Date: Fri, 16 Feb 1996 22:35:53 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: "The 11 O'Clock Head Snatching Cult" 1/2 Author's note: These characters and the Highlander show are not of my creation. If they were, I'd be a really happy writer. Instead, here's a look at one of Highlander's peskiest first-season characters. E-mail me with what works, what doesn't, and I hope you enjoy it. The 11 O'Clock Head Snatching Cult by Sandra McDonald sandra 1012@aol.com Richie Ryan, intent on methodically beating a brand new punching bag into complete submission, saw the blonde in a white business suit weaving her way through the dojo two seconds too late to make himself disappear. "Hi, Richie," she said brightly, as if they were old friends. "Hello, Randi," he returned, less enthusiastically, and continued to drive punches into the black vinyl. Randi McFarland's gaze flickered around the dojo. Dozens of men and women sweated beneath the exposed ceiling beams, some pumping free weights, others on Nautilus, more working on self- defense on a set of mats thrown on the hardwood floor. Bright summer sunlight streamed through the tall, open windows, and large floor fans against the paneled brown walls pushed a breeze through. "Well, I must say, it's a bigger crowd than I ever saw in the antique store," she said. More punches. Richie's arms began to throb in earnest, but there was no damage he could do to himself that wouldn't repair soon anyway. "Different clientele," he allowed. "I hear you manage this place for MacLeod." "I help out." Most of his time was spent taking classes at the community college, courtesy of the Duncan MacLeod Scholarship Fund for Ex-Juvenile Delinquents, but she didn't need to know that. "I was sorry to hear about Tessa Noel," she offered. "You're about two years too late," Richie said, more sharply than he'd intended. He stopped punching and let his arms drop. He'd sweated through his workout clothes, and felt suddenly tired. "What do you want, Randi?" "Who says I want anything?" Now that he wasn't concentrating on the punching bag, Richie could see that Randi looked older than he remembered, although she was only five or six years older than he was. A professionally applied coat of make-up tried unsuccessfully to camouflage the circles under her eyes. Her suit had been as expensively tailored as a junior reporter's salary allowed, but she'd taken to biting her nails and her shoes were scuffed. He remembered how she'd pestered MacLeod and Tessa and occasionally himself every time a decapitated body had shown up in the city. Most had been of Mac's doing, Richie knew, but neither Randi or the police had ever been able to prove anything. "I've got things to do," Richie said, scooping a towel up from the floor and turning away. "Excuse me." "Richie, wait," she said. Her voice changed from false cheeriness to something a little more anxious, a little more desperate. "I was looking for some information from MacLeod." "He's not here," Richie said flatly. "I don't know when he'll be back." Randi glanced away, towards the windows, towards the world outside. Then her gaze returned to him, her eyes full of doubt and her mouth compressed into an unhappy line. "What if I said I wasn't seeking information, but help instead?" Richie reminded himself that he didn't like her. He didn't like her breezy confidence, her aggressive and annoying curiosity, and the way she'd treated him as a pesky little kid. But she seemed to be in genuine distress, and he had a soft spot for damsels in distress that got worse, not better, the more time he spent with MacLeod. Against his better judgment, he nodded towards the office. Once inside, he shut the door and dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk. He gulped down lukewarm water while Randi produced a folder of papers from her enormous white leather shoulder bag. "Read this," she said, and moved to the window to study the street below. "It almost explains everything." It took him twenty minutes. Richie kept his face carefully impassive, in case she tried to gauge his reaction, but all she did was stare out the window. Her notes, scribbled on yellow legal pap paper, were sometimes indecipherable, but he understood their general drift. The newspaper articles, including accounts of Tessa's death, explained themselves. The half dozen manuscript pages, printed on an ancient 8 pin printer with tissue-thin ribbon, had been composed by someone who wrote like a college professor with the zeal of a maniac. "Interesting, isn't it?" Randi asked when he was done. "I've got twelve hours worth of transcribed interviews with this guy back at the office." "You don't sound happy about it," Richie observed. "I'm not. Half the time I think I'm on to the story of the century. The other half, I can't imagine anything more ridiculous. I'll be the laughing stock of the entire press corps." Richie leaned back in his chair. "It certainly strains credibility. People who never die? People who go around cutting each other's heads off as an initiation into a satanic cult? A vast conspiracy of doctors, lawyers, judges and politicians plotting world dominion and calling it the Gathering?" "You don't think any of it is true?" she asked. "I think your Mr. Condella believes what he's saying is true," Richie said carefully. "I think he's constructed a very complex fantasy world. Maybe he should get out of the house more often, take up some hobbies." Randi came to the desk and snatched back the folder. "It's not funny," she snapped. "In the beginning, I thought he was on to something. I probably encouraged him too much. But he speaks well, dresses well, and doesn't act like your normal psychotic lunatic. Then I told him I wasn't going to take the story to my editors, and he accused me of being part of the conspiracy." "Has he threatened you?" "He follows me around. He calls me, even at my new unlisted number, and he sends me things in the mail. He's become completely obsessed with me." "What do the police say?" "They can't prove anything. He denies everything. And I'm stuck in the middle, because he thinks I'm his one big shot at getting it on the eleven o'clock news. But there's no way I could print it, no matter how much I might believe parts of it." "Which parts do you believe?" The unhappy lines returned to her mouth. "I believe there is some kind of cult that goes around chopping off heads. Satanic? What else could it be? But I don't believe in people who never die, and I don't think our government is organized enough to maintain a conspiracy." Richie fingered his towel. "What did you want from MacLeod?" "He was at the heart of a lot of mysteries in this city two years ago. I want to know if he's part of this head-snatching cult, or what." "Randi," Richie said firmly, "I don't think there's any such thing as a head-snatching cult. And you know Duncan MacLeod. He's one of the most intelligent, decent and generous men alive." Or alive for four hundred years, Richie thought, but squelched the thought. "He's not part of any weird cult," Richie finished. Randi folded her arms. "So you say." "And you know it, too. It seems to me he helped you out once or twice." She put the folder back into her bag. "I know. I'm just . . . well, this whole thing has been nuts." "I'll walk you out," Richie offered. "And I'll tell Mac you came by. Maybe he'll get in touch with you." "Thanks, Richie. I mean it." The hot afternoon sunlight hit them both as they went outside. Richie wondered if she was hot in that suit, wondered what she would like out of that suit, and then pushed the thought out of his mind. Her '92 red Toyota Tercel was parked on the curb. She opened the driver's door. A thick padded envelope lay on her front seat. Richie grabbed her a minute before she could touch it. "Haven't you ever heard of letter bombs?" Richie snapped. Randi blanched. "Condella wouldn't . . . kill me." "You sure of that? Because it's your life, your car, this parking lot, Mac's dojo, and maybe many of the fine residents of this city block." Randi studied the envelope for a few seconds, then shook her head. "He wouldn't kill me," she said, then scooped it up and tore open the flap. A thick packet of papers done on the same 8 pin printer fell out. "His book," she said, "the one he says is going to be a best-seller." Richie said, "Well, if it had been a bomb, it would have been a good scoop for you, wouldn't it?" She swung on him angrily. "Richie, this isn't a story! This isn't some stunt I made up to get your sympathy!" He nodded slowly. "I think I believe you." "Don't do me any favors," she said, her voice tighter and quieter. "Let me grab a quick shower," he proposed. "Then I'll go back with you to your place, in case this nut is hanging around." Her face softened. "I don't need a bodyguard." "But it's nice to have one," Richie said, giving her his best smile, and she managed a small one of her own. In the shower, he reminded himself again that he didn't like her. Thirty minutes later they pulled up to Randi's apartment building on the west side. Richie couldn't help be envious of the bright lobby and well-carpeted halls. His own building was falling rapidly into decay, but he couldn't afford higher rents, didn't want to ask Mac for more money, and couldn't imagine the thought of a mortal roommate being drawn into the kinds of messes he usually found himself in. "What's rent go for in a place like this?" he asked her in the mirrored elevator as they rode to the seventh floor. "Too much," Randi admitted. "I have two roommates, both reporters at the station. I tried to get the network to do a sitcom based on our lives, but they said it would be too predictable." Richie didn't say anything until he realized she was joking. They shared another smile, then Randi sighed. "Oh, Richie," she said, running her hand through her hair, "thanks for listening to me. Even if it is all nuts, at least you listened to me. I couldn't tell anyone else without losing all credibility." "It's okay," he said, with a perfectly straight face. "You never had much credibility with me anyway." On the landing, he paused fractionally to scan for any other Immortals. It had occurred to him on the drive over that Randi's lunatic source might actually be an Immortal crying out for help. He wanted to talk to Mac about that before going searching for the man. If he wasn't an Immortal, he'd at least known or met some. He mixed too much truth in his fiction. No Immortals. A Sears delivery man was wheeling a fifty inch television in a box down the hallway, scanning the computerized clipboard in his hand. "That's my door," Randi said, pointing to the third door on the right, singling out her door key. "Let me," Richie said. He inserted the key in the lock with his right hand and put his left hand on the doorknob. He heard a snap, and realized that he was flying through the air. That was unusual. His body had gone numb, also unusual. Then his head hit something with a thud, and he saw Randi as if she were standing above him, at the other end of a tunnel bored through a dark, cold mountain. The Sears guy was with her. His last thought before unconsciousness was that he'd been set up. =========================================================================