The Tale of the Scorpion, part 8
Title: Tale of the Scorpion (8 of 9)
Authors: mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters/Pairings: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, El Alacrán, various OCs. D/M and other pairings.
Rating: Mostly M, with occasional spikes into R+ territory.
Fandom: Highlander
Author's Notes: We owe huge thanks to many hardworking betas See Zero Post and for warnings.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
The Tale of the Scorpion, part 8
Chapter 4
*****
Methos lay sprawled on the playa, using his shirt for a pillow. The top button of his cutoff jeans had somehow come undone. Luckily, someone else had remembered a tube of tanning lotion, which when applied would gave his skin a cocoa butter sheen. The Pacífico nestled in the sand at his elbow was speckled with condensation drops. He raised the bottle to his lips and licked one off.
MacLeod failed to suppress a lecherous grin and one shaking hand reached out seemingly of its own volition - and snatched the beer away. Tipping back his head, he made sure Methos could see his throat work as he finished off the bottle. "Ahh! Thank you. Need some help with the lotion?"
Methos' eyes narrowed, only a nuclear spark of outrage escaping. The ancient desert-dweller in his soul brooked no theft of the water of life, the nectar of Ninkasi. Then his eyes widened innocently, the fires of revenge carefully banked. "No, please, don't bestir yourself. I will manage."
Slowly filling his right hand with the silky liquid, Methos dabbled his fingers in the glistening pool and drew them languidly over the corded muscles of his belly, the trailing fluid gleaming in the sun. With infinite patience he painted his torso with the secret hieroglyphs dreamed by shamans thousands of years before the Celts found Scotland. Glyphs of power, glyphs of sex, charged by the powerful rays of Ra.
MacLeod's breathing became deep, yet still not sufficient to control his heart racing, as he watched the long narrow fingers dance magical patterns across his belly. The man was fey - ancient, yet child-like in his enjoyment of the elemental pleasures...
"Methos."
"MacLeod."
"It's been a hard couple of days. Maybe we should get out of the sun." MacLeod nodded toward the small palapa thirty yards upland behind them. With it's driftwood frame and palm frond roof, the beach house offered rough shelter and a modicum of privacy. "Rest a bit."
"Rest?" Methos arched an eyebrow in mock concern. "Are you feeling fatigued, Highlander? I thought you looked a little peaked. If sunshine and sea breezes are not strong enough medicine, perhaps you are overdue for some rest on Holy Ground. I know just the place - vows of silence, vows of abstinence, water and crusts, cots and tick mattresses. And did I mention...vows of chastity?" He blinked innocently as his fingers ruffled the lightly furred trail below his navel.
Artlessly, he arched on his beach towel and dug his hips deeper into the shifting sands, drawing the sole of his foot slowly up the blanket to reveal the suggestively firm contours under the snug buttons of his Levi cutoffs. Absently, he started toying with a loose thread dangling from the inside seam of his jeans, tugging the seam higher, his inner thigh flexing under the beating rays of the sun. "How long have you remained chaste, MacLeod? How long...can you?" Methos asked with the barest hint of challenge.
"I'll give you chaste, Old Man! When hell freezes over!" He reached out and grabbed the artful hand as he leaped up, dragging Methos upward with him, slamming their bodies together.
Whispering in Methos' ear, "You coming peacefully, or you want that I should drag you?"
"You're such a sweet talker, Mac!"
"I try!" Methos' wide grin indicated his cheerful compliance with the pushy Scot - or at least his willingness to be muscled about. MacLeod ran his hand up and down Methos' back and flank.
Suddenly, Methos pushed loose, pretending to ignore MacLeod. Brushing away sand, he waved to Joe and Mary where they lounged further south down Montoya's beach. The other couple were talking, their chairs side by side in front of their own private palapa. They waved back, and started laughing when MacLeod made good on his threat.
"We'll be back later!" MacLeod shouted out assurance to them, while attempting to drag Methos up the beach.
Methos broke loose again and started running ahead. "First to the hut gets to choose!"
There was no doubt in Mac's mind what the choosing involved. He grabbed the bottle of lotion and dashed after the ancient marathon runner. Joe and Mary, preferring to explore their own fond secrets, discreetly ceased watching.
Methos had stamina and a head start, while MacLeod had the spur of blind lust. However, Methos might have told him that lust was a handicap in the Olympic sprints. That is, if he could have stopped laughing after he beat Mac to the palapa.
"Beat you by three lengths!"
"What? It was a neck, at best!"
"I didn't say lengths of what..." Methos grinned, crowding the Highlander against the pole holding up the palm frond roof and reaching down traced the right length with his fingers. "From here...to here..." he instructed, repeating the tracing twice to reinforce the lesson. "Three lengths."
"Two," MacLeod said proudly.
Methos' eyes opened wider. "Oh, dear! Now that I'm measuring, the parameters are changing! Maybe only two lengths...must be the Schrodinger's cat effect."
"Methos, I'm not a cat in a box."
"No. But the act of observation seems to have affected the results of my experiment."
MacLeod grabbed Methos' exploring hand, pulling it away from his person, then leveraged a reversal, trapping Methos against the pole support, which wobbled a bit from impact. "Well, Doctor Adams, there lies your experimental flaw! Observations are done with the eyes, not the hands." He leaned into the good doctor and claimed his mouth in a rough lingering kiss. "Yes!" He exclaimed when he finally came up for air. Moving with alacrity, he hustled Methos inside the beach shelter.
They wrapped arms around each other, danced in a small circle to a wood-slat cot, landed on it with a thump causing the over-taxed wood to creak. "Yikes." They rolled off the over-burdened cot and onto the Yaqui pattern rug covering the sand floor.
After a slow reconnecting kiss, they propped-up with elbows on the rug, facing each other, smiling, indulging in the lowly teasing cues that would lead to higher nonverbal communication.
"You're a sexy bastard, MacLeod."
"So are you, Methos, so are you."
"Nope. Just a guy here."
"Oh yeah? Just a guy who has fucked more people than anyone else on Earth."
"I've not necessarily fucked more people than anyone else. You're just assuming that 'cause I'm supposedly the oldest. It could be some superwhore who serviced legions that holds the fucking record."
"Hm. Do superwhores wear capes?"
"Bifft! Of course not, Mac. They wear suits and ties, mostly."
"You're right, so they do. You're very wise, Methos." MacLeod's grin verged on a smirk, but affection sparkled in his eyes as he reached out to touch his friend's face, brushing away a bit of sand from Methos' cheek.
Methos grabbed MacLeod by the shoulder. "Of course I am. Now come here, you." He pulled MacLeod toward his side of the rug, and demonstrated his experience by kissing the Highlander slowly, thoroughly, with a passion slightly tempered by patience, waiting for their heat to rise to a slow ravishing boil.
He broke the kiss and rested his head in the juncture of MacLeod's neck and shoulder, with his mouth over a pulse point, breathing heavy, his heart matching the hammering artery beneath his lips. The mild salt air accentuated the taste of MacLeod's skin. Methos sighed. "I could stay like this forever."
MacLeod, having somewhat less patience, rustled around to locate the plastic bottle of sunscreen he had thoughtfully snagged before racing Methos to the palapa. "Here!" He shoved the bottle into Methos' hand.
Methos didn't have to say, "boyscout," it could be read on his face. He shook his head and gave the bottle back to MacLeod. "No, I'm feeling lazy. You do me." Rapidly he stripped off his cutoffs and stretched out on his stomach, wallowing himself a comfortable divot in the rug. Sighing loudly, he gave MacLeod an expectant look. "Well hurry up, Mac, I'm not getting any younger."
MacLeod gave a single huff, but adapted quickly to the change in his plan, and scooted over to the ancient's finely rounded backside. He poured the silky lotion into his hand first, warming it, then worked it soothingly onto both cheeks. Before applying it elsewhere, he leaned down to Methos' ear and nipped the lobe.
"Ow!" Methos sucked in and held a breath, "Oh!," when he felt the thick finger already inside him. "Sneaky bastard!"
MacLeod's laugh rumbled, while he struggled to keep tormenting Methos with one hand, and removing his own cutoffs with the other. Finally, to Methos' great displeasure, he withdrew to wrangle off the clothing.
"Mac!"
But MacLeod quickly returned and wedged himself between muscular thighs, and encouraged Methos onto his knees. There was a moment of quiet when MacLeod's hard length rested between slippery cheeks.
Methos stilled, then sighed. "Please, Duncan."
"Your wish...."
Achingly slow, MacLeod moved within his lover, willing it to be as painless as possible. Methos had had enough pain this week. He muttered some endearments neither would later remember, but always knew, then increased his thrusting as Methos began to tremble. He grasped his partner's needy cock and played it at the increasing rhythm they moved at toward climax. "Ahh!" in unison. They held on together through trembling pleasure and satiation.
"Oh, gods! Oh my...Duncan."
*****
A half an hour later MacLeod nudged him awake. "Come on, Methos, you have to take me to the airport."
"Damn."
"You're the one that insisted we leave separately."
"Yes, I remember, I'll - I won't be far behind. I'll make sure Joe's OK, then join you in Paris."
"I'll be there. And I don't think you need to worry about Joe. He's in capable hands." MacLeod sealed his promise with another kiss. Then he looked woeful.
"Damn. I forgot the Tabasco."
*****
Methos was all business as he and MacLeod drained a stirrup cup at the Mickey Mouse Bar across the cobblestone road from the one-runway aeropuerto. "Now, remember to go over the Haute Route, drop into Val d'Isere as if you never left. Pretend to have been communing with the mountains, all that rot."
"I like communing with the mountains," MacLeod admitted. "But that just puts me back at square one."
"Yes, batting your eyes at the ski instructors and showing off your wedeln. And a very pretty swinging wedel it is, too," Methos complimented, patting MacLeod scurrilously high on his Levi-clad thigh. "But you'll need to make a big splash to get back on the Watcher radar. The worse you make them look for losing you, and the more inexplicable your behaviour, the greater the chances they will recall Joe, if only to have him around to beard the lion."
"And if I can't rouse the Watchers in the Alps?"
"Meet me in Paris in a week, either way. I'll think of something."
"We'll think of something. You could dress up as Robin Hood and we could spar on the roof of Le Blues Bar."
"Wouldn't that make you Guy of Gisbourne?" Methos asked doubtfully, while recalling that hose made him itch in inconvenient places.
"Moi? Play that cad? Heaven forfend. Not when I've got the perfect gown to play Maid Marion. You did say to make a big splash."
Methos nodded judiciously, suppressing a smirk. "That would do it." Across the cobblestone parking lot, a small propjet landed with a dusty whine. "Your ride's here, o mistress fair."
"That's it, help me get in character," MacLeod grinned. "I can't wait to see you in a codpiece."
"Wait is the key word. Good thing you're immortal. Of course, pigs may fly and unicorns walk the earth again sooner than we imagine." Methos shook his head. "You do realize Robin Hood didn't really dress like Errol Flynn, don't you?"
"I'll settle for the pencil-thin mustache," MacLeod laughed, then sighed. It was time to leave. He shouldered his duffel; smiled and waved to the Federales, as Methos and he entered the one and only concourse, which was about the same size as Manolito Montoya's barn. "How long do you think it will take for Joe to be recalled? A week? Two?"
"A month, if Joe's newfound good luck holds," Methos hesitated. "The Watchers are an ancient guild, at heart, MacLeod. They decide things slowly, change their minds glacially, and Joe has been a thorn in their side for years. Don't expect them to welcome him back with arms held wide any time soon."
MacLeod loaded his travel bag on the security conveyor, and turned to clasp Methos' arm with a kinsman's grip. "I could stay. Just one more night," he amended wistfully. "I never really apologized properly to Joe."
Methos cast his eyes heavenward and smacked MacLeod's shoulder, with rather more firmness than mere friendliness required. "One of these days, you'll figure out he doesn't need your apologies."
"What, then?" MacLeod asked.
"How about a little new-fangled forgiving? I hear it's all the rage, this millennium."
"Forgive him for what?" MacLeod held on as Methos started to pull away. Methos easily twisted his inner wrist upward in MacLeod's grip, and traced a circle on the vulnerable skin below the palm, first on his own arm, then on MacLeod's. Though his touch was feather-light, MacLeod still flinched.
"Forgive him for being a Watcher," Methos barely breathed the words. Then he smiled brightly, and effortlessly slipped away from MacLeod's grasp. "He's just a guy."
MacLeod blinked. "Just like you."
"Got it in one."
"Where will you go from here? I know this place in the French Alps, powder skiing, bump skiing, apres skiing... ."
"Brazil, thankyouverymuch. I paid my dues to Skadi, the ski goddess, and you can keep your frostbite and avalanches to yourself. I will go to Brazil, and I will find Grace Chandel, and I will very politely ask her to cease and desist experiments that are likely to get us all locked up in a secret research lab."
"Be polite, and send her my love," MacLeod said sternly. "I'm sure Grace is taking proper precautions."
"Maybe. But clearly her students are branching out. I need to know if Joe's cure was just a fluke, or if she really has mastered the problem of transferring live healing cells from us to mortals. The Watchers cannot find out. Ever. Or someday, Galati's War and the Sanctuary Massacre will look like spitball fights next to the Pharmaceutical Crusades."
"Aye. No more Crusades." MacLeod quickly hugged Methos, before turning away to enter the boarding area. He looked back once over his shoulder and smiled his good bye. Methos watched till MacLeod was out of sight.
*****
Joe finished his last lift on the weight machine in the salle, after sneaking in an extra set for luck. He sat up and settled a towel around his neck, stretching. "Don't think I don't see you hovering over there," he remarked to Methos' silhouette in the doorway.
"How do you feel?" Methos asked, anything but innocuously.
"Good. Fine. Even better than the last time you asked, what was it, forty-five minutes ago?" Joe answered amiably.
"How'd the wrist hold up?"
"I'm working on it." Busted, but unwilling to admit it, Joe's smile dimmed just a watt or two. "It'll catch up. You need a new hobby."
"Maybe I'll go in for a new degree. How's psychology sound?"
"Possibly terrifying. Depends on if you plan to practice on anyone I know."
"Ah, but you've always been one of my best patients, Joe."
"That's what I was afraid of." Joe stepped out of the cool, dark salle into the Sonoran sun. Brown stood patiently nearby, his halter lead looped loosely over a hitching post. "Hey, buddy," Joe called out. Big Brown nickered, and ambled over to whuffle at Joe's pockets, dragging his lead in the dirt.
"You've been feeding him carrots on the sly again, haven't you?" Methos accused. "His next owner will have to teach him how to ground-tie all over again."
"He likes carrots. And watermelon. You should see him tear into a sandia. I'll miss him." Joe ran his hand down the long, curved neck and thumped the withers companionably. "But isn't the meter running on this taxi? I thought you were going to take him back this morning. What's the fare for a Cadillac ride like this?" Joe asked with a touch of regret. "I hope you tipped him some extra corn for me."
"You can tip him yourself." Methos revealed his best troublemaking grin. "Here." He handed Joe a creased and slightly tattered piece of notepaper with a ramble of handwritten Spanish.
Joe peered at the paper, while fending off Brown's attempt to eat it. "...Vende...caballo...2000 pesos? You bought Brown for 200 bucks?"
"Me? No. What would I do with a horse?" Methos beamed innocently. "Nope. You did." Slowly Methos ran the halter lead through his hands and coiled the rope. "I still owed you the vig on the bet, remember?"
"The vig...?" And then it dawned. "You mean the horse races? Damn, you never did get to the bank to ante up, did you?"
"Until now." Methos handed over the halter lead and stuffed the bill of sale into Joe's shirt pocket. "Here's the keys to the Caddy, and here's the pink slip. Drive carefully, Hoss, and fasten your seat belt!"
*****
Methos caught a flight to Manuas the late afternoon of that same day. Watching from his window seat, he gazed down at the fascinating view of the Amazon basin drainage, tracing the dendriform pattern of rivers laid out below. Altitude low enough now that he could see the mixing of the waters, the green with the dark brown. Turbulence picked up as they descended. The landing at Eduara Gomes airport was jolting and abrupt, as if the plane's wheels were square, not round. Still, as pilots say, since they walked away from it, it was a good landing, and the passengers awarded the crew with heartfelt applause.
An ecotourist hotel near the river sufficed for the night. Cocooning with his Gibson paperback, he avoided the boisterous night life available in the Amazon rainforest's only large city. In the morning he rented a shallow draft riverboat. Following both the map Duncan had drawn for him, and the one he printed from the net, he motored four hours west, then an hour and a half north to the plantation once owned by the Immortal Carlos Sendaro.
As he pulled his boat next to the dock and tied it off, he saw Grace come out from her small medical clinic and descend the wooden riverbank steps leading to the dock. The buzz of her quickening felt gentle, she'd never taken a head as far as he knew. He returned a wave from the petite beauty.
"Ben! When Duncan called to say an Immortal would be visiting me, I had no idea it would be you! You go by Adam now? As a first name?"
With her words as cue, Methos slipped into the old persona of the good Dr. Benjamin Adams. "Hello, Grace." He gave her a tight squeeze. "You can call me whatever you like!" He grabbed his carryall and walked beside her back up the dock.
"So what is this important medical thing we need to talk about? What have you discovered, Doctor?"
"Oh it's not my discovery, my dear, but yours!"
"Mine?"
He placed her hand on his arm as they ascended the steps up the river bank to her modest home. It was even smaller than the clinic.
"I imagined Sendaro having built a great mansion here on his plantation."
Grace laughed. "Yes he did. I burned it down."
"You did!"
"It was an accident, really."
"This is a story I've got to hear."
"It was decades ago, when I left him in a bit of a hurry. I guess I must have knocked over a lamp in my haste. It's true, it was an accident, don't snicker."
"I do believe you, I just have a perverse sense of humour. You are the gentlest person I know. I can't imagine you deliberately hurting anyone."
"I do try to be helpful, not destructive. Since I returned here - after Duncan...took his quickening - I've lived quietly. It's no longer a plantation. The locals raise there own produce and visit me only when not satisfied with their own healers. Mostly I do research."
"On venoms."
"Yes, you've heard?"
They arrived at the front door and she welcomed him inside her home. "Come in, we will share our stories and catch each other up." She briefly showed him around the bungalow, then put on a kettle of water to heat on a wood burning stove. "I only use the generator in the clinic. It's so loud. I need to get a modern solar system. Time is passing me by again."
Methos smiled. "Tell me about it! Staying modern is a continuing endeavor for us."
They sat together in the breakfast nook of Grace's bungalow, facing a window with a view looking down the hill to the Amazon River meandering along its course to the sea. She poured him a very nice cup of the local black tea from an old Brown Betty.
After a companionable silence, Methos asked, "What is it that you want to achieve with your research?"
"To extend and preserve life, of course."
"What if you were so successful that mortals stopped aging? Would they dare have more children? Could they even?"
"What are we talking about, Ben?"
"Your research."
"Mine?"
"I was recently in the hacienda of Manolito Montoya. They treated a man suffering from a scorpion sting with immortal derived anti-venom."
"A dangerous dose?"
"Quite fatal."
"The patient survived?"
"He practically did somersaults within the hour."
"You exaggerate, Benjamin. My serums have been effective, but not magical."
"You never used the blood of a five thousand year old Immortal."
Grace was still beautiful, even with her mouth hanging open.
******
A week later, Methos reunited with MacLeod in Paris. They sat at a sidewalk cafe, sipping coffee and people watching, braving the brisk wintry wind because it made eavesdropping impossible.
"I wonder when Joe will turn up?" Methos mused.
"I'm thinking not soon, if he's got an ounce of sense left."
"Sense has nothing to do with it. When I saw him last, most of his brains had sunk down into his..."
"Methos! We're talking about Joe, here."
"So, what's your point? He's a Watcher, not a monk."
"True. I doubt there's a monastery that could hold him," MacLeod grinned. "So how did it go with Grace?"
"Hmm, she thinks I'm nuts. She's never seen a reaction like Joe's, where the healing was so bloody fast that you'd have thought him an Immortal."
"So do you think it was because you're so much older than the other Immortals whose blood she has worked with?"
Methos looked very thoughtful, shaking his head. "Don't know if it was the vintage or the process. And remember, the side-effects nearly killed him anyway. At least I've talked her into stopping the research. She thought I was narrow minded at first. I had to tell her a few of my old horror stories about being tortured by researchers experimenting on me. Always so sure they would find the cure for aging. I wonder if there are still parts of me sitting in coptic jars back in Egypt. We can expect a visit from her in the near future."
"Did you tell her who you are?"
Methos sighed. "Yes." He sighed again. "With Mano knowing she was bound to find out anyway. Too many know, Mac. Too many. But I also had to be sure that she took me seriously. She's still all excited about the possibility that Immortal blood holds the clues to telomere end-replication. That woman may very well learn the secret of halting aging in mortals. And the Watchers think you are the most dangerous Immortal! If they only knew."
"Thank God they don't!"
"As far as we know," Methos added realistically. "I think Joe suspects, if only because he avoids the subject like the plague. But Grace has more followers than just Mano and Mary. The secret is not safe."
"It sounds like I'll need to do some reading before she visits so I can follow what you two are shouting about."
"Never fear, Mac. No shouting, Doc Adams is polite to a fault, and of course Grace is the soul of gentility, it goes without saying, but you're not the only one who will be doing some extra homework. We can quiz each other."
"Oh, joy."
********
Joe hunched over the screen of his computer, tapping out his daily report.
'El Alacrán increased his guard and replaced his security system. I had to move back from perimeter work to avoid detection, but the private concerts continue, giving me unusual opportunities for access. I was worried he might have somehow caught wind of the Watch, but it turns out he was just preparing for the holidays. Today buses began arriving from as far away as Hermosillo to discharge entire extended families, most of whom have relatives working for the rancho. There are aunties and abuelas, tíos and grandpapas, and many children. The hacienda and grounds have been transformed from a lonely, echoing estate to a small village. A well-armed, well-guarded village.'
After considering, Joe erased the phrase ending in '...and many children.'
"Why erase that?" Montoya asked curiously, reading the report over his shoulder. "I'm proud of all mis hijos e hijas. Ellos son mi familia."
"Jeez, give a guy a heart attack," Joe complained. "Where'd you learn to sneak up like that? The Apache? The Yoreme?"
"The convent schools. You have no idea how hard it is to sneak in to pray for forgiveness with a pretty
señorita," Manolito grinned.
Joe shared his smile. He definitely had some idea. But then it was back to business. "I don't want to emphasize the kids. Might give someone ideas. I'd better not mention your support of the orphanages anywhere. Not till I find out how far up this goes."
"Then you are still convinced there are more," Montoya still smiled, but the glint in his eye held no amusement. "And you have a very poor opinion of their morals."
"None of the three we've seen had the pull to get me reassigned. And a nest of pit vipers has higher morals than that crew. There's at least one more I have to take into account. When I know the collateral threat is over, I'll retire happy." Joe sat back, contemplating his own words. The idea of retirement had become a marshlight in recent years, elusive and out of reach. "Broke, but happy," he amended with a careless grin.
"If you stayed here at the hacienda full time, and stopped sending reports, you would force them to come to us," Montoya offered. "I have many ways to dispose of the bodies," he added with practical generosity.
"Don't tempt me," Joe said. Montoya clearly was not joking.
"It is not strictly on my behalf that I make the offer," Montoya answered with equal honesty. "Or on yours. I do not want my family put in harm's way. But Mary...you have returned her heart to her, and that alone makes you one of us, I believe. Some of the children already call you 'Tío José.' And the abuelas will be plotting with the priest any day now, to reserve the church and make an honest man of you."
Despite his new tan, Joe colored deeply, and waved at the perfectly true lies on the computer screen. "It would take a damn miracle to bring me back to the straight and narrow. But I didn't think Mary...that is...do you..."
Montoya waved imperiously. "Mary let me know in no uncertain terms that she was a modern woman who did not need either my blessing or the Church's to conduct her own affaire." He grinned mischievously. "Besides, it does not matter. Mary may be a modern woman now, but she was raised in the ejido, and the day after you met you shared a hearth, a roof and a bed. The marriage is a simple fact, in the eyes of many of her people. I strongly suggest you mark the anniversary down in your google calendar."
*****
Working on his second cup of coffee, Methos inquired of MacLeod, "Well, did you manage to catch the Watchers' attention while you were skiing?"
"That's the strangest thing. It was as if no one was watching me at all. I almost felt insulted."
"Poor fellow. Don't take it personally. It probably just means that Justine didn't have anyone she could trust to watch you for her while she took her little side trip to Mexico. That may be a good sign that we're dealing with a smaller cohort."
"So how would you like to go about letting the Watchers know we're here enjoying Paris?" MacLeod asked, with evil grin in evidence.
"Anything you like - except dancing on the Eiffel Tower!"
"Are you afraid of heights?"
"No. But the potential for getting arrested doesn't appeal to me, and I can't bat my eyes like Amanda."
"You have no sense of adventure!"
"True." Methos paused and thought on the matter. "You know - "
"I hate it when you start talking with that master manipulator look on your face."
"Hush. Have I ever gotten you killed?"
"Yes."
"Not permanently."
"There is that."
"I was thinking that we could combine our objectives. Get you back on the Watchers' radar and flush out whomever was the puppet master behind Justine. What do you think?"
"I think it sounds like a good idea - they need to be outed. Even better if we do it before Joe gets dragged back into it. What's rattling around in that devious mind of yours?"
*****
Joe's cell phone vibrated just before dinner was served, and he politely excused himself to take the call in the next room after he saw the caller ID, the head of the North American territory, Dave Polanski.
"Dawson," Joe answered, propping himself against a stucco wall.
"What the hell are you doing down in my Sonora patch, Dawson? MacLeod is still listed out of Euro."
"Last I heard, he still is," Joe said evenly. "I was reassigned, Dave."
"To El Alacrán? Who the hell did you piss off? And why wasn't I informed? Your first report just hit my desk this morning! I appreciate a little heads up when a senior agent starts poaching on my lawn."
"Must be a paperwork snafu," Joe said calmly. "You know how it is, everyone expects someone else to do the scutwork. Decision was over my head, I figured you knew."
"If I knew, I wouldn't put you within a hundred miles of Montoya. He's stung a half a dozen agents in the last decade."
"I've got a handle on it. Montoya is a pussywillow compared to some of the guys I've run into with Mac," Joe said shortly. "Tell you what, I'll send you a personal report, direct, when this is wrapped up. Or sooner, if I'm still in the doghouse at the end of the month."
"You'd better. You're in my doghouse, now. And you keep some separation from El Alacrán! He's no knockover, young as he is. He's poison. And I don't want to lose you on my Watch, okay?"
"Okay, Dave. Maybe we can get together for a drink in a few weeks, we'll spin some yarns," Dawson agreed, then started, as a voice whispered near his ear.
"A pussywillow?" Montoya had pussyfooted up behind him and listened, his head cocked curiously. "Perhaps I should be offended?"
"Gotta go, Dave..." Joe said quickly, and clicked the phone shut on Dave's protest. "What are you, Ninja Caballero?"
Montoya's teeth gleamed in the lamplight. "Apache School of Honorable Horsethievery. With graduate work in Chivalrous Sneakiness under Zorro. I see there is much we must correct in my Chronicle."
"You're as bad as Methos," Joe complained. "And that's probably what he likes about you," he added as he lead the way back to the dining room, and so completely missed Montoya's look of astonishment.
*****
The French and the Swiss bidders dropped out when the bid exceeded 65,000 Euros, leaving three determined competitors for the medieval manuscript. The first, antique collector sometimes dealer, the high profile Immortal, Duncan MacLeod. The second, the representative for the International Asset Corporation, fourth generation Watcher, Arlen Shapiro. And third, bidding for his reclusive uncle, Adam Pierson, Ph. D., ROG.
Methos was a teaser. He repeatedly waited until the last half-second to bid and keep the auction going. He acted undecided, and when necessary, covered his impish smile with his bidding number card.
Judging by the reddening face, Shapiro's frustration level seemed to be elevating with the bids. Methos knew that the rumor the manuscript originated from the pen of General Darius, (a document dividing a conquered territory amongst his warriors) would so intrigue the Watchers that they would be unable to resist. That after all was why he started the rumor.
MacLeod's sophisticated demeanor of infinite patience, apparently, also irritated Shapiro. Each time either the Watcher or Methos bid on the manuscript, MacLeod immediately raised the bid. There was no fanfare to his bidding, just a slight nod of his head to the auctioneer - who always returned his notice to the Highlander after each competitor's bid. And each time a brief grimace, as if of pain, flickered over Shapiro's face.
Evidently, 100,000 Euros was the Watchers' limit. Once Methos shyly bid that amount, Shapiro abruptly left the bidding room, digging out his cell phone as he proceeded to the auction house foyer.
MacLeod countered the bid and for the first time showed an expression other than detached boredom - a suggestive smile directed to Methos. Methos laid down his bidding card, and shook his head at the auctioneer. The manuscript was now the property of Duncan MacLeod.
In the foyer after the auction, Methos offered to buy MacLeod a beer. "Now that you're a poor man!" They blithely ignored Shapiro's glare as they left to celebrate at one of MacLeod's favorite questionable establishments in Montmartre. "Wait'll Joe hears about this!" Methos added for effect. "No Watcher has seen this contract since the siege of Montsegur!"
*****
Inside the rowdy bar Shapiro glanced around to find his target; no problem there, the Immortals seemed to be having a splendid time talking a mile a minute to each other, and appeared to have consumed more than their share of the refreshment supply already. He was displeased to see Pierson's Watcher, Amy Thomas, in a corner with another young Watcher. He marched over to their table and sat without being invited.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"What? My job. Watching Pierson. Having a beer."
"Rumor has it, beer is good camouflage around Pierson. You stand out. Maybe you should buy the next round." Amy's companion toasted the new arrival, artfully letting his sleeve slip back to insolently flaunt his tattoo.
Amy scowled at them both. "Freddie was just tapped to cover MacLeod. I was filling him in. Rumor has it MacLeod's newest Watcher ran off with a ski instructor in Gstaad." She allowed a bit of cattiness to color her comment.
Shapiro decided to remind himself to blackmark both their files for poor attitude. "Freddie?" he inquired. "I don't recall a Freddie on the Lyons lists."
"Fredrick Stephenson, just reassigned from London," he said in an Oxford drawl. "You're a long way from Lyons. Adam and MacLeod are in our territory this week." Regional rivalries ran deep and strong in the old guild.
Shapiro ignored the impertinence and asked another question, "Where has Pierson been?"
Amy sighed, but answered the senior Watcher. "Every bloody where the last couple weeks: Dalmatian monasteries, Mexican motels, MacLeod's apartment," she complained. "My travel stipend went over budget so they assigned me a desk to monitor him by credit card. Jerk did it on purpose, I know. It's not like he ever fights anyone."
"And where has MacLeod been?" Shapiro pressed.
"Spring skiing, I'd say, from his luggage tags," Freddy offered offhandedly. "Ask Justine. If you can find her."
"I can't believe she blew off a sweet assignment like MacLeod," Amy declared.
"Not to mention Dawson. Where did he end up, anyway? Old Watchers' Home?" Freddy piped in, earning glares from both sides.
As abruptly as he arrived, Shapiro rose to leave. "At least Dawson knew how to craft a worthwhile field report," he said cuttingly, surprising himself on how sincerely he meant the words. As he stalked out, he could distinctly hear sighs of relief rise from the younger Watchers' table.
*****
"Did you know there were no such people as barbarians until Justinian got snippy about his code, MacLeod?"
"You were there, I suppose?"
"I was everywhere."
"Sure, you were."
"Barbarian, child!"
"You know there are two bars in barbarian?" MacLeod asked with the deep questioning mien of the pleasantly drunk.
"Who do you think invented the word...and wrote the definition?" Methos preened, waving a wide (and wobbly) hand toward the bar. "More beer!"
"Nooo. Sorry old sod. Time to take you home, for I have ta pack ya!"
"Then more whiskey!" Methos demanded. "It's lighter over the long haul," he confided to the Highlander, passing on one of his most treasured long-lived wisdoms.
"So true. And I just happen to have a lovely old bottle, located next to my bed.... Come on, can ya stand?"
"I can stand - anything! Just watch!" Methos proceeded to prove he could stand on his feet...and on his chair, and on the table. Mac only just caught him as he attempted a flying leap to the bar.
"Oh, good grief!" MacLeod immortal-handled his friend, pulling him to floor level, then toward the door. Whispering in his ears as they departed, "I think the Watchers have noticed us by now. Time to come show me the old ways..."
"Right here?" Methos said hopefully. "That would really get their attention. There's this ancient art with a thong and a feather and a tuft of fur..."
"Shh! Keep that thought and don't pass out on the way home." MacLeod tugged him out the door into the cool evening air of Paris.
"Now see? That's barbaric, leaving a nice, warm bar, full of nice, warm barmaids who will bring us anything we wish."
"Ah, but at home I'll bring you everything ya need. Hey, stay with me! The cold air getting to ya? Shallow breaths. I'll get ya home and tuck you in. Make sure your needs are well met. Just stay on your feet. We're almost to the car."
"Cold is barbaric," Methos complained. "If I catch frostbite on any of my pieces and parts, I'm taking it out of your salary, serf."
MacLeod folded Methos into the backseat of his car so that his pleasantly drunk friend could recline on the way home. But before leaving him, Duncan leaned down for a kiss and then a question. "Tell me Methos, this manuscript I just spent a fortune on, is it genuine?"
Methos didn't open his eyes, but his lips twitched in all too coherent mischief. "Genuine. Gen-u-wine. Did I tell you I invented that word, too? In Alexandria. You see, there was this date palm wine..."
MacLeod laughed, then sighed the sigh of the long suffering, all the while grinning fondly at his now unconscious lover. "Just wait, Methos, I will get the truth out of you. One way or the other. And the longer it takes - the better!" He kissed the nose, then claimed the drivers seat to take them off into the night and far better pursuits.
*****
Polanski answered the phone in the middle of the night, stifling a groan when he realized it was Arlen Shapiro on the line. He liked Arlen even less than he liked the man's older brother Jack. Yet a veneer of politeness was politic, increasing the depth of his disgust with the interruption.
Shapiro greeted him with a question, "Have you heard from Justine Freedman, or Clive Hedgerow?
"No. Why? Should I have? Isn't Freedman the new MacLeod watcher? MacLeod is in Europe."
"She's missing. Hedgerow too."
"They're not supposed to be on my turf - are they?" Polanski's irritation level ratcheted up another notch. "Freedman and Hedgerow, weren't they in the same class as Vemas's son?"
"I've heard that Adam Pierson was in America."
"Briefly." At this point Polanski was pretty sure he had no idea what this conversation was really about. "Yes, I heard he chased Joe down in Mexico and cadged a week on the playa. Joe tried to fob off his bar tab on me. No way! Your beancounters can eat that bill. You're the ones who thought mixing Joe and Margaritaville was such a hot idea. But Adam beat feet when Montoya entered the picture. I hear he lit out of town like a shot."
"And MacLeod wasn't tagging along?"
Polanski snorted. "No. Even I heard through the grapevine that he was playing pin the tale on the Watcher lately. Or ask Vemas's son. Pierre, I think is his name. They belong to the same cohort. If he's anything like his father, Justine is probably...well, I'm not one for telling tales out of school. I've never actually met any of these kids, but have heard the standard scuttlebutt of their academy class...and they're too damn young to be getting assignments as dangerous as MacLeod."
"Have you spoken to Joe Dawson?"
"Ye -es," he drew out the word. "Joe is sending me reports on Montoya directly, since I'm getting bupkis from regular channels. What's going on, Shapiro?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out." Shapiro disconnected.
Polanski growled in irritation. Later, at a civilized hour, he would call Joe again. And the Paris headquarters, and Lyons, too, and ask a few pointed questions of his own.
*****
From a discreet vantage point Methos leaned against a maple tree, while staking out the entrance to Justine's empty apartment. It was a long shot at best that her puppet master would appear. More likely a functionary would be sent to search for clues to her whereabouts. Unless there might be clues to her or his own identity they wanted to remove.
While Methos could draw from a deep well of patience developed through necessity and the ages, his own young watcher, Amy, could not. After three hours sitting on a bench pretending to read yesterday's paper, she walked across the grass meridian and side street to the tree her Immortal was holding up and spoke to him in a peevish voice.
"Why the hell don't you just go in and search her place?"
Methos blinked - not in surprise, this wasn't the first time she'd displayed her father's boldness - but because he'd been on the verge of falling asleep on his feet. "Well, ah, I'd rather not get caught? Why don't you go buy us some coffee? I promise to stay put. Wait, look! Who have we here?"
Two men approached the apartment, one middle aged and recognizable to Methos. "Ah, Jack's younger meaner brother Arlen. No surprise."
The younger man was dark and handsome, and known to Amy. "That's Piere Vemas."
"Wow. Your Dad's whole fan club. Well, let's go have that coffee now."
Anger hardened Amy's face as she watched the men using a key to enter Justine's apartment. "It's a good thing I don't have a gun." She made a growling noise in the back of her throat. "These men...." She left it unfinished.
"No gun! Joe, Joe, Joe. What kind of father...."
"It's not for lack of trying," Amy smiled. "The subject has come up occasionally."
Methos ushered Amy away from his tree. He had what he needed for now.
"Every young woman should carry a gun," he told her as they walk away. "I have this very sweet Smith & Wesson that would fit your hand...."
*****
Joe got the call from the high mucky muck in the middle of the night. It was the call he'd longed for, they needed him to watch Duncan MacLeod again, and it was the call he had been dreading, they wanted him back in Paris. Now.
*****
Part 9
Authors: mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters/Pairings: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, El Alacrán, various OCs. D/M and other pairings.
Rating: Mostly M, with occasional spikes into R+ territory.
Fandom: Highlander
Author's Notes: We owe huge thanks to many hardworking betas See Zero Post and for warnings.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
The Tale of the Scorpion, part 8
Chapter 4
*****
Methos lay sprawled on the playa, using his shirt for a pillow. The top button of his cutoff jeans had somehow come undone. Luckily, someone else had remembered a tube of tanning lotion, which when applied would gave his skin a cocoa butter sheen. The Pacífico nestled in the sand at his elbow was speckled with condensation drops. He raised the bottle to his lips and licked one off.
MacLeod failed to suppress a lecherous grin and one shaking hand reached out seemingly of its own volition - and snatched the beer away. Tipping back his head, he made sure Methos could see his throat work as he finished off the bottle. "Ahh! Thank you. Need some help with the lotion?"
Methos' eyes narrowed, only a nuclear spark of outrage escaping. The ancient desert-dweller in his soul brooked no theft of the water of life, the nectar of Ninkasi. Then his eyes widened innocently, the fires of revenge carefully banked. "No, please, don't bestir yourself. I will manage."
Slowly filling his right hand with the silky liquid, Methos dabbled his fingers in the glistening pool and drew them languidly over the corded muscles of his belly, the trailing fluid gleaming in the sun. With infinite patience he painted his torso with the secret hieroglyphs dreamed by shamans thousands of years before the Celts found Scotland. Glyphs of power, glyphs of sex, charged by the powerful rays of Ra.
MacLeod's breathing became deep, yet still not sufficient to control his heart racing, as he watched the long narrow fingers dance magical patterns across his belly. The man was fey - ancient, yet child-like in his enjoyment of the elemental pleasures...
"Methos."
"MacLeod."
"It's been a hard couple of days. Maybe we should get out of the sun." MacLeod nodded toward the small palapa thirty yards upland behind them. With it's driftwood frame and palm frond roof, the beach house offered rough shelter and a modicum of privacy. "Rest a bit."
"Rest?" Methos arched an eyebrow in mock concern. "Are you feeling fatigued, Highlander? I thought you looked a little peaked. If sunshine and sea breezes are not strong enough medicine, perhaps you are overdue for some rest on Holy Ground. I know just the place - vows of silence, vows of abstinence, water and crusts, cots and tick mattresses. And did I mention...vows of chastity?" He blinked innocently as his fingers ruffled the lightly furred trail below his navel.
Artlessly, he arched on his beach towel and dug his hips deeper into the shifting sands, drawing the sole of his foot slowly up the blanket to reveal the suggestively firm contours under the snug buttons of his Levi cutoffs. Absently, he started toying with a loose thread dangling from the inside seam of his jeans, tugging the seam higher, his inner thigh flexing under the beating rays of the sun. "How long have you remained chaste, MacLeod? How long...can you?" Methos asked with the barest hint of challenge.
"I'll give you chaste, Old Man! When hell freezes over!" He reached out and grabbed the artful hand as he leaped up, dragging Methos upward with him, slamming their bodies together.
Whispering in Methos' ear, "You coming peacefully, or you want that I should drag you?"
"You're such a sweet talker, Mac!"
"I try!" Methos' wide grin indicated his cheerful compliance with the pushy Scot - or at least his willingness to be muscled about. MacLeod ran his hand up and down Methos' back and flank.
Suddenly, Methos pushed loose, pretending to ignore MacLeod. Brushing away sand, he waved to Joe and Mary where they lounged further south down Montoya's beach. The other couple were talking, their chairs side by side in front of their own private palapa. They waved back, and started laughing when MacLeod made good on his threat.
"We'll be back later!" MacLeod shouted out assurance to them, while attempting to drag Methos up the beach.
Methos broke loose again and started running ahead. "First to the hut gets to choose!"
There was no doubt in Mac's mind what the choosing involved. He grabbed the bottle of lotion and dashed after the ancient marathon runner. Joe and Mary, preferring to explore their own fond secrets, discreetly ceased watching.
Methos had stamina and a head start, while MacLeod had the spur of blind lust. However, Methos might have told him that lust was a handicap in the Olympic sprints. That is, if he could have stopped laughing after he beat Mac to the palapa.
"Beat you by three lengths!"
"What? It was a neck, at best!"
"I didn't say lengths of what..." Methos grinned, crowding the Highlander against the pole holding up the palm frond roof and reaching down traced the right length with his fingers. "From here...to here..." he instructed, repeating the tracing twice to reinforce the lesson. "Three lengths."
"Two," MacLeod said proudly.
Methos' eyes opened wider. "Oh, dear! Now that I'm measuring, the parameters are changing! Maybe only two lengths...must be the Schrodinger's cat effect."
"Methos, I'm not a cat in a box."
"No. But the act of observation seems to have affected the results of my experiment."
MacLeod grabbed Methos' exploring hand, pulling it away from his person, then leveraged a reversal, trapping Methos against the pole support, which wobbled a bit from impact. "Well, Doctor Adams, there lies your experimental flaw! Observations are done with the eyes, not the hands." He leaned into the good doctor and claimed his mouth in a rough lingering kiss. "Yes!" He exclaimed when he finally came up for air. Moving with alacrity, he hustled Methos inside the beach shelter.
They wrapped arms around each other, danced in a small circle to a wood-slat cot, landed on it with a thump causing the over-taxed wood to creak. "Yikes." They rolled off the over-burdened cot and onto the Yaqui pattern rug covering the sand floor.
After a slow reconnecting kiss, they propped-up with elbows on the rug, facing each other, smiling, indulging in the lowly teasing cues that would lead to higher nonverbal communication.
"You're a sexy bastard, MacLeod."
"So are you, Methos, so are you."
"Nope. Just a guy here."
"Oh yeah? Just a guy who has fucked more people than anyone else on Earth."
"I've not necessarily fucked more people than anyone else. You're just assuming that 'cause I'm supposedly the oldest. It could be some superwhore who serviced legions that holds the fucking record."
"Hm. Do superwhores wear capes?"
"Bifft! Of course not, Mac. They wear suits and ties, mostly."
"You're right, so they do. You're very wise, Methos." MacLeod's grin verged on a smirk, but affection sparkled in his eyes as he reached out to touch his friend's face, brushing away a bit of sand from Methos' cheek.
Methos grabbed MacLeod by the shoulder. "Of course I am. Now come here, you." He pulled MacLeod toward his side of the rug, and demonstrated his experience by kissing the Highlander slowly, thoroughly, with a passion slightly tempered by patience, waiting for their heat to rise to a slow ravishing boil.
He broke the kiss and rested his head in the juncture of MacLeod's neck and shoulder, with his mouth over a pulse point, breathing heavy, his heart matching the hammering artery beneath his lips. The mild salt air accentuated the taste of MacLeod's skin. Methos sighed. "I could stay like this forever."
MacLeod, having somewhat less patience, rustled around to locate the plastic bottle of sunscreen he had thoughtfully snagged before racing Methos to the palapa. "Here!" He shoved the bottle into Methos' hand.
Methos didn't have to say, "boyscout," it could be read on his face. He shook his head and gave the bottle back to MacLeod. "No, I'm feeling lazy. You do me." Rapidly he stripped off his cutoffs and stretched out on his stomach, wallowing himself a comfortable divot in the rug. Sighing loudly, he gave MacLeod an expectant look. "Well hurry up, Mac, I'm not getting any younger."
MacLeod gave a single huff, but adapted quickly to the change in his plan, and scooted over to the ancient's finely rounded backside. He poured the silky lotion into his hand first, warming it, then worked it soothingly onto both cheeks. Before applying it elsewhere, he leaned down to Methos' ear and nipped the lobe.
"Ow!" Methos sucked in and held a breath, "Oh!," when he felt the thick finger already inside him. "Sneaky bastard!"
MacLeod's laugh rumbled, while he struggled to keep tormenting Methos with one hand, and removing his own cutoffs with the other. Finally, to Methos' great displeasure, he withdrew to wrangle off the clothing.
"Mac!"
But MacLeod quickly returned and wedged himself between muscular thighs, and encouraged Methos onto his knees. There was a moment of quiet when MacLeod's hard length rested between slippery cheeks.
Methos stilled, then sighed. "Please, Duncan."
"Your wish...."
Achingly slow, MacLeod moved within his lover, willing it to be as painless as possible. Methos had had enough pain this week. He muttered some endearments neither would later remember, but always knew, then increased his thrusting as Methos began to tremble. He grasped his partner's needy cock and played it at the increasing rhythm they moved at toward climax. "Ahh!" in unison. They held on together through trembling pleasure and satiation.
"Oh, gods! Oh my...Duncan."
*****
A half an hour later MacLeod nudged him awake. "Come on, Methos, you have to take me to the airport."
"Damn."
"You're the one that insisted we leave separately."
"Yes, I remember, I'll - I won't be far behind. I'll make sure Joe's OK, then join you in Paris."
"I'll be there. And I don't think you need to worry about Joe. He's in capable hands." MacLeod sealed his promise with another kiss. Then he looked woeful.
"Damn. I forgot the Tabasco."
*****
Methos was all business as he and MacLeod drained a stirrup cup at the Mickey Mouse Bar across the cobblestone road from the one-runway aeropuerto. "Now, remember to go over the Haute Route, drop into Val d'Isere as if you never left. Pretend to have been communing with the mountains, all that rot."
"I like communing with the mountains," MacLeod admitted. "But that just puts me back at square one."
"Yes, batting your eyes at the ski instructors and showing off your wedeln. And a very pretty swinging wedel it is, too," Methos complimented, patting MacLeod scurrilously high on his Levi-clad thigh. "But you'll need to make a big splash to get back on the Watcher radar. The worse you make them look for losing you, and the more inexplicable your behaviour, the greater the chances they will recall Joe, if only to have him around to beard the lion."
"And if I can't rouse the Watchers in the Alps?"
"Meet me in Paris in a week, either way. I'll think of something."
"We'll think of something. You could dress up as Robin Hood and we could spar on the roof of Le Blues Bar."
"Wouldn't that make you Guy of Gisbourne?" Methos asked doubtfully, while recalling that hose made him itch in inconvenient places.
"Moi? Play that cad? Heaven forfend. Not when I've got the perfect gown to play Maid Marion. You did say to make a big splash."
Methos nodded judiciously, suppressing a smirk. "That would do it." Across the cobblestone parking lot, a small propjet landed with a dusty whine. "Your ride's here, o mistress fair."
"That's it, help me get in character," MacLeod grinned. "I can't wait to see you in a codpiece."
"Wait is the key word. Good thing you're immortal. Of course, pigs may fly and unicorns walk the earth again sooner than we imagine." Methos shook his head. "You do realize Robin Hood didn't really dress like Errol Flynn, don't you?"
"I'll settle for the pencil-thin mustache," MacLeod laughed, then sighed. It was time to leave. He shouldered his duffel; smiled and waved to the Federales, as Methos and he entered the one and only concourse, which was about the same size as Manolito Montoya's barn. "How long do you think it will take for Joe to be recalled? A week? Two?"
"A month, if Joe's newfound good luck holds," Methos hesitated. "The Watchers are an ancient guild, at heart, MacLeod. They decide things slowly, change their minds glacially, and Joe has been a thorn in their side for years. Don't expect them to welcome him back with arms held wide any time soon."
MacLeod loaded his travel bag on the security conveyor, and turned to clasp Methos' arm with a kinsman's grip. "I could stay. Just one more night," he amended wistfully. "I never really apologized properly to Joe."
Methos cast his eyes heavenward and smacked MacLeod's shoulder, with rather more firmness than mere friendliness required. "One of these days, you'll figure out he doesn't need your apologies."
"What, then?" MacLeod asked.
"How about a little new-fangled forgiving? I hear it's all the rage, this millennium."
"Forgive him for what?" MacLeod held on as Methos started to pull away. Methos easily twisted his inner wrist upward in MacLeod's grip, and traced a circle on the vulnerable skin below the palm, first on his own arm, then on MacLeod's. Though his touch was feather-light, MacLeod still flinched.
"Forgive him for being a Watcher," Methos barely breathed the words. Then he smiled brightly, and effortlessly slipped away from MacLeod's grasp. "He's just a guy."
MacLeod blinked. "Just like you."
"Got it in one."
"Where will you go from here? I know this place in the French Alps, powder skiing, bump skiing, apres skiing... ."
"Brazil, thankyouverymuch. I paid my dues to Skadi, the ski goddess, and you can keep your frostbite and avalanches to yourself. I will go to Brazil, and I will find Grace Chandel, and I will very politely ask her to cease and desist experiments that are likely to get us all locked up in a secret research lab."
"Be polite, and send her my love," MacLeod said sternly. "I'm sure Grace is taking proper precautions."
"Maybe. But clearly her students are branching out. I need to know if Joe's cure was just a fluke, or if she really has mastered the problem of transferring live healing cells from us to mortals. The Watchers cannot find out. Ever. Or someday, Galati's War and the Sanctuary Massacre will look like spitball fights next to the Pharmaceutical Crusades."
"Aye. No more Crusades." MacLeod quickly hugged Methos, before turning away to enter the boarding area. He looked back once over his shoulder and smiled his good bye. Methos watched till MacLeod was out of sight.
*****
Joe finished his last lift on the weight machine in the salle, after sneaking in an extra set for luck. He sat up and settled a towel around his neck, stretching. "Don't think I don't see you hovering over there," he remarked to Methos' silhouette in the doorway.
"How do you feel?" Methos asked, anything but innocuously.
"Good. Fine. Even better than the last time you asked, what was it, forty-five minutes ago?" Joe answered amiably.
"How'd the wrist hold up?"
"I'm working on it." Busted, but unwilling to admit it, Joe's smile dimmed just a watt or two. "It'll catch up. You need a new hobby."
"Maybe I'll go in for a new degree. How's psychology sound?"
"Possibly terrifying. Depends on if you plan to practice on anyone I know."
"Ah, but you've always been one of my best patients, Joe."
"That's what I was afraid of." Joe stepped out of the cool, dark salle into the Sonoran sun. Brown stood patiently nearby, his halter lead looped loosely over a hitching post. "Hey, buddy," Joe called out. Big Brown nickered, and ambled over to whuffle at Joe's pockets, dragging his lead in the dirt.
"You've been feeding him carrots on the sly again, haven't you?" Methos accused. "His next owner will have to teach him how to ground-tie all over again."
"He likes carrots. And watermelon. You should see him tear into a sandia. I'll miss him." Joe ran his hand down the long, curved neck and thumped the withers companionably. "But isn't the meter running on this taxi? I thought you were going to take him back this morning. What's the fare for a Cadillac ride like this?" Joe asked with a touch of regret. "I hope you tipped him some extra corn for me."
"You can tip him yourself." Methos revealed his best troublemaking grin. "Here." He handed Joe a creased and slightly tattered piece of notepaper with a ramble of handwritten Spanish.
Joe peered at the paper, while fending off Brown's attempt to eat it. "...Vende...caballo...2000 pesos? You bought Brown for 200 bucks?"
"Me? No. What would I do with a horse?" Methos beamed innocently. "Nope. You did." Slowly Methos ran the halter lead through his hands and coiled the rope. "I still owed you the vig on the bet, remember?"
"The vig...?" And then it dawned. "You mean the horse races? Damn, you never did get to the bank to ante up, did you?"
"Until now." Methos handed over the halter lead and stuffed the bill of sale into Joe's shirt pocket. "Here's the keys to the Caddy, and here's the pink slip. Drive carefully, Hoss, and fasten your seat belt!"
*****
Methos caught a flight to Manuas the late afternoon of that same day. Watching from his window seat, he gazed down at the fascinating view of the Amazon basin drainage, tracing the dendriform pattern of rivers laid out below. Altitude low enough now that he could see the mixing of the waters, the green with the dark brown. Turbulence picked up as they descended. The landing at Eduara Gomes airport was jolting and abrupt, as if the plane's wheels were square, not round. Still, as pilots say, since they walked away from it, it was a good landing, and the passengers awarded the crew with heartfelt applause.
An ecotourist hotel near the river sufficed for the night. Cocooning with his Gibson paperback, he avoided the boisterous night life available in the Amazon rainforest's only large city. In the morning he rented a shallow draft riverboat. Following both the map Duncan had drawn for him, and the one he printed from the net, he motored four hours west, then an hour and a half north to the plantation once owned by the Immortal Carlos Sendaro.
As he pulled his boat next to the dock and tied it off, he saw Grace come out from her small medical clinic and descend the wooden riverbank steps leading to the dock. The buzz of her quickening felt gentle, she'd never taken a head as far as he knew. He returned a wave from the petite beauty.
"Ben! When Duncan called to say an Immortal would be visiting me, I had no idea it would be you! You go by Adam now? As a first name?"
With her words as cue, Methos slipped into the old persona of the good Dr. Benjamin Adams. "Hello, Grace." He gave her a tight squeeze. "You can call me whatever you like!" He grabbed his carryall and walked beside her back up the dock.
"So what is this important medical thing we need to talk about? What have you discovered, Doctor?"
"Oh it's not my discovery, my dear, but yours!"
"Mine?"
He placed her hand on his arm as they ascended the steps up the river bank to her modest home. It was even smaller than the clinic.
"I imagined Sendaro having built a great mansion here on his plantation."
Grace laughed. "Yes he did. I burned it down."
"You did!"
"It was an accident, really."
"This is a story I've got to hear."
"It was decades ago, when I left him in a bit of a hurry. I guess I must have knocked over a lamp in my haste. It's true, it was an accident, don't snicker."
"I do believe you, I just have a perverse sense of humour. You are the gentlest person I know. I can't imagine you deliberately hurting anyone."
"I do try to be helpful, not destructive. Since I returned here - after Duncan...took his quickening - I've lived quietly. It's no longer a plantation. The locals raise there own produce and visit me only when not satisfied with their own healers. Mostly I do research."
"On venoms."
"Yes, you've heard?"
They arrived at the front door and she welcomed him inside her home. "Come in, we will share our stories and catch each other up." She briefly showed him around the bungalow, then put on a kettle of water to heat on a wood burning stove. "I only use the generator in the clinic. It's so loud. I need to get a modern solar system. Time is passing me by again."
Methos smiled. "Tell me about it! Staying modern is a continuing endeavor for us."
They sat together in the breakfast nook of Grace's bungalow, facing a window with a view looking down the hill to the Amazon River meandering along its course to the sea. She poured him a very nice cup of the local black tea from an old Brown Betty.
After a companionable silence, Methos asked, "What is it that you want to achieve with your research?"
"To extend and preserve life, of course."
"What if you were so successful that mortals stopped aging? Would they dare have more children? Could they even?"
"What are we talking about, Ben?"
"Your research."
"Mine?"
"I was recently in the hacienda of Manolito Montoya. They treated a man suffering from a scorpion sting with immortal derived anti-venom."
"A dangerous dose?"
"Quite fatal."
"The patient survived?"
"He practically did somersaults within the hour."
"You exaggerate, Benjamin. My serums have been effective, but not magical."
"You never used the blood of a five thousand year old Immortal."
Grace was still beautiful, even with her mouth hanging open.
******
A week later, Methos reunited with MacLeod in Paris. They sat at a sidewalk cafe, sipping coffee and people watching, braving the brisk wintry wind because it made eavesdropping impossible.
"I wonder when Joe will turn up?" Methos mused.
"I'm thinking not soon, if he's got an ounce of sense left."
"Sense has nothing to do with it. When I saw him last, most of his brains had sunk down into his..."
"Methos! We're talking about Joe, here."
"So, what's your point? He's a Watcher, not a monk."
"True. I doubt there's a monastery that could hold him," MacLeod grinned. "So how did it go with Grace?"
"Hmm, she thinks I'm nuts. She's never seen a reaction like Joe's, where the healing was so bloody fast that you'd have thought him an Immortal."
"So do you think it was because you're so much older than the other Immortals whose blood she has worked with?"
Methos looked very thoughtful, shaking his head. "Don't know if it was the vintage or the process. And remember, the side-effects nearly killed him anyway. At least I've talked her into stopping the research. She thought I was narrow minded at first. I had to tell her a few of my old horror stories about being tortured by researchers experimenting on me. Always so sure they would find the cure for aging. I wonder if there are still parts of me sitting in coptic jars back in Egypt. We can expect a visit from her in the near future."
"Did you tell her who you are?"
Methos sighed. "Yes." He sighed again. "With Mano knowing she was bound to find out anyway. Too many know, Mac. Too many. But I also had to be sure that she took me seriously. She's still all excited about the possibility that Immortal blood holds the clues to telomere end-replication. That woman may very well learn the secret of halting aging in mortals. And the Watchers think you are the most dangerous Immortal! If they only knew."
"Thank God they don't!"
"As far as we know," Methos added realistically. "I think Joe suspects, if only because he avoids the subject like the plague. But Grace has more followers than just Mano and Mary. The secret is not safe."
"It sounds like I'll need to do some reading before she visits so I can follow what you two are shouting about."
"Never fear, Mac. No shouting, Doc Adams is polite to a fault, and of course Grace is the soul of gentility, it goes without saying, but you're not the only one who will be doing some extra homework. We can quiz each other."
"Oh, joy."
********
Joe hunched over the screen of his computer, tapping out his daily report.
'El Alacrán increased his guard and replaced his security system. I had to move back from perimeter work to avoid detection, but the private concerts continue, giving me unusual opportunities for access. I was worried he might have somehow caught wind of the Watch, but it turns out he was just preparing for the holidays. Today buses began arriving from as far away as Hermosillo to discharge entire extended families, most of whom have relatives working for the rancho. There are aunties and abuelas, tíos and grandpapas, and many children. The hacienda and grounds have been transformed from a lonely, echoing estate to a small village. A well-armed, well-guarded village.'
After considering, Joe erased the phrase ending in '...and many children.'
"Why erase that?" Montoya asked curiously, reading the report over his shoulder. "I'm proud of all mis hijos e hijas. Ellos son mi familia."
"Jeez, give a guy a heart attack," Joe complained. "Where'd you learn to sneak up like that? The Apache? The Yoreme?"
"The convent schools. You have no idea how hard it is to sneak in to pray for forgiveness with a pretty
señorita," Manolito grinned.
Joe shared his smile. He definitely had some idea. But then it was back to business. "I don't want to emphasize the kids. Might give someone ideas. I'd better not mention your support of the orphanages anywhere. Not till I find out how far up this goes."
"Then you are still convinced there are more," Montoya still smiled, but the glint in his eye held no amusement. "And you have a very poor opinion of their morals."
"None of the three we've seen had the pull to get me reassigned. And a nest of pit vipers has higher morals than that crew. There's at least one more I have to take into account. When I know the collateral threat is over, I'll retire happy." Joe sat back, contemplating his own words. The idea of retirement had become a marshlight in recent years, elusive and out of reach. "Broke, but happy," he amended with a careless grin.
"If you stayed here at the hacienda full time, and stopped sending reports, you would force them to come to us," Montoya offered. "I have many ways to dispose of the bodies," he added with practical generosity.
"Don't tempt me," Joe said. Montoya clearly was not joking.
"It is not strictly on my behalf that I make the offer," Montoya answered with equal honesty. "Or on yours. I do not want my family put in harm's way. But Mary...you have returned her heart to her, and that alone makes you one of us, I believe. Some of the children already call you 'Tío José.' And the abuelas will be plotting with the priest any day now, to reserve the church and make an honest man of you."
Despite his new tan, Joe colored deeply, and waved at the perfectly true lies on the computer screen. "It would take a damn miracle to bring me back to the straight and narrow. But I didn't think Mary...that is...do you..."
Montoya waved imperiously. "Mary let me know in no uncertain terms that she was a modern woman who did not need either my blessing or the Church's to conduct her own affaire." He grinned mischievously. "Besides, it does not matter. Mary may be a modern woman now, but she was raised in the ejido, and the day after you met you shared a hearth, a roof and a bed. The marriage is a simple fact, in the eyes of many of her people. I strongly suggest you mark the anniversary down in your google calendar."
*****
Working on his second cup of coffee, Methos inquired of MacLeod, "Well, did you manage to catch the Watchers' attention while you were skiing?"
"That's the strangest thing. It was as if no one was watching me at all. I almost felt insulted."
"Poor fellow. Don't take it personally. It probably just means that Justine didn't have anyone she could trust to watch you for her while she took her little side trip to Mexico. That may be a good sign that we're dealing with a smaller cohort."
"So how would you like to go about letting the Watchers know we're here enjoying Paris?" MacLeod asked, with evil grin in evidence.
"Anything you like - except dancing on the Eiffel Tower!"
"Are you afraid of heights?"
"No. But the potential for getting arrested doesn't appeal to me, and I can't bat my eyes like Amanda."
"You have no sense of adventure!"
"True." Methos paused and thought on the matter. "You know - "
"I hate it when you start talking with that master manipulator look on your face."
"Hush. Have I ever gotten you killed?"
"Yes."
"Not permanently."
"There is that."
"I was thinking that we could combine our objectives. Get you back on the Watchers' radar and flush out whomever was the puppet master behind Justine. What do you think?"
"I think it sounds like a good idea - they need to be outed. Even better if we do it before Joe gets dragged back into it. What's rattling around in that devious mind of yours?"
*****
Joe's cell phone vibrated just before dinner was served, and he politely excused himself to take the call in the next room after he saw the caller ID, the head of the North American territory, Dave Polanski.
"Dawson," Joe answered, propping himself against a stucco wall.
"What the hell are you doing down in my Sonora patch, Dawson? MacLeod is still listed out of Euro."
"Last I heard, he still is," Joe said evenly. "I was reassigned, Dave."
"To El Alacrán? Who the hell did you piss off? And why wasn't I informed? Your first report just hit my desk this morning! I appreciate a little heads up when a senior agent starts poaching on my lawn."
"Must be a paperwork snafu," Joe said calmly. "You know how it is, everyone expects someone else to do the scutwork. Decision was over my head, I figured you knew."
"If I knew, I wouldn't put you within a hundred miles of Montoya. He's stung a half a dozen agents in the last decade."
"I've got a handle on it. Montoya is a pussywillow compared to some of the guys I've run into with Mac," Joe said shortly. "Tell you what, I'll send you a personal report, direct, when this is wrapped up. Or sooner, if I'm still in the doghouse at the end of the month."
"You'd better. You're in my doghouse, now. And you keep some separation from El Alacrán! He's no knockover, young as he is. He's poison. And I don't want to lose you on my Watch, okay?"
"Okay, Dave. Maybe we can get together for a drink in a few weeks, we'll spin some yarns," Dawson agreed, then started, as a voice whispered near his ear.
"A pussywillow?" Montoya had pussyfooted up behind him and listened, his head cocked curiously. "Perhaps I should be offended?"
"Gotta go, Dave..." Joe said quickly, and clicked the phone shut on Dave's protest. "What are you, Ninja Caballero?"
Montoya's teeth gleamed in the lamplight. "Apache School of Honorable Horsethievery. With graduate work in Chivalrous Sneakiness under Zorro. I see there is much we must correct in my Chronicle."
"You're as bad as Methos," Joe complained. "And that's probably what he likes about you," he added as he lead the way back to the dining room, and so completely missed Montoya's look of astonishment.
*****
The French and the Swiss bidders dropped out when the bid exceeded 65,000 Euros, leaving three determined competitors for the medieval manuscript. The first, antique collector sometimes dealer, the high profile Immortal, Duncan MacLeod. The second, the representative for the International Asset Corporation, fourth generation Watcher, Arlen Shapiro. And third, bidding for his reclusive uncle, Adam Pierson, Ph. D., ROG.
Methos was a teaser. He repeatedly waited until the last half-second to bid and keep the auction going. He acted undecided, and when necessary, covered his impish smile with his bidding number card.
Judging by the reddening face, Shapiro's frustration level seemed to be elevating with the bids. Methos knew that the rumor the manuscript originated from the pen of General Darius, (a document dividing a conquered territory amongst his warriors) would so intrigue the Watchers that they would be unable to resist. That after all was why he started the rumor.
MacLeod's sophisticated demeanor of infinite patience, apparently, also irritated Shapiro. Each time either the Watcher or Methos bid on the manuscript, MacLeod immediately raised the bid. There was no fanfare to his bidding, just a slight nod of his head to the auctioneer - who always returned his notice to the Highlander after each competitor's bid. And each time a brief grimace, as if of pain, flickered over Shapiro's face.
Evidently, 100,000 Euros was the Watchers' limit. Once Methos shyly bid that amount, Shapiro abruptly left the bidding room, digging out his cell phone as he proceeded to the auction house foyer.
MacLeod countered the bid and for the first time showed an expression other than detached boredom - a suggestive smile directed to Methos. Methos laid down his bidding card, and shook his head at the auctioneer. The manuscript was now the property of Duncan MacLeod.
In the foyer after the auction, Methos offered to buy MacLeod a beer. "Now that you're a poor man!" They blithely ignored Shapiro's glare as they left to celebrate at one of MacLeod's favorite questionable establishments in Montmartre. "Wait'll Joe hears about this!" Methos added for effect. "No Watcher has seen this contract since the siege of Montsegur!"
*****
Inside the rowdy bar Shapiro glanced around to find his target; no problem there, the Immortals seemed to be having a splendid time talking a mile a minute to each other, and appeared to have consumed more than their share of the refreshment supply already. He was displeased to see Pierson's Watcher, Amy Thomas, in a corner with another young Watcher. He marched over to their table and sat without being invited.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"What? My job. Watching Pierson. Having a beer."
"Rumor has it, beer is good camouflage around Pierson. You stand out. Maybe you should buy the next round." Amy's companion toasted the new arrival, artfully letting his sleeve slip back to insolently flaunt his tattoo.
Amy scowled at them both. "Freddie was just tapped to cover MacLeod. I was filling him in. Rumor has it MacLeod's newest Watcher ran off with a ski instructor in Gstaad." She allowed a bit of cattiness to color her comment.
Shapiro decided to remind himself to blackmark both their files for poor attitude. "Freddie?" he inquired. "I don't recall a Freddie on the Lyons lists."
"Fredrick Stephenson, just reassigned from London," he said in an Oxford drawl. "You're a long way from Lyons. Adam and MacLeod are in our territory this week." Regional rivalries ran deep and strong in the old guild.
Shapiro ignored the impertinence and asked another question, "Where has Pierson been?"
Amy sighed, but answered the senior Watcher. "Every bloody where the last couple weeks: Dalmatian monasteries, Mexican motels, MacLeod's apartment," she complained. "My travel stipend went over budget so they assigned me a desk to monitor him by credit card. Jerk did it on purpose, I know. It's not like he ever fights anyone."
"And where has MacLeod been?" Shapiro pressed.
"Spring skiing, I'd say, from his luggage tags," Freddy offered offhandedly. "Ask Justine. If you can find her."
"I can't believe she blew off a sweet assignment like MacLeod," Amy declared.
"Not to mention Dawson. Where did he end up, anyway? Old Watchers' Home?" Freddy piped in, earning glares from both sides.
As abruptly as he arrived, Shapiro rose to leave. "At least Dawson knew how to craft a worthwhile field report," he said cuttingly, surprising himself on how sincerely he meant the words. As he stalked out, he could distinctly hear sighs of relief rise from the younger Watchers' table.
*****
"Did you know there were no such people as barbarians until Justinian got snippy about his code, MacLeod?"
"You were there, I suppose?"
"I was everywhere."
"Sure, you were."
"Barbarian, child!"
"You know there are two bars in barbarian?" MacLeod asked with the deep questioning mien of the pleasantly drunk.
"Who do you think invented the word...and wrote the definition?" Methos preened, waving a wide (and wobbly) hand toward the bar. "More beer!"
"Nooo. Sorry old sod. Time to take you home, for I have ta pack ya!"
"Then more whiskey!" Methos demanded. "It's lighter over the long haul," he confided to the Highlander, passing on one of his most treasured long-lived wisdoms.
"So true. And I just happen to have a lovely old bottle, located next to my bed.... Come on, can ya stand?"
"I can stand - anything! Just watch!" Methos proceeded to prove he could stand on his feet...and on his chair, and on the table. Mac only just caught him as he attempted a flying leap to the bar.
"Oh, good grief!" MacLeod immortal-handled his friend, pulling him to floor level, then toward the door. Whispering in his ears as they departed, "I think the Watchers have noticed us by now. Time to come show me the old ways..."
"Right here?" Methos said hopefully. "That would really get their attention. There's this ancient art with a thong and a feather and a tuft of fur..."
"Shh! Keep that thought and don't pass out on the way home." MacLeod tugged him out the door into the cool evening air of Paris.
"Now see? That's barbaric, leaving a nice, warm bar, full of nice, warm barmaids who will bring us anything we wish."
"Ah, but at home I'll bring you everything ya need. Hey, stay with me! The cold air getting to ya? Shallow breaths. I'll get ya home and tuck you in. Make sure your needs are well met. Just stay on your feet. We're almost to the car."
"Cold is barbaric," Methos complained. "If I catch frostbite on any of my pieces and parts, I'm taking it out of your salary, serf."
MacLeod folded Methos into the backseat of his car so that his pleasantly drunk friend could recline on the way home. But before leaving him, Duncan leaned down for a kiss and then a question. "Tell me Methos, this manuscript I just spent a fortune on, is it genuine?"
Methos didn't open his eyes, but his lips twitched in all too coherent mischief. "Genuine. Gen-u-wine. Did I tell you I invented that word, too? In Alexandria. You see, there was this date palm wine..."
MacLeod laughed, then sighed the sigh of the long suffering, all the while grinning fondly at his now unconscious lover. "Just wait, Methos, I will get the truth out of you. One way or the other. And the longer it takes - the better!" He kissed the nose, then claimed the drivers seat to take them off into the night and far better pursuits.
*****
Polanski answered the phone in the middle of the night, stifling a groan when he realized it was Arlen Shapiro on the line. He liked Arlen even less than he liked the man's older brother Jack. Yet a veneer of politeness was politic, increasing the depth of his disgust with the interruption.
Shapiro greeted him with a question, "Have you heard from Justine Freedman, or Clive Hedgerow?
"No. Why? Should I have? Isn't Freedman the new MacLeod watcher? MacLeod is in Europe."
"She's missing. Hedgerow too."
"They're not supposed to be on my turf - are they?" Polanski's irritation level ratcheted up another notch. "Freedman and Hedgerow, weren't they in the same class as Vemas's son?"
"I've heard that Adam Pierson was in America."
"Briefly." At this point Polanski was pretty sure he had no idea what this conversation was really about. "Yes, I heard he chased Joe down in Mexico and cadged a week on the playa. Joe tried to fob off his bar tab on me. No way! Your beancounters can eat that bill. You're the ones who thought mixing Joe and Margaritaville was such a hot idea. But Adam beat feet when Montoya entered the picture. I hear he lit out of town like a shot."
"And MacLeod wasn't tagging along?"
Polanski snorted. "No. Even I heard through the grapevine that he was playing pin the tale on the Watcher lately. Or ask Vemas's son. Pierre, I think is his name. They belong to the same cohort. If he's anything like his father, Justine is probably...well, I'm not one for telling tales out of school. I've never actually met any of these kids, but have heard the standard scuttlebutt of their academy class...and they're too damn young to be getting assignments as dangerous as MacLeod."
"Have you spoken to Joe Dawson?"
"Ye -es," he drew out the word. "Joe is sending me reports on Montoya directly, since I'm getting bupkis from regular channels. What's going on, Shapiro?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out." Shapiro disconnected.
Polanski growled in irritation. Later, at a civilized hour, he would call Joe again. And the Paris headquarters, and Lyons, too, and ask a few pointed questions of his own.
*****
From a discreet vantage point Methos leaned against a maple tree, while staking out the entrance to Justine's empty apartment. It was a long shot at best that her puppet master would appear. More likely a functionary would be sent to search for clues to her whereabouts. Unless there might be clues to her or his own identity they wanted to remove.
While Methos could draw from a deep well of patience developed through necessity and the ages, his own young watcher, Amy, could not. After three hours sitting on a bench pretending to read yesterday's paper, she walked across the grass meridian and side street to the tree her Immortal was holding up and spoke to him in a peevish voice.
"Why the hell don't you just go in and search her place?"
Methos blinked - not in surprise, this wasn't the first time she'd displayed her father's boldness - but because he'd been on the verge of falling asleep on his feet. "Well, ah, I'd rather not get caught? Why don't you go buy us some coffee? I promise to stay put. Wait, look! Who have we here?"
Two men approached the apartment, one middle aged and recognizable to Methos. "Ah, Jack's younger meaner brother Arlen. No surprise."
The younger man was dark and handsome, and known to Amy. "That's Piere Vemas."
"Wow. Your Dad's whole fan club. Well, let's go have that coffee now."
Anger hardened Amy's face as she watched the men using a key to enter Justine's apartment. "It's a good thing I don't have a gun." She made a growling noise in the back of her throat. "These men...." She left it unfinished.
"No gun! Joe, Joe, Joe. What kind of father...."
"It's not for lack of trying," Amy smiled. "The subject has come up occasionally."
Methos ushered Amy away from his tree. He had what he needed for now.
"Every young woman should carry a gun," he told her as they walk away. "I have this very sweet Smith & Wesson that would fit your hand...."
*****
Joe got the call from the high mucky muck in the middle of the night. It was the call he'd longed for, they needed him to watch Duncan MacLeod again, and it was the call he had been dreading, they wanted him back in Paris. Now.
*****
Part 9