Date: Mon, 26 Jun 1995 19:25:11 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 15 of 17 This is being posted for the author, who currently doesn't have internet access. Please direct all comments you want to be passed on to the author or requests for missing parts to nhayashi@sfsu.edu X-File: #A274-D33 Part 15 of 17 by Albert Low "I'm glad you came," MacLeod said. "Well, like I promised, I'm trying to be more understanding and patient," Anne told him. "So I decided to give you a chance to explain what was so important that you had to run off in the middle of the night." They were sitting at a table in the rear of Dawson's bar. They'd just finished an early dinner and were listening to the newest band Dawson had booked. MacLeod thought carefully about what to say. He didn't want to alienate Anne again. "Remember I was telling you about my friend who died? That phone call last night was from an old acquaintance who reminded me of a promise I made to Chris to take care of his wife. She didn't answer when I called, so I had to go check on her." *That sounds good,* he thought, *and it's not entirely a lie.* She thought about what he had just said and smiled. "In that case. you're forgiven. Just don't do it again." "Don't worry. I won't." He looked around and saw that the bar was filling up. "It's getting pretty crowded. How about we go back to my place?" "Sounds good to me." The two filled the short time the trip took with small talk about Anne's day in the emergency room and Margaret's state of mind. By the time they reached the dojo, MacLeod was feeling more relaxed than he'd felt in days. MacLeod and Anne stepped out of the elevator into his apartment and took off their coats. He studied her while he poured them some wine. Aside from the fact that they were both attractive young women, she and Tessa had little in common. Anne was very dedicated to her work, while Tessa had loved sculpting and enjoyed curating but had been able to put her work aside. And he had told her his secret, something he wasn't willing to share with Anne just yet. Not after what had happened to Tessa. He noted absently that Anne had turned on some music. She turned to him and smiled. "Let's dance." He put down the drinks and took her in his arms. They glided across the floor for what seemed like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes. MacLeod gradually became aware the music had ended. They sat down on the couch and sipped their wine. After a few moments Anne put down her glass, playfully pushed him onto his back, leaned over him - And the phone rang. Anne sat back with a disgusted look on her face. He sighed and picked up the phone. "Hello?" "I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long, Highlander." He felt himself grow tense as Stocker's voice came through the receiver. "What? Nothing to say to me? I'm hurt." Stocker sighed. "Ah, well. It's just as well. It's time we met and ended this game. I'll see you in an hour." "Where?" MacLeod asked, somewhat distracted by the intense look Anne was giving him. The answer momentarily startled him, but, as he gave it some thought, it made more sense. "I'll be there." "You'd better." Then the line went dead. He put down the phone and turned to Anne. "Anne, I've got to -" "I don't want to hear it, Duncan." "I'm sorry, but I've got to go." He walked over and picked up his coat, slipping it on. "But why? Who was that on the phone?" "No questions, remember? It's just some unfinished business. I'm really sorry." Then he left before the situation got worse. So he didn't hear Anne as she muttered, "That's twice you've walked out on me, Duncan MacLeod." Then she leaned back on the couch and sighed. "No, Mulder. Helmut Stocker did not rise from the dead and walk out of the morgue. He was a murderer, not Lazarus." Mulder smiled at her. "I'm not saying he came back to life, Scully. I think all his vital signs became virtually nonexistent, while his body healed. Then he regained consciousness, knocked out the lab technician, and took his sword." "Oh, that's a much better theory," Scully said sarcastically. "Whoever did all this, it was not a dead man or a hibernating corpse. It was most likely an accomplice or a fellow member of the cult." He gave her a disbelieving look. "C'mon, Scully. The body disappeared less than three hours after death. You're saying that this 'accomplice' heard about Stocker's death, found out where the corpse was, broke in, stole it, then found the sword, knocked out the lab technician, and strolled out, in that short a time. He probably had the time to find a cure for the common cold, too." Scully bit back a retort, realizing this wasn't getting them anywhere. They were back in their loaned offices at the FBI building. Kominski had briefed them in the morgue and then had the latest news faxed over. The corpse had been identified as Helmut Stocker, a resident of Pennsylvania whose background was, at yet, unknown. The florist had positively identified him as the man who had ordered the flowers for Mrs. Franklin. And the lab technician had found minuscule, all but invisible, blood stains near the hilt of the sword. Unfortunately, because there was so little blood, the tests were taking a long time. "This isn't accomplishing anything, Mulder. The fact is, the body's gone." "Yeah, and we've got no idea where to look for it and whoever took it, if it was taken. There's no solid evidence Stocker had an accomplice, and my profile of the other murders indicates no accomplices." Despite his frustration and convictions, to her practiced eye, Mulder looked and sounded tired. *He needs rest,* she thought, but knew suggesting it would be pointless. He would simply say he was fine and dismiss the matter. And, even if she convinced him to go back to the hotel, she knew he wouldn't rest but would sit up thinking about the case. No, it was better for her to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't overdo it. Even as Scully thought about Mulder's condition a small part of her mind was going over what he had just said. Somehow, she knew there was a clue, something they had overlooked. Often in their cases, something that seemed relatively minor turned out to be important. She had a feeling that was the case here as well. She began replaying the day's events mentally and, after a few seconds, found what had been nagging her. "Mulder," she said, catching his attention from a report, "I think we do have one clue." "And what might that be?" he asked giving her his full attention. "Did you hear what Kominski said back at the Franklin house? Only one item was missing, an old address book." "Maybe it's just me, Scully, but I don't see the significance." "I'm not sure it is significant, but I'm asking you to hear me out." He nodded, and she continued. "According to Mrs. Franklin, the only missing item was an old address book of her husband's. If we assume Stocker took it, he must have had a reason. He probably thought it would lead him to someone, and-" "And Franklin knew MacLeod, so his name would have been in the book," Mulder said, beginning to understand. "Exactly. And, since MacLeod had been connected with several decapitations, Stocker might have been looking for him," she said, feeling more confident. "But the address book was a couple of years old, so it probably listed MacLeod's old address, his antique shop, not the dojo's. So Stocker and his accomplice probably had some trouble tracking him down." "So you think MacLeod might be in danger, that Stocker has probably located him by now, and will go after him?" "I think his _accomplice_ will go after MacLeod," she corrected him. "Whatever. Then what are we sitting around here for? Let's go!" And he got up and headed out of the room at a fast pace. Scully sighed and hurried to catch him. MacLeod parked about a quarter of a mile shy of his destination and walked the rest of the way. Stocker probably wouldn't set any traps, but he didn't care to take any chances. Nor did he want to loudly announce his arrival. He walked through the woods slowly, all his senses alert. He was almost to the clearing when he sensed Stocker. He paused long enough to pull out his sword and walked out of the woods. Stocker sat on the edge of a fountain in the center of the huge clearing. He got up and smiled as he took a sip of wine out of a glass. "Ah, MacLeod, you're early! Would you care to join me for a drink? It's an excellent vintage, I assure you." And he gestured towards a bottle and glass on the edge of the fountain. MacLeod glanced at the bottle, then looked back at Stocker but said nothing. The other immortal smiled. "Are you worried it's drugged? You've got my word it isn't. No, MacLeod, our battle shall be conducted fairly." "Then let's get on with it." He took off his overcoat and tossed it to the side. "There's no need to rush." Stocker refilled his glass. "You know, I've heard a lot about you since we last met. You've acquired quite a reputation. I didn't think much of it until about two years ago. I heard rumors you'd killed Grayson. I didn't believe them at first, but I gradually became convinced. So I started following your exploits and eventually made my way here." "Let me guess," MacLeod said sarcastically, "the two of you were friends. So you came here for revenge." "Actually, no," Stocker said, taking a sip of wine. "To be quite honest, I never really cared for him. Despite his grandiose schemes, Grayson was more a follower, not a leader. And his obsession with revenge against Darius was rather pathetic. However, I had to respect his skill with a blade. You must have really improved to have killed him. That should make this...interesting. Are you quite sure you won't have a glass? After all, a condemned man is entitled to a last meal or, in this case, a last drink." MacLeod answered by raising his sword threateningly. Stocker shrugged. "As you wish." He pulled out his sword and took off his raincoat. He stepped away from the fountain and faced MacLeod. The Scottish immortal held his sword our in front of him, blade pointing down. Stocker rested the blade of his sword in his left hand, both arms outstretched as if offering the weapon. To MacLeod the gesture bespoke of possible Roman origins. Rituals completed, both men readied their weapons and settled into defensive postures. Neither moved for at least a full minute. Then MacLeod leaped forward and attacked. =========================================================================