Date:         Mon, 17 Apr 1995 22:41:29 -0400
Reply-To:     mikester@BIX.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Mike Breen <mikester@BIX.COM>
Subject:      THOSE WHO WATCH - PART 4

Lots more violence, more adult situations.

BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995

     Patrick and Dawson went to an all-night diner in Kenmore Square to
talk.  He didn't want Nancy to hear where this conversation would likely
go, and wanted Rebecca to make sure she stayed in their 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.  Though I think it may be best if you fill me in on
the details of his life.  Like how you found him and how he got the way he
is."

LONDON, ENGLAND, MARCH 1888 - FEBRUARY 1890

     Patrick O'Brien and Rebecca DeJeniere rode in their carriage with
their valet, Brooks, controlling the horse.  They had just come back from a
night of the theater, dressed in their finest.  This was a good life.
Patrick was known as Stephen Watkins and worked for a trading company
exporting goods from China to England and the United States.  Rebecca was
known as his wife, Hannah.  It was a nearly unbreakable cover.  Even
Patrick and Rebecca rarely called eachother anything but Stephen and
Hannah.  Only when there were with other Immortals (Fitzciarn was in town
recently, as was Connor MacLeod) did they use their true names.  They made
several trips to China, New York, and Boston (in fact, Patrick had just
acquired a gorgeous townhouse on Beacon Hill) over the past eight years,
but maintained their "base of operations" in London.  And Brooks was one of
the few mortals (aside from wives and husbands) who knew of the Immortal
couple's secret
     Yes, it was a good life.
     "Whoa!" Brooks said, as he attempted to stop the horse.  He was
unsuccessful.  There was a thump of the wheels running over something in
the road, and then the carriage stopped.
     "Brooks?" Patrick said.
     "I'm sorry, mister Watkins, sir.  I seemed to have run a man down!"
     Patrick and Rebecca climbed out of the carriage and over to the man.
     "I don't know what happened sir," Brooks said.  "He just ran out in
front of me."
     Rebecca leaned down and felt for a pulse.
     "He's dead," she said.
     "What do we do with him, sir?  Ma'am?"
     "I suppose we report it to the police," Patrick said.
     It was then that they felt the Buzz from the man's body.
     "Stephen?" Rebecca said.
     "Yes, Hannah, I feel it." Patrick said.
     "What?" Brooks said.
     "Brooks, get him into the carriage.  This man is one of us."

     "You're telling me that I cannot die?" the new Immortal, who had
introduced himself as Samuel Leonard, said.
     "Yes," Patrick said.  "My name is Patrick O'Brien of County Cork,
Ireland.  I was born in a village there in 1157, and I cannot die."
     "You mean to tell me you're..."
     "Seven hundred and some odd years old, yes.  Don't look for the
village I was born in.  It's not there anymore."
     "And you?" Samuel turned towards Rebecca.
     "Rebecca DeJeniere.  I was born in 1165 near Nice, France."
     Sam then turned towards Brooks, who laughed and said, "I'm just a
plain old mortal, sir."

     Sam told them how he had hitched a train ride from Liverpool to
London, in hopes of finding honest work.  But here he was, twenty-eight
years old and he hadn't worked an honest day in his life.  He was, plain
and simple, a pickpocket.  He had heard that the great detective, Sherlock
Holmes, often hired ruffians like himself, but Mister Holmes had gone off
on a case, and he had no money.  He tried to pick a gentleman's pocket, but
the gentleman had seen him and had yelled for the police.  That was when he
ran across Baker Street and into their carriage.
     Their lives fell into a routine. Sam trained with Patrick and Rebecca,
and became "Samuel Ashford," "Hannah's" brother.  He was told about the
Game, the Prize, and the Gathering.  And he was told the story of the
Immortal who had ended his life three hundred years earlier with the name
Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez.
     Sam was troubled, anyone could see that.  Patrick thought it was
something that he would eventually work out of his system, given enough
decades.  Rebecca disagreed, but relented when Sam would not open up to
them.  Whatever it was, he would tell them when he was ready.
     And so their lives went.  Sam went to work for Patrick, and the three
of them, with Brooks in tow, had gone from London to Hong Kong, and from
there New York and Boston before returning to London in 1890.  While in
Hong Kong, Sam had met and married a young woman named Ling.  She had a
three year old son, and her husband had died after he was born.  She
returned with them, with full knowledge of Sam's Immortality.  They moved
into Patrick and Rebecca's increasingly crowded house.  Sam trained hard
and fast, and by 1889 it was clear he could face another Immortal and win.
     Patrick wondered about his own training.  He had not faced another
Immortal until he had been training for five years, but he had been sure,
centuries ago, that had he been forced to face one after only a year, he
would have been ready.  But Ramirez had so much to teach him, and was only
scratching the surface when he had faced another Immortal named Samuel,
this one Desmond.  He was glad that he had met up with Ramirez not once but
several times over the course of four centuries.  Patrick and Rebecca had
both done the same for others and would do the same for Samuel Leonard.

     It was in 1890 that Sam faced another Immortal.  Patrick knew not how
it had happened or why.  Only that Sam had left work early that night,
apparently to accompany a lady to a ball.  As he headed towards their
house, he heard the unmistakable sound of two swords clashing.
     "Brooks, stop here," he said.
     "Very good, sir."
     Brooks stopped the carriage and Patrick got out, following the sound
of the swords, fearing the worst.  He removed his katana from under his
cape and entered the dimly lit alleyway where the two Immortals fought.  He
stopped and did the only thing he could.
     He watched.
     The tall, blond Immortal had the other one, who looked to be from the
Orient, on his knees.  In a move frighteningly familiar, the victorious
Immortal lifted his sword, samurai-style, above his head and took the head
of the other.
     As Samuel Leonard took his first Quickening, Patrick walked back to
the carriage.  He climbed aboard and said, "Take me home, Brooks."

     "When do we leave for Hong Kong," Patrick asked Rebecca.
     "Not for another three months," she said.
     "We're leaving now."
     "Why?"
     "Sam took his first head."
     "Oh...  Is he ready to be on his own?"
     "It's not a matter of readiness.  It's a matter of tradition.  Once we
return in two years, we can find him again."
     Rebecca was silent.
     "_Rebecca_," Patrick brought the seriousness of the situation home by
using her true name, "Ramirez left us after we had taken our first heads.
And we found out that we _both_ had so much more to learn from him.  I'm
sure if he were alive today we would _still_ be learning from him.  But the
cub's left the cave on his own.  We cannot let him back in."
     "I know," she said.  "I know.  That doesn't mean I like it."
     "Neither do I."
     Sam arrived at that moment.  He had known, from the Buzz, that Patrick
had been there and had witnessed the beheading.  He sat on his chair and
said, "He was going to kill Ling.  I couldn't let that happen."
     "I know," Patrick said.  "Rebecca and I are leaving for Hong Kong as
soon as possable.  You should stay here in London."
     "Why?"
     And, echoing the words that Ramirez had said to him seven hundred
years earlier, Patrick said, "Your training is finished.  You have tasted
the Quickening, and are now a player in the Game.  I cannot shield you any
longer, since _other_ Immortals will undoubtably come looking for you.  We
are no longer Teacher and Student, but equals."
     "But, I have so much to learn from you, and I'll _never_ be your equal!"
     Patrick said, "No.  We are.  I may be a better swordsman than you
_now_, but perhaps someday we'll be equal there as well."
     "Patrick, will we ever have to face eachother?"
     Patrick laughed and said, "We're friends!  Only the Gathering could
_ever_ come between friends."

BOSTON, MA, UNITED STATES, APRIL 1995

     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.

     "So?" Nancy said as Patrick entered the townhouse.  "Did you convince
him that he was wrong?"
     Patrick looked at Nancy, yet could not say anything.  In eight
centuries, he had never had to face _this_.
     "You didn't, did you?"  Nancy said.  "You _believed_ him, didn't you?"
     "Nancy..."
     "NO!  It's... not... _true_!"
     "Nancy, Sam's gone mad from grief.  He's..."
     "No, he's NOT!  Listen to me!"
     "No, Nancy.  _You_ listen to _me_.  Sam's dangerous.  He's killed four
so far and he's not gonna stop.  We have to reason with him, get him to see
the wrongness of what he's doing."
     "You've got the wrong man.  Sam's not the one.  If we pool our's _and_
Sam's resources, we could find the right guy!"
     "Nancy, he was there when _four_ Watchers were killed!"
     The tears streamed down her face.  In a small voice, Nancy said, "And
what do you plan to do if he won't listen?"
     Patrick paused a long time before answering.  Then he said, "He _has_ to."
     Nancy's voice nearly broke as she said, "That's what I thought."  She
rushed out into the rain, and away from the townhouse.
     And Patrick collapsed onto the livingroom floor, not bothering to
contain his own emotions any longer.

     "Eat up, old man," the Immortal said.  "Today's your big day."
     Bernard had enough.  He had put up with "old man" the entire night.
He was sick of it.  He said, "You're a _lot_ older than me, 'old man.'"
     "Touche."
     "So..." he said cockily, "where you gonna kill me?"
     "If I told you, Watcher, that'd spoil the fun."
     Bernard doubted he would live past midnight.  All the same, he hoped
Dawson had enough information, and he hoped he could convince O'Brien.

     "Pat?"
     Rebecca heard someone in the gym next to her painting studio.  Nancy
had not been seen since three thirty that morning, and Patrick had not said
a word to her since he told her of Sam and Bernard after she had woken up.
She put her brush down and walked over to the small workout room.
     "Pat we _have_ to talk about this."
     Patrick was engrossed in his martial arts forms, and if he heard her,
he choose not to pay her mind.
     "Pat I know you probably won't answer me, but I'm gonna get this off
of my chest anyway.  We both know that Sam's always had problems.  There's
nothing we can do about that.  We also know that Darius' death probably
finally pushed him over the edge.  Many insane people can look perfectly
normal on the surface, but be a torrent just below."
     Patrick stopped, but didn't turn to face her.  He said, "Get to the
point, Rebecca.  I'm not in the mood."
     "Ok.  I can see that.  All I want to say is, whatever you do, I'm
behind you."
     "And if I have to kill him?"
     "If you can't or fail, I'll try."
     At that Patrick did turn to her.  He took her in his arms and said,
"Thank you.  I needed to hear that."

     Dawson arrived late that night.  Nancy hadn't been heard from since
her conversation with Patrick, and he was sure that she had gone off in
search of him.  And no one had heard from Sam.  From the look on Dawson's
face, it was obvious that his people hadn't heard anything either.
     "I just don't understand it," Dawson said.  "People just _don't_
disappear off of the face of the Earth!"
     "You'd be surprise how easy it is to hide things you don't want
found," Patrick said.
     "What do you mean?"
     "What he means," Rebecca said, "is that it takes a special skill to
hide things for eight centuries.  Ever wonder what happens to all those
headless bodies?"
     Dawson was about to ask, then thought better of it.  Instead he asked
if they had heard from Nancy, having been filled in earlier in the
afternoon.
     "No," Patrick said.  "And I'm beginning to get worried about her.  I
hope she _doesn't_ find him."

     Bernard sat in darkness.
     The Immortal had left earlier and had locked the door.  But Bernard
knew he would be back eventually.  He prayed, once again, that he would be
spared.  That Dawson would convince the Irelander of the value of the
Watchers.  That they would come and rescue him.
     But Bernard was prepared to die.

     Nancy stood in the lobby of Sam's hotel for at least the tenth time
that day.  She went up to the desk clerk.
     "He hasn't come in yet," she said to her unasked question.
     "Thanks," she said, with a small smile.  Then she turned around and
saw Sam entering the hotel.  She ran over to him and said, "Sam!  Where the
hell have you been?"
     "I told you I had things to do today," he said, embracing her.
     "And now?"
     "Now I'm free for a few hours.  Why don't we go to my room and..."
     "Sam, they say you kidnapped a Watcher."
     Sam looked around, checking for eavesdroppers.  When he saw the lobby
was empty, he said, "I'll explain it all later, when it's over."
     "You _did_, didn't you?!"
     "Nancy, there's forces at work here that you cannot _possibly_ know
about."
     "And killing four people?  Is that true too?"
     "Nancy..."
     "I want an _answer_, Sam, and I want it _now_."
     "No," Sam said, finally.  "I didn't do it.  But I think I know who did."
     Nancy sighed in relief and said, "Let's go to your room, then."

     Later, Sam sat up in bed, with Nancy clinging to him, and said, "I
have to be off again."
     "So soon?"
     "Nance, if I'm to find out what's going on here, I'm gonna have to."
     "Ok," she said, and let him go.
     Sam wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to her.  He
said, "Meet me at this address at one AM.  Everything will be explained."

     Midnight.
     Patrick, Rebecca, and Dawson had wracked their brains for hours trying
to figure out where Bernard and Sam had gone to.  And at midnight, they
came to a conclusion none of them wanted to admit.
     "It's his game," Patrick said.  "His rules.  We wait for him to decide
where and when to show himself."
     Rebecca was silent.  Dawson shrugged and said, "If you have to face
him, our people say he's extreamily good for his age."
     "I hope so.  I taught him."
     The phone rang.
     Patrick picked it up and put it on speaker.
     "Hello?"
     "Patrick."
     "Sam, where are you?"
     "Meet me under the Tobin Bridge on the Chelsea side at twelve
forty-five.  I'll have a surprise for you."
     "Sam?"
     The other end of the line went dead.
     Patrick placed his face in his hands and shuddered.

     Nancy wandered the streets of Boston for an hour after leaving Sam's
hotel.  She didn't know what to make of his offer to explain everything.
While she was nearly convinced that he hadn't done any of the killings,
there was this tiny part of her mind that said he had.  She looked at her
watch.  Time to get her car and head over to Chelsea.  One way or the
other, she would see his innocence proved.  She only hoped Patrick was
there as well.
     Patrick placed his katana beneath his trenchcoat.  "I hope to all the
ghods that I don't need this."
     "Patrick, I'm with you on this.  Whatever you decide to do," Rebecca said.
     "Thanks," he said.  "Things will never be quite the same around here
after this, no matter which way it goes."  He buttoned his coat up and tied
the belt.
     "You want us to come with you?" she said.
     "No.  Dawson, I need you here incase Bernard either _wasn't_ kidnapped
by Leonard..."
     "You still think he's innocent, don't you," Dawson said.
     "No, but while he's alive and while he hasn't _told_ me he did it,
I'll keep that tiny glimmer alive.  But I also need you here incase Bernard
somehow escapes.  Nearly impossible, I know but..."
     "And me?" Rebecca said.
     "I need you here incase Nancy shows up," Patrick said.  "_Keep_ her
here.  Do _not_ let her leave."  He took Rebecca in his arms and said, "If
I do have to kill him, I hope to ghods she can forgive me."

<<<to be continued>>>
(c) 1995 Mabnesswords
e-mail mikester@bix.com with comments!
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