Date: Fri, 11 Nov 1994 01:55:46 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: The Hunter and the Hunted (p16-21) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland Comments as always are welcome * * * * * Reno pulled up the bike. The shadows were lengthening, the sun setting, and he could barely make out the dark lines of the hills against the purple sky. He'd spent the day slowly crossing the valley, tracking more by feel and instinct than by sight., following the path taken by Half Elk. He had seen not a hint of the man, since he'd walked out of the abandoned farmyard and into the blazing afternoon sun. Not a sign, not a trail. Just a tickling hint of sensation, a bare stirring of his hunter's senses, had led him on, kept him going. He didn't understand where the man had disappeared to. The valley was flat and almost featureless, yet he was gone. Reno had quartered the ground, weaving back and forth to examine any possible hiding place, and still had found nothing. He turned and looked back across the valley. The setting sun glistened on the low rise the scattered ruins of the house rested upon. It was maybe 10 miles away, but the air was so clear Reno could almost see details. Something seemed to be happening, back at the abandoned house. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, miniature Zeiss high-resolution opticals, matte black, the glass coated with a non-reflecting finish. He carried only the best, despite Bobby's constant carping. They'd saved his life more than once. He focused the lenses. Yes, those flashing colored lights were police cars. And an ambulance. So the body of that unknown stranger had been found. He wondered what they would make of the man's manner of death. It was the first time he'd ever seen a man beheaded. Not a pleasant sight, even for someone who had encountered all manner of man's inhumanity to man, before. Not pleasant at all. His stomach felt a bit queasy, as he thought back to the last glimpse he'd had of the corpse, the blood spilling out of its neck like wine from a bottle. He hoped he'd never run into that particular form of death, again. He looked closer. A familiar shape moved across his view, the tiny figure magnified into too clear detail in the lenses. He stifled a curse. Dutch Dixon. Now that was the worst news he'd gotten in a long time. How in hell had the man found out he was here? He pulled out his mobile phone to call Bobby, then paused. Stared at the innocuous buttons, waiting for him to dial. Dutch knew he was associated with Sixkiller. The phone....that must be it. Dutch was using the phone calls to track him. Reno was aware that once a number was known, the location could be triangulated from the signal boosting dishes that processed each call. Obviously Dutch had gotten this number. He'd better let Bobby in on the bad news. He held the black plastic rectangle in his hands. Weighed it. Pulled his arm back to throw it into the dusty field beside him. Then stopped. Decided to hold onto it, for a while. The number could always be changed. And maybe now he could use it to lure Dixon off his track, too. Reno tucked the phone back into his saddlebag, and put away the binoculars. He'd find a pay phone and talk to Bobby tonight. Unless Dutch was somehow listening in on Bobby's end of the conversations, as well. Now he was getting paranoid. But it made sense. If Dutch had Reno's unlisted number, he certainly had Bobby's listed one. And even digital signals could be unscrambled, now, with the right equipment. The question was only, did he rate that kind of equipment? Had Dutch pulled in the Feds yet, or was he still following Reno as a solo operation? Reno would have to chance at least one call...just to let Bobby in on the situaton. He was quick, maybe he'd figure out a solution in time to get them back in touch soon. It would give him something to think about, anyhow, while Reno went after Half Elk. He kicked his bike back into gear, and moved on down the road. Looking for a phone, and a place to grab some food. His mouth was still parched. He hadn't seen a sign of water, either, all day, and his face felt like it was made of dried leather. A motel and a shower sounded good. He wondered if he could risk it, so close to Dutch. Hell, the man probably figured he'd headed off like a bat out of hell after finding that body and was halfway across the state by now. He might as well stay and lay low. He still had a killer to find, himself. * * * * * Turning away from the body being photographed by the coroner's team, Dutch hid a smile. It wouldn't do to be seen gloating at the scene of a murder, but this...this was perfect. The county crime lab had sent out their only technician, and Dutch had waltzed the relatively inexperienced man through exactly the scenario he had envisioned as most damning to Reno Raines. Now the fugitive ex-cop had two murder raps hanging on his head. And a new All Points Bulletin just issued, with his picture faxed on all the wires, would alert all the police in this state to pick him up on sight. Dutch felt the warm glow of triumph climbing through his chest. It had been worth it, coming out here to the sticks, after all. He stood and watched as the technician made a plaster cast of the motorcycle tracks in the dust., working under the jury rigged floodlights Dutch had helped him set up. Dutch had steered him to the tracks, and to the metal casings from what he supposed was Reno's gun that had been scattered across the ground. Dutch had also scuffed out what looked like horse tracks, tracks he'd glimpsed in the last flare of the setting sun as he'd parked over them. No sense in confusing the issue with extraneous evidence. Evidence that might cast a doubt on his assertions that Reno was the killer. Every step of this investigation had been blessed by luck, uncommon luck. Dixon felt his excitement growing as he considered the possibility. Maybe this time he was going to drop Raines. This wild, empty place, perfect for a "fugitive shot while escaping." And none of the local cops would question him, would question it, not after seeing the savagery with which this John Doe had been murdered. No, Raines was dead, if Dixon could just catch up with him. The only possible problem was that witness. The man who had originally tipped Dixon off to the location of this house, and to a secret grudge meeting of some sort between some Indian and someone else...a meeting a long, blonde haired motorcyclist had been very intersted in hearing about. Dixon had been scouring the local bars, looking for anyone who recognized the wanted poster of Raines, when the man had approached him. He knew, he claimed, exactly where the man in the picture would be. And how much was it worth to Dixon, he'd wanted to know. Dixon bit back a second surge of mirth at that. It had been worth a great deal to him, to find out. And it had cost that greedy fool everything he owned. Dutch couldn't afford to leave someone alive who could impeach the whole story he'd concocted. When the man had described the Indian going out on some deadly revenge match, Dutch knew in his bones this was the set up he'd been waiting for. Someone was going to die. And Raines would be there. He just hadn't counted on the luck of finding the body lying here in the open. It was almost too easy. He wondered idly how long it would be before the corpse of his informant was pulled out of the storm sewer he'd tipped him into. A long time, between storms, in the desert. A long time, he figured. And with his luck, Raines would be blamed for that death, too. He'd left an old, tattered copy of Raines's wanted poster in the man's pocket, stuffed it into the worn flannel workshirt, before he'd said his final goodbye to the man's ugly mug. Motive, opportunity, means. What more did he need. By the time he caught up with Raines, he'd be a hero. He played with the fantasy, closing his eyes for a second to picture the headlines, the press, syncophatic sheep that they were, swarming around him with microphones and cameras at the ready. "And how do you feel, Lieutenant Dixon, knowing you're brought the vicious murderer Reno Raines to justice, at last." Yes, it would be sweet. But not as sweet as knowing that he would have shut the man's mouth forever, and protected himself, permanently, from any furthur accusations that he himself killed his partner, Buzzy Burrell. Cleaned himself from any possible taint that Raines could stick to him that he was a dirty cop. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but we're done with the body." An uncertain voice cut through his reverie. He opened his eyes again. It was one of the county officers. Another ignorant hick. He nodded to the youngster. "Very well. Get it out of here." From of the corner of his eye, he noticed another hoofprint, and moved inconspicuously to scuff it out. Watched as the body of Raines's "latest victim" was loaded, at last, into the ambulance. Rubbed his hands together, flexing his fingers, thinking how good it would feel to pull the trigger on that man. He shook aside his daydreams and strode to the open door of one of the marked patrol cars. The officer inside looked up inquiringly at him, pausing in the lengthy report he was recording on the murder scene. "Get me the sherrif's department." Dixon snapped out the words. Time was slipping away. The longer they waited, the further away Raines would be. Or would he? Raines didn't know Dixon was here...Didn't know Dixon knew about his bounty chase....perhaps he was still after the Indian. Perhaps he'd thought the body would lie undiscovered for a while...and perhaps not. Dixon had to out think him. He concentrated, and threw his choice to lady luck. "Tell the sherrif to block off all the local roads. I think Raines is still around here. I think he's heading for the reservation." * * * * * "You're soaked. Come on in, MacLeod." Joe Dawson's concern was almost visible as he opened the battered metal door for Duncan. His brow was furrowed and his eyes looked straight into Duncan's, as if he was trying to communicate his feeling and sharing his sorrow and loss. Duncan shook off some of the water from his coat, and stood, dripping, in the foyer of the slightly seedy bar, the chill from the November night still lingering on his skin, his hair plastered to his head by the rain. "Let me take your coat, at least." Dawson held out his hands, offering to help. Offering his friendship and support, with the simple gesture. Duncan's heart warmed in the flame of his friend's concern. He was glad he'd come. Staying in the loft would have been a mistake. The bottles on the sideboard had been too heavy on his mind, lately. Drink was a dead end escape. Your problems, your pain, were still there when you sobered up. But it was so easy, so dreadfully easy to follow that path to temporary oblivion. Something he well knew, from his past. Something he felt creeping up on him again, in his future. He sat, with Joe, in the small office behind the quiet bar. Sipped at a small snifter of brandy. Fine stuff, he noted. Hardly tasting it. Appreciating the significance of it, at least. Joe had pulled out a dusty box, a special bottle, one he kept locked away for certain occasions, certain people. Duncan put aside the glass, the conversational niceties over with. It was time. He needed to know. He looked up at Joe, pulling his gaze away from the worn and tattered rug. Met the mortal's eyes, and made his demand, with his own. "Well?" His word hung on the air, vibrating. It was as if a path was being chosen. He could pursue this, or let it rest. His heart, his soul, demanded that he pursue. He waited, impatient, for Dawson to share his information. To point him in the direction he needed to go. Give him the leads and the clues he wanted, to ease the ache and loss in his heart. "It's very odd, MacLeod. From what my source tells me, it seems a mortal killed your friend. Or a renegade Immortal. One we've never identified before." Dawson clasped his hands around his own snifter, sloshing the ruby liquid in its crystal bowl, staring into it, as if expecting to find the answer to his perplexity there. Duncan reached out, grabbed his wrist. "What do you mean, a mortal? You mean his Quickening was lost?" This was worse than he'd feared. Bad enough that Llewellyn was dead. A catastrophe if his Quickening was lost as well. Deja vu seized him. All the best ones, wasted. Just like Darius. And the evil went on, forever. Gnawed away at the souls of the living. Gnawed away at their hearts. Like the evil ones he'd taken, inside himself. He felt their laughter, inside. Felt their mockery. Hated it. Hated that part of himself that they claimed, now. "...Watcher arrived after it was over." Duncan had missed Joe's first words. He concentrated now on following the rest, hoping to fill in the gaps, later. "He reported he saw a motorcycle leaving, after the blue fire. He found shell casings, on the scene. He didn't get a chance to examine the body closely, but we suspect Llewellyn was shot first, and then beheaded. Now an APB has gone out on some renegade ex-cop. No one we've ever heard of." Joe reached over onto his cluttered desk, setting down his brandy and sorting rapidly through what looked like a fresh pile of faxes. "I have a copy of his picture here. We pulled it off the police wires." He turned and handed Duncan a sheet of paper. Duncan stared at it, hungrily. The slightly blurry features of a long haired, angry looking man stared back at him. He would remember that face. He noted there was a reward out for the man's capture. Dead or alive. The price was the same. Just as well. He wondered how he could arrange to have someone collect it, after he was done. To send to a charity, in Llewellyn's name. He'd try to set that up, later. "May I keep this?" He held the fax possessively in his hands, the question a sheer formality. He had the scent now. He had his clues, his trail. Avidly, he scanned the rest of the information on the sheet. Reno Raines. Wanted for escaping from a federal penetentiary. And before that, for murdering a police officer. Considered armed, and dangerous. Now wanted in connection with a John Doe found dead in Navaho, Arizona. So that was the name of the town Llwellyn had gone to live in. To expiate his guilt, Duncan suspected. Not that he'd ever needed to feel guilty over what he'd done. But that was the quality of the man. Llwelllyn felt far more than most, cared far more. Took responsibility for things that were not even his fault, and tried to atone for the errors of others, in their stead. And for what. So some two bit fugitive could kill him. Duncan had felt helpless, when Tessa had been murdered in a casual mugging turned deadly. Helpless, because of the anonymity of the crime. No clues, no leads, no idea who had done it. He'd spent days with Richie, afterwards, trying to get him to reconstruct everything he could remember about the man who'd shot them. But it had been so insubstantial, so vague and brief a glimpse, what the youth had seen, what he remembered. Duncan had given up, eventualy. Realized that there was nothing more to learn, no one to find. Realized that every time he delved into it again, Richie was tortured with guilt, guilt that he couldn't tell him more, guilt that he hadn't tried, hand't managed, to save Tessa...Duncan had realized he had to let go, to let her go, to bury the past. But this time, it would be different. This time, he knew who had killed his friend. This time, there would be vengeance. He was anticipating this fight, he understood. Anticipating the final confrontation. So be it. "You know he's already killed an Immortal." Joe was standing over him, his hand resting lightly on Duncan's shoulder. The warmth seeped into Duncan's arm, from that touch. He looked up at Joe and smiled. "So have I, Dawson. More than once." He felt Joe's hand stiffen, the warmth lessening as the psychic shock of Duncan's response hit him. Irritation pushed him to his feet as well. He was wasting time, now. Sure, Joe could have told him because he'd known they were friends. But he could hardly have expected Duncan to just sit around and mourn, now could he? Duncan knew himself, knew he was not a philosopher. He'd always felt more comfortable when simple, direct action was in store. And now, he had a focus. A goal. He clasped Dawson's hand. "Thanks, Dawson. For everything." He turned and shrugged on his coat, walked to the door of the office and paused. "I'll call you when I get back. Let you know how it went." He spoke to the door. Not wanting to meet Dawson's eyes. Not wanting to share, to show the eagerness he felt, for this hunt to begin...and to end. Feeling a tiny tingling of shame, at his anticipation. He stepped out of the office and headed up the stairs, not looking back. The fax secure in his pocket. His hand clenched tightly around it, like a talisman, or an evil charm. He heard Joe move to the door, behind him. Heard his limping stride on the rough metal and concrete. Felt his eyes, boring into his back as he reached the top of the metal staircase. Impelled by that last tie of friendship, he turned at last. Met Joe's eyes. Tried to hide the feral grin that stretched across his face. Saw the shock in Joe's expression. Felt the thrill of the hunt stirring in his veins. Sketched a half bow, ironic, mocking, and left. =========================================================================