Joe looked down at Richie's grave and remembered a cold day on a Paris street. {{I'll never forget what you did for me the first time we really talked alone. Even though you said I gave you the creeps, you came to me for help when MacLeod was absorbed by a woman who looked exactly like Tessa. Suddenly a car pulled up and someone shoved a gun out the window. "Dawson, look out!" you shouted. Seconds later you lay in the street, bleeding from three gun shots to the chest. "How bad is it?" you asked. I told you, you were dying, yet through the pain, you managed to make a joke. "Not again. Stick around, I'll be right back." You died for me that day. You saved my life yet you shrugged it off. "I was there. It was happening. Let's call it reflexes." Damn good reflexes, my young friend.}}
Duncan looked down at Richie's grave and remembered a time he came into the barge and observed Richie. {{I'll never forget watching you swing my sword, thinking you were alone. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," you said. Already you were imitating what you'd seen of my life. Did you think the life of an Immortal was romantic and exciting? With another swish of the sword you lowered your voice and said, "I'm Connor MacLeod. Same clan, different vintage.". Little did you know that someday you would live and die by the sword. I wanted to protect you from this world of Immortality for as long as I could. Your very Immortality was the curse that shortened your life, my young friend.}}
Joe thought about the night Richie learned Methos' true identity. {{You really didn't want to believe, it. You asked, "Joe, help me out here. I mean, five-thousand years of wisdom, him?". I assured you the man before you was the real Methos. But that didn't matter to you. "It's not the name I care about. It's the message I believe in." You became upset when MacLeod tried to convince you the 'other' Methos was wrong. "I'm talking about peace here, fellows. I'm talking about a chance to end the killing forever," you insisted. Maybe, dear friend, if peace for Immortals was possible, you would still be alive.}}
Duncan thought of the time when the 'other' Methos came to town. {{You were convinced the Immortal who claimed to be Methos was right. You explained, "You guys don't understand what I'm saying. It's not the name that I care about. I mean, this Methos, that Methos. It's the message I believe in." I told you what the Immortal was saying was wrong and it would get you killed. "Okay, fine, whatever," you said. I upset you, but you stuck to your ideals. You said, "I'm talking about a chance to end the killing forever. And you know something, of all people, I thought you would understand." I did understand. I wanted to believe as much as you did. Maybe, dear friend, if peace for Immortals was possible, you would still be alive.}}
Duncan shivered involuntarily. Not certain if it was the winter chill seeping in or the emptiness in his soul, he said, "Come on, Joe, I'll take you home."
Neither man spoke during the short ride. "You want to come in for a while?" Joe asked as he opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
"No," Duncan said a little too quickly. With pain filled eyes, he looked at his friend. "I appreciate you coming with me today, but right now I need to be alone."
Leaning heavily on his cane, Joe spoke softly. "I understand." However, Joe knew he could never understand what it was like for MacLeod to always lose everyone and everything he loved. He turned and walked away.
For a moment Duncan focused on the row of houses on this street where Joe lived, imagining the joy of the families inside. He knew he would never have a normal life like this. Having Richie in his life was as close as he had ever come to having a son. Now, that had been ripped away from him by Marcus Chen.
On the way home Duncan passed by throngs of last minute Christmas shoppers. He didn't want to face the crowds, but knew he needed some groceries. In the days since Richie had been killed, Duncan hadn't eaten much. Most of his energy had been spent in trying to track down Richie's killer. As he parked in front of the store, Duncan remembered the last time he was here, on his birthday....
Three nights earlier, December 21:
...."So, do you think giving Susan a ring for Christmas is a good idea?" Richie asked.
"It all depends. Are you going to..." Duncan stopped as he and Richie felt the presence of another Immortal. Locating the tall, muscular, fair-haired man at the side of the building, they glanced at each other, then both walked over to where he stood. As the two approached, the man backed farther into the shadows and away from any mortal audience in the parking lot.
With eyes locked on the Highlander, the man said, "I'm Harry Olsen and I'm here for Duncan MacLeod." Pulling out his sword, he continued, "You fit the description."
"I am Duncan MacLeod, but I have no quarrel with you."
"Well, I have one with you." The man swung his sword menacingly and took a step closer. "I'm going to take your head for my Emily."
Duncan removed his sword and took a defensive stance. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do!" Olsen shouted. "Emily was my life; my mortal wife, and you killed her."
"I didn't," Duncan said calmly. "You've mistaken me for someone else."
"If you are Duncan MacLeod, then I have not."
"What makes you think Mac killed your wife?" Richie asked.
Olsen didn't look away from MacLeod as he answered. "Just before she died in my arms, Em told me the man who ra...raped her and stabbed her with a sword announced himself as 'Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod'. She had no reason to know your name if you hadn't been there."
A shiver ran through MacLeod as he wondered if maybe this was something he'd done while under the effects of the Dark Quickening. Maybe he had done things he didn't remember. "When was your wife killed?"
"Six months ago, in Minneapolis. I'd gone to the store and when I came home I felt an Immortal. I only caught sight of him briefly as he leapt through our bedroom window, but he had long black hair pulled back into a pony tail and carried a Japanese katana." Harry nodded towards Duncan's sword, "Like that one."
"Well, that's not much to go on for an identification, is it?" Richie asked.
"It's enough for me." Olsen swung his sword again.
"Six months ago I was in Paris," Duncan said. He hid his relief at knowing he hadn't committed this heinous act while he wasn't himself.
"I don't believe you," Olsen said resolutely. "We're going to settle this, now, down on the docks where there aren't so many prying eyes." He began to back away, but kept his sword at the ready.
"We don't have to do this," MacLeod said. "You've got the wrong man."
The anger in Olsen's face was unmistakable. "I don't have the wrong man!" he said through clenched teeth. "Come and die, Highlander."
Duncan sighed as he realized there was no reasoning with Olsen. He was too full of grief and hatred. Duncan handed his keys to Richie. "This won't be over until one of us is dead."
"Mac..." Richie started, but knew there really wasn't anything to say.
"Bring the car down to the pier." With a quick smile, Duncan added, "But don't park too close."....
....The memory faded and Duncan got out of the car. He started towards the store, but stopped in mid-stride as he felt the presence of another Immortal. Scanning the faces of those nearby, no one acknowledged him. Turning in a slow circle, he saw Santa Claus coming out of a Salvation Army building next door. The face was obscured by the white hair and beard of the costume, but MacLeod knew he was the source of the buzz. The two men locked eyes for a moment, then walked towards each other, meeting half way.
"Duncan MacLeod," Santa said, "I've been looking for you."
With a flash of recognition Duncan hissed, "Marcus Chen!"
"At your service," Chen nodded, "though at the moment I've assumed a different persona."
"We have some business to settle," MacLeod said deliberately with emphasis on the 'business'.
"Yes, we do," Chen agreed coldly, "but not yet." He waved his hand from his head towards the ground. "I have other appointments I must attend to first."
"Why are you dressed like that?" MacLeod asked contemptuously.
As if in answer to the question, a little boy, probably five or six years old, ran up to Chen. "Santa! Santa!" the child shouted excitedly. He was carrying a box almost as big as he was.
Kneeling down to the child's level, Santa asked, "And what can I do for you, young man?"
"I...I..." he stammered.
Santa smiled at the boy, and brushed a strand of reddish-blonde hair out of his face. "That's all right. Just take your time and tell Santa what you want."
"My mommy told me you wouldn't be able to come this year. But I knew you would."
Marcus glanced up at the dark-haired young woman standing next to MacLeod. Her coat was thread- bare and her canvas shoes had holes in them. It seemed clear this family was having a hard time making ends meet. Marcus again focused on the child who continued to speak in a rush.
"...wouldn't forget me. I've been good all year."
"Bobby?" the woman said, prompting the child.
After a quick look at his mother, Bobby continued, "My mommy told me to tell you thank-you for the fire truck." Bobby squeezed the box tightly to his chest and his smile broadened into a wide grin. "It's just what I wanted."
"Santa always knows what good little boys want," Marcus said and patted the child on the head.
"We need to go now, Bobby," the woman said and took the child's hand in hers.
As he stood, Marcus noticed the tears in the woman's eyes and saw her mouth the words, 'Thank you'. He watched her for several seconds, then turned back to MacLeod. "That's why I'm dressed like this." Studying the face of the taller man for a moment, Marcus continued, "For over a century Harry and I have worked as Santa and his helper, and before Santa, we acted out the part of Father Christmas, or Sinter Klaas. We volunteer with a charity in whatever city we're in." He paused, the pain of losing his dear friend searing through his mind like a wildfire. "Or, at least we did."
"Why?" Duncan was puzzled by this unknown Immortal. Someone who played the part of a children's character didn't seem like a headhunter, but his centuries of experience had taught Duncan that looks could be deceiving.
Chen wondered what kind of man this Scot was. How could he brutalize women and kill defenseless mortals and live with himself?. "We...I do it to bring some happiness into the lives of others. Is that so hard to believe?" Chen pulled the Santa beard down below his chin. "I was in Asia Minor near the town of Myra in 310. A great and generous man, a mortal bishop of the Church died that year."
"You knew the real St. Nicholas?" Duncan asked incredulously.
"No, I never met him, but I did know of his life and his work with the children and the poor. I'd become Immortal only a few years earlier and didn't understand why I'd been chosen to live forever. Seeing what he'd accomplished in his forty short years of life made me see I could make a difference."
"And you've been doing it all these centuries?"
"I do what I can. It's not been my life's work, but at this time of year I like to help the children who otherwise wouldn't have much of a holiday." Chen paused. "What do you do to make this world a better place, MacLeod?"
Duncan didn't know what to say. He tried to help people, but could he point to anything specific? In recent years it seemed that all he did was just go through the motions of living.
When MacLeod didn't speak, Marcus continued, "Immortality is a gift. We can either do something worthwhile with our lives, or just survive. We all have that choice. Harry and I chose to try to make a difference." Marcus took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "This year Santa doesn't have a helper because you killed him." Opening his eyes, Chen's cheery Santa face changed to that of a hardened Immortal, a man more than willing to kill. "For that, and for Harry's Emily, you will pay with your life."
As he pondered how he was going to convince this man of the truth with no proof, all Duncan could say was, "I didn't do anything to your friend's wife."
"So you say," Chen spat, "but Harry saw you there and Emily said it was you. That's good enough for me."
"I didn't do it!" Duncan insisted. "But even if I had, your fight is with me. Why did Richie have to die? He had nothing to do with Olsen's death."
Chen leaned against the building, then whispered, "That...that was a mistake." He rubbed his hands across his face. He knew the remorse he felt for killing Richie Ryan would stay with him for the rest of his life. "How old was he?"
"What?" Duncan asked.
"How old was Ryan?"
"What difference does that make?" Duncan asked angrily.
"It matters...to me," Chen said quietly.
"Twenty-two," Duncan replied with a stab of pain. He had lost a friend, but Richie's death so young was a waste of a talented, loving young man who could have, given the time normally allotted to Immortals, contributed so much to the world.
"Oh, God!" Chen exclaimed. "He was just a baby."
"Yes, for our kind, he was," Duncan agreed.
Marcus Chen had killed in wars, he'd killed evil Immortals, but this was the first time he knew with certainty that he'd killed an innocent. He wondered if maybe he was as bad as the mortal killer standing before him. What gave him the right to judge others? "Ryan shouldn't have died. If I could give back your friend's life, I would."
"Did you give him a chance to explain?" Duncan demanded.
"What was I supposed to think?" Chen asked loudly. Then, noticing people staring, he lowered his voice. "I saw him put a sword in the car and drive away from Harry's body. I was blinded by rage and thought I'd found Harry's killer."
"And with no more proof than that, you killed him." Studying the face of the other Immortal, Duncan saw no malice; no evil. Yet, he couldn't get the sight of Richie's headless body out of his mind. Duncan remembered something. "Where did you learn that move you used against Richie?"
"My wife, Mei Ling, and I invented it about three-hundred years ago," Chen responded.
"Your wife?" Duncan asked incredulously. Memories of his time in Mongolia come flooding back as he thought of the beautiful Chinese master who taught him so much.
"Yes." Marcus paused, thinking of the happy times he spent with Mei Ling so long ago. She taught both Harry and him the arts of battle, but she gave her heart to Marcus. This reminder of Harry brought Chen back to the present. "Your friend didn't convince me he was innocent and he was more than willing to fight." With a sigh, Chen continued, "I'm not a saint, MacLeod, and it is, after all, what we do."
"Yes," Duncan put his hand inside his coat on the hilt of his sword, "and I'm ready."
"Later," Chen said as he straightened his Santa wig and beard. "I have several stops that I need to make this evening."
"Not later," MacLeod hissed, "now! I've been searching..."
Chen interrupted MacLeod's outburst. "I've been busy trying to finish, alone, all the deliveries Santa has to make before tomorrow." He was torn between his desire to complete the work that Harry had loved so much, and his burning need to remove this monster from the Game. Anyone who killed mortals as this man did, had to pay. "I haven't forgotten you, nor the promise I made to Harry at Emily's grave."
"When and where?" MacLeod demanded.
"I'll be done with the last of the children by nine-thirty. I'll meet you at ten tonight on pier fourteen."
"I'll be there and you will die," Duncan said coldly. He turned his back on Chen and walked to his car.
"Can I come in?" Duncan asked tiredly. His battle with Chen had been brutal and afterwards all he wanted was rest. But he had been drawn here, to the only person in the city who understood what his life was like.
Stepping back, Joe let his friend into the room. His coat was gone and MacLeod held the katana, tip up, behind his right arm. Joe closed the door and then turned on the light. "You're a mess. Who was it?"
Duncan snorted. "You mean you don't already know?" He pushed a loose strand of hair from his face.
"Even Watchers take Christmas off," Joe laughed, "unlike some Immortals." When his attempt at humor fell flat, Joe said, "Go into the kitchen. I'll make us some coffee." Following behind MacLeod, Joe saw long bloody cuts across the back of Duncan's sweater and on both legs of his pants. Congealed blood and bits of flesh covered the normally shiny surface of the sword. As Duncan sat at the table, Joe could see more cuts on MacLeod's legs, and arms. A dull, red line across his chest traced the path of a particularly nasty gash that was very recently healed.
Duncan placed his sword on the floor under the table and leaned back in the chair. The physical pain from his wounds was gone, but the mental images from this last battle nagged at him. Behind closed eyes he saw Marcus Chen stumble over a loose board and fall hard on his back-side. The sound of his opponent's sword scraping the pavement as it skittered away echoed in his head.
Joe made the coffee in silence. Years of watching MacLeod and studying the Chronicles of his life gave Joe a deep understanding of the man's character. For MacLeod to have come straight from the battle without even cleaning his sword was a sign that something major was bothering him. The sword was an Immortal's lifeline and nothing was more important to him. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he turned to his guest. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Without moving, Duncan said, "I beheaded Santa Claus tonight." Duncan remembered making the final, effortless down-swing of the katana and felt the release from three days of pent-up rage. He again heard the gentle thwack as his blade connected with the flesh of Chen's neck, then the dull thud as the head hit the ground.
"What did you say?" Joe asked quietly. For the first time he noticed the still-moist blood oozing from a deep cut at Duncan's collar.
MacLeod rubbed his hands across his face, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "Santa Claus, Joe. I killed Santa Claus tonight." The vision of the headless body lying at his feet clothed in the joyful red and white costume played across Duncan's mind.
"I think you need something stronger than coffee." Joe pulled a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet and poured a glass. He put it in front of his friend and sat down. "Who was it, really?"
As he relived the tingling agony and ecstasy of the Quickening joining his own, Duncan whispered, "Marcus Chen." He recalled the doubt he felt about the outcome of the struggle when Chen's blade sliced into the tender skin of his neck. The pure luck of Chen's stumble had saved Duncan's life.
"Good." Joe slapped the table. "Richie deserved that."
Duncan's finger traced the swirls of the wood grain pattern in the table top. His sense of satisfaction that Richie's killer was dead warred with his feelings about the man whose life he'd just taken. "Richie is dead, Joe. Chen being dead won't bring Richie back."
"No, but it makes me feel better."
"Does it?" Duncan asked. When Dawson didn't respond, Duncan continued. "After four-hundred years losing people never gets any easier."
"So, what do you do? How do you keep going on?" Joe asked.
"I remember the good times, the fun times we had together."
"Like the time Richie came back after winning those races in Florida. Boy, was the kid ever excited about that."
Duncan smiled. "Or when he was throwing paper airplanes at me and teasing me about Da Vinci's accomplishments."
"Or the time Richie wanted to be the manager of that rock star. He was so sure he was going to swing the big record deal."
"Or any of the times he was talking about the latest girl in his life."
"Yeah," Joe laughed, "and there were lots of those."
For several minutes the only sound in the room was the gentle gurgle of the coffee maker. Finally, MacLeod looked directly at Joe. "I felt a blind rage as I faced Chen tonight. I wanted his head Joe, as bad as I wanted Kern's or Kalas', even though I knew Chen wasn't evil."
"Does that really matter? He killed Richie."
Duncan pulled off the band that held his hair and let it fall loose around his shoulders. "It should matter. Or am I to become as evil as the worst of us, killing for no reason?"
"It wasn't for no reason," Joe insisted.
"Then what is the reason?" MacLeod asked wearily. "Why do we kill each other? Tell me, has anyone made sense of it, ever? Why did Richie have to die, or Olsen, or Chen?"
Joe studied the distraught Immortal sitting in his kitchen, and calmly said, "I can't tell you why Immortals kill each other, but I did find out something about why Harry Olsen came after you."
MacLeod took a swallow of the Scotch. The liquor burned his throat, but he didn't taste it. He was numb inside, dead to all sensations. "Well, are you going to tell me or is it one of your Watcher secrets?" he asked sarcastically.
"This afternoon I had a visit from Olsen and Chen's Watcher. He said after Olsen's wife was killed he went crazy looking for her murderer. He was convinced it was you."
"I know that much. I tried to convince Chen I was innocent. I tried to get him to see that if he could be wrong about who killed Olsen, even though he saw Richie drive away from the body, that he could be wrong about me." MacLeod finished off the glass of Scotch and poured another. "What I need to know is why Olsen thought it was me who killed his wife."
"Martin was watching Chen the night Emily died. His account of the incident dealt mostly with Olsen's reaction and subsequent search for you."
"This Watcher reported that I killed a mortal and you didn't know it was wrong?" Duncan glared at Joe.
"Hey, Mac, I didn't see the entry. It was cross-referenced to your file, but I don't check everything that's added right away."
"Some Watcher you are."
Ignoring the snide remark, Joe said, "After Martin left, I did some digging. During the last fifty years there have been similar incidents where one Immortal is mistaken for another. Some of the chronicles describe the mystery man as a chameleon."
"Who is this guy?" MacLeod demanded.
"We don't know." At Mac's dark scowl, Joe continued, "He's always claiming to be someone else. Most Watchers only know their own assignment and a few other Immortals. They don't know he's not who he says he is. By the time the reports get back to headquarters and are cross-checked, he's long gone."
"It sounds to me like a young one is taking out the seasoned players in the Game without risking his own life," MacLeod said. "As long as someone dies, that's one less for him to face."
"Yeah." Joe stood, got two cups and the coffee pot and returned to the table. "Our records on him are sketchy, but all indications are that he has never taken a head. He assumes the identity of some powerful Immortal and then kills a mortal close to another Immortal. The impersonator then disappears, leaving the other two to fight it out." Joe paused as he poured the coffee. "I guess that means he thinks you're one of the best, one to be taken out by trickery."
"And Richie died because of it."
"Come on, Mac, you didn't kill Richie."
Get your own Free Home Page