"Okay, I think I'd like to get to know your father better anyway. How about the two of you come to the dojo about six? I'll have things closed up and be ready to leave by then. We can go get dinner some place then go back to my apartment and talk."
"Dojo?" Scott questioned.
As Richie wrote out the address, he explained, "Dojo is Japanese for a martial arts studio. I manage the place for M..." He paused with a stab of pain. "I manage the place."
Scott clasped Richie on the shoulder. He tried to impart a feeling of peace and well being as he'd seen his father do. "We'll be there." After a few seconds he smiled and walked away.
Not since Tessa died had Richie felt such loss . And this was ten times worse. At least Mac had been there before and they helped each other through her passing. Now, Richie felt completely alone in the world. Yes, he had some friends, and there was Joe, but he didn't think any of them could understand what he was feeling. How could any of them know what it was like to lose a friend he had expected to be with for centuries? Why did he think Scott and his father could? Why did he suddenly feel he would be able to go on with his life? Richie shook his head and headed for his bike.
Duncan took the credit card out of his wallet and then put it back. Another week had passed, and still he sat in the rat and roach infested room, not sure of his next move. His only trips out were to go for an occasional meal at the mission, and to buy booze. Nothing changed in his world of gloom. But now, the landlord wanted more money, and Duncan just didn't have it.
Staring out the curtainless window, Duncan thought about how he ended up here. He had left Connor with the intention of taking a drive through the fall colors of New England, then heading back to Seacouver. The northeast wasn't the Highlands, but it was pretty scenery, especially with the color at peak. He spotted his Watcher while still in New York, and made a game of trying to lose her. She was good, but his years of experience proved too much for the young mortal. Duncan was finally free and alone to think about what had happened, for he and his kinsman had not parted on the best of terms. Was there really such a thing as a lasting Immortal friendship? Or, would he someday have to face the reality that there can be only one?
He had only been on the road a few days when he felt the other Immortal near the town of Nashua, New Hampshire. Duncan was in no mood to fight and tried to talk his way out of the battle, but Kurt Groves challenged him and they met in a secluded woods outside of the town. The man's skill with a sword was not as good as his own, but it had been a hard-fought battle. Twice Duncan thought he was going to lose to Groves, but just managed to escape. Things were going from bad to worse for MacLeod when Groves stumbled on the slippery leaves and that gave Duncan the opening he needed to end the duel. In a battle with a clearly inferior opponent, it was the closest Mac had ever come to losing his head...until he met April in that alley.
Taking another drink, MacLeod closed his eyes and again relived the night he should have died. Every fiber of his being screamed that Duncan MacLeod should be dead right now, yet something had intervened and kept him alive. Duncan knew he had been fatally wounded and had lost his sword. He thought, why have I been fighting so poorly? I'm a better swordsman than either April or her husband. He took another drink of the courage in a bottle and continued his contemplation. Am I losing my nerve like Brian said? Or is Connor right, that I'm avoiding the truth and running away from what it means to be an Immortal?
Duncan drained the last of the fiery liquid into his throat, then smashed the bottle against the wall. He removed the credit card again, stared at it for a few minutes, then put it away. He stood, put on his long, black trenchcoat, and placed his sword inside. He didn't look back as he closed the door for the last time on this chapter of his life.
"Turn left and go to the next light, then turn right." Scott stared absentmindedly at the passing buildings. "You know, Dad, I can't believe we've been here almost five weeks."
"It is hard be believe, isn't it? But it is nice to have some peace, for a change."
"And to have a friend," Scott said in a subdued voice.
Paul glanced at his son and wished he could ease his pain from so many lost friendships.
"Turn left at the next corner. It's that red brick building in the next block." Scott looked at his father. "You know, we really need to start looking for Mom again."
With a pang of guilt, Paul met his son's eyes for just an instant. He hadn't forgotten their search for Jenny, but the recent stability had given Scott and him some much needed rest. "I know," he agreed as he parked the car.
As they stood at the bottom of the stairs, Paul placed a hand on his son's shoulder. Scott had grown so the two were now the same height. "Let's go see if we can help your friend who runs this 'dojo'."
They went inside and saw Richie standing in front of a large freight elevator. "Hey, Richie," Scott shouted as he and his father walked across the open floor of the workout room.
Richie turned and sighed. He was already regretting his decision to talk about Mac. He had tried to call and cancel the invitation, but had gotten no answer. It was no wonder as they were at least a half hour early. Richie just wanted to go up to the loft and remember Mac and how it used to be. Ever since he'd left Scott at the campus, Richie had felt better and he did think he was ready to face some of his fears. But he wasn't sure he wanted to face them with an audience.
"Hello, Scott, Mr. Forrester," Richie said with forced pleasantness.
"It's Paul," he said as he reached out to shake the young man's hand. Nice custom, this shaking hands, Paul thought. It gives me a way to sense someone and not be threatening.
Scott saw his father's eyes go wide with a strange look when he touched Richie. Hoping Richie hadn't noticed, Scott asked, "Where does the elevator go?"
"Up to M... to Mac's loft."
He released the young man's hand, but Paul was very puzzled by some of the sensations he'd felt. There was the loneliness, sorrow, and even fear he'd expected, but there also was a great anger. And there was that strange energy Scott had described. "Mac? He was your friend who died?"
"Yes," Richie said, as he began to pull the elevator closed. "If we're going to get something to eat, I guess we better go."
Putting one hand up to stop the elevator gate, and the other on Richie's shoulder, Paul said, "I think you need to go up to the loft."
Richie looked into the calm eyes of this man he barely knew, and just nodded. The three rode up in silence and Richie wondered why he was taking these strangers into Mac's most private place. Why did he feel this was the right thing to do? When the elevator stopped, Richie made no move to open it. He just stared into the room that held so many memories.
Scott glanced at his father, then opened the elevator. They waited until Richie was ready, then followed him into the one room living area. Father and son stood silently as the young man before them faced his personal demons. They watched as he touched the coffee maker, the chair, then opened a cabinet that contained several bottles. He went to several more items in the room, then finally stopped at the couch, sat down and began to finger one of the chessmen on the board.
"When he left, we were in the middle of a game." Richie paused and took a deep breath. "I wasn't very good, but he was teaching me." The tears came.
Scott and his father exchanged a look. Both knew this was too much for Scott to try to deal with, so it was Paul who went and sat next to Richie. "Can you talk about it?"
With eyes closed, Richie whispered, "He taught me so many things. There was so much more I could have learned from him." Opening his eyes, he wiped away the tears. Richie felt embarrassed at his show of emotion, but somehow, he didn't feel any judgment from this man. He looked straight into Paul's eyes as he said, "Mac was the father I never had."
Paul knew the time was right, and drew Richie into a hug. He let his empathic senses impart waves of calm into this troubled soul.
Someday Scott hoped he would learn to use his abilities to help people like this. After several minutes, Scott approached the couch and stood waiting. When the emotion of the moment was over, and Paul had released Richie, Scott sat down on the other side of him.
Richie looked between father and son. "I don't know what just happened, but I feel better now than I did after a whole week trying to sort things out myself."
Scott smiled. "Good."
"Talking about your problems always helps," Paul said. "Everyone needs a friend, or companion, or even a parent in which they can confide their joys and pain."
A few seconds of silence passed as Richie thought about what had just happened. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his heart. He hadn't wanted to accept Mac's death, but now that reality didn't frighten him so much. He was ready to let go of the pain and only remember the good things. "You're very lucky to have your father with you, Scott. It really is something special."
"I know." He paused. "But it hasn't always been like this. I was fourteen when he found me."
"Found you?"
"Dad had to leave before I was born and..." Not knowing how to continue without giving away their secret, Scott gave his father a pleading look. He couldn't very well tell Richie his father was an alien from another planet, and that he was half alien.
"My work took me away. I thought Scott would be safe with his mother."
"Where is your mother?" Richie saw a pained expression come over his friend's face and wondered if he'd made a mistake in asking.
"We're looking for her," Scott said. And, he thought, someday, we'll find her and be a real family. "She had to give me up when I was three. I lived in foster homes until Dad came back. That was ten years ago."
Hmmm, Richie thought, Scott didn't know his father until he was a teenager, and I met Mac when I was just a little older. We actually have several things in common, though of course, he's just a normal guy. "I never knew either of my parents. I lived in foster homes until I ran away at sixteen." And, he continued to himself, if Mac and Tessa hadn't taken me in when they did I would be in prison now, or dead...'really' dead.
Paul placed a hand on Richie's knee. This young man had just lost the only 'family' he knew and he was feeling very vulnerable and alone. As Paul again imparted a sense of well-being and calm, he still couldn't figure out the feeling of strange power in Richie. "Maybe someday, you'll find your parents too."
I know that won't happen, Richie thought. No Immortal knows who their parents are. None of us know where we come from or what makes us Immortal. Mac wouldn't like me thinking it, but sometimes I wonder if maybe we're from some other planet. Nah, I know that's not true. There's no such thing as aliens.
"Well," Richie said, letting out a deep breath, "what do you say we go get something to eat. I don't know about you guys, but I'm starved."
"Me too," agreed Scott.
Paul just laughed. He could see that Richie and Scott were a lot alike, and he was glad his son had found a friend.
Using his credit card to get a hotel room where he could clean up had been interesting. No one wanted to believe someone who looked like he had lived on the street would have a VISA gold account. Finally, when they could find no record of the card being stolen, and they had matched his signature, he got his room. The new clothes and the shave made him look like the old Duncan, though he was considerably thinner. But he didn't feel like the man he used to be. He didn't think he would ever again be the Highlander; a powerful Immortal to be feared and hunted as part of the Game.
The Game; the destiny of all Immortals; to fight and kill each other until only one remained. Duncan remembered his last conversation with Connor, six weeks ago....
..."You can't run away from it, Duncan. You've tried before."
"I'm not running from anything! I just don't see the need for all the killing."
"We're not supposed to see a need! It's what we do; it's what we are!"
Duncan paused and took a couple of calming breaths. "You didn't have to take his head."
"Yes, I did. Creamer challenged me, and even if he hadn't, I would have fought him. He deserved to die for what he let happen to those villagers in Saxony."
"That was in 1604! Couldn't you have left it in the past?"
"Time doesn't make any difference."
"He wasn't evil, he just made some bad choices. Did he have to die for those mistakes?"
"He died because he was an Immortal, and I was better. That's the way it's been for centuries and that's the way it will be until the end." Connor walked away from his younger kinsman and stood staring out a window. Finally, he said, "I know you thought of him as your friend."
"He was a very good friend. I knew him almost as long as I've known you."
"You can't let friendship cloud your judgment when it comes to the Game. You know as well as I that things can change and the person who was your friend fifty, a hundred, two hundred years ago can be your enemy today."
The faces of some of the men and women Duncan had called friend swam before him; Gabriel Piton, Tommy Sullivan, Nefertiri, Brian Cullen, Michael Moore, Jim Coltec. These were the faces of friends who had turned on him; these were the faces of friends Duncan had killed. Was Connor right?
"When someone comes after you, you have to be ready...and do what it takes to survive even if that person was a friend."
"Are we doomed to walk this earth for centuries looking forward only to killing and death? If we can't enjoy life, if we can't have companionship, if we can't have friends, what is the point of living?"
Connor shrugged and faced Duncan. "No man - mortal or Immortal - knows the meaning of his life. We just take one day at a time trying to understand it all."
"But they don't kill each other to survive. If all I have to look forward to in life is killing my friends, I don't think I want to go on."
"You've 'gone on' for centuries. What's so different about now?"
"I'm just tired of it all; tired of killing; tired of death; and...tired of everyone I care about dying."
"So, what are you saying," Connor shouted, "that I should have let Creamer take my head?"
"No, I just think the two of you could have settled your differences without either of you dying."
"You just don't get it, do you? It doesn't work that way for us!" Connor slammed his fist into the table. "Face it, Duncan, ultimately Immortals can't be friends." Connor paused to let his temper cool. "You and I, we think of ourselves as kinsmen, but we're not. We were just found and raised by the same clan. Someday, we might have to face each other."
The pain in Duncan's face was clear. Connor and Duncan stared at each other for a long moment before Connor continued, "There can be only one. No matter how much you want to, you can't change that." Connor turned his back on this man with whom he shared so much and left the room.
Duncan didn't speak to Connor again before he packed his bag and left to drive through New England....
...With the decision made to return to Seacouver, Duncan felt more happiness and peace than he had in weeks. He had lost a lot of friends throughout the centuries, but had never thought much about what it would be like for others when he was gone. Duncan knew he had been away too long and he needed to see Richie and Joe.
Scott landed flat on his back. "Not funny, Richie."
"Well, you said you wanted to learn some moves."
"Sure, but I didn't know all of them would have me on the ground." Scott sat up and placed his arms across his knees. "How did you learn all this stuff?"
Grabbing a couple of towels from a bench, Richie plopped down on the mat in front of Scott. "Mac taught me." He tossed a towel at Scott. "Sometimes we would train for hours."
It was good to see Richie so relaxed. In the two weeks since their talk in the dojo loft, Scott had sensed a change in his friend. The physical contact of their recent sparring match had confirmed it. The sadness and grief were still there, but they were no longer consuming his whole existence. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you train so much?"
Richie thought for a minute. He couldn't very well explain that learning to fight and to kill was what kept him alive. Scott led such a normal life. He never had to think about someone coming after him; of someone trying to hurt him or his father. Richie shrugged. "It was good exercise. Mac also used some of the forms to help him through the bad times, the times when someone had died." Or, Richie thought to himself, the times when Mac had to kill. "Working through a kata, a form, takes concentration and it helps your mind as well as your body."
"You know, my dad didn't really understand why I wanted to learn this."
"Why not?"
"He doesn't believe in fighting." Scott remembered a few times in their years on the run, living on the street, when being able to defend himself could have come in handy. Some of the moves he'd seen Richie use would have made escaping from Fox that much easier. "But I told him the martial arts are a way of getting out of fights, not starting them."
Remembering some of the talks he'd had with Mac about knowing when to stand your ground and when to walk away, Richie nodded. "That's true." Savoring for a moment his new role as teacher rather than student, he grinned. "Are you ready to go again?"
Before Scott could respond, he saw an unusual expression cross Richie's face. He watched as Richie began searching the room as if he was trying to locate a strange sound. "What is it?"
Richie got to his feet, and focused all his attention on the front door of the dojo. He felt another Immortal approaching and the closest sword was hanging on the wall, out of reach. He hoped that since there was a mortal present, whoever it was wouldn't challenge him.
As he scrambled to his feet, Scott brushed against Richie's leg. He pulled back his hand as if he'd been burned. The electric aura was much more intense than it had been just a few minutes ago. Richie's whole being was alive with anticipation, confidence, and a little fear. The sudden change didn't make any sense to him and Scott turned to look in the same direction as Richie, wondering what they were waiting for.
The man who walked into the room couldn't be standing there. This was the face in his nightmares; the man Scott had held in his arms as he drew his last breath so many weeks ago. Blinking his eyes didn't help. The image didn't go away.
"Mac?" Richie whispered. He ran to greet his old friend, "Mac! Where have you been?"
Dropping his bag, Duncan MacLeod gave the young Immortal a big hug. "Hello, Richie. It's been a long time."
"A long time! Is that all you have to say? We thought you were dead!"
"Me? Dead? Why?"
"Because Joe said one of the Wa..." Remembering Scott was in the room, Richie stammered, "Just...just because you haven't called in over two months."
"I was...occupied."
"What kept you so busy that you didn't have time to even call me, or Joe?"
"Later, Rich." Duncan looked over to where the young mortal stood with his mouth hanging open.
Understanding the need for discretion, Richie dropped his questions for now. He motioned towards Scott. "Come meet my friend."
As he watched Richie and the other man approach, Scott felt like he was in the twilight zone. He saw the ashen face, the blood-stained chest, the disheveled hair of this man now walking towards him. He experienced the pain of the punctured heart and felt the life flow from his body.
"Scott Hayden, this is Duncan MacLeod."
"You're dead," Scott gasped.
With an amused smile, Duncan reached out to shake the young man's hand. "No, I'm not, even if both you guys keep saying it. Like Sam said, 'The report of my death was an exaggeration'."
"Who?" Scott asked as he reached out to take the offered hand.
"Never mind, just an old friend."
Richie stifled a laugh. He could see Duncan and Samuel Clemens sitting around drinking, partying with the ladies, and playing poker on a Mississippi stern wheeler during the nineteenth century.
As Scott clasped the hand of this tall, dark-haired man, he felt the same electricity he had in Richie. But there was something else, too. His soul was troubled with a deep, dark despair. The man had no will to live.
"Not very talkative, are you?" Duncan teased.
"I...I'm just so surprised to meet you." Scott wanted to say something about the night in the alley, but he dared not. It was just too weird and he needed to talk to his father about it. "Richie told us..."
"Yeah, I heard. He said I was dead."
Releasing the handshake, Scott backed away a couple of steps. "I think I'd better be going. You guys have a lot of catching up to do."
"Okay," Richie said. "I'll see you in class tomorrow."
Scott managed to walk, not run, to the locker room. When he came out, Richie and MacLeod were gone.
While MacLeod showered, Richie called Joe Dawson and told him about the return of the missing Immortal. Joe said he would be there as soon as he could make it.
Richie then began to prepare a lunch, but soon discovered there wasn't much food in the place. When Duncan left for his month with Connor, he had cleaned out the perishables and with no one there to shop, the refrigerator was bare.
Just as Duncan came out of the bathroom, Richie was placing some canned meat, canned fruit, canned vegetables, and stale crackers on the counter. "It's not much, but it will be filling."
Duncan went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch. He removed the top, and took a long, satisfying swallow. This was much better than the rot-gut whiskey he'd been drinking for the past month and a half.
The change in MacLeod was real. Richie hadn't wanted to see it before, but now, as he stood with only a towel wrapped around his waist, Richie could see the man was skin and bones. That combined with the way he was guzzling down the whiskey, led Richie to realize his friend was in serious trouble. He would never be able to defend himself against another Immortal. Hell, Richie thought, I could take him, the shape he's in now.
"Hey, Mac. Let's eat." Putting on enthusiasm he really didn't feel, he continued, "I'm starving."
The old refrain stopped MacLeod and he smiled. "All right, just let me put some clothes on first."
Scott paced. Then he sat. Then he paced some more. It was almost time for his father to come home from work, and he couldn't sit still. When he heard the car drive up, he rushed out the door. "Dad! I've got to talk to you."
"What's wrong? Is Fox here?"
"No, nothing like that. I saw him. I touched him. He's not dead."
"Who?" Paul asked as he tried to make his way up the driveway to the house.
"The man in the alley, in New Hampshire. He's here, at the dojo."
Paul watched his son jumping up and down like he was a little kid again. "Let's go in the house and you can start at the beginning."
Barely able to constrain himself, Scott helped carry in the groceries. He then began his tale again, explaining the whole scene at the dojo.
"So, Richie's friend, Mac, isn't dead," Paul said.
"Right."
"And this same friend is the man we saw die."
"Yes."
"So, Mac is dead because we saw it, but now he's not because he's at the dojo with Richie."
"Yes."
Paul shook his head. "Do you know how confusing that sounds? I thought I was the one you accused of always getting things mixed up."
"But nothing's mixed up, Dad. He's there. I touched him. You don't forget the face of someone who died in your arms." Scott remembered the handshake. "And, Dad, he has that same strange electric feel that Richie does."
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