Date: Mon, 26 Feb 1996 21:01:59 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Tough Guy 4/4 Part 4 Richie called Angie, and she came by in her father's Buick. They used the last of Richie's money to eat dinner at a decent restaurant. Richie didn't want to arrive on MacLeod's doorway starving. The thought of going back at all felt dreadful and exciting at the same time, and he took out his nervousness on the silverware until Angie made him stop fidgeting. "He's a good guy," Angie said, "that MacLeod." She told him how MacLeod had worried over him and come by for information. "Yeah," Richie agreed. He started tearing napkins into shreds. "But what if this doesn't work out? What if he, like, gets sick of me? What if Tessa gets mad at me?" "What if they don't?" Angie asked gently, and reached across the table to hold his hand. "One day at a time, Richie." "Okay," he said. "One day at a time." After dinner they went to the high school to see Janine's band perform. Richie couldn't pick her out of the sea of freshly scrubbed faces and white shirts. There was no clarinet solo after intermission, although Janine was clearly listed in the program. He slipped out of the auditorium with Angie in tow and called the Mitchell's house. He reached a nearly hysterical Steven. "Steven, calm down," Richie ordered, even as a dreadfully cold finger traced a path of doom up his spine. "Just tell me what happened." He listened carefully, his heart pounding erratically, keeping his face calm for Angie's benefit. "What hospital?" he finally asked. "What's the matter?" Angie asked when he hung up. "Richie, what is it?" "George Mitchell had a car accident," he said. "They're at the emergency room." In the fifteen awful minutes it took for Angie to drive them to the hospital, Richie sat in the front seat with his hands locked between his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. He wasn't praying. Instead he was trying to remember what Janine looked like. Her features had blanked from his mind, but he could clearly recall every detail of her pink bedroom. He could see her stuffed animals, her clarinet, her posters. But her face had left him, and he was convinced she was dead. The emergency room that Saturday evening was a madhouse of families, patients, exasperated doctors and nurses. Richie and Angie found Karen Mitchell in a cubicle with Janine. Karen's face was blotchy with tears. Janine's left arm was in a fresh cast, and livid cuts marked her face. Her broken glasses were in Karen's hands. "I shouldn't have let him drive," Karen said, her voice broken. "Oh, Richie, how could I have? I knew he was drinking again." "Richie?" Janine asked, squinting against the bright light. She looked young, and frail, and broken. "I'm right here," he said, grasping her good hand. "I missed my solo," she cried. Richie blinked away sudden tears to see a policeman walking by with George Mitchell in hand. George's face was bruised, but he was upright. And handcuffed. Richie felt a surge of hatred rise from his chest. "You'll get another chance," he promised, and kissed her forehead. Then he bolted out of the cubicle and rammed George Mitchell into the wall, yelling obscenities at him. "How could you?" he demanded, his hands around George's throat. Richie was barely aware of the cop shouting at him to stop. George sobbed and choked beneath his grip. "How could you do it? You're nothing but a lousy, stinking drunk, and you nearly got her killed!" The cop hauled him off. Richie nearly took a swing at him, but Angie dragged him away. Richie realized the whole emergency room was looking at him, and the cop was radioing for help. Eyes blind with rage and sorrow, he bolted into the night with Angie before more police could come. He could still feel the warm softness of George's throat between his fingers, and wished he'd snapped the bastard's head off. He had no idea how long Angie drove him around, listening to him rant and rave, but when he calmed down they were parked by the side of a road. "I don't know how to get to MacLeod's," she finally said softly. Richie shook his head violently. "I'm not going there." "Richie, they're waiting for you. They want you." "They won't when the police come," Richie said, suddenly weary. And they would come. He'd nearly killed George Mitchell. The aching hollowness in his chest told him he'd blown any chance he might ever have had for a future, but the memory of Janine's bruised face made him sure he'd do it again. Angie shook her head. "They'll help you." "I don't need their help," Richie snapped. "Just take me to Scotty's." "Richie, I don't think - " "Angie, please. Forget it. Forget I even mentioned them. Take me to Scotty's." She pursed her lips tightly but started driving again. Richie stared out the window at the dry, chill night. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel, but suspected the hollowness would last a long, long time. When they crested the hill at the end of Gilmore they saw police lights outside Scotty's house, spinning blue and red hypnotically against the darkness. Neighbors stood on the porches, watching, as Scotty, Bruce, Nikki and others were led out in handcuffs. "Shit," Richie said. "They tracked me faster than I thought." "You think all these police are for you?" Angie asked incredulously. Richie wasn't sure. He told Angie to back up, but another cruiser came up behind them and she stopped. "Let's just see," she said, her voice shaking. "Richie, don't do anything stupid." "We got to run," he said. "No, we don't. We'll just answer their questions." "Angie, run!" Richie ordered, and threw open his door. He sprinted as fast as he could down an alley and to the next street over. Police shouted at him to stop, but he didn't think they'd shoot him in the back. He heard Angie stop, heard the police yelling at her. Stubbornly he fled down a maze of alleys, yards, driveways, and porches until he lost the cop on his tail and a fist lashed out of blackness to drop him to the ground. A hard, solid kick to his midsection doubled Richie into an agonized ball. Winded, badly dazed, he struggled uselessly as Joey hauled him up into the back of his van. Liz was behind the wheel, her face tight with anger and fear. Joey dumped Richie on the van's cold metal floor and ripped off the teenager's jacket, saying "Here he is, the little snitch." Richie squinted at him helplessly. "What?" he forced out, and tried to sit up, but Joey dropped him with another punch. Richie landed hard, consciousness blinking in and out like the damaged shutter of a camera. He could taste blood in his mouth. "You told the cops, Richie," Liz's voice said, very near, very close, strangle timbered. "That's why they're here." "They're looking for me," Joey said, "for Grouch's murder. You must have told them." Richie's mind spun uncontrollably. "What murder?" he gasped. "Grouch? But I don't know anything about a murder!" "That's not what you told Angie," Joey growled. He pulled something from a black bag. A needle. Richie tried to slide away, but Joey caught him by the throat and pinned him to the floor. A red gleam in Joey's eyes told Richie what was going to happen next, even as his mind rebelled against the possibility of his own death. "Say goodbye, Richie," Joey ordered, and slid the needle into the bare skin of Richie's arm. *** Television was wrong. The police let her have two phone calls. Angie cried throughout the first one, to her dad. She was slightly calmer by the time she called Duncan MacLeod, who had given her his business card the day before when he came looking for Richie. MacLeod came in ten minutes, accompanied by a stunning blonde that Angie assumed was Tessa Noel. Angie's father hadn't arrived yet, and she clung to MacLeod as someone who could at least find out what was going on. The policemen in the car had handcuffed her and mumbled something about rights. Angie had been too upset to even listen. Now, in a ugly yellow room that smelled of stale cigarettes, she listened to MacLeod and Sgt. Powell fight about Richie while Tessa held her hand in comfort. "He shouldn't have taken off running," Powell said. "We only wanted to talk to him." "He thought you were going to arrest him for what happened at the hospital," Angie sniffed. Both men turned to her. "What happened at the hospital?" MacLeod asked. Brokenly she recounted Richie's attack on George Mitchell. MacLeod's face tightened, and Powell unexpectedly sighed. "I hadn't heard anything about it," Powell said. "We went to Bruce Webster's house tonight with a search warrant, looking for items that belonged to a James Cribbs - " "Grouch?" Angie asked, confused. "He moved." "He was killed," Powell said flatly. "We've got witnesses who can put Joey Fuentes at the scene. We think Fuentes killed Cribbs last weekend, robbed him of about three thousand dollars in cash, and dumped his body near the zoo." MacLeod glared at the policeman. "Why all the arrests, then? Angie, here, and the other kids? You don't think they were all in on it?" "The other kids were in the house with a bunch of drugs. Angie tried to run, that's why she was picked up. They would have picked up Richie, too, if the kid wasn't so fast on his feet." A uniformed policeman brought Powell a note. He excused himself. MacLeod turned to Angie and said, "This will all work out. They can't keep you." "I can't have a police record," Angie told MacLeod and Tessa. "I just can't. My dad's going to kill me." "I'm sure your father loves you very much and is worried about you," Tessa said reassuringly. Powell came back twenty minutes later with a deep scowl and a familiar black and green jacket. "That's Richie's," Angie said. "I guessed," Powell said. "A unit picked up Joey Fuentes and his girlfriend Liz Shaw. They were doing sixty miles an hour in a residential neighborhood. The girl rolled. She said Fuentes killed for the money. She also said that he tried to kill Richie, because he thinks Richie snitched him out." "Why would he think that?" Tessa asked. "One of the other girls, Nikki, told him that Angie here said Richie told her he witnessed a murder." Angie went pale in the fluorescent light. "Nikki wasn't supposed to tell anyone! And that was weeks ago, not recently." MacLeod's eyes met Tessa's. Silently they agreed as to what killing Richie must have confided in Angie about. MacLeod fingered Richie's jacket grimly, and wondered if the Save Richie Ryan project was over. "Nikki didn't pass that part along," Powell said. Angie covered her face. "It's all my fault, then." "What did they do with Richie?" MacLeod asked. "The girl said Fuentes shot him up with heroin and some other junk to make him look like an overdose. She said Richie got away from them, but he's probably dead already." MacLeod knew that wouldn't be true. But they needed to find Richie, all the same, before another tragedy occurred. "We're going to go look for him," MacLeod said. Powell nodded. "Good luck. I don't like the kid, but he doesn't deserve what they did to him." They left Angie crying inconsolably with Powell, and went looking for Richie in the Gilmore Avenue neighborhood. When that failed, they drove to the emergency room in the hopes he might have gone back to comfort Janine or confront George again, but Karen Mitchell said she hadn't seen him. She also said, somewhat defiantly, that she was glad Richie had done what he did. MacLeod cruised Saratoga Street but saw no trace of Richie, and Tessa persuaded him to return home in case Richie had gone there for help. The darkened store and apartment showed no sign of the teenager. The hall clock struck midnight. MacLeod sat heavily on the sofa and rubbed his eyes. It seemed all he did recently was search for Richie, with varying degrees of failure. Just when it seemed that they were so close to working past obstacles, new ones jumped in the way. Tessa folded herself against him. "He's a smart kid, Mac. He'll be okay." "He could be anywhere," MacLeod said. "In who knows what condition." In a way, Richie would be better to overdose quickly and start his Immortal life. But if he didn't, if the drugs Joey Fuentes gave him instead resulted in brain damage or crippling physical injury, he would never be able to defend himself against swords in the battle of the Gathering that he would someday be forced to join. The phone rang. Tessa picked it up. "Hello?" she asked. Richie's voice, high and thin and shaking, came through the line. "Hey, Tessa, it's me. Richie. Richie Ryan. Remember? Richie Ryan Remember?" Tessa demanded, "Where are you?" "Soldier's Bridge, where else?" he asked. Tessa covered the mouthpiece and repeated the information to MacLeod. "Keep him on the phone," he said, and kissed her on the forehead. Then he grabbed his keys, his jacket and his sword, and went out the back door. She knew it would take him about fifteen minutes to get to the bridge. Eleven, if he didn't follow the speed limits. Eight, if he ran the stop signs and red lights as well. "Richie, talk to me," she said. "Tell me what's going on." Both coherently and incoherently, his voice broken with various sorrows and jubilant with chemical rush, Richie spewed out a jumbled tale of Bruce's house, Janine in the hospital, MacLeod's death, Grouch's murder, Joey and the van. Tessa kept him talking as long as she could. Then, seven minutes after MacLeod left, Richie hung up the phone. *** Richie realized he was standing in a freezing-cold phone booth that smelled of urine and feces. The lights of traffic and the city swam by outside. His whole body ached unbearably, but he didn't know why. He couldn't remember who he was talking to, or what the last words out of his mouth had been. "Richie?" A woman's voice came out of the receiver. Nikki. Karen. Janine, laying pale and bandaged on an emergency room table. Their faces blurred like acid-etched paintings in his brain, all the colors running together in the rain. But it wasn't raining. He was suddenly very hot, broken out in sweat, ready to faint. Richie hung up the phone and stumbled outside, hoping the fresh air would clear his head. Something was terribly wrong, but he couldn't remember what. He clung to the guard rail as his stomach emptied into the overgrown weeds beyond. Vomiting made him feel no better. He saw the dark water, and the footpath to the bridge, and remembered where he was. He stumbled up the path, knowing he had to get to MacLeod before Slan Quince cut off his head. That was wrong, though, because MacLeod was dead in an alley, and Richie was responsible. Janine's arm, in a cast. Angie, Scotty, Nikki and Bruce, all in jail. All because of him, but none of it hurt as much as MacLeod, who'd only tried to be his friend. Richie could see the bullet hit him, rip into his chest, tear out a spurt of flesh of blood. But he'd gotten up, hadn't he? He'd been a voice on a phone, or maybe it had been his ghost. Richie wrapped his arms around his middle, cold again, and shook his head of too many memories. Car horns honked in long notes like red ribbons as he found the place where Slan Quince had lost his head. Richie lurched over the railing to stare at the dark water below. Connor and Duncan MacLeod had tumbled there. Same clan, different vintage. He wasn't sure what a vintage was. They'd gone in, but come out alive and new in the morning. He could do that. With a surge of elation and confidence, he realized he could do that. Richie swung himself up to the railing. His legs felt too unsteady to stand so instead he sat, feet dangling, waiting for the exactly right moment to fall and begin his rebirth in a life that meant a fresh start. Or maybe the darkness would take him, and he wouldn't have to worry about the pain anymore. "Richie!" He turned his head and focused on the blurry ghost of Duncan MacLeod - tall, shimmering, his black coat flapping in the wind, his face etched in stone. "I'm sorry," Richie offered. "I guess you weren't really Immortal, after all, huh? Number One with a bullet." MacLeod thought about proving to the teenager that he was alive, but didn't know if logic would go over very well with Richie, given his current state. His eyes and voice proved Liz Shaw's story was true. "Richie," he said instead, "you're not thinking very clearly. Do you remember what happened in the van? Do you remember Joey giving you something?" Richie looked back to the water. Dark, inviting, cold. Rushing, like the blood in his head. "Don't worry, Mac," he said softly. "I'm going to come back, just like you." That, MacLeod reflected grimly, was more true than Richie could hallucinate. Richie scrambled to his feet on the railing. MacLeod moved to stop him - the nonsense had gone far enough - but Richie slid backwards out of range and put up a hand in warning. "Stay back, Mac!" he yelled. "I'm Immortal! I'll chop off your head!" MacLeod made his voice as stern as possible. "Richie, get down from there. You are definitely not Immortal." Not yet, at least. "I feel Immortal!" Richie yelled to the sky and water, to the fathomless horizon, to the cityscape of skyscrapers and shining highways. A police cruiser, lights flashing but sirens off, pulled to a stop on the bridge behind MacLeod. Richie's eyes fixed on the lights like a rabbit caught in headlights. Then he looked at MacLeod with such helplessness and vulnerability it was heartbreaking. "Help me, Mac," he said brokenly. "I will help you, Richie." MacLeod took another step forward. "Come down." The Highlander stretched out his hand. After a long moment of indecision and torn emotion, as the world paused between heartbeats and the young man's past and future locked at impasse, Richie reached for MacLeod's hand. MacLeod pulled him down and into an embrace. Richie's shaky legs finally gave way, and MacLeod lowered him to the cold concrete, resting him against his own body, sheltering him with his arms. The teenager wept steadily, but said nothing. One of the policeman radioed for an ambulance. "You're okay," MacLeod soothed. "Just try to stay calm." "I can't breathe," Richie complained, as invisible steel bands tightened around his chest. He squeezed MacLeod's hands as tightly as he could. "Mac, I can't breathe." "Yes you can, Richie. Just slow down. You're hyperventilating." His body, shivering and unreal, rebelled from the last of Richie's control. He felt his limbs spasm, liquid rise to the back of his throat. Couldn't breathe. Voices, light, movement. Panic. All unreal, all in his hurting head, and when the warm, safe darkness of the water came for him he went willingly because the voice of Duncan MacLeod's ghost told him to. *** Richie tried to move, but a sharp pain in his left arm and an alarming pull between his legs stopped him. He opened his eyes and saw a very large, very ugly needle impaled into the back of his left hand. Another needle stabbed into the crook of his left elbow. His whole arm seemed taped to a plastic board, and a restraint had been wound around his wrist. Beyond the needle were tubes, instruments, a plastic curtain. He felt awful. Tired and beaten and empty inside, as if something had been gouged out from his brain and chest and stomach. He tried to move his right arm and realized that wrist was restrained too. He was a prisoner, trapped in dimness and quiet, and he didn't know why. Tears came to his eyes. He hated not knowing where he was or what had happened. He guessed he was in the hospital, but his recent memory seemed full of missing blocks of time. Blinking furiously to wash away the evidence of his weakness, Richie turned his head and found a white-tiled ceiling. He turned right, and saw Jerry Bora Morra folded into a plastic chair too small for him and playing with a Game Boy. Richie said, "Hey," but his voice was hoarse and clogged from disuse. He cleared it as best and he could and tried again. "Hey there," Jerry grinned. "You're awake, finally. Good morning." Richie's voice came out like a frog's. "What time is it?" "About nine a.m. Thirty hours after you tried to fly off the bridge. You remember what happened?" "Bits," Richie admitted. He pulled at his wrists. "Can you get me out . . . of these things?" "I guess you're okay now," Jerry said, and undid the restraints. He helped Richie adjust the bed with the remote control and then poured him a glass of water from a bedside pitcher. "How do you feel?" "Okay." The water tasted the best he could ever imagine water tasting. "Richie, don't lie to me." "Okay," Richie said, rubbing his eyes. "Like shit, then. Am I under arrest?" "What would you be under arrest for?" He had so many options to pick from, Richie thought dismally. "This have to do with Grouch's murder?" Jerry tried. "You're not under arrest. They want to know if you saw anything." Dimly Richie remembered Joey kicking him in the van, saying something about the murder. He touched his sore ribs. "Who killed Grouch?" Jerry pulled his seat up. "I see we've got some catching up to do." An hour later, Richie understood what had happened more clearly, but his memory still remained hazy. He was sad about Grouch, mad at Joey, upset about Angie. She'd been let go by the police, Jerry said, but her dad was furious. Nikki, Scotty and Bruce were going to face the judge for possession charges. Janine had been discharged with a broken arm and bruises. "She went back to the Mitchells?" Richie asked. "To Karen and Steven Mitchell. George is in jail for drunk driving, and Karen won't bail him out. She said she's given him too many chances to start over, and now he's on his own." The news should have cheered Richie, but didn't. He felt depressed and tired. The doctor came by, a man Richie took an instant dislike to, and told him he had to spend one more night in the hosptial. A nurse pulled the curtain and removed the catheter and one of the i.v. tubes. Jerry Morra left in the face of a grim- looking lunch, with advice to rest up. He didn't say what was going to happen to Richie, and Richie didn't want to know. After lunch, Janine came to let him sign her cast. Karen stayed in the hallway. Richie didn't know what to say to her anyway. Janine seemed all right, and managed a few smiles. She was a tough kid. When she left, Richie sank back into bed with an intense weariness that went down deep. He slept for a few hours, and when he woke it was dusk. The lights in the city were beginning to glow. Against the window, as a silhouette in black, was MacLeod. "Hey, tough guy," he said. "About time you woke up for visitors. You missed dinner, but by the looks of it, you didn't miss much." Richie sat up with a grimace. "You're not a ghost, are you?" MacLeod's gaze narrowed. "I thought we worked that out on the phone." "My memory's kind of hazy. Did I . . . try and jump off a bridge?" "You considered the option," MacLeod allowed. "How do you feel now?" Richie thought hard. "Like a toxic dump." "That's accurate." Richie looked past MacLeod to the city. "I really screwed up this week, didn't I? The vase. Getting you shot. Getting Angie arrested. Trying to take a dive off the - " "Hold on just a minute!" MacLeod interrupted. "You think you're responsible for all that?" Richie shrugged. "Yeah." "One day we'll have a talk about what's your responsibility and what is other people's. You didn't screw up. You had a lot of things happen to you, all at once. If you made mistakes, that's just part of being alive." Richie didn't want to argue about it. Maybe later, out of the hospital, he could sort it all out like MacLeod said. "What about the vase?" he asked. "The insurance will take care of it," MacLeod said. "I'll just have to increase the deductible once you come home tomorrow." Richie's heart did a double thump in his chest. He stared at MacLeod, trying to divine hidden meanings or deceptions. "What?" MacLeod asked. His expression was perfectly serious. "You change your mind? You don't want to live with us anymore?" Richie let out a careful breath. "I thought . . . that was part of the drugs. That I hallucinated it." "It wasn't a hallucination." The cold fear that had held him all day loosened. Richie managed a small smile. "Of course," MacLeod added smoothly. "We have to talk about the house rules." Warning bells went off in Richie's head. "House rules? Like what?" "Like, you work in the shop for me. You get your GED. No more trouble with the police and no hanging around with - " "Wait a minute," Richie interrupted. "Are these negotiable or what?" MacLeod smiled. "Maybe. We'll talk about it tomorrow." Richie studied the tips of his hands and asked, "Why do you want to do this?" MacLeod's smile vanished. Somberly he returned, "Why not?" Richie couldn't think of an answer to that. He realized he was still very tired, and decided it wouldn't hurt to go back to sleep. But he had to probe just a little deeper, because this was so important, so very important, and he wasn't going to allow himself real hope until there was a measure of safety in doing so. "You're the one on drugs, MacLeod, if you think Tessa's going to agree to it." "I already did," Tessa said, her voice ringing from the doorway. Richie had no idea how long she'd been listening, but her face was warm and clear. He looked from MacLeod to Tessa, Tessa to MacLeod. "Okay," he said. "Good," MacLeod said, as if there had never been any doubt. "Now, get some sleep. We'll be back in the morning to take you home, if the doctor agrees." Home. A real home. What a concept. Richie asked, "Hey, Mac?" "Yes?" MacLeod and Tessa stopped in the doorway. "All that stuff about . .. well, you know. Swords and Immortals and everything." "What about it?" "I believe you now." A trace of amusement crossed MacLeod's face. "Good," he said. "That might come in handy some day. Good night, Richie." "See you tomorrow," Tessa promised. Richie settled back into the bed and pulled up the sheets. He tried to sleep but couldn't. Instead he lay awake for hours, staring out the window, warmed by the lights of the city, and entranced at long last by the prospect of opportunities yet to come. THE END =========================================================================