a wave of dizziness, and I glanced down at my wounded arm. The sight made me want to throw up. The katana had plowed a thick ribbon of flesh from the arm, which hung down in a tangle with my torn sleeve. I tried to pat the skin back in place so it could heal, but by now I was really feeling the pain. The garage swam in and out around me. I realized Barbara was heading for the katana, and I staggered frantically into her path. "Stay away from him!" I croaked. She stared. I could see her trembling from here. "I wasn't going to -- I just thought -- maybe you should get that sword away from him before he wakes up." She glanced at me and then back at Joe, who had appeared in the doorway behind her. "He will be all right, won't he? You said --" "He should wake up in a few minutes," Joe said. "And we'd better get out of here before he does." I glared at both of them, my feet braced wide for balance. "Put the gun away, Barbara," Joe said, still in that soft, calm tone. She stared at the weapon as if she had never seen it before, then slipped it in her purse. "I got it when -- after that man broke into the house. I was going to stop carrying it, now that I know it was Robert who really wanted to kill me. But I couldn't think how else to stop MacLeod." She looked up. "He was going to cut your head off, wasn't he?" "No!" I spat. "Mac would never take my head!" Joe glanced at me sympathetically, but didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to the man crouched weeping against the wall. "Mr. Pirelli," he said, "why don't you come with us until this is all straightened out?" I looked at the guy for the first time. He had sandy hair, thinning on top, and glasses, and a little too much flab around the middle. He was just an ordinary guy, not a monster, and he looked like he'd been having the worst week of his life. "No," he said shakily. "Just -- go away, will you? All of you, just leave me alone." "You need to get away until MacLeod wakes up," Joe said patiently. "Why didn't you let him kill me?" Pirelli said, turning red eyes on me. I was having trouble thinking, maybe from the blood loss. "That's why you said you did it?" I demanded. "You _wanted_ him to kill you?" "What do I have to live for?" he sobbed. Joe sighed. "Mr. Pirelli --" "Get up, damn it!" Barbara snapped suddenly. "Look, if you want to die, that's your own business. But don't try to get MacLeod to do the job for you. That's just as bad as what your wife did to you!" He blinked. "Sarah? She just couldn't take it any more." "She didn't even try! She just left you holding the short end of the stick. You feel horribly guilty, don't you? Whether or not you did swing that sickle, you think it's your fault." Pirelli sobbed. "If I had just -- if I had told her . . . " Barbara leaned forward, practically yelling into his face. "Is that the kind of guilt you want MacLeod to feel? The man has enough troubles as it is. Now get up and get out of here before you make it worse. Take responsibility for your own life!" She tucked a hand under his elbow and pulled. Pirelli stared at her in amazement lurched to his feet. He swayed there for a few seconds, ignoring her tugs while he stared at Mac's prone form, then he let the two of them lead him away. I sank down to the floor, holding on to consciousness with both hands. Mac's katana lay across my lap, and I stared at my best friend and teacher and wondered what would happen to us. Just about when the pain was fading from my arm, a buzz started to whine in my ears, a little more steadily than it had a few seconds ago. MacLeod took a shuddering breath. I bit my lip and watched him. He turned his head toward me at once, then checked out the rest of the garage. "Where is he?" "He's gone," I said. "He's somewhere safe. He didn't do it, Mac. He didn't kill Sarah." He sat up and frowned. I couldn't tell if he believed me, but the rage was gone from his eyes. "Are . . . you okay, Mac?" I asked uneasily. "Give me my sword," he said shortly. I hesitated a moment, then passed it over. "You know my head is yours if you want it." He climbed to his feet. "I don't." His gaze still flicked around the room, looking for threats, and his muscles started to coil back into a fighter's stance. I swallowed, still sitting on the floor. "Mac, is it -- are they getting to you? The voices? The ones you've killed?" "I don't know what you mean, Richie," he said in a flat voice. He was being stubborn. Pushing wouldn't get him anywhere, and it might just make him angry again. "Mac, Isn't there anything we can do? Some way to fight back? . . . I'm scared." How much longer before this happened to me? His eyes settled on me for the first time since he woke up. "You just have to know who you are, Richie. All it takes is a strong will." He grabbed his long coat from the floor, wrapped it around himself and the sword, and left. I got up stiffly from the floor and headed up the stairs. There was nothing I could do for MacLeod. Right now my best bet was to go home, throw my shirt in the trash, and get some sleep. =========================================================================