I put in the A.P. tape last, wondering what Croft could possibly have on Adam. And what are these cassette tapes that Croft was writing about? When I play it, I see little. The time and date index, and the condition of the room tell me that this is Horton's office around the time that he showed me his tape of me. And what is this? More of the same, perhaps? Ah, Adam, Adam, what did you do? What does Croft have on you?

The flickering, grey screen shows me Horton, moving about his office in the dark and then stepping out the door. I presume that he locks it; he always did when I was with him. This tape is from a different angle from that of our argument. Is this from a different camera? I feel nauseous. This must be the meeting that Eddie told me about - the trap that Horton set for Methos. I must remember that, whatever happened here, Adam survived it. My heart is racing but I scan forward. My question about the camera is answered when the office door half opens and Adam slips sideways through it. Before anything else, he goes over to the bookcase, pulls out a section of books and takes out a small camera. He does something with it, rewinds it perhaps, and puts it back. He wears gloves so as not to leave prints; very professional. At the desk, he rifles quickly and efficiently through the drawers; I am most impressed. Ah, but then, he may have far more practice than I, non?

I see him look up, startled, and duck down behind the desk, under the range of the camera. The door opens, and Horton enters. Has he forgotten something? But no, he does not turn on the light. Instead, he calls out. Adam stands up from behind the desk, keeping one hand behind his back, hiding a file. No… not a file. A gun. Horton speaks, demanding an explanation for Adam's presence, no doubt. He looks angry, but not frightened. I do not think he is yet aware of the gun.

I cannot see Adam's face until he comes out from behind the desk. Then, he turns and I can see his profile; he looks most disgusted. He cocks his head to one side and speaks in what is surely a sarcastic tone. I almost wish for the sound on this, though it is better that Croft could not hear the conversations that he filmed. Horton smiles smugly and reaches inside his coat.

That is when Adam brings out the gun from behind his back, and aims it at Horton's head. Even in the dimness of the street lighting from the window, Horton sees what it is. He looks surprised and freezes in place. He would not be the first to underestimate Adam Pierson. Adam speaks. Taking his hand out of his coat, Horton raises both hands, slowly. Adam speaks again - I wish I could hear what he is saying. Horton's response is angry. Adam smirks at it and jerks his head at the desk. This meeting is not going at all the way that Eddie imagined it. Adam came for his chronicle, and he expected to get it, trap or no trap.

Adam says a word and I am stunned. I rewind and watch that part again. And again. Yes. That is what he said: my name - René. Adam, you fool, what were you thinking? You said you never involved yourself.

Horton laughs. As usual with him, there is no humour on his face, only scorn. His answer is clearly negative. Adam's face goes blank. I suck in my breath. I know that look. Few still living do. It was on his face that day I told him that Horton had held a gun to my head. He moves forward, shoving the gun in Horton's face.

Horton sees the danger. He falters, but cannot drop all of his manner. There is too much habit in it. He lets his body relax in place and smiles more gently. When he speaks, it must be in a fatherly tone. I cannot imagine what he was thinking at that moment, but I can amuse myself thinking that Croft must have pissed himself even as he kept filming. Croft is a small man and Adam is far beyond his experience.

Adam's expression does not change, as indeed it would not. He is too angry to be mollified. Just as I am wondering how this impasse ended, both Adam and Horton jump, as if hearing a loud noise, and look towards the door. Horton starts to go for behind the desk, but Adam grabs him, shaking his head and speaking to him. Adam is very, very agitated, shaking Horton for emphasis. Horton stares back at him, looking horrified. He does not resist when Adam shoves him toward the door. I watch them leave, more or less in agreement. The tape continues for some minutes after the door closes behind them, but there is nothing more to see. I rewind and watch it again and am no more the wiser.

Except for one small detail. The date and time show that the tape was recorded some four hours after my own visit to Horton's office. Had Adam intended to kill Horton before I did? Or was it merely to warn him of the consquences of making my life miserable? Perhaps one day I shall ask him.

And where is my tape, the one which Eddie claims to have? Obviously, it belongs with the others here. Does Croft have it or does Eddie? If I were to make a bet, it would be on Croft. Was it here with the others? Did Eddie know it was here, perhaps try to steal it? Perhaps Croft had the foresight to remove it for safekeeping? Was I to be his next blackmail victim? It is entirely possible. And why did he not try it before now? Because he is afraid of me, of course. I am much more dangerous than Eddie ever was and Croft is a coward. He must believe I am still reckless enough to kill him if he were to try such a thing. He does not know about Mathilde, obviously. And that is a very good thing.

And I must leave. I gather up the tapes and envelopes. Better by far that I have them in my possession. I slip through the door and lock it. Then I replace the key in the secretary's desk and stow the things in my knapsack. I rearrange my clothing and leave. Outside the door, I take off my gloves and put them back in my knapsack. So far, so good.

On my way out, the guard nods at me and notes the time in his log.

"Sign out, please, Doctor."

I suppose I can live with this. I sign in the out-column against my previous signature.

"Are you taking any materials with you, Doctor Galbon?" he asks, eyeing my knapsack.

I do not answer immediately. "No," I say. "Nothing." Après tout, the 'materials' I am taking with me never officially existed, n'est-ce pas?

I get into my car and drive out through the gate. I must stop somewhere and consider what to do next. I am very hungry and I need a cigarette. I take my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one. As I drive back into Paris, I have time to think about what I found. So much…. But I must stop somewhere to eat. It will give me a chance to calm myself. It is a long time since I did such things.

I stop at the first place I see, a small bistro I have never seen before. I park a street away and walk back, my knapsack over my shoulder. As I walk, I look carefully about me but see nothing to worry me. I am becoming paranoid, perhaps, but it is best to be safe, non? Outside the bistro, I flick the cigarette butt into the gutter and go in. It is pleasant inside, if a little dim. There are a few customers, reading the newspaper over coffee, deep in conversation, sharing something amusing - ordinary people. It is refreshing. I choose a place toward the back and settle in, my knapsack on the chair beside me. When the waiter comes, I order something substantial; it might be a while before I have the chance again. And I order a cognac; I need it.

While I wait, I light another cigarette before I notice the sign. Merde! Défense de fumer - no smoking. I pinch it between my fingers and put it in my pocket to smoke later. The waiter comes with the cognac and I thank him. Two tables away, a woman watches me; it makes me nervous. Don't be a fool, René - she is merely lonely. Without a cigarette in my hands, I am at a loss. There is a newspaper on the chair at the next table and I pick it up and open it. I am not really interested in the news but I wish to be occupied while I wait; it would not do for the woman to decide to speak to me.

My food comes - a plate of spaghetti bolognese, salade noiçoise and bread - and I eat with pleasure. But it does not keep me from thinking of what I have uncovered. I begin to understand why Horton left me alone after that little 'misunderstanding' of ours. Adam, you gallant fool, but I thank you. It would seem that I owe you more than I realized.

And Joseph. I will give him those photographs; they will disturb him, of course, but that cannot be helped. He has a right to have them to destroy with his own hands. I did not realize who it was who shot Horton until today; I did not give Horton a chance to tell me. He arrived at my door - incroyable! - wet and bloody, asking that I shelter him. He was desperate. I told him to go to hell. Unfortunately, he knew about Mathilde. He threatened me with the tape, with harm to my daughter; it was the most foolish thing he could have done. I would have shot him then and there if I had not had my child with me, and Nikki. I told him that if anything happened to either of them, I would hunt him down and I would not miss. He must have believed me for I never saw him again.

And now I know why Eddie ran, I think, non? That tape. It would seem that M. Croft has been most acquisitive over the years. It is most likely that he saw it as a way of protecting himself from very dangerous people. I do believe I need to pay him a visit and remind him that I am still just as dangerous. Except that it is no longer true, of course. Now I have a child to think of; it changes a great deal. He must not know.

And what of my tape? I am convinced that Croft must have it, possibly at his home. I finish eating, take a mouthful of the brandy and open the knapsack. I take out my notebook and look for Croft's address. It is an apartment on some street I do not recognize. Easy enough to find. I wonder if M. Croft stays home on Sundays. I am about to find out.

The waiter removes my plates and I ask him for the bill. I would like another brandy but I do not have the time and I need a cigarette. When the bill comes, I pick up my knapsack and go to the cashier, pay the bill and leave. Outside, the sky is already getting dark and it is raining. I light a cigarette, pull my jacket close and walk toward the car, keeping my head down against the rain. I look at my watch; it is already gone three o'clock.

As I turn the corner, I look up without raising my head. There is a young man in a doorway with headphones. Was he there before? He glances briefly in my direction and looks away again immediately. I do not alter my pace. Before I pass him, he walks across the street, a little too quickly. I have surprised him. They are recruiting them very young these days, I see. It is not music he hears in those headphones; it is instructions. He is not alone. I pretend not to notice. And now I remember where I saw him. He was in the wine shop where I buy my Bordeaux. Ah, M. Gabrieli… you really do not trust me, I see. Still, now I know.

The young man gets into a car across the street and starts the engine. With a little luck, he will think I have not noticed and will follow me. A blue Citroën. Dirty. I will watch for it. I take my time getting into the car; let them believe I have noticed nothing. The Citroën pulls away slowly. When I leave, someone else will pick up the tail. I am amused. And worried, of course. I wonder if they have only just found me.

I reach across to the glove compartment and take out the gun. I remove it from its case and tuck it into my belt; the silencer goes into my pocket. It has come to this. I put the case back into the glove compartment, then light a cigarette. I cannot be in a hurry. I start the engine and pull into the street. Now I shall need to lose the tail. I drive for a few blocks, taking my time, watching for my opportunity. A black Honda has moved in behind me, three cars back. I turn a corner then turn again. He is still there. I pull to the side of the road and take a map of Paris out of the glove compartment. I make a show of opening it, pretending to look for something, a legitimate reason to stop, to be ducking down the wrong streets. It happens all the time and I am unfamiliar with this part of Paris. The black car drives past and the blue Citroën pulls to the curb several spaces behind me. I must be careful. If they think I have noticed them, someone else will be assigned to me and I will be obliged to begin again. When I lose them, it must be seen to be through their own incompetence. Which may be difficult; they are really quite good if I have not spotted them for a week now.

Before Gabrieli, there was no Internal Affairs. The man is cautious in the extreme, perhaps, but not without good reason. The European Section was becoming very corrupt; the Hunters were not the only problem. In M. Gabrieli's shoes, I would have done the same thing. I suspect, in fact, that this is why he was chosen to head the European Section by the other Section Heads, although they are not without their own internal difficulties. It is a sign of the times, I suppose.

I look for Croft's street on the map and find it in the 16th Arrondissement. Good. It is not that far. I wait until a car is between me and the Honda, then toss the map onto the seat and pull out ahead of it. I turn left and right again and pull into the first alley I see. When the blue Honda passes me, I wait for a minute, then drive into the courtyard of an apartment block and around the corner, out of sight. I will stay here for a few minutes. No doubt there will be surveillance at Croft's apartment; I prefer to see for myself. I smoke another cigarette before leaving. That should be enough time.

The rain is harder now, and it is dark with heavy cloud. On the way to Croft's apartment, I try to remember what I know of him. Very little. I have not paid attention to him all these years. Even when I was with the Hunters, I did not know that he was involved in any way. But I did not notice very much of anything of real importance then. I saw only the Hunters and the Hunted; the power behind it did not concern me. And it should have. Very foolish, and a mistake I shall never make again.

I have seen no files on Croft; I had no reason to look. His secretary told me that he was a homosexual, although I suspected it; her attitude was not very sympathetic. I realize now that it was the man she disliked, not his private amusements. I never heard it anywhere else, now that I think of it. He was most discreet, it would seem, or he would not have risen so high. A lonely life in such a callous world. I meet them in my practice occasionally. 'Them'. A bit harsh, non? For the most part, I have found them gentle and forgiving but troubled. A difficult existence.

I stop for a red light and watch in my rear view mirror. I seem to be rid of my tail.

The presence of the Anders tape in Croft's drawer tells me something. Anders was neither an Immortal nor a Hunter. Nor was he a field agent. Why was that tape there at all? And the Anders affair has been over for some time. His indiscretions were hardly a secret and the tape would have been quite useless for blackmail. It was… explicit. Very explicit. And the footage was of the fine body of M. Anders, not of his lovely paramour. Ah. I understand. What a sad little man you are, M. Croft. And how you must have hated us all.

I begin to see the picture. He is a man attracted to power, who enjoys wielding power in a world in which he is otherwise powerless. Association with the Hunters gave him a vicarious outlet for his anger and frustration. And he was important to them; they must come to him for money, for weapons. It is speculation, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Horton seems to have given him a great deal of power and not a little trust. Horton would have given him my tape for safekeeping after I showed up to try to take it by force and it gave him ideas. For one thing, it gave him power over me, and he most certainly hated and feared me. My reputation with women would have been enough to disgust him; perhaps he thought it disrespectful. It is not unusual for male homosexuals to have respect for women, after all. All in all, he must have seen my behaviour as intolerable. And… was he so far wrong?

I was a murderer; he was not. I was often drunk and whored with women; he remained chaste and discreet. In his mind, he was my better, my superior. He was better than all of us and he proved it to himself by taking videos and photographs of us in our murderous acts. Even Joseph is a murderer in his eyes.

And why Adam? Why indeed? That tape does not show a murderer. It shows a man confronting one - and surviving. Was that the point? And Adam is an attractive man, attractive to M. Croft, peut-être? That affair was so long ago and yet the tape is there, on top of the others. Yes, there is a pattern. And when I find you, M. Croft… what else will I find?

I finish the cigarette and drive onto the street. I see nothing to worry me but now that I know, I will watch for others. It has been so long since I have needed to be so cautious; it is most disturbing.

I do not go directly to Croft's apartment but drive around the streets a little, stop for gas, chat with the attendant. Nothing hurried. When I am within two streets of the address, I park and sit for a while, smoking a cigarette. There is nothing to make me suspicious. When I finish the cigarette, I get out of the car, leaving my knapsack under the seat. It is still raining and I pull my collar up. There is a little park and I walk through it. On the other side, there are some shops and I go into one to buy another packet of cigarettes. I pick up a magazine near the shop window and pretend to glance through it. I can see M. Croft's apartment block - and in front of it, a dirty blue Citro‡n. Ah. This is where they have come. I purchase the magazine and leave the shop. I do not look in their direction but go back through the park and get into my car. It is unlikely that they did not see me. I drive away immediately.


****



Chapter 6



Back at home, I change out of my pull into a light one and put the holster on my belt, sliding the gun into it. It is familiar - and it is not a feeling I enjoy. I make some coffee. While I drink it, I call Le Blues Bar. Amy answers it. Where is Joseph?

"Ah, Doctor. How was your day?"

"Uneventful, Miss Thomas. Have you heard from Stephen or Adam?"

"No, I haven't." This time, she sounds worried but she cannot be more worried than I. "I'm sure they're fine."

Mon dieu. Something has gone very wrong. "I will come there."

"No! No, I'm sure it will all work out."

"Please do not play games with me, Miss Thomas. This is very serious; I am quite sure you know that. I will be there in less than an hour."

"All right. I'll be here."

I light another cigarette, finish my coffee, put my jacket back on and leave the apartment. I take the knapsack with me, with its contents. It would be dangerous to leave it here if they come to search again. And I am quite sure that they did search this place. They have been very careful not to disturb anything that I would notice. The gun feels strange in the small of my back. It has been a long time.

As I walk to the Métro, my nerves are very bad. I finish the cigarette and go down the steps. At the barrier, I realize that my carnet of tickets is finished and I stop to buy another one. There is a ten-euro note in my wallet but I have forgotten to go to the bank machine and there is nothing else. Even this small thing shows me my mind is elsewhere. I give the note to the ticket seller while I try to remember the line I will need to go to Le Blues. I do not go there very often. I take the carnet and the change and go through the barrier. I go to the map on the wall and find that I must change at Bastille. Now I remember. I wish they allowed smoking but at least the trip will not be a long one.

I wait for the train, pacing along the platform. Calme-toi, René. You must think. Has Adam decided that the therapy is too much for him and run off? He is not in his right mind and almost anything can happen. Was he hallucinating again and just wandered away? He was behaving strangely on Thursday and I was a fool to think it was only fatigue. Damn Stephen! He was not to let Adam out of his sight.

When the train comes, I get on. I am very distracted and almost forget to get off at Bastille. I am not even thinking about it until I notice the murals on the walls of the station and recognize where I am. I push the handle on the door to open it just in time. As I walk down the tunnels to the other line, I am very worried. Has Joseph found out? We have only known each other since this affair with Adam and I doubt that he trusts me; he is not a man who trusts easily - Watchers are never very trusting, I have noticed. He will have done a little digging, a little thinking… It is possible, now that I think of it, that his inquiries have been the perfect opportunity for any Hunter who is still my enemy - and which of those Hunters still within the Organization is not? - to finish me once and for all before I go to Gabrieli myself. Or am I seeing Hunters behind every lamppost today? If it is true that Gabrieli has offered amnesty, I am in grave danger from those who hold grudges against me. Who else knows about that tape? Why did I not see this before?

By the time I reach the next platform, I am sweating, even though the air is cool, and I need a cigarette. A security patrol of one man and one woman is in the station with dogs. The Métro is a prime target for terrorists. My spine stiffens at the sight; it reminds me that I am being hunted in a very real sense, and my life may be at stake. Mon dieu. What is it like for Adam who must feel this way every waking moment, his illness making it ten times worse than usual? How do they live like this? And to think that I would have been the one hunting him had I known all those years ago. You have much to answer for, René.

When the train comes, I get on. The Métro is quiet on Sundays and I have a carriage to myself save for a woman with a dog. The dog is lying quietly on the floor, his head on his paws. He looks at me without moving and his mistress smiles graciously as I sit down.

And if Joseph found out? He would have left immediately, with Adam, to keep him safe. Is this what has happened? It is entirely possible. If he has, he would fear for Adam's life - for Methos' life, for surely Joseph knows that much about him. They are very close friends, after all. At the very least, he understands that if Adam hears that I was once a Hunter, there will be no more therapy. Not with me and probably not with anyone. He will have lost all trust. He may even kill me himself. Is that what this is about? I am not thinking very clearly. Perhaps Joseph was as tired as Stephen and I and has merely taken a day to himself. He is not to be faulted for that.

My relationship with Joseph has not been very smooth. I first heard of him after he made inquiries at Sean's hospital, asking hypothetical questions of a colleague of mine about how to handle a 'friend' who was having difficulties. At least, that is how the message was relayed to me. Since the request came from a Watcher, my colleague assumed that the 'friend' was an Immortal or another Watcher and referred the matter to me. When I realized he was talking about Adam, I was alarmed. My fears, it would seem, were not unfounded.

The dog whines a little and his mistress hushes him. It brings me back to the real world. I look at the map overhead. Two more stations. The woman and the dog get off at the next one and some teenagers get on, laughing and chattering to one another. So normal. I feel strange, isolated. I live a very narrow life, with few friends. But that is my own fault. When this is over… Will it ever be over? I could be dead soon if I am not careful and what would happen to my Mathilde then? I cannot think of its being over just now.

I get off at the next station and go through the barrier. Once outside, I light a cigarette gratefully. I pull my jacket around me in the wind and head for Le Blues, a couple of streets away.

My first meeting with Joseph was… difficult. I knew that he had not been expecting me. I suppose I should have warned him but there was not the time. When I heard what Joseph had told my colleague, the seriousness of Adam's condition was obvious. It was urgent beyond what Joseph understood. I did some brief research into Joseph's background, I read his reports, found the trial documents - une affaire dégoûtante - asked questions, but there was so little time and my preparations were not as I would have liked. What I had read told me that Joseph was unlikely to welcome my interference.

Adam and I had begun therapy - such as it was - although the full-blown crisis was still days away. I contacted the American hospital where he had been treated and they told me of his attempted suicide and the episode of psychotic mania which was part of it. They were surprised, I think, that he was still alive. The attempt had been a very serious one, not a 'cry for help'. It was disturbing. They have sent me the report and I have read it with sorrow. Adam had missed an appointment and I went to find him at Le Blues. He was not there but at last I met Joseph.

"Wondered when you were gonna get around to looking this place up," he said when I introduced myself. His manner was not surly but it told me that he did not trust me. Adam had not told me that Joseph had lost his legs but I had found his history in the files. An admirable man. And I completely understand his dislike of my profession. No doubt there were attempts to help him 'adjust' to his disability after a healthy and vigorous youth. And no doubt he found them demeaning. I would myself, I think. He shook my hand but it was only for the sake of good manners.

"I have known Adam for many years," I said. I was sure he knew that; he is a Watcher, he knows how to find out these things. And I am sure he knows that Adam is Methos. They are too close for that not to have become known. It explained Joseph's protective, almost paternal attitude. Adam was not only his friend but the son he never had. I would have to keep that in mind always when dealing with him.

He showed me to a table at the back of the bar and made a signal to the waiter. He sat down heavily in the other chair and rested his cane beside the seat. It was weighing on him, I could see. "If you'd like a drink, you're welcome. On the house."

I shook my head. "Thank you, but this is not a social call. A coffee, if you have it. Black with some milk on the side."

The waiter arrived, not that nervous young man I met there when I first went to find Adam, and Joseph asked for a coffee for me and a Scotch for himself.

I lit a cigarette and offered him one.

"Nah. Gave them things up years ago. Hauling yourself around with your arms gets harder if your lungs aren't up to scratch. But don't let me stop you."

The waiter came with Joseph's Scotch and my coffee and we said nothing until he had left. The conversation would concern Adam Pierson, not for the ears of the hired help.

"This is business?"

I stirred the milk into my coffee. "Adam did not come for his session yesterday. It is not the first time. And he did not telephone."

He shrugged. "Patients must blow off sessions all the time. It's not like he's never gonna come again."

"You do not understand perhaps, M. Dawson. Adam's condition is very precarious. I will lay the cards on the table for you. When I went to see Adam the first time to propose that he consent to therapy, he was unable to hold the thread of the conversation. I had to draw his attention back to the present and it was obvious that his mind had been drifting outside of our surroundings, vous comprenez? He was not there. This is very bad; it will only get worse."

"He gets a little distracted." He was not telling me everything; he knew exactly what I was talking about. He had seen it for himself, sans doute. He spends much more time with Adam than I could hope to do; he was in the best position to observe. If he had seen nothing, it was because he wanted to see nothing - and I did not think that Joseph would fool himself over such a matter.

"Do you know where he is now?"

He took a drink from the Scotch. "Home, I guess. I wasn't expecting him." His manner was a little too casual; he was worried, though less than I, I suspected.

"I must ask you," I said, "if you know of his previous stay in hospital?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I found out about it. It was in a file that somebody gave me."

"Bon. Then you know how serious that was."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But he got over that."

"No, he did not. He did not continue the therapy and now he is headed there again."

He sat back in his chair and a look of defiance came over his face. "He doesn't need to go to hospital. He's got you working on it and me watching his back. He'll get through this."

"Then why is it that I have the impression, M. Dawson, that you do not believe this yourself? Did you see something that I should know about?"

He sighed and drained the Scotch. I was not sure that he would answer me but his concern for Adam overcame his reluctance. His face is very expressive; it was all there. "Yeah, I saw something."

"Bon. What did you see?"

He looked down at his glass. What he saw had given him some pain and his face showed it. "He… er… he just kinda blanked out. Told me he was reliving something… only he got it wrong. It wasn't like that."

I took a drag on the cigarette to give him some room to think. Sometimes when I am anxious, I push too hard. That would not help. "He told you what he saw?"

He shook his head. "Sort of. He was talking about Kalas and about me and Don but I wasn't in Paris when that went down."

I shrugged. "It is simple enough. The death of Don Salzer troubled him deeply. I remember. I was most concerned for him and took him for a beer after Don's funeral. I had hoped to see him regularly but he disappeared after that. He cares for you. His mentor was brutally murdered; now he fears for you and you were on his mind, c'est tout."

He smiled but the sadness in his face was deep. "Yeah, I guess."

"Did he seem disoriented?"

He shrugged again. He did not want to speak of these things and I could not blame him. It is never easy for the relatives and if Adam can be said to have any family, Joseph is that to him. "Yeah, I guess. I had to tell him where he was but he seemed to pull out of it just fine. Haven't you ever kinda lost track of where you were? You know, like when you're driving? I know I have and I sure as hell ain't nuts."

"What you observed was a 'dissociative episode'. It is very serious. I want to put him in hospital where he can be cared for before it gets any more serious, before he becomes perhaps suicidal again."

He banged the table with his fist. "No! Christ, no!" He shook his head and his anger was obvious. "I can't let that happen."

"I must insist," I said. My own anger was growing. There was not time for this. Could he not see that? "It is to keep him safe while his mind rests and heals itself. You can understand this, non?"

"No! I promised him: no hospital. I swore I wouldn't let it happen, and I keep my word."

"Then you are misguided, Joseph. You mean well but it is misguided."

"'Misguided'?! You're so full of shit! I know about that little stay on the psych ward, how they had him strapped down and shot full of some heavy-duty drugs. It only made him worse, goddammit!" He jabbed his finger in the air at me. "No way I'm letting that happen to him again. He told me about that flying monkey thing. He's nowhere near that bad. I'm here for him. I can handle it."

I stubbed out the cigarette and looked at him. How was this up to him? What was he not telling me? "You will pardon me for saying it, but you are not the professional. He suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I can help him but he needs care."

"Yeah, well there is no way, René. I told him I'd never let it happen."

"Then I will have no choice but to commit him and I do not wish to do this."

He shook his head again. He would fight me all the way. "Oh, no. You can't do that. He made me his Guardian Advocate this week and it's all legal and correct. You'll have to go through me and I won't commit him to no damned hospital."

"C'est absurde! He is not competent to decide his own care and you do not have the knowledge. I treat Immortals; it is what I know how to do better than anyone else. I am his best hope. Their care is much more difficult, much more complex and Sean's hospital is a very safe place. You must allow me to do this."

He looked at me as though I had struck him. "How do you get the idea he's Immortal? Did he tell you that?"

"Ô mon dieu! Do not try to fool me on this, Joseph. You know that he is Immortal, just as I do. If we are to help him, we must not pretend with each other. It is foolish."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't trust you. You just show up one day and Hey, Presto! you're his shrink and what you say goes? Fuck you!"

"How does this help Adam?" Stubbornness always makes me very angry and I was almost shouting. "He must be our first concern, not your ego and not mine."

His face was becoming red in his frustration with me. We are perhaps too much alike in this. "I checked up on you," he said, his eyes narrow. "You're what you say you are, only there's squat about you in the late eighties, early nineties when you were supposed to be getting to know Adam. You wanna tell me what you were up to? I can find out. Maybe then I'll trust you."

I had expected it, of course, but it is always a shock to hear it. My temper got the better of me and I stared at him. "We are not here to discuss my private life. Do you know where Adam is or do you not?"

He stared back. Then he shrugged and sat back in the chair. "Yeah, what the hell. It's a reasonable request. I can call, I guess."

"Thank-you."

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. "The bookshop," he said while we were waiting. There was a frown on his face. After a few moments, his face relaxed. "Where the hell have you been?" he said into the thing. "I've got your buddy, René, in my bar and he is bullshit. He said you blew off your meeting with him yesterday. I thought you told me you were seeing him today."

I lit another cigarette while I waited.

"Right," he said. His voice was quite neutral but his expression was worried. "Well, I think you'd better come down here and explain that to René in person. Somehow, I don't think he's gonna buy that story coming from me, and I don't think he's gonna leave here until he hears it from you." Another pause. "Just get your butt down here."

When he put the cell phone back into his pocket, he was very… subdued?

"Is he all right?'

He shook his head. "He didn't know what day it was. He's coming over."

I smoked for a few moments before replying. He needed time to think and I did feel very sorry for him. He loves Adam; now I see this every time I see them together. I am not sure it is entirely healthy, but in Adam's condition it is perhaps what he needs. Once he is well, their relationship will become more adult and less paternal. It does no harm for Adam to feel that he is loved, although he finds it difficult to deal with.

"You understand now how serious this is?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. I know. I didn't mean to give you a hard time. You've got his best interests at heart. You want another coffee while we wait?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He signalled to the waiter again."Is there anything else you can tell me," I asked him. It would help him to talk; perhaps I could reassure him. "What was your impression of him when he had this flashback?"

"I guess what got me most was that he wasn't upset by it, you know? I figured it wasn't his first. And I asked him."

"And?"

"He's been flashing on Alexa, too. You know about her?"

"Of course."

The waiter came with out Scotch and coffee. I needed to be alert, otherwise I would have asked for a cognac. I stubbed the cigarette out.

He turned the glass in his hands before going on. "I'd known her pretty much all her life. They met at my place. I dunno. I wanted him to think twice about it, told him she wasn't for him, but I never saw a guy so in love. Kinda ripped my heart out."

"'La folie de l'amour'. We all pay the price."

"You got that right." He had been there, he was telling me.

He sipped the Scotch. I stirred the milk into my coffee, wondering what else he had not told me. It would have been very foolish to bring up the subject of Methos with a man I had just met, a man whose emotions were raw. He was afraid; so was I. Adam's illness made him very vulnerable. And I had my own reasons, reasons to do with penance and redemption but I could not have spoken to him about that. And I care quite genuinely what happens to Adam; this is not a selfish thing I do. He is my friend.

"He will be all right, Joseph. We must keep him safe; I must insist that the clinic is the best place for him." His head came up ready to object. "But I will not go against his own wishes if I think other arrangements can be made. But surely, you understand the difficulty. The therapy is not working fast enough and he is hallucinating again; what happens to him if another Immortal should find him?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to talk him into it. You're on your own. We can work something out. He can stay at my place."

I shook my own head. I can be just as stubborn; I am French, après tout. "No, Joseph. That is not realistic. He is much stronger than you are and you are not exactly quick on your feet."

"He doesn't want drugs, either," he said.

"I know. He tells me this every time we meet. But I keep a syringe with Haldol just in case. He is also stronger and faster than I am." I shrug and light another cigarette. "It is the drug for the emergency treatment of psychotic mania. How does this make you feel?"

He tossed his hand at me. "Yeah, I guess. I see your point."

"Bon. At least we agree on something.""When did you figure out he was Immortal?

I drank some of the coffee while I considered the question. I would keep what I knew to myself for the moment. "After the Ahriman affair. I believe he had his first death then. Can you enlighten me?" It was not a fair question but it gave him some room.

"He's never told me the details. But, yeah, it was about then. Maybe one day…"

And maybe one day we will be able to stop lying to each other.

We were quiet for a while after that. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes, then drank my coffee; he sipped his Scotch. I put my glasses back on and lit another cigarette. We talked of simple things, feeling each other out. I do not know that we can ever be friends, exactly. Perhaps after this is over. I liked him that day but his wariness was obvious. He told me about his daughter; I was tempted to tell him of mine, two fathers talking of their children. He is proud of her, as am I of Mathilde.

In about half an hour, the door opened and Adam came in. He saw us and came toward our table.

"Hey, Joe… René."

Neither of us answered him.

"Uh, look, René. I'm really sorry about yesterday. I got my days mixed up. A lot has been happening this week, you know?" He smiled and giggled a little. His nervousness was very obvious.

It is what he calls 'doing cute'. He knows that does not fool me and I doubt it fooled Joseph. It concerned me that he should be playing this little game.

"No, I do not know," I said, "because you have not been telling me anything significant in our sessions." I had no intention of making him feel comfortable. I was angry and he had to know that; he had to start taking responsibility for his own therapy. At the very least, he had to stop hiding things from me.

He said nothing. The door opened again and a man came in, obviously a companion. From Adam's reaction, I understood that this was an Immortal. Joseph had drawn the same conclusion. Then I recognized him from his file. Stephen Keane. We had not met but I studied his case, since Adam once tried to take his head. He was a patient of Sean's back in the eighteenth century.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. I did not get the impression that he was really aware of what was happening. And now I understood the 'cute' act. It was for Stephen's benefit.

"Sure. Absolutely fine," Adam said. Stephen would have had to be blind not to see that as a lie.

"I think you should come up to the clinic for a few days," I said.

"Absolutely not." The grin and the innocence were gone. Now it was getting deadly serious. He did not give a damn what we thought. This, at least, was an honest reaction.

"Adam, if you are having flashbacks with complete dissociation from reality, you need to be in a safe place. Your current situation is not appropriate for the level of treatment that you need." I could not put it plainer than that. It was in the open and we would deal with it. Now. However it went.

He sat down in the chair across from me, folded his arms and slouched down. Defiance. Anger. Honest reactions, if a little childish. "Fine. Lock me up then."

Now he was being foolish. It made me angrier. "Joseph refuses to give his consent," I said. He might as well know that the matter had come up, that I knew what the arrangement was. "Besides, it would never work without your cooperation. These sessions of ours are not mind games, Adam. I do not wish to trick you, only to help you."

He straightened a little in his chair. I was making sense to him. I doubted that he would consent, even so. "René, I have no problem with accepting your help, but what I said before goes - no drugs and no hospitalization."

I was not surprised but it still exasperated me. He was not thinking in his own best interests. "Adam, this is not a safe situation for you."

"Are you saying that I might hurt someone? Joe, maybe?" Ah, so that was his fear.

I stubbed out the cigarette. "No. You are more likely to harm yourself, or let yourself be exposed to harm, than do harm at this point."

"Then, I will take that chance." It was exactly as I expected. But it was not a rational decision. A man in his mental state cannot be trusted to decide in his own best interest. That is why such matters are left to the attending physician. Myself. Except that, in this instance, Adam had anticipated me with that Guardian Advocate paper. It was exasperating. But I understood completely that he did not want to be locked up and tied down. As an Immortal, one who had survived so long by his wits, it was intolerable. I could not have made him understand that I knew this; I could not tell him that I knew who he was.

"Um, what is going on?" Stephen had come to the table. He came to Adam's left, a significant position of non-aggression in an Immortal. I think that it was at that moment that Adam realized I knew that he himself was Immortal. Bon. That was out of the way.

"René is my shrink," Adam told him without taking his eyes off me. "He works for the people who took over after Sean Burns died." Adam was slipping. We were not to know that Stephen was an Immortal; mentioning Sean Burns was a mistake: how would he know who Sean Burns was if he were mortal and not a Watcher? And it was a mistake he would not normally have made. "René thinks I should check into his psychiatric facility until I stop having vacations from reality like the one you saw at the bookshop today."

Joseph was horrified; it was finally hitting home. I was saddened but resolved. Adam would have to be placed in care somehow.

"Christ! You had another one?" Joseph said.

"René, Joe," Adam said, hooking a thumb in Stephen's direction, "this is Stephen Keane. He was a friend of Sean Burns."

"I see," I said. Joseph made no comment, perhaps for my benefit. Undoubtedly he knew who Stephen was.

"You're in therapy?" Stephen asked.

"Yep," Adam said. It was bravely said; he is a stoic. He does accept his condition, even if he is unwilling to cooperate in his care. I have always known that about him.

"Why?"

It was Stephen. It was a question only an Immortal would have asked. Insanity is not uncommon among them; their whole existence is an insanity, perhaps even an obscenity. I once thought so. I would have hunted both of them not so very long ago. I heard the courage in the question and I was ashamed.

"Let's just say that you are not the only one who could benefit from some new survival strategies," Adam said. It was not a bad way of putting it, I had to admit.

"You need to be in a safe place," I said. "At the clinic, you will be on Holy Ground. No one can harm you there." It was the only argument I had that I thought he would accept.

"Like Darius?" he snapped back.

I was unprepared for that. Adam knew that I was somehow involved in that terrible affair. One day we must speak of it. "We are not Hunters," I said. I doubt it sounded very firm. Stephen must have wondered what the hell was really going on beneath the words.

"Listen to me." He is angry and it is almost a snarl. But it is bravado, for he is also very afraid; that too is in his voice. "I am not going into hospital and I am not going to hide on Holy Ground. And since when did you peg me for an Immortal, René? I thought I was just a confused ex-Watcher research guy who saw a little too much action in the field."

"You are that, as well. I can understand that discovering yourself to be an Immortal during the Ahriman crisis, after studying them for so many years was a great shock, but you need to get beyond it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It makes sense, non? Your disappearance during the Ahriman crisis? Quite a shock to find out about your Immortality that way."

"That is not what happened." No, it is not how it happened. But at least he knew that I knew. It was out in the open. Then his eyes narrowed, his face became slack and his voice softened. "That's not what…"

"What the hell…?" Joseph was startled. I recognized what was happening - Adam was sliding into a flashback right in front of us. I fished in my jacket pocket for the syringe, took it out of its case and held it ready. I slipped the case with the second injection back into my pocket. Stephen, too, appeared to understand what was happening. It had been brought on by my mentioning Ahriman; no doubt he was back there, God help him. Adam leaped out of the chair, his eyes fixed on Joseph and calling Richie's name. I was already standing; Stephen was behind him, watching for the sword.

"Be careful. Hold him!"

Joseph had got himself to his feet and was coming around the table, drawing Adam's glazed attention. Just as Adam's hand went to the sword, had his hand on the hilt, in fact, Stephen grabbed his arms from behind and Joseph took the sword out of harm's way. Adam let out a roar and I lunged forward, stabbing his thigh with the hypodermic and pressing the plunger. Haldol works very quickly but not instantly. We would still need to subdue him.

"Hold on!" I said to Stephen. Adam was shrieking and struggling. I dropped the syringe on the table and helped Stephen. We are both big men, I a little bigger than Adam, but anyone experiencing a psychotic episode becomes remarkably strong.

"It's all right, Adam," Stephen said into Adam's ear. "It's all right. You're safe. Let us help you."

But Adam broke Stephen's grip and rammed an elbow into Stephen's stomach. I grasped his arm and wrapped my other arm around his neck, trying to get a headlock on him. He threw his head back but I saw it coming and pulled my own head out of the way. By this time, Stephen had recovered his own grip on Adam's other arm. Between the two of us pulling and shoving, we got him moving toward the door, screaming something in a language I did not recognize. Then his eyes seemed to fix on Joseph and his tone became desperate, pleading. "Joe we have to go we have to go… Joe, please… Joe!"

"It's all right, Adam. I'm here. We're okay. We don't have to go anywhere." Joseph was almost in tears but he was holding up well. A good man, a good friend. He walked toward a door and opened it. The bar staff had stopped to stare, horrified. Joseph gestured toward his bartender. "It's under control," he shouted.

Adam's struggles were becoming less coordinated but still very strong. "Oh God oh God oh God… swords don't do that they can't they can't do that can't do that… No! No!"

"When's this stuff supposed to work?" Stephen hissed at me, one arm around Adam's neck and the other grasping a shoulder and barely able to maintain his hold.

"Two or three minutes," I told him, breathing heavily. "It will snap him out of the hallucination. Then he will be exhausted and fall asleep. Watch his legs!"

Adam lashed out and I had to jump backward. A table kept me from going right down but it hurt like hell and I had a nasty bruise for several days afterward.

Stephen managed to get a tighter grip. "I'm going to be fucking exhausted as well!"

"In my office," Joseph said.

We had a hell of a time. Adam fought us every step of the way, yelling at imaginary demons. If this did not show Joseph how serious it was, nothing would.

"Joseph!" I shouted. "Sit on the sofa. Stephen, we must get him on the sofa and Joseph can hold him. There's a second injection I must give him.

Joseph sat down on the end of the sofa in the office. Stephen and I manoeuvred Adam to the sofa, and wrestled him onto it, his back toward Joseph. His body was growing less coordinated and a little slack, responding to the drug, but it was not over. We got his jacket off, which was quite a struggle, Joseph wrapped his arms around him and held him, with Stephen's help, while I pulled the case back out of my pocket to administer the second injection.

"What's that for?" Stephen asked.

"It eases the side effects of the Haldol," I said. It was easier just to give the injection through the material again than struggle to expose his hip. He flinched and cried out a little as the needle went into the muscle. In that heightened state, the sensation of pain is intense. "He will sleep," I said.

Adam was relaxing visibly but still very agitated and still shouting, his breath coming in pants. "Sean! Put the sword down put it down put it down… Joe! Oh, Joe… we have to get out of here…"

Joseph hung on bravely. "Easy, man. Take it easy. That's it. It's all right. You're right here. Come on. Just breathe, Adam. Take a deep breath for me. That's it…"

"Joe…" Adam was back with us. Joseph still held him, weeping now. I put the syringe back into the case. I would need to retrieve the other one.

I bent down by Adam's head and stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him. "I'm sorry," I said. "I had to give you something to bring you back down. You were not responding to anything else."

"What?" he tried to sit up again, but Joseph would not allow it. He was just realizing where he was, realizing that he had probably fought, probably put Joseph in danger.

"I didn't… Where's my jacket?" Even now he was looking for his sword.

"Stephen is keeping your sword safe in the bar. You tried to take it out. It caused some alarm."

"Safe…" The Haldol was bringing him down. Soon he would fall asleep and we should have to decide what to do. "I said ïno drugs'."

"And I said fine, as long as you did not become a danger to yourself or others. We have passed that point. You need to be in the hospital."

"No. No, I won't go." He looked terribly afraid. My heart went out. "Joe, please. Don't let him put me in hospital."

Joseph said nothing. His love for Adam was tearing him apart. It was up to him. I stared at him, trying to warn him, begging him to agree to what I wanted to do. Surely he understood now.

"Joseph…"

Joseph sighed. "Okay, Adam. We'll work something out."

"No hospital."

"No hospital."

I cursed in French. As Adam slipped into sleep, Joseph wept openly.


****


And now I was walking to Le Blues, smoking yet another cigarette and out of my mind with worry. I was going to find out just how far Joseph went to avoid that hospitalisation. Mon dieu! It was all going so very wrong.


****



Chapter 7


Sunday, November 24, 7:00 pm


I finish my cigarette just as I arrive at Le Blues. It is closed for business but when I try the door, it opens and I go inside. The door to Joseph's office on the far side of the room is open. As I go toward it, Stephen appears in the doorway. Is Adam here, then?

"Ah, René. Wondered when you'd get here." His manner is almost surly. Has Mlle Thomas perhaps been lecturing him? He is also drunk. "Thought you'd got lost."

"I took the Métro," I say as I reach the door.

He gestures toward the office. Mlle Thomas is at her father's desk looking through some papers. When she sees me, she stands to greet me. I do not think she is pleased to see me.

"Dr. Galbon," she says, a little stiffly, it seems. The lady has secrets. But she is quite sober.

We shake hands. "Miss Thomas."

Behind me, Stephen clears his throat. "I… um… I'm getting a taxi. Going home."

I turn to face him. "Where is Adam?"

He spreads his hands in a gesture to placate me. In his condition, I am surprised that he is still able to stand. "I have no… fucking… idea," he says. His words are slurred; he has been drinking for hours. He was here when I called, non? He has not been with Adam then; they have been lying to me. He glances over my shoulder and straightens. I turn my head to see Mlle Thomas signalling Stephen to be quiet. She looks at me sternly. I can see I will have difficulty here.

"I'll just get my coat," Stephen says, pushing past me into the office. "Adam is fine." He takes his coat off the sofa and almost stumbles. "Wherever the hell he is."

"I demand to know what is going on," I say. The anger in my voice should be obvious even to Stephen.

He observes me with drunken nonchalance. "I leave that to the lovely and generous Miss Thomas," he says. He is barely able to form the syllables. "For I…" - he pulls on his coat - "…am going home to bed."

I block his path to the door. "Where is he?"

"Leave the poor sod alone, René." He waves one hand at me as if swatting a fly. "We're all barking mad, you know. He'll get over it. We all do. You wake up one morning," - he wiggles the fingers of both hands in the air and leers at me - "and all the nightmares have flown away." And he laughs.

Mlle Thomas takes Stephen's arm and guides him past me. "I've called you a taxi, Stephen." Then she looks at me; I believe she is embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Doctor. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a moment." And she steers Stephen through the door.

I take off my jacket, place my knapsack on the sofa and sit in the chair at the end of the desk. I take my cigarettes out before I remember that Mlle Thomas does not smoke. When she returns, it is with a tray, a bottle of her father's best Scotch, two glasses and an ash tray. She places them on the desk between us and pours the Scotch without a word.

"Thank you," I say.

She sits down. "If you're going to smoke, I'll take one."

I raise my eyebrows and offer her one. She takes it; I light it for her. She is troubled. Her hand is steady, but her nervousness is obvious. I doubt I am its sole cause.

"I did not realize you smoked, Miss Thomas."

She draws a lungful of smoke easily. "Not since Sixth Form. But I believe I need one."

I smile and take a drag on my own. "And you went through the Academy without starting again? That shows remarkable restraint."

She leans back in the chair. "I am not particularly fond of restraint, but I was well brought-up. Another kind of restraint." She sighs and blows out the smoke. "I am not the same person."

I take a sip of the Scotch, cross my legs and try to relax into the chair. "You are a human being. Change is a good thing, non?"

A little smile plays around her mouth and she picks a bit of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "I suppose it is. And what about you, Doctor? Are you a changed man for being a Watcher?"

I am tempted not to reply but the irony is amusing. "Mais bien sûr - but of course. Why did you become a Watcher?" I take a drag on the cigarette while she responds. If you leave someone room to think, it eases their fears. I do not need her to be afraid of me.

"My mother was a Watcher." Her voice is flat, a little hard. I do not think there is much love there. We are all orphans in our own way, non?

"I see. I will not lie to you, Miss Thomas. I have seen your file."

She looks up at me; her eyes are wide. I see I have startled her.

"What on earth for?"

I shrug. "Your name came up in one of my sessions with Adam. I was curious."

"Ben mentioned me in a session? Because he saved my life?" Something in her eyes tells me that this pleases her. A little… eagerness, perhaps?

I ignore the question and take another sip of the Scotch. "Do you have feelings for him?"

I see I have startled her again. Tant pis.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, Miss Thomas, we are two people concerned for the same man, for his welfare, for his continued survival, I in my way, as his doctor but also as his friend, and you, I think… There is something there, non?"

Her face flushes a little and she takes a drink of the Scotch. "It's really none of your business. And I resent being psychoanalysed."

"This has nothing to do with psychoanalysis. Nothing at all. We must be on the same ground, you and I. On this we must trust each other. Do you understand?"

"That we both have his best interests at heart? Oh, yes, I understand very well. And whatever else I may think of you, Doctor, I do believe this of you."

"Bon. Where is he?"

She sighs heavily; she is resigned. "He's in Scotland."

Now it is my turn to be startled. "Pardon?"

She takes some of the Scotch before answering. "He went with my father. He had some business, something to do with MacLeod, I think. My father, I mean. Not Ben. My father asked him to come, thought it would be good for him to get away for a day or two."

"Without telling me?"

She shrugs, takes a drag on the cigarette and stubs it out. "You would never have approved."

I am stunned. "And rather than risk my disapproval, they did not ask for it? This is absurd."

"It might interest you to know that they are both there with Gabrieli's approval."

Merde! This is a slap in the face. Gabrieli is telling me that he is still my superior, whether I like it or not. I see that he does not tolerate insubordination well, and my refusal to tell him what he wanted to know has come to this. It is an insult. I finish my own cigarette and stub it out. I cannot say anything. I drink some of the Scotch and rub my head with my hand

"You're very quiet," she says and lifts the glass to her lips. "I suppose it goes with the job." She drinks sparingly, her eyes cast down. "I can tell it makes you angry and I can't blame you, really. It was probably very foolish. I was a bit concerned myself."

In fact, I am relieved. My imagination, it would seem, has been running wild, which is hardly surprising. "I was afraid for Adam," I say, meaning it. "I was worried the last time I saw him and I suspected that he had run away again. But I am disturbed by this news none the less. When were they due back, may I ask?"

"They were supposed to have checked in with me by now."

"What?"

She drinks a little Scotch and stares into the glass. "I have been sitting here for the past hour wondering if MacLeod found them first. I don't much like MacLeod; I don't think he was good for my father and I don't believe he's good for Ben. And I think he might harm Ben if he got the chance. I honestly think he sees himself as the One. And one day he will kill Ben if he gets the chance, take his head. He'll call it justice or keeping the world safe from one more raving lunatic, of course. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

I close my eyes for a few moments. When I open them again, she is looking straight at me.

"You do know what I'm talking about, don't you, Doctor." It is a statement. "My father told me that you thought Ben became Immortal during the Ahriman affair with MacLeod, but that was a lie, wasn't it?" I smile and drink some of the Scotch. "I can see that it was. You know."

Ah. Now it is on the table. There is little point in pretending; what I have to tell her is easier if we each know where the other stands. "That he is Methos? Yes. I have known it for years."

"And that's why you're so anxious to help him? Always so ready to protect him?"

"That. And other things… Many other things." I hear the bitterness in my own voice. I am quite sure it did not escape her notice.

"What's that dark look on your face, Doctor? Are you hiding something? It seems everyone else is hiding something and I suspect you're good at it. You're even trained to hide things." Her fingers, tight on the glass, betray her nervousness. "Why didn't Gabrieli tell you that your patient had flown the coop? Is that what's bothering you?"

"M. Gabrieli and I do not see eye to eye. He wanted me to tell him about my sessions with Adam. I told him to go to hell." I laugh to myself and drain my glass. "Politely, of course."

"Of course. I can imagine. I did wonder why Gabrieli let them go. Now I understand. A little anyway."

"Gabrieli is not a fool. He gives them permission, gains their trust a little… and disciplines me. He kills two birds with one stone." Discipline. Something you are a little short of yourself these days, René.

"Would you like some more Scotch?" I push the glass toward her and she refills both. "And are you properly chastened?" She leans back in the chair, observing me. She will be a very good field agent one of these days. She is already better than most but she must learn to control the nervousness before it controls her. She must not expect it to go away; it never does. And it can be her friend, keep her safe. Or her enemy.

"He would not think so." I take my glass and hold it, letting it warm in my hand. I would have preferred brandy, but the Scotch is welcome, something to calm my own nerves. "And now you are worried that MacLeod has taken the head of Methos."

"The thought must have occurred to you, too."

"It has, I am sorry to say. But if the thing is done, then it is done."

A shadow passes over her face and for a brief moment, I think she will cry, but it passes and she is again in control. Still nervous, for all her cool words, but in control. My own heart is heavy.

"You needn't wait with me, Doctor," she says. "I'll call you when I hear something. No need for both of us to lose sleep."

I put the glass down, stretch out my legs and fold my hands over my belly. It is a posture which relaxes me, the one I use when I am with my patients. "Why did you not tell Stephen where Adam and your father have gone?"

She sighs. "I didn't want him haring off after them and only succeeding in making matters worse. You must know he and MacLeod hate the sight of each other."

I smile. "Adam told me. He found it rather amusing to play them against each other." I take out my cigarettes again. "Would you care for one?"

She shakes her head. "Thank-you, no. I should eat something, I suppose. Don't let me stop you."

I light one and smoke for a while before saying anything. She is quiet. Perhaps she is thinking of Adam; I do believe the lady is in love. If Adam were well, this would be very good; as it is, it could be disaster for them both. Joseph has told me how Adam does not hold himself back in such things and the emotional load would be more than he could handle. Although I suspect there is some feeling on his side already. He was telling me about Alexa at the time and used the name 'Amy' without noticing. But I noticed. I did not call him on it at the time; it would have caused him some distress, I think. And when he is well enough, when he is ready, I will wish them well.

And I have made a decision. "Miss Thomas, I need your help," I say.

"With Ben?"

"Indirectly."

"Why my help?"

"It is an extremely delicate matter. I cannot go to your father and Adam must not know. Perhaps one day, but not now."

"You're being very circumspect, Doctor. Does it have to do with the Watchers?"

I nod. "Oh, yes. I'm afraid it does. And it is dangerous. If you help me, you will almost certainly be risking your life."

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily. "Oh, God." When she opens them again, her face is drawn. "Please, no, Doctor. Don't ask me. Surely there is someone else. What about Stephen? He's eager and he won't be risking his neck."

"Stephen is not a Watcher."

"No, and I'm beginning to wish I weren't. You must know what I've already been through, how close I came to being murdered, for God's sake! You've seen my file."

"Indeed I have. Miss Thomas… what do you know about me? I know that you have researched my file and I am equally sure that it was at your father's request. What did you find?"

"That you are what you say you are. But surely you know that, Doctor. I doubt you resisted the temptation to snoop in your own file while you were into everyone else's." She is annoyed. Tant pis, mademoiselle. Annoyance will be the least of what you will feel when I am done.

"And what else?"

"That was bloody it! And well you know it. Your field experience in the late seventies - which sounds as traumatic as my own, by the way, only a lot more of it - your entry into medical school, your residency at Sean's hospital, work record, all the usual things. But you weren't there. If I had only that file to go on, I would have no idea who you were. Being in the Watchers is hellish dangerous, as I am finding out. But your record is all smooth sailing. And there's nothing at all from 1987 to 1994. It says you took over several of Sean Burns' patients after he was murdered by Duncan MacLeod, after which your record is just as innocuous as the rest of it."

I smile. "And you do not believe it."

"No. And neither does my father. I have made inquiries."

"I must ask you to curtail those inquiries." She stares at me. "Do not underestimate me, Miss Thomas. I am deadly serious."

"Are you threatening me, Doctor?"

I shake my head. "No. But you would be endangering everyone. And that includes Adam. Let me show you something."

I reach for my knapsack and open it. I sort through the manila envelopes and find what I am looking for. I draw it out and hand it to her.

She looks up at me; she is afraid. I nod at her. She opens the envelope as if it will bite her. She slides the photograph out and gasps. "Oh, my God!" Her hand flies to her mouth. "Where did you get this?"

I shrug. "I stole it. From Headquarters this afternoon. Do you recognize the other man in the photograph? You should."

She says nothing for a few moments but she is horrified. It is on her face. I wait until she chooses to speak. "I thought… Forgive me, Doctor. I am a little confused. I thought that my uncle was killed by Duncan MacLeod. Stabbed." She is clearly shaken; her voice is tremulous.

I nod to reassure her. "I do not give you this to imply that your father was the murderer. Horton was, in fact, murdered by Duncan MacLeod, and perhaps that is fitting. I am quite sure they know this at Headquarters. But your father did shoot him. Horton fell into the Seine and your father believed him to be dead. Your father carries that guilt to this day but he should not. Horton was a bad man who caused many deaths." And who knows this better than I?

She studies my face but I do not change my expression. She must decide for herself; it is only fair. "May I ask how you know this?"

Am I ready to tell her? Tell her what? That it was I Horton came to that day and that is how I know? I decide that I am not. Not just yet. "I am a psychiatrist, non? People tell me many things. Troubled people with a great deal on their minds." I take a swallow of the whiskey and finish the cigarette.

She looks down at the photograph. Her face is very expressive of sadness, it seems. Does it also show happiness? It shows love; this I can see. She loves her father; it is obvious, whatever she tells herself. "Why did you give me this?"

"It was not to hurt you, Miss Thomas. I took it from the office of a man who has many things like this, on many people. Letters, photographs…" I shrug. This is not the time to be a coward, René. "Tapes."

"He's blackmailing people?"

I wave my hand in the air. What do I really know? Nothing. I will not lie to her. "I cannot say. I suspect that he has these things to protect himself."

"Is he a Watcher?"

I shrug and shake my head. "I do not wish to put you in danger unnecessarily, Miss Thomas. If you decide to help me, I will tell you his name."

"If it is to protect my father, of course I'll help."

I shake my head again. It would be very unfair of me to accept her help before I have told her why I need it. I do not want this, too, on my conscience. "Do not decide yet; you do not yet know what it is I want from you - or why I want it."

"If he's a Watcher, it's very simple, Doctor. You have to go to Gabrieli with what you know. If this man is blackmailing people, it's a criminal matter and the police will be involved unless it's stopped before it gets to that. Gabrieli has to know."

I rest my elbows on the arms of the chair and place my chin on my hands. It is already too late to turn back.

"I see," she says. "He has something damning on you. And you can't go to Gabrieli because of it."

I close my eyes and incline my head toward her. Yes. When I look at her again, she is merely watching me. Is it sympathy? What would I feel in her place? I have just given her a photograph that shows her father to be capable of cold-blooded murder; I doubt she thinks my motives are pure as the driven snow.

"You don't have to tell me what it is," she says. "I suspect it's best if I don't know. Who else is in thrall to that man? What else do you have in that little bag of yours?"

I am hesitant to tell her much more. What is the purpose of showing her something that would mean nothing to her? Most of the photographs would be meaningless to her, of no personal interest save to prove that Croft left no stone unturned. He does not strike me as a blackmailer; he is far too timid personally. No, his own safety has been his concern since the beginning. I am quite sure that I am right in this. And his prurient interests are no concern of mine. I will not show her the tape of Adam and Horton; until she understands much more, it would only serve to disturb her further.

"Tell me something, Doctor. You said that this man has these things to protect himself. Does he believe my father would harm him?"

I shrug and sit back. "I have no idea what he believes. He knows your father is capable of murder if provoked; perhaps that is enough to frighten him. Certainly he has never gone to the Council with it."

I see the fear on her face. Her thoughts are leading her into dangerous places, perhaps. "Why would he take such a photograph? How did he know to be there?" She is agitated. The nervousness has betrayed her; this latest little shock is breaking her control.

And that is a most interesting question. How indeed? How is it that he was always in the right place? Mon dieu. I understand. At long last, I understand. Croft was Horton's eyes and ears. What he knew, Horton knew. That is how Horton knew Sean had committed me, how he knew that I had been sending money to Rødrig's widow and how he always knew where to find me.

Horton knew MacLeod would be at the barge. Croft went with him. Croft saw him fall into the water and rescued him; Croft brought him to me. Horton knew about Mathilde - then so does Croft.

Croft is a dead man.

"Doctor? Answer me, Doctor!" She is almost shouting. I have frightened her. "How did he know to be where my father would be? And how do you know?"

She is on the edge of tears. It is time. "He was with Horton that night."

"And how do you know this? Did 'a patient' tell you this, too? How do you know any of it? You have lied before. Please don't lie to me now!"

It is time.

"Because I was one of them, Miss Thomas."



***************



End of Part 1 (of 2)

Joe and Methos will return next week in "Don't Let the Turkeys Get You Down".

Part 2 of "Parce Que J'ai Péché" to be posted December 9, 2002.

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