The broad shouldered man in the light linen jacket, loose pants and tee shirt waited patiently as the luggage dropped down from the rubberized belt and onto the circular metal rotating baggage claim area. In a moment of tired whimsy he decided it reminded him of a big black tongue, spitting out the detritus of peoples’ lives. Expensive Louis Vitton bags, beat up knapsacks, boxes, wire luggage carriers wrapped in their little bungee cords all made their mechanically transported way onto the rotating metal plates that carried the baggage round and round, going nowhere unless the owners retrieved their errant belongings. Finally a nondescript but well used and sturdy canvas bag, followed shortly on the moving beltway by a long, oddly shaped molded plastic and steel carrier dropped into the baggage conga line. He moved in, lifting both pieces easily and slipping away, maneuvering gracefully through the crowd.

        A middle-aged nondescript woman was standing back among the crowd of onlookers waiting for passengers to arrive or depart. As the tall man wove among the masses, slipping through the moving throng with the ease of a silent, stalking predator, she followed, almost trotting to keep up with the other’s long strides. The follower stepped through the automatic glass doors just as her quarry stepped into a cab.

        "Mike? It’s Bea. He just arrived. Got into a cab. Heard him give directions to the dojo. Yeah, you’d think he’d have gone to the hospital first, but you never know with these guys what’s important to ‘em." The woman listened to her cellphone for a minute. "Yeah. Okay. I’ll pick him up there." Her face was grim as she headed toward the parking lot.

        MacLeod grabbed his bags from the trunk of the cab, paid the driver and hurried up the outside stairs. He slowed suddenly, then stopped, cocking his head slightly as though listening for something. He then climbed more slowly, letting himself into the second floor entrance and continuing on up another two floors.

        "Make yourself at home," an amused English-accented voice greeted him as he pulled his bags in the door and kicked it closed behind him.

        The Scot threw a dark look at the pale sharp-featured man lying on his couch before he carefully placed the long container on his desk and dropped his clothes bag on the big platform bed at the other end of the large, open loft apartment. "I am home. How is he?"

        Methos sat up, putting aside the book he had been reading, his expression moving quickly from smiling welcome to distracted worry. "He’s resting. I spent last night at the hospital. Thought I’d grab a few hours of sleep, but it wouldn’t come."

        "Prognosis?"

        Methos watched MacLeod efficiently put away his well-packed clothes in the large antique wardrobe occupying the corner of the single room. He hadn’t seen MacLeod in almost two years and the man looked subtly different. Not older of course, but leaner, harder. Shoulder length hair shorn away, leaving loose curls at the back of his neck. Right now his expression was grim. Joe’s heart attack had happened only 24 hours before and Mac had dropped everything and caught the first flight from Paris to Seacouver. Only he had been waylaid on the way to the airport. Another Immortal. Another quickening. Another death to deal with. Gods, I’m glad they don’t hunt me like that, Methos thought to himself. Then a familiar voice intruded warning him that sticking close to MacLeod might ultimately lead to just such an outcome.

        "Guarded. They've run some tests. Results aren't back yet."

        Mac finished putting away his things and moved to the elongated box he’d left on the desk. It had a combination lock, and with a touch he opened it to reveal a gleaming dragonhead katana nested in a fitted slot lined with black velvet. Next to it lay a lacquered wooden rod decorated up its length with abstract designs. MacLeod removed the rod and made it disappear into the folds of his jacket.

        "Mac," Methos started, but the Scot was already halfway out the door. Methos rose, grabbing his coat and trotting after. "Mac, wait!" He caught up to him in the alley, where he waited for his companion to lean over and unlock the passenger side of the black convertible T-bird parked there.

        "I don’t know how you do it, MacLeod," Methos offered, admiring the smooth running machine as they pulled out of the alley. The classic 30-year old automobile smelled and looked brand new. "All the details of life nicely managed, the loft open and aired, food in the fridge, the car ready and parked behind the building."

        "All it takes is a few phone calls and a lot of money," Duncan said quietly.

        "Yeah, well, Adam Pierson doesn’t have those kinds of resources. Fortunately I only had to come as far as Denver. Coach class of course," he chuckled. "Actually, now that I think about it, I haven’t really used my money to any significant degree in over a century, and we didn’t have all those modern conveniences like phones and fax machines and electronic transfers and such then anyway." He was just chattering, he knew. The tension poured off his companion's bunched broad shoulders in waves. A moment of awkward silence lingered between them. "He’s a tough guy, Mac. He’ll be okay," Methos finally said quietly.

        "No he won’t. He’ll die, Adam. Eventually they all die."

        Shit. So that was how it was. Well, it had been a really crappy few years for the Scot. His entire support system had been knocked out from under him. His friends dead, his world torn apart. The last time they had seen each other Mac had begged on his knees for Methos to kill him. Methos had refused, Mac had disappeared and Methos had never even tried to find him, to console him, to help his friend through that darkest of times.

        "That sounds a touch melodramatic," the eldest smirked, ginning up the expected cynical response.

        MacLeod’s dark eyes glanced over to his companion. "Aye, it does. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be morbid. I’m just a little tired."

        "Heard you got sidetracked on the way here."

        Mac didn’t reply.

        "Anybody I know?"

        "I have no idea who you know or don’t know, Methos. Sometimes I think you must know every one of us by now. Other times I figure you've been hiding out for so long you really know very few of us. Maybe both are true." Mac sighed, passing his hand over his eyes. "I realized a while ago that I hardly know you at all, Adam. I don’t know why you let me find you. I don’t know why you kept coming around."

        And you don’t know why I never tried to contact you after Richie died, Methos thought to himself. That was what he was really trying to say. Trying to ask. Another long silence.

        "Joe told me you defeated Ahriman," Methos said softly.

        The dark head nodded without comment.

        "He also said you rarely carry a sword anymore. That’s a little scary, considering. Was it just luck you had your katana with you yesterday?" Methos asked. He needed to change the subject to something more comfortable than his own clouded feelings and motivations.

        Another enigmatic shrug. "Ahriman taught me a few things about evil. I can feel it coming sometimes, like a chill against my skin. When I do, I carry a blade."

        He pulled into the hospital parking lot and they made their way up to the Cardiac Care Unit. The two women clustered at the far end of the CCU waiting room froze as MacLeod and the man they knew as Adam Pierson entered.

        A regal looking gray-hair woman, slightly stocky, gray eyes flashing, stepped towards MacLeod.

        "Momma, don’t," the young blond woman beside her reached for her shoulder, but the older woman shrugged her away, moving to confront the imposing Scotsman. After a second of silence, her hand lashed out and she struck him, the slap resounding in the room like a gunshot.

        "How dare you show your face here!?" Her tone held a hard, grating edge of hysteria.

        "Because he’s my friend." MacLeod’s voice was low and soothing. "And he would want me here."

        "This wouldn’t have happened but for you and your . . . people." The word came out as a curse. "He risked everything for you. My husband died because of you."

        "Momma, stop it!" Lynn Horton pleaded, putting her arms around her mother’s shoulders. The younger woman’s eyes met the Highlander’s fearlessly. "Perhaps you can wait somewhere else, Mr. MacLeod. I know Uncle Joe considers you a friend, but you’ve brought too much grief to this family."

        With a quick nod, Mac turned and left. Methos followed him halfway back down the hall, catching up to him as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, his face a hard, expressionless mask. "They’ll never understand what happened with Horton, Mac," he said quietly.

        "I know. But she may be right. Dealing with Ahriman was a terrible strain on Joe. He felt responsible for the deaths of the four watchers he had hunting for clues to a way to fight that monster. And . . . Ahriman visited him. Tormented him. Tempted him in ways I don’t know if I could have resisted if I had been in his place."

        "And that’s your fault? Come on, MacLeod. Joe made his own decisions for his own reasons. You didn’t force him into anything."

        "Didn’t I? He said he helped me not because he believed in any demon, but because he believed in me." The reply was soft, almost inaudible.

        "We all need a reason to believe in something, MacLeod." He rested his hand on Mac’s folded forearm. "And you are as good as any . . . and better than most."

        The liquid brown eyes met his for a long moment where stark pain flashed before Mac lowered his head, looking at the floor. "Don’t do this to yourself or to him, Duncan. He needs you. Needs to sense your permanence. That you will be there, to the end of his days and beyond. It gives them comfort, you know. That they will be remembered, always."

        "I’ll do what I have to do, Adam," MacLeod whispered.

        Just then the nurse intruded, her crepe soled shoes squeaking as she approached. "Mr. MacLeod? Mr. Dawson is asking for you." She led the way past the red "Authorized Personnel Only" double doors into a large open space where a central nursing station could monitor ten curtained areas. The soft, steady beep and click of medical monitoring equipment provided the background noise as Mac pushed aside the curtain.

        Joe Dawson‘s face was wan and pale but his eyes lit up at the sight of the man whose life he had observed and admired for nearly 20 years, and become an intimate part of for the past five. His unruly salt and pepper hair pointed off in a variety of directions, an oxygen tube was propped against his nostrils and IV lines were running in both arms, plus monitor patches stuck against his chest where they had shaved off the thick black and gray hair.

        "Well, you look like hell," Mac said with a smile. It was a line the barkeep and Watcher had used on him from time to time.

        "Thanks. I could say the same about you," Joe said. His voice was raspy and weak.

        "I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Joe . . ."

        The alarmingly frail looking hand weakly waived at him. "But you met up with Vernon Grandville, I know, I know. He’s been hunting you for weeks. Finally caught up with you as you left for the airport."

        Mac cocked his head at his Watcher friend in amusement. "How do you do it, Joe? Even in the middle of a personal health crisis, you manage to know what’s going on half a world away."

        The broad shoulders shrugged. "It’s a gift," he said with a sly smile. The hand with all the tubes and needles taped to it clasped his. "Mac, just do me one favor."

        "Anything, Joe."

        "Stay clear of my sister as much as you can. She’s never understood what happened to James. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the whole story." He coughed painfully, then swallowed. "Can I have a little of that water?"

        Mac held a cup while Dawson sipped.

        "That’s better." He laid his head back and his eyes closed for a moment. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sarah. She just knows your name keeps coming up whenever my life gets . . . exciting. And don’t you go all broody on me MacLeod!" Dawson scolded, noting the dark, tense set of his Immortal friend’s expressive face. "This heart thing had nothing to do with you. It has to do with too many late nights in bars full of cigarette smoke, too much booze, too many greasy hamburgers." He relaxed for a moment, his eyes closing. He had exhausted himself with his little speech. "Now go away and get some sleep, Mac. I’ll be fine. Just fine." His voice drifted off and the eyelids drooped closed.

        MacLeod stood for several more minutes, watching the little monitor beside Joe’s bed blip with each beat of his friend’s heart. It could only measure the beat, he thought, not its great strength or its capacity for friendship and compassion and honor.

        MacLeod opened the door to his loft on Methos' second knock. The Scot was dressed in a terry bathrobe, his hair in a tangled halo around his face. As Methos moved into the room he understood why Mac was motivated to either keep his hair very long or pretty short. Ungroomed, the in-between length combined with the sad doe-brown eyes and sensuous mouth hovered a little too close to seraphic, a look distinctly at odds with the stoic Highland warrior persona.

        "Guess I woke you." Unrepentant, Methos went directly to the refrigerator and snagged a beer.

        "What time is it?" Mac asked, running his fingers through his hair to try to tame it into submission.

        "Eight-thirty. And Joe is going to be fine. The doc says there’s no sign of permanent damage."

        Mac sat heavily in a chair, his face in his hands. "Thank God," he whispered.

        Methos leaned his loose-boned frame against the kitchen island. "How about you?"

        "What?"

        "How are you, Duncan?" Methos asked.

        Their eyes met briefly before the younger man sat back, eyes closed. "I slept a few hours. I’m fine."

        "That’s not what I mean and you know it. Before his heart attack Joe had told me you had stripped the barge, were living like a monk, meditating for hours at a time. He wasn’t sure whether you had found Nirvana or were in an almost desperate search for it."

        Mac smiled. That sounded like something Joe would say. "A little of both, I guess. Sometimes when I meditate things seem so clear, so peaceful. Then some prick like that guy in Paris shows up out of the blue, only interested in killing, in the Game, in Quickenings." He shook his head sadly. "I walk away wondering how any of us can possibly stay human and still kill again and again, take in all those lives, all that energy. It feels like a little of my soul burns away each time. I know you don't take heads much anymore and I understand why."

        The oldest Immortal drank his beer in silence, feeling inadequate. He ought to have some words of solace and wisdom for this man, his friend. He had come to depend on that steady strength, the gentle smile, the open and trusting heart. It was what had brought him back to life after centuries of emotional hibernation.

        "When did you last eat something, Duncan?"

        "Huh?" Mac looked up at him distractedly.

        "Eating. You know? Food?"

        "Oh, uh, I don't know. On the airplane, I guess."

        "Right. Well all I’ve had is hospital cafeteria food." He went to the fridge and rummaged around. "Let's see here, eggs, some fruit, some cheese, some salad stuff. You gone vegetarian on me, MacLeod?" He continued his meaningless chatter as he prepared them a simple dinner.

        The next few days were hectic as both Methos and MacLeod split their time between visiting Joe, who got significantly stronger every day, and ensuring that Joe’s blues bar continued to operate. Methos, in his Adam Pierson persona, fronted that effort, but MacLeod spent a lot of time with accountants and lawyers, timing his visits to Dawson carefully for when his family wasn’t around. By the end of the week, the hospital was ready to release him and Sarah and Lynn Horton, plus Joe’s fellow watcher Adam Pierson, organized getting the reluctant invalid ensconced at home in his own bed.

        Adam muttered complaints to himself in a dead Sumerian dialect as he helped Joe from the car into a wheelchair. Joe was too weak to use his prosthetic legs, but was sufficiently embarrassed at the necessity of the use of a wheelchair that he tried to do far too much on his own. Having the considerable brawn of Duncan MacLeod would have made the transition from hospital to home much easier, but the politics of the family situation forced Duncan to stay away while the Horton women fussed and puttered around their increasingly impatient patient.

        "No, I don’t want any soup!" Joe finally growled at his niece. "I don’t want any water. I don’t want any more pillows or blankets. What I would like is to be left in peace!"

        Lynn smiled tolerantly down at her curmudgeonly, much-loved uncle. "Alright, Uncle Joe. We’ll leave you alone." She kissed him on the forehead, speaking close to his ear so her mother wouldn’t hear. "I saw MacLeod sitting in his car down the street waiting for us to leave. I’ll try to get Mother out of here." More loudly, she said, "You going to be okay here with Adam?"

        "I’ll be fine. I would really just like a little peace and quiet for awhile. Adam can play nurse if I need anything."

        The loose limbed young man was propped in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. "Yeah, I’ll do anything for a free bed and a free beer," he smiled at Joe’s niece. "We’ll be fine, Lynn. It’ll be okay."

        The women were encouraged to leave and finally did so amid much reminding about casseroles in the freezer and warnings about overexertion and general fussing.

        They weren’t gone five minutes when Joe noticed Adam look up expectantly from the book he was reading. A moment later there was a knock on the front door.

        "Well don’t you just look like the respectable businessman. I’d almost take you for a lawyer!" Joe said with a chuckle as Mac entered wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.

        "Heaven forbid! I think Adam here is the only lawyer in the family, along with a dozen or so other professions of course – doctor, Indian chief."

        "Oh, I think you’ve got the chief part all wrapped up," Adam smirked, settling back into his chair.

        MacLeod sat on the edge of Joe’s bed, covering the bluesman’s hand with his own. The mortal’s was stained with bruises from all the IV needles they had pushed into the back of his hand. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

        "A little tired," Joe admitted, "but awfully glad to be home. I’ll be back on my legs within the week and back to work by next week, I think. They say I’ve gotta change my diet, exercise more, yada, yada, yada."

        "And that’s what you’re going to do, right?" Mac said encouragingly.

        "Hey," Joe shrugged his acquiescence, "I have no desire to go through this again anytime soon. Being around you guys all the time, sometimes I forget that this old bag of bones is all too subject to the wear and tear of time."

        "Good." Mac squeezed the hand gently, his dark eyes glittering with affection, and more. "You've got a lot of people who want you to take care of yourself so that you'll be around for a long, long time."

        Joe cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of that gaze. "What have you been up to while the Horton women were driving me bats in the hospital? Adam says you’ve spent more time with lawyers and accountants and bankers in the past week than he has in the past century."

        Mac stood and moved away. The big hands went into his pockets and he crossed to the windows. Joe and Adam exchanged a look. The Scotsman had something important on his mind. It was written in every line of his body.

        "I had a few things I wanted to tidy up."

        The other two men were silent, sharing a long look behind the Highlander's back, but the obvious question hung in the air. When the answer didn’t appear to be forthcoming, Adam reluctantly asked it anyway.

        "Meaning?"

        Mac spoke from the window without looking at either of his two friends. "Meaning I wanted to make sure things were taken care of here, that the two of you had everything you needed, before . . ." he hesitated.

        "You’re leaving," Adam stated flatly.

        Joe hissed in a harsh breath. "Mac, if this is about the heart attack, the doctor said I’ll be okay. This ticker should last me another couple decades at least!" Joe tried to make his voice friendly, amiable, reassuring, but despite the effort his appeal sounded desperate.

        "That’s not it, Joe." MacLeod turned. His face was carefully arranged in a neutral expression. Methos got the impression that he had rehearsed this speech in his mind numerous times.

        "I really, really wanted to thank you both for all you have done for me. The sacrifices you have made. I’ve learned so much about friendship, about forgiveness from you. I am deeply moved and humbled that you chose to be my friends." A small laugh seemed to bubble up involuntarily out of the broad chest as he shook his head. "I have just never figured out why." But he quickly went on. "But the time for Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is over."

        Methos had risen, the tension gathering in the lean body as he stood, legs apart, arms crossed. "Duncan, don’t . . ."

        MacLeod wouldn’t let him speak. He locked his dark gaze with the gleaming gold and green eyes of the ancient. "No, Adam. This isn’t about Ahriman or even about Richie. This is about an identity that is an anachronism, a leftover artifact of another time. There is no Clan MacLeod and I was never its chieftain anyway. You came to me when I needed you most and you have taught me a lesson I desperately needed to learn. The day of the noble warrior is past. Trying to protect people who don’t want or need my protection has only resulted in damage to them and to me. And now they are all gone and that is only the inevitable result of my own folly." He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "But I needed to do this in a way that leaves both of you free of any taint of association with me, so . . . Duncan MacLeod is going to have to lose his next battle." He held up his hand as Joe stiffened. "As far as the Watchers are concerned, Joe. Only you will know the truth. The Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod will be closed and you will be free to either retire and run the club or continue and watch someone else if that’s what you want to do, but all this controversy with the Watchers and with your family about our friendship will be moot."

        "Wait just a minute, Mac. I think I have a right to . . ." Joe started, but the Highlander was bound and determined to stay the course and he bullied right on past his Watcher’s objections.

        "And you, Dr. Adam Pierson, will receive a sizeable bequest, allowing you to continue your work, but with a much more comfortable lifestyle. And you won’t be risking your neck by hanging out with the local Quickening magnet anymore."

        "Christ, MacLeod I don’t need your money!" Methos growled, his anger growing by the second.

        "Of course you don’t. You probably have half the world’s assets socked away in various accounts, but not as Adam Pierson. And this way you can stick close to Joe without fear of discovery of what you are."

        "But . . ."

        "And I will disappear. New name, new identity. Hopefully a new outlook on life that won’t end up putting everyone in a 50 mile radius in personal jeopardy."

        Methos head finally went back and he laughed a harsh, angry bark. "So the Clan Chieftain speaks!" he crowed. "First you say you’ve learned not go try to go around managing everyone’s life, then you proceed to do exactly that!"

        But the irony didn’t get a rise out of the dark figure in front of the windows. "I know," Mac said quietly. "Call it my last gasp of compulsive behavior. I am asking that neither of you tell anyone what I’ve done. Duncan MacLeod must be well and truly dead."

        "So you’re going to let Amanda and all your friends believe you died? That’s uncharacteristically cruel, Duncan." It was so rare for Methos to use his given name that it should have triggered a bell in MacLeod’s head, but he was too busy concentrating on Joe’s reactions for it to register.

        "I'll take care of Amanda if the need ever comes up. She will know I loved her, but I could never keep her happy for long and she took off almost two years ago and I haven’t seen her since," Mac explained. "As much as she might want to stick around, she always got restless and uncomfortable with how I thought she should live her life. She needs excitement like the rest of us need food and water. She probably won’t even think of Duncan MacLeod for another thirty years or so. Given the way the Gathering is going, the likelihood that both of us will still be around by then is pretty slim, so it won’t really matter."

        "You’re already speaking of yourself in the past tense," Joe growled, his fists clenching in anger and distress.

        Mac moved back to the bed, sitting beside his friend. "I’ll find a way to contact you, Joe. I promise. By e-mail probably. And I’ll also set up a way for you to be notified when . . . if I actually do lose a battle so you won’t worry if you don’t hear from me for awhile. It will be so much easier for you, Joseph. Your involvement in my life has brought you nothing but pain and grief. I should have done this a long time ago, but I was too stubborn and selfish to see that all those precious standards of honor and honesty and doing the right thing are entirely relative these days. And my versions are way, way out of date. I’m so sorry for what has happened, but I don’t regret one minute of knowing you or having you as my friend."

        Joe struggled, wanting to say something to change his friend’s mind, but lying in that hospital bed had brought home to him the final, fatal difference between him and those he had Watched for more than half his life. Some of his more morose moments had been spent questioning whether he really wanted to spend the rest of what years he had left constantly teetering on the edge of emotional or physical disaster. At that moment, he honestly didn’t know the answer. With a sudden flash of insight he realized MacLeod’s timing of his announcement had been calculated to catch him exactly when he would be most vulnerable to acceptance of losing this . . . this wonderful, terrible chaos that had become so addictive as to be dangerous.

        Joe grabbed Mac’s arm. "Mac, please. I . . . you are more than a friend to me. You represent something fundamental in my life, a belief that . . . I know this will sound silly, but . . . that good does win over evil. You’re a good man, Duncan MacLeod. I don’t want to lose you."

        "You don’t need any reminders of what it takes to be a good man, Joe Dawson," Mac said with a smile. "All you have to do is look in the mirror. And I want you to be able to do that for a long, long time." He stood and held out his hand. Joe hesitated for a long moment then took it. The two clasped hands and held on to each other tightly, tears shinning in both sets of eyes. "Take care of yourself, Joseph," Mac said. He turned and left, with Methos following hard on his heels.

        "You, too, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Watch your head," Joe said to the empty room, then laid his head back on the pillow as tears washed down his cheeks and into his rough beard.

        Methos stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, watching the Highlander’s back as he retreated to his car. "So that’s it, eh? Just walk away? It’s been nice knowing you, have a nice life?"

        Mac stopped and turned. "I don’t want this to be a bitter parting, Adam. You know this is best for him, for you, for everyone. It’s what you’ve been trying to tell me for five years. The time of the righteous warrior is past. Those values are worse than useless in an age of moral ambiguity. It’s taken me 400 years to figure that out, and it cost the lives of practically everyone I care about. You should be relieved that your lessons finally sank in."

        "Sank in?" Methos spat. "Seems to me they just resulted in serious brain rot. You honestly think leaving is going to somehow solve all of life's problems for Joe or me or anyone else? God, you are an arrogant bastard! Did it ever occur to that cement-filled head of yours that you might actually have made his life a little more interesting? A little more exciting? Bring a little meaning and purpose to it?"

        Mac took a few steps toward the ancient man and almost looked like he would reach out to him, but stopped, his face full of anguish. "Of course it did! I've justified myself with those thoughts for as long as I can remember, but the price has gotten too high. He almost died! I've put him in jeopardy just like I put you in jeopardy, and so many others. The only difference between them and you and Joe is that I haven't caused your deaths yet!" He turned and walked to his car, stopping before he opened the door. "Go back to your life as it was before I so rudely intruded, Old Man. Survive for another 5,000 years, to the end of the Gathering and beyond."

        "God Damn it, MacLeod!" Methos growled, his long legs finally overcoming his apparently paralyzed brain and taking him to the passenger side of the car. The two men faced off over the black cloth top of the convertible. "I never wanted you to discard your beliefs, only to not hold to them so tightly that you lost sight of the deeper issues and possibilities. Or worse, throw yourself in harm’s way unnecessarily. I don’t want you to disappear from my life!"

        "My God, Adam, why? I have brought nothing but grief and danger to you. You have risked exposing who you are just by being around me. Kronos found you only after you met me and rumors started to circulate that you actually existed. My life is a black hole, Methos. Anybody around me can get sucked into it and disappear."

        For a few agonized seconds the Oldest Immortal considered the risk of letting the naked truth slip past his tongue, something he so rarely did that the very thought of it made a deep chill wash over his skin. It was a weapon he knew he should never hand over to someone who already had such power to hurt him. The young old man’s voice softened and deepened. "You make me feel alive again, Duncan. I hadn’t felt that way in so long I’d forgotten it was possible. I don’t want to go back to the way I was before we met." It was enough truth that it made him break out into a nervous sweat.

        Mac heard enough truth in that voice, in those words, that he paused and cocked his head with a gentle smile.

        "You don’t need me for that, Adam. You never did." He started to get into the car, then stopped, evidently coming to some kind of decision. "I owe you a lot, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to tell you how much you fascinated me from the moment I first saw you sitting on the floor in your Paris apartment." He crossed his arms up against the top of the car, lost in memory. "Methos, the Oldest Man. I was so incredibly flattered that you trusted me enough to let me find you like that. When you asked me to take your head before Kalas did, I was shocked to my very bones. Already I knew that I would sooner cut off my own arm." Mac looked slightly embarrassed and a flush rose to his cheeks. "The only other time in 400 years I had felt such an immediate intense connection to anyone was when I met Tessa Noel."

        He straightened up with a sigh, tapping the top of the car as a punctuation to his small speech. "But I won't drag you down into my world, not with the Gathering at hand." He slipped out of his coat and threw it into the car. Methos could hear the faint clank of the sword within the coat’s folds as it dropped onto the seat. "So . . . stay safe, Methos. Live. Grow stronger."

        Methos stood speechless at the implications of Mac’s brief confession, too many thoughts and emotions churning through his mind to find the right words. Words that would make a difference. Words that wouldn’t alienate at least as much as they would sooth. Something to express the thousand objections that were whipping through his mind as the Highlander nodded a last goodbye, climbed in, started the car and pulled away.

        The clank of a sword. He was carrying a blade.

        Joe got the call that night. A fight in MacLeod’s old warehouse. A sizeable Quickening and neither combatant emerged before the entire building went up in a spectacular fire that burned so hot neither body could be found. MacLeod’s T-bird was parked nearby, leading police to conclude that the missing owner must have, tragically, been caught in the conflagration caused by some type of electrical surge.

        Methos sat with Joe for a long time as the mortal just stared out the window. Tonight the world seemed a much duller place, the colors washed out, the food tasteless. The sharp edge that the Immortal stepson of the Celtic isles had brought to their lives would be sorely missed.

        He sighed, purposefully pushing the ache away and opened a book, settling back into his chair, into his Adam Pierson persona. It had served him well for a few decades, and now it would serve him awhile longer. And survival had always been his primary purpose in life, had it not?

        The nagging sense of loss wouldn't retreat, though. It was a loss of a great deal more than friendship. It was really a loss of meaning and purpose that had made life vastly more interesting for a few short years. Irritation at his own inexplicable lapse in an ability to articulate an argument that would have punctured the Highlander's painfully constructed logic ate at him. Unable to explain or acknowledge his own failings he turned to a contemplation of MacLeod's numerous character flaws. As he enumerated them in his mind it nurtured the burning irritation, gradually heating those slow-burning coals to a hot anger at the stubborn, thoughtless Scotsman, but at least it replaced the gnawing ache of emptiness.

        He looked over and Joe’s eyes had closed and his breathing had become deep and regular. He rose to check the man’s pulse. It was strong and steady.

        Don’t lie to yourself, you old fool, he thought at last. You assumed he knew how you felt just because you kept hanging him around like some eager puppy, but every other word you said to him was derisive and critical. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he raged, uncertain even in his own mind whether he was referring to himself or MacLeod.

        The next couple of weeks were heavily occupied with taking care of Joe and deflecting all the hoopla in the Watchers about MacLeod’s "death." Among the Watchers there was, of course, speculation that he had faked it, but most of the old-time Watchers dismissed that notion under the theory that MacLeod had used the same identity for 400 years and Immortals just don’t change their spots like that overnight. It was almost inevitable, they all said. Even as good as he was, with the Gathering at hand and every hunter out for his head, odds were that the Highlander would eventually lose. With both Methos and Duncan MacLeod now believed dead, speculation about the leading candidate for the last Immortal immediately turned to Connor MacLeod.

        Joe was almost silent on the topic. The other Watchers assumed it was because he was grieving, and in a way they were right. But it was more complicated than that, Methos quickly realized. There was an edge of anger, of despair, of residual fear, uncertainty and depression from his heart attack. While he didn’t want to talk much, neither did he want to be left alone for long. He was soon back at work, but he tired easily and lost patience quickly, snapping at his staff and Watchers for minor infractions and annoyances that he would previously never even have noticed.

        Adam Pierson found himself reluctantly drawn more and more into the Watcher bureaucracy in his effort to cushion Joe’s return to work and, hopefully, lessen the number of times he had to respond to sympathetic reminiscences about the Highlander. Whether or not he agreed with MacLeod’s choice of action, at least for the moment, having him thought to be out of the Game and out of the way simplified the external complications of Joe’s life considerably. As for the internal, Methos suspected there was a great deal going on, but the Watcher was just not talking about it.

        Methos had been "left" the care, maintenance, access to and upkeep of the dojo in letters of instruction to MacLeod's local solicitors, along with enough money to keep it going for a good long while, and then some. Once Joe was nominally back on his feet it seemed simpler just to move into the loft apartment. He always liked it anyway. Mac had a knack for taking simple spaces and making them welcoming and comfortable. The only disadvantage, he quickly discovered, was Mac's propensity to gather other Immortals around him, not something the Oldest Immortal had ever been inclined to do.

        Oddly, after their initial suspicion about the motives and character of this new Immortal, upon discovery that Duncan had left his possessions in the care of Adam Pierson, he was accepted and befriended without question – a distinctly odd sensation for the normally secretive and reclusive Old Man.

        Kit O’Brady showed up one otherwise dull weekend and took him drinking and gambling to some of Seacouver’s less classy and more intriguing entertainment establishments. The beautiful and elegant Grace Chantal stopped by on a trip from somewhere to somewhere else and he was bewitched by her simple goodness and natural graciousness. One short guy in a bad suit named Benny something-or-other stopped by to chat and mooch some of Mac's booze, but left quickly when he realized Duncan’s caretaker was not going to be a ready mark for a ‘loan’ of funds. The periodic visits by drop-in Immortals were unnerving, to say the least, and he was constantly tempted to move, but some stubborn internal voice resisted, perpetually putting the decision off to another day. And, contrary to Duncan's "instructions," Adam Pierson told his friends the truth -- that the Highlander had hied off to parts unknown, trying to leave his old identity behind. His friends all seemed concerned and mildly amused at the thought that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would attempt to change his basic nature. He was a singular stalwart in the Immortal community. The one they all could rely on, to turn to in times of trouble or need. They all agreed to keep an eye out for the Scot and let Adam Pierson know if they ran across him.

        The other problem was running the dojo itself. It required either hiring and supervising someone and being responsible for their training and the quality of their work, or doing it himself. Neither activity came easily or naturally, especially since the "doing it yourself" option required getting up at about six a.m. -- an hour whose very existence he preferred not to acknowledge, much less function in. Every day he considered closing the damn gym and letting the space gather dust, but something . . . that damn subconscious voice wouldn't let him. Eventually he hired a manager and was his reluctant supervisor, checking in periodically to insure the smooth running of the space, long popular among the dedicated and serious physical fitness and martial arts afficionados.

        Over a period of the next few months the whole evolution of events took on the foreboding aspect of a settled life, full of responsibility and permanent attachments -- something he had avoided for centuries.

        "This is ridiculous," Adam thought to himself, finally shutting down his computer and rubbing his eyes until they hurt. "Joe is perfectly capable of doing his own damn bookkeeping."

        He deserved a break, he decided. All this caretaking, all this ridiculous responsibility was weighing him down. Time for a night of inconsequential pleasure-seeking. He grabbed his long coat, secured his Ivanhoe in its folds, a dagger up his sleeve and a .09 automatic in his pocket, shook his shoulders free of the unnatural tension of looking after the well-being of someone other than himself, and headed for Joe's.

        The music was loud, the bar was crowded and cigarette smoke choked the air. It was great. A person could get lost in a crowd like this. Just drift, almost unnoticed, observing all the intricate by-play between men and women, men and men, women and women. The looks, the touches, the subtle and not-to-subtle innuendoes intended to entice or discourage, to seduce or dismay. This was life at its most fascinating, the observation of the human condition -- an occupation he had pursued for uncountable years. It was only recently, since the annoying and oddly charismatic Highlander had so rudely intruded on his quite satisfactory existence, that the delicate balance of his carefully arranged life had been disrupted. He had become a participant rather than an observer. In some ways it was exciting, different, unusual. Overall, however, Methos now decided, it was annoying. The intrusive thought of the Highlander bothered him, upsetting the hard-won sense of freedom the anonymity of the crowd had engendered.

        He gradually made his way to the bar, watching as Joe expertly prepared and served drinks. The bartender smiled, saying a quiet word here and there to his customers. But there was something missing, Methos decided after a few minutes. Joe's eyes didn't engage the patrons who spoke to him, he didn't linger with an extra phrase, a shared remembrance or observation. And when the blues man turned away, the face relaxed into a detached, tired expression that bespoke of a desire to be elsewhere.

        "Hey, Joe," Methos finally caught his friend's eye.

        "Adam!" The grizzled face opened into a genuine smile that finally reached the gray-blue eyes. "What are you doing here? It's been almost a month. I was beginning to think you had done a MacLeod on me." The smile was still in place, but suddenly the eyes were tired and full of pain.

        "Me? No, Joe. What would make you think that?"

        Joe leaned up close, mindlessly wiping an already clean glass. "Oh, I dunno," he sighed quietly. "You have a tendency to just . . . disappear from time to time. Just thought maybe you and MacLeod had become more alike than not."

        "I don't desert my friends," Methos growled.

        The look he got was part sad, part amused. "Don't you? How many times did you disappear when the going got a little rocky, Adam? Where do you think Mac learned that it's okay to leave all your friends and responsibilities behind?"

        Just then the Oldest Immortal's eyes narrowed and his sharp-featured face turned on the long neck, looking towards the door.
 
 

        The crowd noise diminished slightly at the arrival of the striking, black-haired woman standing in the doorway. She soaked in the admiration, the jealousy, like a delicious sip of ambrosia taken from the very air. Her eyes moved over the crowd until they met the green-gold stare of the lean man leaning languidly against the bar. Joe Dawson, ever sensitive to the moods and shifts of his customers, watched her move through the crowd, almost forgetting to breathe. Immortals like Amanda, like MacLeod, like Methos, were like great cats when they moved. The beautiful woman, sheathed tightly in black, reminded him of a leopard, all the way down to the distinctly predatory look in her eyes. She sidled up to Methos, gifting him with a brief air-kiss before she placed her small, graceful hand over Joe's large one, leaned over the bar and graced him with a genuine, affectionate smooch.

        "How's my favorite bluesman?" she purred, gently stroking his salt-and-pepper beard.

        "Better when you're around," Joe responded, sharing a warm and almost intimate smile with the thousand-year-old thief.

        "Then I'm glad I'm around," she murmured, kissing him once again with an enthusiasm that generated a charming and bashful flush of color to the mortal's cheeks.

        Then she finally turned her attention to the amused, crooked smile gracing the pale countenance of the Oldest Immortal.

        "Heard you were in town, Adam," she said softly, leaning close. "We need to talk." The voice was low and urgent.

        "Use my office," Joe suggested, indicating behind the bar with a tilt of his head.

        "Where's Duncan?" Amanda demanded the minute Methos closed the door behind them. The black-clad thief nervously paced the small open space in front of Joe's desk.

        "It's nice to see you too, Amanda," Methos intoned. "How are you? It's been -- how long? Two, three years?"

        Amanda waved her hand, dismissing Methos' cynicism as irrelevant and annoying.

        "I heard he's taken off somewhere. Gina Vallencourt said she spoke to you a few weeks ago, that you said Mac had pretended to die, had disappeared and left you in charge of the dojo. Of course, I knew she had to be mistaken. Mac wouldn't do that. He's been Duncan MacLeod for 400 years and nothing would change that. And leaving you in charge of the dojo?" She smirked and wiggled up to perch on the edge of the desk. "That's when I knew she was wrong. So, where is he?"

        "I haven't a clue. He's disappeared."

        Amanda cocked her head at him curiously. "No, really, Adam. I need to know."

        "And I really don't know. As far as the Watchers are concerned, Mac is dead. No one is tracking him, Amanda."

        The large brown eyes in the perfect oval face narrowed for a moment before her expression cleared and she slid off the desk and sidled up to Methos' long, lean frame. "Oh, Adam," she breathed softly against his neck, "I know you and Duncan are . . . close. There's always been a connection between you two since the moment you met. He wouldn't have run away without making sure every last contingency was covered, every problem solved, and he certainly wouldn't want you to hide his whereabouts from me!" She pulled back just enough to look up through long, dark lashes into his amused gilt and green irises.

        "Amanda," he said softly, then paused. She was so close, smelled so good, her warm, soft body pressed so invitingly . . . then he mentally shook himself. That would be a terrible idea. Not only was he well aware that she doing everything in her power to manipulate him, but he found himself wanting to be manipulated, to lose himself in her intricate and fascinating machinations. Suddenly Mac's willing participation in the usually annoying, sometimes life-threatening vortex of otherwise avoidable trouble created by the lovely Amanda didn't seem quite so incomprehensible.

        "Amanda," he began again, having carefully re-established his defense mechanisms, "read my lips. I don't know where MacLeod is. I don't know when, or if, I'll ever hear from the man again. He's changed his identity and disappeared. Gone!" He waved his long fingers in front of Amanda's face in a perfect mimic of a magician's gesture. "Poof!"

        She slapped his hand away. "Don't you "poof" me, Methos! I know Duncan. He would not hide from me!"

        The young face with the old eyes smiled sadly, and the broad, taut shoulders shrugged. "Have it your way, Amanda. I only know he announced that he wasn't going to put any of his friends at risk any more and it was high time to kill off Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod as an outmoded relic of another time."

        "What did you do to him, Methos?" Amanda demanded. "You and your nasty tongue, always digging at him, trying to make him feel small! You chased him away, didn't you?"

        "Oh, get off your high horse, 'Manda," Methos was beginning to lose patience with her suspicious insinuations. "I didn't do a damn thing." Even as the words left his mouth that annoying, nagging voice he reluctantly associated with his conscience pricked at him. "Joe's heart attack, Richie's death, the whole ugliness of the last few years was finally too much for him and he bolted after convincing himself that somehow it was all his fault."

        Air escaped Amanda's lovely lips in a frustrated sigh as she leaned once again against the desk, chewing her lip in distracted worry.

        "What's the problem, Amanda? Why are you so desperate to find MacLeod?"

        She shook her head slightly. "Nothing, Adam. It's nothing." She turned her face to him with a tight smile. "I better go. Nice to see you." She rose and moved past him, but stopped when he grabbed her elbow and leaned close.

        "Just what kind of trouble are you in, Ms. Devereaux?" Adam whispered with a knowing smile.

        Her head turned and her large brown eyes met his. "Nothing I can't handle, Methos," she smiled tightly and started to pull away.

        Wondering all the while why he was bothering, Methos kept his grip on her arm. "But it's something you needed MacLeod for?" his mouth insisted on asking over the strong objections of his brain.

        "Duncan sometimes has a knack for making problems . . . go away," Amanda answered. "But I'm sure I can handle it just fine." She glanced at her watch. "I might even be able to make the next plane to Tokyo if I hurry." She pulled away and reached for the doorknob.

        "Does this particular problem carry a sword?"

        The brown eyes turned back to him again, curious and wary. "Actually, no. Why do you ask?"

        "I dunno," Methos shrugged. "It's just that, with Mac not around, I seem to end up hearing about everybody's problems these days." And I like it, Methos suddenly realized. I like feeling like someone's confidant, someone's friend, someone people can rely on. Not a very good survival technique, though, his more rational voice groused.

        "You?" Amanda chuckled. "And what do you do with that information?  Blackmail them?"

        The Oldest Immortal's eyes glinted gold in the dim light from the desk lamp. "Of course, Amanda," he smiled tightly. "What else would I do?"

        "I can't imagine," was her distracted reply as she pulled a cellphone out of her purse. "Look, Methos. I've really got to get out of town. Don't suppose you could take me to the airport could you?" she asked as she dialed.

        He opened the door and grandly gestured her through, escorting her through the crowd as she called to make reservations on the next flight to Tokyo. Mac's beloved 30-year-old T-bird convertible ground and sputtered several times before the engine roared to life. The two Immortals were silent as Methos made his way through the heavy early evening traffic. Amanda glanced over at the Oldest Immortal's hawk-like profile several times. There was a slight tension there, an anger that she couldn't quite figure out. But then Methos had always been an enigma. A fascinating enigma, admittedly. If she hadn't been so powerfully attracted to and previously entangled with the beautiful and magnetic Highlander, this man would be an almost irresistible target for conquest.

        Traffic slowed and then came to a complete halt as they approached the entrance to the highway ramp to the airport. Amanda nervously glanced at her watch, then examined the traffic behind them, fingernails tapping a steady rhythm on the metal of the doorframe.

        "Anxious to leave?" Methos asked, observing her out the corner of his eye.

        "Just don't want to miss my flight," Amanda answered in clipped tones. Just then traffic moved forward a little, and Methos fed the engine a little more gas. With a sputter and cough, the car lurched forward once, then the motor fell ominously silent.

        "Shit!" Amanda whispered, looking again at her watch as Methos turned the key. The engine once again sputtered and banged, backfired, then died again with a rattling, ugly noise. The second time, the motor didn't respond at all and the grinding noise of the starter got slower and slower . . . and slower. "Now what!?" she spat as the drivers behind them began to make their displeasure known with a cacophony of horns blasting.

        "Hold your water," Methos growled to both her and the annoyed and vocal driver behind him as he got out and opened the hood. Amanda got out as well, turning and providing a one-fingered gesture to the driver who was pulling around them as he shouted out a genetically unlikely insult. She stood beside Methos, gazing into the complex interior of the classic old engine.

        "Do you know what's wrong?" she asked.

        "Haven't a clue."

        "Then why are we standing here looking at a dirty engine?"

        "I dunno. It's a guy thing."

        "MacLeod will kill you if you've ruined his precious T-bird, you know."

        "In case you've forgotten, Amanda, Mac's not here."

        Methos leaned into the engine, the heat rising from the metal displacing air enough to cause visible ripples in the atmosphere. "Maybe it just overheated," he murmured. "These old engines didn't have as good a cooling system as they do now."

        "Perhaps I can help." The voice was smooth and oily. Methos turned his head slightly, feigning casual interest as he cursed himself inwardly. The noise of all the horns and traffic had masked the man's footsteps. Now he stood with one large hand firmly grasping Amanda's arm, with an ugly looking .45 held in his other hand, its black muzzle digging into her side.

        "Amanda! What have you gotten yourself into?" Methos growled. But the woman only frowned at him, her eyes angry. She struggled briefly, but the man was huge and strong, and the gun dug deeply into her side.

        "Stay out of this, asshole. It doesn't involve you!" the man said flatly, moving the aim of the large gun in his direction.

        Methos hands shot into the air. "Uh, uh, hey, uh, whatever you want, man! I don't have much, but you've got it, just don't shoot, man, please!"

        "Adam! Do something!" Amanda hissed until her arm was jerked and she stumbled as her captor stepped backwards towards a nearby alley where Methos could see a dark car parked with two other men standing beside it, watching, their hands in their pockets, no doubt with more weaponry available. Adam Pierson's smile and shrug was tense and sheepish as the woman was led away, stuffed into the back seat of the dark sedan, and driven off.

        "The license number is registered to a printshop business," Joe reported. "The address is on Sycamore, one of those 24-hour quick print places." The Watcher glowered over the bar at his lean companion. "You know I shouldn't do this, Adam. It smacks of something I would do for MacLeod. Interfering in Immortal business."

        "It's not really Immortal business," Methos rationalized. "The guy wasn't Immortal and Amanda told me that whatever trouble she is in, it doesn't involve the Game."

        "Ha! Right! It's just Amanda's business, which only makes it illegal, immoral or simply stupid," Dawson growled. But there was a light in the blue eyes Methos had not seen for months, a glint of amused concern, an intensity of feeling in the twist of the mouth that took ten years off the mortal's face.

        The sedan was parked behind the printshop, which was a small store in a strip mall in the suburbs. Methos could feel Amanda's presence as he pulled up to park among the plethora of vans and pseudo-off-road vehicles. He didn't feel any real sense of anxiety about the situation, just annoyance at being dragged into it. It wasn't as if they could do her any permanent damage. The question was how to get her out of whatever pickle she had managed to get herself into without involving the police, and without getting himself further embroiled in one of Amanda's infamous peccadilloes.

        "Those were My bearer bonds, Methos!" Amanda screeched, throwing her purse halfway across the room as they exited the freight elevator to the loft apartment. "You had no right to let those assholes keep them!"

        "They were counterfeit, young lady! The first time they try to redeem one, they're going to get caught and you know it. Just because you stole them and thought you could actually sell them for some discounted price to some poor schmuck who didn't know any better didn't make them yours." Methos calmly went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a large scotch, then stopped himself with a frown, put the glass down and went to the refrigerator for a beer instead.

        "You sound just like MacLeod, you know that?" Amanda snapped. "Just the right sense of moral outrage." She flopped onto the couch, spreading her arms wide over the back and looking at him defiantly as though she had just delivered the ultimate insult.

        "Oh, stop!" Methos snapped back, starting to flip the beer top behind the refrigerator, then remembering he would be the one who ultimately had to fish it out. He bank-shot it into the trashcan instead. "Mac would have come charging in there to rescue you, smacked the bad guys around and delivered them to the doorstep of the nearest police station. All I did was convince them that they would rather pay me a nice bribe, keep the bonds and let you go, than to deal with an income tax audit for the next twenty years."

        "No, Duncan would never have let him kidnap me in the first place!" Amanda snorted derisively. "You just stood there with your hands stuck up in the air." Then she paused, her head cocked and her eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that IRS identification anyway? Do you suppose you could get me one?" the beautiful thief asked, her voice suddenly changing to a seductive purr.

        The ancient man smiled his enigmatic smile and said nothing.
 

        It was a couple of days later, Amanda had disappeared once again and Methos had spent the morning helping Joe out at the bar, checking the inventory. He had related the story of Amanda's latest adventure and how she had managed to steal the counterfeit bearer bonds from their original owners, only to have them track her down, ready to put a bullet in her lovely head if they were not returned.

        Methos watched Joe's face light up as the Watcher asked questions and made editorial comments, and was gratified when Joe's mouth split into a big grin at his description of Amanda, trussed up and furious as Methos negotiated away her "ownership" of millions of dollars worth of counterfeit certificates.

        "Man," Joe shook his head as he finished putting away the last of the bottles. "Life sure is more interesting around here when . . ." his voice trailed off and he didn't finish the thought.

        Methos knew what he had been going to say -- when MacLeod and his friends were an active part of his life. "That's the last of the scotch," Methos broke the silence with the mundane details of their chore.

        "Only one case of Glenmorangie? Is that all we've gone through?" Joe laughed sadly. "I guess I hadn't realized that between Mac and I, we were our own best customers of the good stuff."

        Joe was quiet for several long minutes as he wiped down the bar and put everything neatly in its place.

        "It's okay to admit you miss Mac," Methos finally said, realizing it was high time they talked about the man who had become such an integral part of both their lives.

        "Is it?" Joe's hard gray stare caught him off guard.

        "What do you mean?"

        "I mean you're living in his apartment, running his dojo, carousing with his friends, stepping in to rescue Amanda. Next thing I know you'll be rushing out to save some damsel in distress and take on some big, bad Immortal just to make the world a better place."

        "Do I detect a note of disapproval, Watcher Dawson?"

        Joe let his forearms take his weight on the bar, looking hard at his very old Immortal friend. "You want to know if I miss MacLeod? Christ, Adam, you've practically become MacLeod!"

        "Don't be ridiculous!" Methos sputtered.

        "Look, Adam, you can rationalize the last few months all you want to, but from my point of view your answer to Mac's disappearance has been simply to replace him. Frankly, I'd rather have you both around, not some hybrid Methos/Mac who isn't really either."

        "Joe, that's simply not true. Just because I'm staying at Mac's place…"

        "…and hanging out with his friends and keeping the dojo open and helping Amanda…" Joe added.

        "Just because of that does not mean … anything. I just happen to like Mac's place. Always have. It's convenient and I wanted to stay fairly close by until I was sure you were back on your feet again."

        "Alright, that's it!" Joe snapped, throwing the bar towel down, picking up his cane and stomping out from behind the bar. His mouth was set and grim, his eyes angry.

        Methos backed away as the big Watcher drew close, his jaw jutting out in stubborn fury. "Joe, don't…" Methos began, genuinely concerned about his friend's health.

        "Shut up, Adam. My heart is just fine and has been for months. Don't you dare blame this mess on me!" The cane came up, its brass tip inches from Methos prominent nose. "You and Mac used my heart attack as an excuse to do things you otherwise wouldn't feel the freedom or compulsion to do. Mac runs away, not really because he wants to protect me or you or anybody else, but to protect himself! He's been bruised and bleeding for too long with no one he really listens to around or willing to tell him what he needed to hear to help him heal." Joe turned away, leaning up against the bar. "And you! So afraid of admitting just how much Mac means to you that you let him walk away, then tried to replace him in your life by recreating him." He turned back, some of the anger replaced by sadness and concern. "But despite your talent for adjustment to whatever situation you're in, you're not MacLeod, Adam. Oh, the two of you are more alike than either of you will probably ever admit, but you can't be him anymore than he can try to change enough, to become distant enough, hard enough, to be you!"

        "I don't want to be MacLeod," Adam insisted haughtily.

        "No, Adam, I honestly don't think you do, but you need him around so much that if he's not here, you choose to create him. Well, that's not really a very good answer for him or for you is it?" Joe challenged. "Is it?" he asked again. When he got no answer, he turned and headed towards his office. "You know what the answer is, Adam Pierson. I just pray that when you find him, you'll know what the question is." The door slammed behind him.

        Guanahuato, Mexico was a lousy place to visit in July. It was winter here just south of the equator, which made it rainy, buggy, muggy and generally unpleasant, Methos thought as he maneuvered the steep winding streets in his rented car. And the old city's main attraction, its elaborate cathedrals and Spanish architecture, did not interest him. He had seen enough ancient churches in his life that the only interest they held was as refuge from some Immortal asshole after his head. It had been a long, unpleasant trip and what started out months ago as general irritation had gradually ripened into cold anger. Headhunters weren't the only assholes in the universe that got his dander up. As a matter of fact his dander hadn't been this far up in a long, long time.

        He finally found the local Marriott, sending praise to ancient, long-forgotten gods for the blessings of hotel chains. At least there was certainty in a reasonably clean bed, air conditioning and a working bathroom. He dumped his bag on the bed and crossed to the small balcony, opened the moisture-slicked sliding glass door and stepped out. Even outdoors the air smelled close and musty. It felt like mildew would start forming in the creases of his skin any minute. But he stood, watching the warm rain wash in rivulets off the balcony above him and closed his eyes, clearing his mind. The connection forged with the relentlessly stubborn Scot at the moment when two ancient simultaneous Quickenings moved, entwined and welded their psyches together was tenuous at best, but if he was reasonably close . . . hmm, there it was. That odd awareness. Just a distant sense, like a lingering scent.

        Joe had been right. Tracking MacLeod's likely whereabouts hadn't been so hard after all. All they had to do was wait. Wait until a few challenges were issued, a few battles fought by a known immortal with some unknown, unwatched combatant. After all, MacLeod could change his name but not his nature, not his signature presence that drew hunters like bees to honey. And the man was clueless when it came to the simple fact that his was the most recognized face in the annals of the Watchers. There were Watcher secretaries and researchers who even used his picture as a screen saver on their computers.  It was almost funny if it hadn't been such a pain in the butt.

        The unfortunate side effect of the bizarre link between MacLeod and Methos also meant that the old man felt it each time MacLeod took a Quickening. It was like a long painful charge of electricity just under his skin, sometimes more intense than others. He supposed the differences were relative to the age and power of whomever the Scot had taken down. But knowing the timing of the battles made the search relatively simple. Oh, Mac had been quick and clever, moving from place to place. But he could not elude him forever, Methos knew. Of course, the Scot naively assumed his friends would follow his instructions to let him be, that they all accepted and agreed with his unilateral decision to remove himself from their lives. Little does he know, Methos thought grimly to himself. Arrogant, deluded child. Brat.

        Carlos Muñoz arrived early for his meeting with the Englishman mostly so he would have an excuse to hang out at the bar at the very American Guanahuato Marriott. Inside was cool and dark, the drinks not noticeably watered, and he could charge them to his "client", Señor Pierson. He was working on his second round of vodka martinis when a tall, thin gringo appeared at the door of the half empty bar. He came strait to him as though he knew exactly who he was.

        "Señor Muñoz, I believe?" the man said in flawless Spanish. When Carlos nodded, the man folded his long frame into a chair and signaled for a waiter, ordering a Dos Equis. He waited for it to arrive and took a long drink straight from the bottle before he opened the conversation. "Ah, that's better. Miserable climate you've got here."

        "Ah, but you should be here in the Spring, Señor. The flowers, the sunshine, the cathedrals, it's truly beautiful. You come back and I can show you. I do tour guides as well as . . ."

        "Right, Carlos. I've been here before and I'm not interested in the local tourist sites. Tell me what you've found out about my friend."

        "Ah, yes, your friend. Well, it took a lot of work, a lot of checking around. I had to visit every single garage, every hotel and apartment complex, show the picture around, ask . ."

        "Señor Muñoz, it is unnecessary to convince me the man is not easy to track. All you have to do is tell me you found him. You told me over the phone you knew where he was."

        "Well, I did, of course. I spotted this man, going by the name of Roberto Montoya, several days ago. As I told you, he purchased a local garage and works there as a mechanic, but spends a lot of time doing odd jobs around the Little Sisters of the Poor orphanage. You know, I knew there was something strange about him as soon as I found him. He drives such a nice car to live so poorly, one of those big utility vehicles, and …"

        "It was day before yesterday, as I recall, that you told me all of this over the phone. Don’t tell me you’ve lost him already." Pierson crossed his long legs, took a drink of his beer and gave Muñoz a look that made him feel about three feet tall.

        "No, no, señor, not lost exactly. It’s just that he is in the habit of disappearing into the countryside for several days at a time, and well, when he did not return to his rooms last night…"

        "So you’ve lost him. How do you know he didn’t spot you and take off?"

        "Oh, I am absolutely certain, señor. I have been doing this for a very long time and I can assure you…"

        "Take me to this orphanage."

        "But he is not…"

        "I’ll bring my car around front and meet me there."

        "But señor, we won’t…" But he was up and gone before Muñoz could inform the stupid gringo that there would be nothing to see and that the sisters seemed very closed-mouthed about their new handyman.

        The orphanage was hidden behind high adobe walls, its only identification a small weathered sign at the entrance. Carlos rang the bell to one side of the wooden gates, but it was several minutes before they creaked open.

        "Si?" a woman asked. The door was open such a tiny crack that all the visitors could tell was that she was short and had dark eyes.

        "Sister, I was here once before, about Señor Montoya?" Carlos began shifting uncomfortably in the pouring rain, but he suddenly found himself displaced to one side.

        "God Bless You, Sister," the Englishman began. His voice was sweet and low and full of sympathy and compassion. "I am a close friend of Roberto Montoya's and need to find him. It's really a matter of life and death."

        The gate started to creak open a little more, but then stopped. They could now see that the woman was wearing a worn, but clean and well-starched dark skirt and white blouse, and her hair was covered with a short, dark scarf. She carefully held the gate with one hand and an old black umbrella in the other. "Lo siento mucho, señor. Roberto Montoya is not here."

        "As I said, Sister, it is a matter of life and death that I find him as soon as possible. Do you know where I can reach him?"

        The woman's bright eyes examined him carefully up and down for several long seconds, then she opened the gate, gesturing for him to enter. Wordlessly, she led them across a muddy path to the entrance of a two-story adobe building. Methos caught a quick glimpse of a large garden on one side of the building and heard children's voices and squealing laughter coming from inside. The sister opened the door and they stepped in, relieved to be out of the persistent rain at last. The children's voices were louder in here, echoing along the terra cotta floors and thick adobe walls. The sister shook running water off of the rather battered umbrella and propped it next to the door, then smiled and silently gestured them on, leading them down a long hallway. Methos peered into the rooms leading off the corridor as they passed. Each was filled to overflowing with fifteen or twenty children, grouped in ages from about three to almost grown. No uniforms here. Clothes were worn, sometimes almost to tatters, but all were clean and the abundant smiles in each room attested to a general sense of safety, of caring.

        At last the Sister paused, tapping on a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway, then opened it and gestured inwards. Methos heard the door click closed behind him as he watched a stout woman, dressed exactly like her counterparts seen in each of the several rooms they had passed, push herself to her feet from a small prayer stool, and turn to them.

        Methos opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. The woman had an intense gaze which caught and held his as though he were held fast by some invisible force. It amused him to think what it must be like for some young, naughty child to be caught in that singular focus. He held himself still as he was carefully and critically examined, head to toe. At last, the woman, whose age he guessed at early sixties, held out her hand.

        "I am Sister Magdalene, currently head of this orphanage. You are?"

        Methos took the brown hand. It was rough and weathered from a lifetime of hard work, the grasp strong and warm. "My name is Adam Pierson, Sister. I am a friend of Roberto Montoya's. I understand he occasionally works for you."

        She gestured to the worn, frayed upholstered chairs arranged around a low table at one end of what was evidently her office. "Mr. Montoya is a friend to this establishment, Señor Pierson. A good one." The tone was just slightly cold. A warning, then.

        Methos sat, letting Carlos and Sister Magdalene settle before responding. "I need to find him, Sister," he said, letting some urgency into his voice. "It's very important."

        "Mr. Montoya is not here." The woman's black eyes were watching him curiously.

        "But you know where he is?"

        "What is this life and death matter that brings you here, Señor Pierson?"

        Methos sat back, distancing himself a little. The woman was nothing if not direct. "It is highly confidential."

        "Mr. Montoya has given a great deal of his time and skills to our small orphanage, Mr. Pierson. I consider him a personal friend, and I know him to be very protective of his privacy. I will be happy to convey his message to you the next time I see him."

        "As I said, Sister, it's a personal matter."

        The woman let the silence extend for a moment, until Carlos began to squirm in discomfort. Then she stood, which automatically brought the men to their feet. "I'm sorry I can't help you, Señor Pierson. If I happen to see Mr. Montoya, however, I'll tell him you dropped by."

        "Tell him . . . just tell him I need to speak to him, Sister. I'll be at the Marriott for at least a week, after that . . . well he can probably figure out where to reach me."

        "I told you, Señor, that they would not tell you anything," Carlos repeated for what seemed like the twentieth time as they unsuccessfully attempted to avoid the large puddles of standing mud and water on their way back to the car.

        "Oh, I think the good Sister told me plenty, Carlos," the Englishman responded with a smile. "Sister Magdalene told me Mac comes here fairly often, that she expects to see him soon and that she'll tell him I was here."

        Carlos glared at him from the passenger seat. "I did not hear her say anything like that, Señor Pierson. Are you feeling all right?"

        "I'm feeling fine, Carlos. Now show me where he's living."

        It was a small apartment above the garage he had bought. There were two mechanics inside working on old American-made cars, radio blasting at full volume, but as Methos was sure there would be, there was a back entrance up some side stairs. At the top, he stopped and looked around. It had been carefully chosen so that there was no space where someone could hide within 30 yards of the door, and whoever stood at the top of the stairs had a clear view of the street. The door itself was reinforced steel with two deadbolt locks. Duncan had gotten significantly more careful on his little road trip.

        Carlos watched as Methos tested the door. "Your friend must either have something very valuable in there, or have some very nasty enemies," Carlo observed nervously. Methos made him hold the umbrella as he knelt, pulling a pocket folder of tools out of his voluminous coat. For a moment, Carlos was sure he saw the glint of a huge blade in the dark folds, and he began to wonder just who this man and his friend really were. A few minutes more and the second lock clicked open and Methos slipped into the room without a sound. Carlos stepped in slowly behind him.

        It was a simple space. One double bed in one corner, a small kitchen area in another. One sitting chair with several piles of books around it, and a big brass-bound trunk against the wall. Methos long legs took him over to the trunk in four strides and he threw it open.  The noise of the lid clanging back made Carlos start and glance nervously towards the door. He couldn't resist coming closer, however. The trunk looked like it came straight out of some fairy tale. He half expected it to be filled with doubloons and jewels, but what he saw was even more of a surprise, punctuated by the whispered curse of the Englishman as he lifted part of its contents into the light.

        It was a wooden rod, delicate patterns traced in the wood all along its length. Curiosity drove Carlos closer, and he leaned down and drew back the black cloth covering the remaining contents, murmuring in surprise. They were swords. The soft light coming in from the windows seemed to gather, strengthen and be returned in the delicately patterned edges, the intricate decorative tracings and weavings of the multitude of styles of hilts and blades only partially visible among the dark textures and soft folds of velvet and satin coverings.

        "Jesu Christe," Carlos whispered. "Are those real?"

        The Englishman nodded thoughtfully, carefully replacing the stick he had removed. "Only one is missing," the man murmured.

        "They are stolen!?" Carlos backed towards the door. "Look, señor, I do not wish to get involved in stolen goods, or smuggling or whatever you and your friend are into."

        The tall man rose with a sigh and closed the trunk lid. "Don’t worry, Carlos. Nothing was stolen. Come on, let's get out of here." As he headed towards the door a piece of paper lying on the kitchen table caught his eye and he paused to pick it up. "Don't tell me," he whispered, then looked up at his companion. "Don't tell me you did this?!" It was a flyer printed with the words "If you have seen this man, please call 555-8423." It had Duncan's picture printed on it.

        "Well, uh," Carlos backed quickly towards the door. "It was the fastest way, a few hundred flyers scattered around town…"

        "I told you to be discreet!" the man loomed large over him, backing him out the door and against the outside railing. The cold edge of a dagger brushed his throat and the thin, almost fey Englishman's face was now all hard planes and angles, his eyes glowing gold like an angry predator who would take genuine pleasure in his kill.

        "I . . I . . I" Carlos squeaked, unable to form a sentence.

        "You idiot!" Pierson growled. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" Much to Carlos' relief, in another burst of energy Pierson whirled away, then stood motionless in the heavy rain. "No wonder he took the katana," the man whispered.

        Carlos didn't have a clue what the man was talking about. At that point, all he wanted was to get paid and to get away. There was something frightening and dangerous about this man, just as he had sensed something dangerous about Montoya, even though he had only seen him from a distance.

        Pierson was silent as they drove back to the hotel. The silence became oppressive as Carlos meekly followed him into the lobby, where the tall man finally stopped and looked down on him. The eyes were as cold and hard as the voice. He pulled a couple of hundreds off of a money clip deep in his pockets and handed them to him. "I suggest, Mr. Muñoz, that you get out of town as quickly as possible. If Mr. . . . Montoya doesn't try to look you up, then there are others who might. Either meeting will probably be unpleasant at best."

        "Who are you people?" Munoz couldn't resist asking.

        "You don't want to know," Pierson said, and Carlos was instantly convinced he was right.

        "What about the rest of my money?" He was not going to give up that easily, no matter what the threat.

        The dark man leaned over him. The voice was a soft whisper. "Amigo, you should be grateful your head is still attached to your body." He looked around the lobby and Carlos followed his gaze. Suddenly it seemed ominous and full of shadows, the lingering tourists somehow threatening and he had the odd impression they all were watching him out of the corners of their eyes. He backed away, almost falling before he turned, his short legs carrying him quickly out the door.