Disclaimers: Connor MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod and Rachel Ellenstein, as well
as the Highlander situations and universe belong to Davis/Panzer
Productions. I am using their creations without permission. If it makes
any difference, I get no money for this.
----------------------
Hostages to Fortune
by Teresa Coffman
*"We give hostages to fortune when we love."
-- adapted from Francis Bacon*
New York City, 1980
The bells on the door tinkled as a customer entered the store, and Rachel
looked up from the display case where she was arranging Chinese daggers by
dynasty. A middle-aged man entered, wrapped against the bitter New York
City winter in a forlorn and hopelessly outdated coat. Rachel started to
rise to greet him, but Connor happened to come in from the back, just then.
"May I help you?" Connor asked, in the way he had of sounding like he
resented the intrusion into his territory. The store, Rachel knew, did not
stay afloat on the strength of the Highlander's customer service.
The man moved forward, his gaze fastened on Connor's face. His fixation
made Rachel uneasy, but she saw none of the signals from her father that
told her this was an immortal.
The newcomer stopped a few feet before Connor, and removed his hat and
scarf. His steel-grey hair stuck to his head, making his ears, bright red
from the cold, stick out.
"Are you ... Russell Edwin Nash?" he asked in a tone which seemed to attach
great importance to the question.
Rachel rose to her feet.
"Yes," Connor allowed, frowning.
The man cast a quick glance at Rachel, but if he thought she was going to
move discreetly away, he was disappointed. He looked back to the store's
owner. "I'm ... your father."
The scene would likely be preserved in Rachel's memory for a long time.
The gray, storm-tinted daylight gave the whole store a black-and-white
movie feel, and the two men, one stooped and anxious, the other straight
and immobile, also had an unreal, cinema appearance.
Connor responded, neutrally. "My father," he said.
The man fidgeted with his hat and scarf. "You know. Your real father."
The man looked down. "I didn't know ..." his voice choked.
Connor moved his gaze past the man to look for help from Rachel.
Rachel sprang into action, moving to the man's side. "Sir, please come and
sit down. Let me take your things. You must be freezing; it's terrible
weather today." She babbled on, insulating the two men with feminine
pleasantry.
With the man seated at an Edwardian table, Rachel looked up into Connor's
inscrutable expression. He hadn't yet decided how he was going to deal
with this, she judged. "Why don't you get some coffee?" she suggested.
As if grateful to have something to do, Connor vanished into the small
break room.
Rachel studied the man in the chair. He had declined to relinquish his
coat, so he looked like a bundled, lost child. His gaze followed the
Highlander out of the room, then he looked at Rachel, apprehensively. She
smiled.
"I'm Rachel," she said.
"Emmett Nash," he responded with a wan smile.
Rachel suffered much with the strained silence which held sway until Connor
returned with coffee. He set the steaming mug on the table, before the
other man.
"I'm not wrong, am I?" begged Nash with pathetic earnestness. "You were
adopted, weren't you?"
"You're not wrong," Connor answered with a warm smile, as he sat opposite
the man. "I'm glad to meet you."
The door tinkled, and Mr. and Mrs. Lansing-Holmes blew in with the wind.
Connor looked from them to Rachel, releasing her. Now he's decided, Rachel
thought, and she went to tend to the customers.
II
Connor returned after dark, alone, from the bar where he had taken Nash.
Rachel met him at the door and squeezed his hand.
"What happened?" she inquired.
Connor smiled mischievously as he stamped slush from his shoes.
"I've met my real father," he grinned. "He needs a place to stay, so I'm
moving him in here." He moved past her to the coat rack to hang up his
trenchcoat.
Appalled, Rachel looked after him. Then she turned the many locks on the
door, flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed," and strode after him.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "You don't know this man."
Connor sat on a reading couch, one arm draped over the arm, the other on
the back, unconcerned. "It could be very useful to be able to produce a
relative. I know one or two business contacts who would warm up to me if
they met my dear old 'dad'. And some women, too. They get tired of my
mysterious background act." Connor arched his eyebrows.
"But who is he? How do you know he doesn't just want money?"
"He has no legal claim on any money," Connor replied, stretching out his
long legs. "He'd have to depend on sentiment." He grinned evilly. "I'm
not likely to be weak in that department, am I?"
Rachel allowed a small smile, but sat next to him, frowning. "What's his
story? Russell Nash's birth certificate didn't list a father." Rachel
knew it well, for she had researched her father's current alias for him.
Connor nodded. "Karen Kelsey didn't give her son her own last name. She
named him Nash. Emmett Nash and she were lovers before he was sent to the
Battle of the Bulge. He probably really is Russell Nash's father."
Oh, how tragic. It sometimes still surprised Rachel that the war which had
been the devastation of her childhood world had also been so far-reaching
that it had brought grief and darkness even to this prosperous continent
beyond the Atlantic.
"How did he not know? Did he hear his son had died?"
"No, get this." Connor seemed amused by the ironies of fate. "He's been
in a coma in a VA hospital."
"What! For forty years?!"
Connor nodded. "Thirty-five. He's only now looking for what remains of
his old life."
"Dad," Rachel rarely dared use the title, "that poor man. You're using
him."
"Would you have me tell him his son died before he was a day old and I've
been using his son's identity? He has no family left. I'll take good care
of him."
"It just seems wrong."
"Rachel," Connor patted her hand, "you're a good girl."
