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And so it is over. It was inevitable, I suppose. I have considered for years what this moment would be like. Would I feel terror? Anger? Would I rage against God and my own stupidity? And now that it has come, I find that I am hoping only that I will not disgrace myself. I take off my glasses and rest my forehead in my hand for a moment to compose myself before facing him. At least I have made my peace with God.
He says nothing, waiting. The waiter brings the coffee and I sit up. When the waiter puts the coffee in front of me, I look at him. "Cognac, s'il vous plaît. Double."
"Oui, Monsieur."
I feel my hand tremble a little as I pick up the coffee cup. When the waiter leaves, Gabrieli crosses his legs and folds his hands on his stomach in the relaxed posture he appears to prefer. "You have enemies, Doctor. But I suppose you know that. And I suspect they are also mine."
Ô mon Dieu! The tape. Was it not Croft who had it after all? Has someone given it to Gabrieli? I can say nothing until he tells me in case I am wrong. I put my glasses back on and regard him. "You have not brought me here just to tell me this. There is something you want from me, something you wish to remain between us."
He smiles and inclines his head toward me. "Indeed."
Be very careful, René; he plays a dangerous game. And so do you, my friend. So do you. Does he still test me? I shake my head. "I cannot reveal what I know of Adam Pierson and I will not. And I do not believe that you will condemn me for this."
"No. For all I abhor what you did, Doctor, I admire your sense of ethics. Do you find that a little… absurd?" He pauses while the waiter brings me my cognac and I drink a little. I wish dearly for a cigarette. "In case you're wondering, no-one has had the courage to denounce you to my face. There was only an anonymous note suggesting your involvement in the assassination - for want of a better word - of certain Immortals, particularly a Viking named Rødrig Ericsson. The note was quite specific about that one. Seven in all and not all in Paris." My throat tightens at the sound of the name and my teeth clench. Surely he refers to the tape. Mon dieu. Let it not be the tape. "Frankly, I didn't believe it. I went through your records personally - I would never trust such a sensitive matter to others, especially since I preferred to believe you innocent. They contained no damning evidence but there were certain… anomalies. To the casual observer, they would mean nothing. The writer of the note must have known you well. It suggested a pattern, things to look for - things that weren't there and should have been." He clasps his hands together and cocks his head, waiting for a response.
I am quite nauseous. I take some of the cognac but it does not help. "I see."
"In 1987 and '88, I seem to recall, you took several months off work due to illness. It was very sudden; one day you were quite well and the next you were in communicado at the clinic for several weeks. You were even paid for extended sick leave for those months. And yet, there is nothing in your file to explain it, no entry from your supervisor, no medical records and there must at one time have been a medical history to support the payment of the money. One of the older secretaries remembers it. You used to bring her flowers and then you simply weren't there. She remembers that quite clearly; you made quite an impression on her. And she remembers sending your cheques to the clinic as usual."
He is not gloating, I am quite sure. He wishes merely to prove to me that he means what he says. It is all quite correct. The flowers. I remember the lady, a widow, lonely but full of gentleness for lost souls like myself. Am I to be condemned because I was once kind to a woman who showed kindness to me?
"I called the clinic and spoke to a colleague of yours. He refused to give me a diagnosis, of course, but he did confirm that you were admitted by Sean Burns and were a patient of his for quite a while. The date of that admission was one day after the murder of the Immortal known as Rødrig Ericsson - as the note suggested. It said you would know the name."
The words sear themselves into my mind, my body, strip me of pretense; it is done. The memories, the images of fear and blood, the faces, the voices pleading for mercy come tumbling out of hiding, invade the brain with their needles of guilt and I am almost overwhelmed by the desire to tell him everything. But I know that the drive to confess is often the response of the guilty - and I am guilty. He waits; he also knows this. Yet the desire is fleeting and it passes easily, perhaps because I have already confessed…
Pardonnez-moi, Mon Dieu, parce-que j'ai péché…
"You did leave a trail, but it's far from being an obvious one. The writer offered no proof, only accusation. Accusations without proof, offered by an anonymous party, are not enough to condemn a man, especially not one with your exemplary record for the past fifteen years. It is circumstantial - and I choose to believe it. And they're gunning for you; that's its own proof." He pauses and I drink some more cognac. He is telling me that he will not pursue it - unless…? There are always conditions. "You look relieved, Doctor. Am I right in thinking that proof exists?"
Oh, thank God! He does not know! "Proof always exists, Monsieur, for those who know where to look."
He chuckles. "That's not the answer I was looking for. I have a gun to your head, Doctor; now is not the time to play cute. Is there proof?"
I sigh and nod. "Yes."
He waits; he is unsatisfied with the response but I can say nothing. "Not enough, I'm afraid. Have you no interest in saving your own skin? For your daughter's sake, at least?"
I am reluctant; it is painful. I have kept quiet for so long.
"Let me lay it out for you. I can go either way on this. If I turn you over to the Council, with or without proof, it sends one message: that I will deal with you all ruthlessly and immediately, even those in high places with spotless records. And if I say nothing, it sends another: that I'm not a witchhunter and won't tolerate unsubstantiated accusations from anonymous parties who just might be settling old scores of their own." He shrugs. "Either way, I win. Now tell me: what is this 'proof'?"
No, I cannot. "And if you do not go to the Council, you will perhaps have stepped into your own grave, Monsieur. If proof of my involvement comes to the surface and you have backed me, your own cause is lost, is this not so? As you say, my enemies are your enemies and we have many of them. Even this…" I gesture about us, "will be seen by your enemies to mean that you are weak. If you had intended to go to the Council, I would already be in a cell; I would not be here sharing a meal with you. If you go to the Council now, they will ask why we were having this little tête-à-tête." I shrug. "You need to destroy this proof as much as I, non?"
He laughs quietly. "Very good, Doctor. I see I didn't underestimate you. I will keep you alive even if it's for no other reason than the information you have in your head. You know who the Hunters are, how to find them, the structure of their organization… how they operate. You're the goose that lays the golden egg. And I'd like to know why they're so anxious after all these years to be rid of you. Do you have any suggestions?"
I smile. He knows as well as I. "It is very simple, Monsieur. They know that you hate the Hunters and wish to be rid of them; you announce that you will grant amnesty to those who confess and give names." I shrug and wave a hand in the air. "They denounce me before I denounce them. C'est tout."
"And why haven't you denounced them? I'm curious."
He tests me, I think. Surely it is plain. "I would invite an assassin's bullet - punishment, an example to others who would do the same thing. I tell you that I know who they are, and I am a dead man. I do not tell you, they denounce me, and I am still a dead man; it is only a different finger on the trigger. And I would have your undying contempt."
He nods. "I see you understand your own position. I'm the only hope you have, Doctor. What is the proof?"
Still I find I am reluctant. It is a matter of trust, surely. Do I trust him? He has put himself in a very dangerous position. If whoever denounced me sees that he does nothing, that person will most likely go to someone on the Council - and they will not be so tolerant; they will not bother with proof. And they will have the excuse they are looking for to put Gabrieli in a cell along with me. It seems our paths lead in the same direction. "If I put proof into your hands, there will be no going back. I believe that you are a man of honour; you would not betray me. Yet you cannot save me from a tribunal. If it should fall into the wrong hands…"
"I'm not asking you to place the proof in my hands. I know the risks. You need only one enemy on the Council - and you certainly have that. I know that Shapiro still believes that the Directorship is rightfully his; I also know that several of the Council members are still loyal to him. As it is, without proof of any wrongdoing on your part, it's easy to defend you: I brought you here to ask privately - in deference to your reputation - why someone would denounce you; I've had you followed and found nothing; I've concluded that you must have had patients who told you damning information and that the remaining Hunters can't risk your going to the Council with it, that they're attempting to damage your credibility. I'll make it an official report and it will hold." He shrugs. "So long as no proof surfaces. You're quite right in your assessment. I need the proof destroyed as much as you do."
Eh, bien. So be it. "There is a tape. It is most damning."
"Only to yourself?"
I nod. "Oh, yes."
"Who has this tape?"
I swirl the cognac in the glass and stare at it, as if I can find the answer there. "I believe I know. I cannot be certain."
"Is that what you were looking for in Harold Croft's office? That was very professional, but the security camera was active and since you were the only person logged into the building, you were the only candidate."
I laugh quietly and drink some cognac, then look at him. He has left no stone unturned. I was foolish to think that I could do such a thing without his knowledge. You are slipping, René. "It was not there." The waiter comes and we give our orders. When he leaves, I regard my companion carefully. His expression has not changed; he still waits. "I believe M. Croft has made many tapes - but not this one."
"Croft."
"Oui, Monsieur. It seems that the little Englishman leads a double life, although I did not know this before last Friday."
"We're both dancing around the issues here, Doctor. Perhaps if I tell you what I know, it will provide encouragement. It was Croft who denounced Eddie Brill to me some two weeks ago. Brill has disappeared. You wouldn't know where he is, would you?"
Ah. This was inevitable, I suppose. I smile and finish the cognac. "That is a difficult question - almost as difficult as the whereabouts of the tape."
He leans back comfortably in his chair. Surely he is considering his options. He fears that if he pushes me, I will say nothing. For all he has discovered, I am an unknown quantity to him. I cannot say how he really sees me - an insubordinate renegade capable of murder, most likely. And it is quite true. God forgive me, but it is true. He trusts me no more than I trust him. And now I am sure that he cannnot go to the Council; we are at an impasse, it would seem. Yet we both need to destroy that tape.
"Tell me, Monsieur. Did M. Croft imply that he himself was a Hunter?"
He laughs. "Are you going to tell me he is one?"
"The image is absurd, non? May I ask what he told you?"
He looks at me and the smile is gone from his face; he begins to see, I think. "He showed me financial records proving that Brill diverted funds from the supply department while he worked there back in the eighties and early nineties."
"And an investigation of M. Brill's bank records showed that that money was used to buy weapons, non?"
"You know about this?"
I shrug. "I know no such thing. I hear that it was M. Croft himself who bought these weapons. Yet it is only something that I have heard. He is an excellent accountant who would have no difficulty planting misleading financial records."
"Is this confidential information?"
I shake my head. "No. It is hearsay. I do not know this myself."
"And do you believe it?"
"Oui, Monsieur. I do. Most definitely. It fits M. Croft's profile. And this is something I do know about."
"I see. Doctor, I'd like to go somewhere a little noisier before we discuss this further. And I'm sure you could use a cigarette."
The food comes and we eat a little more hurriedly than is my habit but he is right about the cigarette. Afterwards, Gabrieli pays the bill and we leave. Outside, I light up; it is a relief. I must do something about my smoking; I have a family to consider and I am not young any more. In the car, he uses his cell phone to call his secretary and cancel his afternoon appointments. It will cause eyebrows to rise when the gossip gets out that he and I have spent the day together. The Council will take notice, certainly, and questions will be asked. I do not envy him.
We drive into Paris, to the Marché aux Puces. It is quite busy with people looking for bargains for Christmas. We park the car and go into one of the permanent buildings. I have always liked the Marché; I have a taste for things Japanese and have found some fine old ivories here, small carvings and even the odd, very charming 'netsuke'. Last year there was a very fine collection of woodblock prints. Needless to say, I am known in certain shops inside. It is a good cover. I am a connoisseur showing things to my friend, the black American who obviously has both taste and money to spare. A good choice.
I lead the way to a particular favourite of mine. Inside, we examine a few items, discuss their artistic merits in English, which the shopkeepers all understand. I ask questions on the provenance of such and such an article: Is it German or English? Early eighteenth century, perhaps? The price seems a little high - there are imperfections… "But Messieurs! This is a flea market, not Sotheby's! You must expect imperfections…" Bon. They will remember us. We take our time before thanking the owner for her help and go into the busy corridor where people are resting their feet, sitting on shabby 'antique' chairs with broken backs and torn seat covers. It is one of the more amusing places in Paris.
We walk down the corridors and through the displays, now and then taking up an item, asking a price. And we talk of other things.
"Tell me what you know of Croft."
I shrug. "I know very little, only what I have heard."
"Don't lie to me, Doctor. It's not in your best interests. What did you find in his office?"
Ah. He is guessing, of course. Nevetheless… "Tapes, photographs, dossiers… It would seem that M. Croft likes to know things, things which others do not want him to know…"
"But not your tape."
I shake my head. "No. Not mine. And I sincerely doubt that what was there was anything more than a small sampling of M. Croft's… collection."
"Blackmail, do you think?"
"No, no. He keeps these things to protect himself, most certainly. However… I cannot know for sure."
A painting catches my eye; it is dreadful, but then I am not a fan of the Cubists - and this is only an attempt at a reproduction, very amateurish. I gesture toward it as though discussing it; it is all part of the performance. He shakes his head at it and purses his lips, a man who is not interested in buying. We move on.
"Doctor, I want to know everything you know, everything you don't know and everything you have surmised. I don't care if it takes all day."
It is nearly four and already it is getting dark. We have come to a bar, fairly sure we have not been followed. Gabrieli's own men are not a problem, but he is even more paranoid than I, it would seem. And he has reason. We did not go to the car but left the Marché through the back and walked here. On the way, he asked me why I thought the Hunters had not simply climbed onto a roof with a high-powered rifle some fine day and rid themselves of me once and for all. And I could not answer. Perhaps it is obvious and I am too weary of it all to see. Does it matter? I am alive; with a little luck, I shall stay that way.
I would not have imagined that it would turn out as it has. I have told him about Eddie, of course. What more is there to say? I will not betray Joseph; Gabrieli does not need to know about the photographs in Joseph's safe. Nor the tapes of Adam and Horton. I do not know how he knows of Mathilde; he also keeps things to himself. But we spoke of her. He knows of Martine; I am content with that. We spoke of my life now, of Reims, of my garden, my work. He seems satisfied. Now he sits before me, his legs crossed, his face weary, clothed in thought while he holds his coffee cup in both hands. I have a glass of Courvoisier in front of me, untouched.
I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. When I look up and put them back on, he is looking at me.
"Last week when I asked you about Darius, you told me he was your Confessor. I checked. According to the Watcher records, your first visit to him was only a few days after you were released from the clinic. You knew he was an Immortal; that's not exactly the action of a ruthless Hunter. You felt remorse." I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hand while he speaks. There has been too much remembering. "The note suggested I check with the police. They still have a file on you; they were convinced you'd killed someone but there was no body. They were never really satisfied and kept the file open. I pulled a few strings to get a look at it and it made for some very interesting reading. And I read the bartender's statement."
I drink some of my beer and shift in my seat. I do not wish to hear this, but he continues. He needs to say this - and perhaps I need to listen.
He sighs. "You saw yourself for what you had become and you judged yourself unfit to live. And you didn't go back to what you were. That's what I found the most interesting. You managed to do what so many can never do - you changed. You had a child and you didn't abandon her. You settled down, gave a permanent, loving home to a woman who didn't have one; you work your ass off and you do a lot of good. And you've never looked back. And that is why I didn't just turn you over to the Council. You'd find no mercy there and it would be a waste."
I do not know what he wishes me to say. It is certainly not the reaction that I expected.
He drinks some coffee and places the cup on the table. "When I first realized you were what the note said you were, I was ready to take you down right then and there, so help me God. Not so long ago, I wouldn't have looked any farther, but that meeting last week told me something important about you. You care. I wanted you to tell me things…" he spreads his hands then clasps them in front of himself again, "things I thought I had a right to know. And you called me on it. You didn't cave and I had to respect that. I didn't exactly care for the insubordination, but I couldn't fault you for it, either. And that's not the way of a coward. If I know anything about the Hunters, it's that they're cowards. You may have been one, but you are that no more… and I'm not sure you ever really were, right down where it counts. Whatever force drove you to do what you did, you were never like them."
I smile. "This is not the way the Council would see it."
He shakes his head slowly. "No, indeed they would not." He picks up the coffee cup. "You're a wild card, Doctor, I don't deny that. A real loose cannon. I don't suppose I'll ever be able to predict the way you'll roll. There was a time when I didn't believe anyone could reform: bad apples just got rotten, they didn't get shiny again. But you're clean. And you've been clean for a long time. When I asked you last week about Darius, I was watching you; I wanted to know what your reaction would be because I have no idea how you fitted into that. You disappeared for some weeks after that, just melted into thin air." He finishes the coffee and signals the waiter. "Then you reappeared and carried on as if nothing had happened. When I brought it up, you looked shocked. I thought it was because Darius' death had hit you hard. And there was that note denouncing you. I'd been checking you out for some time for other reasons but hadn't found anything to make me suspicious. Then I wondered about it. Grief is one thing but it isn't likely to send a man into hiding for six weeks. Do you see what I'm getting at?"
I nod. "You wish to know why." I wait while the waiter comes. Gabrieli asks for a cognac; I am surprised but then I reconsider. It is a message to me; he will drink with me, man to man, not superior to subordinate. What I tell him will go no farther. I light a cigarette while we wait for the cognac to come. When it does, he gives the waiter twenty euros; the waiter will keep our glasses filled without being asked.
"When you look at it," he says, "there is no proof one way or the other that you were involved at all - or which side of the fence you were on. But you'd been seeing Darius for a long time by then, some five years. It wasn't likely you were one of the assassins."
"No. I was not one of them." There is no reason not to tell him. I have told him so much today, après tout. What is one more thing? "M. Brill was sent to assassinate me. He missed." It strikes me as amusing for some reason and I laugh quietly.
"Would you like to let me in on the joke, Doctor?"
I drink some of brandy. It is warm with a fine aroma and it reminds me of Adam. I wonder for a moment how he is and it worries me. "It was no joke, Monsieur. Horton wanted me dead; if he could not do it himself, he was satisfied to have Brill do it. And M. Brill had already failed to kill me once; his heart was most definitely in it. I fell off a roof; perhaps it saved my life."
"So you were at the apartment that night."
I look up. "Monsieur?"
He chuckles. "Do you know that, officially, the police still want to talk to whoever was in the apartment that night? There was a body - but you probably know that. You're a good shot, even when you're running across a roof."
"I do not find this amusing. You must try falling off a roof some time; it is anything but amusing. I still have the sore ribs to prove it."
"A sense of humour under fire - I like that. There's certainly hope for you yet, Doctor."
"And I have no intention of talking to the police; they have no sense of humour at all about murder."
He laughs. "Oh, they most certainly do not. But they know you lived there sometimes; there's a notation in your file to question you about it… It must have slipped their minds." He chuckles and takes a swallow of the cognac.
"You do not expect me to believe that they dropped the matter, surely?"
"I have no idea why they dropped it but they did, even though you left some clothing behind on the bed. But there is also a notation in the file to the effect that you were not a suspect. You have a guardian angel, it would seem."
I am puzzled. Someone in the Watchers pulled strings, certainly. I am not their favourite son but they do look after their own. And someone must have known that I was in trouble. There are so many things that I suspect I shall never know.
"So tell me, Doctor, exactly where were you for six weeks after the massacre?"
I smile at him; it might be harmless enough to tell him, I suppose, but it has been habit for so long to say nothing… "I was safe. I was injured, of course, and I needed to get well. M. Salzer looked after me."
He frowns. "Ah, yes. Don Salzer. That was a dreadful thing. We lost a very good man there. Completely senseless. You know, there are times when I do understand what motivates a Watcher to kill his charge." He shakes his head thoughtfully. "But to turn Hunter… that is something else." He is silent. There is something there, something perhaps he will tell me. "I'm sorry, Doctor. That was a thoughtless remark and I apologize."
I shrug. "No matter. It was a long time ago."
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it was. Please finish what you were saying."
"There is not much more to tell. M. Salzer told me one day that there was a message for me. He told me that Adam had been given a note saying that the assassination order on me had been removed. It was unsigned. I went back to work and all was well."
"Just like that." He shrugs. "That's it. The death order was lifted and you were free to go?"
"Just like that."
"And very soon after that, Adam Pierson himself disappeared."
I nod. "Yes. Well… not 'disappeared' precisely. He went to Africa. We have yet to discuss this in his therapy."
"I see. And if you had discussed it, you would not tell me."
I smile; he is learning. I observe him while I drink my brandy. A moment ago, he was considering telling me something, I think. "If you do not mind my asking, Monsieur, you said that you know how it might be that a Watcher would kill his charge. What makes you say this?"
"You don't miss much, do you, Doctor? I suppose that's part of the job."
"It is part of staying alive, Monsieur. It has served me very well."
He snorts and drinks more of the cognac. "Yes, I suppose it has - or I'd be talking to a ghost with a French accent. But it does you credit." His face becomes serious. There is sadness there, and anger also, I think, although he covers it very well.
"Monsieur? You wish to tell me something?"
He fingers the top of the cognac glass for a moment. He is about to tell me a secret, yes? It is always like this when a patient has decided to tell you something but still hesitates. Perhaps it is too painful, perhaps too old. And this time, I think, too damaging? He puts the glass down and faces me. "You've placed your life in my hands, Doctor. Not that you had much choice about it, I must admit. But you did it. It took courage. Now I'm going to give you something in return. If we each have a knife at the other's throat, it puts us on an even footing. Maybe we'll trust each other a little more."
He sighs and folds his hands on his stomach. "I was a field operative once too, just as we all were. I was just as idealistic as the rest, perhaps a little more so. I believed in the non-interference policy and my supervisor assigned me to a lady who led a very quiet life, happily married to a widower, raising two teen-aged sons. I'd looked into the files, of course, as we're required to do. She was quite old, over a thousand years, born in the Near East before the Muslim Conquest. And it had been a hard life. It was a long record of horrors - servitude, constant wars, sold into Spain as a slave. She'd been beaten, raped, even murdered many times. She'd become bitter early on, as so many of them did when a longer life just meant more of the same misery with no relief in sight. It's particularly hard on the women, I've noticed. She was no beauty, perhaps not even what you'd call pretty; I don't know that it was any better for the beautiful ones. She'd married several times but was never able to produce that all-important male heir, or even children to help with the labour. Or sell into slavery." He shakes his head sadly. "We've forgotten how vicious life was a few centuries back. Maybe if we thought about it occasionally, we'd appreciate what we have."
He pauses and I light a cigarette and wait. Perhaps he thinks he is rambling. "Go on."
He smiles. "Ever the psychiatrist, I see. You can be most amusing, Doctor." He takes a little more of the cognac. His mind is full of memories; very likely he has told no-one of this. He is a man who keeps his thoughts to himself, I think, even those which trouble him.
"As I said, the lady became bitter. At some point, she stopped trying to be a human being and took to dishing it out instead of taking it. She ran away and joined some bandits who taught her how to survive Mortal life their way. And survive she did. Whatever it took. A lot of Mortals died while she got her revenge against them. There are large gaps in the records. It wasn't easy to keep records back then. Sometimes I think it's a miracle we have records at all from those times. And she was only a woman, of no importance, not even on the short list of interesting Immortals. They lost sight of her until the Renaissance."
He sighs and drains the cognac. "Have you ever wondered what it was really like for them? Ever really thought about it, put yourself in their shoes, tried to imagine it? The ones who survive are living historical records, incredible human treasures. They know because they were there. If there is any one single reason to stop the Hunters, it's that. And non-interference? I have my own thoughts on that. We should be protecting them, making sure they survive. I know that's not the official line, and I do believe in non-interference to a point. We shouldn't be directing their lives, influencing how those lives play themselves out. There's a scientific principle that says that the observer changes what is observed, simply by observing it. I think it was Heisenberg who came up with it but I could be wrong." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and chuckles. "He was applying it to particle behaviour in physics anyway, but the principle is sound. But Immortals are also human beings with thoughts and feelings; they are capable of so much but they are often intensely lonely, as I'm sure you've seen in your practice, Doctor."
I nod. "Mais, oui. Certainement. Go on."
"I don't believe in the Game. I think the Gathering is a myth. It makes no sense and it's an excuse for the more predatory Immortals to take their anger out on others of their kind with impunity. I have to wonder what the original purpose of the myth might have been but it is intensely destructive, and for all that the Hunters have destroyed a great deal, the Game has destroyed so much more. Do you know there was once an Immortal culture, even a government of sorts? The Game destroyed that as well; now it's shattered, fragmented. Look how it has forced them to live. No, it's wrong. If I had my way, I would stop it somehow, stop the belief that they must destroy in order to survive themselves, so that they can stop living in constant fear."
I sigh. It is something I believe myself. I have seen the damage that the Game brings to otherwise healthy minds. It is a terrible waste. And it was not always so. "You do not believe that there is anything, shall we say, 'supernatural' about the affair?"
He shakes his head. "I don't know what to think. The quickenings are real enough; when you witness one, you can't deny that any more. But 'supernatural'? No. Energy release of some kind, very likely. Almost certainly. They're genetic mutations. They may even be the next step in human evolution, who knows? And yet they destroy each other. The Prize is an absurd notion dreamed up by a madman; the idea of being the only Immortal on the planet, deprived of the comfort and society of his own kind - it's quite unthinkable. And for what? To have power over Mortals who don't even know he exists? And that this… 'prize'," he says it with considerable disgust, "should go not to the best mind, the sanest, the wisest but the most vicious, the most calculating, the most brutal… It's the nightmare of a maniac." He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. He is not given to such outbursts, I am quite sure. His feelings on these matters are quite strong. "The young ones see it as some kind of romantic ideal without giving it any thought and they hunt to feel important, just as young herd animals fight the old bulls for dominance. There is no difference. Others are forced to defend themselves to survive and the myth is perpetuated. It is, if anything, quite barbaric, even, if I may use the word, evil, because it destroys all that is good."
I believe I know where this is leading. "And was the lady you were assigned to 'destroyed' by her own kind as part of the Game?"
The waiter arrives, most discreetly, bringing another cognac for my companion and a Courvoisier for me. I make a gesture of thanks to Gabrieli. He nods acceptance.
He drinks some of the cognac before going on. He seems comfortable telling me these things; it means that he trusts me this much, at least. Why would he not? He has a noose about my neck; if I betray him, I betray myself. "No, not another Immortal. A Hunter. I killed him for it. I hunted him down and I strangled him. It doesn't get much more brutal than that and I saw that I was no better than he was. I was so filled with rage. I know you understand that, Doctor, and I don't apologize for it. But I have never thought that what I did was right - or even excusable, any more than you did, or you would not have tried to kill yourself. We are not so different. I don't allow myself the luxury of thinking that he deserved to die. He was a fellow Watcher, one of our own, and it would have earned me a tribunal and a bullet in my head just as quickly for that. It still would."
"Yet you feel no remorse, I think."
He looks at me and smiles. "No, I don't. Because I believe they must be stopped. I stopped him from ever doing it again. I don't feel morally superior to him; I just did what I thought I had to do. That lady had become a decent human being for all she'd been through. She had something to tell us, something to teach us and he judged himself superior to her for what she had done in the past; he thought he was better than she was and that was all the excuse he needed to destroy what had taken a thousand years to create. And that burned my ass. It still does."
"I made this mistake also, Monsieur. He was only human."
"But you knew it was wrong and you stopped. He thought it was right, and that's what I couldn't stomach." He shrugs. "Are you going to tell me what's on that tape?"
I snort into my brandy. I am not that easily put at my ease. "No. It is better that you should not have that image burned into your memory also. It is enough that it lives in my own, non?"
He inclines his head. Yes. "Of course. And what are you planning to do about Eddie Brill? He's a considerable threat - to both of us."
Ah, yes, Eddie. What am I to do about that piece of shit? "M. Croft denounced him. You can go to the Council and let them take it from there."
He laughs. "I even have proof."
"Yes, I did think there would be proof, proof which does not implicate M. Croft himself. He has a great deal of proof of just about anything but he would implicate himself. Did he tell you that he was doing this for the good of the Company?"
"Oh, yes. He made quite sure I saw it that way. I wasn't even suspicious. Mea culpa."
I laugh. "You are not the first that M. Croft has fooled. I, too, was a little shocked. It is a way of life with him, of course. If his homosexuality should be made public, there is sufficient prejudice in the organization that he would never have attained his position. And he could easily lose it. May I ask what proof he offered of M. Brill's misdemeanours?"
"You're very amusing, Doctor. I don't think I would have called an attempt on my life a 'misdemeanour'."
He has avoided the question, I notice. I must remember it. "Two attempts, actually. Neither of which I wish to be made public."
"No, I'm sure you don't. Pity. You'd be a credible witness."
"But you do not know what else M. Brill knows. You cannot risk his singing like a bird. Who was this Watcher/Hunter you killed, may I ask?"
He shakes his head. "There are some secrets I'll keep to myself. But he had friends. There was an attempt on my life, but I suppose you know that."
"Then perhaps your own reasons for making M. Brill disappear are a little suspect, yes?"
He frowns. "I don't understand."
I shrug. Perhaps I have not explained clearly enough. "Eddie Brill was the only assassin of Mortals to work for Horton, I am quite sure. It was too risky since the murder of Mortals might involve the police. Eddie recruited his own helpers, whose identity remained secret even from Horton. It was one of those 'helpers' that I killed that night. It was his best friend he tells me, one more reason to hate me, as if there were not reason enough already. And it is very likely that your would-be assassin was M. Brill. You were very lucky; he does not often miss, Monsieur. And he becomes very angry when he does."
"I see. And he would know of my own little indiscretion."
"Oh, yes. Most certainly. And Eddie has no concept of honour. It would please him only too well to take you down. This time, en effet, he would not miss."
"You have a strange sense of humour, Doctor, but I can appreciate it. I can see we have a common problem in M. Brill, as you call him."
"Indeed. And a common solution, perhaps."
He swirls the cognac in his hand, watching the motion of the liquid. "Doesn't it strike you as a little insane, Doctor, that two intelligent, cultured men such as ourselves, should be sitting in a working class bar discussing murder?"
I smile. "I am sure it has been done this way for as long as there have been intelligent, cultured men and working class bars, Monsieur."
He laughs and drinks the cognac. "I actually like you, Doctor, although that would have struck me as impossible only a week ago. Remind me never to judge a man before I've discussed murder with him. In a working class bar."
It was decided. I asked him what was the 'proof' M. Croft had given him against Eddie, fearing that it might implicate others, perhaps even the innocent, such as Joseph. It would seem, however, that the little Englishman has a sense of discretion. It was a photograph only. Since Eddie never hunted Immortals, preferring to send his own kind to their maker, what that photograph showed I cannot guess and M. Gabrieli declined to tell me. But he can be condemned by a tribunal for this, most certainly. To prove that he is a Hunter is not necessary. Gabrieli asked me if I was prepared to do it myself and I told him that I was. I will not, however, do anything while he is at the abbey, or indeed in Reims. Eddie himself knows that he is safe from me there; it is likely why he consented to stay, safe from us all.
M. Gabrieli will have a passport made for Eddie, and money. He will give them to me and I will make sure that Eddie has them. I will tell Eddie that there are plane tickets waiting at Charles de Gaulle airport. Eddie will come to Paris - and then we shall see.
The greater problem, we are agreed, is M. Croft. I cannot think why he was so foolish as to leave such things in his desk; I doubt that he has become complacent, although fear might have made him incautious. He is not a young man. And perhaps indeed, after all this time, he is thinking of blackmail, a nest egg for his retirement. He must be feeling that the walls are closing in and that one day someone will denounce him and he will not be able to stay safe. He wishes, perhaps, to be somewhere very far away when that happens. For which he will need money, particularly if he wishes to live into his old age in any comfort. I cannot imagine how much information he has accumulated after so many years, taking his pictures, recording his tapes, making his notes and compiling his dossiers.
Gabrieli took me back to Headquarters, where I retrieved my car and drove home. I have had a little supper and fed Mazout. Now I roll a cigarette, a glass of cognac at my side, two of my little vices that I am reluctant to give up. It has been a strange day; I had hardly hoped to be here now, thinking it more likely that I should be in a cell somewhere, awaiting the tribunal I have feared for so long - and so richly deserved. I have been living on borrowed time for a long while now.
I have called Mlle Thomas. Her father has contacted her; all is well. There was a quickening, but not MacLeod's. I find I am disappointed. Shame, René! You should not be wishing for the death of someone who is as much a victim of the Game as so many others. He, too, must be given his chance to live and become worthy of his gift. No, I am pleased to hear that Adam is safe, although she would tell me little; perhaps Joseph was not willing to tell her very much. She is relieved - it was in her voice. It would be a tragedy for her to lose her father after finding him so recently, and for the man she is beginning to realize she loves to be lost with him. A tragedy indeed.
And when I see him, I will most surely ask Adam whose head he removed this time. I am concerned that the quickening may have done some damage but we shall see. He is sleeping, she tells me. This is good news. He seems to have survived his weekend better than I.
I did not tell Mlle Thomas of my meeting with Gabrieli. I must take some time to consider the matter; it is not prudent to speak of him at all. On our way back to Headquarters, he told me what his position is on all this. He cannot make his involvement known; this I understand only too well. He will provide me with whatever information I need to accomplish… certain things, perhaps even make things easier for me when he can. He has admitted to me that he knows that Adam Pierson is Immortal and that he wishes to protect him so far as he is able, that he regards me as Adam's unofficial Watcher. And he has not asked me to report. If it should ever become common knowledge, he cannot be accused of having assigned no-one and the absence of any reports can be explained as being confidential while Adam is in therapy. It is to cover himself, and I do not begrudge him that little bit of self-interest. Whether he also knows that Adam is Methos, I cannot say. Certainly he would not tell me such a thing. M. Gabrieli keeps a great deal to himself, as do I. On this, we understand each other.
I have called Nikki to tell her not to worry about me, that I am in good health, but that I shall have to stay in Paris. I can still hope to be in Reims for the weekend. That rather depends on Eddie.
Speaking of Eddie, I have told Mlle Thomas that I have a plan, that I have been able to get hold of a passport and that I shall call her when Eddie has it. I may need her help. Croft is another matter. Always my thoughts come back to him. He is very dangerous; I believe that he can take us all down at once and it is possible that he waits only until he feels safe to do so. And I have made a promise to M. Gabrieli. I will find that tape and destroy it - and he will help me to do it. His men will be told that Croft's request for a guard - for that was the reason they were there - is no longer necessary. It would seem that Eddie made M. Croft very nervous; it must have reminded him of how many enemies there were waiting to take him down, not the least, I am sure, being myself. I smile at the thought. There is something in me which likes the feeling that I am dangerous. It is perhaps perverse, but it is who I am. I do not apologize.
And for all I may feel more at ease about M. Gabrieli, there are always others who would not be so… forgiving? I must not become complacent and think that I am safe. There are always others; only the guiltless need not worry about there not being others. It is a luxury I cannot afford.
I have done enough for one day. Although it is still early, I shall do no more. I call Martine and talk quietly with her. She wants to see me for my birthday, whenever I am free. She knows that I prefer to be in Reims if I can, but I would like very much to see her as well. She tells me she loves me and I believe it. When I hang up, I am content for the first time in days.
I have slept late, the first good sleep I have had for a long time. I awaken with Mazout lying on my chest and a fuzzy feeling in my head. I had too much cognac yesterday, perhaps? More likely, I need a cigarette. I push Mazout off my chest and sit up before I remember that I do not need to go to the hospital this morning. It is a relief. You are getting lazy, René! I find my glasses and put them on; I am a little shocked when I look at my watch and see that it is past ten.
I shower, dress, do those little things that make a man feel more human in the morning. I have neglected to get myself anything for breakfast, however, but the coffee is good. I make myself some and sit on the sofa to drink it, rolling the first cigarette of the day. I am pleased with myself for waiting this long. Usually, I light one as soon as I am out of bed - glasses, watch, cigarette… I have made such promises to myself before, however. I doubt that it will last any longer than it ever does.
The telephone rings; I have been expecting a call. It is Gabrieli's secretary.
"Bonjour, Doctor. I have a message for you. The documents you requested will be brought to you this afternoon by five o'clock."
"Ah, merci, Madame. This is very efficient. Tell M. Gabrieli that I am grateful for his promptness."
"Of course. It was nice to see you yesterday. You don't grace us with a visit very often."
I smile. It is the way I like it. "No, Madame. They keep me very busy."
"Oh, a moment, please, Doctor…" I hear a click as she puts me on hold. A few seconds later, she is back on the line. "M. Gabrieli would like to thank you for your interest in his project and says you have approval to go ahead."
I smile. "Tell him I shall be prompt. Bonjour, Madame."
"Of course. Bonjour."
It would seem I have work to do today. The passport will be here by five. No doubt it will be delivered personally by a security man, all very correct. It is usually done this way. As for the 'project'… M. Croft is in his office, he is telling me. It is safe to look for the tape.
I finish the coffee and pull on my jacket. I am wearing old jeans and my dark pull. I sling my knapsack over my shoulder. I have a few things in it which might be very handy. The weather is cold but it is not wet, at least. I put Mazout outside, put the gun in its holster behind my back and make sure I have turned on my cell phone.
In ten minutes, I am on the Métro. I have at least remembered to go to the bank machine before coming to the station; it would seem that a good night's sleep has cleared my mind quite well. I should try it more often. The Métro is busy today, mostly with people going to do their errands, going to the shops to pick up their fresh groceries. It is crowded also with students. A very normal day that is somehow quite comforting.
It takes me a while to get to the 16th Arrondissement and I have a longer walk than usual. When I come in sight of M. Croft's apartment building, I find that I am still wary. I go into the same little shop and buy cigarettes. Outside, I light one while observing the street. The Citroën and the Honda are most certainly not there. If anyone else is watching M. Croft, others with their own motives, it would not be possible to say. I have no choice but to take my chances. The greatest difficulty is that I have no key and it is not so easy to break into an apartment in the middle of the day, I think. There will be people there, most certainly. I pull my collar up and walk toward the building, watching for my opportunity.
Farther down the street, a woman with two small children is struggling with a baby carriage and two bags of groceries. I wait to see where she is going. Very likely, she is too busy to notice me but it is always foolish to take chances. I will wait until she passes. In a few moments, I realize that she is going to the same building. Merde!
Ah, but wait a moment, René… You fool. This is what you have been waiting for. I take a last drag on the cigarette and flick the butt into the gutter. I hurry down the street to where the woman is trying to pull the carriage up the steps to the front door while calling to the two little children. I call to her that I will help her. She looks up, surprised.
"Oh, merci beaucoup, Monsieur! Merci. Notre appartement est sur le rez de chausseée [ground floor], numéro trois."
"Pas de problème, Madame."
She takes the children while I lift the carriage to the door. The groceries are in the carriage with the baby, who is very young. Sometimes I do not understand how these young women manage. She opens the door and we go in. I manoeuvre the carriage into the apartment on the left. When we are all inside, she offers me coffee but I say that I can see she is very busy and I have business to attend to. And that I will see myself out. She thanks me again and I leave, closing her door behind me.
The building is not new, a very typical Paris apartment house, part of a long continuous row with a slate roof and balconies. The inside has been rebuilt, however. It looks quite expensive but no doubt M. Croft has enough skill with investments to afford to live here - and it is discreet, should he have certain visitors, I suppose. Down the hall, I find the list of tenants beside the mail boxes. M. Croft lives on the top floor, I see. There is an old-fashioned open cage elevator but it is out of order. I climb the stairs. On the fifth floor, the apartment is to the left. Expensive indeed, although I am not surprised at his expensive tastes. He is not ostentatious at least, merely… tasteful.
I find the door and listen before examining the locks but hear nothing. And the locks? There will be considerable difficulty, I see, although they are not new. They are however, modern locks, and I have brought nothing which might help. But with a little luck…
I take a credit card from my wallet and try it against the locks - two of them. The first slides back with a most satisfactory click. And this does surprise me. I would have expected at least one deadbolt. Perhaps the other? I try it and have no success. Merde! I shall need the concierge.
I go back down the stairs, cursing old buildings without working elevators. I find the concierge in the courtyard, working in the tiny garden. When she sees me, she comes in immediately. She is a very large woman of about fifty wearing a print dress that does not suit her but I am not to judge these things. She seems happy enough as she smiles at me. I have the impression, however, that it would not be a good idea to make her angry. She wipes her hands on her apron as she comes toward me.
"Oui, Monsieur? May I help you?"
I try to look furtive, which is not difficult with what I am wearing. "Oui, Madame. Interpol." I take out my wallet and show her the phoney ID card I keep there. It is an old one, which makes it look much more authentic.
Her eyes narrow as she looks at it. Her expression does not change as she looks at me again; I am in her domain now. She edges me away from the door. Is she afraid I might see something out there? "Is there a problem, Monsieur?"
I look serious but shake my head. "No, no. We merely wish to speak to someone in your building, a M. Harold Croft. Do you know him?"
She nods vigorously, making her jowls shake. "Oh. Yes. The Englishman. He has lived here for many years now. He has never given me a problem, mind you, but I don't like him. Never have. Strange little man. One of 'them'. You know what I mean?" She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Can't stand them."
It would seem that M. Croft has other problems much closer to home. I do not envy him. "I need to get into his apartment, Madame."
She stands there, challenging me. I sense a sweet odour, an unusual one and I cannot quite place it. It seems to be coming from her hands, her apron, which is stained green. "Into his apartment… I may not like the man, Monsieur, but he lives in my building. I can't just open his door to every stranger with an ID, you understand? I have an obligation to my tenants…" she advances on me, away from the doorway - I dare say she outweighs me be ten or twenty kilos, "…even those I don't like."
Ah, I recognize the odour. Madame has a hobby, non? It is time for sterner tactics. "Madame, surely you have noticed that there have been people watching this building for some time now. We notice many things; we record those things." I take a chance, but I am sure that I am right - and I shall have a difficult time keeping a straight face. I reach out and touch the green stain on her apron. She pulls back and the dark look on her face is highly amusing. "There have been reports, Madame. The making of absinthe is a serious crime. But I expect you know that. A word to the wise should be sufficient, if you take my meaning."
Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. It would seem that I have hit the nail quite accurately. She says nothing.
"M. Croft's apartment?" I say.
She nods and without a word leads me to the elevator. Ah. Now I understand why it does not work. One needs a key. As she opens the door to the apartment, I thank her politely and she scurries away.
I pull on my gloves, then push the door open easily. It makes no noise. I slip inside and close it behind me. I am in a foyer, with polished wood floor and double doors to the room before me, a hallway to the left. I open the doors onto a large living room. There are heavy curtains, all closed, and the room is quite dark. I leave the curtains closed and find the light switch.
Ah, very nice, M. Croft. Exquisite taste in décor. And well beyond your income from the organization, or was Horton more generous with his hush money than I would have given him credit for? I had thought blackmail beyond your interests, but perhaps not. Very interesting, although your taste in art is abominable. Egon Schiele? And Frida Kahlo? Are we a touch depressed, Monsieur? No matter.
There are occasional tables with drawers, book shelves, a fine sideboard - many places in which a tape may be hidden. And other things. And other rooms? A bedroom, surely… I go down the hallway. It is not large but it is quite a magnificent apartment, although not up to those in downtown Paris by any means. Nevertheless, it is quite fine and well appointed. I find the bedroom and am surprised to find that it is quite stark, very aesthetic. And very tidy, of course. Immaculate, in fact. The walls are bare; in the little ensuite, the towels hang at exactly the same length. In the closet, his shoes are lined up, their heels on some imaginary line, exactly parallel to the wall. The shirts are exactly so much apart… obsessive-compulsive to a fine degree. That is certainly not a surprise. It is highly unlikely that such a thing as a tape of a violent murder would be hidden here. M. Croft must be afraid always that his apartment might be - 'tossed', I believe is the word - and his bedroom would be sacrosanct. Nothing damaging, nothing… 'obscene' must ever be found there. You see, I do understand you, Monsieur. I would be a very poor psychiatrist if I did not.
The next room, probably meant as a spare bedroom, is also a library and a study. Mon dieu. This will take me all day! The room past the study is locked. Now this is interesting. Why would you lock a door inside your own home… unless…? The lock is quite simple. I fish in my knapsack and find what I need, something long and thin - a professional lock pick I have had for years. In a few moments, although after much struggle and scratching of metal, I am afraid - I am a little out of practice - the lock snaps open and I put the pick back into my knapsack. I push the handle down and the door swings open.
I turn on the light switch… and I am stunned by what I see. Photographs. Everywhere there are photographs. On the walls, in frames on shelves, on small tables. There is an armchair, a thick rug on the floor. The French doors to the balcony are blocked by thick, red draperies. There is a chaise longue to one side, a deep carpet on the floor. This is… a boudoir, for want of a better word - a very private place, yes? Oh, yes. And the photographs? They are all of one person - Adam Pierson.
Sainte Marie Mère de Dieu! Incroyable! They have been taken without his knowledge, most certainly. They show him at his desk, walking the hallway at Headquarters, at the Academy, at an office party, a group staff photograph where he is standing in the back row, his head down - and M. Croft at his left, I see. This one shows him at our sidewalk table at the café on the rue de l'Échelle, taken some years ago and with a telephoto lens if I am not mistaken. And I have been carefully edited from the photograph, I see. How long have you been stalking your quarry, M. Croft? How long indeed?
To my left, a photograph on the wall… it is a poster, yes? Very large. M. Croft is quite the photographer, but then he has had much practice, I think. It was taken by someone in a car - a surveillance photograph? Adam walks across the street, his old coat wrapped about him as is his habit, his head down, striding across the roadway. It reminds me of one I saw some years ago of James Dean - 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams', I think? Yes. Below this is a low table with some things on it. I go to it. I have heard of such things, but I have not seen it until today… A small photograph in a frame intrigues me; I have seen it somewhere… I pick it up. In it, Adam smiles into the camera; he is a little self-conscious, looking quite… boyish? Ah, I remember! It has been cut from another photograph - one of Don Salzer and himself. I take it out of the frame. On the back, in Adam's almost unreadable scrawl, there is a phrase: 'Your friend, Adam.'
Surely this was meant for M. Salzer. I remember that I was surprised that Adam had allowed himself to be photographed - a rare thing indeed and a measure of his friendship for M. Salzer. How is it that M. Croft has this? It belonged to M. Salzer; I saw it in his shop once or twice when I went there for some books in English. Other things on this table intrigue me. A little album with plastic pockets inside for photographs holds notes, folded memos, scraps of paper - all have Adam's handwriting. Some memos are addressed simply to 'Croft', requesting funding for books and travel for Adam's work. Some of these have been stolen from Adam's desk, surely, even his waste basket, all carefully preserved. I shake my head. M. Croft imagines a 'relationship', non? Mais, bien sûr; c'est ça.
It is a very sick mind. In it, Adam is his lover. It is as simple as that to him. These things prove to him that the relationship is real, that his love for Adam is returned. Aiyiyi. M. Croft, you do not know the dangerous game you play.
And what of myself? I see Adam almost every day, talk privately with him. It is no secret, apparently, that I treat him. M. Croft surely sees me as a rival, even though he knows that I am a father and a dedicated heterosexual. And as a rival, I am a barrier between himself and the object of his desire. In his mind, I am the reason Adam has not been able to declare his love openly for M. Croft; I am someone to be eliminated. The obvious way to eliminate me is to denounce me - and now I believe I know who sent that anonymous note to Gabrieli. No, Eddie Brill is not my problem, M. Croft; it is you.
And now I understand why he has that tape of Adam and Horton close to hand. Adam is his hero; he faced Horton and Horton backed down, something, perhaps, that M. Croft once wished he could do. What other tapes do you have of Adam, mon ami? And where do you keep them? For if there is one, there are many, non? It is always so with your kind.
And my own tape? It is not with the rest, perhaps, because you were going to use it as proof against me if it came to that? Except that there would be questions as to how you came to have it, questions which you cannot afford to answer. And you cannot afford to let it out of your hands. I am convinced that it is here somewhere.
On the table also are small, personal items - a comb, a lock of black hair - I should be most interested to know how you came to have that without losing your head! - a notebook in Adam's handwriting that must once have resided in his shirt pocket. I recognize a gold ring he once owned and showed me, although he never wore it, and told me some years ago that he had lost. It was very old and quite valuable, not that that was a concern for Adam - he is uninterested in such matters. Yet it once touched his hand, his body. And for M. Croft, that is its value.
There is a small drawer in the table and I pull it open. Inside there is a bound notebook, sitting on a piece of red velvet; I lift it out. I resist the temptation to take off my gloves to turn the pages, but it is not really necessary in any case. What I have found must come with me, most certainly, and I shall read it later. It is, quite obviously, a diary. But I am too curious not to take a look, at least. I let it fall open at random. I read a few sentences. The language is flowery - and quite explicit. His fantasies are… rich? Yet, they are tender, which surprises me. There does not appear to be any overt intent to harm.
But jealousy is always a factor in such 'affairs', non? A great factor. And what is this? Ah! Mon Dieu. But it is inevitable, of course. Anyone from the Company who observes Adam so much would perhaps suspect that he is Immortal. Even if he has no proof, it would suit his fantasy - an Immortal lover, loving him eternally. Such thoughts are the essence of romantic thinking. And if he believes this, then… Ah, non! It is as I feared… If in his fantasy, Adam is Immortal, then why not Methos! He dreams it, he fantasizes it, which - thank God! - is not the same as believing it. M. Croft may be neurotic but he is not insane. He does still know where fantasy ends and reality begins. To a point. However, he will do everything in his power to protect that fantasy. And that is where the jealousy begins.
And yes, that means my own destruction. He eliminates me from the photographs, of course; he will be bent on eliminating me from Adam's life as well.
I put the diary into my pocket; I do not trust to put it in my knapsack. And now I must look for the damned tape. My tape.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't shoot you where you stand, Dr. Galbon?"
****
Joe and Methos will return in "Snuff". "Parce Que J'ai Péché" will conclude on December 30, 2002.
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