Play poker with a man long enough and you learn his tells; the little giveaways that signal when he's bluffing and when he's been dealt a winning hand. For some the tell is obvious -- a grin, a tap of fingers, the way they hold their cards -- and with others the tell is subtle; found in the set of the shoulders or in a fleeting flick of the eyes.
It's same with Immortals. If you Watch, you learn.
Three weeks ago, Methos sauntered into the bar and planted himself on a stool where he sucked down a couple bottles of pilsner with hardly a word to anyone before leaving. Joe noticed that the black London Fog three-quarter length coat with zip out interchangeable liners was new and said so.
"This old thing? Had it in the back of the closet a while, that's all. Figured I'd better shake it out before the snow sets in."
Right, Joe thought. That was why he kept shifting the left side of it around as if getting used to the weight of the sword inside hanging in a location that wasn't quite comfortable yet. Methos was always full of shit.
A week later, it was an Islay single-malt ten-year neat. All right, it was several Islay single-malt ten-years until almost closing time and Methos had lounged at a table near the stage with his feet propped up on the empty chair beside him. That's how Joe took note of the new boots -- waterproof leather La Sportiva Makalu mountaineering boots to be exact -- the kind that take a good couple of weeks to break in and are crampon compatible.
"Nice boots."
Methos had shrugged it off. "Used to be I could get a pair and keep them for years. Just don't make things like they used to. No pride in craftsmanship these days."
Two days ago Methos showed up unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon carrying a black duffle bag -- the sort with several zippers that allows it to expand and contract -- and, of all things, ordered a Perrier with a twist. "What happened to the messenger bag?" Joe asked pointing at the duffle.
"Doesn't hold everything I need at the gym."
Joe was about to call "bullshit" for the weakest excuse ever when Duncan sailed in with his own gym bag. "You ready?"
Methos nodded, finished off his water, and picked up his bag with one hand while making a sweeping gesture toward the door with the other. Joe couldn't help himself. "And what, might I ask, has the pair of you going to a gym instead of working out at Mac's place?"
Mac opened his mouth to answer, but Methos' voice trumped his. "A distinct lack of water, Joe. The man simply refuses to put in a pool."
"It's bad enough I have to see you in boxer shorts prancing around my loft like you own it," Mac muttered as he headed for the door. "I refuse to have you planting a wet Speedo on my leather couch."
The mental image of Methos in a wet Speedo -- much less prancing in boxers -- left Joe so flustered that he didn't notice the money on the bar until he went to clear away the glass. Methos had actually paid for his drink. In cash. With a mint condition pre-World War II five thousand-dollar bill.
That clinched it. If Methos was paying his bar tab, he was about to go AWOL.
As much as Joe liked to think of Methos as his friend -- and the Immortal had even called him his best friend once -- that didn't mean the old man wouldn't find it perfectly acceptable to skip town without so much as a, "check ya later." Sure, Methos hung around, told tall tales, and drank his way around the world in beer on a regular basis at the bar, but there was an unspoken barrier. Joe was a Watcher, plain and simple. And Methos knew he was a Watcher; knew that anything he said or did in Joe's presence could possibly end up recorded in a chronicle. Joe had seen Methos pack up and leave town in a matter of hours -- hell, minutes! -- if he felt threatened in any way. He would disappear -- evaporate like so much water on a hot summer driveway; becoming rarified and untouchable ether -- only to turn up again months later as if he had never gone. Never a word spoken about the reason for his departure and only a rare pithy statement after his return to hint at where he had been.
Now, here Methos was, clearly giving off overt signs that he was ready to move on. It was strange. It was uncharacteristic. It was almost as if Methos wanted someone to ask him to stay.
It made Joe nervous.
Joe headed into his office and picked up the phone. He had work to do. His first call was to France and Amy Zoll, the head of the Methos Project. To his credit, he felt guilty as he waited for Amy to answer. Methos just wanted to live in peace -- to stay out of the game -- and he had managed to do just that for almost two hundred years before Joe and Duncan entered his life. Feeding information to Amy under the table always felt like a betrayal.
"Amy? Joe Dawson. Sorry to call at such an odd hour, but I think your man is about to bolt."
Within twenty-four hours, Joe had half a dozen Watchers on "Adam Pierson" -- and that was just the bunch he had in town. He also had one in Paris waiting to stake out a flat Methos owned there, one in England ready to check an estate owned by a family named Adams that Amy had traced back to Methos, and one was on the way to Tibet to spend several months with a bunch of monks that "Adam" was known to visit. A few others were keeping an eye on MacLeod's properties in Europe just in case. There was a rotating watch at the airport, bus station, train station, and the docks.
When he got the call it was three in the morning.
"He's mobile. Taxi on the highway headed toward the airport."
"Then he's got a charter. They don't let anything sharp through security anymore no matter how many pieces of paper you've got and Pierson's not going to let them check his sword. Keep in touch with me on this number. I'm on my way out there."
Joe shook his head and pressed a hand to tired eyes. Damn inconvenient timing, but thanks to a late night at the bar at least he didn't have waste time getting on his prosthetics and struggling into clothes before he got on the road. Joe wrapped a scarf around his neck, shrugged on a coat, and locked up on his way out. He climbed into his SUV and headed for the airport praying all the while he wouldn't get pulled over by a cop for speeding.
"Where do you think you're goin'?"
Methos' face showed absolutely no surprise when Joe stepped out of the shadows of a nearby hanger. If anything, the Immortal seemed amused. "Déjà vu, Joe. I believe my line should be, 'Next stage out of Dodge.'" The black duffle bag was dropped by his feet with a thud, and Methos craned his neck in a showy manner as he looked around. "Please tell me there are no goons following you in a van this time."
Joe ignored the sarcasm. "You know, Methos, I can understand you doing this to Mac. Hell, you've done it to him ever since the first time you met him! I mean, what's a few years and no goodbyes between Immortals? But I thought we were friends! What happened to Mulder and Scully?"
"Old news. Duchovny all but left the show at the end of season seven," was the deadpan retort.
"Sipowicz and Simone?"
"Simone died."
Four angry shuffled steps brought Joe within spitting distance and positioned him firmly between Methos and the Gulfstream a few meters away. "Well, unless I'm Caligula, and you turn Incatatus into just a horse's ass," he growled, "then that one's off the table too!"
Methos' face broke into a smirk. "Why, Joe! I didn't know you cared!"
Joe had the distinct urge to slug the man. He could hear the hatch of the Gulfstream being opened. Time was running out. "You still haven't answered my question."
"London. Lhasa. Lisbon. Laos. What's the difference?"
"You're really going to do this."
"And this surprises you?"
Methos closed the rest of the distance, so far in Joe's body space that they almost touched. Though there was nothing in Methos' expression that conveyed threat, Joe unconsciously began to lean back, wary of what might happen next. He didn't think Methos would ever do anything to hurt him, but Joe couldn't be sure. Immortals, by necessity, had a different approach to conflict and violence, and Methos was not Duncan MacLeod with a fixed set of morals for Joe to use as a reference. Methos had a different perspective -- one that Joe doubted anyone else on the planet could begin to fathom -- and making assumptions wasn't something Joe was crazy enough to do. Still, Methos was someone that Joe trusted. Not much farther than he could throw the old guy, but trusted nonetheless.
For a long time Methos just stared, hazel eyes so intent in their appraisal of the mortal in front of him that Joe felt like a sample under a microscope. In spite of the chill, Joe was inordinately warm and uncomfortable, the moment stretching out into unfamiliar territory.
"Come with me."
The words were so soft that Joe could almost make himself believe he'd heard wrong. He stood there, blinking in shock. Whatever he had expected to happen during this impromptu confrontation, this certainly wasn't it. "What?"
"You know I don't like repeating myself."
Joe was dumbfounded. "I can't come with you!"
"Why not?"
Methos' reasonable tone set Joe even further on edge. "I've got responsibilities! You know, those pesky little things like people depending on you and expecting you to be there to do things like run a bar…"
"Yeah, right."
"I'm Area Coordinator. And what about my class at the Academy? I can't just take off…"
"Whatever."
Joe was rambling and he knew it but he was so taken aback he couldn't help himself. Methos seemed to loom in front of him, an implacable statue of a man who refused to hear reason. He rocked further on his heels, instinctively trying to escape a situation that had spiraled totally out of his control. "I don't even know where you're going or if you're coming back! I don't have clothes. I don't have a passport. I don't have…"
Methos shot a hand out. He grabbed Joe's arm just above the elbow and pulled him forward, forcing Joe's cane off the ground. The action left Joe's balance totally at Methos' mercy and he suddenly found himself using his other hand to clutch a fistful of the black London Fog for support. It brought the two men together in a swift clasp with Methos' mouth next to Joe's ear. "Will you shut up, Joseph," he said in a harsh whisper.
The world dialed down. Joe had experienced this kind of thing many times before in his life: the backseat of his car on prom night with Betsy; in Vietnam when the world went crazy and turned into a hell of water, napalm, and gunfire; the moment just before he kissed Amy's mother; the first time he saw a quickening; when he shot James; when he watched John Durgan murder Lauren; when he stood in a field outside of Watcher Headquarters and waited for someone to pull a trigger; seeing Amy a captive to the whims of Morgan Walker; the night he watched Duncan get on his knees in front of O'Rourke. As his axis shifted it happened again. His senses heightened and every moment seemed to move a little slower than the last. There was a roughness to the weave of the fabric of Methos' coat clenched between his fingers. The air that touched his skin was cold and sharp with the promise of snow, a stark contrast with the heat of Methos' breath hissing against his ear. He could identify the clean wax scent of Ivory soap coming off of Methos' skin from under the dark sweatshirt. There was a long and heavy object pressing full length between them both -- the Ivanhoe no doubt -- as they stood locked together.
"I've known you almost sixteen years, Joseph. I've watched you shadow MacLeod and fall into his orbit like a planet around a sun. Watched you compromise and rationalize and justify. Watched you almost die for him more than once. For them. And what has it given you? Really? Nothing your own talent and brains couldn't have brought you." Methos' lips weren't quite touching Joe's ear but a tremor still ran through them both as the words fell between them -- an anticipatory release of tension in the face of the unknown, the preparation of the body to fight or flee. There was nothing of the Adam Pierson that Joe had known in this voice; pitched low and speaking as if he knew every question he'd asked himself late at night in the dark. "How many more years do you have left? You can't watch forever, Joseph. You are more than your assignment. You're more than a Watcher. I see that in you every time you pick up the guitar and sing. Stop living for them. Stop living for him. Stop being a voyeur in your own life and come with me."
Open-eyed, Joe flashed back in memory to a night when he'd proselytized on the meditative virtues of baseball to this ancient being; the angular lines of Methos' face softened by dim light and a few beers making him seem impossibly young. That night, Adam Pierson had begun his pursuit of Alexa Bond. Joe had always wondered how, in a few short days, sensible Alexa had been swept off her feet; what Methos had said, what argument he had used, to get the young woman to leave everything behind and accompany him around the world. Now he knew. Just as Methos had so often thrust a verbal knife between the cracks of Duncan's psyche, now he seemed to play on Joe's insecurities and doubts. It was not a logical argument that Methos made, it was a purely emotional gambit meant to throw Joe off balance mentally in the same way he had done physically just a few moments before.
And Joe had to admit it was working.
"It's easy, Joseph. You don't even have to say, 'yes.'" Methos' other arm slipped around Joe's back, a hand resting lightly on the nape of his neck. It was an intimate movement that left Joe even more stunned than he had been when Methos asked him to go with him. In a moment of startling clarity Joe realized that he had never really known Methos at all; just his assumptions and the comfort of amiable young Adam and his beer. This man, this Immortal holding him, wanted things that Joe never imagined. "Just get on the plane and leave the rest for later."
Joe let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and swallowed hard. Was he reading this wrong? No. Surely not. The biggest surprise of all, however, wasn't Methos' question. It wasn't even the way Methos held him. It was his own reaction: the fast beat of his heart, the dry mouth, the flood of adrenaline, and the slow dawning realization that whatever Methos had in mind that he wasn't averse. Quite the opposite actually.
In the end, it was that knowledge that shook Joe out of those slowed moments and into real time. Methos seemed to sense the change and pulled back to study Joe's face. Joe watched the expression shift from earnest to resigned.
"Methos…"
Joe was silenced with a headshake and a weary smile. The hand at his neck fell away and the other at his elbow slid up Joe's arm and came to rest on his shoulder, handing back the balance that just a few seconds ago had seemed forever gone.
"It's all right," Methos said softly. "I'll see ya around."
A step to the side and Methos was around him and striding to the Gulfstream. Joe heard the weight of Methos' boots striking the stairs and the voice of a woman say something in greeting. A few moments later there was the firm solid thunk of metal to metal and a seal being made.
Somehow, Joe couldn't seem to make himself move, even when he heard the whine of the engine starting to power up. Intellectually he knew it was time to go but another part of him told himself that the time had passed a few minutes before and that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. A form materialized out of the dark and hurried toward him.
"Joe! Come on, you gotta get outa the way!"
For the second time someone grabbed Joe by the elbow. He had completely forgotten about Sam. Only a handful of Watchers knew the man who had just gotten on that plane as Methos. Most still thought him Adam Pierson, a new Immortal and student of MacLeod, and Joe did his best to keep it that way. Shit, he thought, I'm losin' it. I hope he didn't hear me call him Methos.
Sam half supported and half pulled Joe to the safety of a nearby hanger. When they leaned against the metal wall, Joe turned his head and watched as the Gulfstream rolled away. He had a strange moment of near-panic at the idea that he might never see Methos again. He pushed himself off the wall, staring at the plane as it got smaller and smaller while the ache in his chest got larger and larger.
"So, what do we do with the bag?"
Joe's head whipped around in undisguised shock. Even now, Methos was throwing him off kilter. The bag. The old man had left the bag. Why?
"I'll take it, Sam."
"Pierson tell ya where he was headed?"
"No." Joe grabbed the duffel from Sam's hand, the weight making him lean hard on his cane to compensate. "Go on home."
"You son-of-a-bitch."
Joe muttered the words aloud as he looked inside the duffel bag. An envelope marked 'Joe' lay on top of three sweaters, a pair of red pants, and a pair of jeans. Hidden by the clothing was the source of Joe's epithet concerning Methos' mother.
Journals.
At first, Joe wasn't sure what to do. Part of him -- the Watcher -- wanted to grab one, open it, and start reading. Another part -- the part that called Methos friend -- just stared. It seemed clear that Methos had carefully selected these volumes to leave behind in Joe's care. The question was why?
There were a dozen books of various sizes. Joe took them out of the bag and spread them out on his bed. A worn dark brown leather covered journal tied closed with a strap, the edges of the yellowed paper accented by green and gold marbling. Four hand-stitched bright red hardbacks, the pages uneven and hand cut. Two huge Florentines with gilded highlights on the spines. Three with covers the blue of the Aegean Sea, each with a photo of Alexa attached to the cover. A single black leather book embossed with a Celtic knot. The last, a deep burgundy of at least two hundred pages, had George Gordon Lord Byron on the exterior.
Joe sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was exhausted.
"I'm too old for this shit."
He looked back and forth between the books and the envelope. They weren't going anywhere. He, on the other hand, would be expected at the bar in five hours. Common sense won the day. Joe picked up the handset of his cordless phone off the nightstand and dialed a number. He started undressing while he waited for someone to answer.
"Hey, it's Joe. Sorry to call so early but I had an emergency come up last night."
A shift and he was moving his wheelchair next to the bed and setting the locks.
"Everything's fine, but I'm gonna have to take a couple days off and go through some stuff for a friend. Can you cover? The work schedules are posted until the end of next week and the bands are set for the weekend but I didn't get the cash drawer reconciled before I closed up last night."
He sat down on the side of the bed and started taking off his prosthetics.
"Thanks, man. I owe ya. I'll give you call tomorrow."
Once his legs were off, Joe flopped backward on the bed. He reached to his right and snatched up the envelope, turning it over and over as if doing so might somehow reveal the contents.
"I am really too old for this shit."
Joe closed his eyes and just lay there unsure if he wanted to know what was inside the envelope. From the moment Sam had called to tell him Methos was on his way to the airport, Joe's night had become an emotional rollercoaster ride. Now, in the silence of his bedroom with only the soft hum of the bathroom fan he'd forgotten to turn off as company, he had time to dissect what had happened and his own reactions. Why had he been so angry at the idea of Methos leaving without saying goodbye? Was Methos' apparent display of affection for him really that much of a surprise? And his own response? What was that all about? Was it genuine or manipulated?
To be honest with himself, Joe wasn't sure he was ready for the answers.
"Screw it. I'm not gonna get to sleep until I do this."
The envelope wasn't even sealed. It was the short matter of a finger flick to expose the paper inside. One eight by ten sheet, unlined.
Joe,
I'm probably not your favorite person right now and for that I am sorry. Still, you can't blame a guy for trying. You know what they say, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
The clothes are Mac's. He's probably forgotten he ever owned them by now. I know that once he figures out I'm gone you'll be his first stop. Give them to him. Don't give them to him. It's your call.
Now to the part I know is driving you crazy.
Did you wait and open the letter before you read one?
Of course you did.
It's far past time, Joseph Dawson, that we got to know one another. Really know one another. I know you think I pull your leg, that I'm full of shite, and sometimes, I admit, I do put you on just to watch your reactions. There's this thing you do with your face and …
Well, anyway.
The journals are for you. Read them. Don't read them. Keep them. Turn them over to Watcher Headquarters. It's your choice, Joe. I trust you with my life and I could think of no more tangible way to show you than this gift. There is enough in these journals to string together nearly three thousand years of my history and aliases. My loves. My losses. My irredeemable mistakes and deepest regrets. My unqualified failures as a man and a teacher. My fondest wishes and my dashed hopes. They are yours now, Joe, if you'll have them.
After Duncan had to take Ingrid's head he asked me, in a classic fit of Highland guilt, the question Ingrid had put to him at the end: What made him killing her any different from her killing them? The moral conundrum isn't apropos to us, Joe, it's the answer I gave him that applies here. I told him that Stefanovich killed, and Ingrid judged him. Wilkinson killed, and Ingrid judged him. Ingrid killed, and Duncan judged her. When Duncan asked, "So, who judges me?" I didn't answer. The fact is that we are all judged sooner or later, and not always fairly or with compassion and understanding. I leave it in your hands to judge me. You are a good man, one of the best I have ever known, and if you can find forgiveness in you after you have combed through these words of mine then I will know that, perhaps, I am not so irredeemable as I believe.
It's not goodbye, Joe, just farewell.
M
Joe let the piece of paper fall from his hand. He turned his head to look at the books spread out on the bed.
"I need a drink."
Joe's transition from sleep to waking was unwelcome and abrupt. The shrill ring of the phone seemed amplified in spite of the fact that it had to go through the pillow he had placed over the top of his head to block out the light. His head throbbed, the room seemed to spin, and it tasted like something had died in his mouth, which certainly didn't help the sudden nausea.
To say that Joe was unhappy would have been the understatement of the year.
Growling and cursing he threw one arm over the pillow to keep it from moving and used the other to grope for the phone on the nightstand. He knocked an empty highball glass onto the floor with a clatter and nearly tipped over an open bottle of scotch before he got his hand wrapped around the phone. He dragged the thing under the pillow to his ear and pressed the button.
"If you hang up now, we can forget this ever happened."
"Joe?"
"I take it that means you aren't going to hang up, Mac."
"Are you okay? I'm at the bar and they said you haven't been here for days."
Joe let out an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, well, a guy can't take a couple days off?"
"You sound horrible." Duncan's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper for which Joe was inordinately grateful. "Is there trouble?"
"No." The pillow flew across the room, a victim of Joe's wrath since he couldn't do much else. Being angry with Duncan was irrational. The situation had nothing to do with him.
"Are you sure? I went by Adam's place and he's cleared out."
"Yeah, I know."
Duncan's voice went back up. "What'd you mean 'you know?' What's going on?"
"Look, can I call you later or something? I gotta scrape the fur outa my mouth and take some Advil if I'm gonna be awake."
"I'm coming over there."
"I don't think that's a good…" Joe's words were cut off by a sharp click. He lay there, staring at the handset until the overly pleasant female voice began repeating, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then dial your operator."
"Well, shit! That's bright, Mac! Just come over to my place. No problem. Not gonna get me in trouble with the brass or anything. Goddamn Immortals! And no, I do not want to make a call!"
He threw the handset and it smacked into the wall with a satisfying crack of splintered plastic.
"You look like hell, Joe."
"Thanks." Joe rolled his wheelchair back a bit. He didn't care what he looked like. He hadn't cared what he looked like for four days. And even if he had cared, there hadn't been time to do anything about it before MacLeod's arrival. He spent the few minutes he knew he'd have frantically gathering Methos' journals from their various positions around his house and stuffing them back into the black duffel bag where they couldn't be seen. He managed to brush his teeth but the doorbell rang before he had gotten a comb through his hair. He was sure the phrase rode hard and put away wet applied. "You comin' in, or you gonna stand on the porch and advertise this visit to every Watcher in North America?"
The tersely delivered zinger hit its mark. Duncan looked suitably chagrinned as he slipped through the doorway. "Sorry. Guess I wasn't thinking about that."
"Really? I didn't notice." Joe slammed the door shut and immediately regretted the action. The sound of wood on wood echoed in his head like a grenade going off. Flinching he rolled his wheelchair past Duncan toward the kitchen. "I'm making coffee."
Duncan followed and stopped in the living area. Chinese takeout cartons and pizza boxes littered the coffee table. An empty tequila bottle sat next to a half-full bottle of Kentucky's finest. Scrunching his nose, Duncan picked a cigar butt out of a plastic cup. "Nice place."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting company."
"I can see that." The cigar butt was dropped back into the cup before Duncan left the mess behind and joined Joe in the kitchen. He leaned against the refrigerator watching as Joe set the coffee to brew. "What's going on, Joe? And don't give me 'nothing' because I'm not buying it."
"Grab a couple of cups out of the cabinet up there, would ya?"
Duncan didn't move. "Joe."
"I don't know what to tell ya, Mac." Joe whipped the chair around and rolled up next to the fridge. He jerked it open, Duncan's quick reflexes the only thing saving him from getting a face full of door, and pulled out some milk. "There's nothing going on."
"Then what is all this about and where is Methos?"
"I don't know where Methos is and if he wanted you to know he would have told you."
"Then how do you know he's gone?"
Joe let out an exasperated breath and slammed the milk carton down on the counter. "I followed him to the airport the other night, okay. He got on a plane and left. That's all I know. Now, are you gonna get the coffee cups down or not because you got here before I could put my legs on!"
Duncan blanched under Joe's wrath. He looked, really looked, at the man in front of him. In all the years Duncan had known him he had never seen Joe in a wheelchair. For that matter, he had only seen him without his artificial legs when they were hiding out in the basement of Shakespeare and Company. For understandable reasons Duncan didn't like to dwell on those days, but he forced himself to remember the frightening hours as Methos dug bullets and cloth out of Joe's damaged body -- how pale and fragile Joe had been as he hovered near a death from which he could not return. He made his eyes drop from Joe's face to settle downward on the shortened stumps. Joe was so mobile, so vital, so effective in his life that it was easy to forget this handicap of his. How many hours of physical therapy, how much pain, how much indomitable will did this man have to keep going the way he did? And how many times had Duncan questioned his integrity? Used their friendship? Accused him of not caring?
The coffee maker sputtered.
He raised his eyes back to Joe's face. It was hard as iron. "Where'd you say those cups were again?"
"First door on the right."
Duncan nodded and got to work. "Look, why don't you go clean up. I'll make you something to eat."
"What, you trying to suck up to me now?"
Duncan put the cups down on the counter. "Yeah," he said with a grin. "You got a problem with that?"
Joe snickered and shook his head. "Not if you do the dishes."
"Deal."
By the time Joe got out of the shower and made himself presentable, Duncan had done far more than the dishes. The evidence of the four days of Joe's shut-in had been whisked into trash bags and ushered out the door. A window in the kitchen had been cracked open to let in some fresh air. Counters were wiped down and a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich was sitting on the coffee table in the living room next to a cup of coffee and a FedEx box.
"What's that?" Joe asked, pointing at the box.
"That, as Methos would say, is the sixty-four-thousand dollar question."
Joe quirked an eyebrow.
"It's why I went to the bar," Duncan explained. "That was delivered to my place this morning but it's addressed to you."
"What?"
"Yeah, that was my thought."
"What's in it?"
"I don't know. Wasn't addressed to me."
Joe lowered himself onto the couch and grabbed the box. It was light. He shook it. The action produced a bit of a thud and the weight shifted fairly easily. He flipped it over and looked at the delivery information. The shipping location was Tokyo, Japan but there was no name.
"Do you think it's from Methos?"
Joe turned his attention back to Duncan. "Well, I suppose there's only one way to find out."
He ripped open the box and turned it upside down. A cellular phone slid out and onto the coffee table followed by a fluttering yellow Post-it note. Duncan picked up the piece of paper and flipped it to face Joe. After four days of reading Methos' journals, Joe could recognize the penmanship instantaneously.
It was a phone number.
Joe took the note and stuck it to the back of his hand before grabbing the phone. He dialed.
"Pacific Charter."
"Sorry, wrong number."
Joe flicked the phone off and tossed it back onto the table.
"Well?"
"I don't know, Mac." Joe grabbed his coffee cup and took a long drink. The Advil he had taken just wasn't cutting it and while the shower had done a lot to make him feel more human he still wasn't running on all four cylinders. "It's the number for a charter company. Methos took a charter when he left, but why he'd send me a phone and that number is beyond me."
Duncan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Look, Joe, if there's something going on I can't help if you don't talk to me."
It was clear Duncan wasn't going to let this go. "It's not like that." Joe leaned back into the couch and stared at the ceiling trying to figure out exactly what to say. "I don't know why he left, but as far as I know it wasn't because he was running. I'm not in any danger. I don't think he's in any danger. For all I know he just went on vacation."
"Then why did you go to the airport?"
"A hunch. He was doing some odd stuff for a few weeks. New coat. New boots. New bag. Paid his bar tab…"
"Paid his bar tab?"
"...so I put a few people on him."
Duncan snorted. "Oh, he had to love that."
"Yeah, well." Joe shrugged. "He left some stuff of yours. Clothes. They're in a brown paper bag in the bedroom." He didn't mention that he'd kept the white sweater that smelled like Ivory soap. He wasn't ready to think about why he'd done that and he sure as hell wasn't going to try to explain it to Duncan.
"You don't think he's coming back, do you?"
Joe pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes before dragging the palms down his face. "No, Mac, I don't."
They sat in silence after that for a time, Joe's food and coffee going cold. Finally, Duncan stood up. "Look, I'm sorry I barged over here like a bull in a china shop."
"It's okay. It'll sort itself out."
"You gonna be all right, Joe?"
Duncan's voice was low and sad. Joe had to close his eyes against a surge of emotion he hadn't known was there. "Yeah."
There was a quiet click of the door lock when Duncan let himself out.
Joe's days resumed a regular and recognizable pattern. He got up, got dressed, had coffee. He went by the bar to pick up the deposit then went to the bank. He was in by eleven to open up for the lunch crowd. After the rush died down he would go into the office, update QuickBooks, then pull out the laptop and login to his email. About an hour later he'd be finished reading the updates and bulletins from Watcher Headquarters and have a short list of items to take care of based on those emails. On Monday he spent the late afternoon doing inventory and calling in the orders. On Tuesday he did the schedule. On Wednesday he confirmed bookings for the weekend. On Thursday the liquor and food deliveries showed up.
It was all so normal.
And yet it wasn't.
Sometimes the door would open and someone wearing a long coat would walk in, bright sunshine at their back and the front swathed in shadow, and Joe's heart would skip for just a moment until he realized it wasn't Methos. At least once a day Joe found himself staring vacantly at an empty barstool. When he went to do the beer count he found that he didn't have to reorder a couple of the microbrews. Scotch wasn't going out quite as fast as usual.
The weeks passed by and the days got colder. Joe started pushing more and more of the daily operations onto other people. He was never without one of the journals and he spent his free time between customers and the odd bit of paperwork reading them.
I don't know why I thought it would be a relief. I should know better. How the hell did I let this happen? I had it. I could have saved her. Now she's gone forever and there will never be another like her in all eternity. I will never again see the light in her eyes when she laughs or hear her say my name. All I can do in my immortality is remember her and I am not worthy of even that grace.
Joe started letting the bands do the lion's share on weekends and cut back to solo warm-up sets on Friday and Saturday nights. He found a young piano player who did free-form jazz and put him on Monday evenings with good results. Open mike night on Wednesday still drew a good crowd and was the highlight of his week, but he kept looking at the table near the stage that Methos always took. The regulars left it empty for a while but then, by some unspoken agreement, the table was filled up and everyone moved on.
There is an essentially mortal passion that resides within him. He craves sensation and courts disaster. Never have I had a student the likes of him and I often find myself at a loss in my attempts to impose upon him some sense of moderation and survival.
He has begun, in company, to call me Manfred. It is a jest for him of some high mirth. Manfred is the title of his latest work, a drama of all things, and the namesake a hero of dark qualities, deep passions, tragic intellectual curiosity, and overreaching pride. The man's own emotional eccentricities and bravado bring upon him immortality and forces him to a life of isolation and wandering exile. Byron says that with this work he shall make of me a romantic paragon to transcend time. I told him far better men than he had already tried and he laughed. I believe he perceives me to have issued him a challenge. If only he would but take the challenge of his sword as seriously! Were he to do so he would be a formidable opponent indeed.
Duncan came in one afternoon and told Joe he was headed out of town. Warren Cochrane had called him to ask for help and Duncan couldn't refuse.
"You know what Methos would say."
Duncan muttered something about the old man being paranoid and that Cochrane would never set him up.
Joe couldn't stop himself. "Paranoia has kept his head attached for five thousand years," he barked. "You shouldn't be so dismissive."
Duncan shot him a look and Joe grabbed a bar towel and a glass. He forced his voice to a softer tone. "People change. You know that. Sometimes you do things you think you'd never do. Cochrane killed his student. He's been on the run for years now and the last time you were in the same room with him, he came after your head."
"If he'd meant to take my head, Joe, he'd have done it." Duncan frowned down at the beer in front of him. "I can't just ignore this. I remember how sick I felt when I realized he'd killed Andrew. I couldn't imagine how anyone could do such a thing. Part of me wanted him to suffer for what he'd done. But how am I any different after what I did to Richie? I just don't have Interpol hounding me for Richie's murder because the Watchers cleaned up the mess. The man needs help. He's never going to be able to move on and forgive himself for what happened if he can't stop running long enough to put it in the past."
"At least tell me you're meeting him on holy ground."
Duncan just stared into the beer.
"Jesus Christ, MacLeod!"
"I'm not asking for your opinion!" Duncan shoved himself off the barstool and jerked on his coat. "You've spent too much time around Methos."
"Yeah? Well, maybe you didn't spend enough!"
Joe regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Duncan whipped out his billfold and threw a five on the bar, the words hanging in the air between them like an electric charge. "Well, if I'm wrong you and your Watcher buddies won't have far to go to put me in the ground," he growled. "Just ask Rachel if you don't where Debra is buried."
"Mac." Joe reached over the bar and grabbed Duncan's arm. He was unwilling to let the exchange end on such a sour note but unsure how to make things right. 'I'm sorry' wasn't appropriate because he wasn't. Not really. Duncan was always taking unnecessary risks; literally sticking his neck out. Joe just didn't know if he could stand losing Duncan. Not now. Not with Methos gone. They stared at each other and finally Joe just gave Duncan's arm a squeeze. "Watch your head."
Duncan seemed to understand; his expression softened and he gave Joe a grin. "Always do, Joe. Always do."
An admission: These days when I sit in full lotus, my palms resting on my knees and the smell of incense so strong that it makes my head light, I am not focusing on the harmonic resonance of my body and attempting to become one with the source of all; I am trying to find reasons not to hunt Cassandra and take her head. The woman is a threat to my continued existence; a loose end that needs tying off.
A Confession: I don't want that quickening anymore than I ever wanted Silas'. I loved that woman once -- at least as much as I was able at the time. Love was not a concept that came into my vocabulary until Socrates and that was long after Cassandra left. She had fire in her and I have always found that attractive. And, while she may deny it, there were times when it was good.
Epiphany: Sentimentality has always been my great weakness.
Fuck Kathmandu. Enlightenment is overrated. This is getting me nowhere. I'm outa here tomorrow. If nothing else I need to know where she is so I can avoid the bitch.
Joe sat in the dark with the cellular phone in his hand. He'd picked up a charger for it the day after its arrival and it was never more than an arms length away. The first week he jumped at every phone that rang in the bar, his hand quickly pulling out the one from his pocket to be sure he didn't miss a call.
It never rang.
He hadn't called the charter company again. He programmed the number into the phone and burned the Post-it and the FedEx box. The last thing Methos would want was a trail for some Watcher to follow.
Now Joe was staring at the dim outline of the phone and wondering when things had changed. At what point exactly had he made the decision to go after Methos? It certainly wasn't today, although he could lie to himself and say so. No, today was just the culmination of a very long series of events, of incremental movements toward an inevitable end.
Today he had called Headquarters in Europe and asked for a six-month sabbatical.
When he told the staff he was going to have to go out of town for a while, no one batted an eye. About every six to nine months Duncan would have some situation that would mean him leaving town for a while. The members of the staff who were Watchers knew Duncan had gone and made the assumption that Joe was following. The rest figured he was headed to Europe to check on the club or to play some shows in London. He did nothing to correct them.
Today had been spent tying up loose ends, putting the bills on auto-pay, and cleaning out the fridge. He kept telling himself it was because he was going to Glenfinnan even though he hadn't booked a flight. All of the journals had been returned to the duffel and it sat on top of the coffee table, a black lump in the dark.
The strangest thing happened to me yesterday. I found myself staring at Joe Dawson's hands.
I don't think he noticed and I have no idea why I started -- perhaps it was that ring he wears that caught my attention -- but I did. I sat there on the barstool just watching him while he looked over some papers: fingers flicking through receipts, polishing the occasional glass, pulling the keg tap, scratching at his beard. I don't think he gets his nails done by someone, they don't have that look, but he keeps them neat. Most musicians I've known usually do. The time that's swiftly settling on him now in white hair and crows feet seems to pass over those hands. There is a vigor in their dexterity, a quiet strength, that is a reflection of the man I know. I became utterly fascinated trying to read the life of Joe Dawson written on those hands.
I went back today and took the table by the stage. I stayed till almost closing just watching his hands and how they charmed music from the guitar. The man was born for it, for bringing song out of wood and string. I had the thought that Amy's mother must have been an incredibly lucky woman to have hands like that, hands so deft and sure, focus their talent on pulling music from her body the way Joe brings it out of that instrument. There is passion in that man that is wasted until he gets on stage.
Someone should change that.
"Pacific Charter."
"Hello. This may sound a little strange. Someone sent me a phone a few months ago with this number and…"
"Are you Joseph Dawson?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Dawson, we're glad to hear from you. We've been holding your itinerary."