First, this thing ran far, far over the four page limit. Not very sorry about it, and I hope you like the story.
Let’s see, I borrowed everyone, assembling images in my head for a little party to pass a long four hours I had free. Shomeret tossed some song lyrics into my head, and, well, the strangest things began happening… Somehow, they escaped into the electronic form you are reading, but, frankly, I really don’t know how they got there in the first place so don’t hold me responsible for their behavior!
I’d rate it at PG-13 for the few mild obscenities, implied violence, bloodshed and angst.
Thanks to my friend Xa for listening to me dither. This story is actually my husband’s birthday present—SURPRISE, Pendraco!
The song is “Sister of the Moon” from the Fleetwood Mac, and I have attached Shomeret’s transcribed lyrics at the end of the story. I don’t own the song, I only borrowed a few lines. Rhysher/Davies et cetera own: Joe Dawson, Methos, Duncan MacLeod and Cassandra. The story is set in present day, putting it cleanly outside the continuity of the show and the Richie Ryan Debate. The Others is a television show currently in production, and it includes the characters of Elmer, Marian, Satori, Mark, Warren and Albert. I am relying on my memory for Elmer’s last name, the approximate location of their town and other silly details.
Again, I don’t own them, I don’t intend any harm, I don’t make any money from this and I remembered to spring for dry cleaning and Martinizing. TPTB can pick the characters up at their leisure. All mistakes are mine, unfortunately. The plot and dialogue are certainly mine, so don’t blame TPTB for that, either. Questions or comments are appreciated, certainly, since this is only the second fanfic I have ever written, and my first contribution to the Lyric Wheel. -space
**
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In the Hands of Others
**
**
She was dark at the top of the stairs.
Behind her, starlight glittered in the arched window.
He stood in the darkness of the foyer, the front door agape behind him. The night outside wasn’t warm, or soothing, or familiar, but it was brighter than where he stood. His hand clutched a forgotten book; his face fixed on the woman who had invaded his home.
“Claudia?” His voice was a pleasant, echoing tenor.
“They’re gone, Benjamin. Claudia and baby Anna both.” Her black robes trailing, the woman drew a sword.
Intense silence.
“I have taken your life here, and I have taken your hope.” The woman shifted as he blinked back tears, and the robes transformed into a short, beaded dress. Glints from the jet beads and a silvered metal sparkled as his vision swam. Gun.
“Where are they, Cassandra, * please *?”
“Safe from you, monster,” she hissed, and a black widow spider made more sound than she, aiming for his heart.
A shot rang out.
He felt it slam against his chest, driving the air from his lungs in a rush of despair. “Cassandra!” His hands moved to cover the wound, felt sticky, slick blood as it drowned the familiar tweed of his vest. A tiny sound, the book striking the hardwood floor, but it seemed terribly important. He felt his body following, the cool oak slapping his cheek. It was hard to breathe. Blood welled in his throat and mouth.
“Goodbye again, Methos.”
Footsteps.
Darkness.
**
Marian jerked awake, gagging at the coppery taste in the back of her throat. She was alone on the couch; her notebook and an empty soda can stood guard over her while she read herself to sleep. She moved the book off her chest absently, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the other hand. Instead of putting the book aside completely, she sniffed it. Beneath the old, stale glue and the familiar scent of paper, was the faintest trace of something dark and coppery. Her ribs ached.
She pushed herself to her feet, letting the book fall to the couch. Her hands shook as they combed her short hair away from her face. Marian swallowed once, twice, and began pacing the length of the couch. After two circuits, she threw her books and a pair of pens into the backpack she’d stashed under the coffee table and headed for the exit. The door to her apartment nearly slammed on her heels as she fled.
It took less than a quarter of an hour to jog to Elmer’s house in the fading autumn light. She knocked, hesitantly, wondering if he was still awake. Unsteady breaths made little ghosts dance across her cheeks. Her bare hands cupped against her mouth to catch a ghost of warmth.
“Marian?” Elmer pulled the door wide, ushering her in with an old-fashioned wave of his arm.
She hugged him, impulsively, drawing strength from his lined face, and shock of graying hair. “I had the worst, weirdest dream. It was…” She broke off, shaking her head. “It was bad.”
“I’ll put on some tea, and you can tell me about it. Get settled in the living room.”
Marian rubbed her palm across her face as she nodded. “Thanks so much, Elmer.” She walked slowly, listening as he puttered in the kitchen. She took a seat in the overstuffed armchair beside his favorite lounger. The television was off, but the reading lamp was on and a paperback lay open on the end table between the two seats.
Elmer patted her shoulder gently, then lowered himself into his favorite chair. “Okay. Water’s heating, and you can tell me about it, right?” He leaned his cane against the arm of the chair and stared at her until she turned away to fidget with the zipper on her backpack.
Looking down, she said, “I was reading a book for my Comparative Lit class and fell asleep. But it didn’t feel like a dream, not really. I mean, some of it was like a dream, the way the clothes changed from some kind of black robe to something from the twenties, and the way I felt so …surreal… when I thought the woman was going to shoot me. It was—“ she shrugged, at a loss for words.
“Start at the beginning, Marian. What were you reading?”
Marian straightened, holding a worn copy of Thomas More’s ‘Utopia’. “Just this. Found it at a thrift shop and it was a lot cheaper than at the campus bookstore, so I bought it.” She shrugged a little, gray eyes clouded, and passed the book to him.
He turned the pages idly, his tone casual. “You’re powerful, Marian, both as a clairvoyant and a medium, but you don’t have enough training yet. You didn’t * try * to do something, did you?”
She felt her skin flush. “No, I was actually trying to read when I fell asleep. That’s why I’m hoping it was a dream.”
Elmer nodded. “We could call Satori, see what she picks up from the book.” He flipped to the front flyleaf, then adjusted his glasses to read the faded inscription there. “To Benjamin: Remember our Utopia. Love, Claudia.”
“I remember that name from the dream.” I probably just imagined the whole mess.”
The older man shook his head, rubbing his fingers against the faded black lettering on the cover. “There is power here, child. More than a dream, certainly. I’m calling Satori.” He set the book on the cherry end table and dialed quickly with his right hand. He rubbed the fingertips of his left hand against each other, wiping away some invisible stain.
The kettle whistled, interrupting his concentration, and Marian gestured toward the kitchen. Elmer put one dark hand over the receiver, nodding, then turned his attention back to the telephone.
Marian took her time arranging everything on an old silver serving tray. The bone white china was elegant and nearly translucent. Each touch of her hand was careful and a little uncertain.
“Marian? Satori is on her way over, I caught her as she was closing up the shop.”
She placed the tray on the ottoman and set up tea for both of them. The third cup remained empty, waiting. Settled in the armchair again, Marian murmured, “I hope she can help. I saw—I felt—the man die. Who could have shot him and just walked away?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see what Satori picks up.” He settled abruptly against his chair.
They drank tea in the comforting quiet of Elmer’s Victorian house, listening to a conversation between the old grandfather clock in the hall and the little mantel clock over the fireplace. Someone knocked on the front door just as they finished the first cup. “Come on in, Satori.” Elmer called.
“Hi, Elmer. What did you need a reading on? You weren’t specific on the phone.” Satori’s heels clicked against the wood, her arm went around Elmer’s shoulders, and she kissed the small bald spot on the top of his head. “Hello, Marian.” Every detail of Satori’s outfit reflected an image of competent, sensual chic.
“Hi.” Marian shifted uncomfortably, offering the book. “It’s this. I don’t know whether I had a nightmare or-“
Curiosity filled her eyes as the blonde woman accepted the book. Before the younger woman could finish explaining, Satori’s face drained, blank and unseeing, as words poured from her.
**
“Goodbye again, Methos.”
Footsteps.
Darkness.
Creation and damnation in a single hurricane breath. “No!”
He pushed himself upright, turning toward the sob he’d barely heard beneath his cry. A small, dark-skinned boy stood in the doorway. Darkness spilled before and behind him; the lenses of his glasses glinted in the meager light, too big on his square, expressive face. “You came back. You didn’t even leave to cross over.”
The man stopped, turned to stone halfway to his feet. “What?”
“Mister Benjamin, I just came back to return the extra money Miss Claudia gave my momma today when she sent Momma home early. I seen – I saw-“ he corrected himself, “you layin’ there and you was dead and you didn’t cross over. I even looked on the Other Side to check and you shoulda been dead!”
The slender man looked away from the boy, down to the bloodstained suit he wore. He rubbed a long-fingered, callused hand across his eyes, wiping away the afterimage of a white tunic and leggings. “She didn’t see you, didn’t hurt you, did she?”
“Who? Nobody was here when I came up the steps.” The boy glanced out, his shoulders relaxing.
A hand rested lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “She’s not here, I promise you.”
He pressed a key into the boy’s hand. “Take this to your mother, and ask her to read the letter Claudia-“ a sliver of pain cut into his voice, but he did not stop. “She needs to read it tonight. Go home, please.”
“But what if the woman comes back? Is she gonna shoot somebody else?”
“I’ll be gone in the morning.”
**
Satori had fallen silent, leaving only the wisps of sound as their clothing rustled. She took a deep breath, struggling to focus on the room, the feel of the cloth binding under her fingertips, the ticking of the clocks. “That was incredible! But, I don’t understand the two different outfits he was wearing.”
Elmer cleared his throat, staring at the ripples in his tea. “He was gone when we came back that night, and there was no trace of blood on the floor. That’s all I can say about it, ladies.”
Marian turned a puzzled frown from one to the other, then drained her teacup. “I got earlier impressions than yours. I wonder why.”
Elmer had refilled the teapot twice before they had finished comparing the two sets of images, but had evaded questions from the young women. “It’s not my story to tell, and I know enough to stay out of it. But I will start searching tonight, maybe I can find Benjamin and ask him to explain it himself.”
He patted Marian’s hand reassuringly. “If I can’t teach you everything you need to know before my time comes, I know you can trust him to help you find another teacher, even though he doesn’t have any of our gifts. He’s a good man.”
“But, Elmer, if he was, oh, thirty when I saw him,” Satori began, “Wouldn’t that make him over a hundred now?”
“Enough questions, Satori. You know what you saw. I saw it firsthand, and I won’t say another word. It’s been a long night, and this old man needs his rest. Satori, would you please drive Marian back to her apartment? I need to get to work on this.”
He steered his guests impatiently to the door and bade them goodnight. Back in his favorite chair, he touched the book Marian had forgotten, his eyes focusing beyond the worn cover. Elmer took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and prepared to go Walking.
Elmer felt himself slide away from the body he’d used for eighty-odd years. It took several endless heartbeats to prepare his return path and make the transition, a time of trading Spirit and flesh rather like peeling a grape from the inside out. He had a partial anchor underneath his mortal hand. It was a matter of patience and effort now.
His hand slipped from the cover and a gentle exhale interrupted the steady ticking of the clocks.
**
“You can’t find him, and I doubt you can protect him.” The woman shook auburn curls out of her eyes as she moved across the carpet, her black robes trailing behind her like a dirge.
“I owe him enough to try.” Elmer’s power showed as the solid reality of the room, the craggy lines of his face. The woman’s power touched his, becoming a trail of glittering starlit sky as she walked in the half-world between earth and Spirit.
“Who is he to you?” Curiosity tinged her anger. Every line of her body was rigid, harsh beneath the lanky curves. Warrior calluses showed on the hand she held open, palm up, inviting.
“A friend from a long time ago.” The man’s voice was older, softer. “Who is he to you?”
“My worst enemy, my worst nightmare, for longer than you can imagine. He deserves no friends, no sanctuary for the things he has done.”
Elmer nodded as though he understood. “But I will help him, and you will leave here.” Solid words, a solid heart behind them.
It was the woman’s turn to nod, slowly. “If you can find him through the book, I will not interfere while he is under your roof. Understand me, mortal, only while he is under your roof.” She faded, black to gray to familiar dark paneling.
He returned, quietly. He rubbed at his eyes, glasses bobbing on his knuckles, seeing stars. “Damn,” he muttered.
**
“Damn,” he muttered. The handle of his cane brushed against the long flannel sleeve and veered toward the floor, accusingly. The computer monitor blinked at him, unconcerned.
“Still nothing. Nothing every day for a month!” A callused hand slapped the side of the monitor, then swung to deflect the tanned knuckles that had appeared in the man’s peripheral vision.
“Joe?” The worried, brogue-touched baritone fell from somewhere above the man’s aching right shoulder.
Joe blinked, realizing that his friend’s hand held the cane, retrieved from the awkward distance of the floor. “Thanks, Mac.” His defensive motion turned, becoming a bemused scratch at his salt and pepper beard.
“Any news on Methos?”
“Not a blessed thing! He could be literally anywhere in the world by now.” He flicked off the computer without bothering to shut down. “I need some sleep.”
“Mike closed up the bar half an hour ago, and everything’s ready for tomorrow. Can I drive you home?” The younger man waited for the older; he leaned slightly nearer as Joe levered himself up, one hand on the desk, one hand gripping the cane with white knuckles.
“Then let’s go.” Both men moved slowly, leaving the tiny office and the darkness of the bar for the yellow halogen glare of a streetlight and the classic car parked beneath it.
**
“But what if the woman comes back? Is she gonna shoot somebody else?”
“I’ll be gone in the morning.”
He opened his eyes, swallowing the pain ruthlessly. Reflected sunlight obscured the hands on the clock mounted just below the steeple on the stone church. He shrugged, only mildly curious about the time. Turning back to the book he’d pinched closed, he moved his finger out of the way and resumed reading. Ghosts. He closed his eyes, and could almost hear a woman’s smoky voice reading the words to him while he—A decisive shake of the head, a deliberate survey of the small churchyard, then a gentle motion of his wrist turned the page.
Subliminal electricity made him shiver, rushing from the base of his spine to prickle the hairs on the back of his neck. His head whipped to the left, scanning the black wrought iron fence and the sidewalk beyond. A woman stood at the far corner of the fence, light glinting on her curly auburn hair. The woman put a hand on the black iron and a frission of unease gnawed at his stomach.
Out of habit, he checked exits and bystanders and reached for--. His free hand dropped into his lap. He rose, poised to enter the church through the open doors only a few yards away. Stopped.
The woman stood behind him. He heard the guttural crackle of her boots against the few fallen leaves. “Holy ground.” The words escaped singly, forced between clenched teeth and bitten cheeks. The man stared down at her, swallowing a trickle of blood.
“You aren’t going to die, Methos. That would be too easy.”
A muffled thump, fire blistered through his lower back, his book falling onto the grass. Heavy, drugged muscles unable to hold his head up; his teeth clicked together as his chin fell to his chest. The woman’s hand plucked the book from the ground, making it disappear in a single motion. Pain and fatigue warred in his nerves, until his senses were overwhelmed, his consciousness buried in the haze. He was walking, her hand a strong, icy vise on his arm. Her other hand pulled his wallet from the front pocket on the same side.
Grey agony flickered between images of the churchyard and the woman’s short, unpolished nails digging into his arm.
His book, falling into the charity bin just inside the chapel doors. His money, stuffed into the donation box mounted on the wall beside it. His mind, falling into darkness.
**
Elmer laid the book on the dining table. He put his glasses back on, then jotted a few notes on the yellow legal pad before him. A cup of cold black coffee sat forgotten at his elbow. A niggling, annoying sound drew his attention to the telephone. It rang again, and before he’d decided what to do about it, it rang again. He moved to answer it.
“Hello? Elmer?” Marian’s voice was high and sharp with worry.
“Marian. I’m here. Is something wrong?”
“The telephone has been ringing for ten minutes, Elmer. I was afraid-“ she took a breath. “I was worried about you.”
“I’m fine. I think I have some more information about our little problem. The one related to the book,” he added lightly.
“Really? That’s great. I just called to ask you if we were having the Others’ meeting tonight. You hadn’t said yes or no, and I could barely get you to answer the phone all week.”
Elmer tipped his head back, stretching his stiff back a little. “Marian, this has taken a lot of time,” he began patiently, “I know he’s not terribly far away, but I can’t even file a missing person’s report on him.”
She pounced on the last piece of information. “Why not?”
“Because we are not related, to begin with.” He heard her sigh. “All right, the meeting is here, as usual, same time. Just don’t mention the book or our little project, please?”
“Okay, Elmer. See you tonight. ‘Bye.”
“Take care, Marian.” He replaced the telephone and looked at the hall clock, then at the detritus that had slowly accumulated over the course of a week of Walking as often as he dared. There was just enough time to tidy the house before the meeting and still watch Wheel of Fortune if he hurried.
**
Footsteps.
Brilliance.
A woman dressed in white robes, kneeling before a figure in black and white. Shadows, which should have cast his features into darkness, instead washed them into a death mask. Albert felt sand beneath his feet and sunlight hammering against his back. The sky behind them was black.
Albert was dreaming. Everything here was seen in reverse. Negative.
Black and white.
“He destroyed my life, my family, my tribe.”
A woman’s voice, whispering in his ear. He felt the dream shift, solidifying her presence in the place they shared. He frowned.
“So?” Albert grumped. “Looks like a bad version of Lawrence of Arabia, to me.”
“You are only blind in the physical world, mortal,” she hissed. “You understand the * need * for revenge as well as I do.”
‘Go away.” Albert announced. “I need my sleep. I may even decide to go to church in the morning.”
He saw the dark shimmer of sunlight, caught as he was in his dreams, as a pool of blackness. It moved to wrap her in velvet black, while the man faded in pool of white. She glided toward him. Behind her, another scene began, two figures locked in an argument, silenced by a dagger plunged into the woman’s chest. Blood flowed in white swirls. It repeated a dozen times, in a dozen different ways, as the white-clad figure circled him.
“I cared not for love, nor money. I was his plaything. And he will pay for that.”
“Get the hell OUT.” Albert shouted. “I want to be left alone.”
A third figure appeared, casting long white shadows across the two faceless figures. They wavered, rippled, then dissolved.
Another whisper touched his ear, “So do I.”
Footsteps.
Darkness.
**
Warren lifted the strap of his green bag off his shoulder, ducking under it to retrieve a slightly crumpled piece of paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook. “Hey, Elmer. You’re never going to believe what one of the patients did at the hospital today. I was there for group, but he was hanging around the waiting area and drew this. He gave it to me when I asked if he’d seen the place.” He took a breath and pushed the sheet into Elmer’s hand, then settled on the floor next to the empty chair Albert usually occupied.
“Where’s Albert? Hi, Warren.” Marian glanced at the coffee mug she’d brought from the kitchen and then smiled and handed it to the man plucking nervously at a stray piece of lint on the ottoman. “Want some cocoa?”
“Thanks. Albert’s at the vet, annual doggy checkup. Said he probably wouldn’t be here tonight.” He sipped it, eyes straying around the room half a dozen times before settling back on Elmer’s face. “So, is it your house?”
Satori emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs. She passed a mug to Marian before taking a seat on the couch, tucking her stocking feet beneath her. The dark-haired woman nodded her thanks, but both kept their attention on their host standing in the archway between the living room and the front hall.
“What house? Mark is on duty tonight, so I guess this is everyone except Miles.” Satori smiled. “He’s running late again Elmer, might as well start with Warren’s surprise.”
The drawing paper seemed to glow in the light from the side lamp, making the thick pencil lines look like molten lead. A tall, shadowed house filled the background, as indistinct as fog-shrouded mountains.
In the foreground, a tall box hedge slashed a diagonal line from the bottom left corner, blending into the jagged silhouette in the background. Another set of lines, barely visible, created a cobblestone walk near the center of the page. Dominating the foreground were two unequal circles, one filled with the familiar spiral topiary on Elmer’s front lawn, the other a stylized ram’s horns inside a double ring dotted with thirteen circles. The dots and the ram’s head were drawn with blue colored pencil.
Along the bottom edge was a nearly unbroken line of gibberish symbols, with a few English and Greek letters tossed randomly into the fray. Many of the recognizable symbols were inverted, or reversed. In the bottom right corner were three nearly legible English letters inside a blue circle. “J-O-E”, although both the outer letters were reversed, facing the center.
“So, Elmer, is that your house?” Warren asked, barely moving from his curled position on the floor.
“That’s the front door, the front walk, and your topiary. But what do all the squiggles mean?” Satori eyed the drawing with concern. “Did he say anything?”
“No,” Warren said, falling into his usual economy of phrases. “Can’t talk, can’t walk. Was in the psych area so they could try to map the brain damage he’d suffered. He’s… odd.”
A loud chime interrupted their conversation, and Elmer slipped away to answer the door.
“Hello. Sorry, ran late at the department meeting.” A cheerful voice preceded a middle-aged man in a dark suit, hurrying out of his overcoat. His briefcase dropped to the Oriental carpet with a soft ‘thunk’.
“Miles,” Elmer put his hand on the newcomer’s arm, motioning toward an empty seat before adding, “I think we have to help someone.”
“But how?” Marian broke off, aware of the silence and four pairs of eyes upon her. A faint blush crept across her fair skin.
“I’m going to visit him in the hospital, of course.”
**
A slender man in a wheelchair waved away the orderly holding a covered tray. An open sketchpad in his lap revealed half of the skyline of Notre Dame, seen from a bridge he was constructing in pencil. Elmer felt a dissonant static flicker in the back of his mind as he passed the door to the neighboring room, but by the time he reached the proper doorway, it was gone.
Long fingers pushed through his dark hair. He glanced up, hazel eyes tightening with worry. A quirk of his lips and a sweeping wave of his hand followed in the next heartbeat, but the tension did not fade. The gold flecks in his eyes had darkened to the color of neglected brass.
“Hello.” Elmer eased himself into the formed plastic visitor’s chair, leaning his cane against the doorframe. “Benjamin?”
The man nodded, twice, as solemn as a king delivering judgement, as worn as the Ancient Mariner. He closed the sketchbook. Waited.
“I want to help.” Settling himself in the chair took longer than he’d needed to prepare to go Walking. He leaned forward just enough to touch Benjamin’s arm. “My friend Miles will be here shortly,” he warned. “He’s posing as your uncle to get you out of here, as Benjamin Carson.”
Pale lids closed over hazel eyes, the hands stilled, and a single tilt of the head showed his acquiescence. A quizzical tilt of his eyebrows, he stared first at Elmer and then at the door.
“No, I’m still at home.” Elmer chuckled, and let himself fade back into his own body.
**
Miles saw not the slightest flicker of reaction as the orderly helped his “nephew” into the van and secured the rented wheelchair. He didn’t make a sound, just tucked his arms out of the uniformed man’s way and endured. In seconds, they were ready to drive the rented van away. He dropped a small plastic bag into the bin behind the driver’s seat and wedged the sketchbook between the bin and the wall of the van.
From the only other seat, Marian watched the procedure. Discomfort and curiosity played across her face, until she turned deliberately to watch the scenery through her window. A moment later, she turned toward him as far as her seat belt would allow. “Benjamin, are you comfortable?”
He nodded, rubbing tiredly at the base of his neck.
Miles drove slowly away from the hospital. “Hey, Benjamin? The doctor suggested a, um, a nursing home for a while longer, or home care with a male nurse to help out.” He cleared his throat nervously, then continued, “Elmer’s set up a bedroom for you, Mark went shopping before he started his shift, and I think Satori is making dinner for everyone tonight.
“He said it was the least he could do for an old friend of the Others. Is that a welcome home or what?” Miles navigated a turn as though transporting half a dozen Ming vases. “And, after dinner, can I ask you some questions about that?”
Behind them, Benjamin sighed.
**
“Still nothing!” The cane smacked against the front of the bar, missing the leg of a barstool by a fraction of an inch.
“Joe? I think we have to face the fact that he’s gone to ground for a long time.” The Scottish accent was strong but muddied, as though he’d lived in several places after leaving Scotland. “I think he’s pulled a very good disappearing act this time.”
“No. His Watcher has not reported anything at all for over six weeks. I don’t know what happened after Adam gave him the slip, but he didn’t close up anything, didn’t call in sick at work, didn’t’ go to the bank, didn’t even arrange for a neighbor to pick up his newspaper. I’m worried. If there was a fight—“
“Hey, Joe, if there was the slightest chance of a fight, Methos would just fade away like a ghost. He hates to fight. I’ll bet he’s in bed with a pretty woman somewhere in Bora Bora or Jamaica. Someplace warm.” MacLeod waved his glass at the downpour beyond the window, then set it gently on the bar. “You said that no one has reported a Quickening large enough to knock out a major city, either, so my money is still on Methos.”
Joe grinned. “Yeah, beer, pretty women, and sunshine.” The smile disappeared, leaving a crease between his eyebrows. “But I’m going to keep looking. We keep looking, including every John Doe kept for more than 48 hours, but that’s more people than you might expect.”
**
Sunlight lay in a long ribbon across the narrow bed. Mark rubbed his hand through his blonde hair and blinked sleepily. “Elmer?”
“In the kitchen at the moment.” Mark followed the sounds and discovered that Elmer was clad in tan pajamas and a blue apron. He was turning a golden waffle onto a platter from a cast iron waffle griddle when Mark stepped into the room. “Morning. Coffee’s on the counter. Haven’t heard a thing from Benjamin’s room yet.”
Mark smiled. “I’ll check on him while you make these. Can I help with anything else?”
“Dice up the cantaloupe. Wait, you’d better concentrate on helping Benjamin this morning. Any luck at all with the books?”
“No, the damage has nearly destroyed the language center of the brain. He can’t find the same word twice. I have a shift again tonight, but Marian has promised to come over and help him. He’s determined to communicate with * someone * and I would hate to be the person standing in his way.”
Elmer nodded. “Benjamin’s a tough guy, older than he looks, too, so don’t think he’s going to be shocked when you walk in there in your boxers or something.” Elmer waved him toward the guest bedroom and turned back to the waffle iron.
Mark poured two cups of coffee, added sugar to one mug, then headed down the hall. He nudged the door open with a toe, expecting to find the dark-haired guest still asleep. Instead, he found that Benjamin had pushed himself to a sitting position and was trying to wrestle the wheelchair closer to the bedside.
“Whoa!” Mark put the mugs down quickly enough to slosh coffee on the dresser. An arm went around Benjamin’s shoulders, his body blocking the path to the floor. “Not yet.”
An explosion of gibberish sounds made Mark step back. Frustration and anger filled his face and his voice, a disquieting icy sheen in his hazel eyes. Mark looked away, hurriedly moving the wheelchair and checking the brake. As he stepped away, Benjamin lowered his voice to a mutter.
Mark caught one word, which sounded like Latin, but pronounced with a hard, clipped style normally associated with German. He copied it. They stared at each other in amazement. Slowly, Benjamin tried again, creating half a dozen totally unfamiliar “words” before slamming his fist against the mattress in frustration. He held his hands up in an eloquent shrug, defeat in every slumped line of his body.
He looked up at Mark, nodded once, and swung himself into the wheelchair in a single swift, economical motion. He moved his legs into position and secured the strap, his eyes oddly distant.
“Okay, want coffee before or after we do the bath?” Mark’s voice conveyed friendly practicality, exactly the expression on his young face. Nothing in his mannerisms suggested the professional reserve most interns wore as a shield.
Benjamin snorted, grabbed his sketchpad from the nightstand and flipped through it. He turned it to face Mark with an air of finality. The detail was amazing, loving. Light glistened in each bead of sweat, the shadow mirrored form to perfection.
It was a bottle of beer.
**
She was dark at the top of the stairs.
Behind her, starlight glittered in the arched window, hanging in nothingness.
Satori turned in a swift circle, her heart thudding beneath the peach camisole she’d worn to bed. The railing, the stairs, and the oak floor touching the bottom step were the entire world, and the two women its entire population.
Power, and age, wrapped around the shadowed woman like a black robe.
Satori called, “Who are you?”
The figure took a single step. Standing beside her in an effortless shift, the curly-haired woman offered a question of her own. “Why do you help him?”
“Elmer? I help him because he is my friend.”
“No,” she barked, dark eyes hard and cold. “Why do you help Methos?”
“M-Methos?” she stammered. “Benjamin? Because he needs it.” Satori replied.
“Who are you to decide that he is worthy of help?” Her voice could cut through steel.
Satori felt her heartbeat slow, her skin cool. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. ‘Who are you,” she said carefully, “to decide that he isn’t?”
“I am Cassandra.” The starlight flared, revealing her oval face. The stairs faded, leaving the window hanging above the polished wood floor. “And you are a fool!”
She raised a hand, wiping away the darkness, to make a window into Satori’s bedroom. “You see what he wants you to see! Nothing more!” The patch of floor vibrated under their feet, driven by the force of Cassandra’s shout.. “Tell him that I will come for him, but I will not kill him unarmed.” Her laughter was bitter and mocking.
“Go back to sleep, child. And when you wake, tell him I have put his weapons in a most…appropriate place.”
Their tiny world dissolved into a tumbled dream and a tangle of blankets.
Satori awoke in a cold sweat.
**
The sketchbook was full. It stood, wedged between Benjamin’s left leg and the arm of the chair, forgotten for the moment.
Benjamin sat in the living room, listening to Glen Miller on the old record player. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and cheeks. The Ouija board in his lap rocked, almost trembling, as he pointed toward the letter “M”
“That’s not an ‘A’ Benjamin. Try to find ‘B’; you can do it.” Marian’s voice was gentle and encouraging. He touched the letter “S”.
Behind them, Elmer called from the kitchen, “Beer, Benjamin?”
Quick nod. The beer appeared. A cold wraith of condensation danced at the mouth, a welcome chill kissed his fingertips. Benjamin accepted it, raised it in salute, and drained half of it in a single motion.
Elmer handed Marian a soda. “Maybe we’ll have more luck with the pictures. He knows what he’s trying to say in them and all we have to do is guess enough to narrow it down. We’ll get it eventually. He, on the other hand, spoke at least three languages besides English when I knew him last. I doubt his job will get any easier.”
“What languages?” Marian wondered aloud.
“”Oh, Italian, Greek, and I think…German?” A slow, arthritic shrug conveyed his apologies. “I think it’s just the tip of the iceberg, though.”
Amusement twinkled in Benjamin’s eyes, released in a sharp laugh. He passed the fiberboard tray to Elmer with his free hand, winking at Marian when it disappeared into the stiff, shiny box. A scrap of shrink-wrap glinted on one corner of the box.
He reached for the sketchpad and began flipping through it. Elmer produced an atlas, opening to the page he had marked with a length of gray ribbon during the previous attempt. Marian flipped to a partly filled page in her notebook, ready to add to the list of unsuccessful attempts.
**
“Mac, Mac! We’ve got a hit!”
MacLeod pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing. “Joe?” He murmured groggily. The sky beyond his window was barely more blue than black. Dawn was hours away.
“Yeah, we got a call at the bar from a guy named Elmer Greentree, claims a friend of mine has asked me to come to a little town near Boston.” Exultation warmed the husky voice.
“So?”
“So,” Joe drawled in satisfaction, “he specifically said I should bring along the Boy Scout.”
Duncan bolted to his feet. “When do we leave?”
“Plane leaves in an hour and a half. Pack light.”
**
Mark held the amber bottle up and shook it. Pale capsules rattled in a heavy rain. “You should be taking this medication three times a day, you know.”
Benjamin shook his head. He grabbed the container, tossing it negligently into the empty wastebasket beside his bed.
“That’s not much help,” Mark said wryly.
Benjamin flipped his newest drawing pad open to the dog-eared page a third of the way in. A few strokes of pencil revealed a fair likeness of the cannabis plant.
“Definitely useless against seizures, Benjamin.” Disgust and exasperation crept into his voice.
Benjamin simply touched the tip of his nose with his index finger.
He motioned a slight bow, waiting for Mark to step out of his room. Tucking the pad away, he pushed the chair toward the kitchen without looking back.
“This isn’t the end of the conversation, Benjamin.” The blonde was left staring between the trashcan and the older man’s retreating back.
**
“I’ve rented a car. Have you got the bags?”
“Right here,” Duncan grunted. “Do you have the address?”
“It’s about an hour north of here, and you’ll have to drive.” Joe motioned toward the automatic doors. “Any trouble?” He was relying on his cane a little more than usual.
“Not a bit. Want to stop for dinner before the trip?”
Duncan shook his head. “No, let’s get to his apartment and check it out.”
Joe unlocked the passenger door of the navy sedan, then unlocked the trunk. He climbed into the car as quickly as his prosthetics allowed while the taller man was busy stowing the luggage. The seat belt closed with a loud click. Duncan slid into the driver’s seat, ignoring the muttered curses from his companion. “Okay, I need the address here in Boston, too.”
He tucked his cane against the floorboard, rattling it off from memory. “Utilities are still active, the guy I have checking the house picks up the paper and the mail now, or it’d be a foot deep.”
“How’d you manage that?” Duncan spared a look at the older man before he nudged the gas pedal and darted into the mid-afternoon traffic.
“Told the landlady that he was called to the Library of Congress to consult on damage to a set of rare books, asked his cousin to pick up his mail et cetera. She was very understanding.” Dawson chuckled, adding, ‘She even offered to let the guy in to empty the perishables from the fridge, but the only things they found in it were beer and a bag of apples.”
They shared a laugh, neither very surprised. “Any sign of his sword?” Duncan’s voice was rough and thick with worry.
“What makes you think he had time to look for it?” Joe countered lightly. He shook his head in regret. “Our guys managed to get a set of keys, checked the place from top to bottom. He’s probably got it tucked beside him in bed at night.” He touched Duncan’s arm, false cheer on his face, worry darkening his eyes. “What else does an Immortal use for a security blanket?”
**
The setting sun poured pink light over the white tablecloth, dripping into cool puddles on the hardwood floor, brightening the crimson of the faded Oriental rug beneath the table. Elmer used a folded towel to lift a glass casserole dish out of the oven. Steam fogged the lenses of his glasses. A deep, appreciative sigh escaped as he put the tray onto the trivets.
The faint sounds of a knife against a chopping board slowed, then stopped.
“Almost ready.” He lit the single taper in the center of the table. “How’s the salad coming, Benjamin?”
Benjamin’s eyes narrowed. He dumped the diced celery into the salad bowl and returned the board to his lap. His grip on the knife shifted, quickly trading a tool for a weapon.
The doorbell rang.
Elmer peered through the little peephole. “Looks like the guy you drew, plus a tall fellow with dark hair. He looks a little spooked I think. Shall I let them in?”
Benjamin nodded, wheeling himself backward into the kitchen and out of sight.
The door opened just as the younger visitor reached for the doorbell again. “Oh, excuse us. We’re looking for someone named Elmer Greentree.” His body shifted slightly, protective of the older man, and he glanced at the yellow line of light along the bottom edge of the door, following it to the hinge side.
“That would be me,” Elmer agreed. “Are you Joe Dawson?”
“No, I’m Duncan MacLeod. This,” he motioned to the bearded man at his side, “is Joe.” He relaxed, clearly letting the older man take charge.
“Hi.” Joe added genially, shifting his cane to his left hand. “You called my bar in Seacouver the day before yesterday.” He offered his right hand for a handshake.
“Come in.” Both hands were strong, callused by work and years. Brown eyes and gray eyes met in understanding.
“Is our friend okay? Is he here?” Duncan asked, stepping into the hallway as soon as their host had opened the door fully.
A small missile hurled toward his chest. He caught it by reflex, blinking at the bottle of beer in surprise. Laughter, mocking and sarcastic, drew their attention to the person sitting in the dining room. A long sweep of his arm offered welcome.
“My God!” Joe cried, “What happened?”
Benjamin shook his head, wheeling toward them. He motioned toward Elmer, nodding.
“That’s going to take some explanations, I’m afraid. Shall we discuss it over dinner? We’re expecting one more person, someone Benjamin insists will be able to help.”
MacLeod had crossed the room with the faintest whisper of sound. He laid a trembling hand on Benjamin’s shoulder. “How long?” he whispered. “Talk to me.”
Hazel eyes closed, his face turned partially away, he shrugged indifferently.
Elmer laid his dark hand atop MacLeod’s. “Let me explain what we know, and maybe you can help us understand the set of drawings Benjamin made last night.”
MacLeod allowed their host to nudge him into a chair, noting the place set without a chair, his eyes following Benjamin’s every move as he wheeled to Joe, solemnly shook hands, then handed him a bottle of beer. “I take it you know... Benjamin?”
“Yes, I met him a while ago.” Elmer added two place settings to the three already at the table, and began telling them about a young boy hanging around a group calling themselves the Others. A warm tenor voice interrupted from the doorway. “Elmer, can we give them the abridged version, I have to be at the hospital at ten tonight.” He was blonde, medium build and medium height, and toting a bottle of wine under his right arm. The intelligence and compassion burning in his eyes marked him as someone out of the ordinary.
“Mark,” Elmer interrupted himself, “you may be a little late. And you may need to sit down to hear * their * side of the story.”
The sound of a metal object striking a goblet brought everyone’s attention back to the table. Benjamin had added wineglasses to the place settings, and was now motioning impatiently towards the chairs. Mark grinned, “Okay, Benjamin. None for you, doesn’t mix well with your medication.”
They heard a derisive snort, and a few inarticulate mutters. He rolled into the kitchen, returning with a basket of steaming rolls. He took a sip of his beer and smiled confidently at Mark.
“What’s going on? Why hasn’t he…” Joe let the words trail off and busied himself with removing his coat.
“Why hasn’t he what?” Mark’s voice carried from the kitchen, followed by the pop of a cork in a wine bottle. He offered a questioning look to MacLeod and Dawson, filling their glasses when they nodded, but filled his own glass with Sprite before returning the containers to the kitchen. Elmer poured beer into both his and Benjamin’s goblets, winking.
They arranged themselves at the table. Duncan frowned at the drawing pad, wondering when his friend had taken up sketching.
“I think I can explain the sketch pad. Benjamin?” Mark began describing the damage to the different sections of the brain, detailing the connections between reading and speech. He ate, neatly and efficiently, while the others asked questions. Compliments to the chef and general social questions rubbed elbows with increasingly complex medical jargon and speculations. The light beyond the dining room turned rusty, and had faded before the explanation was adequate.
“But—“ Duncan began, his face filled with pain, chased by less readable expressions, “you’re saying that someone deliberately tortured him by shooting him in the back and in the head, then brought him to a graveyard to dump his body? That’s—“
Benjamin rapped his fork against the stem of his goblet. He turned his sketchpad toward them, smacking it with his fist. Another intricate pencil sketch, this one dominated by a mass of penciled curls.
“Cassandra,” Joe whispered, awed. He shook his head in disbelief. “Man, I didn’t know anybody could hate you that much, even after Bordeaux.”
Their silent friend rolled his eyes, tossing the pad onto the table. His beer disappeared in a long draught.
“Is there some special significance to dumping him in a graveyard?” Mark was looking from MacLeod to Benjamin to Duncan.
“Holy ground, Mark. It’s special. The lady who did this brought him back to holy ground so no one else would immediately try to take his head.” Duncan turned back to Benjamin. “Where’s your sword?”
Benjamin spread his empty hands in answer.
“I—“ Mark gulped the last mouthful of Sprite in his goblet and nearly gagged. “You mean someone did this thinking it * wouldn’t * kill him?”
“No, it wouldn’t kill him. The fragments of bullet are what’s keeping him paralyzed, keeping him from speaking normally.” He sighed. “I have to explain something. He’s not like you are.’
“I know,” Elmer said quietly, “and I know he’s not a Sensitive, either.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Joe demanded. “What do you mean, sensitive?”
Elmer stood, dropping his napkin atop his empty plate. “Let’s do this in the living room. Mark, leave the dishes, please. I’ve done ‘em before.” Joe’s and, surprisingly, Duncan’s voices echoed Elmer’s chuckle.
“Where should we start, Elmer? You seem to know some of this, or at least aren’t surprised. But you’ve got information we don’t have.”
“I’m with you, Mister Dawson. I think we’re reading different books, or at least on different pages.” Mark cleared his plate and silver from the table, easing the china into the sink as he talked over his shoulder. Everyone else followed their host into the comfortable silence of the living room.
“I think the next part is mine to explain.” Elmer began. “We’re a group of friends called the Others, and we each have some unusual gifts. Well, except for Miles. He’s a professor interested in the paranormal, sort of a chronicler for the group.”
Joe’s face filled with amusement. “I think we would get along, at that.”
“Our gifts include clairvoyance, precognition, and one of us is a well-known medium. But that’s not all, certainly. It’s up to them to tell you if they want you to know.” Elmer picked up a small, worn book, holding it out to the younger guest. “Miriam found this. It belongs to Benjamin, and he’d been holding when he was attacked. She’s new, ended up getting most of the clairvoyants involved in figuring out what she’d seen, and it took a lucky break on top of * that * before we found Benjamin in the hospital.”
Benjamin murmured something none of them could follow, shaking his head. Flipping through the full notebook, he revealed picture after picture featuring a Watcher symbol and the front of Elmer’s house.
“Hospital?” Joe picked up that thread, disbelief in his voice. “I had people checking every hospital in the country, and there was no trace of a John Doe matching his description in the area.”
Mark blushed, his fair skin betraying embarrassment his nonchalant pose couldn’t hide. “That’s our fault. First, Miles impersonated a family member, and then Warren—“ The blush deepened. He didn’t specify how he did it, but he insists that a friend changed the paper records and computer records to show that our friend was only in the hospital for 24 hours as a precaution and went home with his uncle.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that tells me how we missed it. Thanks. I’d hate to think we’d gotten sloppy.” His eyes met Duncan’s and the look they shared was full of tolerant amusement tinged with regret. “So, how did having the book lead you to Benjamin?”
It took some time to explain the visions, Cassandra’s strange promises, and to explain his ability to leave his body at will to go Walking. At last, he said, “It’s not like I can show you what it’s like. To you, I’d probably look like a tired old man taking a nap.”
Elmer told them in his gentle rumbling bass about the series of visions, including Cassandra’s enigmatic promise of safety. Dawson look surprised, but Duncan only nodded.
“She wants him to hurt, definitely.” Duncan pushed his fingertips against his temples. “She planned this pretty thoroughly.”
Dawson leaned forward, about to ask a question when Duncan crossed in front of him, kneeling to meet Benjamin eye to eye. “How do we fix it, Benjamin?” Duncan asked urgently. “Do you have any ideas?”
Benjamin rubbed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, lost in thought. Finally, he opened the notebook to a set of quick pencil drawings. Passing the sketchbook to Duncan, he produced a wicked-looking filleting knife, turned it toward himself and drove it unceremoniously into the space between two ribs.
“What the—“ Mark was on his feet, then at Benjamin’s side before the older men could do more than shift position.
“Wait!” Duncan shouted.
“Don’t touch him, Mark!” Elmer roared, drowning even MacLeod’s voice.
Too late.
He plucked the knife out of the wound with his right hand, the motion widening the gash in the burgundy tee shirt, as his left hand automatically felt for a pulse at the neck. There was a flood of fiery, phosphorescent pain devouring his arm. He blacked out, saved from cracking his head against the metal wheelchair by a tanned arm.
“What on Earth just happened?” Dawson demanded.
Duncan eased the young man onto the couch, casting a thoughtful look between the merely unconscious and the dead. He pulled the handle of the knife gently from Mark’s unresisting fingers, then sank it quickly between Benjamin’s ribs.
Joe winced. “Why’d you do that? He was going to come back in just a minute or so.”
“Exactly. He’d be really ticked if he died and came back while the person he was trying to impress was still unconscious. After all, he’d have to go through the little demonstration all over again, right? We just keep him dead until we know Mark’s okay, then pull the knife.” Duncan turned to Elmer. “What did you mean about touching Benjamin?”
Elmer managed to catch his breath. “He’s an empath; he practically relives strong emotions. I know Benjamin is old, was old even when I met him as a kid. And I didn’t know what would happen with that funny lightning of yours if it mixed with his healing abilities.” He took a long drink of beer, then slapped his hand on the arm of the recliner. “I just wasn’t prepared for Benjamin to do that.”
Duncan wiped blood off of his hand with a white handkerchief. “It’s not like he does this every day,” he agreed. Turning back to the unconscious form on the couch, he gave a cursory exam before joking, “Speaking as a former field medic, I get nervous when the only practicing doctor in the room is unconscious.” The lilt of humor disappeared from his voice. ”I don’t think there was permanent physical damage.”
“Good. Let’s wait for him to wake up on his own, then.” Elmer stared at the mantle clock before grabbing the telephone. It took him only a handful of minutes to call the hospital and give the same message to half a dozen people: Mark was too ill to work his shift. The look on his face clearly said that he preferred to be lying.
They remained silent. Duncan paced slowly between Benjamin and Mark, although his attention seemed focused on the young mortal. In another moment, Mark was staring up at Duncan’s worried face. “Are you feeling all right, Mark?”
“Oooooh.” He pushed himself to a sitting position. “That was something I don’t want to experience again.” Mark rubbed his fingertips together, testing the sensation. “I thought I had been burned.” He dropped his limp hands against the smooth cotton fabric covering his thighs, but they continued to tremble.
“You just touched Benjamin’s—,“ the Scot began.
“Methos. I touched Methos.” Mark shook his hands out absently, like a pianist warming up. The look of certainty aimed at Duncan was tinged with defiance, daring the dark Scot to contradict him.
“Yes.” Joe agreed, heavily. Duncan also whispered an agreement as he pulled the knife free for a second time.
“He was—“ Mark tried to frame words around the loneliness and confusion in his eyes. “You can pull the knife out now. I’ll just watch the show.” His shoulders slid back and Mark retreated into the leather couch.
Duncan retrieved a glass of wine for the intern, encouraging him to drink a few sips before returning to Benjamin’s side. “I didn’t know he’d planned this either,” he muttered angrily. But the hand resting gently on Benjamin’s shoulder didn’t move.
No one spoke until Benjamin’s chest rose again.
“Hey, Benjamin, you almost gave your audience a stroke, you know.” Duncan gave his shoulder a tiny shake. “You invited him, then scared him to death!”
“Should I time these things?” Joe joked.
“Once a lifetime is enough for me, Benjamin,” Elmer added reproachfully.
Benjamin muttered a string of nonsense words and grabbed for his drawing pad.
Duncan spotted a trend in the first two images, and sighed. “You’re not going to really like this,” he warned Mark.
The first image was of Benjamin, a glass of water in one hand and a literal handful of his anti-seizure medication in the other. The second image was clearly a hospital morgue, with Benjamin lying facedown on the antiseptic metal autopsy table, and the third image showed a scalpel baring the spine, poised just above the fibrous sac of fluid between the vertebrae. The image filling the next page showed the scalpel excising damaged cerebral tissue from a square window cut into the skull.
“He wants me to do surgery on him as a corpse?” Mark shrieked.
Joe leaned toward the younger man, “Listen to me! You said yourself that they didn’t dare do either surgery because it could kill him. Well, if he’s already dead you don’t have to worry about an anesthetist, or anesthesiologist, or even a scrub nurse.”
“It’s not like we can explain any of this to the dozen or so people who would be in an operating room, Mark.” Elmer agreed, a smile touching the corner of his mouth. “And I think Duncan would be able to help.”
Benjamin nodded, and with another wry twist of his lips, rolled to Mark’s side, leaving the pad. Beneath the first four images lay a dozen pages of technical drawings, detailed images layer after layer of damaged tissue.
Joe stared at them. “Why’d he put the MRI and CAT scan stuff into pencil drawings? I thought that stuff was in his medical file?”
Mark’s face was ashen. “It is.” He drained the goblet beside him. “But this is much easier to use as a reference.” He stopped talking, stopped moving, and barely breathed as his eyes danced across the image.
“If you won’t do it, Mark. I think these drawings are enough for me to go by.” Duncan said, breaking the silence.
“Do you swear that he’ll heal every time?” His voice was louder, steady.
Benjamin rolled into view, another opened bottle of beer in his lap. He nodded.
“How will we get him into the hospital?” Joe asked.
‘When?” added Elmer.
“I swear, Mark, on my honor and my name that this will do no harm to him, and may heal him. I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” He offered his hand gravely. They shook.
Mark waved the other questions away, examining the pictures.
Benjamin rolled past, shaking his head. He disappeared into the hallway.
“Is he going to need some help?” Duncan asked softly.
Elmer raised his beer in salute. “Not really. He gets along pretty well on his own.”
“Has he talked at all?” Joe turned back toward their host. “His voice sounded a little rusty.”
“Sometimes he hums along with the stereo.” Mark volunteered. He turned the page and reached for the empty goblet beside him. “I say we do this tonight, before I lose my nerve.”
“Sounds good.” Joe said. “How do we plan to get him into the hospital?”
Duncan chuckled. “Easiest thing in the world. I’ll take care of it.” The hall clock chimed eleven. “Mark, can you get into the morgue without being seen? Meet us there during change of shift? Midnight?”
“Shift change is at one a.m. in the morgue,” Mark said absently. He thumbed through the drawings again, his eyes calculating. “How long will it take him to heal from the surgery?”
“Depends on how much tissue is removed.” Duncan sighed. “I’ll figure out how to get him out still dead, bring him back here to recuperate.”
“Wait, why can’t we just do the surgery here?” Joe asked.
“Specialized tools, easiest place to get them is in the morgue.” Mark tossed the words out as he rose to his feet.
Wheels squeaked on the hardwood floor. Benjamin rolled into the room wearing a clean gray sweater and a short navy jacket. He barely slowed enough to nod to Elmer, stopping at the closed front door. Raised eyebrows and an impatient wave of his hand made Joe laugh, “I’ll wait here, thanks.”
**
Mark wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sponge, staring at the last fragment of metal in Benjamin’s body instead of at the handle of the Celtic dagger jutting between his patient’s shoulder blades.. It had shattered the vertebra, flattening to fill the space, capping the spinal fluid. In a normal surgery it would be tricky to even nudge against it. In a normal person, the bullet would’ve killed the victim.
He glanced at the door where Duncan stood, impersonating a security guard. He turned, mouthing the word “hurry”. Then he slipped into the hallway, leaving Mark alone in the white chill of the morgue which had nothing to do with the colors and everything to do with Mark’s gifts. He cut with swift precision, prying the misshapen metal out and tucking it in a plastic Tupperware container with more than two dozen of its relatives.
Footsteps clicked against the white tiles, though most hospital personnel wore soft-soled shoes. He didn’t have time to close the wounds. Mark threw a clean sheet over the temporary corpse, dropping the double surgical gloves into the plastic container he tossed quietly into the cooler next to the guard’s station. He scooped the cooler up and pushed the table toward the exit.
He heard Duncan’s jovial voice, and the security guard’s, as they headed back to work.
Mark wheeled the body toward the hall, just another boring transfer. As soon as he was out of their line of sight, he lugged the body into a supply closet, awkwardly removed the dagger and waited for Benjamin to revive enough to support his own weight.
**
“Hello, Doctor Ballard’s office.”
“Miles, hello! It’s Elmer. Did you find anything yet?”
“I did a search through county records; there are no properties with Benjamin Carson’s name on them after 1928.” He sorted through his university mail while he talked, then tossed his notes for the nine a.m. class on top of his mail.
“Thanks, Miles.” Elmer sighed. “Some appropriate place, huh? Maybe she put the sword in the graveyard?”
“Graveyard? What are you talking about? I’d put a sword on display, in a museum.” Miles rubbed his glasses with his handkerchief, pinching the receiver between his shoulder and his ear to hold it.
“No, Miles, it’s not that kind of sword.”
“Too bad. There’s a great private collection in Dr. Abraham’s office.”
“Abrahams? Could you get a look at it, see if any of them match the pictures Benjamin gave you.”
“Will do.” Miles disconnected and grabbed a stack of papers, letting his eager footsteps carry him halfway down the hall before his door had closed completely behind him.
**
The group session ran over its scheduled time, leaving Warren with two choices: Wait another forty-five minutes for another bus, or walk nine blocks to the nearest transfer point and catch a bus in half the time.
Warren flipped a coin.
By the time his foot touched the asphalt beyond the fourth block, he’d seen the word “church” six times. There were nine churches in town, and two were close enough to visit on the way to the bus stop. Three red cars turned left in front of him, the last nearly identical to Satori’s. Instead of her “peace” bumper sticker, this one sported a black sticker with white letters, which read, “On the other hand you have five fingers.”
Warren turned right.
The church was less than three blocks from the intersection. From half a block away, Warren could see the five stained glass angels standing like sentinels along the smooth white wall. If he concentrated, he could probably identify the saints clustered around each angel, but it was more important to find the right one. He strode carefully through the open gate into the cemetery.
It took less than five minutes to find the little angel figurine tucked away in the tiny graveyard. One upraised hand had broken off, leaving the right hand holding an open book.
Fresh gardenias and ivy decorated the grave, tucked into the little vase sunk into the earth below the flat marker. Black letters against white marble proclaimed “Anna Faith Carson, June 21, 1925 to October 14, 1929.” A slip of paper peeked from the spray of flowers.
He plucked it out with trembling fingers, opened it and then rushed toward the open gate. The paper fluttered to the ground, swept away in a gust of wind.
**
“Who is it?” Albert called through the closed door.
“Benjamin.”
Albert opened the door a crack. “Just decided to drop by?” he groused.
“Nah. Came to bribe you with beer. Want to ask you what you dreamed about, and why you didn’t tell Elmer all of it.” Glass clinked against paper.
He turned toward the bistro table and the pair of matching chairs in the tiny dining area of his apartment. “Hmpf. No real point to it was there? Good beer?”
“Guinness.”
“You can come in, then. Close the door behind you.”
**
The teakettle whistled, interrupting the card game. “I’ll get it,” Benjamin announced. His long strides carried him into the kitchen before his companion had put his cards down.
“You’re going to spoil me, Benjamin.” Elmer mocked. “I don’t think you’ve let me get up and actually * do * anything for the last two days!”
They were both silent as they sipped the first steaming cup. Midway through the second, Elmer asked, “Any luck finding your weapons?”
“No. She hid them well.” He shook his head. “And the Boy Scout is just hanging around to make sure no one challenges me while I’m unarmed, you know. Nosy brat.”
Elmer smiled knowingly. “Sure is.”
They finished the hand absently, neither paying particular attention to the cards or the score. By mutual agreement, they cleaned up the cards and china at the end of the hand. Elmer turned out the light, leaving only the hall light to throw vague shadows against the walls. Both paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the habitual goodnight.
Instead, Elmer touched the banister. “I remember sliding down this banister when I was a kid, banged my head on the knurl. Mama grabbed me up and dragged me into your office, remember?”
Benjamin touched the round knob. “I remember,” he said softly. “You needed four stitches but kept babbling about seeing a woman on the stairs—“ He cut himself off, running toward the seldom-used den. “Remember what you saw? A woman carrying a sword!”
They opened the double doors and snapped the light on, revealing bookshelves, a desk, a coat rack, paintings and photographs, closet, and a long sofa. “It’s certainly more colorful than when I used it as an office,” Benjamin joked. “Is anything out of place?”
Elmer eyed the room critically. “Someone moved the umbrella stand.” They found it quickly enough, standing just inside the closet. Two umbrellas and one Ivanhoe sword stood upright in the narrow Chinese urn.
“Here’s one.” Benjamin withdrew it, checking along the length with a critical eye.
It took another twenty minutes of searching to uncover his dagger. They checked behind the books, under the desk and couch, inside the file drawer and were about to cut open the cushions of the sofa. Elmer reached into the center drawer for the letter opener… and touched the missing dagger.
“She left them here the whole time?” Elmer was incredulous. ”She wanted you running all over the city?”
“Yeah,” he said wryly. “I think she knew you don’t use this room very often.”
**
Rain pummeled the windshield as they drove. The wipers cleared it in shuttered clicks, giving Duncan reasonable visibility. “I hope they don’t cancel this flight, too.”
Dawson scratched his beard, eyeing the sheet of water dancing on the highway ahead of them. “I hope we don’t meet any drunks.”
“Not likely, Joe.” Duncan tapped the brakes quickly, then slowed as their exit approached. “It’s only two in the afternoon.”
“Do you believe them, about the psychic stuff?” Dawson let the question fall into their laps. The rain and the noise of the wipers was suddenly too loud in the rented car.
“I don’t know. I know they’re basically good people, and Elmer is very protective of Methos. Wish we had that story, don’t you?”
“Well, none of this is going to appear in his Chronicles. And I don’t think they’d be approved as Watchers, so officially, vacation is over due to rain.” He tapped his window with the head of his cane to emphasize the point.
“I’m glad.”
“Me, too.”
“It was strange, seeing him dependent like that. Everything in the hands of others.”
“No, Duncan.” Joe said, his voice low and steady. “They left everything they could in his hands.”
“I know.”
**
Satori closed the door to her storefront, shutting out the wintry breeze and locking everything inside for the next day. Footsteps loped toward her ears and a figure appeared, reflected in the streetlight’s glow against her picture window. It waved, waiting for her.
She turned. “Benjamin?”
“Thought I’d walk you home.” He leaned nonchalantly against the lamppost.
“My car is right over there.” Laughing, she adjusted the thin strap on her purse.
“Short walk, then,” he agreed.
Halfway home, he spoke over the Indigo Girls music. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll miss the Others’ meeting, but I’ll be back…sometime.”
His face became shuttered, businesslike, but his voice was light. “Keep an eye on Elmer until I get back, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Just drop me off here; it’s a nice night for a walk.”
Satori stopped the little red car at the side of the road, waiting long after he’d closed the door and waved goodbye. When she could no longer see him, when he had walked beyond the farthest streetlight, she put the car back into gear and headed home.
**
Marian’s life became crowded with classes, trips to the library, and nightly calls to Satori and Elmer confirming that none of the Others had dreamed of Cassandre since the night his swords were found. Benjamin himself had gone to Boston, leaving the two ladies to speculate when he would return.
Marian glanced at the cold cereal and banana in the bowl in front of her. Her eyebrows shrugged, eyes leaving her textbook only long enough to insure the milk she poured landed in the bowl and did not overflow. She picked up her spoon and ate mechanically, more interested in the upcoming exam than the milk which dribbled onto the front of her lilac tank top.
The ring of the telephone caught her just as she pulled another top from the closet. She tossed it onto the bed and lunged for the telephone on the nightstand. “Hello?”
“Marian? It’s Elmer. Your last class ends at two today, right?”
“Sure is, want me to come over?”
“No,” he chuckled. “I want you to go with Satori to the grocery store and buy beer, and then come over. See you around three?”
“Beer?’
“Yes, beer. I happen to be out at the moment. That’s why you need Satori. But don’t invite the rest of the Others, especially Miles. Tonight is, well, private. Miles would ask a thousand too many questions.”
“We’ll be there. Thanks, Elmer.” Their farewells were fond but swift. Marian checked the time on her alarm clock and rushed for her backpack, forgetting the navy tee shirt on the bed. The door opened, closed, and footsteps raced toward the bedroom. “Oh, I need to get it together today or I am going to get hit by a bus!”
She bounded out of the apartment less than a minute later, the lilac top lying exactly where it had fallen.
**
Methos, once known as Benjamin Carson, folded his lean, jean-clad legs into the driver’s seat of his Jeep. The chilly weather had dragged his favorite wool sweater out of storage to cover his new habit of single-hued flannel shirts. He opened the glove box to retrieve a baby wipe, removing the traces of gasoline on his hands and then started the engine. The speakers blared, heavy metal drums and guitars obscuring the supposed lyrics of the song.
Back on the main road, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he headed toward the campus. It took only another ten minutes and one wrong turn to find Elmer’s house, in what was now the “old” section of town. He smiled broadly as the car slowed to a stop in front of the spiral topiary in the front yard. A flick of his wrist shut off the engine and the black duster he lifted from the passenger seat muffled the keys still held in the palm of his hand. He looked over the street as he climbed out of the vehicle, poised on the knife-edge of adrenaline that meant a literal fight or flight for him. His body relaxed into readiness as the front door opened.
An elderly black man leaned on a cane, beckoning with his free hand. Methos crossed the lawn in a dozen long strides. “Hello again, Elmer.”
A nod, a speculative narrowing of his hazel eyes. “You going to stay for a while?”
The thirtysomething graduate student nodded.
“Come on in—“ Elmer offered his hand and waited for a name.
Laughter escaped the taller man’s wry grin. “Benjamin Carson, of course. I should hope you remember that; you’re far from senile.” His grip was solid and surprisingly gentle.
“And you’re older than I am. This explanation is for my student, Marian, and another sensitive named Satori. They’re young, but very good,” he added quietly. Benjamin nodded and followed him into the living room.
“Just tell me how all of this got started, huh?”
Elmer waited for Benjamin to sink into the couch in a near-sprawl before lowering himself into his favorite chair. “Marian found a book at a secondhand shop, and got some rather disturbing images of it. She and Satori are on their way over to talk. You’re earlier than I expected, by the by, so you’ll have to wait for them to have a beer.”
Benjamin shook his head ruefully. “You were always quick. But why Satori?”
“She works as a medium and police consultant, and she’s the one who backed up Marian’s images with the second half of the story. I thought a full explanation would help all three of you.”
“Oh, damn. I had hoped to avoid this for another decade. I managed to put you off until you’d met with Freud, at least.”
The men shared a chuckle, a spark dancing between two charged diodes. Darkness had seeped into the hazel eyes, a remembered pain. They measured the silence between themselves in events, not seconds. Finally, Elmer offered in a whisper, “Marian may need help finding another teacher soon. I’m almost finished here, and I want to make sure she gets enough training, the right kind of training.”
The younger-seeming man nodded. “I’ll see to it. In fact, I think I’ll pick up my graduate studies again. I wasn’t very fond of the library position I had in Boston; the boss was a jerk.” He chuckled. “Are there any decent history courses at the university anymore?”
“To attend or to teach, Benjamin?” Elmer jibed.
“Does it matter?”
FIN
LYRICS:
Note: Ones I have used are labeled with // marks //
Sisters of the Moon
by
Stevie Nicks
// Intense silence //
// As she walked in the room //
// Her black robes trailing //
Sister of the moon
// And a black widow spider makes //
// More sound than she //
And black moons in those eyes of hers
Made more sense to me
Heavy persuasion
// It was hard to breathe //
// She was dark at the top of the stairs //
And she called to me
And so I followed
As friends often do
// I cared not for love, nor money //
// I think she knew //
The people, they love her
And still they are the most cruel
She asked me
Be my sister, sister of the moon
Some call her sister of the moon
Some say illusions are her game
// Wrap her in velvet //
Does anyone, ah, know her name
So we make our choices
When there is no choice
And we listen to their voices
Ignoring our own voice.
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