"A Sea of Fate".
Paula Stiles 
<thesnowleopardAhotmail.com>

Summary: Joe and Methos find themselves chasing each 
other's dopplegangers on the streets of Paris. Part 
twelve of the "Armed Intervention" series.

Disclaimer: Don't own the universe. Not making any money 
off of it. Davis/Panzer Productions, Rysher 
Entertainment, and Gaumont Television do that. Don't 
bother to sue me. I'm poor. I don't own Bon Jovi's "Keep 
the Faith" or the title song from "Cabaret", either.

This, and my other stories, can be found at: 

http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html

Or, as part of the Armed Intervention series at:

http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html

Archive: Sure. Just ask first.

Many thanks to Judith Hill for betareading this for me.




A SEA OF FATE

Mother, Mother tell your children
That their time has just begun.
I have suffered for my anger.
There are wars that can't be won.


     "Hello," I say to the nurse on call. Sean was a 
clever one. This doesn't look like a hospital, let alone 
a psychiatric facility. It looks more like one of those 
comfortable old Victorian rest houses that the rich used 
to stay in for the Consumption or "nerves". But I still 
know better and now that I've got my feet back under me, 
I am ready to go.

     The nurse glances up at me and smiles. His name is 
Guillaume. He is a nice young man. All of the staff are 
nice. Some of them aren't even built like bodyguards. 
"Bonjour, Adam. How can I help you this morning?"

"Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be checking 
out today." He looks startled. Hmm. Not a good sign but 
no great surprise, either. "I can sign any paperwork that 
you have now, if you like, or when you get it ready."

     "Adam...." He is searching for the words. No, I'll 
have to go with Plan Z, after all but no matter. I still 
want to see through this little interaction. It will be 
important in the long run.

     "You cannot discharge yourself just like that," 
Guillaume says.

     "Well, yes, I can. I signed myself in here 
voluntarily on the condition that I could leave any time 
I felt ready. I feel ready; therefore I am leaving." Much 
as I don't love these drugs, they do a good job of 
keeping me very, very calm. But damn, they make it hard 
to concentrate. "Spacey" is what Joe would call me right 
now.

     Guillaume's forehead wrinkles at that one. "But you 
have only been here for two weeks." Ah, good. Still 
trying for reason.

     "Yes, that's all I needed." I smile innocently, 
though I don't think he's buying it. Rene went to a great 
deal of trouble to innoculate the staff from my "ability 
to do cute". Whatever.

     "Perhaps I should call Dr. Galbon and ask him about 
this." This would be the "stalling for time" approach.

     "You're not going to discharge me, are you?" I knew 
they wouldn't, but I had to try being up front and honest 
first. I promised Rene that I wouldn't just sneak out the 
window. I had to give him some fair warning.

     "Let me call Dr. Galbon and see what he says." It is 
polite but still a brushoff.

     "All right," I say. As I retreat back to my room, I 
hear Guillaume pick up the phone. At least he will make 
that call.

     "Bonjour. Docteur Rene Galbon, s'il vous plait . 
C'est important...."

     My retreat, however, is only strategic, not 
premanent. I wander out into the TV room for a few 
minutes to allay the suspicions of the staff. I am in a 
rather strange section of the hospital; there are no 
other patients. When I asked Rene about this VIP 
treatment, he told me that he didn't tend to mix the 
Immortal and Mortal patients, as Immortal attitudes and 
healing rates increased inter-patient violence and other 
inappropriate behaviours. When I asked him why I wasn't 
with the other Immortals, he said I made them nervous.

     "Nervous?" I said, feeling as jagged out as if I had 
drunk ten cups of coffee. I was nervous, myself--edgy, 
paranoid, jittery...perfectly normal for someone who had 
just taken too many Quickenings in too little time. "Why 
would I make them nervous?"

     "Because you are Methos, you are much older than our 
other patients and I suspect you have an unusually strong 
Quickening that frightens them." He watched me for my 
reaction.

     Maybe it was because it was two days before 
Christmas and here I was, in a psychiatric hospital. Not 
what I would call one of my better Santa seasons. Maybe 
it was all those Quickenings. Maybe it was being 
kidnapped  and held prisoner with my best friend for two 
weeks. Or maybe it was just that I'd suspected all along 
that Rene knew who I was, but I was too afraid to look 
into it too deeply. Either way, when he told me, I burst 
into tears.

     It took him some time to calm me down. At the end of 
it, he gave me a pill. I was too tired to fight him over 
it, so I took it, and I slept like a dead man for the 
next twenty hours. And yes, I do know what sleeping like 
a dead man feels like. I slept a lot that first week, 
through Christmas, through New Year's. The entire holiday 
was a wash for me. But all that sleep on holy ground did 
me good. Now, I am ready to leave.

     There is a staff member out in the TV room having 
her coffee. She greets me with a smile--they all smile 
like that--and a cheery "Bonjour". I don't really recall 
her but we have a pleasant conversation about the 
weather, anyway. I am good at that sort of thing. I have 
a cup of tea, wait until the staff member leaves, then 
turn on the TV. I wait for a few minutes, then get up and 
go back to my room. I am not supposed to leave the TV on. 
They will be even less happy with me when they discover 
that my lapse was a bit of misdirection.

     Rene let me have a room with a window after the 
first day. I should consider it a Christmas gift, though 
Rene did give me other gifts from Joe, Amy, himself and 
Mathilde, and got me up on Christmas Day to open them and 
eat something. The day after that, I stopped eating. Rene 
has since persuaded me to give up the joys of anorexia. 
I'm grateful to him now. I wouldn't have had the strength 
to leave otherwise.

     The window is shut firmly and the glass is barred, 
but with these old buildings the masonry won't last 
forever. It is crumbling around the edges of the bars. 
With judicious yanking I have managed to loosen them 
enough to get the window open when I need it open. There 
is the slight problem that the staff have taken away my 
shoes, belt, wallet, passport and coat. But I'm nothing 
if not resourceful. I have ripped up a sheet, which I 
wrap around my feet and tie off. I take the blankets off 
my bed, push open the window and slip out. The drop is 
not wonderful and when I land, the wind is knocked out of 
me, even though I drop and roll. I lie there, getting my 
breath back, trying not to wheeze too loudly. Guillaume 
could be coming back at any time, and there is the 
outside security to slip past, then a long walk out to 
the main road where I can either hitchhike or find a taxi 
back to Paris. I wish I remembered the trip in, but it is 
all a blur, filled with Joe patting me anxiously and 
telling me I'd be okay, honestly, on the one hand, and 
Rene telling me to stay in the car, on the other.

     I stand up, shivering. I won't freeze to death, not 
permanently, but it's best if I get moving before they 
raise the alarm. They will not be happy once they find 
out I've left.


*********
I used to have this girlfriend known as Elsie
With whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsie.
She wasn't what you'd call a blushing flower.
As a matter of fact, she rented by the hour.
The day she died the neighbours came to snicker.
Well, that's what comes from too much pills and liquor.
But when I saw her laid out like a queen
She was the happiest corpse I'd ever seen.


     I was in the bar doing the books when you strolled 
in, out of the blue. You smiled when you saw me. You 
looked a Hell of a lot better than you had when you went 
into the hospital two days before Christmas. You looked 
smashed, then. In the car, on the way in, we had you 
propped up in the back seat between me and Rene so you 
couldn't take off and run. I didn't like it, but I could 
see you disappearing, possibly never to be seen again. I 
kept asking you if you wanted to check into the hospital 
for real, if that was what you really wanted after you'd 
fought it for so long, but you couldn't seem to zoom in 
on me enough to respond. You were so far out there, I 
wasn't sure you knew what century you were in. I didn't 
want to leave you in that place but I was halfway to 
getting committed, myself. I couldn't keep us both on the 
outside just then.

     "What are you doing here?" I said. "I didn't expect 
to see you back so soon." I caught sight of your footgear 
and the blankets and groaned. "Please tell me you didn't 
just break yourself out of the funny farm."

     "Hey, Joe. Nice to see you, too." You sauntered over 
to me. "I need some money to pay for the taxi. I can pay 
you back."

     I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, okay, get it out of the 
till." I noticed that you were shivering as you padded 
over to the bar to get the money. A bemused-looking cab 
driver came in through the door behind you. You paid him 
off and saw him out the door with a cheery wave. 

     "Marie!" I yelled. She came out from the back. She 
raised one eyebrow when she saw you. "Could you get Adam 
some hot chocolate or something?" She nodded and put the 
kettle on as you sat down next to me.

     "You look like shit," I said. You chuckled, though 
it sounded scatty.

     "Yeah, I've had better years." You rubbed your face. 
"Can I have a beer?"

     I made a quickie calculation. "No. Not with what 
Rene's had you on."

     You watched me curiously. "Oh? What did he have me 
on?"

     "You're asking me? I'd think he would have told you 
first." Granted, you wouldn't die from a bad combination 
of "too much pills and liquor" as they used to say in 
Cabaret, but that didn't mean it would do you any good.

     You blinked. "Why would he tell me?"

     "'Cause it's your head, not mine." Marie brought 
over the hot chocolate. "Drink your cocoa." You shrugged 
and took the mug from her with a quiet 'thank you'. "So, 
what did Rene put you on?"

     "Ummm...a sedative and Zoloft." You sipped 
reflectively at the chocolate. "I was having trouble 
sleeping."

     "That's not much of a surprise. Is it working?" You 
looked pensive. "Well, how do you feel?"

     "All right, I suppose...like an overstretched mobius 
strip. Half of me seems to keep going off into another 
dimension--repeatedly." You eyed me. "You don't want me 
out of hospital yet, do you?"

     "Not if you're still spaced out, no." There was an 
uncomfortable silence. "But I'm glad you came back here 
instead of just disappearing."

      "You're not gonna shop me to Rene, are you?"

     I chuckled. "Gimme a break. I don't need to do that. 
Rene'll be down here by the end of the day on his own."

     You giggled nervously. "True enough."

     "And no, while we're on the subject, I am not going 
to cover your ass with him."

     "I didn't expect you to."

     "Yeah, you did. Normally, I'd at least consider it, 
but I don't like the way your eyes are still jigging 
around."

     "'Jigging'?" You snorted. "Is that your scientific 
term for it?"

     I stared at you until you looked down and started 
turning your mug around,  as if you could find your 
fortune in your cocoa. "If I were being 'scientific' 
about this, you'd be on your way back to that fancy loony 
bin already."


*********


     "Adam did what?" Rene couldn't believe what he was 
hearing. He hadn't even had a chance to take off his 
coat.

     "He said that he was checking out of the hospital 
and then he left. He escaped via the window. We didn't 
try to go after him as per usual procedure with 
Immortals." The young nurse looked embarrassed. "We 
contacted you instead, but I didn't want to tell you over 
the phone. Should we have gone after him?"

     Rene shook his head in exasperation. "No, you did 
the right thing. He would respond badly to being chased. 
Besides, I think I know where he is. I will go get him 
myself."

     "Do you want one of us to come with you?" the nurse 
asked. Rene bit down his irritation at the man. Guillaume 
was only as worried as he should be. He had screwed up 
and he knew it, though it was not really his fault. The 
Old Man had fooled him as he had fooled a thousand other 
Mortals before Guillaume's time.

     Ultimately, the fault was Rene's, for not preparing 
his staff for the charm offensive that was Adam Pierson, 
the Immortal Methos. Rene shook his head and smiled wryly 
at Guillaume. "Non. I will do it. More people will only 
spook him. If he runs, we might never see him again." He 
sighed and turned back to the door. "Call Dr. Kwan," he 
called over his shoulder. "Tell her to call me on my 
cellphone. I may need to consult with her on this case 
once I reach Paris."

     He left the building before anyone else could tell 
him more bad news. He badly needed a cigarette. Outside, 
in the cool air, he lit one, then headed for his car. 
Taking out his cellphone, he called Nikki, his 
housekeeper, and told her he had an emergency patient to 
see in Paris. As he walked to the car and got in, he 
asked her to call Mathilde to the phone. His daughter, of 
course, was very disappointed to hear he would not be 
home that night, which only depressed him more. As he 
said goodbye and hung up, he couldn't help thinking that 
she was disappointed in him. He was disappointed, too, 
but of course, she would be too young to understand that. 
*Ah, Adam. You have much to answer for today.* Methos 
knew better than to disappoint a child who called him 
'uncle'. The Old Man still needed to be in the hospital 
if his judgement was that far gone. The trick was getting 
him to agree to come back.

     Rene started his car and turned on the heat as soon 
as the engine had warmed up. The coffee cup in his drinks 
dispenser was cold. Of course. This was how his day had 
gone so far; why expect it to change now? He drank the 
coffee anyway, grimacing and feeling in the glove 
compartment for his pills. He took one, washing it down 
with the dregs of his coffee. How he wished that anti-
depressants cured headaches. He should not be driving on 
Zoloft, but he trusted he would be back in Reims before 
Leah Kwan realised he had gone to Paris.

     *Perhaps I should let her take over Adam's treatment 
after all,* he thought as he pulled out of the parking 
lot and drove down the gravel driveway out to the main 
road. *He is clever, but I do not think he can fool her. 
And I am tired. Admit it, Rene. You need the break. You 
need to stay in Reims and be with your daughter for a 
little while.*

     It wouldn't do, after all, for a psychiatrist to 
treat a patient with a medication he was taking himself. 
No, not at all. Not even if the patient was a five-
thousand-year old paranoid who trusted no one else, and 
barely trusted his doctor. Dieu merci that Croft and 
Eddie Brill were dead and that Adam would never see that 
tape. He would never have trusted Rene again if he had.

     *Well, as long as I am forced to be in Paris, 
perhaps I can spend a night with Martine, if Adam is 
stable enough.* Rene brightened at that thought. Yes, he 
would do that. He would drive down to Paris and call 
Martine as soon as he had assessed the situation. Perhaps 
this need not be the usual Adam Pierson disaster of 
biblical proportions after all.

*********

     "Richie Ryan is dead." Horton is the last man I 
wanted to hear this from. He's smiling, the smug bastard. 
"You know who it was, don't you? Your old friend Methos."

     I blinked. Damn, must have drifted off there. You'd 
think I was the one on medication, not you. I rubbed my 
eyes and got my chair turned around. I'd had the office 
made bigger than usual for the wheelchair access, even 
though I usually had legs to strap on. Good thinking, 
that. I should have been back on prosthetics by now, but 
those sons of bitches who'd kidnapped us ruined the pair 
I had, smashed them up just for fun, or boredom. I had 
another set but they were in the shop, getting fixed. 

     You'd think I'd have another, newer pair that didn't 
need to get fixed all the time, on top of my regular set. 
The Watchers were good for it, but that's not how they 
saw it. The last time I saw the company doc, he told me I 
didn't need another pair, since I already had two and the 
new set was almost unbreakable. After Gabrieli found out 
about that, he had a chat with the guy and got me a new 
doctor. Then, he sent me and Amy off to custom order a 
new pair while the old pair got fixed. Amy and I had a 
good laugh over the salesman who tried to sell me some of 
those space-age cheetah legs. "You could take up 
running!" the guy actually told me. Ya gotta love it. 

     "Yeah, I've been a double amputee for over thirty 
years and now I'm gonna take up running," I groused when 
we got back in Amy's car. Mine was parked out behind your 
apartment building.

     Amy laughed. "Obviously, he's not seen the way you 
lift weights and haul yourself around on those exercise 
bars." We both laughed at that, but there was a bitter 
edge to mine. I don't know about Amy. Maybe I looked 
normal to her now. She'd never seen me whole.

     Now, here I was, stuck in a wheelchair for the next 
several weeks, which meant getting into all that 
paperwork I'd been avoiding while Amy and Marie managed 
things out in the bar. At least it meant that I could now 
set up that concert I'd been planning for Valentine's Day 
and send in the registration for that Brit conference in 
April where you and I had discussed giving papers before 
all this went down so badly.

     You were asleep on the couch, snuggled under a 
comforter. That hot chocolate had warmed you right up. 
Whether it was the meds or the long walk back from the 
hospital, you were out like a light. I patted you on the 
head on my way back out to the bar.

     "Dr. Galbon called," Marie said, coming out from 
behind the bar as I wheeled through the curtain.

     "Awww, perfect," I groaned, even though I knew it 
would happen. If anything, Rene was a couple of hours 
later than I'd expected. "Did he ask for me?"

     She wiped her hands with a bar towel. "He started 
to, but I think he changed his mind. He said he is coming 
down around six tonight."

     "Happy hour. Even better. Yeah, okay. Thanks. Are 
you all set for getting off at three?" She nodded. I 
grabbed her hand and kissed it. She laughed. "Have I 
mentioned how much I appreciate your covering for me 
these past few months?" I'd put her on the company 
payroll just before Thanksgiving as helping me Watch you, 
so it wasn't coming out of the bar profits. Gabrieli had 
signed that requisition without a murmur.

     Marie snorted and patted me on the shoulder. "Don't 
worry, Joe. I like the raise you gave me just fine. And 
the overtime?" She looked heavenward and snapped her 
fingers. "Ooh, lala. It's very nice." I chuckled as she 
walked away. "You want a drink?" she called over her 
shoulder.

     I rubbed the back of my neck. "When did the good 
doctor call?"

     "About an hour or so ago. I think he was calling 
from his car."
     "Better make it a Coke, then." Sounded as if Rene 
could be here anytime. I was gonna need all my wits about 
me when he got here.

*********

     Rene stood in the doorway of the bar, took a deep 
breath, let it out, then advanced into the room, letting 
the door close behind him. Joe Dawson glanced up as Rene 
approached the table. He must have been watching the 
door. The noise in the bar was too much for him to have 
heard it open and close.

     "Hi, Rene," Joe said. He hunched in his chair. 
"Guess we both know why you're here."

     "Where is he?" Better to get to the point than to 
draw it out.

     "Out back. He's asleep." Joe nodded to the chair 
across from him. "Sit down. Have a drink."

     Rene sat. He waited, in silence, as Joe called over 
one of his bar staff. Rene ordered a cognac. When the 
drink came, he sipped it while Joe watched him. He knew 
what Joe wanted him to say, but he was going to take his 
time getting to it.

     "You're not gonna take him back, are you?" Joe said, 
a hopeful note in his voice. "He doesn't seem that bad 
today."

     Rene scowled at him. "You know better than that. 
Whatever he told you, he isn't well enough to be out of 
the hospital. He still needs round-the-clock care." He 
glanced deliberately at Joe's wheelchair. "How do you 
intend to give him that when you can barely take care of 
yourself?"

     Joe's face tightened. Mais oui, it was a very sore 
point with him, his lack of mobility. "I've been taking 
care of myself for thirty years. I don't need some shrink 
to waltz into my own bar and tell me that I'm too 
helpless to take care of my friends."

     "Another time, I might agree." Rene hardened his 
tone. "But you contracted a bad cold just after New 
Year's Day and you are still unwell. And Adam is still 
very ill. His fears do not change that."

     Joe looked lost. "Rene, I'm not denying that he 
needed help two weeks ago, or even now, but he doesn't 
need to stay there forever."

     Rene leaned across the table. "You know what comes 
next, n'est-ce pas, Joe? He runs. He disappears. It is 
what he does. He ran after MacLeod murdered his own 
student. He ran after Don Salzer died and Kalas found 
him. He ran after Jacob Galati died and you were put on 
Trial. He ran after his brother Horsemen died. For all we 
know, he broke them up when he ran from them in the first 
place."

     Joe scowled at him. "You say that like it's a bad 
thing."

     Rene snorted in bitter amusement. "Mais non. I think 
that Kronos was the worst thing that ever happened to 
Adam. I think that he whispered sweet poisons in Adam's 
ear for over a millennium, sapped his confidence, kept 
him mad. I am not trying to deny Adam's responsibility 
for his own actions, but I do not believe that he would 
have fallen so low without Kronos at his elbow, 
encouraging him."

     "Kronos needed Methos more than Methos needed him," 
Joe said in an odd, restricted tone. "Only he managed to 
convince Methos that it was the other way around."

     "How do you know that?" Rene asked suspiciously. Joe 
sounded like Methos in session the past three weeks.

     "Oh, just...you hear things around here." Joe 
shrugged, but he wouldn't meet Rene's eyes.

     Rene's eyes narrowed. "Joe...have you seen Kronos? 
Here? In the bar?"

     Joe's mouth dropped open. Touche. Rene forced 
himself not to smile in satisfaction. Before he could 
press his advantage, however, he saw Joe's attention go 
past him. He looked over his shoulder to see Amy Thomas 
striding in through the door.

     "Sorry I'm late, Dad," she said as she approached 
the table and leaned over to give Joe a hug. "Got caught 
in traffic." She glanced at Rene and nodded to him. "Dr. 
Galbon. Good to see you again."

     "Miss Thomas." He nodded back, wondering where she 
had put those photos from her father's safe. Rene would 
need to speak with her about that, and about Adam.

     "You need anything from the office?" she asked Joe. 
"I left something back there."

     Joe grabbed her hand before she could pull away. 
"Uh, honey, maybe you should wait. Adam's back there. 
He's asleep on the couch."

     She looked puzzled, but Rene didn't miss the flash 
of hope in her eyes. "He's out of hospital already?" she 
said, too casually.

     Joe looked embarrassed. "We're, um, discussing 
that."

     She snickered, looking at Rene. "Engineered his own 
jailbreak, did he?" 

     Rene smiled back, unwillingly. "Something like 
that."

     She nodded, turning back to Joe. "Well, I still have 
to go back there. I forgot my Guiness shirt and I need it 
to work the bar tonight." She patted Joe on the shoulder. 
"Don't worry. I won't disturb him. I'm sure, what with 
whatever Dr. Galbon's been giving him, he needs his 
beauty sleep." She grinned at Rene, who glared back. 
Then, she headed out back through the curtain. Damn her. 
She was playing with fire and she knew it.

     "So, did you bring the two husky orderlies or are 
you gonna call the cops this time?" Joe asked, breaking 
into Rene's foul mood. He seemed to have missed the 
interplay with Amy. Good. Rene did not want to explain to 
Joe what disaster his daughter and his best friend were 
contemplating.

     Rene sipped his cognac, considering Joe's question. 
"Neither. I came alone." Joe looked puzzled. "I agree 
with you that forcible incarceration is not the answer. 
He would just escape again and then disappear."

     "He's not a coward," Joe said.

     "I know. That is not why he runs." Rene smiled sadly 
at Joe, who looked uncomfortable. "He fears becoming a 
burden, being cornered, being caged. That does not make 
him a coward. You and I would feel exactly like him in 
his place. Perhaps that is why we like him, non?"

     Joe tapped a jittery rhythm on the arm of his chair. 
"What are you going to do with him, if you're not here to 
bring him back?"

     "Oh, I am here to bring him back. I just intend to 
talk him into it, rather than drag him back, kicking and 
screaming. And that will take more time, not to mention 
your help."

*********

    I'm standing on a bridge. There is a clock on each 
side. One, on a large churchtower, has a white face and 
black hands. The other hangs above a storefront, the LED 
display glowing red. Both of them read eleven-thirty. The 
almost-noonday sun is trying to break through the clouds, 
but not quite succeeding.

     "I couldn't kill him." Richie is sweating, 
terrified. He keeps pulling the gun in and out of his 
jacket pocket, a nervous habit which is making *me* 
nervous. What if a policeman saw us? I have no intention 
of getting arrested today, particularly not in the 
company of the likes of Richie Ryan. "I'm sorry, man, 
really, I tried. But I couldn't do it. Look, I know you 
and Kronos hate the guy, but...can't you just leave him 
alone? I don't think he's with those other guys anymore."

     I turn to face him. "Richie, what are you raving on 
at? What guy?"

     Richie swallows. "I thought if I could get you out 
here alone, away from Kronos, we could just talk, you 
know? I mean, Kronos is great, but you're my teacher, 
man. You saved my ass, taught me all about Immortals. I'm 
grateful, really, but I just can't do this. I guess 
Dawson was right; I'm not a killer."

     "You talked to Joe?" He nods, tugging out the gun as 
some tourists edge past him, eyes wide. My patience 
snaps. "For Heaven's sake! Either keep that thing in your 
pocket or give it to me!"

     Wide-eyed, Richie hands it over. I palm it and slip 
it into the inside pocket of my leather jacket. 
Leather...I haven't worn that since I was a hitman. 
Strange that I'd be wearing it now. "Now, stop talking 
nonsense. When did you see Joe?"

     Richie hunches as if I've hit him. "You sent me to 
kill him, remember? But you know what? I really don't 
think he was one of the guys who killed your brothers."

     "My brothers are dead. All of them." Richie shrinks 
away from the flatness in my voice. When did he learn to 
fear me so much? I don't remember him being so wary. 
Movement on the street behind him distracts me. There is 
an old man in a wheelchair crossing the street. "Joe?" I 
say, startled. What is he doing out here like that?

    As I brush past Richie to go find out, the kid grabs 
my arm. "Methos, no! Please! Just leave him alone!" I 
shake loose, but when I turn back, a bus is pulling up 
next to the curb, blocking my view. I run to the end of 
the bridge, cross the street and dodge around the bus. 
Where the hell did he go?

    "Joe?" The street fronts a large avenue. As I look 
down it, I see the man in the wheelchair far ahead of me, 
almost a block away. How did he get that far in so little 
time? I start running again to catch up, but I don't seem 
to gain on him. Before I get to the end of the block, I 
see him turn down an alleyway. I reach it and turn down 
it myself, jogging along the cobblestones between the 
narrow, stone walls. The end of the alley is bright; I 
come out into a large, cathedral square. In the middle of 
it, a fountain splashes. I slow to a walk, panting, 
confused. As I pass the wooden doors of the cathedral, 
the gears inside the clocktower above me advance its 
hands a minute closer to noon with a loud thud.

     I sit up, sucking in air with postmortem revival 
intensity. The room is dark. I can't remember where I am.

     "Sorry." The voice is nearby, feminine and familiar. 
"I didn't mean to wake you."

    "Amy?" I'm in Joe's office. I remember, now. Damn 
these drugs of Rene's. The dreams are only the worst of 
the side effects.

    "Yeah, it's me. Go back to sleep."

    "No. Come sit down." If I were thinking rationally, I 
would never ask, but I've just woken up. I'm not 
rational. To my surprise, she comes over to the couch and 
sits down. So, if I just woke up, what is her excuse?

     "How are you feeling?" she says. The tenderness in 
her voice is confusing. She was there at the end, just 
before I ended up in hospital. We said things to each 
other; I know she killed those men for me. Rene told me 
that after I asked him.

     I don't know what to think about this. Maybe 
thinking is not the point. "I'm all right," I say. "Rene 
says that you saved my life."

     She shrugs. "I got there first. They were going to 
cut off your head. I had to do something." She is close, 
but not touching. I can feel her warmth, both from her 
body and in her voice.

     "Well, thank you anyway." I feel an urge to lean 
over and find out how close she really is. I can always 
blame it on being half-asleep or exhausted or drugged-up 
later. I don't think she will mind, or move away.

     Light leaks into the office as the curtain from the 
bar is pushed back. "Amy?" It's Rene. At the sound of his 
voice, Amy jumps up off the couch and hurries back over 
to the desk. I sigh to myself at the lost opportunity. It 
wouldn't do to be caught necking on the couch by my 
shrink. I consider lying back down on the couch and 
pretending to be asleep, but don't see the point.

     "Hullo, Rene," I say as he comes into the office. I 
can barely see him. Amy is busying herself at the desk, 
pulling out a drawer. Rene grunts in annoyance, at the 
lack of light, I assume.

     "I see you are awake," he tells me. "Does anyone 
mind if I turn on the light?"

    "I was just leaving," Amy says, picking up something 
and slipping past Rene, back  out into the bar. I watch 
her go with confused regret. Damn. Another lost 
opportunity, but for what? What do I want from Amy 
Thomas?

     I shield my eyes. "Go ahead. You can turn it on." 
Might as well get this over with.

     The overhead fluourescent light clicks on. I wince, 
even at the reduced glare filtering through my scissored 
fingers. "Do you mind if I sit down?" Rene asks. I shrug. 
I hear the desk chair creak. As I pull my hand away, my 
eyes finally adjusting, I see Rene rolling the chair over 
to face me. He folds his arms and leans back in the 
chair, watching me with no expression on his face.

     "What?" I say, playing innocent to buy time.

     "You left the hospital," he says.

     "I told you I was going to leave when I felt ready." 
The explanation sounds more foolish than it sounded 
yesterday, but I am damned if I'm going to admit it.

     "That does not mean that you are ready." I can see 
he wants to argue this one into the ground, but he is 
going to do it in stages, day by day, wearing me down. 
Oh, I cannot wait.

     I sigh. "Rene. I am taking your bloody drugs. I am 
eating three meals per day. Joe won't let me drink any 
alcohol, so I am flying right on that score. And no, I am 
no longer entertaining that delusion that I see dead 
people. What is not to like?"

     He scowls. "Who told you that was a delusion?"

     I stare at him. Then, I laugh. "What are you talking 
about? You spend nearly four months trying to convince me 
that I'm crazy because I am hallucinating and now you're 
trying to convince me that I'm crazy because I am *not* 
hallucinating? What is this? Some kind of double bind 
quiz?"

     He shakes his head slowly. "I never told you that 
the dead that you see are a delusion. I only told you 
that making them go away by starving yourself to death 
was unhealthy. Who told you that what you see is a 
delusion?"

     I stop laughing. This is no longer funny. "Rene, 
come on. Stop it. I've been a good boy since Christmas. 
Just tell me your price for my freedom and I'll pay it. 
You want me to stay on medication? Fine. I will take the 
damned pills. I will hang out with Joe and Keane and be a 
good, quiet boy for as long as it takes to get you off my 
back."

     "Keane is out of the country for a month." I blink 
in surprise. This is news to me. "He had business in 
Indonesia."

     "Fine. I'll hang out with Joe, then. But I am not 
going back into that place."

     "It is not such a bad place," he says quietly. "Not 
as bad as you thought, non?" I look down. No, it wasn't, 
not on the surface. But I still cannot abide the idea of 
confinement, immured between walls. "But I still want to 
know who told you that seeing the dead is a delusion."

     I grit my teeth. I hate this subject; I really do. 
"People die, Rene. We all die in the end. And when we do, 
that's it. No gods, no demons, no ghosts. Therefore, what 
I see when I see the dead must not be real."

     "Who told you that, Kronos?" He will not let this 
go. 

     I find myself clenching my fists, pushing against 
the couch. I force myself to relax them. "As a matter of 
fact, Kronos was an atheist, yes. When he wasn't 
convinced he was a god himself."

     "Did he often tell you that whatever you saw wasn't 
real?" Rene uncrosses his arms and leans forward, his 
elbows on his knees.

     In spite of myself, I shrink back against the couch. 
"You didn't even know Kronos. How would you know what he 
was like?"

     "I did not know Kronos, c'est vrai. But I knew 
Caspian and Silas. You sent me after them once, to Watch 
them, do you remember? You were worried about them, je 
crois, though that is not what you told me, of course."

     "They were my brothers." To my surprise, I realise 
that this is all the explanation I need. They were my 
brothers, so I protected them. I do miss them.

     "You feel guilt over abandoning them?" I look away; 
he is right in my face on this one. "You had to leave, 
Adam. They would have destroyed you, your brothers. You 
loved them far more than they loved you."

    "They loved me as well as they could." Why does that 
sound so weak and sad? That dream is leaving a bad taste 
in my mouth.

     "They loved you as well as they felt it necessary to 
keep you in bondage. They needed you mad and unsure of 
yourself. It was an abusive relationship."

     "After he found me in Seacouver, Kronos said he 
counted on me because I was a survivor." I close my eyes 
and pull Joe's comforter closer around my shoulders. "He 
said I wasn't the strongest or the toughest, but that I 
was the survivor, that it was what I did best."

     "Kronos counted on you because he was dependent on 
your existence. Survivors are the strongest and the 
toughest in a group, the ones who can survive on their 
own two feet. You are the last Horseman because you are 
the strong one, the tough one, the one who could stand 
alone." Rene's voice is gentle, and that hurts more than 
his anger or contempt. "What else did Kronos tell you?"

     I have never spoken of this before. Why not? Even if 
MacLeod had wanted to hear it, I never would have spoken 
of it. No. That is not fair. Mac did want to hear it at 
the end--the whole truth and nothing but the truth--but I 
could not tell him. I didn't even know where to begin. 
And Joe never needed to hear it, I guess. "Kronos said I 
was unique, that we all were." I shiver. "I'm not well, 
am I?"

     "Methos, look at me." I open my eyes and gaze up at 
him, wearily. When did I get so tired, so old? "You are 
fighting an infection; an infection of the spirit. You 
feel weak now because all of your strength is going into 
this fight, but it will not always be so. You will 
recover. You'll feel strong again, I promise."

     I wince. "You're going to make me go back, aren't 
you?"

     He looks thoughtful. Oh, is there hope for me yet? 
"I won't make you do anything." He smiles ruefully. "I 
will make you a deal: I will stay with you and Joe, here 
in Paris. You will continue to take your medication and 
we will talk every day...and we will see."

    "No hospital?" I say hopefully.

     He shakes his head. "I want you to see the hospital 
as a safe place, not a prison. We will do this 
arrangement for the moment." He leans forward, his face 
solemn. "For now, I want you to think about all the 
things that Kronos told you about yourself in the time 
that you knew him. I want you to think about them very 
hard, examine them and ask yourself how much sense they 
make now."

     "I don't know what you mean," I say, but an older 
dream comes to me unbidden--an image of me standing in a 
padded cell, eating my own fingers while Kronos watches 
in approval.

     Rene reaches out to me and pats me on the shoulder. 
"It is all right if you do not understand now. But are 
you willing to do as I ask?"

     I nod. "I suppose." I almost tell him about the 
dream, but which one? I don't know what to think about 
those clocks, and I don't want to give Rene any ideas 
about putting me in a padded cell.

     "Bon. It will be difficult for you at first, but I 
think you will feel better in the end." He smiles. I 
smile back, unwillingly. This doesn't feel like much of a 
victory for either of us, but I guess I can live with a 
truce for the moment. Whatever he may think about my 
sanity, I know that Rene does not wish me harm, and I can 
say that about few people right now.

*********

     I was closing up and had turned off most of the 
lights. A crash alerted me to an intruder in the bar as I 
wheeled myself out through the curtain.

     "Hey! Who's there?" I snapped, reaching for the gun 
in my coat. On top of the bar, a shadow shape, hunched 
over like a church gargoyle, stirred. It jumped off the 
bar with a thud of boots and the hiss of leather, and 
straightened into a tall manshape. I felt a jolt of 
adrenaline as I pulled out my gun, my hand shaking. It 
was all I could do to point it at the shape instead of 
dropping it into my lap. Maybe I should have waited for 
Amy to come back before I turned out all the lights. "Why 
don't you come out and show yourself?" I demanded, with a 
lot more guts than I felt.

     "I could ask you the same thing, Joe." The voice 
sounded familiar, a low, lazy growl. "As I recall, you 
didn't have any trouble with hiding in the shadows when 
Horton came after me." The shape stepped forward. I heard 
a contemptuous snort. "Some friend. But what else can you 
expect from a Mortal?"

    Recognition clicked into place, but I still couldn't 
believe it. "Methos?"

     "Joseph? Are you all right?" I started and opened my 
eyes, blinking up at Rene. The bar around me was buzzing 
with customers, post-Happy Hour. Christ, I'd drifted off 
twice in one night, now. I must have been more tired than 
I thought.

     "I'm fine," I said. "How did it go with...um, Adam?" 
I didn't want to mention the name 'Methos', not right 
after what I had just seen.

     "He is putting on his shoes and coat. I brought them 
from the hospital." Rene smirked. "He is coming home with 
us."

     I stared at him. "'Us'?"

     He nodded. "I am going to be your housemate for a 
little while." He chuckled at my reaction. "Don't look so 
horrified, Joseph. It will be fine. Either Adam will get 
better--in which case I will go home to Reims--or he will 
get worse. In which case, he will go back to the 
hospital...and I will go home to Reims. Either way, at 
some point, you will get rid of me."

     "What about Adam?" I said. "How does he feel about 
that?"

     "Unhappy." Rene sat down across from me, and for a 
second, I thought he looked almost as tired as Methos on 
a bad day. "But he will get over it, which is what we all 
want, n'est-ce pas?" He cocked his head, smiling 
cynically.

     "Yeah, I guess it is, at that." I watched Rene, 
considering his motives. "What do you really want from 
him, Rene?"

     "I want what we both want, Joseph. I want him to be 
well."

     "Good," I said. "Because I think you and I are in 
the minority on that one."

     He nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Yes, mon 
ami. I think you are right. It does not seem to be 
something that either other Immortals or our Watcher 
colleagues want for him." A shadow passed over his face. 
"Helas, it does not yet seem to be what he wants for 
himself, either."

*********

     It is a pleasant, sunny day. Harold Croft is buying 
me lunch. I haven't seen him in months. As we wait for 
the coffee and croissants to come out, he shoots out the 
cuffs of his grey suit and smooths the creases in his 
cream shirt. Harold certainly knows how to dress well, 
though he never does it gaudily. That would give him 
away. He takes special care with his appearance whenever 
we meet. I know that he is in love with me. Poor Harold. 
Such a careful man. I must be his only indiscretion, the 
only spot of passion in an otherwise impeccably 
colourless existence.

     We never speak of it, his sexual orientation, though 
he knows that I know and will never tell. The Watchers 
are a very conservative group. He would never have 
reached the position he is in now if anyone had 
suspected. Besides, it would never do for the (male) 
Assistant Head of Finance in the Western European 
Division to fall helplessly in love with a conspicuously 
younger (and also male) graduate student in the Methos 
Project, who is flattered by the attention but doesn't 
return his feelings. It is too much of a cliche--
elegantly sinister older man mentoring the rough, naive 
young student in the nasty ways of the world. It doesn't 
matter that the reality is so different. I could never 
afford for them to suspect me, either.

     He seems to prefer that his feelings go unrequited. 
Apparently, it is enough that I don't reject him or hate 
him for it. He is satisfied with my friendship. Anything 
more would terrify him, I think. Not for him the joys of 
a real, consummated relationship. Harold will not be 
representating the Watchers in any Gay Pride parades in 
this millennium. No, as a character on a show about 
undertakers once put it, Harold Croft is so far back in 
the closet he is in Narnia. Poor, poor Harold.

    The coffee and croissants arrive. He leans forward, 
reaching for his coffee cup and sipping from it. I squint 
at him in the noonday light. No matter what I do, he is 
always slightly out of focus.

     "Are you all right?" he says, noticing my lingering 
morning fuzziness. "You seem a little more frayed around 
the edges than usual today."

     I yawn. "I'm fine. I just stayed up late last night, 
translating." I try, and fail, to remember what the 
document was that was so important I had to pull an all-
nighter over it.

     He pulls his chair over next to me and starts 
fussing over me in a not-so-paternal fashion, 
straightening my collar, mussing my hair. "Adam, surely 
there is some sense of style in you. You are not a bad-
looking man, but you are hardly god-like enough in 
appearance to rise above every fashion disaster. Please 
tell me that you threw out those horrendous red corduroy 
pants that you have insisted on wearing these many 
moons."

     I smile wryly. "Relax. They're gone now." Even Joe 
hated those.

     He shakes his head, looking put-upon as he lets his 
hand drop, his palm brushing down the outside of my leg. 
I let it pass, as I always do when he cops the occasional 
feel. He doesn't mean any disrespect by it. "Thank God. 
At least you finally stopped wearing those ratty, old, 
hooded sweatshirts. They made you look like a schoolboy 
from east London. Do you still have that black wool coat 
I gave you?"

     I nod. "Oh, yes. I still wear it in the winter. It's 
very warm." He gave it to me the day I introduced him to 
Alexa. He was very gentle with her, showing her around 
the Louvre as if she were as breakable and priceless as 
the objects there. I know he only did it to please me, 
but he succeeded. It was a generous gesture, being kind 
to one's rival in love. I never forgot it.

     "I really don't know what you thought you were 
doing, running off after Duncan MacLeod in the middle of 
the winter wearing that tatty, old raincoat. It's a 
wonder he didn't kill you, the way he tried to do 
everyone else at the time. Poor Sean Burns."

     "It wasn't his fault," I try to explain. "It was the 
Dark Quickening."

     Harold snorts in mockery. "There is always an 
excuse. I notice that you never gave any excuses for your 
behaviour." He looks me up and down, with far more 
interest than he would usually dare show. "You look 
lovely in leather, I must say. Black jeans and that 
rakish Henley shirt--very Russian Mafia. I quite like the 
gangster look on you."

     "What?" The sudden change in tone to dark and 
intimate catches me wrong-footed. I notice my reflection 
in the mirrored clock behind him, framed by the hands, 
which read eleven thirty-five. Harold is right--I *do* 
look like a gangster.

     Harold cradles his saucer while he sips his coffee. 
"I do question the wisdom of carrying around that knife 
(is that a Coustille?). On the other hand, you're far too 
old and wise to go completely unarmed, and a sword would 
be conspicuous, even for you."

     "Harold," I say, at sea and groping for a lifeline. 
"What are you talking about? I'm a Watcher. Why would I 
carry a sword?"

     "Why, because you are an Immortal, of course." He 
smiles at my confusion. "What is the matter, Methos. Not 
used to honesty from me?"

     The street tilts under me. For a moment, I think I 
have spilled out of the chair onto the ground, and make 
an abortive move to stop myself with my hands. The clock 
in the mirror ticks inside my head, in reflected 
doubletime with my heartbeat.

     "Who told you I was Methos?" The undertone in my 
voice thrums through my head, like morning thunder.

     If Harold hears me, he does not show it. "But I've 
always been honest with you, even when I was lying." He 
sets the cup and saucer back down on the table. "And now 
that I am dead, I will never lie to you again."

     "SHIT." Sunlight leaks around my arm, which I've 
flung over my face in a vain attempt to shut out the 
morning. But it is the thumping that wakes me up. I let 
my arm fall onto the bed and open my eyes. "Ah, shit!"

     "Joe?" I say. The voice is coming from under the bed 
on the other side. "Where are you?"

     "I'm stuck!"

     I sit up, looking around, still tangled in my dream. 
Damn these drugs. "You're what? Where?"

     "Down here!" He starts swearing steadily, which is 
how I am able to locate him on the other side of the bed, 
pinned between the wall and his wheelchair.

     "You idiot," I say, rolling off the bed and 
hunkering down next to him. "What are you trying to do to 
yourself?"

     "I was *trying* to get out of bed." Joe flails 
about, making it difficult to get him back up onto the 
bed, especially with his chair in the way.

     "I see you managed to do that with no difficulty." I 
get hold of him from behind, under his arms, and try to 
haul him back up onto the bed. "OW. Stop hitting me, will 
you?"
     
     "Just put me in the God damned chair! And stop being 
such a smartass."

     The bathroom door opens and Rene storms out in my 
bathrobe. My, he's certainly made himself at home. 
"Qu'est-ce qui se passe maintenant? Joe! I told you to 
wait."

     "I needed to take a piss," Joe grumps.

     "And how did you intend to do that when I was using 
the bathroom already?" Oh, yeah. This'll be fun. Rene is 
definitely used to having his own space. Muttering, Rene 
comes over and helps me heave Joe into the chair. "I'll 
do it," Rene snaps at me, whisking the chair out of my 
hands and pushing Joe into the bathroom.

     "O-kay." The noises coming from inside the bathroom 
are not encouraging, but hey, it is out of my hands now. 
At least all the commotion has mostly cleared out the 
remnants of a most disturbing dream. Maybe I should give 
Harold Croft a call, just to reassure myself that one of 
my older Watcher friends has not gone missing while I 
wasn't looking. I make a mental note to call him later in 
the afternoon and ask him if I he wants to go someplace 
for lunch this week. Joe may not approve. I don't think 
he knows that Harold is gay and I am not sure he'd care 
if he did know, but he has never really trusted him. 
Harold has always rubbed him the wrong way, and vice 
versa. What is it about me that my friends all hate each 
other? I am like a one-man United Nations.

     I go into the kitchen, only to trip over a whining 
cat with a tiny Buzz. "Hullo, Silas. Let me guess. You're 
hungry. Some things never change." At least Silas is 
happy to see me. He seems to be the only one, unless I 
count Amy and it is too early in the morning to think 
about that thorny issue. Who would have thought I'd 
regret leaving the hospital so soon?

     I get some cereal with milk and sit down in front of 
the TV. Silas joins me after scarfing up his food at warp 
speed. Morning cartoons. I missed this, being in my own 
space. From the yelling coming from inside the bathroom, 
Rene is helping Joe wash up. This could take awhile. Good 
thing I have nowhere I need to be today. They are in 
there for half an hour. When they come out, the storm 
clouds over their heads are almost visible.

     "Can I have my bathroom back now?" I ask, 
forestalling any attempts to get me to mediate. I have no 
mercy while my bladder is still full. I breeze past the 
two of them, into the bathroom and close the door.

     "Since when did you start using pink shower gel?" I 
yell at Joe through the door a moment later.

     "It's Amy's!" Joe yells back. That makes sense, come 
to think of it. After all, someone had to help him get 
around the place, and Silas needed feeding and care. For 
some odd, not-quite-definable reason, I feel rather 
pleased to have Amy's toiletries in my bathroom. It is as 
if she is living with me by proxy. I have to resist the 
urge to try out the pink bath gel for myself as I turn on 
the shower. I don't need to give myself those kinds of 
ideas in the bathtub with her father just on the other 
side of door. It is too kinky.

     Okay, admit it, Old Man. You have been down this 
road enough times. You recognise the emotion. Just 
because you didn't expect to feel it again so soon 
doesn't make it any less real. 

     I am in love. With my best friend's daughter. Boy, 
am I in trouble.

     When I come out, Joe is watching TV, eating 
breakfast,. Rene has got his coat on and is heading out 
the door. "Leaving so soon?" I say. I hope he is not 
planning to rush me off to hospital this morning. I'd 
like to at least get dressed first before I scarper off 
for parts unknown.

     "I have to go to Reims and pick up some things, see 
Mathilde and Nikki," Rene explains. "You did not give me 
time to plan for an extended trip to Paris when you left, 
mon ami."

     I feel a stab of guilt--it was a rotten thing to do 
to Mathilde, taking away her dad--but don't show it. 
"Have a nice trip."

     Rene takes a too-familiar bottle out of his coat and 
shakes out some pills. Shit. My bloody Zoloft. So much 
for his forgetting about that. I sit down on the bed and 
wait. No use in trying to squirm out of it. I try not to 
make a face when he fills a glass of water at the sink, 
walks to the bed and hands me the cup and the pills. He 
stands over me in silence while I choke them down. At 
least he won't insult my intelligence by checking to make 
sure I have not palmed them or otherwise done a switch.

     "I should return in the evening," he says, when I 
finish with the process. "Joe will see to things until I 
get back. Try not to kill each other before then." From 
his chair next to the couch, Joe snorts as Rene goes out 
the door. I get dressed while Joe pretends to watch the 
TV. We have become experts at giving each other space.

     "What was that about?" I say, coming over to the 
couch and flopping down next to Joe.

     "Nothing," Joe says, staring at the TV. He looks 
sullen.

     "Hey, Dawson, if you've got something to say, spit 
it out."

     "Nothing." Click, Click, Click. How I hate when he 
channel-surfs. If anything, the pills magnify my 
irritation.

     I grab his hand, stopping on a channel. "Can we pick 
a channel and watch it, please?"
He glares at me, then tosses the remote in my lap. "Thank 
you." The ensuing silence is poisonous, but at least I 
can go back to watching cartoons. "What is up with you, 
anyway?" He folds his arms, looking like nothing so much 
as a grumpy two-year-old. "Besides 'nothing'?"

     "You just don't get it, do you?" he says. I so hate 
when he is like this. I feel as if we are on two islands 
drifting in opposite directions, instead of sitting only 
inches away from each other.

     "Get what?" Maybe I can jolly him out of this. Then 
again, maybe not. He is such a stubborn bastard.

     "Do you even care? I mean, here we are--me, Rene, 
Amy, Keane--putting all our lives on hold to save your 
ass and all you can think about is how we're cramping 
your style. Well, excuse me for trying to help."

     I knew this was coming, but I wasn't expecting it to 
come so soon. Nineteen years of friendship can lure you 
into that fabled false sense of security that does not 
see the end of the road until it drops out from under 
your feet. The Zoloft blunts the worst of it with its 
artificial flat affect, but only the shock, not the 
sadness. The sadness settles over me like a heavy 
blanket.

     "You don't care, do you? I mean, look at you, 
sitting there watching cartoons and picking your nose 
like I'm not even here."

     "I heard you, Joe." But I don't know what I can say 
that will turn it around. I have had a thousand 
conversations like this. They have a momentum of their 
own and they usually end with me either getting lynched 
or heading out of Dodge at top speed with a posse on my 
heels. "I just don't know what you want me to say."

    "How about 'thank you', for a start?" He is really 
pushing this.

     I turn my head and stare at at him. "Thank you." I 
don't like the sullen glare he gives back to me. They 
never let you be honest about it, Mortals. They want you 
gone, but if you told them that, they could never let you 
go quietly. They have to give you a good kick as you go, 
doing as much damage as they can. Well, fine. I know how 
to disappear gracefully. I can be out of Paris, lock, 
stock and cat, by the end of the week. Joe will be mad at 
first, but deep down, he will be relieved to have me out 
of his hair. No doubt he will have forgotten me by next 
year.

     "You really don't get it, do you?" Joe says. I sigh 
to myself. This scene is all too familiar. Before I can 
think of an answer there is a knock on the door.

    "That would be the mail," I say, getting up. Must be 
a package, or the postman would have just slipped it 
through the mail slot, like the rest of the mound that 
Joe and Amy have accumulated for me on the kitchen table. 
They took care of all the important bills for me, and 
most of the rest is junk mail, but still, I am not 
looking forward to going through it all.

     "Hey, we're not finished, here." Damn, he just will 
not let it go.

     "Fine. Whatever. Can we continue this discussion 
later? I'll probably have to sign for whatever the 
package is." I open the door and the postman hands me a 
large, bulky envelope. I thank him and close the door. I 
don't recognise the writing on the package.

     "Who sent that?" Joe says, wheeling up to me. He has 
always had a kid's love of presents.

     "Dunno. There's no return address." For a moment, I 
worry that it might be a bomb. There is a lot of 
nervousness in Paris this month about the increasing 
inevitability of a war with Iraq. However, I don't recall 
knowing anyone who would want to blow me up. At least, 
not anyone who wouldn't have tried before now. "Let me 
get a knife so I can open it."

    I get a steak knife out of the drawer in the kitchen 
and come back to the couch. Joe follows me. I doubt he 
has forgotten the fight, but the package has caught his 
interest. I flop down on the couch and go to work, 
slitting the envelope open. When I tip it over, an 
unlabelled videotape, a note and a hard-bound journal 
slide out onto the cushion.

     I pick up the note. This writing I do recognise. 
"It's from Harold Croft," I say. The odd dream I had this 
morning comes back to me and I shiver.

     "Croft? From Finance?" Joe's face screws up 
skeptically. "I dunno. This isn't another one of his 
little gifts to you, is it?"

    "Ah, Croft isn't that bad, Joe. I don't know why you 
never liked him. He's always been good to me."

     "To you, yeah. To everybody else, he's a card-
carrying son of a bitch. Personally, I always thought he 
was a little *too* good to you, if you know what I mean."

     "The guy's been in love with me for years, Joe. 
Doesn't make him evil." I pick up the journal, weighing 
which I should look at first. I have a feeling that I 
won't like everything I read in that journal, though I am 
a bit puzzled why Croft would have sent it to me. He has 
always been very private about his feelings, even around 
me.

     Joe puts up his hands. "Hey, you've been around the 
block a few hundred times more than I have. I'm sure you 
know what you're doing. I'm just saying--don't play him 
too long. You can't afford to get somebody that high up 
in the organisation pissed off at you." He leans over the 
arm of his chair, eyes narrowing. "What's in the note?"

     I hold it up, reading slowly. "Dear Adam. Regarding 
the tape, FYI. Love, H." Well, that's cryptic, even for 
Harold.

     "What is that supposed to mean?" Joe says.

     I shrug. "I guess we'll find out when we watch the 
tape." I get up and stick the tape in the VCR, then sit 
back down, pick up the remote and press Play.

     With certain disasters in life, you have some 
premonition. Maybe you feel a shudder right before you 
wrongfoot on a trail and tumble over the edge, or hear a 
gun cock just before the bullet rips through you. But 
with this, I can say with assurance that I didn't see it 
coming. Nor do I think Joe did, either.

     At first, the tape is dark. It is near dusk and the 
person holding the video camera is no expert. I can see 
two figures, one dragging the other across a field, but 
they are blurred. Then, the focus fluctuates and settles. 
The figures are two men, one on his knees, the other one 
looming over him with a sword. The guy who is standing is 
screaming at his opponent in French and German. When he 
smacks the other guy in the head, nearly knocking him 
over, my stomach lurches. After starring in a bunch of 
Immortal snuff flicks last month, I really don't need to 
watch any more. Surely, Harold wouldn't be this cruel?

     The guy on his knees, I don't see his sword 
anywhere. This must be the very end of the fight. I 
really don't want to watch the rest of this, but I can't 
just stop the remote. I am thinking that I want to see 
everything that Harold wanted me to see before I go find 
him and ask him what the Hell he thought he was doing, 
sending me this now. Then, as the standing figure lifts 
the sword, Joe says something really horrible.

     "Oh, my God," he says, sounding sick. "That's Rene 
Galbon."

     A gap in the memory strip later, I find myself 
kneeling over the toilet, dry-heaving. I don't know how I 
got there, where I threw the remote when I jumped up from 
the couch, none of it. But the banging of my heart in my 
ears and my own panting cannot drown out Joe's words.

     "Methos? Hey, man, are you okay in there? Talk to 
me!" Joe,  knocking on the bathroom door, sounds as 
frightened as I feel. I let a *Hunter* into my house, 
into my life! I let him lock me up in hospital, feed me 
pills, drug me up and play with my mind as if I were an 
interesting specimen staked out for dissection. What was 
I thinking?!

     And he will be coming back tonight. I have to get 
out of here right now. I force myself to slow my 
breathing, give my stomach space to settle enough that I 
can stand, however shakily. Gotta go, gotta pack. Get out 
of Dodge before the Hanging Judge comes back to town, Old 
Man. You won't get a second chance.

     Joe is talking to me as I stagger out of the 
bathroom, his voice coming in and out like the signal on 
an old shortwave radio. I brush past him and go straight 
for the cupboard, where I keep my backpack. I go into the 
kitchen, open a cupboard door and start pulling out cans 
of food and stuffing them into the backpack. When the 
pack fills up, I rearrange the cans, take out the ones 
that don't fit well and shove in more.

     I don't feel the tugging on my shirt at first. Joe 
has to nearly yank me off my feet before I notice. I look 
down at him. He is talking, but I can't hear. "What?" I 
say, flustered and hyperventilating.

     "--go. Don't go. We can handle this together, Old 
Man. Please don't go. Please." He leans over and tries to 
hug me, but the height disparity means he's patting my 
bum, which I am sure is not his intention. His intentions 
become a moot point when my legs go out from under me and 
I fall, straight down through his embrace, banging my 
head on his chair on the way down. Joe tries to lift me, 
but I cannot even sit up on my own. I cling to the chair 
for dear life, shocky, shivering and panting, cold sweat 
running down my face.

    Joe pats me on the head and shoulders, shaking 
himself. "It's okay, man. It'll be all right. Just don't 
run. It's what They'll be expecting. We'll go to 
Headquarters and find out what's going on, okay? We'll 
get to the bottom of this, I promise."

    And find out what? But I don't have the voice to ask 
that question. I only have enough strength to hold onto 
Joe's chair and hope that the ground will stop falling 
away. Any time now would be brilliant.

Continued in part two