*********


     Mac comes in, opening the door for a woman. This 
must be Kate, or Faith, or whatever she is calling 
herself this week. She looks like one of those walking 
skeletons that populate modeling runways. For heaven's 
sake! Why can't the man find a woman with meat on her 
bones? At least Amanda had the excuse of a slender frame. 
As they approach, I catch her eye and reassess. I do not 
trust this woman. She is a survivor, and I do not mean 
that in a complimentary sense. I shall have to watch my 
step.

     "Hullo, Joe, Adam," Mac says. Ah, so he has not told 
sweet Kate my name, yet. Commendable. Well, Mac has not 
survived four centuries by being a complete fool. Telling 
Kate my name would give her leverage over me and make me 
very angry. I do hope Mac knows better than that. He 
introduces us to the wife. She puts on an uncertain air, 
sucking in her cheeks, and I trust her even less. She is 
trying to play us. Does Joe get it? I glance at him. His 
face is set. Oh, he sees through her. Not bad for a kid.

     I will give her credit. She does not push the charm 
once it becomes clear that neither Joe nor I are buying 
it. Mac gets her seated then sits down himself. The small 
talk that follows is uninspired; all of us holding our 
respective cards to ourselves.

     "Are you two staying in Paris long?" I ask brightly. 
I wouldn't bother with the chit-chat, but Joe won't talk 
much, sitting at the table stone-faced and fussing with 
his cane. Mac looks unhappy about Joe's attitude. You'll 
live, Mac.


*********


     I shouldn't have let you pull all the weight in the 
conversation, but I honestly didn't know what to say. 
*This* was the love of Mac's life? Yowza. Here was Mac 
talking about how Kate had risked her life to save his 
ass from Kell, and she was sitting there, looking all 
cute and modest about it. Not like we had anything to do 
with it--huh, Old Man?

     Mac was such a sucker when it came to women. Take 
that Katya he ran into a while back, for example. I got 
suspicious when he told me her first death had been 
stoning for witchcraft. Witchcraft was still a pretty 
rare offense in merry old England back in the 14th 
century. Nobody got stoned to death for anything in 
Europe back then, anyway. And 'Frederick' wasn't much of 
an Anglo-Norman name, either. Surprise, surprise. When I 
looked Katya up in the database, I found out she'd got 
her first death from being hung as a thief, and there 
wasn't any noble fiance in sight. She made the whole 
thing up. Figures. 

     After Mac told me the whole sad story of how she'd 
let the father of her adoptive granddaughter go free for 
murdering her daughter, I checked Katya out. Turned out 
she whacked Baptista after all. When she disappeared, she 
took the granddaughter with her and he turned up dead a 
few weeks later, floating face down in a river. They 
never did catch her. Can't say that I blame her. I'd have 
whacked the guy, too. Nobody kills my family and gets 
away with it, and screw him being the little girl's 
father. What was gonna happen when Daddy's Little Girl 
grew up and fell in love herself? Or what if he'd gotten 
the idea that the kid wasn't really his? I'll bet that 
would have gone over real well. 

     Hell, you'd have whacked him. You whacked Walker 
just for threatening my daughter, and Kristen just 'cause 
you thought she was a bitch (which she was). You don't 
mess around with that stuff. Mac needs to get a learning 
curve with women or he's gonna lose his head to one some 
fine day. Maybe it'll even be Kate.


*********


     Jerry strained to hear the conversation over the 
crowd while tending the bar. Though Joe had mostly kept 
him on days while he got up to speed, Jerry still found 
himself helping out Friday nights. Marie didn't like him. 
She regarded him with a sullen, Gallic contempt most of 
the time and was constantly on his case when they worked 
together. At least Amy had a sense of humour--not to 
mention great legs.

     Marie was really riding him hard tonight, but at 
least she'd given him as much of an earful as he could 
use. Joe and Methos had found themselves a guilty party, 
after all. Some crazy woman from South Africa had 
attacked Methos in the hospital on Wednesday; that was 
why he'd stayed in an extra day. They were figuring her 
for the poisoner. Now that she was dead, she couldn't 
deny it, so that was good. Well, not good, exactly. Jerry 
did feel bad that somebody had gotten killed in all this 
crazy mess, but he was still glad that somebody had not 
turned out to be him. And it sounded as though the cat 
was gonna be okay. What a relief. He would have felt 
really bad if that cat had died. At least now he could 
relax, or as much as he could relax with Methos in town.


*********


     Joe puts up with playing Happy Friends until he gets 
the call for the first set. Then, he leaves us all to it. 
I give him a hurt look. He ignores it. Guess he figures I 
can take care of myself, not that he was helping me out 
much in the conversational arena. Thank you so much, 
buddy. Leave me to field the two of them all by myself? 
I'm old, not superhuman.

     Mac is playing with his drink. Abruptly, he drains 
it, then turns to Kate. "Kate, love, could you get us 
some more drinks?" 


     "A pint of bitter for me, please," I pipe up. Might 
as well. 

     Kate raises an eyebrow at Mac, playing it cool, but 
I can see that she is insulted. Like Joe, Mac ignores it. 
"Certainly," she says. "Perhaps I'll freshen up a bit 
while I'm up there." She stands up.

     "That's wonderful, love. Thank you," Mac says to her 
back and she strolls away, head high, towards the little 
girl's room. She knows something about holding on to her 
dignity, does that one. Mac turns back to me, apparently 
not noticing that his wife has just snubbed him as 
effectively as he had snubbed her.

     "Methos, what the Hell is going on with Joe?" At 
least he is keeping his voice down, though I still do not 
like him using my name here. He pulls the chair around 
towards me and leans over the table. "He looks really 
pissed off."

     "Any reason he shouldn't be?" I drain my drink. Why 
not? It is a Coke and sweet Kate is coming back with a 
pint of bitter. I can always nurse that one.

     "What do you mean?" Mac looks blank. He didn't visit 
me in the hospital after Tuesday. Maybe he is not up to 
speed, after all. I didn't exactly encourage him to come 
back and I suppose he was afraid of running into Joe. How 
much has Joe told him? Does he even know about Annie 
Lembede or my cat? Over by the stage, Joe is discussing 
something about the lighting with one of his crew, 
pointing up at the fixtures. I try to catch his eye. He 
turns away. Such a pain in the ass. I guess, since they 
both still seem to be on the outs with each other, that I 
should assume Joe hasn't told Mac anything, or at least, 
not much.

     "I didn't get out of hospital until yesterday, Mac. 
Joe's been covering for me all week. He's been running 
himself ragged. Didn't you know?" I should feel 
irritation but I am too tired.

     "You were in the hospital until yesterday?" Mac 
looks incredulous. "What for?"

     "And then I had to go get my cat," I continue, not 
wanting to explain Annie Lembede after all. Come to think 
of it, the cat is an even bigger minefield.

     And Mac notices that. "Wasn't he sick?"

     "He had a rough couple of days, but he's doing okay, 
now." That sounds like total bollocks, but I cannot come 
up with better right on the spot.

     "And you're here now? Tonight?" It is hard to tell 
whether Mac looks skeptical or disgusted. I think I will 
push for the latter, since admitting that Silas ran away 
will sound suspicious.

     I shrug. "He's only a cat. I left him at home, all 
tucked into a box. He has food and water. I am sure he'll 
be fine." Now, Mac does look disgusted. Mission 
accomplished. "I thought we were talking about Joe."

     I can see that Mac does not want to let this go, but 
knows it will be fruitless to press me on it. "You're 
saying he's angry with me because he's been distracted 
helping you out with your bad week?"

     "Honestly? No. I'm saying that you might have picked 
a better week to snub him than this one. He has a short 
temper right now."

     "Yeah, but does he have to take it out on Kate?"

     I make wet rings on the table with my glass. "I 
don't think he likes Kate, Mac. I don't think he trusts 
her." I refrain from adding that I don't trust her, 
either, since that is a given. I glance around; Kate is 
at the bar. Good. "You must admit that she was less than 
clear about her motivations during your troubles with 
Kell. Not having any history with her, Joe has no reason 
to trust her in spite of his instincts."

     "He could at least give her the benefit of the 
doubt," Mac growls.

     "Oh, as you've done with him in the past?" He pales. 
"Joe has unilaterally rebuilt too many bridges with you 
over too much bad blood for you to lecture him--or me--
about forgiveness. Or have you forgotten Jacob Galati so 
soon?" I can almost hear Mac grinding his teeth. I hope 
it hurts because I have not forgotten his bitter words 
about my playing Watchers against Immortals. I deserved 
better.

     "Did you miss me?" Kate says right over my shoulder. 
I'll admit it; I jump.

     "Maybe you could do that over *his* shoulder?" I 
snap, still keeping my eyes on MacLeod.

     "Sorry," Kate pouts, as she plunks down a pint of 
bitter in front of me. At least she is good for 
something. She crosses over to sit next to Mac. He makes 
it complicated by moving his chair away from me. Not a 
good sign, but Kate worries me more. How much did she 
hear just now? I have a bad feeling that it was more than 
either Mac or I wanted her to hear. She is very good at 
this. She manages to look like a virgin and a whore at 
the same time. No mean feat. Though Britney Spears 
appears to have managed it, Kate is a great deal older 
than Britney.

     When I feel the Buzz, what I think, uncharitably, is 
that Stephen Keane must have the worst timing of any 
Immortal on the planet. As Mac turns in his chair, a look 
of guilty panic crosses his face. He must think it is 
Amanda. Kate only looks panicked. Heaven knows who she 
thinks is coming through the door. When Keane steps 
through, she sags in clear relief. Mac, of course, reacts 
quite differently. "What the Hell is he doing here?" 

     So much for the benefit of the doubt. Might as well 
get this out and on the table. "I invited him."

     Mac gapes at me. "You *what*?"

     I stand up and wave at Keane, who is scanning the 
room for me, or whoever else might have that telltale 
Buzz. "I invited him. Joe said it was okay." This will 
create more problems with Joe, but I don't see why he 
would deny it, not after last night. I finally get 
Keane's attention. He spots me and waves back, smiling 
like a idiot. The smile freezes when he sees Mac, but he 
comes over anyway.

     "Is this a bad time?" he says when he gets close 
enough. I shake my head. Once Joe starts up, none of us 
will be able to hear ourselves think. That should make 
any touchy conversation impossible. 

     "Have a seat." I point at the chair next to me, on 
the other side from Mac. He did promise.

     For a moment, I think he will run right back out the 
door, but he swallows and comes forward, edging past Mac, 
to claim the chair. Mac watches his every move, like a 
dog ready to attack, but does nothing else. Kate keeps 
glancing from Mac to Keane. She must sense the tension, 
but is wise enough to keep her mouth shut.

     "I believe you two have met," I tell Mac as I sit 
down myself. I look at Kate. "Kate, this is Mr. Keane. He 
and your husband met briefly some time ago. Keane, this 
is Kate, Mac's wife."

     "Pleased to meet you," Keane chokes out, barely 
above the chatter rising around us. At least he remembers 
his manners. Am I the only male Immortal willing to be 
rude to women--or to give them credit for being as 
dangerous as men? "Have you been in Paris long?"

     "We've been back and forth." Kate decides to take up 
the conversational gauntlet, since Mac is still silent 
and glaring. "It's a wonderful old city, but a bit 
exhausting."

     "Peace and quiet can be a rare commodity these 
days," I say. Especially at Le Blues Bar on Friday night, 
with four Immortals--two of whom badly want to kill each 
other--sitting at the same table. An uncomfortable 
silence follows. I glance over at the stage, in front of 
which Joe is settling into his chair. He happens to look 
up and spot us. He looks alarmed. He starts to pick up 
the mike, which one of his crew has just turned on, then 
seems to think better of it and lays it back down. He 
tilts his head to one side. I shrug and spread my hands. 
I'll do my best, Joe, but I can't guarantee anything. He 
slumps, nods, then goes back to what he was doing, which 
appears to be messing around with his chair. Gee, this 
seemed much more like a good bit of fun when we were 
plotting it this morning.

     "What are you doing here, Keane?" Mac says into a 
lull in the surrounding conversation.

     "As...Pierson said, he invited me." Keane's tone is 
equally hostile. Nope. These two will never be friends. I 
will settle for keeping them in one room for the next few 
hours without their challenging each other.
 
     "No. What are you doing in town?" Mac, of course, 
assumes that Keane would only come for him. Hate to 
disappoint you, Mac.

     "I came to see Pierson." Keane, if possible, is even 
more brutally honest than Mac. "Our previous acquaintance 
was sadly all too brief. I wanted to get to know him 
better. Pierson has been kind enough to accommodate me in 
that wish." Heaven only knows what Mac thinks of all 
that. I don't think I am his favourite muppet today.

     "Considering that you were trying to kill each other 
the last time you met, I'm surprised to hear that," Mac 
says, "or that Adam was willing to give you the benefit 
of the doubt." There is that bloody phrase again.

     "Pierson seems very good about that. I thought he 
might teach me something of his philosophy on it." Nope. 
Keane will never have any love for Mac, but I guess he 
was serious about trying to break bread with him tonight. 
He is making an effort.

     Too bad Mac is not interested in reciprocating the 
olive branch. "He does have a certain talent for 
meddling." Oh, that is it.

     I lean forward across the table so fast that Mac 
recoils and Kate puts a hand under her coat. A warning 
glance from me and she slowly removes said hand from said 
coat. I turn back to Mac. "This is not about you. Not 
everything is about you. He is just here to talk with me. 
I told him that you would be here and he was willing to 
come anyway."

     Mac shifts uneasily in his chair. "He should have 
known better."

     "Why? He's not the one who created this situation in 
the first place. You did. You created all that bad blood 
all by yourself."

     "If I could take it all back--"

     "You wouldn't." I see no reason to be gentle. "You'd 
kill them all over again and you know it." Next to Mac, 
Kate looks thoughtful. If she were my wife, I would be 
taking my sword with me to bed and staying awake all 
night. That may be why she is not my wife.

     "That's not fair," Mac says.

     "Considering the company," I snarl, "perhaps we 
should leave the concept of 'fairness' out of any future 
conversation, for the sake of harmony."

     "You would kill them all over again, wouldn't you?" 
Keane wades in. Ah, damn it, boy. Let it go for just one 
night.

     "Didn't you slaughter our countrymen as if they were 
cattle?" Mac snarls back. "What were we supposed to do, 
stand by as you murdered our women and children?" Kate's 
dangerous look deepens. Watch your step, Mac. Your wife 
is not behind you 100% on this topic.

     "And do you think that every Englishman you killed 
was a monster? How very convenient for you." At least the 
Friday night crowd is noisy. Maybe if the bad blood flows 
a bit, these two will get it out of their systems. I only 
hope that being in public will force them to keep their 
tempers in check. 
     
     So much for that idea. Mac stands up suddenly. "I 
dinna have to listen to this from a sassenach!"

     "Duncan." Kate lays a hand on his arm. He shakes her 
off. Ooh. Now, she looks more than a bit murderous. He 
doesn't seem to notice, and that only makes her look 
angrier.

     Unlike Kate, I don't attempt to touch Mac, or get 
up. "Sit down, Mac."

     "How dare you do this to me?" His anger turns on me, 
now, as I knew it would. In a moment, it will turn on 
Joe. Right, Mac. Let's have a big, family blow-up in 
public. That will really fix things with Joe.

     I look up at Mac, not caring if he can hear me above 
the crowd or not. "First of all, Keane's coming to Paris 
has nothing to do with you. If it did, he would have 
challenged you already. Second, as I said before, you 
created this situation. You don't like it? Fine. You fix 
it. In the meantime, I am going to have a drink and some 
quiet conversation with Mr. Keane. You can join in, or 
not, as you please."

     "Unless, of course, you can't handle a 'quiet' 
conversation," Keane taunts, most unwisely. Next thing I 
know, the table has upended and my beer is flying through 
the air. A good half of it goes on me before the glass 
smashes on the floor. I go for my sword.

     "HEY!" The command, amplified by a mike, blasts over 
the speakers. I freeze. Conversation in the place peeters 
off as everyone, most importantly Mac and Keane, turn to 
stare at Joe. He is standing by the stage, holding the 
mike, looking fairly pissed off. I ease my hand away from 
the Bastard, my rage short-circuited.

     "Knock it off or I'm calling the cops." I believe 
him. "In fact, you can either clean that up now, or you 
can get the Hell out of my bar." Jerry hurries up with a 
bar towel, a broom, a dustpan and a mop. He starts to 
sweep up the glass. Around us, conversation starts up 
again.

     I put out a hand to stop Jerry. He jumps. Nice to 
know I'm still feared by someone. "No," I tell  him, 
taking the bar towel out of his hand. "They made the 
mess. Let them clean it up." Jerry looks from me to Mac, 
like a trapped animal. Too bad. Mac glares at me; I stare 
back, letting my face go slack. "Go on. Give him the mop 
and broom." Hesitantly, Jerry gives Mac the broom. I jerk 
my chin at Keane. "Give him the dustpan." Jerry obeys 
this time with more alacrity. I sit back. "Don't worry 
about the rest. They'll put it all away when they've 
finished." Jerry scurries off. He, at least, can sense 
when the level in a barometer drops.

     Mac grips the broom handle until his knuckles turn 
white. He'd probably like to use it on my head. "Methos--
" he blurts out, not quite stopping himself in time. He 
looks horrified. He should. It is an indiscretion, at the 
very least, but I ignore it. Only sweet Kate, who 
unfortunately looks all too enlightened at the moment, 
might benefit from it at my expense. And I can handle 
Kate. I sleep with my sword.

     "You want a teacher, but you only listen to what you 
want to hear," I tell him, still keeping my expression as 
blank as I ever did with Kronos. Beer is soaking into my 
jeans. I focus on sopping it up with the bar towel.

     "Darius never told me what I wanted to hear," Mac 
snaps, visibly stung.

     "Didn't he?" Darius was a child to me. Invoking him 
will not cow me. "Maybe it was because you never dumped 
beer all over him." He flushes and makes a move to clean 
me up. I stop him dead with a warning look that would 
have given even Kronos pause. "I agree that you have a 
problem that is making your life miserable, but it is not 
my problem. You need to stop making it my 
responsibility." I don't bother to say what will happen 
if he does not stop. I am too old to make threats.

     "What do you want from me?" He doesn't quite say my 
name this time. He learns. Good.

     "I want you to clean up your own mess." I finish 
sopping up beer and glare up at him until he looks away. 
Reluctantly, he starts to sweep. Even more reluctantly, 
Keane crouches down with the dustpan so that Mac can 
sweep the pile into it. I watch them, slouched in my 
chair in the middle of the floor while people stare at 
us. I stare back at them until they turn away. If I look 
like some minor god sitting on his wooden throne, I can 
live with that. Wouldn't be my first time. I catch Joe's 
eye as he and the band finish setting up. He shakes his 
head at me, smiling wryly, as he pulls his guitar strap 
over his head.

     "I think I'll go get some more drinks," Kate 
suggests from the sidelines.

     "You do that." I don't see any reason for false 
courtesy at this point. "And why don't you get me another 
towel while you're at it?" She goes away, which is all I 
can ask for.

     As Keane rights the table while Mac mops, the 
crackling of the mike distracts me from my cold brooding 
over their activities. Joe is starting the evening's 
festivities. Thank Heaven for that. I sit up and turn to 
watch him, ignoring my erstwhile students. Joe has the 
mike set up on a stand and he leans over it, tapping on 
his guitar as he goes through the introductions of the 
band.

     He starts strumming a tune on the guitar. "I'd like 
to dedicate this first song to a friend of mine." At 
first, I assume he means Mac. "He's been having a bad 
week." Uh oh. Not Mac. "Adam, this one's for you." He 
grins at me, the cheeky bastard, right before he lets me 
have it:

"I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here.
"Your voice sounds so wonderful 
"But your face don't look too clear. 
"So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew. 
"Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw?"

     For the first time in what seems like too damned 
long, I laugh out loud. Mac and Keane pull up chairs and 
sit down, staring at me as if I have gone mad (I suppose 
I have). I grip the table and shake it as Joe launches 
into the chorus:

"Why don't we get drunk and screw? 
"I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you. 
"They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think 
that's true. 
"So, why don't we get drunk and screw?"

     "Please. Don't. Sing along," Mac says through his 
teeth while Joe and the band wail through the bridge. 
Keane looks too spooked to contribute his opinion. 
Welcome to real life, Keane. It's messy.

     "Why not?" What I really want to do is wolf-howl 
along, but that would not go down well. Wet blankets, all 
of them--literally, considering my jeans. Taverns used to 
be so much more fun. "Never mind. Here comes the beer." 
And here comes Kate, with Marie following with a tray. I 
guess Kate doesn't carry her own water these days. Mac 
insists on paying for them all. She puts on a show of 
letting him mollify her. I put on a show of letting him 
mollify me with a new pint. Joe and the band move on to 
'Take This Job and Shove It'. David Allan Coe has always 
been a crowd pleaser.

     A few minutes later, I spot a familiar-looking woman 
coming through the door. At first, I cannot place her. 
Then, I realise why--it is my academic advisor, Azar 
Davani.

     "Be right back," I say to no one in particular and 
push myself out of my chair. Mac and Keane continue to 
ignore each other and Kate continues to pretend that 
everything is fine. Kell must have given her good 
practice at that.

     "Dr. Davani," I say, intercepting her near the door, 
"I wasn't expecting you here."

     "I came to see how you were doing. How do you feel?"

     I shrug, not wanting to alarm her. "It's been a 
rough week, but I'm all right now. Joe said he talked to 
you."

     She smiles at me, doesn't look a bit fazed, doesn't 
even seem to notice the huge beer blotch down my front. I 
have always found her calm impressive. "Oh, yes. He 
invited me over for the evening." She peers past me at 
the band. "Is that him in front of the stage?"

     "Yep." I gesture back at Mac and Keane and Kate. 
"I'm sitting with some friends over there. Great view. 
Why don't you come sit with us?" Joe doesn't seem to have 
noticed her arrival, yet. Hmm. Joe, buddy, what are you 
doing?

     "All right." She follows me back to the table. As we 
approach it, I hear Mac ask Keane tentatively if he likes 
the Blues. Will wonders never cease? Maybe there is 
something to this Wise Old Git gig after all.


*********


Saturday

You're lucky I'm a civilised man.


     What the Hell was I thinking, starting a book store? 
What a pain in the ass! I am not in any shape for this 
kind of venture. I am wearily making up my financial 
books on a shipment that I've just received when a 
customer wanders in through the open front door.

     "Rene!" I say, surprised. "I wasn't expecting to see 
you here." Rene is an old Watcher field operative buddy 
of mine. His short beard looks greyer than I remember, 
but not as white as Joe's. He reminds me of some of the 
Belgians that I worked with in Uganda back in the '60s, 
though he is a few years too young to be one. There is 
that air of bonhomie that can evaporate in an instant if 
one persists in asking the wrong questions. As I have 
never been in the habit of doing that, Rene and I have 
always got along fine. He's much like Joe, but Gallic.

     I stand up to greet him. Rene envelops me in a hug 
and gives me a kiss on each cheek. "Bonsoir, Pierson. I 
heard you were in town. Comment ca va?"

     "Been better," I admit. "I was in hospital for a day 
or two. Poisoning of some type. It's not been the best of 
weeks." I rub my stomach surreptitiously. "What are you 
doing here? I thought Gabrieli would have told every 
Watcher in Europe to stay away from me."

     "Ah, pfff." Rene waves a hand, looking disgusted. 
"Parle a mon cul parce que ma tate est malade, you know?" 
I laugh. "Gabrieli is a suit. I don't like a suit, unless 
she has great legs. Me, I don't like his 'big plans' for 
the European section."

     "Yeah, well it still might not be safe hanging 
around with the likes of me." Rene is tough, but I don't 
want him getting caught in the middle of what looks to be 
a nasty fight coming up between me and the Watchers. I 
don't want Joe in the middle, either, but Joe won't 
listen to me on that subject. What are they going to do, 
I guess he figures, shoot him? They already did. If I 
didn't know any better, I'd think he was pre-Immortal. 
Oh, how I wish he was. I'd shoot him myself tomorrow. 
He'd be in the Game, then, but he wouldn't be the first 
Immortal I've protected. I used to do that for money; I 
can do it for friendship. 

     Gods how MacLeod does pontificate to Joe. He is so 
young, and he tells Joe such total  bollocks. Friends and 
foes spiralling together into one great killing frenzy at 
the end of time? What the Hell would he know about it? We 
have had alliances and groupings, beyond just a few 
Horsemen. Even had a government of sorts for a few 
decades once. That was fun; nearly lost my head over 
that. We have lives untouched by the Game. Or we did 
once, I think. How did we change? How did we grow so 
small? The young ones don't remember and they don't care. 
Who wants to listen to an old man who won't tell them 
what they want to hear? Only the Game and the Gathering 
and taking head after bloody head are important to them. 
A great monument gutted by ignorant fire--that is 
Immortal culture now. Except in Africa. But none of the 
young ones know about that. Go find Shangri-La on your 
own, you murderous little munchkins. Some of 'em are, 
too. I remember this little bastard in the baggage train 
at Agincourt who tried to take my head. Looked like a 
cherub. What was his name? Kirk...Corin...Kenny! Yeah, 
that was it. Kenny. Haven't seen him since; that's why 
he's still alive, I will wager.

     "When do I play it safe?" Rene is saying cheerfully, 
reminding me that he was the one who tracked down Silas 
and Caspian for me back in 1995. I drag my attention back 
to the conversation; I am drifting too much for my 
liking. It has been a tough week. Rene liked Silas, I 
think, though he must have been tempted to turn Hunter 
with Caspian. Hard to blame him, there. I have long since 
lost count of how many times I almost took Caspian's 
head. Ah, it doesn't matter anymore. Five years now, so 
odd. How can they all be dead? I am still looking over my 
shoulder for Kronos. I wish he would leave me alone. I 
still have not figured that one out. Why does he bother? 
Oh, come on, Old Man. It is the inside of your own head. 
He's not real. You can make him go away any time you want 
if you can just figure it out. But why Kronos? And why is 
he almost...benevolent? I don't understand--

     "Adam?" Rene touches my arm. I jump.

     "Sorry," I say. "It has been a very long week. I'm a 
bit tired." I shake it off. "So. What have you been up to 
lately?" I pull out a chair for him. Got plenty of those, 
of the folding metal kind.

     "Oh, me." Rene sits down. "I work for Sean Burns' 
old hospital, now."

     "Oh? Did they keep that going after he died?" I know 
they did, but I am not sure if Adam Pierson would know 
that. Got to play Adam Pierson here, and play him well. 
Rene is not a man one can fool easily.

     Rene nods. "Sean was a bonhomme--a good man. People 
talked to him--Mortals and Immortals. It seemed too bad 
for that all to go to waste because he failed once." He 
cocks his head to one side. "You were there when he died, 
n'est-ce pas?"

     "Uh, yeah. Yeah I was." Have to do something right 
now. I get up and go to the fridge. "You want a beer?"

     "What, no wine?" Rene puts on a face of mock 
outrage. "Pierson, you are in Paris!"

     "And yet, I'm a Brit." I smile winningly. "Beer?"

     "How should I refuse?" I come back with beers for 
both of us and open them in front of him. He takes his 
and swigs it.

     "That was a bad day for you, yes?" he says after a 
few minutes.

     I chuckle. "Bloody Hell. You sound like Sean. What, 
are you a shrink, too?"

     "Yes," he admits. He seems to be studying me for a 
reaction. "Does that bother you?"

     "Why would it?" Control, Old Man. Keep it together. 
This isn't what you think it is. "Treating Immortals, I 
take it? Must be a great position for Watching." I sit 
back, watching Rene watch me.

     "I treat both," he says. "And no, I don't make 
reports on the Immortals I treat. It would violate my 
medical oath. You know that."

     I swig my beer. "You treat both? Why? I'd think 
you'd pick one or the other."

     "I specialise in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I 
suppose I have more Immortal patients than the usual 
doctor; they have many traumatic events in their lives, 
yes? But you know, I have treated many Watchers, too. And 
Mortals with no connection to the Game." He stops, as if 
waiting for me to say something. I do not take the bait. 
"I am worried about you, Adam."

     "I don't need a nanny, Rene." Joe. Joe called him. I 
should have known. Shit! Why didn't I just leave Paris 
after whacking Atticus? I couldn't have been that 
depressed!

     "I don't think you need a nanny, either," Rene says. 
"You are a very tough man. But you have lost some people 
who were close to you, and the Watchers failed you. You 
seem lonely."

     "I'm fine." Just smile, thank him for his concern 
and shoo him out the door. "It was years ago."

     "If you are so fine, why is this the first time in 
years that you have settled somewhere for more than a 
month?" Is it? Haven't thought about it much.

     "Why? Is that a problem?" I say lightly. "Some 
people are just nomads. Guess I am, too." Joe, Joe. You 
have been screwing me over, buddy. Telling tales out of 
school.

     Rene smiles ruefully and shakes his head. I have 
that effect on people. He pulls out a pen and a notepad 
and writes on it. "My phone number," he says. "I will be 
in town for a few months. If you need to talk about 
'company business'--even if it is old--I promise you that 
this Watcher, at least, will listen. I will even serve 
you beer."

     I snicker at that. He holds out the paper. Is this 
some sort of a test? Should I take it? Ah, well. What is 
the harm? I can always throw it away, later. I take the 
paper. He smiles and stands up, patting my shoulder as he 
heads for the door.

     "Why are you really here, Rene?" I say, as he pauses 
at the doorway.

     "Because I am your friend." The door closes behind 
him.

     Joe, you son of a bitch, we need to talk.


*********


     I blow into the bar like a hurricane past Jerry, who 
doesn't even try to stop me, and back into Joe's office.

     Where would it be? In the database? Look there 
first.

     My, things have got more interesting since I logged 
on here four months ago. Nice graphics, though they do 
load up rather slowly. No hints of me on the database; I 
don't suppose he'd be that stupid. He knows I can get in 
here. Nothing on the laptop harddrive either, that I can 
see. None of the files that are big enough to have 
anything on me. We are talking a hard copy, here. Doing 
things the old-fashioned way, are we, Dawson?

     Anything below waist level that Joe cannot reach 
from a chair seems unlikely. No surprise that those 
shelves are empty, then. I look higher, pulling out 
papers and dropping them on the desk, the floor. Let the 
bastard catch me playing merry Hell with his filing 
system. I can feel bridges burning at my back.

     I pull out a stack of magazines and start shaking 
them out. It falls out of a Paris Match (was it the one 
he was reading yesterday in my kitchen?), a palm-sized 
notebook with a pen stuck in the rings. Nothing on the 
cover. No, there wouldn't be, would there? I stare down 
at it, this unlooked-for grenade lobbed into my life. 
Pick it up, Old Man. Waiting will not make it any better.

     I pick it up. I open it. The very first words are: 
"I think you're losing it, Old Man." After that, it gets 
ugly. I sit down on the floor, hard.

     I am not sure what is more frightening, the candour 
or the fear. Is this just Joe or does everyone I meet 
these days believe that I am balanced on a sword's edge? 
There are little stories about Amy and the other Watchers 
under Joe's management, but the central, relentless focus 
is on me and what Joe sees as my mental disintegration. I 
shiver. He does not think I'm losing it; he thinks I have 
already lost it. The notebook only goes back a few weeks; 
he must have many others. In this one, he talks about 
starting a chronicle right after I killed Walker. Four 
years. He has been doing this for four years. I knew he 
wrote things down about me, but this is obsessive. Does 
he hand in these reports each time he finishes a 
notebook? He talks about his visits when I was hiding out 
in my apartment last month, the videos we watched, the 
things we said, how I looked, how he felt about it. I did 
not get that low, did I? I don't remember. It didn't seem 
as bad as that. I got through it, didn't I?

     My eyes ache. He called them. The son of a bitch 
called Sean Burn's people. Trying to get me locked up. I 
could kill him. Maybe I will kill him. I have to get out 
of here.


*********


     "Methos is what?" I said, feeling sick.

     "He's out back," Jerry said. "He just said something 
about needing to use your office." I brushed past him and 
humped it out to the office.

     Jesus. You'd ripped it completely apart. Papers and 
files were scattered all over the place. You were getting 
to your feet, my latest chronicle in your hand. The look 
on your face was.... Too late. Too late and a whole lot 
more than a dollar short.

    You threw the notebook at me, hitting me in the 
chest. It stung. "You rat bastard son of a bitch!" you 
spat.

     "Methos," I pleaded. "I'm sorry. I was worried about 
you. You were--"

     "Yes, I know what you thought I was! That came 
through very clearly! What were you thinking, that you 
could have some shrink come down and get me committed, no 
questions asked? You bastard! I'll bet you and Mac had a 
good laugh planning that!"

    "Methos, I don't know what you're talking about. It 
wasn't like that. I only called them to find out if there 
was any way that I could help you. They never got back to 
me. You gotta believe me!"

     "Oh, I believe you. I just don't care." You 
shouldered past me; I put out a hand to stop you. You 
halted, shaking.

     "Methos, don't," I pleaded. "Please. Just...don't go 
do anything stupid."

     You stared rigidly ahead, past my shoulder. "I am 
not going to let you, or anyone else, lock me up the way 
they did in Seacouver." You turned your head and looked 
me in the eye. "You read the report. I spent a week on a 
Level Three Suicide Watch in five point restraints--a 
week!  What makes you think that I would *ever* let 
anyone do that to me again?"

     I tried to reassure you, for all the good it did. 
"Nobody is trying to lock you up. I just wanted to get 
some advice on how to help you out, that is all. Come on, 
Old Man, what harm would it do to just talk to somebody?"

     Your breath huffed out in near amusement. You ran a 
hand through your hair. "I can't take this anymore! If I 
stay here, I *will* go crazy!" You pushed past me, 
shrugging off my hand. I heard the door slam a moment 
later. Shit. Ah, shit.

     Jerry came out back, looking like a snail coming out 
of its shell after a cat's been at it. "Is everything 
okay?"

     I sighed. "No, Jerry. Everything is not okay." I 
looked around the wrecked office. "Help me clean this up, 
will you?"


*********


     Of all the people to betray me, I never thought it 
would be you, Joe. You were the one friend I could depend 
on for that. If you couldn't give me up to Walker, not 
even for your own daughter, I figured you'd never do it. 
But you don't consider this a betrayal, do you? This if 
for my own good, right? I am supposed to lie down and 
take my medicine like a good nutter, aren't I?

     No...no, that's not fair. I know he cares. He cares 
too much. Oh, Joe, what have you done to me? What have I 
done to myself? There is a mourning tune in my head, the 
song of my own funeral.

     "Pierson, stop!" Someone grabs my sword arm. I swing 
round, yanking my other hand out of my pocket, but he 
ducks, then pulls himself in close so that I cannot hit 
him. It is Rene.

     "No!" he whispers fiercely. "Do you want people to 
see?" I stop struggling, panting. "ca va," he says more 
calmly. "Sois calm. ca va. Let's go for that drink, yes?"

     "I don't want a drink," I say, trying to shrug him 
off. He doesn't let go.

     "I do," he says. "And you need one." He drags me 
down the street. Can't the man take 'no' for an answer?

     He finds a cafe with a table in a corner in the 
back, and sits me down with my back to the wall. He sits 
down across from me, blocking my escape. I slouch in the 
chair, as if it is no matter to me.

     "I don't want a beer," I insist.

     "Bon," he replies, and orders us coffee, instead.

     We sit in silence until the coffee comes. Rene does 
a little ritual that I remember from a lunch we had a few 
months before Don died--milk, stirred in slowly, no 
sugar. I leave mine black and untouched. Rene makes no 
remark on that. He is waiting for me to break down and 
tell him everything, I can tell. As if. Does he have 
three days?

     Rene sips at his cup as I watch the minute hand on 
the cafe clock crawl up the wall. "Did you have a fight 
with Joe Dawson?" he asks.

     "What makes you say that?" I reply casually. I feel 
lightheaded. If I drank that coffee, I would be bouncing 
off the ceiling.

     "The bartender left the door open. I heard 
shouting."

     "Just a small dispute over my bill." I shrug. "It's 
a perennial thing."

     "And over me, yes?" He watches me over his cup.

     "Why would we be fighting over you?" Fuck you, Rene.

     "You think that I am here because he asked me to 
come."

     "Aren't you?" I put one boot up on a chair. Let him 
think that is a challenge.

     "No," he says. Yeah, right.

      "He called you, didn't he?" I say acidly.

     Rene sets the cup in its saucer, the coffee half 
gone. "No. He called a colleague, whom he asked for 
advice. He said that a friend of his (he did not name 
you) was depressed. He was worried that the way he was 
helping his friend was making it worse. My colleague 
assured him that was not true. He said that he would 
contact Joe again, to see how this 'friend' was. Then, he 
called me. It was I who decided to come see you."

     "You knew it was me? I thought you said Joe didn't 
give you my name?"

     "He didn't. He said you were a Watcher, that you had 
lost some friends, one recently, and that you were a 
widower. Joe does not have many close friends. I know you 
both. It was not difficult to guess. Joe would never 
betray you, Adam."

     I glare at him. "You're here, aren't you?"

     He doesn't smile, or get angry. Nothing I can use to 
make a scene and storm out. "Is that a bad thing?"

     "Yes."

     "Why?" I play with my spoon. Maybe I should drink 
this stuff after all. I dump some sugar in. "Why is that 
bad, Adam?"

     "There's nothing wrong with me," I say. "I just need 
to get out of town for a few months."

     "A few months, or a few years?" I don't answer. It 
is an unsafe question. "Would you like my professional 
opinion?"

     "No." This coffee isn't that bad, after all, if you 
pile in a mound of sugar.

     "Tant pis." He leans forward, folding his hands. 
"You are clinically depressed. You are suffering from 
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, brought on by multiple 
traumatic events. You suffered a psychotic breakdown in 
May 1998, when you were hospitalised with acute mania 
after a suicide attempt. I contacted the hospital in 
Seacouver. They were very happy to hear that you are 
still alive. Are you happy to still be alive? Do I need 
to continue?"

     "No," I say thickly. I don't explain which question 
I am answering. "So, I'm destined for Bedlam, am I?" 
Funny, I don't feel like running anymore. Or fighting. I 
am so tired.

     "No. Not if you stay here." He seems to be examining 
me for cracks. "Your illness is curable. You do not have 
to suffer for the rest of your life."

     "And you can help me? Why would you help me? Why 
should I trust you?"

     "If you run," he continues, as if he hadn't heard 
me, "you will eventually collapse in a place where you 
have no friends, and you will end up in another hospital 
like Seacouver General. Do you want that?"

     "Are you kidding?" I laugh. I stop. This isn't 
funny. "I don't trust you."

     "You don't have to trust me. You don't have to 
accept me as your therapist, either. That is up to you. 
Do you trust Joe?"

     "What?" Shaken, I stare into my coffee. "I don't 
know."

     "Adam, look at me." I stare at the table. "Look at 
me, Adam." Fine. Whatever. I look up into his eyes. How 
can these Mortal children still scare me? He holds my 
life in his hands. "Joe is your friend. I know you worry. 
What if he dies, too? What if he betrays you? Then, you 
lose him, maybe. But if you run, you will lose him. Sans 
doute. Here is my advice: go back and talk to him. Listen 
to him. Him, you need. Me..." Rene shakes his head. 
"Maybe not. But he is your friend. I am your friend, too; 
I think you forget that. If you remember, you have my 
number. Did you keep it?"

     I nod. "I thought the paper might make a halfway 
decent paper airplane."

     Rene snorts. At least he has a sense of humour about 
it. He drains his coffee and stands up, throwing a few 
Euros on the table. "Take my advice, Adam. Go see Joe. 
The rest you can think about--when you are not so 
worried, yes? Bonne chance." He nods to me and turns 
away, going straight the door and out into the street. He 
doesn't look back.

     He is a smart bastard, to leave me hanging. I'll 
give him that. The question is, I suppose, can I trust 
him?

     Or maybe it's: can I trust Joe? I don't know. Is 
that even an option? I want to trust him. I want that 
option. I'm so tired, so tired of being afraid. The bank 
is so close. Will it crumble under me if I try to climb 
up it? But if I don't, I'll drown, so I don't have much 
choice. I need to trust somebody; I'd prefer it be Joe. I 
guess that will have to be enough.

     I am still there, my coffee gone stone cold in front 
of me, when the cafe staff throw me out at closing time.


***********


     Amy sensed something was wrong the moment she 
stepped into the bar. It was late afternoon, yet the sign 
outside said "Closed". Inside, Joe sat near the stage, 
playing his guitar alone. He stared at the floor and 
didn't seem to notice her.

     "Joe?" She stepped forward, unsure of his mood. He 
had never given her cause to fear his temper, but she had 
seen him tear a strip off an obstreperous customer or 
two. He did not suffer fools at all, let alone gladly. 
"Joe," she called more loudly when he did not respond. He 
looked up and stopped playing. Now that she was close 
enough, she saw that his eyes were red, as though he had 
been crying. "What's wrong?"

     "Hi, Amy. I didn't hear you come in." His American 
accent always startled her a bit. He had not turned out 
to be what she had either hoped or feared her biological 
father would be. She was getting used to that.

     "What's wrong, Joe?" she asked gently.

      "Nothing." Joe wiped his face with his sleeve, 
giving the lie to his denial.

     "What happened? Are you still upset over MacLeod 
being such a horse's arse last night?" Joe blinked. He 
needed a second opinion on that. Being friends with your 
assignment was one thing--Joe was the king of Watcher 
rule-breakers--but being his doormat was a different 
story. "I thought you handled it perfectly well, all the 
way down the line. If MacLeod wants to run off in a snit, 
that is his problem. He will almost certainly be back."

      "It's not Mac," Joe said, surprising her, both with 
the admission and the information that something else was 
wrong. "It's Ben. I--we had a fight. Sort of. Mostly, he 
screamed at me. Then he peeled rubber out of here. I 
don't know where he is or what he's doing or if he's even 
on the same planet as the rest of us." He sniffed.

     "You and Ben had a fight?" Amy repeated this half to 
herself. "But you two never fight." It seemed 
unbelievable. Those two loved each other.

     Joe looked startled. "But, we always fight."

     "No. You squabble. You bicker. You even snipe. You 
never fight." Of this, she was quite certain. "Could this 
be some sort of misunderstanding?"

     Joe hung his head. "Oh, there was no 
misunderstanding. I don't think he's coming back."

     "What did you do?" She couldn't imagine either of 
them letting anything get in their way. Siamese twins 
were further apart.

     "Um...I'd rather not say; it would make things 
worse. Let's just say that I screwed up. Well, 
technically, I didn't screw up, but he saw it that way, 
and I can't blame him." Joe ran a hand through his hair. 
"He's probably halfway to Kathmandu by now."

     Amy hugged him. "He will come back, Joe. I promise 
that he will. There is no way that he will simply leave 
things like this. He will come back, if only to yell at 
you some more."

     Joe put an arm around her waist and leaned his head 
against her. "That's not his style, honey, trust me. The 
last sound you hear from him in a fight is the sound of 
the door slamming. That's if your lucky."

     "Well, maybe if you're really lucky, he'll have 
forgotten his car keys." That got a laugh out of him.

     "Yeah, maybe," he admitted. "You never know." 


***********


     Mary sat in the small chapel, staring past the 
closed coffin at the crucifix above the altar. She wasn't 
even sure it was really her mother in there. Annie had 
cursed her many times, saying, "You are no child of mine! 
I never bore you! I could never bear a cripple!" Perhaps 
this was simply another lying stranger. No one had asked 
her to identify the body, No one wanted her to look in 
the coffin.

     "Try to remember your mother as she was when she was 
alive," the undertaker told her. Whyever would she want 
to do that? As soon as they all left her alone with the 
coffin, she opened it. It was not as bad as she had 
imagined, but her mother was certainly dead. The 
undertaker could not hide that. All Mary felt was relief. 
She would go to Hell for it, but she was glad her mother 
was dead. She had no idea where she would go or what she 
would do now, but whatever lay ahead of her, it had to be 
better than living with Annie Lembede. Uncle Jacob had 
died before she could properly get to know him. She had 
loved her Auntie Mary, but after Auntie had died, her 
mother had come to demand her back. For a long time, Mary 
resented her foster family for turning Annie Lembede 
away. The woman was her mother, after all. That was 
before she found out that living with her mother was a 
long series of tantrums and tears. As soon as she was old 
enough, Mary went looking for her mother. She had 
regretted it ever since.

     Mary had loved her auntie, who took her in at birth, 
gave her her own name after her mother had abandoned her, 
and treated her as one of her own children. She did not 
know what she felt for her 'real' mother but it was not 
love. She stood up, went to the casket, and opened it, 
just to make sure. Yes, her mother was still dead. No 
more screaming. No more rages. No more insults.

     The door opening in the chapel behind her startled 
her, making her let fall the coffin and turn to see who 
it was. The man who entered the room was tall, black, in 
his forties and dressed elegantly in a suit and coat. He 
walked right up to her and held out his hand. She noticed 
that he wore a tattoo on his wrist like Uncle Jacob.

     "Mary Lembede?" he asked. His accent was soft, 
American.

     "Yes?" Forcing down hesitation, she reached out to 
shake his hand. He had a firm grip. She would like to 
learn how to do that. "Who are you?"

      He smiled, with no apparent offense. Her mother 
would have slapped her for the impertinence. "My name is 
David Gabrieli. I am a colleague of your Uncle Jacob and 
Aunt Mary."

     "You knew them?" What was this man? Was he like 
Uncle Jacob and Auntie Mary? "But, you are American. How 
could you know them? They never left South Africa in 
their entire lives."

     "Our group is old, Mary. It spans many borders." 
Gabrieli pulled up his sleeve, showing her a dark purple 
tattoo. "Do you recognise this symbol?"

     "No," Mary lied. It was just like Uncle Jacob's. The 
man made her nervous--but she still wanted to know more.

     "Your Uncle Jacob wore one as well. I doubt he 
showed it in public." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Why 
don't we go someplace and talk about this over a meal," 
he said kindly, as she flinched at the rare human touch. 
"I have a job offer to discuss with you."

     She left the chapel with him. In truth, she had 
nowhere else to go.


*********


     The bar is not picky about its clientele, but the 
bouncers are willing to make an exception for me. Each 
one getting a grip on one of my elbows, they haul me to 
the door and boot me out into the alleyway. I crawl over 
to the wall and pull myself to my feet. The wall stinks 
of piss and vomit.

     "Allez vous faire foutre! Et vos meres, aussi!" I 
shout back into the hole of a bar. Content with my 
parting shot, I stagger out into the street. It is darker 
than it was when I started drinking. No fear. I have 
money and my sword, enough to get me home.

     Joe hates flying. He shouts at me to slow down as we 
strafe fields and hills and rivers in the jet. This is 
the way to raid. Horses are much too slow. Joe thinks we 
are flying too low, despite the excitement of trees and 
grass flitting past. He is frightened. Impatient with his 
nagging, I yank on the joystick. For once, he falls 
silent--out of fear or wonder, I don't know or care. The 
plane glides straight up into the sky, higher and higher, 
until we seem to balance on its fins, suspended in the 
blue. And then we fall back into a flat spin. The 
joystick won't respond. Joe is screaming and as the 
ground comes up at us, I see that I have killed us both.

     The sun is blinding, beating down on the red mud. I 
suck down warm beer. The bottle of Trent-Trois seems 
always almost empty, yet never runs dry. It is really too 
hot to stay in the truck, but I feel no urge to leave. I 
am in the driver's seat and there I will stay.

     Over six solid feet of muscle and madness, he 
appears at my elbow, grinning over the door--the local 
fou. Every town needs a resident drunk or nutter, I 
suppose, especially Batouri, with its uneasy mix of mud 
brick and neon.

     "Je te connais!" he shouts happily, grabbing my arm. 
"Tu es le Roi des Bandits!"

     I glance at him sidelong, before taking another 
spit-warm swig of beer. "C'est vrai, mon frere," I agree 
solemnly. "Tu es vraiment sage de voir ca." As I watch 
him caper down the street, joyful at his discovery, I 
wonder why I feel so lost.

     "Caspian wishes to have a word, Brother." Kronos 
peers over my shoulder at the designs on the hospital 
wall: maps of terrain, projections of enemy movements, 
concentric circles of increasingly elaborate raids. It is 
difficult to write precise lines on the leather without 
piercing it or smearing the pencil all over the panel. I 
have to concentrate, my head pressed against the padded 
wall as I etch out the designs inside my head. The images 
hang before my eyes, flickering across a transparent 
screen superimposed on the world. It is harder since 
Caspian broke my Walkman. I need my music to smooth out 
the flow.

     "Did you hear me, Brother?" I stay silent. He often 
leaves me be if I do not respond. Thwarted, he goes away. 
The designs absorb me once more until he returns with 
Caspian. I turn, sighing to myself. I cannot concentrate 
with that fool in the room; he gibbers. He spits in 
defiance but doesn't approach me, at first, too afraid of 
me. Kronos nudges him forward.

     "Go ahead," he tells Caspian. "Tell him what you 
told me." Caspian cringes, shrinking from the small walls 
of the cell. Then, he sucks in a breath, inhaling courage 
with air, and stares me in the face.

     "You shouldn't be in charge anymore," he declares. 
"Only lunatics can run this asylum and I'm madder than 
all of you." He draws himself up until he is nearly as 
tall as I am. "I eat babies for breakfast, with ketchup. 
I should be in charge."

     I consider him, my face blank. He is a little man 
with little dreams. He is nothing. Calmly, I lift my hand 
to my mouth and bite down hard on my fingers. As Kronos 
and Caspian watch, open-mouthed, I eat my own fingers.

     When I reach the second knuckle, I stop eating and 
turn back to my designs. The blood is easier to use than 
the pencil, though it does drip. I ignore the pain. I do 
not hear Caspian leave, but at my back Kronos sighs.

     "You win, Brother," he whispers. "Again."

     I wake up fighting my quilt, in which I have 
cocooned myself. Sunlight shines in my eyes. I roll over, 
groaning. I have the worst headache. Where have I got 
myself to? I see a map of Tibet on the wall, an alarm 
clock on the night stand. I am in my apartment. How did I 
get here? Did I call a taxi? Did someone carry me home? 
Where is my cat? My cat. Right. I remember now. Silas ran 
away. Couldn't stand me anymore. Joe? Oh, no. Oh, Joe. We 
had that fight over his journal. I got him killed in my 
dream; it was so vivid. And my hand.... I yank my right 
hand out from under the quilt and hold it up in front of 
my face, staring at it, feeling it. I cannot shake the 
feeling of biting into it, the taste of my own blood and 
bone. How could I have been that insane?

     *Joe is your friend.* Shut up, Rene. *If you run, 
you will lose him. Sans doute.* No. Nonono. I have to 
talk to Joe. Joe wouldn't let me eat my own fingers. He 
wouldn't let me hurt myself. I don't want to lose him 
over that bloody chronicle. I sit up. I have to...I have 
to throw up. I lie back down and hold my head.

     After the sunlight has left the bed, I try again. 
This time, I can get up--if I'm careful. I am still fully 
clothed, sword and all. I reek of alcohol, which makes 
the nausea worse. I need a shower. Then I will call Joe.

     As I stagger for the bathroom, I notice the door. It 
has been closed and locked; anyone could have done that. 
But only one person could have shoved the chair up under 
the doorknob. That is my subconscious telling me that I 
did this all to myself.


*********


Sunday

The Devil went down to Georgia.
He was lookin' for a soul to steal.
He was in a bind, 'cause he was way behind,
And he was willing to make a deal....


     I blame myself for what happened next. When Mac 
walked in I was ready for every Immortal I had ever known 
to walk back out. You'd been gone since yesterday by 
then. It's safe to say that you'd left skidmarks on your 
way out the door. I couldn't blame you--not after you 
read this chronicle, and found out about that shrink. I'm 
sorry, okay? I did not know that they were gonna send 
down some guy to spy on you, on both of us. Give me a 
break, here. You're one step ahead of me; I haven't even 
met the guy yet!

     I was scared. I was angry. For all I knew, you'd 
already found some helpful Immortal to whack you. Then, 
Mac walked in. I'd better tell you the rest.

    I'll give him credit; Mac tried to make it look 
natural as he got himself a stool and pulled it up to the 
bar. He leaned his arms on the counter, tried on a smile. 
It looked thin. I didn't smile back.

     "Hey," he said.

     "Hey." My reply was as neutral as I could make it, 
so it came out a little cold. "Scotch?"

    Mac nodded. "Yeah, sure." I got him the scotch and 
handed it over. After that, I backed up against the 
liquor rack and waited. Call it entrenching my position.

     Mac stayed quiet for a few minutes, sipping the 
scotch and licking his lips. I could tell he was trying 
to figure out some diplomatic way to start the 
conversation. I wish I could say that I was sympathetic, 
but I wasn't. I was still too raw from you screaming in 
my face. I don't blame you. I know how freaked out you 
were, but it didn't stop my gut getting all twisted up 
over it. I just wanted Mac to go home and try again 
another day.

     "How's it going?" he said finally. Stop laughing. 
Quirky conversation ain't his thing, and you know it.

     "It's been a busy week," I replied, still shooting 
for neutral.

     "I suppose that's one way of putting it," Mac 
admitted. He sipped more scotch. "How's Methos?"

    I shrugged. "He's had better weeks, too, but his 
cat's home from the vet and Keane hasn't tried to whack 
him, yet. Considering the past couple of months, I guess 
he's doing okay."

    "Yeah, um, about Keane." He swallowed. "I'm sorry 
about that. I can pay for the damages."

     "Ah. Don't worry about it." I waved it off. "It was 
just a table and a few glasses. I don't think anybody 
really expected you to be happy about seeing Keane 
again." This, I had to admit, was true. "Must have been a 
shock to see him walk in."

     He laughed, though he didn't sound too amused. 
"Yeah, you could say that."

     "I'm sorry about that." And I was, too. "That didn't 
exactly go according to plan. I thought you'd be out of 
town, or something. I did try to call you."

     He sighed. "I just thought you should meet Kate. I 
suppose I should have given you more warning. Do you have 
any idea what Keane wants with Methos, anyway?"

     "As far as I can tell, Mac, he wants pretty much the 
same thing you wanted." A teacher. Not that Mac would 
ever admit that.

    He grinned. "What, an arrogant pain in the ass who 
takes over your house and drinks all your beer?"

     I smiled back and relaxed a little. Maybe it would 
turn out okay, after all. I should have known better.

     "Something like that," I said. "Let's just say that 
he's on a not-so-shallow learning curve regarding all 
things Methosian right now." You don't mess around. You 
may be cagey, but you're not a liar and you're no cheat. 
Keane asked for an education and by God, that's what 
you've been giving him. "Keane may be a son of a bitch, 
but he's as honest as you, as far as I can tell. Besides, 
he actually seems to like the Old Man. I think it'll be 
okay. Screwball, but okay."

     "So, Keane was his stalker after all?"

     The question seemed casual but there was a hook in 
it. It took me by surprise. "Uh, no. That person turned 
out to be some Mortal he'd met in South Africa. She got 
him lynched a few years back. Seems she was a little 
surprised to find him alive and well and living in Paris. 
That's probably why she put him in the hospital trying to 
poison him."

     "I see." Mac stared into his scotch. "That's not 
good."

     "No. It's not. But since it's all over now and both 
Methos and the cat are fine, that doesn't matter." I 
folded my arms and glowered at him. The conversation was 
going somewhere real bad real fast, and I wanted to know 
what that destination was.

     Mac looked up at me. "I heard on the news this 
morning that a young woman from South Africa was killed 
at St Genevieve Hospital in a fall."

     "Yeah? So?" I didn't like this game. "And you 
thought Methos was involved in some way?"

     "I've been keeping an eye out for any suspicious 
deaths, lately, just in case," Mac said.

     "'Just in case'?! What are you talking about?" I 
couldn't believe it--he was talking as though you were 
some kind of serial killer.

     "Methos is sick, Joe," Mac said gently, damn him. 
"And you just said that this woman was a threat to him. 
We both know what happens to anybody who threatens 
Methos."

     "Well, if he can walk away, he does, even when it 
makes him look like a coward. Doesn't sound like a cold-
blooded killer to me." I wished Mac would walk away more 
often. I could think of a few people who would still be 
alive.

    "He didn't walk away from Atticus." Mac had that sad, 
conflicted look he got before he killed Ingrid. I could 
see him working himself up for another mercy head-
whacking. He didn't seriously think I was gonna just 
stand by and let him do it, did he?

     "He didn't get a chance to walk away from Atticus," 
I said. "Not this time. Stop throwing that in his face. 
So he's crazy right now. You've been crazy, too. Nobody 
took your head."

     "He's dangerous like this, Joe." Jesus wept. That is 
just what you told me.

     I set my jaw. "Where do you get off judging whether 
he has the right to get his own back when somebody hurts 
him? Anyway, she didn't 'fall' Mac, she jumped, and she 
took Methos with her."

     He looked skeptical. "Are you sure about that?"

     "I was standing right there when they found the two 
of them at the bottom of that stairwell, Mac. Yeah, I am 
very sure."

     Mac picked up his glass, considered the remaining 
contents and then drank them down. "Well, then, I guess 
it must be true." Of course he'd assume that I was 
protecting you.

     I grabbed my cane and came around the bar. This was 
the kind of conversation that you have face to face. "Are 
you trying to say that Methos pushed her? He didn't. When 
we found them, she still had a deathgrip on his shirt and 
the knife they found nearby had her fingerprints all over 
it. She wanted him dead and she did a whole lot to make 
sure it happened." We were eye to eye by then. Mac was 
holding his own, but I could see I was making him 
uncomfortable. Good.

    "Joe, you can't keep defending people when they've 
done something like this--even when they're your 
friends." I really hate when he tries to be "reasonable".

     "'People?'" I snarled back. "Are we talking about 
Methos here, or Cord?" He turned pale at that. I kept 
going. "I noticed that we sure got to hear Charlie's side 
of it all the way down the line, but Cord?" I shook my 
head. "Nah. He was just a bad guy who needed to get taken 
out, right? Is that what you're thinking with Methos? You 
looking for a good reason to make him the bad guy, too?"

     Mac tried to scramble for higher moral ground. "Joe, 
he's sick. If he's going around killing--"

     "He's not! I just told you; she tried to kill him, 
not the other way around!"

     He shook his head, like I was a stupid, little kid. 
"Joe, you don't get involved, you know that. Watch and 
record, but never interfe--"

     Okay. Now, I know you're laughing. Stop it. I know I 
shouldn't have hit him, but you should've heard him 
standing there, quoting the Watcher Oath at me, of all 
people. As it was, I didn't get in a good whack upside 
his head, the way I intended, though I did connect. If 
he'd just stood there and let me hit him, it might not 
have turned out so bad. Unfortunately, guys with 
centuries of martial arts training don't "just let" you 
do anything to them. Though maybe you'd have let me, but 
then, you know better. Mac was startled, he reacted. He 
stepped to one side, grabbed the cane, and down I went, 
flat on my back. That's when it got ugly, because just as 
Mac grabbed the cane, I heard you say from the door, 
"Hey, Joe! I'm back."

     After that, it was like a time glitch, some science 
fiction thing. I was lying on the floor looking up at 
Mac, who was standing with his back against the bar. And 
there you were, the Bastard shoved up under Mac's chin. 
Mac's head was pressed up, his back arched over the 
counter, a little blood trickling down his neck. No 
transition.

     "Methos," he wheezed. He stopped when you raised the 
Bastard.

    "No," you said firmly. You sounded like a dad telling 
his kids to stop bugging the monkeys at the zoo. You were 
shivering, and your breathing was almost as fast and 
shallow as Mac's. If I didn't do something real quick, 
you'd take his head.

     I pushed myself up onto my elbows. "Methos, stop!" 
You didn't let up, but you didn't press any harder. You 
were doing just what I said. "It's okay, Old Man," I 
forged on. "It was just a misunderstanding. Put the sword 
down. Come on."

     You lowered the sword to a defensive position and 
backed away towards me. Mac came down off his toes, 
gasping and rubbing his neck. "Methos, what the f--"

     "Mac, go," I said, before he could get anything out 
that would set you off again. I was beginning to see why 
Kronos liked having you cover his back way back when. Mac 
hesitated. "*Go*, Mac."

     He went--reluctantly, I hoped. I tried not to let 
myself think that he might never come back as he paused 
at the door, then opened it and left. I didn't relax 
until you did, slowly putting the Bastard back in its 
scabbard (whose tip hung a few inches under your jacket, 
almost to your knee--you need another coat, Old Man). I 
knew you wouldn't do that until Mac's Buzz was gone.

     Your shoulders slumped and you let out a big sigh. 
When you turned around, you seemed fine. You crouched 
down next to me and helped me up into a chair. "Joe, what 
happened?"

     "Nothing dramatic," I said. "I hit Mac and he 
knocked me on my ass, basically."

     "I see." Your tone indicated that you didn't at all. 
"Is there something that I should know about? You two 
seem to have been a bit tense around each other all 
week."

     I sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I think maybe you should. Go 
get that bottle of bourbon I keep for special occasions 
out of the cabinet and a couple of glasses. This is a 
real long story and it doesn't have what I'd call a happy 
ending." It was time to tell you about Cord.


*********


     "Mac killed Cord even though you asked him not to?" 
I ask Joe. "After you told him all about how Cord had 
humped you 16 miles to a hospital after you lost your 
legs in Vietnam?" Damn. No wonder Joe hit him.

     Joe nods. "I can see why he did it. I mean, Cord 
killed Charlie--"

     "After Charlie shot Cord down in the street, wasn't 
it? Or did I get the timing wrong on that one?"

     "It was at the airport," Joe says testily. "Do you 
ever listen to me?"

     "Do you ever listen to me?" I can see him grinding 
his teeth. I grin and get him another beer, grabbing one 
for myself. I feel mellow for the first time in months, 
far, far better than this morning (I don't want to figure 
out why). I'm gonna need a taxi at the end of this bull 
session. Joe really needs to talk.

     "Cord murdered Charlie's wife, Mara," Joe says. "I 
can see why he was angry."

     "And our authority on this was...no, let me guess. 
Was it Charlie, by any chance?" Joe grimaces. "Ah." I 
slouch down in my chair and clasp my hands over my belly, 
which still hurts. "Would you like to know what I would 
have done?"

     "Not really," Joe mutters into his beer.

     "Too bad. First, I would have whacked Charlie. The 
guy sounds as though he was a loose gear and I figure he 
would have gone after you as soon as he found out you and 
Cord were buddies and he'd taken care of Cord. Best to 
nip that one at the root. Then, if Cord had continued the 
way he did, I would have whacked him."

     Joe snorts. "That's just peachy, Old Man. That would 
have really improved things."

     "Yes, it would have improved things. Cord was using 
you; you felt you owed him and he agreed with you. Bad. 
Very bad. He'd have got you killed, you know, covering 
his ass." To be honest, I agree with Joe. He did owe 
Cord. But I still think Cord pushed it too far, just like 
Kronos. I think I won't bring that up.

     "It was my decision," Joe says defiantly.

     "Yeah, and it was my decision to lie down on those 
train tracks out in Seacouver, but I wouldn't call it a 
good one. I am beginning to feel thankful to the good 
people of Seacouver General Hospital, even if I cursed 
them to Hell and beyond at the time. You are damned right 
I would have whacked Cord. And then I would have bought 
you a very good bottle of scotch, got you very drunk, and 
hoped that you'd forgive me someday. Which reminds 
me...." Before my good feeling can evaporate, I fish in 
my pocket for the pen and notebook that I bought at the 
little grocery near my house on my way over here and pull 
it out. Opening it up, I hand it over to Joe. I pull my 
hands back and hold them under the table, clenching and 
unclenching them to keep myself from shaking. Maybe this 
wasn't such a good idea. I'm not sure I could have 
managed it without having a couple of beers, first.

     "What is this?" he says, looking confused and 
exhausted. This hasn't been a very good week for him, 
either, I suppose.

     "Just read it." When the shakes subside, I put my 
arms on the table and lean my chin on my fists. I can 
wait.

     He reads through it slowly. Since he is thoroughly 
literate in English, I assume that he's reading it more 
than once. Or perhaps my handwriting is worse than I 
thought. I feel a momentary vertigo, as though I am 
tipping over a cliff, unsure if I will have a soft 
landing.

     "Methos," he says, shaking his head, "this is what, 
some kind of will?"

     "It is just what it says it is. I am naming you my 
Guardian Advocate, in case I end up on another planet 
again. I am not certain about what we have to do to make 
it legal, but I am sure that an advocate can help us out 
with that this week." There. All done. Can't go back now. 
The shakes come back; I clench my fists harder to stop 
them.

     "I-I don't know what to say." Joe runs a shaking 
hand through his hair, which has turned so white now. I 
have almost made him speechless. "Do you realise what 
you're asking me to do, what you are letting me do?"

     I rub the bridge of my nose. My eyes ache. "I am not 
'letting' you do anything. I am asking you for a favour. 
I know that it is a big favour. I know that it is a 
favour which entails much risk for both of us, but I am 
still asking you."

    "But why? Why me?" He looks bewildered. He moves 
restlessly in his chair, as if he wants to get up and 
run. Can't blame him there. I do, too.

     "Because the alternative is unthinkable?" I look at 
him hopefully. "Please? I don't want this to fall to 
someone random. I want to know who it would be. I do not 
want to end up in some new version of Sanctuary--or 
worse."

     "I thought you didn't trust me, Old Man." Bloody 
Hell, Joe. Don't cry.

     I sit up, squelching a sudden urge to run screaming 
out the door. "I did trust you; that was why I was so mad 
at you. Anyway, I ran into that shrink again, the one 
from Sean Burn's place, after I left here and we had a 
little talk. He seems all right, but I certainly do not 
trust him. I would rather trust you--if I have to make a 
choice, that is. This way, I only have to trust one 
person. I can live with that. Maybe. I think." I cover my 
eyes with my hand. "Please, Joe. Just say yes before I 
lose my nerve."

    He stares down at the paper and sniffs, rubbing his 
eyes. I have deliberately picked a notebook similar to 
his chronicle; does he notice? I couldn't resist the 
snipe. Now, I am beginning to regret it; he does deserve 
better. He picks up the pen and signs the paper. When he 
hands it to me, I sign and date it, then give it back to 
him before I can think of a way to torpedo the entire 
idea. I hope my parachute opens soon.

     "We'll have to find a lawyer to make it legal," he 
says. His eyes are red. This is a good beginning. I've 
just made my best friend cry. At least it shows he cares.

    "I know," I say. "But this was still the hardest 
part." What an understatement! Now that I've done it, I 
feel a strange sort of relief, even if my heart is 
pounding. It has been so long since I have had a brother 
to watch my back.


*********


     I can't take care of a 5000-year-old man; I can 
barely take care of myself! First Amy, now you. Or maybe 
it was the other way around.... God. Oh, God. I'm not 
ready for this kind of responsibility. I got through the 
paper-signing part before I started bawling like a little 
kid. With no expression on your face, you went and got 
the bar towel. You came back and handed it to me without 
a word. I wiped my face and blew my nose. Might as well. 
If it stank of stale beer, it needed a wash. I needed to 
talk to Jerry about bar hygiene.

     It's like being handed a Living Will and being told, 
"You're in it". Mom said once, "Joe, when the time comes, 
you'll do the right thing, won't you?" Thank God that 
when she went, she went fast, like Dad. Dropped dead on 
her way out to get the paper. Uncle Frank called me in 
Paris and asked me what to do. I had to come home and 
arrange everything. I don't think I told you about that. 
It was right after Mac killed Horton and I wasn't doing 
much talking to anybody at the time. Horton. I can't call 
him 'James' anymore. I know you wouldn't. You were always 
nice about it, never said anything, but you never liked 
him, did you? You liked Cath, even when she stopped 
talking to me for a few years, but never him. Something 
about him put you off. Or maybe it was that she was 
family, my sister, and he wasn't. Boy, he really screwed 
us all in the end, didn't he?

     I hope you'll understand, someday, why Don and I did 
what we did.

     I folded up the paper. "Let's put this somewhere 
safe," I said. Yeah, like hiding it away was gonna make 
it disappear. Didn't work too well for my chronicle on 
you, did it? You know what? I'm switching to dictation 
from now on. I can always write it down later and 
meanwhile, you can't skip through it looking for the 
juicy stuff. 

     Not that you made any protest when I got up. You 
just followed me out back, still silent. Think you ran 
out of words for once. I hesitated in the door of the 
office, wondering how I was gonna hide it with you right 
there, but you just wandered out into the back storeroom, 
bless you. You understood. I hid the paper in the new 
hiding place for the chronicle (took Jerry and me an hour 
to clean the place up) then hurried out after you.

     You were wandering around the boxes, your breath 
showing--it was a pretty cold day outside and the 
storeroom was unheated. I spotted the place for the "care 
packages" I'd made up for you when you were so sick. One 
case of beer was still there. I had Jerry make it up last 
week.

     "Hey," I said, pointing at it. "You want that? I 
made it up for you."

     You looked surprised. "Yeah? You sure?"

     I nodded. "Keep it. It's no problem."

     You shrugged and went over to crouch next to the 
case. You ran your hand over it. "What is this stuff?" 
you said. You held your fingers up to your face and 
sniffed. The next moment, you were spitting and coughing, 
backing away from the case as if you had touched some 
giant spider. I watched in amazement as you reached for 
the Bastard.

     "What the Hell are you doing?" I said.

     "That smell...that's what poisoned me." You stared 
at me accusingly. I could see us both on the edge of 
something real bad all of a sudden. "You said you made 
that case up."

     "No," I said slowly. "Jerry made up the last few."

     You cursed creatively. At least, I think it was 
creative since it wasn't anything I recognised. I got the 
gist, though. I approached the case with caution. There 
was a dark, shiny stain on it. It was smeared, as if 
somebody had wiped it off. It looked like it had soaked 
through onto at least some of the bottles. I stared at 
it, puzzled.

     What is that?" I said.

     You came up behind me. I shivered involuntarily when 
you put your chin on my shoulder. At least it wasn't your 
sword.

     "The smoking gun?" you said, too brightly, in my 
ear.

     "Stop that!" I snapped. "You're creeping me out." 
You backed off and came up beside me, leaning against the 
wall, arms folded. You'd gone with the 'no expression' 
look again.

     I looked above the case. There was just a small 
cabinet on the wall. The same stain spilled out of it. I 
opened the cabinet. Inside, cleaning supplies were set up 
neatly on the shelf, nothing directly on the stain. 
Nothing that looked as though it had spilled, anyway.

     Ah. And what was that in the back? I reached over 
the other bottles and pulled it out. It had a big stain 
down the label.

     "It's drain cleaner. Is this what you smelled?" I 
held the bottle out in front of your face. You snorted 
and batted the bottle down, turning away. "I think 
Jerry's got some explaining to do." Drain cleaner. 
Amazing stuff--will unclog any drain in high doses, 
machine or human. You must have just gotten a diluted 
version of it off the bottles--or maybe your system heals 
so fast, it didn't get down that far.

    "You gonna cover for him?" you asked, your back to 
me. You didn't ask if I meant with you or with the 
Watchers.

     "Hell, no." Even if you weren't my friend, Jerry had 
blown his Oath big time. I flashed on him giving it to me 
in your van, after the showdown with Atticus. I felt sad, 
but that didn't mean I was gonna save the kid's ass if he 
was really behind this. He sure did look guilty. "I want 
to talk to him first, though, make sure this was just 
him, for a start."

     You nodded. "Fair enough. You have a plan?"

     "No. But I'll think of something. We've got until 
three when he shows up for his shift."

     Poor, stupid bastard. Barring a miracle, this was 
gonna be Jerry's last shift, ever.


*********


     Jerry didn't see anybody at the bar when he walked 
in. "Joe?" he called.

     "Back here, kid," Joe called from out in the 
storeroom. Jerry went out through the curtain. "Joe?" he 
said again, feeling uneasy. No big surprise there. He'd 
been feeling jumpy all week. Now, he felt guilty as well. 
He wished Methos hadn't whacked that poor woman, even if 
it did let Jerry off the hook with the poisoning stuff.

     "Jer-ry." The low voice came from behind him. He 
turned to see Methos step from the shadows along the wall 
to block the exit back to the bar. He stood there, in his 
long, dark grey jacket, feet apart and arms hanging 
loosely at his side. He looked like Death personified. 
"You've been a very bad boy, Jerry."

     "Wh-what?" It came out in a squeak. Jerry licked his 
lips with a tongue that felt coated with dry bone dust. 
"What do you mean?"

     "You tried to kill me, you little bastard. You 
damned near killed my cat." Jerry backed away towards the 
office. Methos wandered after him.

     Jerry heard a noise from the office. He half-turned. 
Joe stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane. "Joe, help 
me," Jerry pleaded. "Tell him I didn't do it."

     Joe held up the bottle--that goddamned bottle of 
drain cleaner. Jerry wished he'd never seen the thing. 
"We found it, Jerry," Joe said. "You can stop 
bullshitting us anytime."

     "I don't know what you're talking about." Jerry was 
afraid to retreat as Joe stumped up to him and Methos 
circled behind him, silent as a barracuda.

     "This was all over the case I had you make up for 
Adam," Joe snarled. "And if there's anybody in this bar 
with the motive to do something that sick to him, you are 
it." Joe shoved the bottle in Jerry's face. The strange, 
peppery smell of the drain cleaner was overwhelming. 
Jerry recoiled, but stopped dead as Methos came up behind 
him and put his sword on Jerry's shoulder. Jerry jumped 
and, to his utter humiliation, peed his pants.

     "You think we should make him drink it?" Methos 
purred. "They do say that drain cleaner helps unclog 
those pesky blockages."

     "It's a thought at that," Joe said. He glared at 
Jerry and shook the bottle in his face. "You want a taste 
of your own medicine Jerry?"

     "Oh, please," Jerry squeaked. "Please, it was just 
an accident, I swear. It just spilled. I wiped it off, 
but it must have soaked through."

     "Bullshit," Joe said coldly. Methos grabbed Jerry by 
the shoulders and held the sword to his throat.

     "I don't believe you either," Methos said.

     "No! I swear! It was an accident. I had the cases 
all laid out and when I opened the cupboard to get 
something, the bottle fell out and spilled everywhere. I 
wiped it up right away, really!"

     "But it still got all over the bottles, didn't it, 
Jerry?" Joe said, his face twisted with disgust. "You 
figured you'd just get yourself a little revenge on the 
guy who whacked your best friend is that it?"

     Jerry shook his head, but stopped when Methos 
pressed the sword against his neck. The sharp pain 
terrified Jerry. 

     "Please," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for any of this 
to happen. I was in a hurry and I just let it go. I just 
thought you'd get a stomach ache at worst, that's all. I 
didn't want that woman to die. I didn't want to hurt 
Silas. I *like* cats. I wouldn't do that to a cat. I've 
got a dog. My ex-housemate tried to poison him with wood 
alcohol once. I had to take him to the vet. I know how it 
feels, really. You gotta believe me. If I'd known about 
the cat, I never would have let those cases go through." 
He knew he was babbling now, but he was too panicked to 
stop. He seemed to be outside his own body, watching it 
all go down, badly.

     And then, miraculously, the sword went away and 
Death let go of him. Jerry reveled in the momentary 
feeling of being ignored by all present.

     Joe's anger also seemed to evaporate. He sagged, 
reverting from Man in Black to plain, old Joe. "Are you 
okay?" he asked Methos over Jerry's shoulder.

    "I'm fine." The answer was terse and hostile. "Just 
make him go away."

     Joe looked down at Jerry's pants and shook his head. 
"Go home and get cleaned up, kid. I should report you--
you blew your Watcher Oath right out of the water--but I 
won't. This time."

     Jerry felt his face grow hot with shame. He opened 
his mouth but Joe cut him off. "You won the lottery, kid. 
Don't push it."

     Jerry took the hint for the gift it was, and fled 
back out into the bar.


*********


     Amy was getting used to receiving text messages from 
Joe at this point. This one said, "Come to the bar when 
you can," which meant right away. Sighing to herself, she 
turned off the mobile and got ready to go out. And she 
had so been enjoying a quiet afternoon to herself. She 
pulled on her coat (Paris was getting cold and wet as it 
slid into winter), carefully sliding the Glock into its 
holster on one side, and a large hunting knife into its 
sheath on the other. The weight balanced out rather well, 
even if the weapons themselves had required some 
rethinking of her wardrobe. She knew that the Watcher 
hierarchy would never approve of her carrying protection 
against her assignments, but she'd been caught out once 
already by an Immortal. She would not allow it to happen 
again. She didn't know if Joe knew about her little 
armoury. He'd never asked.

     When she got to the bar, Joe was waiting for her at 
a table, two glasses and a bottle of whisky in front of 
him. "Hey," he said. "Thanks for coming." He might be 
leaning more on her than usual, but he was courteous 
about it.

     "I don't mind," she said, which was true. "What's 
the matter?"

     Joe poured her a drink as she sat down. "A couple of 
things have come up and I need you to look into them."

     "Do they involve Ben?" Trouble usually did these 
days.

     "More or less." He handed her a glass. "You were 
right, as it turns out. He came back, we talked and we're 
okay again. I guess he just needed to go off and think 
things through overnight." Thank God for that. Being on 
the outs didn't do either of them any good and she had to 
admit she was fond of both of them. "But we still have 
some external stuff coming down the pike. First of all, 
it turns out our poisoner wasn't that woman from South 
Africa, after all. It was Jerry."

     "You're joking." She took the glass and knocked back 
half of it. "Him? He's afraid of his own shadow. He 
wouldn't dare go after Ben."

     "I don't think he did. Seems it was some sort of a 
cross between accidental and opportunistic. Something 
nasty got into Methos' beer care packages. Jerry noticed; 
he just didn't do anything about it."

     "I see. Do we need to do something about him--or 
anyone else?" She felt a bit ill considering the thought. 
Jerry was an idiot, but she had borne him no ill will 
before now.

     Joe shook his head, much to her relief. "Ben and I 
tag-teamed him and gave him a pretty good scare. I don't 
think he's gonna try anything else, but I need you to 
make sure. Can you ride herd on him until he goes off to 
Academy? It'll only be a couple of weeks."

     "Of course." Joe didn't have to ask, being her 
supervisor. He could just give her an order, but he 
wouldn't do it that way, she knew. "What was the other 
thing?"

     Joe narrowed his eyes. "This one is a little 
delicate, kind of an internal matter." And monitoring 
Jerry's movements wasn't? "There's this guy who's shown 
up in Paris--claims to be an old friend of Ben's. He's a 
Watcher named Rene Galbon. I want you to check him out 
and I want you to be real quiet about it. Nobody will 
talk to me these days, but they might to you."

     "This man is a Watcher? Are you saying he knew Ben 
as Adam Pierson?" Joe nodded. "But why show up now?" 

     Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I called 
Sean Burns' place a few weeks back for advice about Ben. 
Galbon's with them."

     "So, he's a psychiatrist." Joe nodded. "Ah. Could he 
really be an old friend of Ben's?"

     "So Ben says. I haven't met him yet."

     Perfect. What a mess. "You're saying that he 
contacted Ben on his own?" 

     "Yeah. Yesterday. I don't like it."

     "Ow." No wonder Joe was unhappy about this. "All 
right, I'll see what I can dig up. What did you find out 
about him in the database?"

     Joe pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket 
and handed it to her. "That he's exactly what he told Ben 
he was: Dr. Rene Galbon, born November 3, 1948 in 
Carcassone, France. Watcher since 1975 when he witnessed 
a Quickening in Marseilles. Clinical psychiatrist since 
1985, specialising in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 
Been working at Sean's place since 1993. He treats both 
Watchers and Immortals."

     She glanced through the paper. "You have a problem 
with that."

     "Let's just say that his Watcher record seems a 
little blank for the late '80s and early '90s when he was 
supposed to be getting to know Ben. I want to know what 
he was up to during that period."

     "All right. I'll get on it right away." She finished 
her drink and stood up. Joe stopped her with a hand on 
her arm.

     "Honey, do me a favour--don't mention this to Ben, 
okay?"

     She stared down at him, puzzled. "Why not? Shouldn't 
we warn him?"

     Joe grimaced. "About what? If Galbon's on the level, 
he might help Ben. I don't want to blow Ben's trust in 
the guy without a reason. And if the guy's not on the 
level...well, Ben probably doesn't trust him, anyway."


*********


     Jerry tried ignoring the phone, but it kept ringing. 
The queue on his answering machine was choked with 
messages. He appreciated Gabrieli's concern and all, but 
he really did not want to talk to the guy.

     "Hello, Jerry? Are you there? Call me back when you 
get in, please. I'm becoming a little concerned." The 
machine clicked off. Jerry turned up the TV and let 
Buford up on the couch. He needed a little boost and 
Buford, tail wagging at getting his way, was happy to 
oblige. At least neither Joe nor Methos had come by, much 
to Jerry's relief. They seemed to be finished with him, 
at least for now.

     Gabrieli had seemed nice enough when he first 
contacted Jerry. At first, Jerry had assumed it was some 
kind of ritual for new Watchers, some post-acceptance 
interview. It had gotten a lot more sinister after Joe 
chewed him out. He didn't know why Joe's own boss was 
leaving him out of the loop, but he sure didn't want to 
get in the middle.

     The phone rang again. The machine clicked on. This 
time, Gabrieli hung up before the beep. Jerry changed the 
channel as Buford settled into the cushions next to him. 
This Watcher stuff had sure not turned out the way he'd 
thought it would.


*********

     M. Gabrieli?" Clarisse knocked on the open door to 
the new Section Head's office. She knew that she was only 
a new intern and that he was busy and important, but he 
also claimed to be available to all who worked in 
Headquarters. She determined to test him.

     Gabrieli glanced up from his computer. He frowned. 
"Yes?"

     Clarisse swallowed and took a deep breath for 
courage. "May I speak to you, Sir? It is somewhat 
urgent."

     "I see." A strange look came over his face as his 
glance fixed on her security badge. "Clarisse Mermet? You 
are with the Methos Chronicles team, aren't you?" She was 
impressed. The previous Head, Jason Anders, had barely 
remembered the names of his own wife and mistress, let 
alone anyone else's. She nodded. "Is this about your 
project?" She nodded again. He indicated a chair. "Well, 
now, please have a seat, Miss, and tell me all about it." 
He spread his hands on his desk and watched her as she 
settled into a chair across from his desk.

     "Sir," she said hesitantly, "we would like your 
guidance on what we should do about the corruptions that 
we have found in some of our records."

     "'Corruptions'? What kind of 'corruptions'?" He 
looked alarmed.

     She stared at him in surprise. "Why, the alterations 
which Adam Pierson made in the records, of course."

     He nodded. "Ah. You mean the glosses."

     "Sir?" she asked, confused.

     "The glosses, Miss. The additions. Not alterations, 
necessarily, from what I understand."

     How could Gabrieli, of all people, not understand 
the irreparable damage that Pierson had done to the 
Methos archives? "But--he changed the records."

     "Yes, he did. And I take that very seriously, Miss 
Mermet. I want your team to make up a list of those 
changes, where and when they have been made and what you 
believe those changes to be. Then, I want you to leave 
those records alone." He folded his hands and leaned 
forward. "I want to be very clear about this, Miss 
Mermet. I want those records to be studied, not 'cleaned 
up'. I do not want them to be 'corrected' further, or 
purged, in any way."

     She stared at him, mouth open. "But, Sir, Pierson 
has corrupted some of these records almost beyond 
recognition."

     Gabrieli cocked his head to one side. "Indeed he 
has. And I want those changes preserved for further 
study--*all* of those changes, do you understand?"

    Stunned, Clarisse could only nod. "Yes, Sir."

     "Good. I think that clarifies things sufficiently. 
Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss 
Mermet." He turned back to his computer. "I am afraid 
that I'm a little busy at the moment. Do you have 
anything further?" He raised one eyebrow.

     "Ah, no. No, Sir." Clarisse stood up. "Thank you, 
Sir."

     "Please let me know if anything else comes up." He 
smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but Clarisse still left 
the Head's office more confused than when she had entered 
it.

 
*********
     

     Oh, I am so tired. Joe suggested I go home and sleep 
for a week. Think I will take him up on that. I am not so 
tired that I forget to close the door behind me as I 
slouch into my apartment. The light on the answering 
machine is blinking. I wonder who that could be? I press 
the button and wait.

     "Hullo, Adam? It's Mac." He sounds awkward, rushed, 
on his way out of town. "Look, I don't understand what 
was going on today, but I wasn't trying to hurt Joe. I 
know it didn't look good but that's the truth." For once, 
I am willing to agree with him on that. He wasn't trying 
to hurt Joe; it has simply become habit. 

     "Kate and I are heading up to Glenfinnan for a few 
weeks. I don't think Joe wants to talk to me right now." 
This is the truth, as well, though personal experience 
has taught me that giving Joe space convinces him that 
you simply don't care.

     "Nor do I want to have to meet you on holy ground 
when I get back, so I'll use you as the messenger, if you 
don't mind." I do mind, but that is the beauty of 
answering machines--you cannot talk back to them.

     "Tell Joe I'll be back in a month or so. I'm not 
leaving forever. I hope you get some help, Methos. You 
need it. Don't let your pride get in the way of getting 
what you need." Look who's talking! "I'll talk to you 
soon." 

     Message and machine click off. You pompous son of a 
bitch. How dare you slap me in the face and run away? Ah, 
well. Perhaps it's best he go for now. He is beginning to 
understand me too well. I suppose he does have a point 
about my being off my game. I am beginning to frighten 
him. I should not have attacked him at the barge in 
September. That was a tactical error. Soon, he will stop 
seeing me as ill and start seeing me as a threat. Then, I 
will have to kill him. But how can I do that, yet stay 
near Joe? He would never forgive me for killing Mac.

     Maybe it is better if Mac leaves. It gives me more 
space to breathe, and I so need space right now. I need 
to be where I don't fear to alarm people. No one wants to 
be friends with a threat, not except for the rare Alexa 
or Joe. It is so hard showing one's throat all the time, 
swallowing rage while the young ones trample my pride so 
thoughtlessly. One Immortal is simple enough to dispatch, 
but they always come in packs.

     Why must I always behave? Why can no one follow my 
rules for a change? If my aged wisdom is so valuable, why 
does everyone ignore it? If Joe wants to keep me around, 
he is going to have to accept that I am not a civilised 
man. No more masks. What frightens me is that he might 
call my bluff. 

     And what about Rene? Should I accept his offer? I 
have never taken the mental breakdown ride with a tour 
guide before. I am not certain that I am ready to start, 
either. It has always been traditional to do 'Look, ma, 
no hands!' and not use any safety harness. Where is the 
fun in bucking tradition? Maybe I can avoid the entire 
thing. I have stopped the slide before. And maybe I am 
ready to let this all hang fire until tomorrow. A shower, 
some Chinese food and a good night's sleep. That is all I 
am ready for tonight.

     The tiny Buzz teases the edge of my senses. Though I 
have been half-expecting it, I don't catch it at first. 
When it grows only a tiny bit, then stops, I start to 
realise who--what it is. A tiny, anxious meow and 
scratching at the door convince me that Silas has come 
back.

     I go to the door and open it. Silas sits in the 
doorway. He stares up at me and mews. "Hello, O cat who 
walks by himself," I tell him, "So, if all places are 
alike to you, what brings you to my humble cave?" 
Disdaining Kipling for Little Friskies, Silas scoots past 
me straight for the feed dish, where he tucks into the 
dry food I put out yesterday in eternal hope. Shaking my 
head, I get him some canned food, then order my own. I 
consider trying a pat on the head. Mmm, no. Best to leave 
it. I retreat, turn on the TV, put in a movie, answer the 
door when the food comes and otherwise pretend not to 
notice the way the tiny Buzz of my cat moves across the 
room to the bed, over to the window, into the bathroom 
and back out. It is a good hour before I feel him at my 
shoulder, purring and kneading the arm of the couch. I 
could swear I smell ozone rising from his fur. What the 
Hell has he been up to? Never mind. I don't care. As soon 
as I put my dishes on the coffee table, he jumps into my 
lap and settles in. So, all is forgiven, after all.

      It is not until Joe wakes me after midnight with 
some ridiculous phone call about leaving his toothbrush 
here, that it sinks in. This Hell week is finally over 
and I am in exactly the position I was in a week ago 
Saturday night. I was bored then. I am not bored now. I 
will take my cat, a takeaway, the couch and a senseless 
chat with Joe, thank you very much, and if that is the 
most excitement that I get in the next month of Saturday 
nights, I will be more than satisfied.


*********


Epilogue

Patient notes of Dr. Rene Galbon:

Joseph (Joe) Dawson:

Age: 54

Current Location: Paris, France.

Nationality: European-American.

Religion: Catholic.

Marital Status: Single.

Children/Dependents: One daughter, Amy Thomas.

Other known family: One sister, one niece.

Current Occupation: Watcher, Bar owner, Blues musician.

Previous Occupations: Soldier--U.S. Marine, Vietnam vet, 
Historian, Book-store manager, field operative in 
longterm, covert surveillance for secret organisation.

Personality traits: Bilateral amputee (war wounds), 
probable Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. "Tribal" in 
nature. Extremely loyal to family and friends over most 
other ethical considerations. Tendency towards 
insubordination and low respect for authority--values 
lateral over hierarchical relationships. Short temper--
occasionally solves problems with violence. Secretive and 
taciturn. Good mediator in disputes, but responds badly 
to abandonment and betrayal. Presents no signs or 
symptoms in need of immediate or longterm treatment. No 
observed pathological or characterological disorders. No 
pets.

Other names: None.

Information sources: Reports, Watcher Council trial 
documents, personal Watcher file, independent observation 
of associated Immortals. (Note: Unreliable source of 
information for certain Immortals.)

Treatment options: Job-related counseling has been 
suggested and refused. Coping skills and relations with 
family and friends within normal parameters. Compulsory 
treatment or intervention contraindicated.

Recommendations: Has strong, beneficial relationship with 
patient. Include in treatment process.


Methos (current identity--Adam Pierson):

Age: 5000+ (unconfirmed).

Current Location: Paris, France.

Nationality: None. Possible Asiatic Celt in origin.

Religion: Unknown (Atheist?).

Marital Status: Married (and widowed?) 68 times.

Children/Dependents: None known.

Other known family: None. Current legal next-of-kin, Joe 
Dawson (possible problems involving hospitalisation?)

Current Occupation: PhD student in Ancient Iranian 
History at the University of Paris--Sorbonne, bookstore 
owner. Current Watcher status uncertain.

Previous Occupations: Watcher, researcher, physician, 
scribe?, slave?, raider?, god?, gladiator, rebel leader, 
pugil?, mercenary?, schoolteacher, monk?, farmer? (others 
unknown).

Personality traits: Strong survival instinct, 
occasionally resulting in amoral or even "immoral" 
behaviour, but also natural risk-taker. Playful nature 
with quick mood changes. Dry, often gallows sense of 
humour. Intensely tribal in nature, particularly 
regarding "familial" relationships. Dislikes unnecessary 
physical activity. Prone to use "quick" solutions 
involving extreme violence. Unusually tolerant of others 
but also extremely dangerous when threatened. Does not 
readily volunteer information about self. Controls social 
interactions by giving ambiguous answers when questioned 
about personal information. Owns one cat.

Issues to be addressed: Recent widower (grief process), 
possible problem drinker, problems with identity, 
recurring depression/suicidal impulses aggravated by 
occasional hallucinatory episodes and acute/delirious 
mania, PTSD, possible Stockholm Syndrome, history of 
longterm, situational psychosis punctuated by extreme 
violence, situational paranoia, feelings of persecution 
(justified by situation), brought on by repeated and 
varied longterm trauma. Problems with trusting others. No 
signs of learned helplessness (on the contrary, patient 
is intensely independent). No apparent characterological 
or organic disorders. No signs of bipolar tendencies, 
sociopathology, psychopathology or Multiple Personality 
Disorder. Recent deterioration in physical condition, 
loss of weight and muscle definition (problems with 
anorexia/bulimia?) indicates self-neglect, possible self-
harming and wish to commit suicide-by-Immortal, a common 
form of self-destruction by depressed persons in 
patient's cultural context.

Tendency to engage in high-risk, short-term sexual 
relationships and to abuse alcohol (other drugs?) when 
under moderate stress. Under extreme stress, patient will 
withdraw from stressful situation entirely, either 
leaving the area and disappearing for months at a time, 
or alternatively, remaining isolated at home for weeks. 
Presents indifference and inappropriate humour when 
pressed on stressful topics. Can become agitated, 
hostile, and even violent under questioning. Patient 
experienced acute psychotic episode in Summer 1998, with 
acute/delirious mania for one week, after prolonged 
alcohol abuse ended in two suicide attempts and police 
protective custody. This resulted in a four-month-long 
hospitalisation that ended with patient's escape (note: 
contact hospital personnel in Seacouver). Patient 
presented signs and symptoms of acute (possibly 
psychotic) depression with self-harming and suicidal 
tendencies following murder of a friend six weeks ago.

Past Precipitating Events: Notable events--thousand year 
period during the Bronze Age spent in family situation 
with three sociopathic personalities (patient was 
possibly in a state of acute mania or psychotic 
depression for much of this period), murder of mentor in 
1995 by man trying to find and kill patient, murder of 
woman in 1996 (possibly by patient, due to her being a 
perceived threat to patient's friends) which may have 
ended patient's 200-year-long hiatus from "The Game", 
murder of therapist in front of patient by friend 
suffering from acute psychosis in 1996, death of wife in 
1996 from cancer, identity stolen by rival (who was 
subsequently murdered, possibly by patient?) in 1997, 
possible kidnap by Bronze Age family members resulting in 
their deaths in 1997 (possibly murdered by patient), 
murder of a friend by another friend in 1997, witness to 
the murder of friend's student by friend in 1997. 

Current Precipitating Event: Murder of a friend six weeks 
ago.

Other names: Adam Pierson, Ben Adams, Benjamin Adamson, 
Methuselah?, Matheus Pugilus?, Death on a Horse, The 
Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, Godfrey de Bouillon?, 
Spartacus, zi-Mezena Methos, Vercingetorix?, Ahriman? 
(others unknown).

Information sources: Reports (highly unreliable), 
personal Watcher file (also highly unreliable), patient 
files of Dr. Sean Burns, historical documents (uncertain 
provenance, may have been altered by patient), 
independent observation of associated Immortals 
(ambiguous information, multiple interpretations), 
medical file from St Genevieve Hospital in Paris, police 
arrest report from Seacouver, Washington, USA (original 
missing--summary available), medical file from Seacouver 
County General psychiatric ward (recently obtained).

Diagnosis: PTSD brought on by extreme, longterm, repeated 
stress. Presents as acute psychotic depression and acute 
mania (possibly circular type), acute anxiety and 
agitation, substance abuse, risk behaviours. This may be 
a longterm pattern. Grief and possible identity and trust 
problems.

Treatment options: Psychotherapy strongly recommended, 
but difficult to commence under current circumstances 
(efforts to introduce patient into a program of therapy 
are in progress). Drug therapy possibly beneficial but 
unlikely to be tolerated. Patient might benefit from 
hospitalisation, but is extremely resistant to anything 
resembling incarceration or anything which might limit 
his freedom. Compulsory commitment recommended only if 
patient becomes an unmanageable danger to himself or 
others outside of hospital, or attempts to leave area. 
Strongly recommended that any treatment or intervention 
include the participation of listed next-of-kin and be 
undertaken only with the knowledge and cooperation of 
patient, if at all possible.

Recommendations: Initiate psychotherapy immediately 
(prior relationship with patient will be useful). Build 
on previous survival behaviours and work on changing 
self-destructive habits and thought patterns. Should 
initiate contact with patient before contact with next-
of-kin to remove any implication of "backstabbing". 
Concerns about possible recurrence of acute symptoms 
(suicidal tendencies and acute psychotic episodes, in 
particular) in near future make acquiring patient's trust 
paramount over all other considerations.

Prognosis: Good--if patient can be persuaded to accept 
treatment. Between acute episodes, patient shows 
extremely strong will to live, positive view of life and 
a continued need and willingness to form relationships 
with other people. Main danger is patient's self-
destructive behaviours during acute periods of illness, 
which must be moderated (eliminated, if possible). 

Note: Treatment may extend beyond current therapist's 
lifespan.


END


For now, but Joe and Methos will return in "It's So 
Beautiful Over There".