Date: Sun, 28 Jan 1996 18:40:33 -0500 Reply-To: Mike Breen Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Mike Breen Subject: REVENGE AND REBIRTH III - Cast The First Stone, Part 1 Sorry this took so long. Violence and language are at the same fevered pitch as last time. BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES - NOVEMBER, 1995 "Someone broke in to the station," the uniform cop said to D'Gornio and Douglas, "sometime in the early AM. Then they did this." He indicated the headless corpse by the refreshment kiosk. "And take a look at this." With gloved hands, he handed a sword to D'Gornio, who put his gloves on and took it. "Where'd you find this?" he asked. "In the victim's hand." "Jesus Christ. Where's the head?" D'Gornio said, handing the sword back. "Over here." The cop took D'Gornio and Douglas over to where the head rested, approximately six feet away from the body. The head had long, greasy black hair. D'Gornio turned it over and looked at the face. Eyes wide in shock, D'Gornio backed up, wordlessly. "Frank..?" Douglas said. "You OK, Frank?" D'Gornio said, "I know him. He's a street punk named Stink. I always knew he'd end up dead, just not like this." He walked away from the head, back towards the stairs and sat down, still shaken. He looked around, then said, "Where the fuck is that ME? He's supposed to get here the same time we do." "I'll call headquarters," the uniform cop said. "You sure you're OK, Frank?" "Yeah, Jim. I've been a cop in this town for nearly twenty five years. Not much shocks me anymore. But this... finding someone you know, no matter how little you liked him, it shakes you up. Now, what do we _really_ have here?" "I'd say either VonHoffer _wasn't_ our guy, or there's more than one." "Yeah. Have you noticed something... I don't know... ritualistic about these killings?" "What do you mean?" "I mean everything from the swords to the crime scene. Each and every killing's been performed at night, in someplace that's deserted. They're being beheaded, for Christ's sake, which in and of itself signifies some kind of ritual. I don't know... maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Maybe it's not one or two guys. Maybe there's a whole group of guys, kinda like a cult. They fight with swords until one is beaten, then the winner chops the loser's head off." "Frank... your imagination's getting away with you." "Well how _else_ do you explain what's going on here? If Stink didn't have the sword in his hand..." He rubbed his eyes and said, "God damn, but I'm tired. Swordfights in Boston. This isn't the damn Revolutionary war." The uniform cop said, "An assistant ME's on her way." "Assistant?" D'Gornio said. "What happened to the one on the case?" "He's dead." "What??" "Strangled, right in the morgue as he was about to perform an autopsy on the stiff that was brought in earlier tonight, then someone stole the body _and_ the ME's clothes." "What? What kind of sick son of a bitch would do that?" VonHoffer had taken the ME's clothes, fortunately they were about the same build, and walked straight out of the morgue. He was now dead in Boston, and his office was now a crime scene, but that wouldn't stop him from his plan. He would just have to establish a low-profile base of operations. He took the man's keys out of the lab coat pocket, straightened his tie, and walked into the physician's lounge, which was fortunately empty at this time of morning. He unlocked the padlock on the ME's locker, placed the lab coat inside, and took out his overcoat. Then he walked out to the parking lot. He huddled the coat around him, the air this last day of November was unseasonably cold. There were four cars parked in the "staff only" spaces. He raised the alarm bleeper and clicked the button. A black BMW responded with two beeps. He walked over to it, unlocked the door, and started the car. When he arrived at the highway, he picked up the cellular phone and dialed McKinley's number. "Yeah," came McKinley's voice. "John." "Kurdt! Where are you?" "I had to kill the medical examiner. He was about to perform an autopsy on me." "What? What's going on?" "O'Brien threw me out my office window. It's now a crime scene. We need to establish another base of operations. I'm now dead in Boston." "Ok, Kurdt. Leave everything to me." "I have just about had it," D'Gornio said as he and Douglas returned to the station that morning. "I've had it with heads, swords, psycho killers, religious rituals, and destroyed property. I'm getting too old for this." "I hear ya," Douglas said. "Ok, what've we got? I want _any_ lead, no matter how small. I want to connect these bodies _some_how. I wanna hear theories, I don't care how wild." "Here's one," Douglas said. "Maybe they _are_ part of a religious cult. Maybe they perform these beheadings as a kind of challenge or a rite of passage. Killing your opponent isn't enough, you have to take his head. So, VonHoffer takes these heads. Then someone comes after him. They duel, and VonHoffer gets tossed out the window. Before his opponent can get to his body and chop his head off, our friendly cabbie calls us in. Then our guy goes to the morgue, kills the ME and finishes the job. Then he, or another of his cult do Stink." "I said theories, Jim, not fiction. No, there's got to be a _logical_ explanation." "Who was that guy who's house Stink was watching?" "That's right." D'Gornio picked up his phone, hit the intercom button and called down to records. He said, "Give me the file on Patrick O'Brien, the former college professor, pronto." A few minutes later, D'Gornio had them on his desk. "I still say he's CIA. Here's a theory. This O'Brien's been after VonHoffer for his arms trading. He confronts him in his office, tries to place him under arrest, they fight, VonHoffer grabs a sword, and O'Brien tosses him out the window. Not as clean as the CIA usually is, but effective nonetheless. One of VonHoffer's cronies then steals the body." "Then who did Stink?" Douglas said. "O'Brien did, of course, because Stink had been watching his house. He probably found out something that could be potentially damaging to the security of the country. He had seen the headhunter stories in the paper and decided this was a perfect coverup. He did Stink then planted the sword." "And what about all the other headhunter jobs?" "VonHoffer. And until another headless corpse comes in, I'm sticking with this. I don't want to alarm anyone with talk about some cult chopping people's heads off." He looked at the file photo of Patrick O'Brien and said, "In any case, I think it's about time I paid a visit to mister O'Brien." Patrick swung, blocking the other Immortal's attack. They stood, blades locked, barefoot on the mat. The other Immortal grinned and, in a blindingly fast move, disarmed Patrick, sending his katana sailing across the room. He placed his blade at his neck and said, "Do you yield?" "I yield," Patrick said. Yoshihiro Ammamoto removed his sword from Patrick's neck and said, "You are distracted today. Usually, I do not disarm you so quickly. I thought today would be the day you would finally best me." Patrick sighed and said, "You say that everyday is the day you think I'll best you and it's never happened, Sensei. This whole VonHoffer thing has me tense, that's all." "Ah," Joe said. "I hear you charles-ed him out a window." "'Chucked,' Joe," Patrick said. "The Western term is 'chucked.'" Joe chuckled and said, "'Chucked.'" "And yeah, I did. Michelle, Rebecca, and I broke into his office and uncovered his plot. He discovered us. I couldn't fight him in the confined space, so when he broke the window..." "You used his momentum against him. Patrick-san, I am honored that you remembered that maneuver." "It was an honor to learn it. And thanks to you, Sensei, VonHoffer is dead in Boston." "And this means he'll stop coming?" "Only for a month or so. Eventually, he's going to operate from underground. Not many people saw him, and after a few months, once the average citizen has forgotten his face from the papers, he'll be able to move openly. He'll keep coming, but he'll need at least a few weeks to regroup. Maybe more." "This should make you happy. Now _we_ have time to plan." "That's not the only thing that happened last night," Patrick said. "Nancy... She beat the Immortal that was sent for her, and she has to leave." "I knew this day would come. And I knew it would come soon. Patrick," Joe placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder, "Remember what I said. She'll be fine. But that is not what is bothering you most, I think." "No, it isn't. Once I knew Nancy had won, I knew she'd be fine. Yes, I'm worried about her, partly because of Sam. But I know she's strong. No, the thing that's bothering me most is that we now have proof that VonHoffer is getting help from the Watchers." "And so are you, Patrick." "All Bernard does is give me a little information here and there." "And VonHoffer's Watcher is doing more than that? Patrick-san, you cannot accuse because _your_ hands are not clean." "'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,'" Patrick said. "I believe that is what I just said." Patrick sighed before going on. He said, "Nancy was shot by a young Watcher this morning after her battle." Joe said nothing. "And Bernard's old pupil is VonHoffer's Watcher." Joe said, "What do you intend to do?" "I've thought that this was happening two weeks ago when Connor was in town. But I had no proof. Now I do." "And..." Joe said. "I've got to tell him, somehow. But I know how _I_ felt when it was happening to me... when I found out that Sam had gone bad." BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES - APRIL 1995 "I don't know what you people want, Dawson, but just get the hell out of here, and tell Bernard to find another Immortal to Watch. Goodnight." He turned and walked towards the door. "We can do this one of two ways, O'Brien," Dawson said. "Either you let me in and find out what it is that's brought me here, or I advertise it to the entire neighborhood." "It's one thirty AM, Dawson. I don't think many people are awake to hear it." "Do you want to take that chance? I know _who_ you are and _what_ you are. I know more about you than any Mortal alive besides Bernard. Hell, I know more about you than Michelle." Patrick inhaled sharply at the mention of his former lover. "Still hurt, O'Brien? What will hurt more? That she left or the blood of someone on _your_ hands if you don't stop it?" "Who's blood?" Dawson handed Patrick an old saxophone case and said, "Bernard's." Patrick and Dawson went to an all-night diner in Kenmore Square to talk. Since Nancy and Sam had become lovers, he didn't want Nancy to hear where this conversation would likely go, and wanted Rebecca to make sure she stayed in the townhouse, rather than go out looking for Sam. Patrick was speechless. He was afraid that something _like_ this would happen, but he never, in his wildest dreams, thought that Sam would become a kidnapper, and possibly a killer. He didn't believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it. They ordered coffee, and Dawson placed the sax case down on the table and said, "He was supposed to meet me this morning after rush hour, but never made it, or called. I drove to the train station and found that." "How do you know it was Sam?" "Four Watchers have been killed by an Immortal over the past two months." "What makes you so _sure_ it's an Immortal doing the killing?" "They were all beheaded, by someone who knew how to use a sword _well_." "So?" Patrick got up from the booth. "You're not convincing me, Watcher. Go to the police." Dawson said. "My friend's life is at stake here! And if my information is correct, he's _your_ friend too, or _was_ until he told you he was a Watcher. And not _just_ a Watcher, but a damn good one at that. After all he Watched _you_ for thirty five years before you found him out. Will you just _hear_ me out!" "Very well," Patrick said sitting again, "but make it quick, Watcher. I'm not a patient man." Then he realized what else Dawson had said. "Thirty five years?" he said. "Yeah. There was twenty years that you didn't even _see_ him." He then changed the subject. "The first Watcher to be killed was Stephen Conway. He was assigned to Leonard. Then watchers assigned to Diego Gonzalez, Paul Kellman, and Rebecca DeJeniere were killed identically, by beheading. In each case, Leonard was there, and what's more, he knew each Immortal." It all fit together now in his mind. Sam's obsession, his being more tense than usual, his constant references to Mei-Ling... "_If_ you're right," Patrick said, "That means that he's going to kill Bernard apparently for me." Dawson nodded. "And what do you expect me to do about it?" Dawson sighed, knowing this was the hard part. "He has to answer for his crimes, O'Brien. The man's a killer, and probably insane. I know he's your old student, but..." "Now wait just a ghods damn minute, Dawson! I am _not_ going to kill him." "Ok, let me ask you this. If it were Rebecca or Nancy in danger by Leonard, would you kill him?" "That's not the point. Facing your Student in a duel to the death is something _every_ Immortal prays they'll never have to do." "Uh huh. Now would you kill him? Yes or no." Patrick paused, then said, "Yes." "And if it were Connor MacLeod in danger?" "Yes." "And one of your colleagues at Harvard, or Michelle Taylor?" "Yes." "And Bernard?" Patrick was silent. "I thought so. It's not so much facing your Student as it is rescuing a Watcher." Patrick sighed and said, "It's hard to face your Student period. But this whole concept of Watchers... I'm still not comfortable with it." "I can certainly understand _that_. MacLeod and I went through a period where he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, except use the organization's information. We had some trials and are now close friends. He understands that our _only_ motivation is history." "Ok. I understand the Watcher perspective now, so _you_ have to understand the Immortal one. Facing and killing your Student is like facing and killing family. You _can't_ know that feeling. You _can't_. I, thankfully, don't." Looking the Immortal square in the eye, Dawson said, "I do." "What!?" that got Patrick's attention. "I killed my own brother-in-law, James Horton, the Watcher who began the Hunter splinter group. I shot him in the heart at point-blank range." That Horton had worn a bullet-proof vest that night over a year ago and had survived, O'Brien didn't need to know. He had pulled the trigger and had watched a man he had called "friend" and "family" sink, apparently lifeless, into a river... "Dawson?" Patrick broke Dawson out of his revere. He looked up at Patrick. "Dawson, I'll talk to him. I'll see if there's _any_ way that we can walk away from this. I will try to stop him until my blade is at his neck. While there is breath in his body, I will try to stop him. Only if there is no other way, will I kill him. That's as far as I can go." "That's all I ask." It had rained while they were in the diner, the streetlamps glistening against the wet pavement. Dawson dropped Patrick off in front of the townhouse. Patrick got out of the car and Dawson said, "I'll keep in touch. I don't plan on leaving Boston until this is over one way or the other. And if I find _anything_ in our organization... well, we'll be working overtime on Samuel Leonard, and you'll be the first to know." "Thanks. I don't look forward to facing Nancy. What did you say to your sister after..." Dawson didn't answer. Instead he said, "I'll be in touch," and drove off. Patrick stood there in the middle of Beacon Street at three in the morning, hands in his trenchcoat pockets, watching Dawson's car head away from him, it's lone engine cutting through the silence of the sleeping city. Who wants to live forever when friends must die? At that moment, Patrick felt he'd had enough. Enough of the Game. Enough of the Prize. Enough of the Gathering, Quickening, watching mortal friends age and die, watching Immortal friends loose their heads... Enough life. To grow old and die, _really_ die, and not have to watch for friends turning on you, or strangers Watching your every move. Not have to worry about turning a corner and having a sword plunged into your abdomen and severing your head while you were down. Enough. And with a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning, a flash like the Quickening of a troubled young Immortal, or a tired old Immortal, the rain started again. BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES - NOVEMBER, 1995 "It's the same," Patrick said. "It's no different. It's happening again, though on the other side of the coin. Bernard's not gonna like this." Joe said, "If you would like, I'll tell him." "No, Joe. _I_ have to." Joe smiled and said, "Good. I didn't intend on telling him anyway." Patrick sighed and said, "Is _everything_ a test with you?" "Yes. You should know that by now. Life itself is a lesson to be learned, though you are responsible for seeing what the lesson is." "This is one lesson I could do without." Bernard and Elaine sat on the parkbench that morning. The temperature was rapidly dropping as November was turning into December. "I just want to know who entered the Stink-Nancy confrontation into the system," Bernard said. "No, I do know who did it." "Your old pupil," Elaine said. "Yup. He's always been dedicated, but it was entered barely an hour after the battle." "Bernard..?" "Mm?" "This means that Nancy's leaving, doesn't it?" "Yup." "Oh." Elaine looked at the townhouse, wondering what was going through Nancy's mind. "Bernard?" "Mm?" "Nancy doesn't have her own Watcher yet, does she?" "Nope." "Could... do you think... I mean..." "You want to be assigned to her?" Elaine nodded. "Elaine, your training isn't nearly done yet. Once it's done, you spend time in research. _Then_ and _only_ then, and _only_ if you prove yourself, do you go out in the field." "Oh," Elaine said, disappointed. Bernard looked at his pupil, who he had grown quite fond of over the last month, and said, "But, I think it may be time you got some field training on your own. Once _that's_ done, you really should get some training from someone besides me." "You mean..?" "Your solo field training is to follow Nancy Peters to wherever she settles down. Contact me once you get there, and I'll put you in touch with the regional supervisor. They'll help you in your training." Elaine leaned over and hugged Bernard. "I'll never forget this," she said. "'Morning, Bernard," Patrick said as he approached the bench. "'Morning, Elaine." "'Morning, Patrick," they said in unison. "Bernard, can we talk alone?" "Sure. Elaine, why don't you get some coffee for yourself and be back in a half hour." "Sure," Elaine said as she stood and walked off. Patrick sat beside Bernard and said, "I don't know how to put this in the best possible terms, so I'll just come out and say it. Your old student's gone bad." Bernard was silent. Had he not had his dark sunglasses on, Patrick would have seen the entire range of emotions play across his eyes. Bernard said, "What makes you say that?" "Nancy faced another Immortal last night and when it was over, she was shot by a Watcher. The other Immortal was sent by VonHoffer, and she was shot to prevent her from disposing of the body." "Could have been anyone," Bernard said. "Bernard... VonHoffer's been using information against me, information that could only be gotten from _your_ organization. He sent someone after Connor when he was here two weeks ago. How would he have known that Connor was even here?" "Someone could have been watching your house." "Without you knowing? Come on, Bernard, someone _was_ watching the house early on and you saw. But Connor's Watcher probably reported to you that he was in town." Changing the subject slightly, Patrick said, "Do you remember when I first found out you were a Watcher?" Bernard nodded. "And do you remember Sam?" Bernard nodded again. "I know what you're going through." "And what makes _me_ any different from _him_?" Bernard said. "I give you information, hell, I told you when VonHoffer arrived that he was here. What happened to 'observe, record, never interfere?'" Patrick was silent. Then he said, "Bernard, a bit of information here and there is one thing, but your student is taking an active role in VonHoffer's plot." Bernard nodded and said, "I've actually suspected this for quite some time. Fine, then. We're not supposed to interfere, but the scales have to be balanced. I'll probably be through with the Watchers after this, but I'll put all of our resources at your disposal. That will give you as much information as VonHoffer's getting." BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES - DECEMBER, 1995 Rebecca's show went well. She had sold several paintings and the gallery owner was interested in having her back in the new year, possibly with several better known artists as well, to help her build up her following in the States. After the show, though, Patrick and Rebecca both knew what _had_ to happen. And Patrick would do his damndest to make sure she had a place to go. That night, Patrick sat at his desk in his study, looking long and hard at absolutely nothing. He picked the phone up and flipped through his phone book under "M." He dialed the area code for Seacouver, then a phone number. It was still early evening on the West coast, so he was sure that he'd still be there. "Dojo," said a young voice on the other end. "Is MacLeod there?" Patrick said. "Who's calling?" "A friend from the old neighborhood." "_Are_ you a friend, or is this call purely for you to threaten him?" It hit Patrick at that point that this must be MacLeod's protegee, Richard Ryan, who was a little older than Nancy. Somewhat relieved that he could speak openly, Patrick said, "I'm Patrick O'Brien from County Cork, Ireland, and I need his help. We have several mutual friends." "Who?" Patrick was getting annoyed, but he really couldn't blame the kid. He was just protecting his Teacher from a potential threat. Nancy would have done exactly the same. Patrick said, "Connor MacLeod is one of my closest friends, and we have another mutual friend named..." Patrick was about to say "Methos," but then he realized that Richie probably did _not_ know that Methos was anything more than a myth. He decided that caution was best and said, "Adam Pierson." Richie seemed unconvinced. He said, "What kind of favor do you need?" "_Look_, kid." Now Patrick _was_ annoyed. "We could sit here all fucking night fencing back and forth. The truth of the matter is that an Immortal about your age needs help, and the longer we play cat and mouse on the phone the worse off she'll be. You wouldn't happen to know Joe Dawson, and what he does, would you?" "Yeah..." Richie said, his resolve beginning to slip. "Ask _him_ about me. I don't fight unless challenged, and I'm sure as _hell_ not going to take any MacLeod's head." Now Richie was convinced. He said, "Hang on a sec." Patrick heard the phone drop onto the desktop, heard the door open, then silence. After a minute, he heard Richie and another man's muffled voices. He heard the phone get picked up off the desk and the other man say, "Good job, Rich." Then, full volume, "MacLeod." "MacLeod, it's O'Brien." "Sorry about the 'security procedure,' O'Brien. You can't be too careful." "Not a problem. Listen, I know we don't know eachother very well..." "Yeah, but a mutual friend told us that this situation must be rectified." "Uh-huh," Patrick said, "which brings me to my point. My Student just took her first head. I was wondering if you could take her in for a while." "Absolutely," MacLeod said. "Richie's not anywhere near as much of a handful as he was this time last year, I think I can handle two young Immortals." "Thanks, MacLeod. I owe you one." The next morning, Patrick rose from his bed and walked towards Nancy's door, hoping she hadn't left yet. He could feel her behind the door. "Come in," she said. Patrick entered the room, seeing the three suitcases and several boxes sitting on the floor. It looked as if she had packed everything except for the furniture that had been in the "guest room" when she first claimed it as hers, nearly a year ago. He said, "You know, it's not necessary to take _everything_." "I know. But I have to." Patrick said, "I talked to Duncan MacLeod and told him the situation. He'll take you in." "Why?" Nancy said. "Because..." "Patrick, you can't protect me anymore. Isn't that what this is all about? Me growing up and becoming my own person?" "Under normal circumstances, yes." "And what _is_ 'normal circumstances?' I got hit by a van and didn't die, but instead transformed into a non-aging being who can't be killed no matter how hard you try. And the only way I _can_ be killed produces lightning and property damage. I wouldn't exactly call that _normal_. If I were normal I would have died back in January..." If this were even the previous night, Nancy would have broken down and wept. But there were no more tears. Just in that one night she had grown tremendously. "Maybe I will end up at MacLeod's. I don't really know yet. But I _am_ gonna find my _own_ path." "If you really think that'll be good for you." "It may not be good, but it's my only choice." "Nance, the door here is _always_ open. After a few months you could..." "I could, but I'm not sure I will. Patrick, this isn't about you or Rebecca, or even about Sam. This isn't about how we feel about eachother. I couldn't be closer to you or love you more if you _were_ my father. You and Rebecca are more like parents to me than my parents _ever_ were. But this is about _me_, isn't it? It's about finding my own path. I've thought long and hard about this over the last two days, and I'm not going to think about it any more, because that will make this that much harder..." Patrick was silent, knowing what Nancy was going to say, wanting to hear it come from her mouth, but at the same time, not wanting her to say it at all. Nancy turned away from him and stared out the window. Finally she said, "I have to grow up now. You said it yourself, I'm no longer a cub. For me to leave here, only to come back to you a few months later, well... that kinda defeats the purpose, doesn't it? If I want to be taken in by anyone, I have to find them on my own. I can't be a girl anymore. I have to grow up." Nancy had her car and the U-Haul trailer loaded up. Patrick could only stare. She came over to him and said, "Well... this is it. Aw... hell," two tears slid down her cheeks and she embraced Patrick. And Patrick couldn't hold the tears back either as he returned the embrace. Rebecca came out when they separated and said, "Goodbye, Nancy. We'll miss you." She embraced her. When they pulled away, Nancy said, "You two _better_ keep your heads. I don't wanna hear that VonHoffer got the better of you." Patrick decided not to remind her that there was an equal chance of VonHoffer taking his head as there was he taking VonHoffer's head. Instead he said, "Don't worry. We'll always be here." "HEY!" All three turned to see Elaine and Bernard crossing Beacon Street. Bernard said, "I had to give you this before you left." He handed Nancy a tape. "Dizzy," he said. "The best." Nancy smiled and said, "I'll pop it in as soon as I hit the Pike." "We," Elaine said. "We?" "Uh huh. I've got a new assignment. I'm to follow you and keep tabs until an experienced Watcher is assigned to you. Since we're both heading in the same direction, I figured I could hitch a ride with you." She climbed into the passenger seat. Nancy smiled and said, "Be my guest, but be prepared to drive." Patrick said, "Stop by the dojo on your way to the Pike. Joe has something for you." "I will," Nancy said and climbed into the driver's seat. She closed the door unrolled the window and started the car. "Goodbye," she said. Patrick walked around to the driver's side door and said, "Live, Nancy. Grow stronger. Fight another day." "I will, Patrick. I will." She rolled up the window and put the car in gear. Patrick and Rebecca stood on the stoop for a long time after Nancy left. Rebecca looked at her husband sideways and said, "She's not Sam, you know." "I know." <<>> (c) 1996 Mabnesswords The rest of the Irelander saga can be found at: http://www.vuse.vanderbilt.edu/~copelasa/ireland =========================================================================