Date: Thu, 22 Jun 1995 18:54:57 -0700 Reply-To: Naomi Hayashi Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Naomi Hayashi Subject: X-File #A274-D33 part 7 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 7 of 17 by Albert Low "Was it my imagination, or was his behavior a little suspicious?" Mulder asked as they got into the car. "He did seem a little vague about some of the facts." "Vague?" he asked, looking at her challengingly. "All right," Scully admitted, "it was suspicious, the way he didn't remember keeping those antiques. You were right, Mulder." She paused. "For once." "It was bound to happen sometime," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "I think we should find out everything we can about MacLeod." "That's probably a good idea." "I'll call Danny and have him run a background check." He started the car and pulled away from the curb. "So what do you think our next move should be?" Scully thought about it a moment. "It's too late to visit the crime scene before dark. We should check in with the morgue and see if the toxicology results are in." Mulder gave her an incredulous look. "You don't really expect to find anything, do you?" "Probably not," she said truthfully, "but we should still check, just to be sure." To her mild surprise, he agreed. "You're probably right, Scully. While we're there, we can see if the police have come up with anything before," he yawned, "calling it a night." She nodded, her thoughts focused on the conversation with MacLeod and its connection, if any, with the case. The phone rang insistently. Still half asleep, MacLeod slowly rolled over and picked it up. "MacLeod." "It's good to hear your voice again, MacLeod. I hope I'm not interrupting anything...intimate. Your companion is quite attractive." The voice brought him fully awake. "Stocker." "I'm honored you remember. I trust you got my message." "Where are you?" MacLeod demanded. Stocker laughed softly. "I appreciate your eagerness, Highlander, but we haven't reached the end game yet. There are still too many pieces left on the board. I've taken one of your knights, before we meet, I'll take the other." Then he hung up. "Stocker!" It took a moment for him to realize that the other man was no longer on the line. "Duncan?" He felt a hand touch his shoulder tentatively, and he rolled over to see Anne looking at him with concern. "What's wrong? Who was that on the phone?" "Nobody important." But even as he spoke, MacLeod's mind was focused on Stocker's last words. *End game. He was using a chess analogy. The "knight" must have been Chris, so that means --* He picked up the phone and dialed Richie's number. No one answered. "_Damn!_" He got out of bed and began to dress quickly. "What's wrong, Duncan?" Anne sounded confused, and more than a little frightened. "I just remembered something important I had to do. I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as possible." And he left, running down the stairs. The boy and girl stood arguing in front of the television set. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen and a good foot taller than the girl, who was, at most, eight or nine years old. The girl turned the television to another channel, and the boy turned it back a second later. That done, he stood towering over her, silently daring her to change the channel again. Then the television blacked out, and the lights went out as well. "Now look. The fuse is blown," the boy accused. Suddenly various items around the room began to vibrate, and a deep rumbling sound echoed throughout the room. A strobbing red light shone through the shades as the boy and girl looked fearfully at each other. "Fox," said the girl nervously. The boy didn't reply. They turned towards the door to see it outlined in white light shining through the frame. And, to their shock, they saw the bolt slowly slide back without any sign of what was moving it. Then the door knob slowly began to turn... And the boy jumped onto a chair, reaching up to grab a box located on top of a cabinet. In his haste Fox knocked the box to the floor. He'd just stepped off the chair and was kneeling to grab it when he heard the girl scream. He looked up to see her suspended in the air, a faint glow surrounding her. "Samantha! Samantha!" He fumbled open the lid of the box, knocking some of the contents out onto the floor, including a gun. Fox was reaching for it when something compelled him to look up. The door was fully open, and blinding white light poured through it. And there was someone there. The boy could just make out the outline of a figure standing in the doorway. Fox could hear Samantha calling out his name over and over, but he couldn't move. He caught a momentary glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. She was now prone in the air, being pulled by some unseen force towards the window. He could see her, but he couldn't move. Then he heard the voice. But not with his ears. No, there was no sound other than the deep rumbling and Samantha's desperate cries for help. Fox heard the voice in his head. It was a soothing reassuring voice that curbed his fear. He listened, but he couldn't move. He knew that Samantha was being taken away. And he couldn't stop it. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was call out her name. And then she was gone. "Uhhh!" Fox Mulder bolted upright in bed, his body covered with sweat. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his entire body shaking slightly. After a few moments of sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached over and picked up a photo from the table. It was a simple black and white photo taken over two decades ago. In it a young Fox Mulder stood with his arm around the neck of his sister, both obviously just finished swimming, their hair and bodies glistening with moisture. Mulder sat there for a long time, simply staring at the photo. Then, he gently ran his thumb across Samantha's face. He didn't have much to remind him of her. Just a few photos like this. Memories. And the dream. It was always the same, leaving him feeling alone, helpless, angry...and guilty. Guilty that he hadn't done something, anything to save her. He put down the picture and walked to the room's only window, pulling open the drapes. He looked up but couldn't see any stars because of the thick cloud cover. As he stood gazing out the window, Mulder's thoughts returned to the dream. Despite the pain it caused he was glad he still had it. It was all he had of his sister to hold on to. And he needed it now more than ever. Because lately he'd been experiencing something he didn't want to admit. Not to his parents, not to Scully, not even to himself. And the truth was that he was tired. He'd searched for answers for so long and had found none that satisfied him. It had been almost three years since he'd begun working on the X-Files, and he was no closer to finding the truth, to finding his sister, than he had been when he started. Even his recent encounter in Puerto Rico with what he believed to have been aliens was inconclusive. Mulder remembered nothing after the figure had appeared in the doorway, and he had no proof, no evidence, that contact had been made. He closed the drapes and switched on the overhead lamp. Then he walked over to the table where he'd left his briefcase. As he sat down he knew he had to continue his search. The truth was out there, somewhere. And he'd come too far to give up now. He knew he wasn't going to be able to fall asleep again, so he pulled out the X-Files and police reports and began going through them once again. Richie was pulled out of a sound sleep by the presence of another immortal. Shaking away the vestiges of the dream he'd been having, he rolled out of bed and grabbed the sword he'd left leaning against the wall. He stood crouched in the corner as a figure appeared in the doorway leading to the rest of the apartment. Without any lights on he couldn't make out the person's features. "Mac?" he said tentatively. "No." The man laughed softly and flipped on the lights in the bedroom. Richie blinked, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light. He recognized the man immediately and fervently wished he were still dreaming. "Stocker." The immortal nodded in acknowledgment and took a step into the room. And Richie rushed forward, attacking fiercely. He knew that if Stocker cornered him in the small bedroom, he'd be at a serious disadvantage. He had to carry the fight out into the main area of the apartment so he would have room to fight, and retreat if necessary. Richie pressed Stocker hard, fear and anger sending adrenaline throughout his body as he attacked using everything he had learned from Charlie and MacLeod. Stocker blocked all the blows but withdrew into the living room. Once there, Richie lessened his assault, remembering MacLeod's admonitions against being overly aggressive. A moment later his decision was vindicated as Stocker went on the offensive for the first time. The assault was overwhelming. Richie backed away, desperately trying to put distance and furniture between them, but the other immortal wasn't deterred. Still, Richie's defenses were holding up. Stocker's smile was visible in the dim light. "Very good. MacLeod taught you well. But not well enough!" And his sword came in blindingly fast, slashing across Richie's sword arm. Richie cried out and backed away. He wasn't fast enough. Stocker knocked his sword aside with a hard blow and smashed a fist into his face. Richie stumbled back over a chair and fell to the floor, barely keeping a grip on his sword. Not that it seemed to matter as Stocker nonchalantly advanced. Then he heard voices and pounding at the front door. "Hey, Ryan, what's going on in there? Open up! Stop that racket or we'll call the cops!" Stocker glanced at the door and back at Richie. Then, he smiled and lowered his weapon. "Saved by the calvary, Richie." As he spoke, he backed off towards a window. "In a way, I'm glad. I admire your spirit." Then his voice grew cold. "Tell MacLeod I'll be coming for him soon." He turned and leapt through the window. Richie stared numbly at the broken glass for a second, amazed he was still alive. Then the commotion at the door drew his attention. He hid the sword in a closet and threw on a robe to cover up his wounded arm. As he headed for the door, he looked at the shattered window again. "Aw, man. Another window." He sighed. "Maybe Mac'll give me a raise." =========================================================================