Date: Tue, 20 Jun 1995 20:32:19 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 3 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 3 of 17 by Albert Low "I don't understand, Mulder." Mulder looked up at Scully from his seat across the aisle of the relatively empty plane. He'd been reclining, apparently asleep, but she knew better. "What don't you understand?" "I don't see anything that makes this," tapping the folder on her lap, "an X-File." "What about the cause of death?" "Decapitation is a bit out of the ordinary," she admitted. "But that has not been established as the means of death yet, according to the report. Not that there's much to go on. There wasn't an autopsy report included." "What do you make of the case?" Mulder asked, sitting up and looking at her intently. Scully paused a moment to collect her thoughts before answering. "There are two strong possibilities. The police reported that nothing was missing, and the victim's wallet hadn't been touched. So robbery is out as a motive. "The first possibility is that the murderer had a grudge of some sort against the victim. There are three reasons to believe this. First, as I said, burglary has virtually been ruled out as a motive. Then, we've got the phone call getting the wife out of the house while the murder took place. And, lastly, the probable cause of death was extremely brutal, perhaps indicating a strong animosity. I know," she said, cutting off Mulder off before he could object. "The victim's wife said he had no enemies, but she also admitted she doesn't know a lot about his past so it's possible an old enemy caught up with him. "The other possibility is that this is the work of a serial killer, in which case there will be other victims. It's a disconcerting thought, but that still doesn't make it an X-File." Mulder waited until he was sure she had finished before he spoke. "An excellent analysis give the available facts, Agent Scully." "Thank you, Agent Mulder," she replied in the same light vein. Then she became serious again. "Now, why don't you tell me the rest of the story, Mulder?" "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to look innocent. It wasn't very convincing. "I mean there's more to this case than you're telling me." "Why do you say that?" "Because not even you could read enough into this report to think it's an X-File." Mulder chuckled but almost immediately sobered. "You're right, Scully. There is more." "What more is there?" she asked curiously. It wasn't like him to be so evasive with her. "I'll tell you later. After the autopsy." "What autopsy?" "The one you're going to perform on Franklin. That's why there wasn't an autopsy report in the file. I had the police hold the body until we get there." He grinned. "I could have ordered the body to go, but we had to head out there anyway." "What's going on here, Mulder?" she demanded. "Something strange." "So what else is new?' "I mean really strange. I'll tell you everything later, I promise. But, for now, I'm asking you to trust me." Scully regarded her partner intently. For Mulder to think of something as "really strange" it had to be _highly_ unusual. If it had been anyone else, she would have demanded an immediate answer. But it was Mulder, and, for him to act like this, he must have a very good reason. *At least it better be good.* She sighed. "You're the only one I do trust, Mulder. But," she said warningly, "it had better be good." "Thanks, Scully. I've got a good reason for this, believe me." She sighed again, more deeply. "I've heard that before." "Really?" he said blandly. Despite herself, Scully found herself chucking with Mulder. "Are you sure you don't want to stay here tonight?" MacLeod asked. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to go home right now." "I'll be staying at my sister's house for a few nights," Margaret reassured him. "After that...I don't know. Thanks for being here for me, Duncan." "I wish I could have done more. Would you like me to drive you?" "No, I'll be fine." She kissed him on the cheek and walked out of the dojo, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The two of them had spent over an hour in his office, talking and trying to deal with their grief. MacLeod had canceled his breakfast with Anne and tried to console Margaret. As usual, in such situations, he felt his words had been inadequate. Especially when they didn't even help alleviate his own anger and sense of loss. *Two hundred and fifty years...I'm going to miss you, Chris.* He shook his head as if by doing so he could put aside his pain. Then he got up and headed purposefully out of the dojo. He was almost outside when he felt the presence of another immortal. He turned around to see Richie coming down the stairs leading to MacLeod's studio. He had retreated upstairs shortly after Margaret's arrival so the two of them could have some measure of privacy. "I'm sorry about your friend, Mac." "So am I," he said softly. "Keep an eye on the dojo while I'm out." "Where are you going?" "To see a friend." He paused a moment after walking into the bar to let his eyes adapt to the dim lighting. Dawson was waiting for him as he'd known he would be. MacLeod walked through the empty bar and sat down across the table from him. Joe Dawson was the owner of the bar and a Watcher, one of the few mortals aware of the existence of immortals. He was also a man MacLeod increasingly thought of as a friend. "I heard about Franklin," Dawson said. "I'm sorry. He was a good man." "One of the best," MacLeod agreed. Then he got right to the reason he had come. "I need your help, Joe. I need to know who killed him." "I figured as much. I'm sorry, MacLeod. I wish I could help you, but I can't." He felt dismay for a moment but pressed ahead. "I know our...friendship has placed you in a difficult situation with the other Watchers, but this is important to me. I have to know." "You misunderstood me. I can't help you because I don't know." He looked a bit sheepish. "The Watcher assigned to Franklin got stuck in a traffic jam. By the time he got there it was all over. I'm sorry, MacLeod." MacLeod was silent for a moment, digesting this piece of unexpected, and unwanted, news. "Maybe you can still help me. What do you know about an immortal named Stocker?" "Enough to know he's one evil son of a b****. You think he might have killed Franklin?" "It's possible," he replied, getting up. "Can you check on his whereabouts?" "I'll get right on it," Dawson promised. "I'll call you as soon as I find anything." "Thanks, Joe." He shook the other man's hand and headed towards the exit. "MacLeod." He looked back but said nothing. "Be careful. If Stocker's involved, you could be in trouble. From what I've heard he's very good." MacLeod nodded. "I know." MacLeod and Franklin studied the immortal they now knew to be Helmut Stocker. Then Franklin broke the momentary silence. "Christopher Franklin." "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Franklin." He looked at MacLeod. "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." "An honor, sir." Stocker hesitated. "Are you by any chance related to a Connor MacLeod?" "Aye. We're clansman." "Then I truly am honored. I've heard a great deal about him, all good." He looked past them at the tombstone, then at Franklin. "Your wife?" "Yes," he answered softly, his voice still laden with grief. "My condolences. It's difficult to lose a loved one, especially one so young." He looked back at the part of the cemetery he had come from. "I remember how I felt when Rebecca died. Even now, fifty years later, the pain gnaws at me when I come here." "It's something we can never fully put behind us," Franklin said sympathetically. Just then droplets of rain began to fall, the hovering clouds finally letting loose their contents. And much more could be expected, judging from the dark color of the clouds which now blocked out the sun. "We should be leaving now, Chris." "One moment," said Stocker. "Please join me for dinner. It's rare that I have the privilege of playing host to our kind, and I would enjoy your company. And perhaps," looking at Franklin, "I can help ease your pain." "I think I'd like that," Franklin said. "What do you think, Duncan?" *I think we shouldn't have anything to do with him.* He couldn't explain it. For some reason Stocker felt...wrong. But Franklin had apparently taken a liking to him, so in the end, he said simply, "Whatever you want." "Excellent." Stocker rubbed his hands together briskly. "My carriage awaits." =========================================================================