Merciless 2: Deadly Conversations Vi Moreau and Suzanne Herring Write the authors c/o Bridget Mintz Testa, btesta@houston.rr.com RATING: PG-15 for language and one sexually-suggestive scene New York, July 3, 2008 The caller ID announced "Marie Landreneau," calling from Paris, France. Connor MacLeod recognized neither the name nor the displayed French telephone number, but he answered anyway. "Marie Landreneau" had reached his private, unlisted number, and it was unlikely that the call was an accident. And if it were a wrong number . Well, Connor had no objections to meeting a Frenchwoman online -- especially if he was lucky and she turned out to be a young and beautiful mademoiselle. "Iain MacKinnon," he said, sitting down at the screen. At his voice, the video came on, and Connor stared at the screen. This was no mademoiselle. This was Stephen Holz, Elena Duran's adopted -- and troublesome -- son. And from the expression on Stephen's face, he was very angry. That was not unusual for Stephen, Connor recalled, but this time the boy's beautiful Asian features were so distorted with fury that he looked downright ugly. Connor took a deep breath. Whatever this was, it was not going to be pleasant. A more polite man would have said something tactful. Connor said, "Why are you calling me, Stephen?" Stephen licked his lips. Then he smiled malevolently and said, "I called you to let you know that I'm going to kill Duncan MacLeod tonight." Adrenaline shot through Connor. Events seemed to simultaneously slow down and speed up -- Connor's standard physical reaction to threats. He could see every pore in Stephen's face, the beads of sweat on the boy's forehead and upper lip, the anger and -- was that grief? -- in Stephen's eyes. At the same time, Connor's own heart rate increased as his body prepared to fight for his life. He suppressed the reaction -- this unasked-for battle wasn't one he was going to win with a sword. "Why?" "Why?" Stephen gasped, a little ball of spittle spraying from his lips onto the screen. "Because he killed my father, right in front of me!" In his sternest voice -- the voice he'd used as a ship's captain -- Connor replied, "Stephen, Duncan did not kill your father. In fact, he did everything he could to save your father. And you know that." "The fucking son of a bitch stood there while it happened, even though he'd promised me --" "And he never promised you --" "You weren't there, when I went to him in the middle of the night! I was just a kid, and he *promised* me!" Stephen shouted. "And he lied to me! You all lied to me!" Stephen was hysterical. Something had happened, and Connor had a bad feeling that he knew what it was. But he had to get more information, and if he could keep Stephen talking, keep the boy on the line, maybe Stephen would calm down a little. Maybe he'd re-think his plans. Maybe he'd change his mind. Yeah, maybe. In a quiet, reasonable voice, Connor said, "Why now, Stephen? I thought you had come to terms with your father's death, with the reasons Duncan couldn't interfere." "Fuck interference! He waited until after Papa was dead -- *then* he killed Philip Ordway, when it was too late, when it was all over! Duncan could have stopped it, but he didn't!" Speaking gently now, in a tone he would have used to comfort a frightened child, Connor said, "No, Stephen, Duncan could not have stopped it. He couldn't interfere because it's against --" "The rules of The Game!" Stephen shouted, now red-faced and panting. "I don't give a damn about the rules of The Game! And that's why I'm going to shoot Duncan tonight" -- and Stephen waved a Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol in front of his screen -- "and then cut his head off with his own sword! He's going to pay for letting my father die and for lying to me over and over again! You're all going to pay!" Adrenaline shot through Connor again -- he recognized a direct threat when he heard one -- but he ignored it once more, took another deep breath, and tried reason again. "Lied to you about what, Stephen?" Stephen leaned toward the screen, and Connor could see that the boy's curly black hair was wet and pasted to his scalp and skin. Tears were rolling down Stephen's cheeks. "What are you -- stupid, or just humoring me?!" he shrieked. "You all let me believe I was mortal, all the time knowing I was going to be like *you* -- an *Immortal*!" Stephen pronounced "Immortal" as though it were an obscenity. Connor's bad feeling had been right. Stephen had become Immortal. And the boy, never too stable in the first place, seemed to have gone over the edge as a result. When? Connor wondered. Tonight? Had it happened this very night? What was Stephen doing in Paris, all alone, when he became an Immortal? Where the hell was Elena? Connor sighed. He still didn't understand why Stephen was calling him. Was it a cry for help? Did Stephen want to be talked out of his plan? And why call him, Connor? It didn't make much sense, but then, very little Stephen had ever done had made sense. Connor thought furiously, aware of the impatient and totally irrational boy on his screen. There had to be a way to stop Stephen, make him slow down, at least long enough for someone to get to him, someone who could help. But there wasn't anyone, was there? Still, he had to try; and telling Stephen how unlikely it was that he'd actually manage to kill Duncan -- that Stephen himself would surely be the one who'd wind up dead -- didn't seem like the right approach. For all he knew, the boy was suicidal and this was his way of getting himself killed. So Connor tried a different angle -- love. He said, "Stephen, have you thought about what this will do to Elena? She loves Duncan, you know that; and she loves you. Do you understand how much this will hurt her?" Connor waited, pleading -- praying -- silently, fervently. "Yeah, well, she lied to me, too," Stephen replied, bitterly, savagely. "You all lied to me. But I'm going to get even for my father first, so I'm starting with Duncan. I want you to feel exactly what I felt when I watched my father die -- when I had to stand there and I couldn't do anything about it. Well, you're in New York, and I'm in Paris, and by the time you get here, Duncan will be dead, and there's nothing you can do about it, MacLeod -- *nothing*. Even if you contact Duncan -- I have a gun, and all he has is his katana! He'd never shoot another --" Stephen took great big sobbing gulps of breath before he could get this word out, "-- another Immortal! He'll follow his precious rules and I'll use that to kill him!" The line went dead, and the video cleared to Connor's usual screensaver of a beautiful nude, moving through a series of erotic poses. But Connor ignored it. He took yet another deep, deep breath, striving for calm. He wanted to rave, to break things, to curse in all the languages he knew. He sat still, then calmly, deliberately cleared the screen and called Duncan. Wherever Duncan was, the call would find him, whether he was on his barge or walking the streets of Paris -- as long as Duncan was carrying his handheld. "Damn!" Connor cursed, because Duncan didn't answer, and that meant that either Duncan had chosen to leave civilization and technology behind on this day of all days, or he just wasn't answering. Connor ordered the phone to keep calling Duncan until there was an answer, and then he leaned back in his chair, thinking. Stephen was motivated by hatred, anguish, grief, vengeance it was an ancient stew, and Connor knew its bitter taste well. So did every Immortal. But this particular Immortal had been through such trauma in his short life: the beheading of his father, being kidnapped by an Immortal, almost dying from leukemia. And Stephen had always said he hated Immortals, with some justification, Connor thought. Apparently the only Immortal Stephen didn't hate right now was his deceased father, Philippe Holz, and his father had "lied" to him too, hadn't he? Connor wished he'd thought of pointing that out to Stephen, but hell, it probably wouldn't have mattered. As for Stephen's plans, Connor knew that Duncan could easily kill Stephen, and no doubt Stephen did, at least in his rational moments. There was no way a twenty-something new Immortal could out-smart or out-think Duncan. What worried Connor was that Duncan might choose not to kill Stephen, might try to calm the boy, might lay down his sword in a gesture of trust and that Stephen would gladly take advantage of Duncan's generous gesture to do exactly what he'd promised to do. If that happened, Connor calculated coldly, then he would kill Stephen himself -- get him fast, both to avenge Duncan and to stop Stephen before he struck out at any other Immortal he blamed for "lying" to him about his own nascent Immortality. Richie Ryan, Emma Cuzo, Methos -- any one of them could behead Stephen Holz, and then Elena would surely ... No. It was better if he did it, which would mean that he would then have to face Elena Duran -- and possibly Elena's friends. But of course, if Duncan *did* kill Stephen, then Duncan might very well wind up facing Elena Duran himself -- Duncan's own lover of fifteen years. If Elena came after Duncan for revenge, Connor was certain that not only would Duncan be in no shape to fight her, but he wouldn't fight his own lover. And the unyielding instinct, the need to protect Duncan, to keep him safe and unharmed, gripped Connor, as it would always grip him, no matter how many centuries passed. Connor stared bleakly at the screen. He vividly remembered the grief and blood that the death of Alexander Caropoulos --another Immortal woman's Immortal "son" -- had brought him, even though he hadn't beheaded the boy himself. And, with a sick feeling, Connor could see Stephen setting in motion just such another chain of events (Connor's fist in Elena Duran's hair as he pulls her head back, baring her neck for his sword stroke -- the hate, fear, and anticipation on Hannah Swenson's beautiful face -- Connor's sudden realization, the truth now so obvious, so clear, so damn painful, that Hannah has betrayed their love to avenge her "son," Alexander ) Connor blinked slowly, swallowing hard at the memory of Hannah, of her death at Elena Duran's hand. Connor could have fought Elena, could have killed her to avenge Hannah. But he had chosen to forgive, instead, stopping that cycle of killing. Now Stephen was about to start another such cycle, one that would continue on long past his own death. Connor roused himself. He'd wasted enough time ruminating -- he had to move, now! He booked a seat on the next supersonic flight to Paris, stuffed his sword in the duffel he kept packed just for such emergencies, left a message for Rachel, and raced to the airport. As he plotted and planned and thought and hurried, as he boarded the plane and took his seat, as he strapped himself in, as the plane took off and the ocean filled his view, Stephen's words echoed in his brain: "There's nothing you can do about it, MacLeod -- *nothing*." Stephen was right -- by the time Connor reached Paris, everything could be over. Flying at twice the speed of sound, Connor was frozen in space and time, conscious of every second's passage, helpless and impotent, able to do absolutely *nothing*.