Happy Birthday Strangevisitor7!!!!!!!!
I realise it isn't your birthday for another five hours as far as you're concerned, but it's already the 6th here so:
For my friend, collaborator, ever-patient and wise beta and comrade in Denial
strangevisitor7. Happy Birthday Casey, may your day and life be filled with love, joy and serenity (or Serenity, whichever you prefer *g*).
I know you’ve never seen Archangel, so here is your own special version of it. This idea has become too big for one fic, and as a consequence I’m afraid it’s not yet finished, currently weighing in at around 7000 words! So, here’s part one and part two will follow ASAP.
Massive thanks to
ithildyn and
silvercobwebs for their invaluable help as betas for this, I owe you both big time.
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, all the people and dialogue you recognise belongs to other people. No harm intended, no profit made, I’m just playing in the sandbox and I’ll put it all back when I’m done.
The Leap of Angels (or Casey’s Archangel) Part One
Sam felt the moment of disorientation that was so familiar to him now as he leapt into another person. He actually stumbled, but strong arms caught him before he could fall to the floor.
“Oh boy,” he said as he was righted and placed in a chair.
“Joe! Are you alright?” said a concerned voice, presumably attached to the arms. Sam nodded.
“I’m okay, just need to sit a moment,” he said. So I’m called Joe. That’s a start, he mused.
He looked round at his rescuer and discovered him to be a tall man, broad across the shoulders and muscled, with long dark hair scraped back in a ponytail. From the looks of the clothing the guy wore, Sam figured it was anywhere from 1978 to 2008. Unfortunately, jeans and a tee were pretty ‘in’ from the fifties onwards, but Sam had developed an eye for identifying the date from clothing in his years of leaping.
Further examination of his surroundings showed him that he was in a bar, and from the cars he could see through the window, he could narrow the time period to late 80s, or the 90s. The plates on the vehicles looked strange, foreign. And his rescuer had an unusual accent; it seemed to be a mix of nations, although mostly he thought it sounded British.
Okay, so I’m maybe in Europe, about 1990. This is good, Sam thought to himself. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m just going to call Richie, won’t be a minute. Will you be okay?”
“Sure, you can stop fussing, I’m fine,” Sam replied, hoping this was the right kind of tone to adopt. The dark haired man smiled and headed to the phone behind the bar. As he picked up the receiver, Al appeared with his cigar in his mouth.
“Al! Boy, you got here fast!” Sam whispered, a huge smile on his face. Al smiled and took the cigar out.
“It’s always easier when you’re closer to us. It’s May 15th, 1997,” Al explained, reading from his link to Ziggy. “You’re one Joseph Dawson, former Marine, lost both legs in Vietnam in ‘68. Currently runs a Jazz bar in Paris. That reminds me of this sweet little thing I used to see from New Orleans. Sam, she had legs from here to next Tuesday, and boy was she stacked!”
“Any idea why I’m here yet?” Sam asked, keeping an eye on his companion at the phone.
“That one’s going to be a little trickier. Best we can figure so far is that you’re here to save one rich…” Al paused and put his cigar in his mouth as he slammed his palm against the side of the link. He took the cigar out again and continued. “Richard Ryan. Good friend of Dawson, the kid gets killed five days from now. That’s Duncan MacLeod over there, also a friend of yours and Ryan. We can’t seem to find much information on him; Ziggy keeps throwing out data on Duncan MacLeods all the way back to 1592, but nothing useful on this guy. Ziggy’s on the fritz again, she told us that this Ryan guy died two years ago! Unless of course they’re both zombies,” Al joked. Something in that statement tugged at the Swiss-cheese of Sam’s memory, but he couldn’t place what was important.
Duncan finished his phone call and walked back to where Sam was sitting.
“I’m going, Joe. Richie wants me to look at a painting he’s found, see if it’s any good. Thought he could put it away somewhere for a rainy day. I’ll see you later though,” Duncan said.
“Yeah, Duncan, see you later,” Sam replied a little uncertainly. Duncan smiled and headed for the door, throwing a wave over his shoulder. His departure left Sam alone with Al and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“I’ll get back to see what else Ziggy can dig up, but if it comes to it I’ll have to talk with Joe myself. Just hope he can accept what’s going on,” Al said. Sam nodded and stood to go toward the bar. “Oh, and don’t forget you walk with prosthetics, and a cane. Don’t want to give anyone a heart attack!” Al added with a wink. He put his cigar back in his mouth, opened the door to the imaging chamber and was gone.
Picking up the cane that was propped against the table, Sam made his way to the bar and examined his reflection. The man looking back was older than Sam, grey and grizzled. He looked like a man who had been through war, and other tragedies besides.
“Hello Joe,” Sam said to his reflection. He saw the front door open in the reflection. “Sorry we’re closed, nous sommes ferme,” he called out to the newcomer.
“Well I know that, but it’s never stopped me before,” said a voice that was weirdly familiar to Sam. He turned and looked at the man who had entered the bar, who in turn was staring at Sam.
“Sam!” cried the man. “What are you doing here?” The man’s unexpected declaration made Sam start. Not only was this man somehow able to see Sam, but it seemed that he knew him. Sam searched his memory, trying to remember when they’d met, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“You can see me?! Wait, I know you, don’t I?” Sam asked, confused. “I think your name…William?”
“Not at the moment, no,” the man looked at the reflection in the mirror. “You’ve leaped into Dawson, haven’t you, Sam?” the man asked. Sam nodded. The man sighed. “Then you’ll need to know my real name. It’s Methos.”
“Methos,” Sam said, trying the unfamiliar name as he wondered about its origins. Methos nodded.
“Although only a select few that includes Dawson know that. To everyone else, I’m Adam Pierson,” Methos instructed. Sam nodded his understanding, but he was still trying to remember when he last met Methos.
“I remember you now, we met in Nepal. But that was… I think it was 1970? You haven’t changed at all!” Sam stammered, as he walked to a table and sat down. Methos took a chair opposite him. “Are you a time-traveller too? Is that how you can see me?”
“No, Sam, that’s not it, and I’m not a crazy person either. I don’t know how I can see you; we never did figure that out. Maybe our brainwaves are similar or something. Nepal was actually 1957, forty years ago. Although we have met twice more since then. Either you haven’t been there yet, or that Swiss-cheese brain of yours has forgotten,” Methos added with a grin.
Sam smiled too at that. He couldn’t remember much about Methos, but he was fairly certain that he was a friend and had helped him with that previous leap.
“That still doesn’t explain why you haven’t aged,” Sam pressed.
Methos wasn’t sure how to continue, he knew he’d told Sam about Immortality on one of their previous meetings, but he didn’t know if this Sam didn’t remember that or if he hadn’t had that conversation yet.
“Well, I suppose I ought to tell you everything. Joe Dawson knows all this, so it would seem very odd if you don’t. Me, and two other friends of Joe’s that you’ll probably meet, Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan, we’re Immortals. We don’t age, or get sick and we heal from any wound…” Methos explained, but he stopped at the confused look on Sam’s face. “I know it might be hard to accept…”
“No, it’s not that, I think I remember you telling me this before, but…” Sam started. Methos nodded confirmation then waited for Sam to continue. “Al told me that I was here to save Richie, but if he’s Immortal then how can he die?” Sam said.
“Ah, well, we can be killed. By beheading. But for an Immortal to die in the Game, that isn’t something I’d think was a wrong that needed to be put right,” Methos reasoned.
“The Game?”
“Long story. It might be best if we go upstairs and you peruse Joe’s library,” Methos said. The two got up and, after locking the front door, headed up to the apartment.
“Just how old are you?” Sam asked, wondering again about Methos’ strange name. It sounded Greek to Sam and the thought that the Immortal counted his age in centuries or even millennia was fascinating to Sam.
“Old enough to know better,” came Methos’ evasive reply. Then to forestall any further questions he asked, “By the way, did Al tell you when?” unable to add ‘Richie dies’.
“Five days from now,” Sam answered. At the concern on Methos’ face, he added, “Which is a lot more than I usually have to work with. Don’t worry; I’ll save your friend.”
“We’ll save him,” Methos said.
*-*
Several hours later, Sam had finished reading the most salient parts of Watcher history and the chronicles of Duncan and Richie that Methos had placed before him. Sam sat quietly on Joe’s couch, absorbing the information. Methos sat opposite, watching his friend’s face.
“You’re right, if Richie were killed as part of the Game, it wouldn’t make sense for me to come here to put that right. There must be another reason behind it,” Sam said finally.
“Yes, but what?” Methos asked. “Some kind of freakish accident?”
Sam thought about it for a moment.
“Are you certain that the Watchers eliminated all of these…Hunters?”
Methos’ face grew dark at the mention of Horton’s rogue Watchers.
“They more or less disbanded with Horton’s death. Those that were still loyal to his insane ‘ethnic cleansing’ scheme were…dealt with by the Watchers,” he replied.
“You mean killed. They sound like a pretty hardcore group, these Watchers,” Sam said.
“They’ve had to be, to maintain the secrecy of their society and what they protect - Immortals. Look, I’m not exactly in the loop with the Watchers right now, but I’m sure Joe would have warned us if he’d heard of any Hunter activity,” Methos reasoned. Sam nodded.
“Well then, we have to figure out how a man could get decapitated in Paris in 1997. I mean, it’s not like they still use the guillotine here.”
“The sharp end of a swift blade is the only obvious answer that springs to my mind. But I can’t think of many other possibilities that are likely to occur. Maybe it would be safer just to hang around with Richie, make sure he can’t get into trouble?” Methos suggested. Sam thought about this for a moment.
“As long as Richie wouldn’t think that too odd,” he said.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve been meaning to spend a bit more time with the brat anyway. He amuses me,” Methos said with a smile that was verging on evil. Sam had no idea what thoughts were firing in that Machiavellian brain, but he had a feeling there was more going on than he knew about.
*-*
It was just past midnight, May 15th turning into May 16th as Richie and Methos checked the coast was clear and climbed out from their hiding spot atop the Eiffel tower.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t do this in the day,” Richie complained as he reached the viewing platform. “Then we wouldn’t have had to wait for over an hour in the cold. And how exactly do we get down, with the elevators no longer running?”
At this height the wind was strong, whipping around them both. Richie pulled his jacket closer around him as he spoke.
“That’s the point Richie, my boy. We’re taking the express elevator to the bottom,” Methos said with a malicious smile and pointed between the railings and down.
“We’re what now?!” Richie cried.
“Ssh, there may still be some guards checking the platforms,” Methos hissed. “Richie, Immortality allows us to experience life like no other can. We can jump off the Eiffel Tower and know that we will walk away from it. Haven’t you ever wanted to try something like that?”
“And end up in a Paris morgue? No thanks, been there, done the naked run back to the barge. Not in any hurry to try it again. Have you been hanging out with Cory Raines lately?” Richie replied. Methos chuckled. “You’re drunk then, or stoned. Is that it? You decide to see how nineties acid compares with the stuff you had in the sixties?”
Methos shook his head and smirked in amusement.
“Come on, Richie, you’re supposed to be the film buff. Have you never seen A View to a Kill?” Methos said.
“Yeah, but Grace Jones had a parachute. That river is a long way from here.”
“I’ve calculated it all. We take a running jump; throw ourselves as far away as possible from the tower. The arc of our trajectory and the wind will do the rest,” Methos reasoned. Richie shook his head and laughed.
“Have the millennia finally got to you old timer? Or is this one of your jokes? Immortal or not, there is no way I am jumping off this tower,” Richie insisted. Methos shrugged.
“Huh. I owe Joe a twenty. He said you wouldn’t jump off a cliff if someone told you to,” he said with a smirk. After a moment, Richie got the joke and broke into the patented Ryan Smile No. 6.
“You’ve got a warped sense of humour, old timer. But, seriously, how are we going to get down?”
“Simple, kid, we walk. There are maintenance stairs to this level. Come one,” he said and led Richie toward the east pillar of the iron structure. There he opened a small door to reveal a winding set of stairs that would take them all the way down to the ground.
*-*
He took Richie back to Joe’s bar, where Sam was keeping a light on for them. Sam sat on the edge of the stage, guitar on his lap, idly strumming. As the two Immortals entered, Sam looked to Methos expectantly.
“Well?” he asked.
“I owe you twenty,” Methos grumbled as he made his way behind the bar to grab a beer.
“Along with your tab. Am I gonna get that back in my lifetime?” Sam groused good-naturedly. Methos had briefed him on enough of their running in-jokes to make sure Richie didn’t feel suspicious. “Way to go there, kid. I had complete faith in you.”
Methos nearly spat out the mouthful of beer he had, but he managed to swallow it before spluttering,
“Liar! You just said that I couldn’t make him do it, but if Mac said it…”
“That’s not fair, you’re twisting my words,” Sam blustered. Richie rounded on Sam.
“He better had be, Joe! We’ve had this argument, I’m not Mac’s sidekick,” he said, glaring at Sam. “I’m my own man.”
“Preaching to the choir here, Rich. He’s the one thinks you follow him round like a lost puppy,” Sam said, pointing to Methos.
“Oh no, don’t pull me in to this…”
“You started it! In fact, this entire thing was your idea. I’d have closed up and gone to bed hours ago otherwise,” Sam lay down the guitar and cautiously used the cane to stand. He made his way over to the bar. “I ought to throw you out, you ungrateful old…”
“Careful what you say here, Joseph,” Methos warned.
“Hey, guys, come on, this was all just a bit of fun wasn’t it? No need for it to turn serious,” Richie interrupted, hands raised in a placatory gesture. The two other men looked at each other. After a moment, Methos held out his hand.
“He’s right, I’m sorry, Joe. Let’s just sit down and have a friendly game of poker. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Sam said and took Methos’ hand.
As Richie walked over to a table, Methos winked at Sam. The old man’s plan had worked perfectly, now Richie would sit and play poker for hours without question, thinking that he was acting as mediator between his friends.
*-*
Five hours later, and two hundred dollars poorer, Richie yawned and stood up.
“You’re not leaving? Don’t you want to win your money back?” Methos said, shuffling the bills in front of him.
“No thanks. Playing you for money I’m liable to lose my shorts. Besides, I need to catch some zees. Mac’s taking me to the opera tonight and he’ll kill me if I fall asleep,” Richie replied with a grin. Methos and Sam looked at him, eyebrow raised. “I know, I know, but Mac’s always saying I should experience everything, try everything at least once. I don’t get what he loves about the damn thing, but hey,” he finished with a shrug. He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“No, you’re right, Rich, not his sidekick at all,” Methos called after him. Richie flipped him the finger as he walked out the door.
Once Richie had gone, Sam turned to Methos and said,
“So, now what?”
“Don’t worry. The Boy Scout will protect Richie if he gets in trouble. Besides, it’s more likely for Mac to be challenged than Richie,” Methos replied. “He’s perfectly safe.”
Methos got up and stretched before heading for another beer. Sam was about to protest that it was a little early, but Al appeared through the imaging chamber door.
“Al!” Sam said. Methos looked over and smiled in recognition.
“Morning, Admiral! How’s Tina?”
“Oh she’s fine,” Al replied absently, casually looking at Methos before turning back to Sam. He then did a double take as he realised that a) Methos could see him and b) he knew him from another leap. “I…uh…huh?” Al asked, pointing with his cigar toward Methos before circling it around beside his temple in the universal sign for ‘insane’. Sam shook his head and smiled.
“Long story, Al, one best saved for another time. So, what have you found out?”
“It’s not good. There’s still a 68% probability that Richie Ryan is killed on May 19th at…” he slammed the link “…around 9pm. Though time of death’s a little uncertain. Killed by decapitation, although there’s never any official investigation into his death.”
“There wouldn’t be. Joe would pull some strings to keep it quiet,” Methos said as he returned to the table. Al looked a surprised at this information, but more so by the fact that Sam wasn’t surprised.
“There’s something I don’t know, isn’t there?” Al said, eyes narrowing. Sam looked to Methos, who shook his head.
“Another time, Al,” Methos said. “Don’t want to mess up any timelines.”
Al was sceptical, but he didn’t protest.
“I’d better head back, try to get more information,” he said.
“What an excellent idea. Try to make it a little more useful next time?” Methos snarked.
*-*
The morning of the 17th, Sam was wiping down the bar, cleaning up from the previous evening when Methos arrived at the bar, a look of concern on his face.
“What’s wrong, is it Richie?” Sam asked, stopping his cleaning. Methos climbed onto a stool on the opposite side of the bar before answering.
“No. I forgot to tell you something, Sam. Remember Horton?”
“The Hunter guy?” Sam said. Methos nodded.
“Well he was Joe’s brother-in-law. Joe told me that his niece wants to bury the body in the States, so Joe had arranged to fly the body back. The flight is in a few hours, I think you need to go to the airport to sign some papers,” Methos explained. Sam let go of the cloth and picked up Joe’s cane from where he had propped it behind the bar.
“There’s a folder in the office with some papers, I think they might be about this,” he said and disappeared in the back. He didn’t bother to use the cane, but he carried it in case Methos wasn’t alone when he returned.
He came back to the bar a few moments later, carrying a thick manila folder and laid it on the bar. Opening it, he took out some documents and passed them to Methos.
“Yes, this looks like the ones Joe showed me. He was grousing that he had to do so much paperwork,” the Immortal confirmed.
“Okay, can you give me a ride? I don’t know where the airport is,” Sam said, putting the papers back in the folder and picking it up.
“Sure, but then I’ll head over to Mac’s barge, check in on him and Richie.”
*-*
Sam stood anxiously by the coffin containing the remains of James Horton. He wanted this over with quickly so he could get back to protecting Richie. As he signed the final release forms, he heard MacLeod’s voice behind him.
“Well, if I’d known, I’d have sent flowers,” Duncan said sarcastically. Sam sighed. He really didn’t need this now. Methos had explained a lot of what happened, of why Joe had told him and not Mac that he was moving Horton’s body. Sam didn’t know how Duncan had found out, but he had a feeling that this conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. Sam was at least relieved to see that Richie was with Duncan.
“This is personal business, MacLeod, it really doesn’t concern you,” Sam said, a note of warning in his voice.
“Anything to do with Horton concerns me,” Duncan practically growled.
“Look, my niece, his daughter, she moved back to Chicago, wants him buried there. So I’m helping the kid out. It’s a family thing,” Sam explained.
“Oh, a family thing, is it? Then why did you hide it from me?” Duncan asked. His aggressive tone worried Sam. He didn’t want to wreck Duncan and Joe’s friendship. He looked at Richie, but the younger Immortal was wisely staying out of this argument.
“I know what he did to you, and I know how you felt about him,” Sam answered, hoping that his sympathetic approach would calm Duncan down. He was wrong.
“Well, that’s very considerate of you,” Duncan sneered.
“What is wrong with you? The guy was my brother-in-law. His daughter wants his body shipped home.”
“Well she’s going to be very disappointed, isn’t she,” Duncan retorted. Confused, Sam looked to Richie.
“What is his problem?” he asked. Richie just held his hands up.
“I saw him, I saw Horton. He’s alive,” Duncan insisted. Sam was stunned; he let out a little chuckle of disbelief.
“No, Horton is dead. You killed him yourself, remember? I was there!”
“Yeah, well he looked very healthy last night,” Duncan said, then walked away from the coffin and picked up a crowbar. Richie threw an exasperated look at Sam; obviously he’d heard this from Duncan already.
“This is insane! Whatever is left of James Horton is in that box,” Sam said, pointing to the coffin.
“Oh, well we should really wish him a bon voyage, then,” Duncan replied and began to pry at the lid of the coffin. Richie started forward and tried to stop him, finally spurred to action by Duncan’s seemingly crazy behaviour. Sam could only look in horror as Richie and a guard struggled with Duncan. Duncan pushed them both off and the lid flew open. Inside was a decayed corpse, presumably that of Horton.
Sam and Richie looked at each other, upset and confused, as Duncan was dragged away by airport police.
Richie drove Sam to the nearest police station, where Sam convinced them to let Duncan go without charges. But Duncan still was convinced that Horton was alive, even though he had seen the body. He argued with Sam, pointing out that he only saw a body; that it needn’t belong to Horton. Frustrated that Duncan wouldn’t see sense, Sam wouldn’t back down, but neither would Duncan and the argument ended in stalemate. As he watched Duncan and Richie walk away, Sam was worried for MacLeod’s mental health and a horrible idea entered his head.
*-*
“I couldn’t find Mac, and Richie wasn’t at his apartment either,” Methos said as he walked into the bar and sat at a table, opposite Sam.
“That’s because they were at the airport. And Duncan was acting really strangely. He said Horton was alive, that he’d seen him last night,” Sam replied.
“That’s ridiculous. Horton’s dead.”
“Well, he was so convinced that he pulled the lid from the coffin. The police practically dragged him away. I managed to get them to drop the charges, but he’s still certain. I think he might have been hallucinating.”
“MacLeod? I don’t know, Sam. I mean, Immortals do lose it, but Duncan is one of the steadiest, sure-footed men I know. He’s like you, a moral compass that drives the very centre of him,” Methos said. The way he said it, Sam wasn’t sure if Methos intended it as an insult or compliment.
They were interrupted by the arrival of a worried looking Al.
“Sam, now it’s a 91% probability the kid’s gonna die. Stop doing whatever the hell you just did!”
“Oh boy. Do you know any more yet? Where, or how?” Sam asked.
“How’s still unclear, but where seems to be an abandoned racetrack just outside of Paris. I’ll head back and see if I can get any more on the how,” Al said before he opened the door to the imaging chamber and vanished.
“Why would he go to an abandoned racetrack?” Sam wondered aloud.
“Apart from a challenge? To rescue Duncan or Joe, perhaps,” Methos said. He considered the idea for a moment before snapping his fingers. “That’s it! I bet Duncan gets in some kind of bother, and Richie goes steaming in to help, winds up getting killed!” Methos stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Gods preserve me from thick-skulled boy scouts with a martyr complex!”
“Where are you going?”
“Richie’s safe until the day after tomorrow, correct? So I’m going to have a little talk with the Highlander.”
Continues in Part Two
For my friend, collaborator, ever-patient and wise beta and comrade in Denial
strangevisitor7. Happy Birthday Casey, may your day and life be filled with love, joy and serenity (or Serenity, whichever you prefer *g*).
I know you’ve never seen Archangel, so here is your own special version of it. This idea has become too big for one fic, and as a consequence I’m afraid it’s not yet finished, currently weighing in at around 7000 words! So, here’s part one and part two will follow ASAP.
Massive thanks to
ithildyn and
silvercobwebs for their invaluable help as betas for this, I owe you both big time.
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, all the people and dialogue you recognise belongs to other people. No harm intended, no profit made, I’m just playing in the sandbox and I’ll put it all back when I’m done.
The Leap of Angels (or Casey’s Archangel) Part One
Sam felt the moment of disorientation that was so familiar to him now as he leapt into another person. He actually stumbled, but strong arms caught him before he could fall to the floor.
“Oh boy,” he said as he was righted and placed in a chair.
“Joe! Are you alright?” said a concerned voice, presumably attached to the arms. Sam nodded.
“I’m okay, just need to sit a moment,” he said. So I’m called Joe. That’s a start, he mused.
He looked round at his rescuer and discovered him to be a tall man, broad across the shoulders and muscled, with long dark hair scraped back in a ponytail. From the looks of the clothing the guy wore, Sam figured it was anywhere from 1978 to 2008. Unfortunately, jeans and a tee were pretty ‘in’ from the fifties onwards, but Sam had developed an eye for identifying the date from clothing in his years of leaping.
Further examination of his surroundings showed him that he was in a bar, and from the cars he could see through the window, he could narrow the time period to late 80s, or the 90s. The plates on the vehicles looked strange, foreign. And his rescuer had an unusual accent; it seemed to be a mix of nations, although mostly he thought it sounded British.
Okay, so I’m maybe in Europe, about 1990. This is good, Sam thought to himself. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m just going to call Richie, won’t be a minute. Will you be okay?”
“Sure, you can stop fussing, I’m fine,” Sam replied, hoping this was the right kind of tone to adopt. The dark haired man smiled and headed to the phone behind the bar. As he picked up the receiver, Al appeared with his cigar in his mouth.
“Al! Boy, you got here fast!” Sam whispered, a huge smile on his face. Al smiled and took the cigar out.
“It’s always easier when you’re closer to us. It’s May 15th, 1997,” Al explained, reading from his link to Ziggy. “You’re one Joseph Dawson, former Marine, lost both legs in Vietnam in ‘68. Currently runs a Jazz bar in Paris. That reminds me of this sweet little thing I used to see from New Orleans. Sam, she had legs from here to next Tuesday, and boy was she stacked!”
“Any idea why I’m here yet?” Sam asked, keeping an eye on his companion at the phone.
“That one’s going to be a little trickier. Best we can figure so far is that you’re here to save one rich…” Al paused and put his cigar in his mouth as he slammed his palm against the side of the link. He took the cigar out again and continued. “Richard Ryan. Good friend of Dawson, the kid gets killed five days from now. That’s Duncan MacLeod over there, also a friend of yours and Ryan. We can’t seem to find much information on him; Ziggy keeps throwing out data on Duncan MacLeods all the way back to 1592, but nothing useful on this guy. Ziggy’s on the fritz again, she told us that this Ryan guy died two years ago! Unless of course they’re both zombies,” Al joked. Something in that statement tugged at the Swiss-cheese of Sam’s memory, but he couldn’t place what was important.
Duncan finished his phone call and walked back to where Sam was sitting.
“I’m going, Joe. Richie wants me to look at a painting he’s found, see if it’s any good. Thought he could put it away somewhere for a rainy day. I’ll see you later though,” Duncan said.
“Yeah, Duncan, see you later,” Sam replied a little uncertainly. Duncan smiled and headed for the door, throwing a wave over his shoulder. His departure left Sam alone with Al and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“I’ll get back to see what else Ziggy can dig up, but if it comes to it I’ll have to talk with Joe myself. Just hope he can accept what’s going on,” Al said. Sam nodded and stood to go toward the bar. “Oh, and don’t forget you walk with prosthetics, and a cane. Don’t want to give anyone a heart attack!” Al added with a wink. He put his cigar back in his mouth, opened the door to the imaging chamber and was gone.
Picking up the cane that was propped against the table, Sam made his way to the bar and examined his reflection. The man looking back was older than Sam, grey and grizzled. He looked like a man who had been through war, and other tragedies besides.
“Hello Joe,” Sam said to his reflection. He saw the front door open in the reflection. “Sorry we’re closed, nous sommes ferme,” he called out to the newcomer.
“Well I know that, but it’s never stopped me before,” said a voice that was weirdly familiar to Sam. He turned and looked at the man who had entered the bar, who in turn was staring at Sam.
“Sam!” cried the man. “What are you doing here?” The man’s unexpected declaration made Sam start. Not only was this man somehow able to see Sam, but it seemed that he knew him. Sam searched his memory, trying to remember when they’d met, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“You can see me?! Wait, I know you, don’t I?” Sam asked, confused. “I think your name…William?”
“Not at the moment, no,” the man looked at the reflection in the mirror. “You’ve leaped into Dawson, haven’t you, Sam?” the man asked. Sam nodded. The man sighed. “Then you’ll need to know my real name. It’s Methos.”
“Methos,” Sam said, trying the unfamiliar name as he wondered about its origins. Methos nodded.
“Although only a select few that includes Dawson know that. To everyone else, I’m Adam Pierson,” Methos instructed. Sam nodded his understanding, but he was still trying to remember when he last met Methos.
“I remember you now, we met in Nepal. But that was… I think it was 1970? You haven’t changed at all!” Sam stammered, as he walked to a table and sat down. Methos took a chair opposite him. “Are you a time-traveller too? Is that how you can see me?”
“No, Sam, that’s not it, and I’m not a crazy person either. I don’t know how I can see you; we never did figure that out. Maybe our brainwaves are similar or something. Nepal was actually 1957, forty years ago. Although we have met twice more since then. Either you haven’t been there yet, or that Swiss-cheese brain of yours has forgotten,” Methos added with a grin.
Sam smiled too at that. He couldn’t remember much about Methos, but he was fairly certain that he was a friend and had helped him with that previous leap.
“That still doesn’t explain why you haven’t aged,” Sam pressed.
Methos wasn’t sure how to continue, he knew he’d told Sam about Immortality on one of their previous meetings, but he didn’t know if this Sam didn’t remember that or if he hadn’t had that conversation yet.
“Well, I suppose I ought to tell you everything. Joe Dawson knows all this, so it would seem very odd if you don’t. Me, and two other friends of Joe’s that you’ll probably meet, Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan, we’re Immortals. We don’t age, or get sick and we heal from any wound…” Methos explained, but he stopped at the confused look on Sam’s face. “I know it might be hard to accept…”
“No, it’s not that, I think I remember you telling me this before, but…” Sam started. Methos nodded confirmation then waited for Sam to continue. “Al told me that I was here to save Richie, but if he’s Immortal then how can he die?” Sam said.
“Ah, well, we can be killed. By beheading. But for an Immortal to die in the Game, that isn’t something I’d think was a wrong that needed to be put right,” Methos reasoned.
“The Game?”
“Long story. It might be best if we go upstairs and you peruse Joe’s library,” Methos said. The two got up and, after locking the front door, headed up to the apartment.
“Just how old are you?” Sam asked, wondering again about Methos’ strange name. It sounded Greek to Sam and the thought that the Immortal counted his age in centuries or even millennia was fascinating to Sam.
“Old enough to know better,” came Methos’ evasive reply. Then to forestall any further questions he asked, “By the way, did Al tell you when?” unable to add ‘Richie dies’.
“Five days from now,” Sam answered. At the concern on Methos’ face, he added, “Which is a lot more than I usually have to work with. Don’t worry; I’ll save your friend.”
“We’ll save him,” Methos said.
*-*
Several hours later, Sam had finished reading the most salient parts of Watcher history and the chronicles of Duncan and Richie that Methos had placed before him. Sam sat quietly on Joe’s couch, absorbing the information. Methos sat opposite, watching his friend’s face.
“You’re right, if Richie were killed as part of the Game, it wouldn’t make sense for me to come here to put that right. There must be another reason behind it,” Sam said finally.
“Yes, but what?” Methos asked. “Some kind of freakish accident?”
Sam thought about it for a moment.
“Are you certain that the Watchers eliminated all of these…Hunters?”
Methos’ face grew dark at the mention of Horton’s rogue Watchers.
“They more or less disbanded with Horton’s death. Those that were still loyal to his insane ‘ethnic cleansing’ scheme were…dealt with by the Watchers,” he replied.
“You mean killed. They sound like a pretty hardcore group, these Watchers,” Sam said.
“They’ve had to be, to maintain the secrecy of their society and what they protect - Immortals. Look, I’m not exactly in the loop with the Watchers right now, but I’m sure Joe would have warned us if he’d heard of any Hunter activity,” Methos reasoned. Sam nodded.
“Well then, we have to figure out how a man could get decapitated in Paris in 1997. I mean, it’s not like they still use the guillotine here.”
“The sharp end of a swift blade is the only obvious answer that springs to my mind. But I can’t think of many other possibilities that are likely to occur. Maybe it would be safer just to hang around with Richie, make sure he can’t get into trouble?” Methos suggested. Sam thought about this for a moment.
“As long as Richie wouldn’t think that too odd,” he said.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve been meaning to spend a bit more time with the brat anyway. He amuses me,” Methos said with a smile that was verging on evil. Sam had no idea what thoughts were firing in that Machiavellian brain, but he had a feeling there was more going on than he knew about.
*-*
It was just past midnight, May 15th turning into May 16th as Richie and Methos checked the coast was clear and climbed out from their hiding spot atop the Eiffel tower.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t do this in the day,” Richie complained as he reached the viewing platform. “Then we wouldn’t have had to wait for over an hour in the cold. And how exactly do we get down, with the elevators no longer running?”
At this height the wind was strong, whipping around them both. Richie pulled his jacket closer around him as he spoke.
“That’s the point Richie, my boy. We’re taking the express elevator to the bottom,” Methos said with a malicious smile and pointed between the railings and down.
“We’re what now?!” Richie cried.
“Ssh, there may still be some guards checking the platforms,” Methos hissed. “Richie, Immortality allows us to experience life like no other can. We can jump off the Eiffel Tower and know that we will walk away from it. Haven’t you ever wanted to try something like that?”
“And end up in a Paris morgue? No thanks, been there, done the naked run back to the barge. Not in any hurry to try it again. Have you been hanging out with Cory Raines lately?” Richie replied. Methos chuckled. “You’re drunk then, or stoned. Is that it? You decide to see how nineties acid compares with the stuff you had in the sixties?”
Methos shook his head and smirked in amusement.
“Come on, Richie, you’re supposed to be the film buff. Have you never seen A View to a Kill?” Methos said.
“Yeah, but Grace Jones had a parachute. That river is a long way from here.”
“I’ve calculated it all. We take a running jump; throw ourselves as far away as possible from the tower. The arc of our trajectory and the wind will do the rest,” Methos reasoned. Richie shook his head and laughed.
“Have the millennia finally got to you old timer? Or is this one of your jokes? Immortal or not, there is no way I am jumping off this tower,” Richie insisted. Methos shrugged.
“Huh. I owe Joe a twenty. He said you wouldn’t jump off a cliff if someone told you to,” he said with a smirk. After a moment, Richie got the joke and broke into the patented Ryan Smile No. 6.
“You’ve got a warped sense of humour, old timer. But, seriously, how are we going to get down?”
“Simple, kid, we walk. There are maintenance stairs to this level. Come one,” he said and led Richie toward the east pillar of the iron structure. There he opened a small door to reveal a winding set of stairs that would take them all the way down to the ground.
*-*
He took Richie back to Joe’s bar, where Sam was keeping a light on for them. Sam sat on the edge of the stage, guitar on his lap, idly strumming. As the two Immortals entered, Sam looked to Methos expectantly.
“Well?” he asked.
“I owe you twenty,” Methos grumbled as he made his way behind the bar to grab a beer.
“Along with your tab. Am I gonna get that back in my lifetime?” Sam groused good-naturedly. Methos had briefed him on enough of their running in-jokes to make sure Richie didn’t feel suspicious. “Way to go there, kid. I had complete faith in you.”
Methos nearly spat out the mouthful of beer he had, but he managed to swallow it before spluttering,
“Liar! You just said that I couldn’t make him do it, but if Mac said it…”
“That’s not fair, you’re twisting my words,” Sam blustered. Richie rounded on Sam.
“He better had be, Joe! We’ve had this argument, I’m not Mac’s sidekick,” he said, glaring at Sam. “I’m my own man.”
“Preaching to the choir here, Rich. He’s the one thinks you follow him round like a lost puppy,” Sam said, pointing to Methos.
“Oh no, don’t pull me in to this…”
“You started it! In fact, this entire thing was your idea. I’d have closed up and gone to bed hours ago otherwise,” Sam lay down the guitar and cautiously used the cane to stand. He made his way over to the bar. “I ought to throw you out, you ungrateful old…”
“Careful what you say here, Joseph,” Methos warned.
“Hey, guys, come on, this was all just a bit of fun wasn’t it? No need for it to turn serious,” Richie interrupted, hands raised in a placatory gesture. The two other men looked at each other. After a moment, Methos held out his hand.
“He’s right, I’m sorry, Joe. Let’s just sit down and have a friendly game of poker. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Sam said and took Methos’ hand.
As Richie walked over to a table, Methos winked at Sam. The old man’s plan had worked perfectly, now Richie would sit and play poker for hours without question, thinking that he was acting as mediator between his friends.
*-*
Five hours later, and two hundred dollars poorer, Richie yawned and stood up.
“You’re not leaving? Don’t you want to win your money back?” Methos said, shuffling the bills in front of him.
“No thanks. Playing you for money I’m liable to lose my shorts. Besides, I need to catch some zees. Mac’s taking me to the opera tonight and he’ll kill me if I fall asleep,” Richie replied with a grin. Methos and Sam looked at him, eyebrow raised. “I know, I know, but Mac’s always saying I should experience everything, try everything at least once. I don’t get what he loves about the damn thing, but hey,” he finished with a shrug. He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“No, you’re right, Rich, not his sidekick at all,” Methos called after him. Richie flipped him the finger as he walked out the door.
Once Richie had gone, Sam turned to Methos and said,
“So, now what?”
“Don’t worry. The Boy Scout will protect Richie if he gets in trouble. Besides, it’s more likely for Mac to be challenged than Richie,” Methos replied. “He’s perfectly safe.”
Methos got up and stretched before heading for another beer. Sam was about to protest that it was a little early, but Al appeared through the imaging chamber door.
“Al!” Sam said. Methos looked over and smiled in recognition.
“Morning, Admiral! How’s Tina?”
“Oh she’s fine,” Al replied absently, casually looking at Methos before turning back to Sam. He then did a double take as he realised that a) Methos could see him and b) he knew him from another leap. “I…uh…huh?” Al asked, pointing with his cigar toward Methos before circling it around beside his temple in the universal sign for ‘insane’. Sam shook his head and smiled.
“Long story, Al, one best saved for another time. So, what have you found out?”
“It’s not good. There’s still a 68% probability that Richie Ryan is killed on May 19th at…” he slammed the link “…around 9pm. Though time of death’s a little uncertain. Killed by decapitation, although there’s never any official investigation into his death.”
“There wouldn’t be. Joe would pull some strings to keep it quiet,” Methos said as he returned to the table. Al looked a surprised at this information, but more so by the fact that Sam wasn’t surprised.
“There’s something I don’t know, isn’t there?” Al said, eyes narrowing. Sam looked to Methos, who shook his head.
“Another time, Al,” Methos said. “Don’t want to mess up any timelines.”
Al was sceptical, but he didn’t protest.
“I’d better head back, try to get more information,” he said.
“What an excellent idea. Try to make it a little more useful next time?” Methos snarked.
*-*
The morning of the 17th, Sam was wiping down the bar, cleaning up from the previous evening when Methos arrived at the bar, a look of concern on his face.
“What’s wrong, is it Richie?” Sam asked, stopping his cleaning. Methos climbed onto a stool on the opposite side of the bar before answering.
“No. I forgot to tell you something, Sam. Remember Horton?”
“The Hunter guy?” Sam said. Methos nodded.
“Well he was Joe’s brother-in-law. Joe told me that his niece wants to bury the body in the States, so Joe had arranged to fly the body back. The flight is in a few hours, I think you need to go to the airport to sign some papers,” Methos explained. Sam let go of the cloth and picked up Joe’s cane from where he had propped it behind the bar.
“There’s a folder in the office with some papers, I think they might be about this,” he said and disappeared in the back. He didn’t bother to use the cane, but he carried it in case Methos wasn’t alone when he returned.
He came back to the bar a few moments later, carrying a thick manila folder and laid it on the bar. Opening it, he took out some documents and passed them to Methos.
“Yes, this looks like the ones Joe showed me. He was grousing that he had to do so much paperwork,” the Immortal confirmed.
“Okay, can you give me a ride? I don’t know where the airport is,” Sam said, putting the papers back in the folder and picking it up.
“Sure, but then I’ll head over to Mac’s barge, check in on him and Richie.”
*-*
Sam stood anxiously by the coffin containing the remains of James Horton. He wanted this over with quickly so he could get back to protecting Richie. As he signed the final release forms, he heard MacLeod’s voice behind him.
“Well, if I’d known, I’d have sent flowers,” Duncan said sarcastically. Sam sighed. He really didn’t need this now. Methos had explained a lot of what happened, of why Joe had told him and not Mac that he was moving Horton’s body. Sam didn’t know how Duncan had found out, but he had a feeling that this conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. Sam was at least relieved to see that Richie was with Duncan.
“This is personal business, MacLeod, it really doesn’t concern you,” Sam said, a note of warning in his voice.
“Anything to do with Horton concerns me,” Duncan practically growled.
“Look, my niece, his daughter, she moved back to Chicago, wants him buried there. So I’m helping the kid out. It’s a family thing,” Sam explained.
“Oh, a family thing, is it? Then why did you hide it from me?” Duncan asked. His aggressive tone worried Sam. He didn’t want to wreck Duncan and Joe’s friendship. He looked at Richie, but the younger Immortal was wisely staying out of this argument.
“I know what he did to you, and I know how you felt about him,” Sam answered, hoping that his sympathetic approach would calm Duncan down. He was wrong.
“Well, that’s very considerate of you,” Duncan sneered.
“What is wrong with you? The guy was my brother-in-law. His daughter wants his body shipped home.”
“Well she’s going to be very disappointed, isn’t she,” Duncan retorted. Confused, Sam looked to Richie.
“What is his problem?” he asked. Richie just held his hands up.
“I saw him, I saw Horton. He’s alive,” Duncan insisted. Sam was stunned; he let out a little chuckle of disbelief.
“No, Horton is dead. You killed him yourself, remember? I was there!”
“Yeah, well he looked very healthy last night,” Duncan said, then walked away from the coffin and picked up a crowbar. Richie threw an exasperated look at Sam; obviously he’d heard this from Duncan already.
“This is insane! Whatever is left of James Horton is in that box,” Sam said, pointing to the coffin.
“Oh, well we should really wish him a bon voyage, then,” Duncan replied and began to pry at the lid of the coffin. Richie started forward and tried to stop him, finally spurred to action by Duncan’s seemingly crazy behaviour. Sam could only look in horror as Richie and a guard struggled with Duncan. Duncan pushed them both off and the lid flew open. Inside was a decayed corpse, presumably that of Horton.
Sam and Richie looked at each other, upset and confused, as Duncan was dragged away by airport police.
Richie drove Sam to the nearest police station, where Sam convinced them to let Duncan go without charges. But Duncan still was convinced that Horton was alive, even though he had seen the body. He argued with Sam, pointing out that he only saw a body; that it needn’t belong to Horton. Frustrated that Duncan wouldn’t see sense, Sam wouldn’t back down, but neither would Duncan and the argument ended in stalemate. As he watched Duncan and Richie walk away, Sam was worried for MacLeod’s mental health and a horrible idea entered his head.
*-*
“I couldn’t find Mac, and Richie wasn’t at his apartment either,” Methos said as he walked into the bar and sat at a table, opposite Sam.
“That’s because they were at the airport. And Duncan was acting really strangely. He said Horton was alive, that he’d seen him last night,” Sam replied.
“That’s ridiculous. Horton’s dead.”
“Well, he was so convinced that he pulled the lid from the coffin. The police practically dragged him away. I managed to get them to drop the charges, but he’s still certain. I think he might have been hallucinating.”
“MacLeod? I don’t know, Sam. I mean, Immortals do lose it, but Duncan is one of the steadiest, sure-footed men I know. He’s like you, a moral compass that drives the very centre of him,” Methos said. The way he said it, Sam wasn’t sure if Methos intended it as an insult or compliment.
They were interrupted by the arrival of a worried looking Al.
“Sam, now it’s a 91% probability the kid’s gonna die. Stop doing whatever the hell you just did!”
“Oh boy. Do you know any more yet? Where, or how?” Sam asked.
“How’s still unclear, but where seems to be an abandoned racetrack just outside of Paris. I’ll head back and see if I can get any more on the how,” Al said before he opened the door to the imaging chamber and vanished.
“Why would he go to an abandoned racetrack?” Sam wondered aloud.
“Apart from a challenge? To rescue Duncan or Joe, perhaps,” Methos said. He considered the idea for a moment before snapping his fingers. “That’s it! I bet Duncan gets in some kind of bother, and Richie goes steaming in to help, winds up getting killed!” Methos stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Gods preserve me from thick-skulled boy scouts with a martyr complex!”
“Where are you going?”
“Richie’s safe until the day after tomorrow, correct? So I’m going to have a little talk with the Highlander.”
Continues in Part Two