The story is in two parts, the second of which will be posted December 9
Enjoy!
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..…Parce Que J'ai Péché…
[For I Have Sinned]
By Judith Hill
Chapter 1
Paris
Thursday, November 21, 2002
Ah, mon dieu. I should have suggested lunch this afternoon. But I am willing to sit here, a French Buddha - a Buddha who smokes too many cigarettes - and watch Adam Pierson blow off another therapy session with me. But I am tired and the growling in my stomach is becoming embarrassing. These sessions with my star patient are wearing but we therapists are spread very thin on the ground; the psychotherapeutic care and maintenance of Homo sapiens immortalis makes for an unusual specialty, does it not?
I finish my cigarette and stub it out. It keeps my own nerves quiet in these sessions and he does not mind. I suspect he has known the comforts of tobacco himself at various times.
"Could I possibly be boring you, René:?" he says. He is annoyed. At himself?
I shrug. It is important to appear calm. What I feel does not matter. "I have been known to bore my own therapist on occasion," I tell him. "I am not going anywhere.
""You have a therapist?" I doubt the surprise is genuine. Surely he knows these things.
"But of course." I give him my best inscrutable smile. I am not that easily distracted. "And we are not talking about me."
He stirs his coffee, just staring into it, his head down. He is off his game today. Which is interesting. He has been stirring it just like that for some time now.
"I am going to order something to eat," I say. There is no reaction. "Have you eaten?" A slight shrug, no more. This is not good. "I will order for both of us, yes?"
I raise my hand toward the waitress, who comes to our table. She has been watching us; I hope it is I she is imagining in her bed. "Deux de vos 'Campagnards', s'il vous plaït, mademoiselle." She looks wistfully at the top of Adam's head, probably wishing he would notice her, and leaves. Ah… on perd la main - you are losing your touch, René. And he has a little more hair than you do, non?
"You ordered me goat cheese?" he says without looking up.
I ignore him and stretch out my legs, fold my hands over my belly and wait him out. I am worried about him. We are not that far along in the therapy. First there is a crisis, then the patient recovers, then there is a rest from the storm, the patient feels better… The crisis is over but the problem? Ah, but the problem is still there, you see; the behaviour that got the patient into the crisis in the first place is still intact and a relapse is inevitable. It's tricky. The patient feels that he no longer needs to warm a chair in your presence. And I think we are at this point. I must be careful or this is where I will lose him.
I sip my coffee and give him time to say something on his own but he says nothing. It is time to take the initiative. "Would you like to tell me what you are thinking about while we are waiting?"
He sighs and sits back in his chair. "I'm sorry, René. Can we just eat and call it a day?"
"Of course. We are just friends today, hein? Enjoying a meal together. There is always another day, non? How is Silas?"
This gets a bit more of a response. "He's good." Even a little smile. "Yeah, he's good."
"I am glad to hear it. And the bookshop?"
"Um… it's fine." I can see he doesn't wish to pursue this. Perhaps he is hallucinating again. I am not sure he would tell me if he were. I wait, but nothing.
"I go to Reims tomorrow," I say. "I give you a rest until Monday. I return Saturday afternoon but I will leave you my number there. All right?"
He chuckles. "You old dog, René. Got a little piece on the side up there, have you?"
I shrug. "I don't much care for the celibate life, Adam. You have known me too long not to know that. But marriage? Well… This is France, mon ami. Such things are not a problem, you know?" And I have not seen Mathilde for too long.
He goes back to stirring his cold coffee absently. "You think you can trust me not to murder my friends in their beds?"
A little attack, I see. Also a little depression. A weekend away would do us both some good. Perhaps if he feels I am giving him a little room… "You are the cynic today. I would be happier if you were in care, yes. But there must be a little trust or there will be no progress. You don't agree?"
The waitress comes with our baguettes. It is just as well we are speaking English; she would be a little shocked. She puts Adam's plate in front of him but he doesn't even look at her. She gives me mine with a smile. I glance at her pretty breasts before smiling back. Plus tard, peut-être. One never knows one's luck.
"Are you asking me to trust you, René? We've been round that corner already."
"Always, my friend. You are very distant today. Something has happened, yes?"
He pokes at the baguette and shakes his head. "I'm just tired."
"I can give you a prescription for something to help you sleep."
"Maybe. Let me think about it."
It is a concession but it worries me. Where is the fight? Always he fights me on these things. On Monday, his answer will be the same as usual: no drugs. This flat affect is not like him. He is depressed, of course, but this is a little more. He is very tired; we are all tired - me, Joseph Dawson, Stephen Keane. All very weary. "Adam. Go home and rest. You don't eat properly either, I think. Take that with you."
He nods and stands up. It is what he wants; he is glad I understand. I call the waitress and ask her to wrap up the baguette. He tosses a ten-euro note on the table and I do not object; he is being gracious. Perhaps he regrets the failure of the session.
He watches the waitress; he is a little agitated and I can see that he is anxious to go.
"Adam. Eventually, you will have to talk about what is on your mind or we shall get nowhere. I cannot always be walking on eggshells around you, always worrying that I might touch on a subject that upsets you. I have to take my cue from you; at some point you have to take responsibility for your own therapy, for your own recovery. Am I making myself understood?"
"Yeah, get off my back, René."
I sigh. Sometimes he can be a spoiled child. "Where would you like to meet on Monday?" I ask him.
He pulls his old raincoat off the back of the chair and puts it on. He doesn't look at me and I wonder what he's hiding. "This is okay with me. Three o'clock?"
"D'accord."
The waitress hands him the baguette in a paper bag and he just turns away and leaves without saying a word. Perhaps it is a mistake to go to Reims this weekend. But I think this every weekend and every weekend I stay in Paris and, lately, everything is fine. I ask the waitress for a cognac and take my notebook out of my knapsack. Adam is always my last patient for the day and he does not like it if I take notes. What can I do? I make them when he has left.
I take out my cigarettes and light one. I should give them up; unlike my patients, I will not live forever. I jot down the few thoughts I have. Not that many; it lasted perhaps only twenty minutes, a very short session. Yes, we are all very weary. I think a little rest for both of us would be very good.
When that is done, I enjoy my lunch, then relax with the brandy and a cigarette. My own sleep has not been good. Perhaps tonight…
It has been…what?… five weeks? It feels like five months. The crisis was so severe in Methos' case. Ah, but I should not even think that name. If I do, one day I will slip and say it. And that will be a disaster. Sean met Adam after Adam's friend, Mira, came to Sean for help. Mira had been part of the clean up crew in Beirut and other nasty places and was suffering from a stress disorder. After Sean's death I opened Adam's file, since I was treating him even then although it was not official, just talk over a beer; it was all there. It was one hell of a shock. And a lot of things made sense.
In Adam's case, then, the breakdown was severe. Once I knew that Adam was Methos, I did a little research. What I found supports a pet theory of mine; I believe that Immortals suffer cycles of breakdown and well-being. If they survive these crises and recover their senses, they become quiet - quiescent - for a long period. After this, their renewed activity, particularly if it involves participation in the Game, brings on another crisis. It seems to be inevitable. One assumes, of course, that they still have their heads. And this one of Adam's has been coming for some time; it will be some time yet before he is out of danger. Another acute episode is easily within reach and could come at any time. I have to be very watchful. He, of course, resists me at every turn.
I used to be… Mon dieu, what I used to be. It can never be undone; so many regrets. When I am weary, they return to haunt me. What I do for Adam, I do for my own soul; it is my penance to know I caused him even more suffering. But I must not think of this; it will not help him.
I used to be convinced that the Watcher oath was right; now I cannot believe that I was so foolish. As a psychiatrist, I am permitted by the Council to 'interfere' in the affairs of Immortals with impunity. It is absurd. Even so much recognition on their part is interference; they are hypocrites. When an Immortal speaks to you out of his pain, out of the agony of his existence, how is it possible to remain unmoved? Merely to observe and not interfere? This is wrong. They are so alone. Ils sont profondément seuls - profoundly alone. We Mortals cannot comprehend it - cet anonymat monstrueux - this monstrous anonymity. The Watchers must change; of this, too, I am convinced. The world has changed beyond recognition. No longer can Immortals escape our incessant Watching and we have become obsessed with it. Better by far to be their friends, to serve them and to protect these strange creatures, these special children of humanity.
Adam believes I think him to be a new Immortal who met his first death while Duncan MacLeod thought himself to be some sort of Avatar at war with the ancient demon, Ahriman, a very dangerous delusion and one which cost MacLeod's student his life. MacLeod's skill as a fighter makes him a very dangerous man and his profound, narcissistic belief in himself to be morally superior and above the law has led him to commit murder, even of Mortals. His Watcher recorded episodes which are clearly psychotic, possibly paranoid schizophrenic; certainly sociopathic. Over seventy kills in six years. And this after a long period of quiet. But he is not my patient. And we will not interfere to offer him our help before it explodes into madness; we prefer to let them suffer, it would seem, and that is cruel. When that happens, I plan to be somewhere safe. Adam might not be so lucky.
Meanwhile, Adam plays an old game with me; he pretends that he is Adam Pierson and I must permit it. And he is not pretending. He is Adam Pierson; Adam Pierson has his own thoughts and feelings, his own behaviour patterns, is a fully developed personality in his own right. Adam Pierson is safe. I must respect this; not to do so would be a serious error. We all have røles that we play; our lives do not usually depend on it. He tells me only what Adam Pierson would know; it will serve for the moment but it limits us both. One day, he will trust me enough. Until then…
And why should he trust? We all betray him, we Mortals: we die. He loves a woman, takes her to him, trusts… and she dies. Death is betrayal. That it is not intended matters not at all. Because he is a good man, his instinct is to trust, an instinct which could be fatal; I see him fight this instinct with Joseph. Joseph is not a young man; he will live perhaps two decades more. I am the same age; I already feel my own death in my bones.
I finish the brandy, tuck my notes away, pay the cashier, shoulder my knapsack and leave. The café is a little place on the rue Poissonnière, near the little park… I forget the name. As I pass it, the pigeons fly up toward the apartments that surround it and I catch a glimpse of a man who is looking my way. He seems startled and turns away quickly so that I can no longer see his face. Something about him is familiar but I cannot place it. In any case, he is gone now. I go down the Métro and catch the train to go home. It is raining a little when I come up out of the station at Porte de Vincennes. I buy some croissants at the bakery for my breakfast and some flowers at the shop on the corner. Madame Garneau, the florist, tells me I look tired. But she tells me this every day just to make conversation. Perhaps she has an unmarried daughter she wishes to introduce to me. I tell a few lies, smile sweetly and escape.
I cross the main street to the wine shop. He has a Bordeaux I am fond of and I buy two bottles. As I am crossing the street back to the post office, I get the feeling that I am being watched. I look around but a car brakes to avoid me and my attention is drawn away. It is more likely that my nerves are on edge and I am imagining things. There is no-one there in any case. My little apartment is only a block up from the post office on the rue Montéra but I am wet by the time I get there. My neighbour, Marie, arrives home from work at the same time and uses her key to let us both in, which saves me dropping my parcels. She asks about her cat, Mazout. She asks me because Mazout lives in my place when she can get in through the bathroom window across the roof. I used to shoo her out but she sat on the roof and cried; I gave up. Now I just feed her. It's easier.
I put my parcels in the tiny kitchen and the flowers in the blue vase. I like it very much; something I found in the Marché aux Puces one Saturday. There is not much here that is mine; the hospital is not that generous with its Paris accommodations but Paris is expensive and I am grateful not to have to live in a hotel while I'm here. I throw my clothes in the laundry basket and take a shower, with Mazout eyeing me from the windowsill. I curse at her when she knocks my glasses off the back of the toilet: "Mazout! Putain de chat! Rentre chez-toi!"
I dress in a robe and pour some wine and light a cigarette. The evening news is depressing, as usual, and I turn it off, preferring to read. I should work on my notes, but I am too tired. I rouse myself enough to make some soup and eat it but I am not very hungry and I do not enjoy it. Then I pour some more wine and settle in to read for the evening. I am just nodding off when my telephone rings. Swearing, I answer it.
"Galbon."
"Doctor. David Gabrieli here. How are you?" Merde! "Am I disturbing you?"
I rub a hand over my face and sit up. I do not need this. "I'm sorry. I was just asleep."
"Ah, then I apologize. Doctor, I'm just getting around to paying a call on each of my senior staff. I like to get to know them on a personal basis. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You're just about the last one on my list. I wonder if we could get together."
"I have patients in the morning but I could come to Headquarters in the afternoon."
"I'd like to come this evening, if I may. I'm having dinner with a friend at Chez Clément on the Boulevard des Capucines. I'm not that far away. I'll be there in about an hour."
He leaves me no option. "Of course."
"Fine. Looking forward to it."
I hang up. Noisily. Mazout comes to investigate. "Rentre chez-toi, Mazout! Go home!" She ignores me.
Swearing, I go into the bathroom and take some aspirin for the headache that has just come out of nowhere. Then I shave around my beard. I have not yet met this man who is now my superior, though I know him by reputation, and I already dislike him. It is a clever strategy, of course. He has me at a disadvantage and no doubt he will press it. I put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then I make some coffee. I am going to need to be awake.
I tidy the place and pour some coffee. While I wait, I have a cigarette and try to remember what I know of this man, which is not very much, mostly gossip. If I had not been so preoccupied, I would probably have done some research. You damned fool, René. He will have found out as much about me as he can. I have been very careful but that is not always enough. And he almost certainly has an agenda. They always do. I know they call him 'The Cleaner'. There are rumours… There are always rumours. His predecessor had difficulties with his monogamous obligations, shall we say? I remember, with a certain fondness, a young lady from the records section who delighted in whispering the latest details of M. Anders' affair with the foolish Mlle Laurence even as our own little indiscretion was in danger of becoming distressingly obvious - ah, such a light touch, that one! And while what my patients tell me is safe with me, I cannot forget at will; I still know. And Mme Anders - the formidable Colette - was much too angry to remain discrete. Indiscretions all round. It was quite amusing.
That was not all of it, of course. The European Section was becoming quite corrupt. And into this mess rode David Gabrieli, knight in shining armour, righter of wrongs, tilter at windmills. The saints preserve us from the incorruptible ones. And he made no secret of his hatred of the Hunters, for all he was quite unable to destroy them. He did, however, succeed in driving them underground but not before there was an attempt on his life. I knew nothing of that; I believe that I was not supposed to know. Which tells me who my enemies are.
David Gabrieli is a traditionalist; he believes in the Watcher oath to the last fibre of his being. He believes that adherence to that damnable oath will set us all on the path to righteousness.
The buzzer for my door sounds. He is punctual, but then, he is American. Americans place great store in punctuality; personally, I find it distressing - except in my patients, of course. I press the button to let him in and open my door. He comes up the staircase smiling broadly, his white teeth prominent in his handsome black face. As he greets me, his handshake is firm and strong. He is taller than I expected; he is as big as I and ten years younger.
"I'm glad to finally meet you, Dr. Galbon." I don't detect any condescension in him; the sentiment appears to be genuine.
I usher him inside. He puts his gloves in his pocket and I take his coat, an expensive dark wool overcoat, very classic, one I could never afford. But then, that is not my taste. He settles himself into my one decent armchair, as is his right.
"I shall have to see to it that there is an anonymous donation to that hospital of yours with a suggestion that it be used for improving temporary accommodations," he remarks. He is relaxed, very assured. I wish I felt the same. "Our specialists deserve the best or we risk losing them back to the field."
"I am still in the field, technically, Monsieur."
"Of course."
"I have some fresh coffee. Would you care for some?"
He smiled pleasantly. "I do believe I will have some. It smells wonderful. Thank you."
While I pour coffee for us, he gets up and goes to my bookshelf. I see that he is interested in my small volume of Voltaire's 'Candide'. He turns the pages, pauses to read a little and laughs.
"Monsieur Voltaire certainly didn't like the Germans much, did he?" he says.
I bring the tray into the living room and place it on the small table beside the armchair. "No, Monsieur. He did not."
He comes back to the chair, hitches his trousers and sits down. "I find him very amusing." He crosses his legs comfortably and picks up the cup nearest to him. His movements are graceful for a big man.
"And how do you find working at the hospital?"
I pick up my own cup and sit down in the other chair. "I am satisfied."
"You find it a challenge to treat Immortals, do you, Doctor?"
I nod and smile politely. Mazout saves me the trouble of thinking of something to say by jumping into Gabrieli's lap. "Mazout! Barre-toi! Dégage!"
I put my cup down and rescue Gabrieli from the furry menace. I pick up Mazout, take her to the bathroom, put her out on the roof and close the window. She sits there, pawing the glass and mewing. Before going back into the living room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; my face is tense and drawn, my eyes dark with fatigue. I splash a little water in my face and take a moment to compose myself. I cannot afford to betray any nervousness. He is not a witch hunter but he knows he has enemies; I would not want him to think that I may be one.
"I apologize," I say as I sit back down.
"It's all right," he says, smiling. "I like cats. We were talking about the hospital."
He is not going to let me off the hook, I see. "Yes, it is, as you say, a challenge."
He smiles and takes a sip of coffee, then nods toward me. "This is very good."
"Thank you."
"I see you're a smoker. I have no objections if you would like to indulge."
He is trying to put me at ease; I find it a little disturbing that he feels he needs to do that. "Thank you, but I prefer not to."
"As you wish." He finishes his coffee and puts the cup down. "You don't say very much, Dr. Galbon."
"It is an occupational hazard, Monsieur."
He regards me for a few seconds before replying. "I'm sure it is." He crosses his legs, folds his hands over his stomach and settles back, a relaxed posture with no menace in it. He is a shrewd man; nothing he does is accidental. "I won't beat about the bush, Doctor. I came here with the intention of asking about your patient, Adam Pierson."
"May I ask how you know that Adam is my patient?"
He purses his lips. "No, you may not."
"I see. What I hear from Adam is privileged information. I am concerned that you would ask me to reveal it."
"Have I asked you to reveal anything?"
He has me there. It was a slip on my part. "He is a Watcher; it is common knowledge that he is suffering from stress." I shrug. "It is my job to treat Watchers suffering from stress. Anything at all beyond that…"
"Tell me. If you were convinced that it was in Adam's best interests - and I am speaking in hypothetical terms - to pass along information, to myself alone, of course, would you do that?"
I do not even hesitate. "No, I would not. My first obligation is always to my patient. If he cannot trust me to keep his secrets, he will terminate the association, and he will be right to do so. The therapy cannot proceed without his trust."
"And if I ordered you to report to me, on the understanding that confidentiality would be respected?"
I shake my head. "No."
He looks at me steadily. It is a test. "You can't be faulted for your dedication, Doctor, but your oath of loyalty is to the Watcher organization. To me."
I sigh and brush the air with my hand. "There can be only one answer, Monsieur Gabrieli. My first loyalty is to my patient. I must be allowed this freedom or I become unable to do my job. And it is my patients who will suffer. I cannot allow it."
He smiles. "Then let's not speak of it further. I understand you were here when Darius was murdered by Hunters."
Ô mon dieu! 'Out of the frying pan…' "Yes, I was here."
"You were friends." It was a statement.
As a monk, Darius' movements were hardly invisible. And with James Horton himself as his Watcher after Ian Bancroft was assigned elsewhere - at Horton's insistence, perhaps? - the details of who came and who went would be meticulously recorded. And especially myself; Horton was no friend of mine. Denial would be absurd.
"Yes, we were friends."
"I'm going to lay my cards on the table, Doctor. I'm sure you're aware of how I feel about the tragedy that the Hunters brought. The Watcher organization has suffered terribly from their ravages. I intend to prevent anything like that ever happening again."
"And how does this concern my friendship with Darius?"
He shifts in his chair. I suspect this is something he does when he is warming to his subject. Which means that this is very personal for him. I find myself wondering why he wishes to show me this much of himself. And the answer to that is, of course, that he expects something in return.
"I have spent a good deal of time looking over the records that were kept of those events," he says, "the savage killings, the revenge killings by Immortals such as Jakob Galati. I don't believe it ended with the death of James Horton. My reading has lead me to an interesting conclusion: the death of the Immortal Darius was pivotal. It was the first time the Hunters shed secrecy and began to kill openly and the murder was committed on Holy Ground. It sent a clear message: war on Immortals with no sanctuary anywhere. It was a black day for us."
I listen to this with interest. He would not speak to me this way if he thought I was ever involved with the Hunters. This far he trusts me; how much farther? It is a good deal farther than I trust him. He is a man of integrity, but integrity is a two-edged sword. If he believes me to be innocent, he will defend me; if he suspects otherwise, he will condemn me with equal energy. And no-one is without sin. I have always found it foolish to trust men of integrity.
I shrug. Time to toss him a little bone. "You are telling me things that I already know. How can I be of help?"
He beams. I have said the right thing. "I would like you to tell me what you know of Darius, whether he revealed anything to you in private, as a friend, which would have eluded the notice of his Watcher."
"After Monsieur Bancroft, that Watcher was James Horton, the man who murdered him. His reports are unlikely to be trustworthy."
Gabrieli's mouth curves into a smile; he is indulging me. "Ah, but that is the most peculiar thing about our Mr. Horton. He was a fanatic and fanatics are obsessive. For whatever reason, his notes on Darius are extremely detailed and those details have never been contradicted when the facts are compared with other sources. I believe we are safe in assuming that those details which cannot be corroborated are very likely to be accurate. Interesting, don't you think?"
"And one of those details was the frequency of my own visits, no doubt?"
"No doubt."
"I see. But Darius never told me anything of himself, and certainly not of his life as an Immortal. He believed me to be no more than a parishioner; he was my spiritual advisor. We spoke of matters of the soul. My soul."
"You're a religious man, are you, Dr. Galbon? I thought that was unusual for psychiatrists."
I pick up my cigarettes and take one out. Perhaps I will indulge in it after all. "But we French psychiatrists are also Catholics, Monsieur." I shrug and pull out my lighter. "I believe my patients have souls; I treat those souls. But I do not preach to them. It merely gives me a perspective." I light the cigarette, which allows me to look away from my visitor. He waits politely. When I look at him again, he seems thoughtful. "And being a Catholic is a way of life; it has very little to do with being religious."
He nods slowly. "Then Darius was your confessor?"
"We all need someone to forgive us our sins, Monsieur, even if God cannot."
"What you are telling me is that anything that passed between you and Darius is also privileged information."
I just shrug and smoke the cigarette. And wonder if I have made an enemy.
He concludes our meeting with a few polite remarks; I am equally polite. When he is gone, I let Mazout back in and she sits on my lap while I finish the bottle of wine.
This night, I sleep badly again.
****
Chapter 2
Paris
Friday, November 22, 10:00 a.m.
The Gare de l'Est is unusually crowded. The train to Reims is on time, leaving from Platform 18 at 10:38, the ticket seller tells me. I buy a return ticket and go to the café for coffee and a croissant before it is time to board.
As the waiter brings me my coffee, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket. I don't know him but I think I have seen him before. Then I remember; it is the man I saw in the park on the rue Poissonniére or, at least, I think it is the same man. It is the clothing I recognize, really. He is not very tall but very solid, wearing shabby clothing, dirty boots, unshaven and I think again that perhaps I do know him. As I watch, he asks a customer for a handout, then looks in my direction. He looks away quickly and walks the other way, goes through the doors onto the concourse. He is in a hurry. I am not paranoid, but I am prudent and I do not believe in coincidence. Something is going on. There is nothing I can do about it now but I will be watching my back.
I buy a Campagnard I admit I am addicted to them - at the kiosk for four euros and go to Platform 18 to wait. The train is just pulling in. When the passengers have all passed through the gate, I walk along the platform and choose a carriage. I settle myself into a compartment but I don't have it to myself for very long. Two other passengers, a man and a woman, make themselves comfortable. We are all strangers; the trip will be quiet. In a few minutes, the train begins to move. An hour and a half to myself. I have been looking forward to this all week.
I wait until we are beyond the outskirts of Paris to unwrap my sandwich. I brought a book to read but I have been unable to concentrate. I open a small bottle of wine and drink from it; it is a small vice, non? When I see the first of the champagne vineyards passing, I relax. Paris leaves me exhausted. I love Paris but I cannot be there without my work taking up every waking moment, it seems; it takes the sight of the vineyards, bare as they are at this time of year, to convince me that I have left that work behind. And then I worry. How will Adam be without me at the other end of the telephone? Perhaps I should not have told him. Tais-toi, René. Leave it alone. Joseph and Stephen have managed this far.
Surely there are other things I could be thinking about? Nikki will be waiting for me at the station with Mathilde. I smile at the thought. Véronique is not so young any more; she has been my housekeeper and confidante for ten years now. What would I have done without her? Nikki. Mathilde called her that first. We both liked it.
I am so lucky to have them both. There was another time when I was also very lucky, if that is what it could be called. It could easily have gone so very wrong; it almost did. I have no idea why this comes to mind now, when I wanted a quiet train ride. Perhaps when I have been to see Père Jean at the Abbey, my mind will be quiet again. He expects me and I look forward to our little visits. I tried to warn Darius; Sean always tried to tell me that his death was not my fault, that Horton and his followers would have murdered him anyway, simply for what he was and not for anything I may have told him, but how can it not be? It has been on my mind since Gabrieli mentioned it; I wish he had not. I will carry so many ugly things to my grave.
How can we be so foolish when we are young? And I was not all that young. Just very foolish. Perhaps if I had known my father… He was a good man, my mother always told me. A good man who died much too young. What does a four-year-old know of war in a far corner of the world? L'Indochine Française - French Indo-China… just words. I knew only that he was gone and would not come back and I do not remember him. My mother died with him, it seemed to me, her soul already with him in the next world, and I left alone in this. When she took her own life, no-one was really surprised. Except me. Perhaps this is why I valued Adam's friendship back then; both orphans, or so I thought him. And so he is, though it is hardly the same thing. He is orphaned from far more than his parents; I have my country, my world, my Mathilde. When I heard that he had fallen in love, I was very happy for him. And then I heard… I will do what I can for him. I owe him this much; I owe them all this much.
I watch the countryside go by, watch the shadows on the fields, think about home. It has been too long. I take off my glasses and put them in their case so that I will not be tempted to read. The train is so smooth on the rails, the scene so pleasant that I drift off to sleep. It is what I need.
When the train slows down, I am already awake. I tidy myself up, put my glasses and my jacket on and pick up my bag. I watch through the window as the train pulls in. There they are! Bless them both. I have missed them.
They see me through the window and walk toward where the carriage will stop. As I step down to the platform, Mathilde comes running toward me.
"Papa! Papa!"
It is music to my ears. I drop my bag on the platform and sweep her up into my arms, my beautiful, brown-haired daughter. How I love you!
We embrace each other as Nikki joins us.
"It's good to see you," Nikki says. I kiss Mathilde and set her down, and kiss Nikki on both cheeks.
"You are looking very well," I tell Nikki. And she does. She has always taken great care of herself. She is a wonderful mother to Mathilde.
Mathilde is getting tall now that she is ten. Slender, like her grandmother. She takes my hand tightly. "I missed you, Papa. Nikki says you have a lot of work to do and that's why you have to stay in Paris."
"Oui, ma grande. A lot of work, people who need me. But I am here now. We shall go wherever you want to go, just you and me, and then we shall dress up and go to dinner. How is that?"
"I have a new dress, Papa. May I wear it?"
"But of course. I want to see you in it."
I see her grandmother in her pretty face and take her head in my hands, kiss her hair. She holds me tightly. Nikki looks on at us, smiling, happy.
As am I, Nikki; as am I.
We walk out of the station, Nikki leading the way. Mathilde walks with me, holding my hand tightly. You are growing so fast, my dear child. Why your mother would have neither of us, I cannot say, but we have each other. Darius told me it was a sin not to be married to her but how can it have been so wrong if I have you? And what was one more sin after so many much worse ones? For once in my life, it would seem, I have done something right.
As we walk through the station to the driveway and the street, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket, following at a distance. It is the same man from the station and from the park. If he has gone to the trouble of catching the train, he is not a thief. He means to speak to me and he is willing to wait until the time is right to do so. I prefer to choose the time myself.
I tell Nikki to take Mathilde home and say that I will follow shortly. She looks at me in alarm; she sees the worried look on my face, no doubt. She knows my work is dangerous; I have never hidden that from her. It is only a short walk to rue Lesage, perhaps fifteen minutes. There is an English pub on the way; I am sure my would-be companion will find that amenable, better than the open street. Especially since I believe I know who he is. He once tried to kill me; I doubt he will try now.
I kiss Mathilde. "Mati, I want you to go home with Nikki and have some lunch. I have seen a patient of mine over there who wishes to speak to me. I will be along shortly and we will go out. Perhaps downtown, yes?"
She tugs on my hand "No, Papa. Come with us. Please!"
"Mathilde. The man is ill and needs me to help him. You want me to help him, non?"
She nods but her head is cast down. "You won't be long?"
"No, no. You and I will spend the afternoon together."
Nikki takes my bag from me. It is not heavy, just a few overnight things and my notes. "It will be all right," I tell her. Then I smile and kiss her cheek.
"Be careful, René," she whispers. I nod and pat her arm. Life is a little harder when one is loved.
I watch as they walk to the street and round the corner. I look behind me. The man is waiting in the shadows. His name is Eddie Brill, an American. He is a Watcher, like myself. Only not at all like myself. At least, not any more. I was allowed to remove my tattoo many years ago since I work openly with Immortals; he has always worn his most proudly. We were never friends and now I suspect he despises me. I walk toward him but he stays in the shadows; he is dirty and furtive. He is on the run, most likely. It is a bad sign. I am not in the least happy to see him; I would be very happy if I never saw him again.
"René Galbon," he says. There is a tone of disgust in his voice. I am not his favourite Frenchman. "Doctor Galbon, I should say. You always were so fucking high and mighty."
"What do you want, Eddie?"
He hugs his jacket around him. He is cold. He is not what he seems, not this unkempt beggar, far from it, but even I did not recognize him. I will play his game; it is safest for both of us.
"A cigarette for starters," he says. "You got one?"
I take the cigarette packet out of my inside pocket and give him one. Then I take one for myself. I light them both. I take a drag on it while I regard him closely. He is frightened; frightened men are dangerous. Especially frightened killers. "What do you want?"
"You got a one-track mind, you know that?"
"I don't want to talk here. If you have something to say, we can go to the English pub. It's not far."
He nods. "Oh, yeah. I got a lot to say. I got your ass in my pocket."
I turn and walk back out of the station. He can follow me as he wishes. I wonder why he is so bold and I do not like the answer. He has something he believes will keep him safe from me - and that can only be one thing. I hear him trotting along behind me, playing the part. I slow to let him catch up but I don't look at him; I would rather he not see my anger. It has been nine years since that night. Oh, I have seen him since then but he has always stayed away from me; he knows I would kill him if I got the chance. I still may kill him; I may have no choice.
"You got a kid," he says. "Pretty. Looks like you. Bet you haven't told the Council about her."
It is a threat; Eddie enjoys threatening people, like a cat toying with a mouse. But I am no mouse. I say nothing; it would only provoke him. When we come within sight of the Roman arch with its circle of tricolors he is surprised, asks me to my back if it's Roman, which tells me he has never been to Reims; everyone who has been to Reims knows about its Roman arch. It means that he does not know where Mathilde and Nikki are going. I can see them up ahead. Once past the arch, I lead him across the street and we lose sight of them.
The King's Arms English Pub is a couple of streets more. I flick my cigarette butt into the gutter and go in ahead of him. I head for a table at the back and slide in behind it. He is right behind me. He pulls out the chair opposite, turns it so that he can see the door and sits down. Yes, he is most certainly on the run and equally certainly it is from Gabrieli's men. If they have followed him, I will be called to explain this and that prospect is one I do not relish. I wait for him to speak.
"You having a beer?" he asks.
"No."
"Right down to business. You can buy me a burger." His manner is insulting. No doubt he sees it as part of the rôle he is playing for someone's benefit.
The waiter comes and I ask him in English to bring a hamburger for 'my friend'.
"I'll have a Coors with that," Eddie says, exaggerating his accent.
"I'm sorry," the waiter says. "We don't carry American beer."
"Well, bring me a lager then," he says in disgust.
"English or German?" the waiter says.
"Whatever! Just bring me a goddamn beer."
The waiter turns to me, shaking his head. "And you, sir?"
"Black coffee with a little milk."
The waiter leaves. Eddie gives the finger to his back. He was never so ill-mannered; I can only assume it is deliberate. Or perhaps he is buckling under the strain. Being hunted will do that to a man, even a good man, and Eddie Brill was never that.
"If you intend to stay unnoticed," I tell him, "perhaps you should mind your manners. Waiters do not forget so easily as you might think."
"Yeah, well, it's been a little tense lately."
He does not take his eyes off the door, although he is probably watching the movements of the waiter as well. It is what I would do. For my part, I watch him. When he is sure he is not being watched, he drops the pretense and I see the old Eddie Brill, ruthless, intelligent, the self-righteous fanatic.
"You are going to hide me, Dr. Galbon," he says. I notice that he does not use my first name. That tells me precisely where I stand; he is desperate and he does not need my good will - or my respect. He has something else.
"And just why should I do this?"
"I think you know."
"Why don't you enlighten me?"
"I had a most interesting chat with Gabrieli. Seems someone I knew way back when got talkative."
I say nothing. Eddie was never one to be discreet, a common failing among fanatics. Perhaps this was inevitable. My chest tightens and I am sickened; I have dreaded this day for a long time. I light another cigarette to calm my nerves.
"They take me, you're going down with me," he says.
"Are you going to tell me why I should not kill you?" I say quietly.
He smiles and turns to face me. "That's a sweet little girl you have." It is not a threat; that would be foolish and whatever Eddie Brill may be, he is not a fool. He does not need to threaten me this way. "You'd be risking a tribunal. You don't want to make that pretty little thing an orphan. And you're off your home turf here, Doc; you don't want trouble with the local authorities."
He is right, of course. And now it is unlikely he will oblige me by returning to Paris.
"Nor do you," I say.
"No, nor do I. I see we understand each other."
He looks away again as the waiter comes with my coffee and the beer. We sit silently until he leaves. He drinks some of his beer; I stir the milk into my coffee and smoke. Mon dieu, what have I done?
I wait for him to tell me what I already know. It could be many things, now that I consider it. Has he discovered who Adam is? Is that what this is all about? But somehow I doubt that. Mais, je ne peux pas en être sûr - I cannot be sure. He saw me on the rue Poissonnière; possibly he saw Adam come out of the café but it is common knowledge that I treat Watchers suffering from stress and depression. He must know that I do not have an office in Paris. No, that is probably not it. Perhaps he has nothing at all. He is saying nothing, leaving me to speculate, to become nervous and incautious. In a few minutes, the waiter brings his hamburger and he eats it without excusing himself. I finish the cigarette and stub it out. Then I drink my coffee and watch him.
When he has finished his hamburger, he drinks some more of the beer and wipes his face and hands on the napkin before he looks up at me. There is a hardness to his eyes. He pushes his plate away and glances toward the door. He is nervous but he hides it well; it will make him incautious and that will be disastrous for both of us. This is not the best place after all. It occurs to me that I, also, do not wish our conversation to be overheard. I make a decision, one I hope I will not regret.
"Let's not talk here," I tell him. "I know a place."
He nods and we both stand. We walk back toward the door, he playing the rôle of beggar again, hugging his coat to him, shuffling a little, his head down. I pay the cashier and we leave. Outside, I find myself looking about me; his paranoia is infectious. When a taxi stops for us, I tell the driver to take us to the Abbaye de Saint Rémy. We say nothing to each other during the short ride.
When we arrive, I ring the bell at the front gate. While we wait, Eddie looks around him. I see that he is impressed by the old architecture, by the statue of St. Rémy baptizing Clovis, the tidy little garden.
"You brought me to Holy Ground?" He laughs. "Nice little irony, Doc."
When Frère André, the gate porter, comes, he recognizes me and lets us in. Once inside, I ask for Père Jean, who comes within minutes. He is a small man who seems to disappear inside his habit. If he is disturbed by this intrusion, he is gracious enough not to show it. He does not speak English, but Eddie speaks passable French. I see no reason to believe he does not understand me when I ask Père Jean if we could speak with him privately. As we go into the parlour to talk, I tell the good Father that I must ask a favour of him. He merely nods; he will not ask why I must do this. When I come to him for confession in the morning, I will tell him then. I thank God there is someone I can tell or it would tear me apart.
In the austere parlour, Père Jean indicates two chairs and occupies a third. He is a quiet man, accustomed to silence by years of contemplation. He waits for me to begin.
"Mon Père, I ask for asylum for my friend here. Can this be arranged?"
"Asylum is no longer within out power, René; the civil authorities no longer recognize it. Surely you know this. However, we are always willing to offer a temporary home to those in distress."
I note the careful choice of words. He will not ask me just why my 'friend' should be 'in distress'. And I am quite sure he realizes that this man is no friend of mine. I glance at Eddie, who has understood, I think. He nods without speaking.
"Merci, Mon Père," I say. It annoys me that Eddie has not said this for himself.
Père Jean stands. "I will arrange it now, if you wish to wait here?"
Eddie finally decides to speak. "Merci, Mon Père."
When Père Jean has left, Eddie gives a little snickering laugh. He thinks me a fool, I suspect. I offer him a cigarette and he takes it. I take one for myself and light them both. Père Jean knows I smoke and there is always an ashtray for visitors.
"Smart move, Doc," he says. He sits back in the chair and takes a drag from the cigarette. Somehow, it is an obscene gesture but I cannot say why it should strike me this way. "I wouldn't have thought of this, but then, I'm a Baptist boy. But I guess I can handle it."
"They will not expect you to attend mass or observe the hours. You must keep to yourself, follow their rules, clean up after yourself. Do you understand?"
His face darkens. Now that he is safe, he feels free to show me his hatred. "The question is, do you understand, Doctor Galbon?"
He is gloating and I will not respond to that. I have done what he wants; let him have his little moment.
"You need rid of me," he says. "You can't kill me and you can't go to Gabrieli about me because I know what you are. I'm just going to let you figure out how you're going to get me out of Europe."
I am weary; I have carried this burden for many years now. While there was only myself to consider, it was so very different. I might even have given myself up to the Watcher Council and faced my punishment; after all, there are many ways to commit suicide. But now… Now there is Mathilde and Nikki… and Adam. Yes, even he.
"Gabrieli will believe what I tell him," I say. I am bluffing, of course. I have no idea what David Gabrieli will believe.
"And he's gonna love what I have to show him." He is grinning at me, humiliating me. This is his revenge. "When Horton sent me to take you out, you should have gone down then. The guy you killed was my best friend. I swore I'd get you one day, you son of a bitch. If I didn't need you, you'd have a bullet in your head right now. And Gabrieli would have put it there."
"This is hardly the place to discuss such things," I say. "And just what is it you have to show M. Gabrieli?"
"Don't play cute, Doc," he sneers. "I have a certain video tape."
It is as I thought. Le bon Dieu me pardonne - God forgive me. I shrug. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Like hell you don't."
There is a knock at the door before I can answer and it opens. P?re Jean comes into the room and addresses Eddie.
"I am pleased to tell you, Monsieur…?
"Brill."
"Monsieur Brill. I am pleased to say that P?re Michel, our abbé, has approved of your stay. Are you a Catholic, Monsieur?"
"No. I'm a Baptist."
Père Jean nods. "Bon. Do you wish to be shown to your room now?"
Eddie looks at me, a self-righteous smirk on his face. "Not yet. Doctor Galbon and I have some unfinished business just now." His French is not that good, but it is certainly understandable. Heavily accented, but understandable.
Père Jean inclines his head. "Of course. If you would care to stay here, Monsieur, I will return after prayers. There will be fresh clothing in your room and a razor so that you may wash and change and someone will come to show you to the refectory for supper." Then he turns to me. "Will you take the sacrament today, René?" I know he means Confession, not Communion. He is being discreet.
"I will come in the morning as usual, Mon Père," I say.
"Bon. I will leave you, then."
When P?re Jean has left, Eddie settles himself into the chair. He relishes this. He sees me at his mercy and I am not sure that this is not so, for the moment.
"Where were we?" he says.
I simply stare at him. The more he believes he is in control of this situation, the more he will talk and the more I will know. Eddie is a man who likes to be in control. But he also likes the sound of his own voice.
"You were one of the best, Doc," he says. "You were the guy Horton sent after the real slimeballs, the worst of the lot. You were fearless and nothing bothered you. Then you got soft. Maybe you got religion, I dunno. Darius got religion; didn't mean he wasn't still the biggest son of a bitch around. We did the world a service."
I shrug and stub out the cigarette. The logic is typical. "And killing me would have been a service to the world?"
He smiles. "Well, I thought so. I guess it's a matter of opinion. But you knew too much. Way too much. I heard you got drunk and tried to eat your own gun after you took out that Viking. What was his name? We just thought we'd give you some help, you know? A little encouragement just in case you were gonna spill your guts in some misguided fit of bad conscience. You've been a little worry to us ever since we missed, you know what I mean? But you went real quiet after that. And now I know why." He chuckles and stubs out his own cigarette. "You like being a daddy?" He watches me, expecting me to be angry. I have been angry since the moment I saw him in the station; I say nothing. "Yeah, well, that gives me an edge I didn't expect. Still, I'm not that soft-hearted. One false move and that tape goes to you know who and your kid's an orphan."
"How do I know this tape exists, that you are not lying to me?"
He shrugs. "You don't. And you didn't ask me what's on it, so I figure you know it exists - and you know what's on it."
I consider this for a moment. It was an error on my part. "All right. I know about the tape. And you know where it is, I take it."
He laughs. "Oh, yeah. I know where it is. You cross me, you're a dead man, even if I make it out of Europe alive. I got your ass in a sling from now 'til doomsday, Doc. Just where I want it."
"Blackmail."
"Whatever it takes. You're an honourable man; you'll honour your 'obligations'. Now ain't that an irony?"
I take off my glasses and rub my hand across my face. In my mind, I see myself breaking his neck. I wait a few seconds until I am calmer, then put my glasses back on and look at him.
"Anything else you want to tell me about?" I ask him.
He laughs. "Is that your best shrink bedside manner? Yeah, well, maybe this will be the last chance we have for a nice little talk. You're entitled to know why you're in the shit, I guess. You remember that Brit from finance? Harold Croft? Sure you do. Believed in the cause but didn't want to get his own hands dirty, did a little fiddling with the books to buy weapons, that kind of thing? Seems I shot my mouth off back in my younger days, bragged about what it was like to waste Immortal scum, how I figured we were saving humanity from one more curse. He got a little nervous when Gabrieli took over. Gabrieli let it out on the grapevine that he would be willing to grant amnesty to anyone with information and he jumped at the chance. Remembered my little tirade from all those years back. Next thing I know, I'm sweating it out in Gabrieli's office. Croft didn't have any proof, of course. I told Gabrieli the guy was queer, which he is, and put the moves on me back then and that when I told him I'd cut his balls off if he did it again he said he'd get even. I doubt Gabrieli bought it but it did give me a little breathing room. He's having me followed, of course. They're following you, too, you know."
Ô mon dieu! Does Gabrieli suspect me? That explains how he knows that I am treating Adam. Or perhaps they have been following Adam. Calme-toi, René. Tais-toi. "He is being cautious," I say, hoping that I sound a lot steadier than I feel. "Perhaps he suspected that you would come to me for help. I am a Watcher who is more or less independent of the Council, you have known me for twenty years…" I shrug. "I was a good possibility." I sincerely hope that I have interpreted it correctly. Panic would be fatal at this point. Quite literally.
"I think I ditched them a couple of days back, anyway. I haven't spotted them since then."
Until an hour ago, my movements were quite legitimate. I have nothing to fear so long as I stay calm. And that will be difficult. I will need to get back to Paris and think.
"You know," he says when I say nothing, "your old boss, Sean Burns, he was the next one on our list. Real kingpin, high profile, easy to get to… If we took him out, it would have sent a message that no Immortal was safe from us. And then, funny thing… he disappears until the ruckus blows over. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Doc?"
I just look at him; let him think what he will. I saved one life at least. Poor payment for all those I took.
"Horton wanted to take out MacLeod as well but that was personal. We figured MacLeod wasn't important and he was doing a fine job of wasting Immortals himself. We told Horton if he wanted to really do it up proud, he should figure out who Methos was and take him down. He was even working on that, dug up this fucking chronicle that nobody had ever seen before, bunch of clay tablets, if you can believe that, with that writing that looks like chicken feet, you know what I mean? Never said where he got it or how he knew what was on it. Said it had some ancient Sumerian poem. I think it was just crap, you ask me, probably somebody's laundry list he was just using as bait. He figured if he leaked it out that it existed, Methos himself would come looking for it. Nice little trap."
A chill runs down my spine, not for the first time today.
"Only the trap never got sprung. Only guy who showed any interest was that researcher, Adam Pierson. Horton caught him snooping around one night. Man, that guy is not wrapped too tight, you know what I mean? Nobody's surprised you're treating him."
I shrug. "That is confidential. I'm sure you understand that."
"Yeah, I guess. Anyway, the guy's a historian, involved in the Methos Project, so of course he was interested. Horton acted kinda weird about it, though." He shrugs. "Don't know what that was about but I did get that he didn't like the guy too much. Real wingnut. Working in those dusty archives must do something to the brain cells."
I smile. "Perhaps. How did Adam hear of this chronicle?"
"Oh, it was real cute the way Horton did it. Smart bastard." I light another cigarette; he asks me for another one and I give it to him. My nerves are very bad and I need it to calm them. "He got Phillips - you remember him, had a real thing for whacking females - got him to wine and dine some chick in records, just a file clerk, real gossipy little piece. So he beds this girl and just 'happens' to let it slip in the heat of passion that he has a Methos chronicle, only it's clay tablets. This is way too good for her to keep to herself and it's all over the place faster than the flu. Next day, he's called up on the carpet, tells Shapiro it was some bullshit line to impress the girl." He flicks the cigarette ash into the ashtray and stretches. He smiles at me but his eyes are narrow. He is looking for a reaction from me and I have to wonder why. "Cute, huh? Horton figures only the real Methos would know for sure there really was a chronicle on clay tablets because he's probably the one who wrote the fucking thing, you know? You ever hear anything?"
He is fishing. I shrug and shake my head. "Something… I did not give it much thought."
"Yeah, you were staying clear of us by that time, had your head up your ass feeling sorry for yourself. Anyway, who should come sneaking into Horton's office but Adam Pierson. Horton was keeping the place staked out himself. The guy picked that damn lock like a pro, so Horton told me. Interesting, don't you think?" He grins at me. He is telling me something and I do not like what I am hearing. He suspects and I must throw him off the track.
"I am not free to say anything about Adam's background but I am not surprised. He has some… unusual talents."
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, he says if there's a chronicle, it should come to him because it's his job. Horton tells him it's in a safe place and to get the fuck out of there."
"Where is this chronicle now?" I ask him.
"Safety deposit box."
"And who has the key?"
He chuckles. "That's one secret I'll keep to myself. I hear it's worth a fortune. It's gonna help me get set up back in the States. And it's an insurance policy. Not that I don't trust you, Doc. I mean, I don't, not for a minute. But I don't think you're a thief. Funny, ain't it? You're a murderer, but you're no thief." And he laughs.
I have heard enough. I finish the cigarette and stub it out, then I stand up and put my chair back in its place.
"I'll be in touch," I say.
"That's it? You'll 'be in touch'? You're some cold cat, Doc."
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This page was last updated on 11/18/2002