Date: Mon, 12 Feb 1996 23:08:17 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: "Not Every Problem" 4/4 ********************part 4*********************************** Wallace eyed him as if to argue further, then spun away and started off. MacLeod followed. With terse words of agreement they identified and followed multiple tracks heading north. "Who is it we're after?" the Highlander pressed. "Who killed your partner?" "We're probably after a pair of men," Wallace told him tightly. "Davis Ellithorpe and Sean Corbin are part of an Aryan nation splinter group from the Midwest. They're here to conclude some sort of arms purchase with a Korean national working in Vancouver. We've been following their activities for weeks. They must have found Jason." "I'm sorry." "Not as sorry as they will be," Wallace promised. "You're not FBI, are you?" "Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, " Wallace answered. "What do you do, MacLeod?" "Antiques," MacLeod answered. "You don't look like an antique dealer." "I don't intend to." After another mile they found where Tessa, Richie and Ellithorpe had crossed the stream. MacLeod couldn't bear to think of his friends out here, being chased as if they were wild animals, and forced his mind into grim contemplation of what he might do to Ellithorpe when they caught him. He was beginning to lose sight in the dark when Wallace gave out a yell. "There he is!" the agent yelled. Shots came towards them. One caught MacLeod in the shoulder and spun him to the ground. He fought against the red haze that engulfed his vision, and when the haze cleared he found Wallace and Ellithorpe locked in combat beside him. He pulled Ellithorpe lose and dropped him with a solid punch to the jaw. "I thought you were shot," Wallace wheezed from the ground. Ellithorpe's hands had been locked around his throat. MacLeod helped him up. "Just grazed," he said. He went through Ellithorpe's pockets and produced a cellular phone. "Don't touch it," Wallace said. "It's evidence." MacLeod ignored him. Acting on impulse, he hit the redial number. After several rings a woman's voice answered. He felt a stab of recognition in his chest at the anxiousness, the fear, locked in her voice. "Tessa?" he said. "Thank God." "Duncan!" The relief in her voice was clear as a bell. "Where are you?" "Coming to help you, I thought, " he said. "Where are you?" Richie's voice in the background called out her name. Then Tessa shrieked, and a thud through the phone marked the end of the transmission. Frantically MacLeod tried calling back, but there was no answer. Wallace shook Ellithorpe conscious. MacLeod hauled him to his feet. "Where are they?" he demanded. "Where are my friends?" "How should I know?" Ellithorpe asked sullenly. "I was after them, you were after me." "We've got to get him back to my car," Wallace said. "I've got a radio there. We can call in the local authorities and get a search out in these woods. Your friends will be found in no time." "There are no phones out here," MacLeod said, glaring at Ellithorpe. "So they must have found one. Whose was the last number programmed into your phone?" "I want my lawyer," Ellithorpe shot back. MacLeod snapped. The accident, the shooting, Tessa and Richie - it was too much for one day. He tackled Ellithorpe, knocking him to the ground, and was in the process of beating him senseless when Wallace finally dragged him off. "You won't help them like this!" Wallace yelled. "You understand me, Mr. Antiques Dealer? This won't save them." MacLeod leaned back. He could feel blood running from his mouth where he'd bit his own tongue. The injury healed within seconds. "All right," he said. "We do it your way. Call in the police." It took another half hour before they were back at the scene of the crashed Thunderbird and Ford. The police were already there, with spotlights and search teams, running the plates on Wallace's rented Chevy. The sheriff was named Wendy Wasserman, and she proved to be a tall woman with long frizzy hair under a battered hat who listened to their story and offered a few explanations of her own. "One of my reserve deputies saw the smashed guard rail, called it in," she said. She pulled out a county map and spread it on the hood of her car with flashlights for illumination. "You say you found the shooter here? And the trail was heading in this direction?" Wallace nodded. Knotted by tension and worry, MacLeod focused on the map with renewed intensity. "What do you think?" he asked the sheriff. "I'm thinking we should get over to old Owen Holden's cabin," she said. "He lives over here, not far from the old logging road off the highway. Been living there as long as anyone knows. He might know something, might have seen something." The sheriff took Wallace and MacLeod both in her own vehicle. Where the highway met the logging road they found a Toyota Celica. The hood was wide open. The passenger seat was tinged with blood, and a broken cellular phone lay near the gas pedal. "We got to go in on foot," Wendy Wasserman told them. "Owen doesn't have a road." Gunshots from up ahead sent them running through the darkness. *** "How old are you?" Tessa asked curiously. "About ninety," Owen Holden shrugged. "I guess." He was a gentle giant of a man, despite the ferocious set of his features. He had put Richie down on the single bed in his one-room log cabin, and neatly scissored away the fabric of his jeans. Now he was examining Richie's leg with the careful attitude of a physician, while the teenager watched in exhausted and heavy-lidded silence. "Not broken," he announced. "But badly twisted." "Oh, good," Richie said. He closed his eyes. He thought he might cry if he wasn't careful. It was a culmination of the rotten condition of his body or nerves, and the fact this hulking Immortal had just carried him through the woods like a helpless baby, but he allowed himself no release. Tessa glanced around the cabin. Owen lived simply but well, with a large collection of books and an affinity for wooden furniture, colorful blankets, Indian art. She had shrugged out of her wet jacket and sweater, and gratefully donned a sweatshirt Owen had lent her. "How did you know we were out there?" she asked. "Heard gunshots," he said. He was a man of few words, she decided, but they were important ones. "And how did you know about Duncan? He wasn't with us. But you knew he was an Immortal." Owen began working on Richie's injured arm. "I saw you in town a few days ago. I don't go very often, and if there's someone else like me, I leave as quickly as possible." He nodded to Mac's katana in the corner. "I don't like the fighting." "Neither do I," Tessa murmured. Casually, as if the answer wasn't very important, Owen asked, "Is that what we're called? Immortal?" "You don't know?" Tessa asked. He flushed. "No one ever told me." "Yes," Tessa said. "You're Immortal." She studied Richie's pale complexion and then rose abruptly from her seat. "Do you have a phone or a radio?" Owen shook his head. "I'll go for help. There's a neighbor about six miles up the road. He has a phone." "What if those guys are out there?" Richie asked. "They could shoot you." Owen shrugged again. "I'll just get up again. It always happens." Someone banged hard on the front door, eliciting a jump from Tessa. Owen rose from Richie's bedside and instantly pulled Tessa to the teenager. "Stay here," he said sharply, and gave Tessa the 9 mm and the MacLeod's sword. Taking a shotgun down from the wall, he went to the side of the door and demanded, "Who is it?" "Help me!" a voice called out, in pain and distress. "My car went off the road! My wife - she's bleeding - " Owen glanced at Tessa and Richie. "Big day for accidents," he grunted. "Do we believe him?" "No," Tessa said. "I have a gun!" Owen shouted through the door. "I'll shoot you!" Shots ripped through the log walls in response. Owen dropped to the floor, his chest riddled with holes, his face a startled mask of instant death. Tessa left the gun with Richie and scrambled for the Immortal's shotgun. The door kicked in. Sean Corbin stormed in, his Uzi leveled at Tessa's chest. He had recovered his pants, but looked as furious as he had when they'd left him belted to the tree. "Drop it," he growled. Tessa automatically lowered the shotgun. "You too, kid," Corbin said, his eyes flickering to Richie's side. Richie struggled to sit upright. "No." "Then I level your mother here," Corbin said. "She's not my mother," Richie shot back. "The very idea is ridiculous," Tessa agreed, hoping to hide the shake in her voice. She knew that Richie was stalling, but she didn't know if they could drag out this horrible minute until Owen awoke from death. "She's my step-mother," Richie put in, a gleam in his eyes. His expression remained impassive, but tinged towards sinister. "Go ahead. Shoot her. It doesn't matter to me. All she does is get on my case, anyway. Nag this, nag that. And you'll save my dad the alimony once he dumps this one too." Tessa pretended outrage. "You ungrateful little bastard! After everything I've done for you, you think you can get rid of me this easily? Your father is going to pay very dearly for his mistakes as well as yours." "I'm not interested in your family drama," Corbin said hotly. He swung the Uzi to aim at Richie. "How about if I just shoot you? Miss Tessa and I here have a score to even up, and we don't need an audience." "Yeah," Richie said sarcastically. "We know who wears the pants when you're around." Corbin's finger started to tighten on the trigger, but at that very moment Owen swung around with his massive forearm and knocked the man to the side. Bullets ripped through the log walls a few inches over Richie's head, and tore through the ceiling with an explosion of noise and gunsmoke. The bullets had barely stopped before the doorway filled with a woman in a sheriff's uniform, a black man in a business suit and raincoat, and Duncan. Tessa couldn't hear for a moment - the bullets had been deafeningly close -but she realized MacLeod's arms were around her, and that she'd sunk to her knees on the floor. "Richie?" she asked numbly. "He's all right," MacLeod soothed her. "You're both okay." Sheriff Wendy Wasserman was handcuffing Corbin. Wallace was gingerly examining the fallen Uzi. He squinted up at Owen, whose shirt was pocketed with red. "Are you injured?" "Shrapnel," Owen grunted. "Just scratches." "Hell of a lot of scratches," Wallace said observantly. "The boy needs a doctor," Owen said, deflecting attention to Richie. He looked at MacLeod and they appraised each other Immortal-fashion. MacLeod nodded, acknowledging a debt. Owen shrugged and turned away. MacLeod went to Richie, who had slumped back against the damaged wall and was watching everyone with a shaken expression. The 9 mm still lay in his good hand, and it took an effort for MacLeod to pry the teenager's fingers from the grip. "You okay?" the Highlander asked gently. "Yeah," Richie said. He focused on MacLeod with a trace of confusion. "We out of here?" "We're out of here," MacLeod promised. "Good." Three hours later, Richie was safe in the local community hospital and Tessa was in the shower of their small motel room in town. MacLeod waited in bed, thinking about what the emergency room had told him. The teenager's diagnoses were a twisted knee, one cracked rib, a concussion, dehydration, exposure. He'd taken twenty two stitches in his left arm, and would have a jagged scar. If he were already Immortal, MacLeod reflected, the injuries would have healed themselves within minutes after the crash. But Immortal he wasn't, and if he were lucky, the crossing from his normal life to that of another player in the Gathering wouldn't come for several years. Tessa came out, wrapped in a thick bathrobe recovered from her suitcase in the wrecked Thunderbird. She looked very lovely, and very perturbed. When she climbed into bed with him she lay quietly, her breathing soft and slow, her feet cold, nestled against MacLeod for additional warmth. "How do you feel?" he asked. Tessa shrugged. "Sore." "You did good, you know that?" "Owen did better. He saved our lives." "You saved your own," MacLeod corrected. He kissed the back of her head. "By being brave, and clever, and strong." "Richie nearly died." "But he didn't," MacLeod said. And wouldn't. But that would be a lesson for another day. She didn't speak much after that, and as MacLeod eased off into sleep he attributed her grim silence to aftershock. The next morning they talked to Richie on the phone, spent a few hours filling out forms and giving statements to the police, and then picked up a rental car and went to the hospital. Owen Holden was in Richie's room, and as he came out he looked somewhat abashed. "I've never been a hero before," he said. "Just an outcast." "You don't have to be," MacLeod said. He'd learned in the cabin the night before that Owen had come to his Immortality by chance, with no one to teach him the rules or guide him. "There are others like you and I. I could put you in touch with some who'd teach you, not necessarily try to kill you." Owen smiled. Tessa hadn't seen him smile before, and she decided she liked him. "Thank you for your help," she said, and kissed his cheek. He blushed furiously, but smiled wider. Tessa turned and planted a kiss on MacLeod's cheek as well. "I owe you an apology," she said. "You do? What for?" "In the car, before the accident, you were trying to tell me that not every problem we have is caused by Immortals. I guess this was the perfect example." MacLeod wrapped her in his arms and nestled his head in her golden hair. "It's an example I never wanted." He held her for a few more precious seconds, then broke apart as an intern came down the hall with a clattering tray of food. "Let's save Richie from lunch," MacLeod suggested. Richie sat in a side chair by his rumpled hospital bed, awkwardly working on tying his shoes despite the bandages on his arm and around his middle. "Hey," he said. "About time you guys showed up." "Yeah, well, things to do, you know," MacLeod joked, but there was no smile on Richie's face. The Highlander frowned slightly, then asked, "You sure you're able to travel?" "Able, willing, through sleet and rain, you name it," Richie shot back gamely. He moved past MacLeod and Tessa to take his jacket out of the closet. He fingered the scissored sleeve with an odd expression on his face. "Jacket's trashed." "We'll get you a new one," MacLeod offered. "Seeing as it was my driving skills that got us into this mess in the first place." "Your driving was fine," Tessa murmured. Richie fingered the jacket, then tossed it aside. "Yeah, well, it was just one of my favorites, you know? But it's okay. Could be worse." Tessa turned to MacLeod. "Duncan, didn't the nurse say there were papers to be signed?" "Insurance," MacLeod agreed. He was aware of an odd tension in the room, but not exactly what kind. Richie wasn't meeting their gaze, and although he appeared much improved from the cabin, he was trying too hard to keep his voice steady. "I don't have insurance," Richie said. "My insurance," MacLeod provided. He was about to ask a question, but Tessa tugged surreptitiously on his arm. "Then why don't you sign them while I help Richie?" "I don't need help," Richie said quickly. MacLeod nodded. "Good idea." The Highlander beat a hasty retreat. Tessa gazed frankly at Richie, then moved to pick his jacket up from the chair. "I'm not a seamstress by trade," she said, "but I might be able to do something with this." Richie unzipped his overnight bag and found something interesting to study inside it. "No, it's okay. Some things can't be fixed." She moved to stand across the bed from him. "You're mad at me, aren't you?" "Why would I be mad?" He took out a pair of socks, refolded them, stuffed them in. His jaw tightened, always a sure sign of the anger he sometimes quelled, sometimes let loose. "I mean, we did it. We survived. You got us out of there." He busied himself re-folding underwear. Tessa sat on the mattress and said, "I should tell you a story about my friend Richie. He was hurt in a car accident, and not thinking very clearly. Then men started chasing him in the woods. He tried very hard to get away, but he was injured, and couldn't move very fast. He thought it might be easier to just sit down and wait for the man to come shoot him then it would be to struggle on." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "That's not how it was." "Then tell me how it was." "I don't remember, exactly," Richie said tightly. "But I hurt, and I in the woods, and my friend Tessa was yelling at me." "I didn't yell at you." "You weren't very nice." "And you had a concussion," Tessa said, trying hard to rein in her own temper. That he couldn't see what she'd done as a necessity was strangely wounding. "I couldn't carry you, and I couldn't save you. You had to do it yourself." "And I did," he said defiantly, meeting her gaze for the first time. "Yes," she agreed softly. "You did. I had no doubt that you could, Richie. But I was afraid you didn't know that." He stuffed his underwear back in his bag but didn't answer. Tessa could see him thinking about her words. Young men were such strange creatures, she thought suddenly. In love, in Paris, in spring time, she could read them like posters in the Metro; in America, in a cold hospital room in the mountains, she had trouble telling if Richie even understood his own self-worth. She reached out and lifted his chin with her soft fingers. "Richie," she said hesitantly, "you are important to both Duncan and I. We may not always get along, or agree about everything. We come from different worlds, and the only thing we've had in common so far is Duncan. But you are my friend, and I would never let anyone harm you if I could help it. Not even yourself. I'm sorry if you thought any other way." Richie stared at her, searching her eyes for lies or deception, but found nothing. During the long, lonely morning in the hospital he'd counted the ceiling tiles, wondering what to do with his life now that he'd outworn his stay with MacLeod and Tessa. And he knew when he'd outworn his stay. In had happened in a dozen foster families who grew tired of the extra kid around the house, or who didn't take kindly to his run-ins with the law, or who told the social workers that the new boy "just didn't fit in." It didn't really surprise him that Tessa didn't want him around anymore. It did surprise him it had taken so long for her to decide it. MacLeod would get over his odd sense of responsibly for the petty thief who'd broken into his shop, and they'd get on with their strange lives. Richie would go off and find some broken down place to call home, make friends who didn't care a damn about him, and do his best to forget all about Immortals. Now, looking into Tessa's eyes, he realized he'd over-reacted in a big way to a few words said under duress in a forest darkening towards night. He drew in a shaky breath and managed a nod. "Okay," he said. "So I had my brains scrambled a little. I thought . . . well, it's not important now." Tessa narrowed her expression. "Good. Remember, after all, you're the one who told Corbin to shoot me." "I did not!" Tessa wagged a finger at him and then lifted his bag. "Evil step-mother, am I?" Richie smiled. It wasn't his best smile, his killer grin reserved for women or victims of his various cons, but it was a start. "I had to come up with something fast," he admitted, and put his good arm around her. Tessa gave him a quick hug. "Just don't tell anyone I'm your mother," she said. "For my own sanity." "Only if you promise one thing." "What's that?" Richie opened the hospital room door. "Considering the last twenty four hours . . .don't let Dad drive us home, okay?" THE END =========================================================================