Saturday, November 23, 2002
The Paris train, 2:30 pm

And I left him.

I could not go home right away; I needed to calm down. Perhaps I had seemed cold to Eddie but that is what I do best, how I earn my living. On the inside… That was a different story.

I walked downtown from the abbey and went into a bar I had never seen before. It was the kind of place that tourists like, blue and white tablecloths, photographs of the cathedral and the Smiling Angel of Reims on the walls, a place for good food at low prices where one can buy a good wine to wash it down. It was far from empty, a good thing when one wishes to hide in a crowd. I found a quiet corner in the back, sat down and lit a cigarette. The waiter came toward me.

"Qu'est-ce que je vous sers?" ["What can I get you?"]

"Whiskey."

"C'est un peu tôt pour un whiskey, non?" ["It's a little early for whiskey, isn't it?"]

"Je n'en ai rien à foutre de ton avis. Contente-toi de me servir." ["I don't give a fuck what you think. Just bring it."]

While he brought me my drink, I found myself watching the door. Every time it opened, I felt my stomach tighten. My hand shook as I brought the cigarette to my mouth. I could not go home like this. I took my glasses off and rubbed my face. When the drink came, the waiter slid it across the table and left, muttering something under his breath. I had been foolish to insult him. He would remember me now. I was no longer used to thinking about such things, taking such precautions. I had forgotten and that bastard had reminded me.

I held the drink in my hands and thought about how I should not be doing this, how I should report Eddie to Gabrieli and take my chances. But even with an amnesty, if there really was such a thing, if it came to a tribunal, I could not survive; there would be no mercy there and I have enemies. I would have a bullet in my brain before the day was out. Gabrieli's priorities are not necessarily those of the Council, but he does have them. Even so, it would finish me. I would lose his trust and his priorities are not my own. And I had no idea where that tape was; perhaps he had only heard of it and was using me. Until I knew one way or the other, or until I could find it and destroy it, I was at his mercy. If I found it…

It was a set-up. Horton knew that I was losing faith in the Hunters, that I was no longer convinced. I had seen my share of viciousness, of Immortals who thought nothing of the lives they took, Mortal and Immortal alike, and I had been sickened. It is the same old story. I was lost and Horton found me. I was a boy without a father, a boy whose mother had died by her own hand; he knew what I wanted and he gave it to me. I took out my anger and my pain by killing. Le bon Dieu me pardonne.

And then it was too much. He knew. My guilt was becoming overwhelming and he was afraid that I would go to Shapiro. He was not entirely wrong; I had considered it. Perhaps if I had not been doing my residency with Sean, if Sean had not seen that I was troubled and taken me under his wing - perhaps it was even the friendship of Adam Pierson - I would have done it - and I would be dead now.

I drained the glass without stopping, stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. My hands were still shaking. I signalled to the waiter and pointed to my glass. It would not be necessary to speak to him this time; he is old enough to have seen men like me before, men who are trying to drown their fears before dinner time. He brought me another without a word but his face told me what he thought of a grown man behaving this way. He is young; if he is lucky, he will not learn the hard way why grown men do such things.

I put my head in my hands, afraid to remember, needing to remember, needing to think about what might have happened to that damnable tape.

I was told to see Horton at his hotel. That always meant only one thing. An assignment. I almost did not go but I was afraid. It was too easy to kill me, to denounce me. I was too far gone to realize that that was the last thing on their minds. Questions would have been asked; if the Council had arrested me, I would have talked, taken them all down. They could not risk that. I know that now; I am older and wiser now. At least, I hope I am wiser.

And it was an assignment. His name was Rødrig and he was a Viking. Horton told me of his past, told me tales of his brutality, the viciousness of his acts, particularly against women, raping them violently before slitting their throats. I was appalled. He told me it would be my last assignment; if I would do this one last thing, he would release me.

What I found was a quiet man, more than a thousand years old, a married man with two adopted children. Yes, he had lived such a life but it was so long ago. Could I not have mercy? But I was too blinded, perhaps even too afraid. I screamed at him, cursed him, called him filth. He asked for his life for the sake of his wife and children. But I was unmoved. Then he knelt before me and forgave me. And I did it. God forgive me.

As I thought about these things, things long buried, my heart began to pound in my chest and my hand closed into a fist. I drained the glass and called for another. Ô mon dieu… such terrible things! The waiter brought me another glass and I took it from his hand without a word. I held it in my hand but did not drink it. That would not solve my problem. And I could not go home drunk. I finished the cigarette and lit another. It has been years since I chain-smoked. Tant pis.

After I killed him, I fled. His blood was all over me. I left him to the clean-up crew and went straight to a bar and got very drunk. I remember only that I was weeping, holding my gun, feeling its weight in my hand, stroking the smooth metal of the barrel. Then I woke up in a cell at the police station with the worst hangover I have ever had in my life. My head throbbed mercilessly and I was very sick. The police told me I had tried to kill myself, that the bartender had called them. I remembered nothing. Was it true? they asked me again and again. Did I want to kill myself? Who was I? Why was there blood on my clothes? What had I done that I wanted so badly to end it all? Where did I get the gun? Where had I been before going to the bar? So many questions, over and over, until I could stand no more.

I understood very little; I was very confused. I was not even sure where I was. Sometimes I understood their questions, but mostly I did not. Their faces became his face; their voices became his voice. I did not understand why he was screaming at me. He had not screamed at me, after all. His voice had been gentle, his face peaceful. And I wept for him. And for myself. I begged his forgiveness. And sometimes they were Horton and Eddie Brill, screaming their hatred, questioning me, reviling me. I fought them. I remember blows and I remember waking on the floor, huddled into a ball, handcuffs on my wrists, wet with my own blood. I think they left me alone after that.

They found my identification and called the hospital. Sean came to fetch me and identified me, told them that I was indeed a resident physician at the hospital but that I was suffering from fatigue and was a patient at the moment under his care, that I had wandered away and found a dog that had been hit by a car, that in my precarious mental condition it had pushed me over the edge. Since there had been no report of a body, they believed him. Or at least, they could find no other reason to keep me. And the bartender was firm that I had nearly blown off my own head. They released me into Sean's custody and he took me back to the hospital. He admitted me for nervous exhaustion and I spent a month recovering. He knew. I had told him of my activities. I don't know why he never turned me in.

'Admitted'? Why do you lie to yourself, René? Sean committed you.

Ah, yes. And I gave him good reason to do so. I was very serious about killing myself. Very serious indeed. Although I did not remember the bar, not all of it, I do remember still wanting to do it. If the bartender had not called the police, I would certainly have done it. I woke up in that cell without my shoes and without a belt. And if they had let me go, I would have found a way. But they were hardly about to do that. On the telephone, they told Sean that they thought I was insane, that I might have killed someone and was raving. The police doctor gave me a sedative injection at his request and they restrained me. I would have fought them otherwise, fought because I wanted to die, not to live. Sean came prepared. He brought two attendants with him. I cannot tell these things to Adam, but I know what it is like to be strapped down, to be alternately raving and weeping, to have the door locked to keep you safe from yourself, your clothes taken away, to be unable to tell night from day and dread them both. But I also know that I survived it.

But for Adam… Ah, non. Ce n'est pas la même chose. Pas du tout. It is not the same thing at all. I am a Mortal. There is no-one waiting for signs of weakness to take my head.

And you did not survive all that easily, René.

And that is true enough. The terrible nightmares, the fear, the aching sadness that shows itself as a black pit, cold and bottomless, that sucked me down into itself and held me fast - I deny none of this. I did not want to come back to the world of the living, to the world of pain and sorrow; I wanted it only to end. Sean was not a believer in drugs any more than Adam but he kept me sedated and quiet and I was grateful. I judged myself unworthy to live and some of that still lies inside my tired brain; I have fought it every day of my life. He saw something worthwhile, worth saving. He believed in me when I believed in nothing at all. And this I now do for my own patients. Perhaps I have saved a life or two because I understood from the inside. I cannot know this for certain, but I can hope.

I contemplated the glass and smoked my cigarette. Et ça n'était pas la fin de l'affaire. It was not over.

Even before I killed Rødrig, Sean had been urging me to go to confession, told me it would do me good. He suggested Darius but I refused. Darius was an Immortal and I would have nothing to do with Immortals in my life. I smiled at the thought. Such an irony. I saw Sean as something of a saint, a man who had spent centuries being kind and caring; Darius… that was another matter. Then Rødrig. My next little tête-à-tête with Adam was subdued. It was amusing, really. He was very kind. I was the one who needed to talk and he saw that. I had not seen him for several weeks but he knew where I had been. Sean told me that he asked to come and see me but Sean discouraged him, knowing what Adam did not, that I was there because I had killed Immortals, mercilessly and cruelly. He thought it best that Adam be kept away, and perhaps he was right, whatever his real reasons.

When I saw Adam that day, I was still quite ill - these things take time. I had lost a lot of weight for one thing. When you are as big as I, your clothes hang off your frame and your eyes sink into your head. I had broken my glasses in that cell and my new ones did not fit very well. It did not add to the picture.

"You look like hell, René," he said. It was said with sympathy. "Didn't Sean's cook feed you?"

I smiled at him and lit my perpetual cigarette. "He fed me well enough. I did not wish to eat."

"And you could use a beer, I know. I suppose Sean's a bit of a grump about his patients having anything stronger than weak tea. Do you want to talk about it?"

It made me laugh. "It seems talking is all I do. I talk for three sessions a week with Sean. I talk to myself and now I talk to you."

He shrugged. "Whatever it takes. You feeling any better?"

I noticed that he did not ask me why I had been there. It told me that there was more compassion inside him than I would have given him credit for before then. But my own illness had taught me to be aware of more things, of kindnesses, perhaps, and this was surely a kindness. I found it difficult to talk to him as I found it difficult to talk to anyone other than Sean just then. It was just as well that I did not know who he was. I merely shook my head.

"Can I help?"

I just looked it him. "What?"

He shrugged. "Can I help? I mean, you listen to my little troubles and put up with me getting snarky about those idiots I have to work with. You're always very tolerant of my petty ravings. I thought it was my turn. Least I can do. Besides get you drunk and maybe get you laid. I'm sure that wouldn't go amiss… And I'm past due." He grinned and I had to laugh. And I did feel a little better.

"I was told that you came to visit me."

"Yeah. Your watchdog threw me out. Told me I was a bad influence on you. Suppose I am really."

"Is this true? Sean said this?"

"Nah. Pulling your leg." He drank some of the beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip in a gesture I had come to know well. It was good to have a friend. "Actually, he told me that it was pretty serious, that you'd tried to do yourself in. So… can I help?"

I shook my head. "No. It is nothing that you can help me with. I suppose it is a matter of conscience."

"Then maybe you need to go to Confession."

It startled me. Had Sean told him to suggest it? "Why do you say this?"

He shrugged. "I just thought it might be an idea. You're a Catholic, it's your tradition, your culture. That's important. Tradition matters."

I drank some beer, smoked a little while I thought about it. "Perhaps."

"Seriously. I think you should."

"How can I tell a priest that I work with Immortals? He will think me mad."

"Then go to Darius."

Mon dieu! Confess to an Immortal? It seemed no more sensible now than when Sean had suggested it. I was horrified.

He put down his beer and stared at me. "What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a ghost. I think he'd be perfect. And he won't think you're stark staring bonkers."

I wonder now how much Adam knew. He cannot have known what I was but I have learned to take nothing about him for granted. If I saw this as a matter of conscience, in fact, who better to confess to? It would be a penance, and a deserved one. But could I bring myself to do it? Could I tell an Immortal that I had butchered his own kind? Yet, who better to beg for forgiveness? It was fitting.

I nodded. "All right."

"Good. I'll introduce you. I'd rather you go to him than pour your religious troubles out on my head. Drink up."

It was my turn to stare. "You know Darius?"

He shrugged and drank some more beer. "Of course."

"But that is interference. Do you want to face a tribunal?"

He looked disgusted. "Since when did you worry about rules, René? And for your information, as a historian I have a dispensation to talk to Darius because he knew Methos."

"I see."

"He's a good guy. You'll like him. Tells great stories. With home-made mead. Besides, it's time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. You're no fun when you're gloomy and it's time we got down to some serious fun again. I was getting bored."

And I went - in fear and trembling. He was waiting for us. What could I say to this man - this Immortal whose file showed him to be worse than Rødrig? But he was gracious and Adam was insistent.

Darius spent many hours with me over the next few months. I told him everything, about the Watchers, about the Hunters and my part in it, and now I cannot help believing that that is why he was murdered. Because he knew. Oh, Horton hated him; that was his excuse. But his reason was that Darius knew too much. And it was I who told him. I have this, too, on my conscience. He suggested I find Rødrig's widow and children, which I did. They had gone to the Ardennes and it was not hard to find them. I sent her money, telling her I had been a friend of her husband's, that he had once helped me. I had his file, of course. It was not difficult to be convincing. She wrote back and thanked me. I sent money every month for years after that.

And somehow Horton found out. Nearly a year after I thought it was all over, I got a call.

"Go to see Horton or you are a dead man," the voice on the telephone told me in unaccented French. I did not recognize it.

"I will not take another assignment," I told the voice.

"Just go to see him, or you will regret it."

When I got to Horton's hotel room, he was pleasant. Too pleasant. One suspects pleasantness in dangerous men.

"Come in, come in, René," he said. "I was sorry to hear of your illness last year. Are you feeling any better?"

I looked around me, half-expecting him not to be alone. I was also a dangerous man, after all. And I was not very happy about how things had turned out. Perhaps I would take it into my head that if I was going to be a dead man anyway, I should take him with me. Were they not afraid of that? They should fear me, I told myself. I was also a little mad, non?

"Why am I here?" I asked him.

There was a half-smile on his face. "You don't trust me."

"No. I do not."

"Don't worry. You're safe enough. If I wanted you dead, I'd let Shapiro do it."

"You will not denounce me. You would not dare." It was bravado. I would have believed anything of Horton. With him, you were either with him or against him, and I was no longer with him. There was no middle ground.

He shrugged. "For a man who tried to kill himself not so long ago, you seem remarkably anxious to live. You did a good job for us. It was a clean kill."

I stared at him. "That is over. In the past. I do not wish to speak of such things. I will not kill for you again."

He smiled. "It's all right. There will be no more assignments. I asked you here to show you something. Sit down."

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

He went over to the television set and turned it on. Then he put a tape in the VCR.

"Just watch."

It was all there. I saw Rødrig's face as he let me in. I saw myself… mon dieu!…I saw myself screaming at him, cursing him, my face distorted with rage and hatred. My stomach was churning but I could not look away. Then I saw him kneel, speak to me and bow his head. I could look no more. I made it into the bathroom in time to heave my guts into the toilet.

"Yes, indeed. You have gone soft." He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded, one foot over the other. The tape was in one hand, a nine millimetre in the other.

I stayed on the floor, my head resting against the sink, not sure I was finished. "He was not a bad man," I said, the taste of vomit foul in my mouth.

"Not for three hundred years or so, perhaps, but they never really change, don't you find?"

"Why did you send me?"

He walked into the bathroom and looked down at me as if I were something floating in the toilet. "I wanted you dead. I still want you dead. And now I can have you dead any time I wish while I reap the rewards of being a conscientious Watcher who would turn one of his own in to the Council for such… reprehensible activities. Rødrig had a Watcher who was thinking of becoming one of us; he did us a favour that night and we killed two birds with one stone. You're safe from him, though. He's not talking any more. Too bad, really, but he was even more sickened than you and changed his mind; I had to convince him to turn over the tape."

"You convinced him with a bullet."

"Something like that."

"And why did you not just shoot me?"

"Mm… let's just say that I might have a use for you. Properly controlled, of course. If your conscience bothers you again, I can always just yank on your leash. And just in case this isn't enough to deter you," he waved the tape at me, "I might just show this to that researcher friend of yours, Adam Pierson. Think about that." He backed away and levelled the gun at my head. "Now get out."

****

Do such memories never fade? I downed that third drink like water. I stayed there for a good half hour more, long enough to finish my packet of cigarettes and drink some coffee. When my nerves were a little more settled, I left the bar, bought another packet of cigarettes and went home by taxi. I could not rid my mind of those images, so long quiet now, that haunted me for so long. I barely heard what the taxi driver was saying when we arrived. I threw a ten-euro note at him and got out.

When I opened the front door, Mathilde was waiting. I fell to my knees, caught her up in my arms and held her to me more tightly than I had ever done before. As I felt her warmth, her life, the life that I gave her, I was overcome - with my love for her, with my terror of the danger I had placed us both in and with the rush of guilt for the things I had done, things that were now coming back to tear apart everything I had managed to build. I wept, silently, deeply. Her arms tightened around me.

"Je t'aime, Papa," she said. "Je t'aime."

Nikki did not ask me what had happened. I had hoped that the time would never come when I would have to tell her. And now… Now I could say nothing. I have not deserved such love from these two people.

I took Mathilde downtown to go shopping for a birthday present for Nikki. She is a quiet child, thoughtful. When she was born, I became desperately afraid for her, for myself; she would have no-one if anything happened to me. And I knew myself what that was like. My work took all my attention; I stayed away from other Watchers, even Adam. Our friendship faded as we went our own ways. I wanted no-one to know about my child. Sean was her godfather and Adam came for the christening. Darius officiated. We made a strange group, we six. Nikki will never know how strange. I wanted Adam to be her godfather but he refused, very politely. I did not know who he was then, of course. He merely said that he was not a Catholic and left it at that. He brought a present, a little gold necklace of some antiquity, something, he said, that he had acquired in Iran before the fall of the Shah. I have it safe for her.

Adam insisted on taking a turn holding Mathilde. He was so tender with her, held her so gently. I watched him talking to her, smiling, laughing quietly as if they were the only two people in the world, he and that tiny baby. I told him afterward that I thought he should raise a family of his own, that he would make a wonderful father. He only smiled at me very sadly. I wish I had known.

I bought the house in Reims, worked in the garden, watched her grow. Nikki came with me. She had been looking after Mathilde since her mother abandoned us both when Mathilde was only a few months old. Now she is as much my family as Mathilde and we are hers. My home is her home.

We bought the present for Nikki. Mathilde picked it out herself. I was too distracted to be good company. She showed me all sorts of things and I nodded and made the odd remark. Finally, she took my hand.

"What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing, Mati. Nothing important."

But children are not so easily fooled. "Why were you crying?" she asked.

"Because I was sad."

"Are you sad now?"

I shook my head. "No. Not now."

She smiled at me and I gave her a little hug. She did not ask me again.

We found something to Mathilde's liking. At home, she wrapped it neatly. We went for supper to our favourite restaurant, where she gave it to Nikki. Nikki unwrapped it, a silk scarf, perhaps a little too colourful for Nikki's taste, but gratefully accepted. I watched them proudly, loving them both. But I could not shed the weight of my fears.

This morning, I said goodbye, promised to come back soon, hugged them both and left with an ache in my heart. Nikki looked very worried but I can say nothing to her until this is over and we are all safe once again. And if it does not end well? I must make some provision for that event. I had not thought of it before this. The more years that passed, the safer it seemed until the danger seemed only a fantasy, nothing real. The nightmares receded, my mind calmed, my child grew.

I paid my visit to Père Jean at the abbey. As I knelt in the confessional, crossed myself and began, it came on me like a flood.

"Pardonnez-moi, Mon Père, parce que j'ai péché…"

I have told him most of it over the years. Now, I dredged my memory for any detail I had missed before. When he absolved me, he told me that he would like to see me in his study. He did not give me a penance.

In his tiny study, he invited me to sit in the armchair and told me that I could smoke if it would give me some comfort. I took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited patiently.

"How can I help you, René?" he asked me.

"You are helping me, Mon Père."

And I told him about Eddie, what his game was, how I had to do as he asked unless I could think of some way out.

"This tape, René. It is most disturbing. It must weigh on your conscience terribly."

I was unable to look at him. "Yes, Mon Père. Very disturbing."

"Do you think you can retrieve it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I will try."

He leaned forward in his chair and sighed a little. "I must ask you this, René. You don't have to answer me. Do you intend to kill this man?"

I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed my forehead with my fingers. So much killing. "Yes. I do. But it is unlikely that he will oblige me by giving me the chance."

"Look at me, René." I took a drag on the cigarette. "Look at me."

I raised my eyes and he nodded at me. He has known me ever since Darius died. He understands; his father was a member of the Résistance. "You will do what you have to do, as we all must. If I thought you were judging him, I would have other things to say, but I do not feel that this is so. I have not heard you say to me that he deserves to die." He shook his head. "Not everything is a matter of right or wrong. I leave it in your hands and leave God to judge. To presume to know these things is arrogance and that is something I try not to be. Do you understand what I am saying?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mon Père. I think so."

He laughed quietly. "And then, perhaps I am being a coward. I don't know."

I smiled. "No, Mon Père. You are no coward."

"Your friend is behaving himself, at least."

"He knows what is in his own best interest. He will give you no trouble."

"No, I do not expect that he will."

And we talked of the garden and of how the restoration of the church was going. I have donated my time and my labour to the work there over the years, a small penance. I learned to love gardening and recommend it to my patients. The garden at my house is a joy, such as it is. The hard work seems to be good for me.

Toward noon, I thanked him for his kindness and understanding. He gave me his blessing and I left to catch the train. I did not want to see Eddie. Perhaps that was cowardly of me, but I think not.

****

Chapter 4

The train ride has been uneventful and I have caught up my notes. It keeps my mind occupied, at least. I relax into the seat and watch the fields go by the window. Half an hour and we will be in the Gare de l'Est. I take my glasses off and close my eyes. I did not sleep well and I am weary. Perhaps tonight I will see Martine.

And perhaps if Adam is still doing well on Monday, I will suggest three times a week instead of every day. It is less tiring for both of us. And we will discuss some rules. Always there must be ground rules and responsibility - a kind of contract. He is willful. If he were a Mortal and not concerned for his very life every waking moment, it would be much easier; I would commit him and have done with it. As it is, to do this before he is ready and without his consent would make him worse. It terrifies him. His paranoia is all the greater because it is founded in reality; he has a horror of being in captivity, even one which would do him good in the long run. In the short run, it could be a disaster. I know this. His paranoia would become all-consuming. He is very vulnerable in this fragile state. And yet I may still have no choice. He would be very dangerous if he were to become delusional.

When I first met him, he was merely depressed and a little paranoid. Since I believed him to be mortal, I suspected insipient psychosis, that he was already delusional. It all makes sense now, of course. We must speak of his Immortality; it colours everything. If he does not like it… tant pis.

Many years ago, Sean was 'treating' Adam. That is to say, he was seeing Adam unofficially, listening to his troubles over a beer, being a friend, attempting to steer him toward answers which would help him fight off the depression that was obviously troubling him severely even then. Adam had not long been out of the Academy, perhaps two years. Sean assigned me to become his friend. He did not tell me that Adam was Immortal and Adam did not know that I was a psychiatrist. My official position was as physician assigned to the hospital, doing a psychiatric rotation, no more. Sean was as worried for my mind as he was for Adam's; I was still a Hunter, although it was troubling me more and more. Sean introduced us, then left us to get acquainted over beer. It worked well.

When I think of it now, I realize what a dangerous game Sean was playing, how easily it could have gone so very wrong. If I had known Adam was an Immortal, I would have tried to kill him; if Adam had known I was a Hunter, he would have killed me first. And rightly so. As it happens, by good luck or by the grace of God, we are both still alive. But we became friends, if only casual ones. I was thirty-nine years old and very lonely, very confused; I was, in fact, doing my psychiatric residency with Sean. It began as therapy for Adam, although Adam was unaware of it, and became therapy for me. We met regularly for a beer and talk; soon we were going out on the town together, getting drunk, bedding women. I amuses me now; it was a side of him that he did not show to the Watchers. It was incautious of him; perhaps the burden of being Adam Pierson was too much and a little rebellion suited him. I don't know. Promiscuous sexual behaviour and alcohol abuse are symptoms of severe depression; if I admitted to seeing it in him, I would have to see it in myself and I was not willing to do that. Not at all. Even after my breakdown, I would not see.

I still remember those little chats, even with some pleasure. But not always so. One in particular. It was the day Horton showed me that tape. It did terrible things to me; if it was his revenge, then it did what he had hoped. But I was not what he thought; there was no leash about my neck. I was enraged. I called Adam at work and asked him to see me. I cannot say why and I knew it was wrong; to do such a thing was not ethical. He agreed to meet me at our usual place. I went there and waited for him. My nerves were very bad and my hands shook. I ordered brandy and drank it down, then asked for another and another. By the time Adam arrived, I was already drunk. I was also extremely agitated.

He walked into the bar and saw me, smiled and waved. On his way past the counter, he said something to the waiter, who nodded. As he came closer and saw the state I was in, he sighed very heavily and not a little sadly.

He sat in the chair opposite me and leaned forward, keeping his voice down. He knew how to be discreet. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Ce trou du cul Horton!" It was all I could say. I mashed the cigarette I was holding into the overflowing ashtray and lit another one.

"English, René. What about Horton?"

I jabbed my forehead with my finger. "The son of a bitch threatens to kill me, holds a gun to my head. Outain de merde!"

A look came over his face. I did not understand it at the time, and perhaps I still do not. It was anger… and something else. His eyes were cold and his face hard. As his therapist, even an unofficial one, and even drunk, it seemed to me strange, out of character.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I know things. I know things and he is a dead man!"

I had expected him to react to the name - I knew he hated Horton; we had spoken of it - but he said nothing. He sat there, quiet, just watching me. "Are you taking your medication?" he asked.

The question struck me as immensely funny and I laughed. "You know that I am not."

"Yeah, well I think a couple of downers are in order about now."

The waiter brought his beer and placed it on the table. He turned to me. "Et vous, Monsieur?"

Adam gave me a look. "He won't be having anything more," he told the waiter.

"Eh, bien."

Adam waited until we were alone again. "What the hell do you think you are doing? You trying to kill yourself again?"

"No, but I am going to kill him. No-one threatens me like that. No-one!"

"Like hell you are. You're going home, you're going to take a couple of those happy pills Sean keeps you supplied with and you're going to stay there until you've sobered up and calmed down even if I have to lock you in. Do I have to spell it out?"

I did not know whether Adam knew that Horton was a Hunter; we had never spoken of such things. I was not even certain whether he knew about them; it was safest to say nothing. I had been on the edge of going to Shapiro for some time, of turning myself in to the Council. Perhaps I was talking myself into it even then, saying my goodbyes. I don't know.

Horton's little game had me badly shaken. What did I care for that tape? How do you control a man who does not fear to die for his own sins? He was a coward. But he was smart to have a gun or I would have killed him and taken it then. And if he had given the tape to Shapiro? I would have taken them all down. It was useless to them. If Horton did not know that, then he was a fool.

I ignored Adam's attempt to talk sense to me. "Can you get me a gun?" I asked him. "The police still have mine."

His face softened and he was Adam Pierson again. He shook his head. "Not really my area of expertise, I'm afraid."

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. "Forgive me, mon ami. I should not have asked."

He shrugged. "It's all right. It's just that it would draw the wrong kind of attention, don't you think? They know we're friends, René. A bit suspicious if I nose around in the wrong places and then Horton ends up dead as a doornail, feeding the rats in a back alley. And the police already have a file on you. You do something stupid and you're going to be in it up to your Gallic neck. Sometimes it's best just to walk away." And wait for the right moment. He did not say it, but that was what he was telling me.

But I could not, of course. My anger made me foolish and I ignored his advice. Perhaps if I had known who he was, I would have heeded it.

And he did drive me home. He even came up to the apartment with me, although I was a little more sober again by then. He asked me where I kept my medication and I told him. He made me some coffee and found the pills. He gave me two and put the rest in his pocket. saying that he would give them back to me in the morning. He told me to take them but I only pretended. I spat them into my hand when his head was turned. I thought there was probably something on his mind, since he would not have made such a mistake at another time. When he left, I drank coffee until I was sober enough to drive.

It was dark before I trusted myself enough to do it. My hands had stopped shaking, perhaps because I had made my decision; I was going to kill Horton. I would be dead soon in any case, whether by Horton's hand or that of the Tribunal. It made no difference. I had no-one and part of me still wanted to end it.

I drove to Headquarters because I knew where there was a gun. I would get it and go to Horton's hotel and do it there. I did not give a thought for what might happen after that; I only saw myself putting a bullet between his eyes, poor payment for the lives he snuffed out. But I did not blame him for my own ruin; I had done that all by myself. My death would be on my own head, no-one else's.

Security was very bad in those days and I had no difficulty getting into the building. I left the hallway dark and worked my way to the offices of the field supervisors. I had a key, one that I had stolen while I was a Hunter. I had very little respect for their authority and I am glad that I am no longer under their control, little men with too much power, failed field operatives mostly, angry men, jealous of those of us still in the field, still doing what we had come there to do. They were responsible for issuing firearms to field operatives. I had applied for a new gun and been refused after my supervisor read my file and decided that I could not be trusted not to use it on myself. And perhaps he was not wrong. I could have bought one for myself, of course; I did not want there to be a record of it. But I knew where they were kept and it was a simple matter to break the lock and help myself to a nine millimetre, with ammunition and a silencer. I loaded the gun, put it into my belt, put the silencer in my pocket and left.

The hallway was still dark. As I closed the door silently behind me, I heard something, a chair scraping across a floor somewhere near. My nerves were very raw and I was still a little drunk. My hand went to the gun; I took the silencer out of my pocket and screwed it into the barrel. It took me longer than it would have if I had been sober and I almost dropped it onto the marble floor but I managed it. Then I heard the sound again and followed it.

It was coming from Horton's office. The light shone under the door and shadows across it showed me that someone was moving about but I heard no voices. I leaned against the doorpost to listen. When I was sure there was only one person there, I pushed the door handle down and pushed the door open.

He was standing behind his desk, intent on some paper in his hand. When the door opened, he was not startled - was he expecting someone? - and when he saw who it was, even though I was holding a gun aimed at him, he smirked and chuckled a little. He put the paper into the desk drawer and closed it.

"What's this, René? A little show of backbone?"

"You underestimate me," I said through my teeth. "I want that tape." And I raised the gun to aim at his head.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? Your hand is shaking and your speech is a little slurred. My, my. A little liquid courage was necessary? How the mighty have fallen. You never needed it before."

"That tape? Now."

"Since you seem bent on self-destruction anyway, why do you want it?"

"Ah, que vous avez raison - you are very right." And my finger moved against the trigger. The shot passed a few inches by his head and buried itself in the wall. The smug look on his face changed to one of fear. At last he understood.

"Get it."

He moved to a side table and reached toward the drawer. Then he hesitated. "How do I know you won't kill me anyway?"

"You do not." And I began to squeeze the trigger again. This time, I would do it.

Except that something came crashing down on my head.

When I woke up, the pain in my head was unbelievable. I was lying on my face, soaking wet and very cold. I opened my eyes. I was in an alley somewhere, beside the trash bins of an apartment courtyard and it was raining. I raised my head slowly and saw the blood on the cobbles, mixing with the rain. The pain was worse if I moved. Nausea rushed over me and I vomited. I lay there, shivering, the rain soaking me. I put a hand to the back of my head and felt the blood. I tried to get up but could not. The dizziness and the pain were too much and I passed out. When I woke again, a hand was under one shoulder pulling me up.

"Come on, guy. Help me here." It was Adam's voice. "You are getting to be one big bloody pain the arse."

It took a few moments to get me to my feet and not before I vomited again. His car was in the alley and I leaned on him as we went to it. He opened the back door and helped me to get in and I lay down. I was very grateful to be out of the rain. He covered me with a blanket and took a look at my wound.

"You need stitches. I can do it if you trust me. I don't think we should take you to hospital, considering what I think you were doing at Headquarters. You've got a medical bag at home, right?"

"Yes," I said. It was barely a whisper.

"Right. I'll get you home then. I wouldn't be surprised if you had a concussion to go with all that blood.

I do not remember the ride, although I do remember the clanking of the ancient elevator in my building. I do not remember him getting my wet clothing off but I do remember being in a warm bath and feeling a little better.

I remember opening my eyes and seeing everything white. It was a few moments before I realized that I was in my own bathroom, lying in warm water. He was sitting on the toilet seat beside the tub, a very worried look on his face.

"I wish you'd stop fading on me," he said. "Definitely a concussion, maybe even a skull fracture. Somebody really worked you over. I'm not sure you were supposed to wake up at all. It made stitching you up a lot easier, though. You'll feel better when you're warm again."

I felt my head and the stitches were there. The hair around them had been shaved and a gauze pad had been taped in place over them. Very professional. "Thank you."

"Don't wash your head just yet. Don't need to get the stitches wet until it starts to heal."

"I know. Thank you."

"All right. I'll get something hot for you to drink. If you need help getting out of the tub, call me. I don't want you falling."

"I will be all right."

"Yeah. I've heard that one before."

I was able to see to myself. He had put pyjamas and a robe out for me to find. When I was dressed, I went into the kitchen but he made me get into bed and brought me some hot, sweet tea and a couple of painkillers from my medical bag. He sat in the chair by the bed while I drank it.

"How are you doing now?"

"Better, I think. The pain in my head is still very bad. I am sorry to put you to so much trouble."

"Not as if I could leave you lying there."

"How did you know where to find me?"

He chuckled. "I followed you to HQ. I saw you spit out those pills I gave you; you're too bloody stubborn to listen to reason sometimes."

I laughed. "And I thought I had fooled you."

"I couldn't figure out why you weren't going to Horton's hotel, but then I remembered you telling me about that key you stole from the supervisory personnel offices. It was easy to put two and two together. You'd asked me to get you a gun; there are guns there - you had a key." He chuckled at that. "You're not very devious, René. And when you didn't come out, I got worried. Then I saw Horton's car leaving and followed it. Somebody else was driving, couldn't see who. He pulled into that alley and when he left, I went looking to see why, and there you were. I still don't know who it was and I still think you were supposed to die there. Why the hell didn't you listen to me? I've got better things to do than babysit you."

I felt very foolish listening to him. "I will - keep my head down? - you say this, non?"

He smiled. "Yeah, we say this. Bloody right you'll keep your head down. Unless you want it blown off. Do you want it blown off? Is that what this is all about?"

I had not thought him so perceptive. I sipped the tea while he watched me. "Perhaps."

"Because if that's what it is, then knock it off. I've lost too many friends, René; I don't want to lose another one. All right?"

I just nodded; I had nothing to say to that. "Can you give me a cigarette?"

He laughed. "Sorry. They got soaked." His face darkened then as if something which had been under the surface was drawing him to itself. "I… um… there's somewhere I have to be. I'll come by tomorrow. All right?"

"I will be fine. Sean will give me some time to rest. Thank you, Adam. You may have saved my life."

"Don't get all dramatic on me. You're a tough nut to crack. And somebody had a bloody good try. Walk away from it, Ren…. I mean it."

I only smiled at him. He brought me some more tea, told me to drink it while it was hot and left. I drank the tea and slept the sleep of the dead. When I woke up, I called Sean, told him that I needed some time, that I would come to see him and we would talk. He did not seem surprised and I wondered if Adam had spoken to him.

And I did walk away. Sean told me to wait, as Adam had. And it all seemed to fade away. Horton was transferred out of Paris very soon afterward; I never knew where he went. And now it occurs to me to wonder if Adam had anything to do with that. I was his friend, whether I accepted it or not. Adam Pierson may have been afraid to act, but Methos was not. And now I hear about Horton's little plan to trap him. He must have known. Was he unable to resist the temptation…? ô mon dieu! It just occurs to me… the chronicle must be real, or Adam would not have gone looking for it, whether he knew it was a trap or not. He is no fool. And I cannot believe that Methos would not know such a thing; he would have been dead long before the rise of the Roman Empire if that were so. He had gone wherever the chronicle was supposed to be, Horton had been waiting for him… And then?

And something else. Had he gone to find the chronicle… or to confront Horton about me, his friend? Threaten him? What? Perhaps one day he will tell me. And perhaps one day pigs will sprout wings and will fly!

No, it makes too much sense. Eddie was not lying; the chronicle exists. Somewhere.

We are just coming into the station and it is raining. I gather my notes and put them into my bag. I must make sure that Adam is all right when I get back to the apartment. I am worried about his manner on Thursday. It is too soon to expect any significant progress beyond a very tenuous state. I still keep a dose of Haldol with me in the syringe in its little case just to be on the safe side. Oddly enough, he may agree to go into a suitable facility, perhaps at Sean's hospital, once the more severe stages of his illness have subsided and he is capable of more rational decisions regarding his own care. So long as he fears that he would be incarcerated involuntarily and unable to leave, so long as his fears and delusions are dominant, he will continue to be adamant and he will continue to refuse medication. And so long as he is not a danger to himself or others, I will accede to those wishes. But it is a fine balance, a little too fine to please me.

****

As the train comes to a stop, I put my jacket on. While I wait to get off, I find myself watching through the windows, looking for any familiar face, anyone who might be watching for me. On the platform, I stop to light a cigarette and as I cup my hands around the flame, I watch over my fingers. I look behind the iron grille of the gate, where people are waiting but there is no-one to worry me. I straighten and walk out onto the concourse.

I take the stairs down to the Métro and buy flowers at the kiosk near the barriers. Half a dozen yellow roses with some greenery dyed deep blue. Very pretty. I buy these whenever I come and I must not disturb my routine, just in case I am being watched. Six euros. The woman smiles at me and greets me, tells me I am looking tired today. I tell her she is as beautiful as ever and she laughs.

When I get back to my apartment, I throw my bag onto the sofa, put the flowers in the blue vase and pick up the telephone. When I called Stephen on Thursday to give him my number in Reims, I told him I would call when I got back. I call Adam's apartment and it rings several times but there is no answer. Perhaps they are at the market. I take my bag into the bedroom and unpack it. Then I take a shower, let Mazout in, put a robe on and go back to the kitchen. There is no more wine but there is a bottle of vodka. I pour some orange juice and lace it with the vodka, then go to lie down on the sofa.

But I am very restless. I sit up and take a drink. I open the tobacco tin and roll a cigarette. I have a packet but I prefer these. I light one and sit there, trying not to think. The telephone is beside me and I try Adam's number again. This time Stephen answers. He has been staying in Adam's apartment since the crisis; I am not sure that he approves of me but he doesn't question what I am trying to do for Adam. He thinks of Adam as his teacher, a rôle Adam does not care for. Which tells me that Stephen knows he is Methos. But Stephen has been admirable these past few weeks.

"Oh, hi, René," he says. "You're back?"

"Yes. About half an hour ago. I called but there was no answer."

"Yes, I was out doing some shopping. How was your little holiday?"

I ignore him. "How is Adam?"

"He's been a little off-colour but nothing out of the usual. He isn't here right now. I'm sure he isn't far."

He doesn't sound worried and he is concerned for Adam's welfare. He would not lie to me if there were anything wrong but I am disturbed that Stephen would let Adam get out of his sight. "When he comes home, would you tell him that I am back in Paris?"

"Of course."

I hang up. It is probably all right. Very likely, Adam has gone to Le Blues Bar for the afternoon. Joseph will be playing this evening. I like to listen to blues but if I drop in, they will think I am there to keep an eye on Adam - and they would not be so wrong. So long as the therapy is in progress, we are patient and therapist. We cannot be friends in the usual sense and that is as it must be.

I play the tape on my message machine. There is a message from the hospital; two patients have been asking to see me earlier than their scheduled time. I call the hospital and ask to have appointments made for them on my next hospital day, which is Tuesday. I put on some music and try to read. By the time I have finished the vodka, I am very restless. I dress and go out.

Outside, I kill a little time looking at magazines at the newsagent around the corner and buy the latest copy of Moyen Âge, then drop into the bakery. I take a fancy for some more of the Bordeaux and go to buy another couple of bottles. When I get back to my apartment, I try to do some work but I cannot sit still, as the English say. I pour another vodka, a stiff one, and light a cigarette. I do not normally smoke this much but I am not exactly myself.

I can think of nothing else but Eddie Brill and that damnable tape. To see yourself like that… I have never been able to rid my mind of the image of myself in the throes of the killing fever. I refuse to think of it. I must not.

I want to see Martine. Her phone number comes readily to mind; I cannot believe I have not seen her for nearly two months. I hesitate before calling but I need to see her. She answers after only three rings.

"Àllô."

"Martine, chérie. How are you?"

There is a little hesitation. "It has been a little while, René. Perhaps I have found someone else."

"You would have called me to tell me to go to hell."

She laughs. "Yes, it's true. You know me very well. Where have you been?"

"In Paris."

"And you want me to believe you were not seeing someone else?"

"Why would I want to see someone else? I have been preoccupied with work, c'est tout. I miss you."

"You miss my bed, you mean."

I laugh. She knows me too. "That too."

"Are you still living in that dreadful little apartment?"

I take a drag on the cigarette. "It's not so bad. And I cannot afford to live in Montmartre like you."

She laughs. "You don't have a rich dead husband. They are useful for something, non?"

"Do you want to go for dinner?"

"Would you like me to cook for you?" Her voice is soft and very sexy.

"I'll bring the wine."

An hour later, I am knocking on Martine's front door. Her house is hidden from the street by a gate with an iron grille, very fashionable, very expensive. It has a tiny front courtyard, very pretty, and a garden on the other side of the house. I can only dream of such a place. I remember to turn off my cell phone - they have a bad habit of disturbing me when I least wish it. When the door opens, she leans on the doorpost and looks at me.

"You look like hell," she says.

I shrug. "I feel like hell."

"And you expect me to make you feel better?"

I smile. "You always do."

"Then you had best come in." And she reaches for my hand.

Inside, we kiss on both cheeks and she takes the wine from me to put it in the kitchen. Her house is very comfortable, very chic. I have on jeans and an old blue shirt but I know she will not mind. She wears a pull and loose trousers. She tells me to open the wine. I know where the glasses are kept and fetch them. In the kitchen, supper is already cooking. She lets me taste it and it is delicious. When I give her the wine glass, I know that she is happy to see me. And I her.

We have known each other for some time. On again, off again. Always I come back to her and she to me. Perhaps one day it will become something more but not yet. My work is too dangerous and it would not be fair. But we are neither of us getting any younger.

Dinner is served at the little table in the kitchen; we are old friends as much as we are lovers. I do the dishes for her afterward while she tends to the fire. Then I join her in the living room. She has lit candles and put on some music. I sit in the corner of the sofa, grateful for the peace, and she curls up in my arms, her back to me. She has changed into something lacy, something blue and very pretty. Silk. It feels wonderful under my hand. I have needed this.

"Something is wrong," she says.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"It is confidential?"

"Of course."

I wrap one arm around her shoulders, feel her soft, warm skin and kiss her hair. The warmth from the fire is wonderful on a wet November night.

"I love you, you know," she says.

"I know."

We sit like this for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the music. My mind is quiet at last. She knows of Mathilde, knows I did not abandon her. French women find reliable men attractive, or so I am told. Which does not speak well for French men. Martine is special, independent, content. And loving. She and her husband were happy - a rare thing, I think. She is wearing a perfume that she knows I like. Her hair is soft on my face. There is no need for words.

She moves in my arms, turns toward me with a little sigh and touches my face with her fingers. "Your beard is getting white," she says.

I laugh. "I'm getting used to it."

She reaches up and takes off my glasses, leans over to put them on the little table beside the sofa, stretching out her slender body. She has taken good care of herself over the years; her movements are still graceful, still lovely. My hand goes to her breast, feeling the nipple under the silk, then slides down along the lines of her stomach and hip. She is still beautiful and I am very fond of her.

She puts an arm around my neck and kisses me gently. The love she has for me is quiet and soothing. When I am with her, I can forget.

"I do not deserve you," I say.

"Don't talk nonsense. You are a good man. Everyone deserves to be loved." She laughs. "Even me."

"Then I shall love you."

I pull her close to me; the warmth of her body thrills me and I feel the familiar ache in my groin. She undoes the buttons of my shirt and slips her hand inside. I have missed her touch. I kiss her deeply; she returns it. My hand slides along her thigh and she moves against it.

"Do you want to go to bed?" she whispers.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Our love-making is intense, her passion born of love, mine of loneliness and need.

****

I cannot sleep. She lies beside me, her breathing soft and regular. She has no cares. I trace the lines of her face with my finger, the bones of the cheek, the fine eyebrows, and she wakes.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I did not mean to wake you."

"I was already awake."

She is lying but it is a gentle lie. "Go back to sleep, chérie."

She puts an arm over my chest and rests her head on my shoulder. "Can't you tell me what is troubling you?"

"No. It will be all right."Is that the truth?

She is asleep again in minutes but my mind is too troubled. Eventually, I drift off but my dreams are very bad. I see myself raising a sword, my hands drenched in blood, and the Immortal who kneels before me is Adam. I wake up sweating and breathing hard. I am afraid to go back to sleep. When sleep does take me again, always it is the same dream; sometimes it is Rødrig, sometimes Darius, but always then it is Adam.

****

Chapter 5

Sunday, November 24, 2002, 10 am

Although I slept eventually, I am exhausted. On the Métro on the way home, I try to think about what to do about Eddie. I could buy him a plane ticket, even find a passport in another name - not that difficult with my connections - but always there is that tape. Once I did not care but now it is very different; now it would hurt others - and now I want to live. And there is no-one to help me.

And I am disturbed by what Eddie told me about a chronicle. I cannot ask Adam about this, since we are pretending that he is not Methos. But he will want to know. Perhaps I should tell him that I have heard a rumour that such a thing exists, pretend that I am telling him because he is involved in the Methos Project. On the other hand, perhaps this is not a good idea since it is likely that he will go to any length to find it and since he is still very ill, he could be reckless, could put himself in danger, perhaps even get himself killed. I cannot make a decision. On anything, it seems.

And I never called back! Merde! Stupid! Stupid! This will not do. I should at least have let Stephen or Joseph know where I would be in case of an emergency. I cannot let myself be so distracted. I find my cell phone in my pocket; it is still turned off. René, why do you carry this thing if you never remember to turn it on? I decide to wait until I am home.

When the train arrives at Porte de Vincennes, I get off and hurry through the barriers and up the steps. It is cold and raining. I pull my jacket about me and walk quickly to my apartment. Marie passes me on the stairs and asks me if I heard the noise in the courtyard in the night. I tell her I have been out all night; she says, "Ô, la la!" and laughs. Once inside the apartment, I toss my jacket on the sofa and go to the telephone. I cannot believe my own stupidity. Anything could have happened.

I call Adam's apartment but there is no answer. I leave a message on the machine then call Le Blues. It is still early and it surprises me when Miss Thomas answers it. Although I am not that familiar with her voice, her accent is unmistakable.

"Good morning, Doctor," she says. I do not get the impression that she is pleased to hear from me.

"I am sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, Miss Thomas, but I have been unable to contact Adam. Do you know where he is?"

There is a little hesitation. "He and Stephen have gone to the zoo."

"The zoo? This early in the day? Adam is usually still asleep in the morning."

"I wouldn't know about his personal habits, I'm afraid. Stephen called me a little while ago to say that Adam wanted to go to the zoo. And the Bois de Boulogne. I expect they'll be gone all day."

I do not like this at all but I can hardly tell her that I think she is lying. "I see. And what time was this?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps half an hour?"

"Is your father there, Miss Thomas? Perhaps I could speak with him."

"Actually, my father is not here, Doctor Galbon. Can I take a message?"

Her tone is very sharp. What is it that you are not telling me, my dear? "When do you expect him?"

"I really can't say. He may not come in at all, in fact. He needs his rest. I'm sure you can understand."

She will tell me nothing; I am wasting my time. "Of course. If Adam comes in, please tell him that I called."

"He's quite well, Doctor. You needn't worry."

When I hang up, I make myself some coffee. While I wait for it, I roll a cigarette and light it. I am disturbed by this. However, I can do nothing about it. And I have other, more immediate concerns

.

I must find the tape. And if I cannot find it? I must at least know if Eddie is lying to me, since I am not convinced that he has it. Après tout, he offered me no proof. If I had had my wits about me on Friday instead of being in a panic like some damned fool, I would have realized that. But it is not too late. I have a choice: I can do as he asks or I can kill him. There is no other way. I cannot turn him over to Gabrieli any more than he can denounce me; we are at an impasse. But I do not like either choice. Before I can decide what must be done, I must know. Where is that tape?!

I fetch my coffee and take off my glasses and lay them on the table while I drink it. Mon dieu. How did I allow it to come to this? I should have searched for that tape years ago. I cannot think why I have been so foolish, so complacent. It was bound to happen; perhaps I did not want to believe it. I finish the cigarette and roll another.

Two cups of coffee and three cigarettes later, I have something of a plan. I put on a dark pull that I have not worn for some time - I may have to consider surveillance cameras - and find my car keys. I fetch the wooden chest from under the bed, open it and take out the nine-millimetre in its case. I had thought never to need it again but it would seem that I must carry some protection, although the idea is abhorrent to me after so many years of believing that I am safe. It is clean and loaded. I put it in my knapsack, pull on my jacket and leave.

I walk to the garage where I keep my car, my head spinning with worry. Although I observe most carefully, I can see no-one who might be following me. When I get into my car, I take the gun in its case out of the knapsack and put it into the glove compartment, noticing my reluctance even to have the thing near me. I have changed so very much these past years.

I drive to HQ, being certain to drive in a leisurely fashion so that I will not draw the attention of the police or anyone who might be following me, since my mind refuses to dismiss that possibility. But I see nothing. Perhaps I was correct to think that it was Eddie they were watching and that Eddie meant only to frighten me by telling me I was being followed. But I do wonder if they are following Adam; I must warn him that it is possible, although I cannot imagine that he would not recognize a tail.

I come to HQ quite often on a Sunday; my appearance there will not be noteworthy. It is for me the easiest time to look into the file of any Immortal patient I am treating, easier to keep it confidential. Security is used to seeing me come and go; it must not appear to be anything more than that.

When I drive through the gates, my nerves are not good. I am losing my edge, I see. It no longer thrills me to put myself in danger; perhaps I am growing old. I park in my usual place. Before I get out, I put my cell phone in the glove compartment and lock it. They occasionally search people going in on the weekend now. Gabrieli's orders. The searches are random and it has only happened to me once but I will not take the chance. I pick up the knapsack, get out of the car and go to the front door. Inside the entrance, the guard is new and does not know me. He nods politely.

"Identification, please," he says.

I smile and reach for my wallet, take out my ID card and hand it to him. "Doctor René Galbon," I say.

He looks at it, flips it over and hands it back. "Merci, Doctor Galbon. May I know the nature of your business?"

Ah, he is being thorough. Is it because I am who I am, I wonder? "I come quite often on Sundays to research patient files."

He nods, apparently satisfied. "I must ask you to submit to a brief search, Doctor."

I sigh. "Of course."

He is quick as he frisks me. What is Gabrieli worried about? When he is done, he apologizes for the inconvenience. It seems to be genuine; perhaps he respects professional people.

"May I see the knapsack, please, Doctor?"

I hand him the knapsack, he opens it, searches briefly under the papers and hands it back.

"If you will sign in, please," he says.

It is standard procedure; nothing to worry about. I sign the log. No doubt M. Gabrieli will be intrigued by my presence here today.

"Merci. Please go about you business."

I nod and walk past him. I must see the files. I go straight to the offices which house the banks of files and records and go through the door unobstructed. There are files on everyone, Immortals, Watchers - everyone. The room which has the important records, the chronicles of the ancient Immortals, are in a room by themselves, temperature and moisture controlled to preserve the ancient papers, parchments and even papyruses. It has a combination lock and written permission is required by those without the combination to enter. Adam had the combination as a researcher, although they have probably changed it since, and even he was obliged to sign in and out, although I doubt that he always complied. Those chronicles are worth a king's ransom. I do not need to go there. The files which interest me are more mundane, more recent. Eddie's, for one. And my own.

I find the cabinet of personnel files and open it with my key, a small concession to my need to access them regularly. I do not need to worry about surveillance cameras in here; I notice that Gabrieli does not share the enthusiasm of some of his predecessors for electronic surveillance. Perhaps he realizes that if it comes to that, he has already lost control.

I find the appropriate section of the alphabet and sift through it. Eddie's file is not here. Perhaps it has been mis-filed. I go through the entire drawer but definitely it is not here. Would it be sitting in someone's out-tray? Merde! Although that is unlikely, now that I think of it. In fact, it is most certainly not out in the open. After Croft went to Gabrieli, Gabrieli would have taken the file himself. It will be in his office. And I will not even think of breaking in there

.

What else do you have, Monsieur Gabrieli? I look for my own file - that too is missing. I should have expected it. Mon dieu. Is it because I am treating Adam? His questions to me last week were most pressing. Does he suspect that Adam is Immortal? Or worse, that he is Methos? And what does he suspect of me? But I am ahead of myself; perhaps he does not have it. But who else would want my file? My head is beginning to spin.

I look for Mlle Thomas' file and that, too, is missing. And Joseph's, although I have already seen that. Anyone connected to Adam, it would seem. Who else? I know that he does not have Stephen's file because I have it myself. Perhaps it is just as well.

And Adam's file? I know that it is still kept in with the active files, even though he no longer associates himself with the Watchers. They appear to feel diffently on that. It is gone. Why does this not surprise me?

The Methos files were never in here. They are kept in the locked room, since he is a special project. Adam has no official access to them but that does not stop him from hacking into the database when he feels so inclined. When one feels outside of society, one does not feel bound by its rules. Has he ever felt bound by society's rules?

That my own file is gone and probably in Gabrieli's keeping is very disturbing. It means most likely that I am under investigation. There are significant holes in my records; I put them there myself by removing certain reports on my activities in the eighties. I can only guess why he wants that file. And I do not like the answers. If I am not careful, I will let my imagination take me where I do not wish to go and that might yet be fatal. And I am now inclined to believe that I have been followed, very cleverly, very unobtrusively, but watched, nevertheless. Which brings to mind the remark Marie made to me about a noise in the courtyard last night. If they are indeed watching me, they would know I was elsewhere. Could they have searched my apartment? For what, exactly? My private journals? Mon dieu. I hope not. They are not there, in any case. There is nothing there that could get me into trouble with Gabrieli; perhaps they were only satisfying themselves of that.

Or am I jumping to conclusions and the noise in the courtyard was only Mazout?

Who else? Croft. I might as well know how he fits into all this. Eddie would not have lied about Croft turning him in to Gabrieli; it is exactly the sort of thing he would do. How far would he go? And why not just blackmail Eddie? Of course, Eddie would not be unhappy about putting a bullet through his head and if he were desperate, that is surely what he would do, since Gabrieli is hunting him in any case. It is what I would do.

Croft's file is also gone. Yes, there is something going on and whatever it is, we are all involved. Perhaps Eddie has done me a favour after all.

I close the file drawers, leave the records office and go to personnel. I have the password to the database and hack in easily enough. I find Eddie's personal data, his address and telephone number, bank account numbers for his pay cheque. I make a note of everything. I also make a note of Croft's data, just in case, since he appears to be involved.

And I have learned nothing that tells me where I might find the tape. I will have to break into Eddie's place, if possible, but someone is sure to be watching his apartment. I do not wish to involve anyone else, however, and I must exhaust other possibilities first. And something occurs to me. Eddie told Gabrieli that Croft's accusations were offered merely as revenge, that they were unfounded. If that is all, why did Eddie run? Just because he was being watched? Je m'en doute. What did you not tell me, Eddie? Gabrieli would have brought Croft in for a little talk… and Croft…? Croft would have proof. And Eddie would run. Yes, that makes sense. And what, exactly, would constitute proof? Documents can be forged, people lie but… Photographs. Tapes.

I leave Personnel and go straight to Finance. I must be careful now. I may have reason to be looking through files and databases but I have no legitimate reason to be in Finance. Before going through the main door into the Finance section, I pull my gloves out of my knapsack. There is no reason to leave fingerprints behind. Fortunately, the outer door is not locked. I slip around it and close it behind me. I should be safe enough. The new guard will not know how long I usually take and he is unlikely to come to look for me. And with luck, no-one else will come to HQ today. It could be very awkward

.

Croft has been part of the organization for many years and is very competent at what he does. He has risen nearly to Section Head and has his own suite of offices. And, of course, his door is locked. Except that I know where the key is. I once bedded his secretary after a Christmas office party and she told me a great deal about the strange habits of M. Harold Croft. She kept a key in her desk, she told me, since he was prone to forgetting his. And she is still his secretary.

It does not take me long to find the key, exactly where she told me it was, in a cigar box in the bottom of the drawer to her desk. I take off my jacket, take the watch cap out of the pocket, leave the jacket and my knapsack on her chair and put the watch cap on, pulled low. I unroll the neck of my pull to cover my lower face and beard, and open the door. Once inside, I close the door behind me, lock it again and slip the key into my pocket. And if I am not mistaken, there will most certainly be cameras in here; the head of Finance is not so trusting as M. Gabrieli. The guard will remember the jacket and my thinning hair; perhaps if he is shown a surveillance tape of this little intrusion, he will not recognize me. Unfortunately, there is very little I can do about my glasses and I cannot see without them. The drapes are closed and I do not put on the light.

I look up, searching for cameras. I see one, in the corner, overlooking the whole room, above the head of the person sitting at the desk, aimed at the door. My entrance will certainly be on that. I put one foot on the cabinet and climb up. I reach it easily and turn it upward. It is easier than fiddling with the mechanism with gloved hands, and faster. On the other hand, I am likely wasting my time since the time will be on the tape and I was the only person to sign the log today. I climb back down. It is unlikely that there are any more 'official' cameras in here. What is hidden behind a panel, perhaps, I cannot know; I will have to take my chances.

I look about me; Croft's office has a beige, impersonal look to it in the dim lighting. The fact that he is meticulous helps the speed of my search. I begin with the top drawer to his large desk: nothing. The large bottom drawer, however, is locked. Very curious. I jimmy the lock with a letter opener. Inside, there is not all that much of current interest, although there is a large envelope of surveillance photos showing Joseph shooting Horton - ah, Joseph, how foolish of you - at the bottom of the drawer, and a video tape tossed carelessly on top of the otherwise neat contents. I pick it up; it is labelled 'A.P.'. I put it aside for the moment and finish my search. I find two more large envelopes, containing more photos of Horton, two audiocassettes and several notes in Horton's handwriting. There is one note in a different hand - Croft's, I believe. It reads, 'A.P./J.H. cassette? Search M. Project files'. I finish with the desk and turn on the computer. Ah. As I expected, it is password-locked. I could try to hack in, but that would take time and time is something I do not have. I turn my attention to what is left in the drawer.

There are more tapes than I expected - five or six. Eddie called Croft a weasel but Croft is so much worse than that; he is a cockroach, something which crawls into everything and befouls it. The tapes all have labels on them - two say J.H., one says J.A., another E.B. There is a small monitor and a VCR at a side table and I go to them, put the tape in and turn on the monitor. I fastforward through the tape, looking for content. I go through them all. The J.H. tapes - Horton's - are disturbing, as I expected. I did not expect to see our little meeting about my resignation. It shows me threatening Horton, which I remember only too well, and it shows Eddie Brill rushing up behind me and bringing something - the butt of a gun, I believe - crashing down on my skull. Several times. That accounts for the pool of blood I woke up in, and the concussion; I believe that I will keep that, and the other Horton tape. Ah, Eddie, Eddie… twice you tried to kill me. It must be very galling that I am still alive. And I am not certain whether Horton knew that Croft taped him as much as he did. I suspect not.

The J.A. tape is entertaining, but not relevant to my search. I wonder what Croft found so fascinating about filming Jason Anders and his mistress having sex on his desk. Did he show this tape to Anders' wife? Was his life truly that empty? Or was M. Croft indulging in a little blackmail? That seems to me the more likely considering his sexual preferences. It must have disgusted him, in fact. The Eddie Brill tape (E.B) was all filmed in Croft's office. It mostly consists of Eddie threatening Croft. I have never been much of a lip-reader, but Eddie's meaning is quite clear. I can see that it is unlikely that I have disabled all the cameras in here.

I glance at my watch. If I am too long, the guard will come looking for me. I am surprised to find that I have already been in the building more than an hour.

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