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Anthony Jackson Stoner, Federal Court Judge, District Three, Seacouver and environs, Stonewall to his friends, settled into the high-backed green leather bronze-studded chair, and heard the bailiff call out, "You may be seated," and then "The Third District....yadayadayada."
Stonewall was in no good mood this fine 'Couver morn. God Damn, hypertestosterone kid D.A. was going for the spectacle factor, so near to the Season of the Ballot. In so doing, he--what was the pup's name? Maxwell? Martin? No, Milton!--maybe not Paradise Lost, but the overly ambitious young barrister had lost Judge Stoner his annual fishing trip to the North Woods, and that was as close to paradise as the good judge ever hoped to get, thank you very much.Not this year. This year we're going to play at bread and circuses, Stoner thought. Well, quite a bit more of the latter, if last night's review of the case filings and prelim motions was any indication. He should have suspected something was up when he agreed to the sit for the hearing. Twenty pounds of depositions in three large boxes, for Christ's sake! Might as well have been a bloody murder trial for all the timber wastage!
Stoner placed his hands, palm down on the great desk, the bench, the bar, and acknowledged, first the Milton creep--white bread conservative with his perfect tailoring and correctly imperfect persona-- and then Stoner turned to Jack, standing for the codefendants in the hearing. Jack's wife probably picked that suit out this very morning, for surely it was far too tidy and stylish and new for Jack's nearly slovenly tastes. Good old Jack, no different now then he had been in school, the mind of a genius in the body of the Pillsbury Doughboy.
"Gentlemen," Stoner indicated they should be seated. He turned his hands palm up and scooped up the case summary files, one in each hand. "We reviewed these last night, gentlemen, and while we still have some discovery issues to take up over lunch, and two Social Services reports outstanding, I think we are ready to proceed with this custody hearing. Let me see, Jack--"
Barrister Feldon stood.
Stoner scaled the defense file across the court where it landed in front of Defendants' table.
"Milton," the second file went sailing off towards the other table.
The court transcriptionist stopped typing and asking the bailiff for a glass of water.
"All righty then, gentlemen. Just so we understand my general overall sense of this custody hearing. Now, do I hear any motions?" Judge Stoner picked up his Ben Franklin specs and perched them on his nose, arranging the court schedule calendar in front of him and uncapping the gold filled extra fine point pen his dad had given him for graduation. "Change of venue? Objection to the current assigned jurist? Comments, suggestions....coffee?" Stoner picked up the gavel and nudged the bailiff, "Coffee," he repeated.
"No?" Stoner stared over the rim of his glasses at Milton. "Going once, going twice..."
He picked up the gavel and smacked it down with a resounding crack, just missing the small square of wood that would have spared the venerable and massive jurist's bench. "We have ourselves a hearing, then." Stoner laid the gavel down, readjusted his specs and began marking off days in his schedule. He marked off a week and then looked up at Jack, "You've got that Congressional deposition on Monday next, right, Attorney Feldon?"
Jack nodded.
"All right, we'll be open on Monday next. I'll tentatively hold the rest of the week after that. I like to start on time, Gentlemen, I like forty minutes for lunch, and an hour mid-afternoon for motions, I go home for dinner at six sharp and I get what I like. Is that understood?"
"Good," Stoner smiled, as much because the bailiff brought the coffee just then, as for any other reason, certainly not this National Inquirer story that the D.A. was trying to sell as being in the interests of "traditional family values."
"We will now hear testimony concerning the determination of custodial interests as pertains to the two minor children, Sean C. MacLeod, a male infant, eleven months old, and Mary S. Palmer, a female child, three years old, both now residing within the Third District, in the City of Seacouver."
Milton rose and launched into his well-practiced, much honed initial tirade. "On behalf of little Sean and Mary, the State finds compelling interest to remove these two minor children from the despicable environment which endangers their health, their safety, and the very innocence..."
Oh, brother, Stoner lost interest. He'd hear it all many more times before this was over. Instead, his attention wandered over to Jack's bright little group, the well-dressed brunette woman in the brandy-colored suit, sitting straight as a plumb line, and the handsome man at her side, a tall young warrior, if warriors were apt to step out of GQ. These two would be the parents of the children in question, in a tangled technicality of genetics and legalities, with the adoption of Mary Palmer by the man, Duncan MacLeod, still pending, and the marriage of the same MacLeod to Dr. Anne Lindsey, evidently, only for appearances' sake. The whole story was so complex, so entirely unbelievable, that Stoner had had to read the summaries three times over each and he still could make no sense of it.
Milton was winding down now. They would soon be ready to actually start the hearing.
"In summary then," Milton paced over to the defendant's table and leaned towards MacLeod. Obviously a piece of theatrics he'd practiced.
It didn't go as scripted though. Stoner was inwardly pleased to see the young man rise and stand a full three inches taller than little Milton. The Scot's gazed focused on the man before him, the expected intimidation had rather backfired on Milton.
Bad move, Milton, my man, Stoner thought. You don't play war tactics with real warriors, boy. Even in my dotage, I know this simple fact. And this MacLeod was such a one. He might be standing there straight and tall as an oak, dressed in the conventions and style of the day, but MacLeod was only a few generations away from furs and leathers, sword and axe. A true son of the Highlands, Stoner thought, what a strange battlefield this must seem to you. Stoner watched the Highlander back down Milton with his eyes alone.
And for the first time since he'd drawn this crazy hearing, Stoner did not regret his canceled fishing trip. This had all the makings of an interesting situation. He let Milton swing on the gibbet just a little while longer, then, "Excuse me, Counselor? Could you direct your statement to the Court? I can't seem to hear you."
Milton retook his place behind the lectern between the two tables. "We petition the Court to remand custody of the aforesaid minor children to Child Protective Services for the following reasons, including, but not limited to: child endangerment, child neglect, unsafe childcare provisions, child abuse, unsavory living environment, refusal to follow ordinary health care precautions, and perpetrating fraud against Social Services and Welfare Reform Act XVII."
This last was the sole reason they were here, Stoner considered, and it was the weakest charge in the lot, but it had elevated a nominal family court case to a federal hearing with possible criminal charges to follow, though Stoner doubted this would be the case.
Milton sat down.
"Counselor?" Stoner looked over at Jack who just shook his head. Jack knew just how much Stoner thought of opening statements. Being a closed court hearing, Judge Stoner's preferences were the only jury that mattered.
"Call your first witness," Stoner retrieved his copy of the witness lists, complete with his notes.
"State calls Joseph Dawson."
Stoner watched the gray-bearded man make his way into the courtroom on two canes. He was dressed like college professor, tweeds and soft shirt. Dawson didn't look anything like Seacouver's answer to that color of colors which is closest to an old man's heart.
Blue.
The dusky soft tones swore to be truthful and the man, who obviously knew more about the Blues than was healthy, settled into the witness box and hooked his canes over the front rail, adjusting the microphone and repeating his name for the court transcriptionist.
Milton let one of his seconds, a brittle blonde younger than Stoner's own daughter, take on the Seacouver Blues Man. Obviously Joe Dawson was not a critical witness, just a warmup. Stoner swiveled around sideways towards Dawson and leaned down benignly on his elbows as Milton's dressed for power womanoid darted around the podium like a hummingbird on cocaine.
"Mr. Dawson," her voice was toneless. "You are addicted to alcohol?"
Stoner did not miss that the Scot at Jack's table started to rise. If he was as good a father to his son and daughter as he was to his friends, then there would be no doubt about the hearing's outcome. Jack paid no attention to MacLeod's written note that he object.
So, Stoner objected for him. "Is there some relevance to this question, Counselor?"
"Goes to unsavory environment," she shot back.
"Well then, Counselor, let us start with how this witness is connected to the minor children and branch out from there." Weren't they teaching foundation in law school any more?
"I am addicted to alcohol and narcotics," Joe answered in the silence which followed.
Stoner looked over at Jack. Doubtless Feldon had spent hours going over court decorum with his clients and their witnesses, especially the part about not volunteering any extra information. The judge could see by the look on Jack's face that he was not pleased.
"Mr. Dawson," Stoner addressed the witness. "When there is an objection on the floor, you need to wait quietly until I rule. We appreciate your candor, but wait for the questions. Counselor," he indicated the Milton clone at the podium.
"Mr. Dawson, what is your relationship to the parents of Mary and Sean?"
"I was married to Sean's mother until she died this past spring. And Duncan MacLeod and Dr. Anne Lindsey are both close personal friends," Joe answered.
"Not, Dr. Anne MacLeod?" she asked.
"Anne has kept her maiden name through two marriages," Joe answered skillfully the unasked implication about the true nature of the MacLeods' union, which was the basis for the federal charge.
"Is that because she had a two year old daughter before marrying the first time?" the blond asked.
Stoner could not help checking towards the defendant's table. MacLeod was livid. Dr. Lindsey was placid and a little distant to the whole proceeding, or so she appeared, but there was a sudden sparkle in her eyes which indicated she was every bit as likely to take this very rude junior D.A. as her Scot warrior husband.
Jack stood, "Your honor,--"
Stoner lifted his hand, "Move along to another subject, Counselor."
"Mr. Dawson, is it true the two minor children are spending the hours between seven in the morning and seven in the evening at the bar which you own?"
"Yes," Joe answered.
"And you are responsible for their care during that time?"
"Yes," Joe answered.
"Now," the blond walked around the podium and advanced on the witness. "You said you were an addict. May we ask how long you have been addicted to various substances?"
Neither Joe's voice nor his gaze wavered, "For the past twenty years."
"And are you the sole caretaker for these children during the hours we have discussed?"
"No," Joe answered.
"Who else is involved in their care?"
"Another friend of the family," Joe called up the magic word Milton had been using against them all so avidly of late, "Ms. Lucille."
"And this Mizz Lucille does she have any special training in child and infant care?"
"No."
"Do you, Mr. Dawson?"
"No."
"What, in fact, Mr. Dawson, does Mizz Sweet Lucille do for a living? When she is not watching the MacLeod children."
Milton had coached and coached his people on not referring to the minor children as belonging to the defendant, but the blond slipped on this point.
Dawson did not exactly know how to reply. He asked her to repeat the question.
"Well, Mr. Dawson, is this woman, in fact, a hooker?"
"Oh, God, no!" Dawson answered without thinking. Then he apologized for his outburst.
"Did the mother of the minor child, Sean, now deceased, have an affair with Ms. Lucille?" the blond asked.
Stoner was already getting confused again about who did what to whom according to which report. Which is where he had lost interest last night in reviewing the case.
"No," said Joe.
The blond was clearly not expecting this answer. She dove for one of the thick, bound deposition copies and thumbed through the index, "Did you not, in your deposition dated August twentieth of this year, state that the woman, Sweet Lucille had sexual relations with the woman Set Dawson?"
"Yes," Joe answered.
"Your Honor," the blond whined.
Stoner put his palm up and leaned over to speak to Joe directly. "Mr. Dawson, can you explain this to me?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Joe replied. "Sweet Lucille is a registered sex therapist who treated my wife for sexual dysfunction some months before we met."
"And your wife, Sean's mother, told you this?" Stoner asked.
"No, sir, I know that for a fact, myself," Joe answered evenly, knowing all the while that what he said was not really true, true now, not true then, but the opposing side had yet to even ask the first part of the question, having jumped too quickly on the notion that Sean's mother had been, if not a Lesbian, then at least....whatever.
There was a great deal more Judge Stoner wanted to ask, but he was being paid to listen, so he let the State continue.
"Mr. Dawson, you said you were close personal friends with Duncan MacLeod?"
"Yes," here it comes, thought Joe, the question they had worked on longer than all the rest in the practice sessions.
"And it does not bother you that your fiancé got impregnated by your close, personal friend?" the blond dragged out the last three words for emphasis.
"We were not engaged until a much later time. We were not even dating when that occurred. How could I have been jealous?" Joe appeared to have answered, but he had skirted the fact that he had been furious, and jealousy not the least of his emotional reaction to what had happened between Ram and Mac. He did not add that he had knocked his "close, personal friend" out cold because of it.
The blond scrambled furiously through her notes, glanced back at her glowering boss, and skipped to the last question. "Are you aware of a Mr. Malak?"
"Yes?" Joe ran his hand over one of the canes.
"And what is your relation to him?"
Joe's eyes automatically sought out Lawyer Feldon. Jack just smiled apologetically and rose to object, relevance, lack of foundation, so forth.
"And this is relevant because--?" Stoner asked the blond. "Wait, let me guess: laying foundation and environmental unsafety. Mr. Dawson, answer the question."
Joe thought for a moment. "Mr. Malak and I had a brief encounter the night before Easter."
"By brief encounter are we to understand--?"
Joe breathed in slowly, "He and I had sex the night before Easter this year."
"So, you are gay?"
Joe stared at the slim, unhappy woman before him. He hated to do this, but it was, after all, full out war, "Miss, you are young and life has been gentle to you--"
"Your Honor!" the blond would have to lose that whine if she were going to pursue this career seriously.
Stoner cocked his head towards Joe and Dawson nodded an unspoken assent. "I lost both of my legs in the war, which makes me somewhat less than sexually attractive to most people. I had just lost the only woman I have ever loved. I can't explain to you why I slept with the man you referred to, but I did, and I'm not going to lie about it, just because you don't understand it."
"Do you have any more questions, Counselor?" By which Stoner clearly meant, "That'll be just about enough of that, young lady."
The blond retired from the field. And Jack joined the fray. Not a moment too soon, by the look on Duncan MacLeod's face. Stoner couldn't help but wonder what it was like to have a friend who was that viscerally loyal. Dr. Lindsey's composure was getting a little ragged and she chewed on her bottom lip. Milton looked like he would chew the blond up and spit her out if thought he could get away with it.
"Mr. Dawson, just a few questions," Jack Feldon assumed his "Aw shucks" posture that could melt the shellac off the parlor table. "When you say the children are staying at the bar, do you mean in the main part of the bar where liquor is consumed?"
"No," Joe said. "They stay in the nursery addition next door."
"And are these pictures representative," Jack offered copies to Stoner and to Milton, "of the addition you refer to?"
"Yes, they are," Joe nodded.
The pictures showed an enormous sunny area filled with toys and stuffed animals, games and books, and child-sized furniture, beds and cribs...an elegant private nursery school.
"And do the children like it there?" Jack more commented than asked.
"They enjoy themselves wherever they are, but, yes, they like the nursery," Joe answered.
"And did you add anything last month," Jack asked.
When nobody objected to the leading, Stoner nodded at Joe.
"Well, we put in a computer with a child-oriented keyboard and software. Mary can do simple math problems and draw and play games on it. Sean is at the stage where he likes to watch colored lights and listen to music. We've added software that responds to his speech."
"Does an eleven-month old speak that much," Jack looked just amazed enough.
"Both children test in the genius level. We have a person from the University Child Development Project come in once a month to plan their activity schedules and someone from Occupational Therapy at Couver General to work with them on fine and gross motor skill development." Joe stopped. "We are more concerned the children don't get unhappy or bored, but they are very talented and we want to give them a chance to explore what they can do."
"You don't have any training in child care?" Jack asked.
"No," Joe repeated. "But I do have a Masters in Education."
"Oh, I see," Jack said as if he'd only now heard the information, "A Masters in Education," he repeated slowly, for effect. "And when your brother and his wife were first transferred to Europe, you raised their daughter. Three years, was that right?"
"Yes," Joe answered, "And during that time I did some postgrad work in Child Development at the University here. "
"Just one last thing," Jack spoke the warning words which signaled to Joe what that question would be. "Can you tell us when you last had a drink?"
"Six months ago," Joe answered.
"And prescription narcotics?"
"A year ago," Joe answered.
"And have you ever taken any illegal substances?"
"No, sir."
"Even in your line of work?" Jack asked the question in Stoner's mind.
"It's around, but I never got started going that way. I guess at first, because it was too expensive, then because a lot of good people around me died from it," Joe said.
"Two last questions, Mr. Dawson," Jack wound up for the finish. "How did you get hooked on narcotics and are you now cured?"
"I have chronic pain syndrome," Joe answered. "My legs hurt all the time, even though I don't have them any more," he explained. "The doctors treated me with narcotics to control the pain and I gradually got addicted, even though they never knocked me out or made me drunk. I held jobs, I was never unable to manage my affairs. Same with the alcohol. But I was and I will always be an addict. Now I am recovering. I will always be recovering. I will never be cured."
"Thank you, Mr. Dawson," Jack returned to the table.
The two defendants were obviously stricken by the necessity of their friend's public revelations.
"I just have a few redirect, Your Honor," Milton had decided he would forego his blond assistant. "Mr. Dawson, can you prove you haven't had any alcohol in the past six months?"
"No," Joe replied, knowing full well that the lab records could prove this, he just couldn't without them and they were yet to be introduced...Jack was holding them for the big finish, which would hopefully be soon. Joe was beginning to feel battered by this nasty experience.
"Because you own a bar and could easily access any amount of alcohol?" Milton suggested.
"That's right," said Joe.
"And, Mr. Dawson, do you think it's appropriate to leave a small child and an infant in the care of an addict, who is also an admitted homosexual, and, forgive me, Mr. Dawson, but you are limited physically. How would you handle an emergency, a fire? If the baby should fall from his crib, could you even pick him up again?"
Jack did not rise to object. He sat still and waited for the old blues man to come through with his volley before bringing in the cannons. Except for Anne's hand on his wrist, Mr. MacLeod looked like he would be coming over the top of the table after Milton.
"Those are all very important questions," Joe began.
"Your Honor, could you direct the witness to answer the--"
Stoner smiled, "Why certainly, Counselor. Right after I direct you to stop interrupting."
Joe waited for the Judge's nod. "We addressed those questions and more before we set up the present arrangement and we made certain that no harm would come to either Sean or Mary."
"And we're supposed to take your word for this?" Milton stepped, both feet, into the noose.
"Your Honor," Jack stood up with six inches worth of evaluations, physical therapy reports, scheduling charts, emergency preparedness contingencies lists, psychiatric verifications and weekly drug tests. Joe's therapist's notes and several PT video tapes were also added to the stack.
"If there is no objection," Jack continued, "I would like to enter Exhibits A through AAA slash 56 into evidence."
"I object," Milton barked. He had brought this case to hearing so fast, neither he nor his assistants had been able to go through all the exhibits, though they'd nominally passed them pending foundation issues.
Stoner smiled as he shook his head, "You cannot object on information which you have yourself requested, or at least implied a request in the form of your interogatory. The exhibits will be so marked and entered. I think this is a good place for us to take a ten minute recess. I assume you are done, Counselor?"
Milton looked at all the work the stack represented. They'd be all night on these exhibits if they dropped everything else, and they couldn't do that, not with Lucille and MacLeod testifying tomorrow.
Stoner told Joe he was free to leave, banged down the gavel, again marking the bench, and put them in recess.
The Judge hesitated at the door to his chambers and glanced back into the court. It did not escape his notice how the MacLeods gathered around their first champion on the field, nor how they made their gratitudes briefly and then backed away when it became obvious that Joe could not stand the attention. Stoner exited the court relieving the blues man of his own attentions as well. He couldn't even imagine such a life.
Or the supreme will it would take to pursue it with such grace.
Joe Dawson walked out of the courtroom. His part in this was finished and it could have been worse. It was bad enough, a premonition of Judgment Day. He only hoped St. Peter was something like Judge Stoner. He might have a chance to escape hell after all.
Funny how they all had become more focused on just that issue now that they had its example in their midst.
He wasn't ready to return to the bar just yet, though he knew Anne's Mother and Lucille would be waiting for news. Joe wasn't fit for company just now. He'd been stripped more or less naked in court today and he just needed some time to get his clothes back on. The day was warm enough for walking, so he took himself down the block and round the corner to a near-empty coffee shop. He declined the double decaff cappuccino with extra whipped cream and finally got the message through to the incredibly gay waiter that all he wanted was the old fashioned, plain stuff with nothing in it to mess up the kick.
Joe led his thoughts back to that night, six months earlier, when Malak had come to his bedroom, shirt off, scared to death.
"Joe?" the angelic young blond man whispered.
"Yes, Malak?" Joe reached up to stroke the gold curls at his temples.
"If it would not be asking too much?"
"Yes, Malak?"
"Kill me."
Joe was struck by the phrase as if the large, pale hands had slapped him physically. It was a joke between himself and his poor brain-damaged wife, from a time at the beginning of their marriage when Set had misunderstood about the nature of sex being akin to dying and resurrection.
And so it was, in a way. Joe thought. More so, in this instance, he surmised. "But you said that would hurt you, Malak," Joe traced his thumb over the wide forehead. "You said if you broke your vow, your knight's vow," he corrected himself, to differentiate between that promise and the one Malak had made, while he was still Set, to be Joe's wife, "If you breached your vow of chastity, you said you would be destroyed."
Malak drew back slowly from Joe's soft touch and levered up against the head of the bed, crossing his arms over the carved musculature of his bare chest. His broad shoulders were drawn up, and though he was trying to be calm, the man who was older than Methos was visibly shaking. The man who used to be the woman who used to be my dearly beloved wife. Joe reminded himself. And who still is. Of all the confusion in the past few days, of this one fact Joe Dawson was absolutely certain, even as all the rest was ridiculous Chaos.
Joe didn't care how this had happened. Knowing Set, Ram, whoever this magical creature was, Joe would not have been surprised if she'd come back as a toaster.
She'd be just as recognizable to him, because she was part of him, and that was that. Once Joe had understood this simple fact, this "point of order," all else had fallen into the vast valley of "unimportant things."
"Malak?" Joe twisted around and moved his legs off the side of the bed so they could drape and he could sit up. He turned and looked back at the man over his shoulder. "I do not want to hurt you."
There followed an eerie, hollow laugh that made Joe's skin crawl. "You can hardly do that, Joe... not in the overall comparative scheme of things. If we make love," the mellow tenor of the man's voice went all edgy and crackled with tension like a marble in a skillet. "Then I will merely cease to be.
"And given my foreseeable alternatives," Malak added, "I would welcome that gladly."
"What alternatives, Malak?" Joe asked, taking the opportunity to start unbuttoning his shirt, just in case that turned out to be appropriate. In any case, it gave him something to do with his hands, while he wrestled with the lesser difficulties, most notably his heterosexual preferences and a whole host of stereotypes and sanctions against the sort of behavior he was seriously contemplating with this gorgeous creature.
"I have been condemned to hell eternal," Malak spoke the words flatly, as if they had no meaning.
"By eight hundred and thirty two people who are now all dead, themselves, Malak," Joe did not exactly disbelieve Malak's contention, he just thought Malak was mistaken in his dread.
"But I am not dead," Malak sighed, relaxing in his flesh as this other matter took his attention. He folded his hands behind his head and stretched in a graceful backward arc of sculptor's perfection.
Joe felt a familiar pressure building in his groin beneath the prosthetics' harness. Some of his worry about how he would retain his desire for his wife, now she was a man, evaporated as mist. He was going to be having more problems keeping his hands off the smooth, pale perfection of this lovely being.
"And I have promised my race that I will not die," Malak's melodious tenor returned. "So it is either hell or oblivion, I have no other options."
"Well," Joe ducked his head and chuckled warmly, "I don't know what you've heard, but I could be just a little disappointing in the oblivion department. That does seem a tall order, Malak."
Malak's rolling laughter joined his. The blond man pulled his knees up to his chest and wound his long arms around his shins. "I love you, Watcher Dawson, and we've only just met. I see that Set and Ram were not exaggerating. You are indeed a Wizard."
Joe covered Malak's hands with his own. He ran his fingers over the hard, tight tendons, the large knuckles. It was a pleasure to touch Malak, to feel the cool, smooth strength beneath the silken skin. He was reminded of how careful he always felt he had to be with Set. Joe had always worried about her injuries from the terrible auto accident. With Malak, he would only have to worry about his virginity, his lack of experience--in this particular situation, not unlike my own, Joe mused.
Though Joe was finding it more difficult to make himself say it than he might have imagined, he offered Malak a reprieve, "We could do this another time, Malak. When you are feeling a little more comfortable with me."
"There is no more time, Joe," Malak leaned forward and rested his chin on his knees.
Joe's hand slipped up, almost of its own accord, to the fair face where it lingered over the flaxen brows, the straight nose. His thumb grazed slowly over the full, lower lip and Malak's bright eyes, blue as a spring sky, closed.
Well, onward, Joe thought. "You do know about my legs?" he asked, taking back his hand and beginning with his belt to get to the complicated stuff beneath. He wished he had a better sense of exactly how the different aspects of his wife related to one another. Did they hold meetings, send memos? Intracranial email?
"Excuse me my rudeness, Watcher," Malak crawled over beside him, hands and knees. "But I could not help noticing you limp."
Uh, oh. Joe stopped unfastening. "I was in a great battle, a long time ago, Malak. I stepped on an explosive device, an anti-personnel mine, and I lost my legs from that wounding." He tried to say it in a way that Set would have understood and hoped this would translate.
Malak's beautiful features sharpened and focused. He was clearly perplexed. "But Watcher, what are these?" He sat down on the bed's edge next to Joe. His strong hands reached for Joe's thighs. "Oh," he said, "They are not flesh, but machinery. Oh, by The All Father!"
Oh, crap. Joe thought he'd been through all this with his wife. It had been bad enough before when her reaction had been gentle and absolutely neutral. Joe hadn't even figured Malak's disgust into the equation of this all-too-complicated bit of trysting. Joe braced himself and waited for the worst.
"How can you be that brave?" the fair face opened like a child, all love and wonder and brightness.
Well, this certainly was not the worst for which Joe waited. "What do you mean?" Joe asked.
"I could never..."
Joe was not surprised Malak used himself as a point of judgmental comparisons. It was a high standard indeed.
"It would be impossible--," Malak gasped in transparent awe, "Oh, Dear Lord, Wizard Dawson! I am amazed!" He bowed his golden curls and said in a very small voice, "May I, may I see?"
Joe had thought of his amputations and the ragged stumps which remained--most of the left thigh, three- quarters of the right--he had thought of his mutilation in a great many ways, all of them negative, and never before as an aide to seduction. But so, it seemed, they were to be this very unusual night before Easter. The Beltane, Joe thought, or close to, some druidic rite of spring when all things wished for are granted and great destinies begun.
He wondered if he should barter for Malak's pants, a sort of show me yours, if I--but no, that seemed a bit too informal. Joe didn't think the blond man would be anything but embarrassed and he didn't want to rebuild the tension which was beginning to abate.
"Sure," he said and leaned back on his elbows. Just the thought of Set touching him again made him swollen and sensitive and ready. This was surely Set, whoever else he was, and Joe's body knew it, even if Malak did not. Joe tried to breathe calmly and keep his wits steady.
He opened his eyes to find Malak watching over him, staring at his face. "You seem possessed," Malak commented, "Am I, did I do something wrong? I did not mean to be so bold about your limbs. I never would have--"
Joe measured the genuine surprise on Malak's face. Dear Lord, could this man have lived all this time and still be absolutely innocent, ignorant of desire, of lust, of any substantial pleasure?
"Doesn't this hurt?" Malak reached out his hand.
Joe thought he meant the prostheses, but when he felt the cool light touch over his erection, his elbows collapsed out from under him and his dusky, deep moan echoed around the tiny bedroom.
Malak lifted his hand and darted off the bed. "That is what you did to me. Under the table. Downstairs. Before. Oh," Malak plastered himself against the bureau, his features warring between understanding and amazement, shaded over with a tender sadness.
"I am not ready for this," Malak said strolling back towards the bed, "but if you will be patient with me, I will try not to be too awkward."
Joe could not help laughing. He was quick to reassure the man he did not laugh at Malak's expense, but only his own. He talked about Set and their life together and all the funny little incidents which made up their hilarious bedtime chronicles. And while he talked, Malak undressed and so did he, handing over this or that piece of his harness and legworks for the bright mind to contemplate.
"Then there was the night," Joe pulled down the bedspread and rearranged the nearly dozen pillows--Set was always collecting new ones--and slipped under the covers, inviting Malak to join him. "Set decided in whatever fashion her mind was following in those days after her head injury, she decided that since she was so fond of Mike's chocolate sundays, that she would associate her two favorite diversions into one."
Malak rolled over on his side and propped his head on his hand. "I don't understand."
"Well," Joe put his hands behind his head and continued, "She brought a dish of chocolate ice cream to bed."
Malak's blue eyes just stared blankly.
"She took a spoonful and spread it on me....God, it was cold!" Joe seemed to remember he'd gotten bronchitis, lost his voice, and had to cancel a gig afterward.
"Here?" Malak peeled down the covers with his right hand and grazed Joe's nipple lightly with the back of his knuckle.
Joe gasped, "As a matter of fact..."
"Then what did she do?" Malak rolled forward so he was leaning over Joe.
"Well," Joe cleared his throat, trying to remember how brave Malak thought he was. "She just licked it off and..." He felt the warm, soft mouth move to his tender right nipple and it was a little difficult to continue the narrative.
A tiny hum, started in the back of Malak's throat, neither a groan nor a moan, but a sigil of vast pleasure, nonetheless, as the lush lips and soft, careful tongue played with Joe's flesh, suckled and nipped and licked, melting the Wizard as if he were the ice cream of which he had spoken earlier before he lost his voice.
When Malak had finished with the other nipple, he rose up and asked, "Then where?"
Joe was only too happy to inform, leading Malak across his body, over his face, and that very unexpected sensitivity which resided just above his elbows on the inside of his upper arms. If Joe closed his eyes, he was only aware of his wife, making wonderful love to him, as she always had, as she always-- Please, God--would. If he opened his eyes and let them fill with the bright wonder of this seemingly young, chiseled man, then the experience reformed itself into quite another erotic entity.
In his mind, anyway. His all-too-fickle flesh could have given a damn what exactly was making it feel so blessedly wonderful. He had expected to be teaching pleasure to Malak, but he could not complain about having such a bold and clever student.
Somewhere, some time, Malak had left behind the ice cream metaphor and strayed off on his own explorations, nuzzling Joe's scars and smoothing over the pain with his warm and wondrous mouth, the brilliant and electric fingers. His continence made every part of Joe's body equally forbidden to him, so that, having foregone his vow, he made no distinctions, had no particular restraints. Joe felt his lips nibble along the pulse and weight at the base of his shaft, then the warmth and softness of his tongue traveled up to the tip and played there maddeningly, as he had at the beginning of this journey, suckling and nipping tenderly until Joe thought he would lose his frigging mind.
He might have thought Malak was doing this on purpose, to torment him, except he knew the man was only ignorant--unbelievable as it seemed--to the necessities of release and the exquisite pain which could verge on excrutiation if denied too long.
"Malak! Stop!" Joe cried out finally when he could not bear it any more.
Malak jumped back to kneeling on the opposite side of the bed, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.
Joe caught his breath and moved stiffly, painfully over to comfort the man. "It's all right, Malak," he stroked the man's back, bowed over in an artful arch of abject sorrow. "I am all right. The pleasure was just too much, too intense...you did nothing wrong."
"Can you--?" the fair face, wet with crystal tears, lifted out of the tangled flaxen curls. "Is it possible for you to be inside of me, as you were with Set? Would it hurt you again?"
"Believe me, Malak. I would not lie to you. I am not hurt," Joe leaned over towards the bedside table drawer. "Almond or coconut?"
Malak looked up at him, uncomprehending.
"Almond," Joe said and poured some of the oil into his palms, lifting them for Malak to smell. "This is Set's favorite," he said waiting for the oil to warm. Given his current flush that would be about two seconds, he thought. Then he started massaging the tight muscles of Malak's beautiful back, wide and tapered and hard as marble, with nearly the same smooth surface.
As he worked, Malak began to relax again, lengthening his back, and then stretching out forward on his stomach, humming again that almost purring sound which Joe had heard him do at the start of this adventure. This leg of the journey, Joe talked about the Bear, known to Malak as Marak, a brother, now dead. Joe recounted their many good times together in the ICU waiting for Set to come back from the coma after the accident. He told Malak how the Bear had brought his guitar to the hospital and made him sing.
"You have a lovely voice," Malak commented sleepily, then he purred again as Joe moved over the carved gluteal muscles of his nearly-square buttocks. It was evident, that unlike his student, Adam, Malak did quite a bit of horse-back riding.
"It sings even when you are only speaking," Malak murmured and the purring hum lifted several steps up the scale as Joe worked the oil along the inner margins. "I begin to understand," Malak's voice grew steadily more breathy and soft. "What you were saying about the pleasure being..." he sucked the air in a noisy gulp, "too great to bear."
Malak moved his knees apart and his long back curved upward. "I feel very strange," he gasped. "Please," he moaned, but he could not form a more specific plea. He only needed--desperately, savagely.
"Easy, Malak," Joe's soothing tones grew louder as the man descended into the frenzy of his new passion. Joe finished the preparations too quickly, too roughly to suit him, but Malak's writhing, demanding flesh would brook no further thought, nor foreplay, nor anything else but complete, mindless release.
Joe slipped onto the man's back thinking briefly he was himself losing a facet of his own virginity in this. He positioned himself carefully to press a slow, gentle entry, but Malak thrashed back onto him so forcefully that Joe nearly came with the first stroke, buried to his limit in the impossible emptiness of Malak's long self-denial. Joe held with the first storm and fought back to some restraint, reaching under Malak's bucking flesh to encircle his shaft and follow the ragged rhythm with a steadier, slower harmonic wave.
Malak quieted just enough to follow as Joe led them through a more reasonable and savoring course, until both men abandoned any sense altogether and flew away on each other's wings.
One into a satisfied and blessed sleep.
One into oblivion, equally blessed.
Back in his more regular armor, Joe paid for his coffee, called a cab and directed the cabbie to take him to Cambie Street. Adam Piersen would be there, taking over the watch on the fourth floor, while Mac was in court. Joe Dawson did not often visit the closed dojo anymore, partly because he was busy with the children and the bar, partly because only Mac and Adam had the kind of stamina it took to care of Malak. Only the two Immortals had the kind of strength required and even they were insufficient to the task at times. Almost one hundred days now and they would soon have to decide whether Malak's life as it was would continue or be ended.
Thank God, Adam had discovered the reference to iron cladding in one of Ram's old journals. Without that bit of leverage, they would all surely be dead by now, murdered by one of Malak's more monstrous forms.
But Malak's blessed oblivion had been sacrificed for Mary's life and Joe could not condemn the choice that had been made in that awful moment, three months gone now, though he would have gladly sacrificed anything else had that been possible.
Joe's mind wandered away from hell and back to Easter morning. He woke slowly, in a languid stretch, waiting for his weary head to clear and orient. Rolling towards his right, Joe saw the slope and line of Malak's artless sprawl across the bed, his head turned towards the sunny window of the tiny upstairs bedroom. Joe reached across and stroked the solid round of Malak's shoulder.
He remembered what Malak had said about hell or oblivion, though he still didn't believe it. Here would be the morning to renew their marriage and dispel Malak's dread. But as Joe cupped his hand over the muscled shoulder and pulled the blond man onto his back, his own dread built and then crested in a broad, punishing breaker of hopelessness. Except his flesh was still warm, still pliant, Malak might have been dead. The shining eyes were dull from staying open, unblinking, through the night. The corneas were already frosting over, turning the blue sky of their bright stare into a dim, grey blindness.
Joe remembered that he somehow found the cellular, somehow remembered Mac's number, somehow called for help. He had even managed to dress, to get his legs on, to...
He had amazed himself that morning, had found some inner strength that he could only blame on his dear wife, lost to him forever now. They had taken Malak's carcass to Mac's dojo, had settled him in on the fourth floor, turning the empty loft into an expansive bedroom cum ICU. Malak could swallow, so there had been no need for IV's or stomach tubes. It was more or less like taking care of Set in the latter days of her coma, turning and feeding and cleaning and flexing. Joe was most experienced in the process and the others took their share of the work, even Lucille who was not much fond of illness and hospitals and such.
In those days, they could also watch the children in the same airy room on the fourth floor. Neither child seeming much bothered by the eternally-sleeping gaunt, pale giant in the bed by the window. As time passed, and with it the initial gaping wound of Malak's loss, they accommodated to the situation and fit the cataleptic Danaan into their various schedules: Anne's work at the ER, Lucille's various endeavors, Duncan's dojo management and antique brokerage, Adam's studies, Joe's own business at the bar and with the band. Malak became like the grave of a beloved lost friend, daily tended, sometimes spoken to, often ignored as just part of the scenery.
Their lives went forward as before but without Ram or her avatars, without Set, without Malak. Well, Joe mused, as the cab passed the pile of rubble where the now-deceased Danae had built their offices. Not everything went on as before. The day after Easter, the enormous computer network of the Watchers, after being down through the weekend, shuddered into life and started sending out, what could only be called "pink slips." Each and every member of the group which had kept the histories of the Immortals from the beginning of written language received a substantial sum of money and a brief message which said in the appropriate language, "It is over."
Then the main computer banks, the myriad servers and connections had gone down like a sundered vessel, and even half a year later, nothing had yet been salvaged.
And the skyscraper where Ram had taken the eight hundred and thirty two souls was found to be unsound with the fire and explosions that had buckled some of the critical foundation girders. Almost before it was completed, it had been brought down by an impressive bit of confined demolition. Lucille had had to replace all of her high glass windows in her old apartment across the street, but that did not deter her from moving back in to the vaulted penthouse at the top of the Couver Towers.
Joe paid the cabbie and entered the dojo with his key. They kept it locked all the time, now that it was closed for business. One of these days they were going to find a way to move Malak out of town, but thus far, they had no other answer, except to kill him, and they were not ready to accept that answer. Not yet.
He opened the cage door to the lift and entered, pushing the button to the fourth floor. Things were sad, but manageable, in those first months. They should have moved him then, but they had no idea what was in store, and the ordered days were bearable, if doleful, the children a great balm to them all.
Then that awful day when Anne had phoned the dojo, weeping. Mary had cancer. The child had been admitted. They didn't expect her to live. Could Joe call Mac for her?
The old elevator creaked up its winch pulley and Joe steadied his nerves, tried to steel his will. Mary was fine now.
But Malak was in hell because of it. And they were all being drawn ever closer to that fearful place, if only by vicarious association.
The lift settled and jerked as it leveled itself with the fourth floor.
Out of the darkness, Adam slammed against the lift cage. His patrician nose was crooked and bloody, the side of his face torn and a great chunk missing from his left shoulder bespoke the attack of a wild beaste. Joe left the door closed as Adam disappeared into the far shadows. A noisy scuffle ensued: Adam yelling Malak's name and being answered only by an unholy, gurgling growl, and everything punctuated by the many blows being exchanged.
Joe didn't have his gun. This was stupidity itself, but he couldn't take it to court and he just hadn't thought about coming here unarmed. He never did that any more. Until today. Damn!
There was a scuffling, sliding sound and then a ponderous thud and the noise stopped. He heard the chains clanking and then the click and clink as Adam secured them into the strong rings welded in the far wall.
"Can I help?" Joe called to the tall, slim form bent over gasping at the edge of the shadows and dust motes.
"You can get your bloody ass out of here!" Adam roared back.
Joe Dawson did not argue. He keyed the lift to descend and slumped against the side wall. After the hearing was over, they would have to finally decide.
Judge Anthony Stoner dismissed Attorneys Feldon and Milton from the sidebar. A witness, Dr. Adam Piersen, could not be present to testify this afternoon, nor could one of the codefendants, the strapping Scot, Duncan MacLeod, remain for the rest of today's testimony. Evidently, something with an ill family member, in the nature of a serious emergency. Milton had nearly "Gone Postal," an expression which engaged the more sinister portion of Judge Stoner's psyche. What more appropriate to a judicial sort than gallows' humor, Stoner mused wryly.
Which left the single remaining codefendant, Dr. Anne Lindsey, to go out-of-turn in the witness list. She stepped up to the bailiff, placed her small hand on the bible, and spoke the words in a steady, soft voice, despite her tense body and face which put one in mind of a nervous man's pocket watch spring.
As if any one had pocket watches these days, Stoner thought a little regretfully. He had one. His father's. It stopped on him once a week. He could never muster the obsessiveness required to keep it wound. This young woman, on the other hand, would have it busted in three days from over-winding.
Milton stepped up to the plate, wound up and let fly with a spitter. "Dr. Lindsey, who is Mary Palmer's actual father?"
Anne pressed her lips together and sat up even straighter, as if that were possible. "Dr. Mark Palmer," she replied.
"Your Honor," Milton produced a thick file, "I would like to introduce...."
Stoner noted the exhibits and judged them marked, pending foundation.
Milton said he would provide that with this witness and proceeded to go through her training in pathology the year before. Then he stipulated to her expertise and handed her the test results from Mary's and Anne's, Duncan's and Sean's genetic studies.
"And can you tell us," he addressed Anne again, "what these represent and what they mean as to parentage of the minor child, Mary Palmer?"
Jack Feldon rose to object. Stoner declined and turned to Anne to ask her for her answer.
"The studies show that I am the mother of Mary and that Duncan MacLeod is the father of Sean," she answered. "We have no data here for Mark Palmer."
"We'll return to that in a moment, Doctor," Milton looked like the cat who ate the proverbial bird.
It must have been some emergency, Stoner thought, to take the Scot away from his wife in this dire hour. But she was obviously a strong woman and he could not fail to notice that she had insisted he go.
"Do the studies suggest anything else, Doctor Lindsey?"
"They indicate that Sean and Mary could be related and that Duncan MacLeod and Mary could be related, though the matches are not perfect, nor conclusive," Anne answered.
"So," Milton paced slowly before the witness bench, "Duncan MacLeod could be the father of Mary Palmer?"
Stoner felt another headache begin. Here we go again on who did what to...
"That is theoretically possible, but inconclusive by these results," Anne answered.
"Let us suppose Mark Palmer is, as you say, the father of this minor child, Mary," Milton nearly sneered, "How closely related would he have to be to Duncan MacLeod to result in this amount of DNA matching?"
"They would have to be first or second degree relatives, ninety percent of the time," Anne answered. "That would be brother/brother, father/son, first cousins, or uncle/nephew."
"And was Dr. Palmer related to Duncan MacLeod?"
"Not to my knowledge," Anne answered.
Then followed an array of numbers, dates, and theories concerning the exact moment when sperm A did the "wild thing" with ova B and little Mary traveled from history into being. Stoner understood that either man could have been Mary's father, but Duncan was the more likely of the two given the genetic match.
"You are convinced yourself that Mark Palmer is the father of Mary?" Milton asked again.
"Yes," Anne answered again.
"Then why, after learning you were pregnant did you leave Dr. Palmer and go to Paris to be with Duncan MacLeod where you subsequently became engaged to him?"
Anne closed her eyes for a moment. "Duncan had disappeared. I thought he was dead. I had an affair with an old friend of mine, because I was distraught and confused and lonely. It was not good judgment on my part, but I wasn't being reasonable at the time. When I discovered Duncan was alive, I went to see him, he asked me to marry him, I accepted. I told him I was pregnant. He knew that. I told him the father was a dear friend to me, but it was not a case of love, that the pregnancy was a mistake and I would not be telling the father."
"But you didn't marry Duncan MacLeod."
"No. I changed my mind about accepting. It wouldn't be fair to the baby, wouldn't be fair to Duncan to begin our marriage with a lie," Anne looked the image of remorse. "I had stumbled stupidly into the situation by accident, but I would be damned if I compounded that mistake on the innocent merely because I was afraid."
If my old ticker ever falters, Lady, Stoner thought. I hope it's your ER I land in.
"But you are married to him now."
"When Mary became ill," Anne paused and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. "I knew I couldn't handle it alone. Duncan was there, as he had always been. Our two families had begun blending together ever since he returned with his son from Paris. Mark was dead. Sean's mother was dead. The crisis with Mary just brought into focus our need to be a more formal family, so that the children would be cared for if anything happened to either of us. After quite a bit of soul-searching, we decided to get married."
"Did you have a honeymoon, Dr. Lindsey?" Milton pressed.
Anne shook her head, "No."
"Do you even live together for a majority of your off-work time?"
"No."
"Dr. Lindsey, do you even have marital relations with Duncan MacLeod? Since you were married, that is?" Milton added this last as an emphasis to Anne's prior scandalous behavior.
"No," Anne answered.
"Have you ever then or now, had sexual relations with any other--"
"Your Honor!" Jack rose.
Stoner raised his hand, palm forward, anticipating the objection. "Do you have any other questions, Counselor?"
"Not at this time, Your Honor," Milton said.
Anne visibly relaxed, but this did not last as Milton added, "But we retain the right to recall this witness in the matter of negligent health care maintenance."
Stoner nodded. Milton sat down. And Jack took the floor.
"All right, Dr. Lindsey," Jack assumed the protective father role, moving between the eye site line of Milton and Anne, "Let's just get this first point about fatherhood into perspective. Of all the menfolk in the world, including Dr. Palmer, how many are there who could be the father of little Mary--speaking in genetic theory?"
"Four hundred million," Anne answered.
"And were there some difficulties with these tests, Dr. Lindsey," Jack asked.
"Yes. They were run at least three times each and in each case the full typing could not be achieved. Which means," she added in answer to Jack's silent stare, "that not any of the tests, except mine, could be run for complete typing with any certainty across the parameters tested."
"And would that put the entire batch of tests into scientific uncertainty?"
"Yes, that would tend to nullify the partial results that were obtained," Anne replied.
"And do we have any specimens from Dr. Palmer?"
"No, Mark's body has never been found," Anne replied soberly.
"Did you love him, Anne?" Jack broke with the formality to emphasize her grief.
Anne nodded, but it was several moments before she could answer audibly.
"It has been suggested that you and Mr. MacLeod are not really married," Jack set up the question in stark, simple terms. "What can you tell us about this?"
"I know," Anne composed herself, dried her eyes, "that if a marriage is love and caring and hard work and constant devotion to each other and to our children, then we are married."
"Why didn't you have a honeymoon?"
"Because my daughter was dying from a hideous disease, a rare form of cancer, and then, when she began to recover, against all odds, Duncan's cousin was struck with a severe epileptic disorder and has required constant care ever since. In the three months since we have been married, I don't think either of us has even slept more than three or four hours, and there has certainly been no time for the luxury of romance."
"This must have been a strain on the children," Jack commented.
"We are very fortunate in our friends, like Joe Dawson, who have pitched in and helped us keep the children sheltered from the turmoil through this time," Anne was clearly glad to be able to speak in Joe's defense.
"Am I to understand you also include the stress of this hearing in that turmoil?" Jack commented more than asked.
"I try to remind myself that the State has the best interests of my children at heart," Anne said evenly.
Stoner bit his lip and retained his jurist's composure. He was quite impressed by this woman. Sensible, brave, the perfect partner for her warrior Scot. She would make it through this long afternoon. It wouldn't be pretty, but she would do it, one way or the other, for her children, for her family. If she did not prevail, she would at least endure. Who the hell could want for a better mother? Stoner wondered. What is Milton doing with these people besides using them as political fodder? Stoner thought, I better hear something a little more substantial here, and soon, or we'll be talking summary judgment.
Anne hit the steering wheel of Mark's old Lincoln and wished she were the sort to curse. She still couldn't believe she'd stopped the court proceedings to go pick up the children, only to be crawling along in some Seacouver version of gridlock, going two miles an hour and stopping every block.
She'd stopped, almost mid-sentence, as the clock ticked round to six, and apologized to the Judge before explaining she had to leave. The whole courtroom had turned suddenly into a mausoleum. Judge Stoner had asked her why. God, what could she say? In the end, Anne had described the problem with Mary, how her daughter was convinced she would be going to jail that day and never come back again. How she'd promised to be there at six sharp. The minutes ticking by, the image of Mary with her face pressed to the nursery room window, waiting for the Lincoln to drive up and park, the terrible look on her face this very morning when Anne and Duncan had left them off with Lucille.
So, like a dim little wifey, Anne thought, I nearly start blubbering about how that brave little face tried to smile and wave goodbye. Oh, dear, dear. What could Judge Stoner have thought? That I was some fast-track executive type, not emotionally equipped for motherhood. Had she really said the bailiff could come with her and lock her away forever for contempt of court, after she'd kept her promise to Mary?
"Well, then," Judge Stoner leaned over her from his high perch, bringing all the solemnity of his office to bear, "I suppose that only leaves us with one thing to do."
Dr. Lindsey laughed by herself in the old, stately car that still smelled like Mary's father. Judge Stoner had handed her the gavel and told her to take a good wack at the desk. When she did, he declared the court adjourned for the day, and she'd dashed for the door, not even daring to look at Jack, who must be furious with her.
"Oh, Honey, " Anne said out loud, "I'm coming."
The traffic picked up to an irritating ten miles per and Anne tried to be patient. Around her, other Couverites were beeping and shouting at each other, a churning herd of metal and malice.
She wouldn't be too late at this rate, but who can say what even ten minutes' devastation would do to a three year old? Mary, hang on, Honey, I am coming as fast as I can. Once again, she tried to get through to the nursery, still busy, Lucille on the phone calling the court.
Or, maybe the mess at the dojo was worse than Duncan had indicated.
Forgive me, Malak, Anne thought, but for Mary's sake, I would send the whole world to hell.
Another stop in the traffic and Anne wanted to scream. Don't you know you're torturing my daughter?
But not really, she chided herself. Mary, for all that she was not a half-year past three years old, knew real torture, real pain. Her tiny child now knew what agony meant, even before her vocabulary owned the word. And it had changed her, had made the child older than she should be, more afraid, more somber....and, curiously, more tender and sensitive to everyone else's pain. Poor little Mary knew too much of the world already and there had seemingly been nothing that Anne could do to save her from that knowledge.
Three months ago, thought Anne. What was the first omen? She'd come to the bar nursery to pick up the children after work, like always. The dismal traffic noises retreated as Anne remembered that impossible day...
"What's the matter with Mary?" Anne breezed into the nursery, unable to stop herself doing medical triage, even in ordinary situations. Lucille was over at the changing table, tickle wrestling and changing the MacLeod heir and only son, Sean.
"Oh," said Lucille, "We went to the park. It was such a lovely day. I think Mary got tuckered out. She said she was tired and I told her to go over by the window and nap."
But Mary wasn't over at the window. She was slumped against the wall, pale and sad, breathing hard, and staring unfocused at the floor.
"Honey?" Anne dropped her bag and picked up her daughter. "Oh, Mary, what's the matter?"
"Hurts," Mary said, then switched off again, staring at nothing and working to breathe.
Anne kneeled quickly to the floor, lifted Mary's sweater and T-shirt.
And then Dr. Lindsey, cool thinking, clear-headed Medical Director of 'Couver Gen ER, screamed.
Lucille bundled up the heir apparent and rushed over. "I'll call 911," she managed to gasp and put Sean, kicking and screaming into his crib.
Anne could hardly remember the trip to the hospital, a place she went daily, now rendered entirely unfamiliar. She remembered trying to keep her balance, seated on the gurney with Mary in her lap, tangled in the O2 line. She remembered trying so hard to think what could be happening, trying to put some diagnosis on what she had seen beneath Mary's shirt. Blessed Mother, what could have happened? Lucille kept sobbing that nothing at all had happened...
But some terrible thing had torn Mary's poor little chest, some animal with talons, or a knife....five, maybe six deep lacerations along the ribs on each side. Multiple sucking chest wounds. Anne couldn't even understand why her beloved daughter was still living. It was all so impossible.
They had taken Mary straight from the ER door up to surgery. Anne had gone up after calling the dojo and sending a message through Joe to find Mac. The initial exam indicated a malignancy with sudden deterioration of the connective tissue, like some rampant scurvy or, or nothing else any of the Peds group had seen.
It was a nightmare of lights and knives, like some perverted Quickening, Anne thought. Her poor daughters entire pulmonary system withering under their hands beneath the obstinate gashes which almost refused to be sealed except with wire and staples. And when they were almost done, three hours into the anesthesia, they moved the drapes to reveal another horror. Mary's pale legs were, were....
Anne could not think of anything at all. She couldn't hear what they were calling the process. She could only see the knives coming out again, the rows of kellys, the pack after pack of new sutures.
The impression she got was that Mary's legs were melting together, fusing. The tissue everywhere they touched was breaking down and healing together into a single limb.
Another two hours and they had done all they could and Mary lay gasping and bucking on a respirator in the Pediatrics ICU. Mac and Joe had come to join the vigil. Lucille had left with baby Sean to keep him at her penthouse uptown while they waited for the inevitable.
Anne had somehow thought this was an Immortal thing, but neither Joe nor Mac had ever heard, ever seen such. Mary's surgeons and specialists could give them no answers, except the one answer no one wanted to hear...that she probably would not see the morning. All Anne knew beyond that was Mark, Mary's father, was Danaan, the race of Immortal forebears, now extinct and gone from the face of the earth. Which should make Mary an Immortal, or at least a pre-Immortal, but neither Mac nor Adam had ever sensed the aura that Sean broadcasted nearly from birth. Mary simply did not have the signature of an Immortal.
Dr. Lindsey had been relieved by this, thinking her daughter was an ordinary mortal, healthy and normal. And so she had been, until now. This might be genetic. This might be some fatal inheritance from her father. But there were none to tell her what to do or even what this was. Anne left the ICU to wash her face and calm her frantic desperation. Something, God Damn It, something, there has to be...
Just as the cold water hit her face, she knew. Anne realized where the answer lay, if not how to get it.
Anne couldn't remember what excuse she'd given Mac, who had come in the Ladies' Room after her when she'd been in there too long. But she said something reasonable about checking on another patient of hers and could Mac sit with Mary and.....
As she recalled it, then she cried into his warm, wide chest, dried her eyes, sped down to the garage and drove like a maniac straight to Cambie Street, praying all the way that Mary wouldn't die alone while she was off on this wild scheme to save her.
"Adam?" she called as the lift stopped on the fourth floor. Good, he's upstairs making dinner. The large room was empty except for Malak's body lying senseless in the bed by the window. One soft light splash up against the brick wall and the whole scene reflected an abiding serenity.
Joe had explained about Malak and Ram and Set being the same person in different forms, the Last Danaan, sent into this mindless catalepsy as a self-imposed remedy for his being sentenced to hell. Anne only half-believed the part she understood which was not much. What she did understand was that here was the last person alive who might know what was wrong with Mary.
And who might know what to do to save her. Anne blocked the lift open and advanced on the bed. Once there, she tried not to think about the beautiful, golden-haired angel who lay there, seemingly asleep. His eyes were taped shut or he'd be blinded by now. Anne ripped off the tapes and the bright blue orbs floated open and stared. Leaning close, she slapped him across the cheek, "Wake up, Malak!"
How could she wake him? How could she get through to him? And even if she could, how could she make him leave nirvana and go to hell for a little girl he didn't even know.
"Duncan says you are Mark's," What was his other name? "You are Marak's brother. Marak's daughter is dying. Everything we do to help her is only making her worse! We are killing her and we don't know what to do!" Anne collapsed on the smooth, pale chest, weeping and sobbing and blubbering anything she could say to make him understand, to make Mary as real and wonderful and precious to him as the child was to her.
Anne's frenzy wound down beneath the overwhelming despair and exhaustion. I have to get back, she thought, I cannot let her die alone and afraid.
"She's so small," Anne said, hardly aware she was speaking aloud.
"Yes," a coarse tenor to the left of her said quietly.
Anne felt the fingertips brush the back of her head and bolted up.
"Take me," Malak whispered. "Call them to fill a bath with warm water."
Later, Anne would wonder how she got Malak out of the dojo with nearly his full weight leaning on her the whole way down to the car. At the time it seemed the easiest thing in the world. All the way to the hospital screeching around corners, running lights, hoping some policeman would see her and escort them in, but not a one in sight.
She maneuvered him through the ER in a wheelchair and then up to the ICU. Mary was still alive, barely, gasping and choking and still fighting the respirator. Somehow she got Malak into a doc's white coat and he was walking well enough to get into the glassed room where Mary lay dying. She shooed Mac and Joe out with some explanation or another. Whatever she'd said, it worked.
Then she opened the bathroom door and saw that the tub was filled as she'd asked. She walked over and locked the opposite door, then came back, pulled the drapes and propped the chair beneath the main door into the room. They wouldn't have much time. She tried to convey this to Malak, but it was impossible to know if he even heard.
The tall, blond man who did have a resemblance to Mary's father stood in silent and rapt attention over Mary, taking everything in, measuring and planning.
Then, in swift and graceful movements, he undid all that had been done. Malak grazed the laboring chest with his palms and the sutures unwound, the staples opened and dropped away.
Anne put both her hands over her mouth, trying not to interfere, reminding herself, over and over, that Malak knew what he was doing and she did not.
Mary's chest again opened in the large, pumping, bloodless gashes, deeper now, and nearly encircling her entire chest. The hands passed over the tiny legs and lifted the dressings away. Again the limbs sought each other and merged, now more rapidly, more completely.
Malak looked back at Anne. "Can we pipe oxygen through these tubes into the tub?"
Anne didn't see the reason, but she broke open three cannula paks and joined the tubing together, connecting it to the wall and testing its length, fine.
"Done," she said.
Malak glanced at the door and then he asked Anne to help him disconnect Mary from the monitors and the respirator, the IV and the pulse oximeter, quieting the alarms and unplugging the power sources as they went.
Dear God, but she was tiny, Anne thought as Malak lifted her daughter and glided into the bathroom.
It was all Anne could do to keep from crying out as Malak submerged Mary completely in the warm water, grabbed the oxygen tubing and indicated, twice, to Anne that she should open the valve full. It began bubbling beneath the surface like an aquarium device.
"She was drowning," Malak said ironically. "It is only her brave heart which kept her alive with all you were doing to smother her."
She's drowning now, you crazy freak! Anne screamed silently. What had she done?
But Mary's color improved the longer she lay under the water, she pinked and awoke, opening eyes that.....
Were not human, Anne mused, feeling a stupid numbness taking all her thoughts away from her. Silly rhomboid cutouts where her pupils used to be. Smiling little miniature fangs where her baby teeth had lodged before. Anne couldn't help the mad little giggles which bubbled up from her throat when she perceived the reason for the merging limbs, when they scaled over and began to build the most beautiful diaphanous tail fin.
Of course, little Mary was a mermaid, breathing through the gills which Anne had mistaken for cuts. They'd been holding their hands over her mouth and nose and wondering why she couldn't breathe. What else for the union of a tattered ER doc and a Bear. Why not a merchild?
Then things happened too fast to understand. Mary turned back to herself and began flailing in the water. Anne delivered her up into her arms like a newborn as Malak touched the tiny forehead in benediction or baptism. Was it then that they'd broken into the room and wrestled Malak away? Was he bleeding then or later? Was it that moment he had departed the world and descended into hell with the gouges of great talons across his chest and back, arms and face?
Anne could not sort it out. She'd been in severe shock and exhaustion. All she understood was that Mary had been saved. It was all that made sense. It was all that mattered.
Malak was going to yet die for Mary at this rate. How many fires? How many times had he nearly overpowered either Adam or Mac? What monstrosities had he become before they learned the trick of wrapping his neck and wrists in iron? How much more hell could any of them take?
Anne pulled up to the bar and jumped out. She saw Mary's face brighten at the front window of the new nursery and went for the window instead of the door, plastering her mouth against her daughter's with only the cool glass in between.
Lucille met her on the sidewalk with Sean on her hip. "Oh, Annders, listen I know you have had a terrible day in court, but I am late to pick up some people at the airport. I wouldn't ask, but it's really important. Uncle Joe is over at the madhouse with Dr. Piersen and the Mister," she didn't add Malak's name, though that's why they were there. "And one of them was supposed to be here by now, but you know...sorry."
She handed Sean over to Anne and took off to the alley where her Caddie waited.
"Momma?" Mary appeared at the door waiting for Anne to bring Sean back in.
"Yes, Honey," Anne leaned down and scooped up Mary in her other arm.
"I made you a letter," she pushed a rumpled piece of paper into Anne's hand as soon as Sean was down on the floor. "Case you din't come back."
"Oh, Honey," Anne held her close. Poor baby. So small. So much to worry about. "You didn't need to worry." Thank God Mary's memories of the time she was ill were very vague.
"Let me see," she added, opening up the crumpled letter with all the care and respect she would have given her own diploma from medical school, her most precious piece of paper.
Until now.
It was a rainbow, drawn in six, carefully sorted crayola colors, with black bars overlying, vertical black lines across the entire page. Anne understood immediately. No matter they had tried to explain and explain to Mary, she thought her mom was going to jail. Here was something like hope for her mom to have even behind the bars.
"Oh, Honey," Anne tried not to cry. She pulled Mary tightly to her and gathered in her sensitive cousin also when he started to cry with the girls.
I am sorry, Malak, Anne thought.
But for these two, I would go to hell myself.
