Parce Que JÕai Peche

n This is a novel-length story, part of the Armed Intervention series by Paula Stiles, which can be found at: http://www.geocites.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html

n The story will be posted in three parts.

n It has been carefully crafted to fit into the Armed Intervention universe; it does NOT stray out of it. If you are reading the entire series, this is an integral part of it and must be read in order to understand the subsequent canon. It fits in after Two Watchers in Search of a Gathering and before Snuff, these stories can be found at the above URL. This story is also available at that site: http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch2.html

n For those of you who speak French, there is nothing I can do about the accents on this site, unfortunately. I know it looks silly without them but Ð tant pis.

n It can also be found here at fanfiction.net under TheSnowLeopard or by title

n This is a Highlander-based series with its own consistent canon, extrapolated from the original, providing insights into that original canon Ð the stuff the writers didnÕt put in!

n Email me at: [email protected]

Disclaimer: No-one is making any money of this, unfortunately Ð maybe one day!

Rating: R for violence, language and a little bit of non-explicit sex. This is NOT a slash story.

Characters: Methos, Joe, Amy Thomas, Stephen Keane, and original characters, both from the Armed Intervention series and new ones.

Summary: Dr. Rene Galbon has the dubious honour of being MethosÕshrink. But he has a past of his own and it is about to threaten both him and his patient.

...Parce Que J'ai Peche...

[For I Have Sinned]

By Judith Hill

Part 1

Chapter 1

Paris

Thursday, November 21, 2002

Ah, mon Dieu. I should have suggested lunch this afternoon. But I am willing to sit here, a French Buddha - a Buddha who smokes too much - and watch Adam Pierson blow off another therapy session with me. But I am tired and the growling in my stomach is becoming embarrassing. These sessions with my star patient are wearing but we therapists are spread very thin on the ground; the psychotherapeutic care and maintenance of Homo sapiens immortalis makes for an unusual specialty, n'est-ce pas?

I finish my cigarette and stub it out. It keeps my own nerves quiet in these sessions and he does not mind. I suspect he has known the comforts of tobacco himself at various times.

"Could I possibly be boring you, Rene?" he says. He is annoyed. At himself?

I shrug. It is important to appear calm. What I feel does not matter. "I have been known to bore my own therapist on occasion," I tell him. "I am not going anywhere."

"You have a therapist?" I doubt the surprise is genuine. Surely he knows these things.

"Mais, bien sur." I give him my best inscrutable smile. I am not that easily distracted. "And we are not talking about me."

He stirs his coffee, just staring into it, his head down. He is off his game today. Which is interesting. He has been stirring it just like that for some time now.

"I am going to order something to eat," I say. There is no reaction. "You have eaten?" A slight shrug, no more. This is not good. "I will order for both of us, yes?"

I raise my hand toward the waitress, who comes to our table. She has been watching us; I hope it is I she is imagining in her bed. "Deux de vos 'Campagnards', s'il vous plait, Mademoiselle." She looks wistfully at the top of Adam's head, probably wishing he would notice her, and leaves. Ah... on perd la main - you are losing your touch, Rene. And he has a little more hair than you do, non?

"You ordered me goat cheese?" he says without looking up.

I ignore him and stretch out my legs, fold my hands over my belly and wait him out. I am worried about him. We are not that far along in the therapy. First there is a crisis, then the patient recovers, then there is a rest from the storm, the patient feels better... The crisis is over but the problem? Ah, but the problem is still there, you see; the behaviour that landed the patient into the crisis in the first place is still intact and a relapse is inevitable. It is... tricky. The patient feels that he no longer needs to warm a chair in your presence. And I think we are at this point, non? I must be careful or this is where I shall lose him.

I sip my coffee and give him time to say something on his own but he says nothing. It is time to take the initiative. "Would you like to tell me what you are thinking about while we are waiting?"

He sighs and sits back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Rene. Can we just eat and call it a day?"

"Of course. We are just friends today, hein? Enjoying a meal together. There is always another day, non? How is Silas?"

This gets a bit more of a response. "He's good." Even a little smile. "Yeah, he's good."

"I am glad to hear it. And the bookshop?"

"Um... it's fine." I can see he doesn't wish to pursue this. Perhaps he is hallucinating again. I am not sure he would tell me if he were. I wait, but nothing.

"I go to Reims tomorrow," I say. "I give you a rest until Monday. I return Saturday afternoon but I will leave you my number there. All right?"

He chuckles. "You old dog, Rene. Got a little piece on the side up there, have you?"

I shrug. "I don't much care for the celibate life, Adam. You have known me too long not to know that. But marriage? Well... This is France, mon ami. Such things are not a problem, you know?" And I have not seen Mathilde for too long.

He goes back to stirring his cold coffee absently. "You think you can trust me not to murder my friends in their beds?"

A little attack, I see. Also a little depression. A weekend away would do us both some good. Perhaps if he feels I am giving him a little room... "You are a cynic today. I would be happier if you were in care, yes. But there must be a little trust or there will be no progress. You don't agree?"

The waitress comes with our baguettes. It is just as well we are speaking English; she would be a little shocked. She puts Adam's plate in front of him but he doesn't even look at her. She gives me mine with a smile. I glance at her pretty breasts before smiling back. Plus tard, peut-etre. One never knows one's luck.

"Are you asking me to trust you, Rene? We've been round that corner already."

"Always, my friend. You are very distant today. Something has happened, yes?"

He pokes at the baguette and shakes his head. "I'm just tired."

"I can give you a prescription for something to help you sleep."

"Maybe. Let me think about it."

It is a concession but it worries me. Where is the fight? Always he fights me on these things. On Monday, his answer will be the same as usual: no drugs. This flat affect is not like him. He is depressed, of course, but this is a little more. He is very tired; we are all tired - me, Joseph Dawson, Stephen Keane. All very weary. "Adam. Go home and rest. You do not eat properly either, I think. Take that with you."

He nods and stands up. It is what he wants; he is glad I understand. I call the waitress and ask her to wrap up the baguette. He tosses a ten-euro note on the table and I do not object; he is being gracious. Perhaps he regrets the failure of the session.

He watches the waitress; he is a little agitated and I can see that he is anxious to go.

"Adam. Eventually you will have to talk about what is on your mind or we shall get nowhere. I cannot always be walking on eggshells around you, always worrying that I might touch on a subject that upsets you. I have to take my cue from you; at some point you have to take responsibility for your own therapy, for your own recovery. Am I making myself understood?"

"Yeah, get off my back, Rene."

I sigh. Sometimes he can be a spoiled child. "Where would you like to meet on Monday?" I ask him.

He pulls his old raincoat off the back of the chair and puts it on. He doesn't look at me and I wonder what he's hiding. "This is okay with me. Three o'clock?"

"D'accord."

The waitress hands him the baguette in a paper bag and he just turns away and leaves without saying a word. Perhaps it is a mistake to go to Reims this weekend. But I think this every weekend and every weekend I stay in Paris and, lately, everything is fine. I ask the waitress for a cognac and take my notebook out of my knapsack. Adam is always my last patient for the day and he does not like it if I take notes. What can I do? I make them when he has left.

I take out my cigarettes and light one. I should give them up; unlike my patients, I will not live forever. I jot down the few thoughts I have. Not that many; it lasted perhaps only twenty minutes, a very short session. Yes, we are all very weary. I think a little rest for both of us would be very good.

When that is done, I enjoy my lunch, then relax with the brandy and a cigarette. My own sleep has not been good. Perhaps tonight...

It has been... what?... five weeks? It feels like five months. The crisis was so severe in Methos' case. Ah, but I should not even think that name. If I do, one day I will slip and say it. And that will be a disaster. Sean met Adam after Adam's friend, Mira, came to Sean for help. Mira had been part of the clean up crew in Beirut and other nasty places and was suffering from a stress disorder. After Sean's death, I opened Adam's file, since I was treating him even then although it was not official, just talk over a beer; it was all there. It was one hell of a shock. And a lot of things made sense. In Adam's case, then, the breakdown was severe. Once I knew that Adam was Methos, I did a little research. What I found supports a pet theory of mine; I believe that Immortals suffer cycles of breakdown and well-being. If they survive these crises and recover their senses, they become quiet - quiescent - for a long period. After this, their renewed activity, particularly if it involves participation in the Game, brings on another crisis. It seems to be inevitable. One assumes, of course, that they still have their heads. And this one of Adam's has been coming for some time; it will be some time yet before he is out of danger. Another acute episode is easily within reach and could come at any time. I have to be very watchful. He, of course, resists me at every turn.

I used to be... mon Dieu, what I used to be. It can never be undone; so many regrets. When I am weary, they return to haunt me. What I do for Adam, I do for my own soul; it is my penance to know I caused him even more suffering. But I must not think of this; it will not help him.

I used to be convinced that the Watcher oath was right; now I cannot believe that I was so foolish. As a psychiatrist, I am permitted by the Council to 'interfere' in the affairs of Immortals with impunity. It is absurd. Even so much recognition on their part is interference; they are hypocrites. When an Immortal speaks to you out of his pain, out of the agony of his existence, how is it possible to remain unmoved? Merely to observe and not interfere? This is wrong. They are so alone. Ils sont profondement seuls... profoundly alone. We Mortals cannot comprehend it, this - cet anonymat monstrueux - this monstrous anonymity. The Watchers must change; of this, too, I am convinced. The world has changed beyond recognition. No longer can Immortals escape our incessant Watching and we have become obsessed with it. Better by far to be their friends, to serve them and to protect these strange creatures, these special children of humanity.

Adam believes I think him to be a new Immortal who met his first death while Duncan MacLeod thought himself to be some sort of Avatar at war with the ancient demon, Ahriman, a very dangerous delusion and one which cost his student his life. MacLeod's skill as a fighter makes him a very dangerous man and his profound, narcissistic belief in himself to be morally superior and above the law has led him to commit murder, even of Mortals. His Watcher recorded episodes which are clearly psychotic, possibly paranoid schizophrenic, certainly sociopathic. Over seventy kills in six years. And this after a period of quiet. But he is not my patient. And we will not interfere to offer him our help before it explodes into madness; we prefer to let them suffer, it would seem, and that is cruel. When that happens, I plan to be somewhere safe. Adam might not be so lucky.

Meanwhile, Adam plays an old game with me; he pretends that he is Adam Pierson and I must permit it. And he is not pretending. He is Adam Pierson; Adam Pierson has his own thoughts and feelings, his own behaviour patterns, is a fully developed personality in his own right. Adam Pierson is safe. I must respect this; not to do so would be a serious error. We all have roles that we play; our lives do not usually depend on it. He tells me only what Adam Pierson would know; it will serve for the moment but it limits us both. One day, he will trust me enough. Until then...

Why should he trust? We all betray him, we Mortals: we die. He loves a woman, takes her to him, trusts... and she dies. Death is betrayal. That it is not intended matters not at all. Because he is a good man, his instinct is to trust, an instinct which could be fatal; I see him fight this instinct with Joseph. Joseph is not a young man; he will live perhaps two decades more. I am the same age; I already feel my own death in my bones.

I finish the brandy, tuck my notes away, pay the cashier, shoulder my knapsack and leave. The cafe is a little place on the rue Poissonniere, near the little park... I forget the name. As I pass it, the pigeons fly up toward the apartments that surround it and I catch a glimpse of a man who is looking my way. He seems startled and turns away quickly so that I can no longer see his face. Something about him is familiar but I cannot place it. In any case, he is gone now. I go down the Metro and catch the train to go home. It is raining a little when I come up out of the station at Porte de Vincennes. I buy some croissants at the bakery for my breakfast and some flowers at the shop on the corner. Madame Garneau, the florist, tells me I look tired. But she tells me this every day just to make conversation. Perhaps she has an unmarried daughter she wishes to introduce to me. I tell a few lies, smile sweetly and escape.

I cross the main street to the wine shop. He has a Bordeaux I am fond of and I buy two bottles. As I am crossing the street back to the post office, I have the feeling that I am being watched. I look around but a car brakes to avoid me and my attention is drawn away. It is more likely that my nerves are on edge and I am imagining things. There is no-one there in any case. My little apartment is only a block up from the post office on the rue Montera but I am wet by the time I get there. My neighbour, Marie, arrives home from work at the same time and uses her key to let us both in, which saves me dropping my parcels. She asks about her cat, Mazout. She asks me because Mazout lives in my place when she can get in through the bathroom window across the roof. I used to shoo her out but she sat on the roof and cried; I gave up. Now I just feed her. It is easier.

I put my parcels in the tiny kitchen and the flowers in the blue vase. I like it very much, something I found in the Marche aux Puces one Saturday. There is not much here that is mine; the hospital is not that generous with its Paris accommodations but Paris is expensive and I am grateful not to have to live in a hotel while I am here. I throw my clothes in the laundry basket and take a shower, with Mazout eyeing me from the windowsill. I curse at her when she knocks my glasses off the back of the toilet: "Mazout! Putain de chat! Rentre chez-toi!"

I dress in a robe and pour some wine and light a cigarette. The evening news is depressing, as usual, and I turn it off, preferring to read. I should work on my notes, but I am too tired. I rouse myself enough to make some soup and eat it but I am not very hungry and I do not enjoy it. Then I pour some more wine and settle in to read for the evening. I am just nodding off when my telephone rings. Swearing, I answer it.

"Galbon."

"Doctor. David Gabrieli here. How are you?" Merde! "Am I disturbing you?"

I rub a hand over my face and sit up. I do not need this. "I'm sorry. I was just asleep."

"Ah, then I apologize. Doctor, I'm just getting around to paying a call on each of my senior staff. I like to get to know them on a personal basis. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You're just about the last one on my list. I wonder if we could get together."

"I am going to Reims in the morning but I could come to Headquarters on Monday."

"I'd like to come this evening, if I may. I'm having dinner with a friend at Chez Clement on the Boulevard des Capucines. I'm not that far away. I'll be there in about an hour. "

He leaves me no option. "Of course."

"Fine. Looking forward to it."

I hang up. Noisily. Mazout comes to investigate. "Rentre chez-toi, Mazout! Go home!" She ignores me.

Swearing, I go into the bathroom and take some aspirin for the headache that has just come out of nowhere. Then I shave around my beard. I have not yet met this man who is now my superior, though I know him by reputation, and I already dislike him. It is a clever strategy, of course. He has me at a disadvantage and no doubt he will press it. I put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then I make some coffee. I am going to need to be awake.

I tidy the place and pour some coffee. While I wait, I have a cigarette and try to remember what I know of this man, which is not very much, mostly gossip. If I had not been so preoccupied, I would probably have done some research. You damned fool, Rene. He will have found out as much about me as he can. I have been very careful but that is not always enough. And he almost certainly has an agenda. They always do. I know they call him Le Nettoyeur - 'The Cleaner'. There are rumours... There are always rumours. His predecessor had difficulties with his monogamous obligations, shall we say? I remember, with a certain fondness, a young lady from the records section who delighted in whispering the latest details of M. Anders' affair with the foolish Mlle Laurence even as our own little indiscretion was in danger of becoming distressingly obvious - ah, such a light touch, that one. And while what my patients tell me is safe with me, I cannot forget at will; I still know. And Mme Anders - the formidable Colette - was much too angry to remain discreet. Indiscretions all round. It was quite amusing.

That was not all of it, of course. The European Region was becoming quite corrupt. And into this mess rode David Gabrieli, knight in shining armour, righter of wrongs, tilter at windmills. The saints preserve us from the incorruptible ones! And he made no secret of his hatred of the Hunters, for all he was quite unable to destroy them. He did, however, succeed in driving them underground but not before there was an attempt on his life. I knew nothing of that; I believe that I was not supposed to know. Which tells me who my enemies are.

David Gabrieli is a traditionalist; he believes in the Watcher oath to the last fibre of his being. He believes that adherence to that damnable oath will set us all on the path to righteousness.

The buzzer for my door sounds. He is punctual, but then, he is American. Americans place great store in punctuality; personally, I find it distressing - except in my patients, of course. I press the button to let him in and open my door. He comes up the staircase smiling broadly, his white teeth prominent in his handsome black face. As he greets me, his handshake is firm and strong. He is taller than I expected; he is as big as I and ten years younger.

"I'm glad to finally meet you, Dr. Galbon." I don't detect any condescension in him; the sentiment appears to be genuine.

I usher him inside. He puts his gloves in his pocket and I take his coat, an expensive dark wool overcoat, very classic, one I could never afford. But then, that is not my taste. He settles himself into my one decent armchair, as is his right.

"I shall have to see to it that there is an anonymous donation to that hospital of yours with a suggestion that it be used for improving temporary accommodations," he remarks. He is relaxed, very assured. I wish I felt the same. "Our specialists deserve the best or we risk losing them back to the field."

"I am still in the field, technically, Monsieur."

"Of course."

"I have some fresh coffee. Would you care for some?"

He smiled pleasantly. "I do believe I will have some. It smells wonderful. Thank you."

While I pour coffee for us, he gets up and goes to my bookshelf. I see that he is interested in my small volume of Voltaire's 'Candide'. He turns the pages, pauses to read a little and laughs.

"Monsieur Voltaire certainly didn't like the Germans much, did he?" he says.

I bring the tray into the living room and place it on the small table beside the armchair. "No, Monsieur. He did not."

He comes back to the chair, hitches his trousers and sits down. "I find him very amusing." He crosses his legs comfortably and picks up the cup nearest to him. His movements are graceful for a big man.

"And how do you find working at the hospital?"

I pick up my own cup and sit down in the other chair. "I am satisfied."

"You find it a challenge to treat Immortals, do you, Doctor?"

I nod and smile politely. Mazout saves me the trouble of thinking of something to say by jumping into Gabrieli's lap. "Mazout! Barre-toi! Degage!"

I put my cup down and rescue Gabrieli from the furry menace. I pick up Mazout, take her to the bathroom, put her out on the roof and close the window. She sits there, pawing the glass and mewing. Before going back into the living room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; my face is tense and drawn, my eyes dark with fatigue. I splash a little water in my face and take a moment to compose myself. I cannot afford to betray any nervousness. He is not a witchhunter but he knows he has enemies; I do not want him to think that I may be one.

"I apologize," I say as I sit back down.

"It's all right," he says, smiling. "I like cats. We were talking about the hospital."

He is not going to let me off the hook, I see. "Yes, it is, as you say, a challenge."

He smiles and takes a sip of coffee, then nods toward me. "This is very good."

"Thank you."

"I see you're a smoker. I have no objections if you'd like to indulge."

He is trying to put me at ease; I find it a little disturbing that he feels he needs to do that. "Thank you, but I prefer not to."

"As you wish." He finishes his coffee and puts the cup down. "You don't say very much, Dr. Galbon."

"It is an occupational hazard, Monsieur."

He regards me for a few seconds before replying. "I'm sure it is." He crosses his legs, folds his hands over his stomach and settles back, a relaxed posture with no menace in it. He is a shrewd man; nothing he does is accidental. "I won't beat about the bush, Doctor. I came here with the intention of asking about your patient, Adam Pierson."

"May I ask how you know that Adam is my patient?"

He purses his lips. "No, you may not."

"I see. What I hear from Adam is privileged information. I am concerned that you would ask me to reveal it."

"Have I asked you to reveal anything?"

He has me there. It was a slip on my part. "He wa a Watcher and still has ties to them; it is common knowledge that he is suffering from stress." I shrug. "It is my job to treat Watchers suffering from stress. Anything at all beyond that..."

"Tell me. If you were convinced that it was in Adam's best interests - and I am speaking in hypothetical terms - to pass along information, to myself alone, of course, would you do that?"

I do not even hesitate. "No, I would not. My first obligation is always to my patient. If he cannot trust me to keep his secrets, he will terminate the association, and he will be right to do so. The therapy cannot proceed without his trust."

"And if I ordered you to report to me, on the understanding that confidentiality would be respected?"

I shake my head. "No."

He looks at me steadily. It is a test. "You can't be faulted for your dedication, Doctor, but your oath of loyalty is to the Watcher organization. To me."

I sigh and brush the air with my hand. "There can be only one answer, Monsieur Gabrieli. My first loyalty is to my patient. I must be allowed this freedom or I become unable to do my job. And it is my patients who will suffer. I cannot allow it."

He smiles. "Then let's not speak of it further. I understand you were here when Darius was murdered by Hunters."

Oh, mon Dieu! 'Out of the frying pan...' "Yes, I was here."

"You were friends." It was a statement.

As a monk, Darius' movements were hardly invisible. And with James Horton himself as his Watcher after Ian Bancroft was assigned elsewhere - at Horton's insistence, perhaps? - the details of who came and who went would be meticulously recorded. And especially myself; Horton was no friend of mine. Denial would be absurd.

"Yes, we were friends."

"I'm going to lay my cards on the table, Doctor. I'm sure you're aware of how I feel about the tragedy that the Hunters brought. The Watcher organization has suffered terribly from their ravages. I intend to prevent anything like that ever happening again."

"And how does this concern my friendship with Darius?"

He shifts in his chair. I suspect this is something he does when he is warming to his subject. Which means that this is very personal for him. I find myself wondering why he wishes to show me this much of himself. And the answer to that is, of course, that he expects something in return.

"I have spent a good deal of time looking over the records that were kept of those events," he says, "the savage killings, the revenge killings by Immortals such as Jacob Galati. I don't believe it ended with the death of James Horton. My reading has lead me to an interesting conclusion: the death of the Immortal Darius was pivotal. It was the first time the Hunters shed secrecy and began to kill openly and the murder was committed on Holy Ground. It sent a clear message: war on Immortals with no sanctuary anywhere. It was a black day for us."

I listen to this with interest. He would not speak to me this way if he thought I was ever involved with the Hunters. This far he trusts me; how much farther? It is a good deal farther than I trust him. He is a man of integrity, but integrity is a two-edged sword. If he believes me to be innocent, he will defend me; if he suspects otherwise, he will condemn me with equal energy. And no-one is without sin. I have always found it foolish to trust men of integrity.

I shrug. Time to toss him a little bone. "You are telling me things that I already know. How may I be of help?"

He beams. I have said the right thing. "I'd like you to tell me what you know of Darius, whether he revealed anything to you in private - as a friend - which would have eluded the notice of his Watcher."

"After Monsieur Bancroft, that Watcher was James Horton, the man who murdered him. His reports are unlikely to be trustworthy,"

Gabrieli's mouth curves into a smile; he is indulging me. "Ah, but that's a very funny thing about our Mr. Horton. He was a fanatic and fanatics are obsessive. For whatever reason, his notes on Darius are extremely detailed and those details have never been contradicted when the facts were compared with other sources. I believe we are safe in assuming that those details which can't be corroborated are very likely to be accurate. Interesting, don't you think?"

"And one of those details was the frequency of my own visits, no doubt?"

"No doubt."

"I see. But Darius never told me anything of himself, and certainly not of his life as an Immortal. He believed me to be no more than a parishioner; he was my spiritual advisor. We spoke of matters of the soul. My soul."

"You're a religious man, are you, Dr. Galbon? I thought that was unusual for psychiatrists."

I pick up my cigarettes and take one out. Perhaps I will indulge in it after all. "But we French psychiatrists are also Catholics, Monsieur." I shrug and pull out my lighter. "I believe my patients have souls; I treat those souls. But I do not preach to them. It merely gives me a perspective." I light the cigarette, which allows me to look away from my visitor. He waits politely. When I look at him again, he seems thoughtful. "And being a Catholic is a way of life; it has very little to do with being religious."

He nods slowly. "Then Darius was your Confessor?"

"We all need someone to forgive us our sins, Monsieur, even if God cannot."

"What you are telling me is that anything that passed between you and Darius is also privileged information."

I just shrug and smoke the cigarette. And wonder if I have made an enemy.

He concludes our meeting with a few polite remarks; I am equally polite. When he is gone, I let Mazout back in and she sits on my lap while I finish the bottle of wine.

This night, I sleep badly again.

Chapter 2

Paris

Friday, November 22, 10:00 a.m.

The Gare de l'Est is unusually crowded. The train to Reims is on time, leaving from Platform 18 at 10:38, the ticket seller tells me. I buy a return ticket and go to the cafe for coffee and a croissant before it is time to board.

As the waiter brings me my coffee, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket. I don't know him but I think I have seen him before. Then I remember; it is the man I saw in the park on the rue Poissonniere - or, at least, I think it is the same man. It is the clothing I recognize, really. He is not very tall but very solid, wearing shabby clothing, dirty boots, unshaven and I think again that perhaps I do know him. As I watch, he asks a customer for a handout, then looks in my direction. He looks away quickly and walks the other way, goes through the doors onto the concourse. He is in a hurry. I am not paranoid, but I am prudent and I do not believe in coincidence. Something is going on. There is nothing I can do about it now but I will be watching my back.

I buy a Campagnard - I admit I am addicted to them - at the kiosk for four euros and go to Platform 18 to wait. The train is just pulling in. When the passengers have all passed through the gate, I walk along the platform and choose a carriage. I settle myself into a compartment but I don't have it to myself for very long. Two other passengers, a man and a woman, make themselves comfortable. We are all strangers; the trip will be quiet. In a few minutes, the train begins to move. An hour and a half to myself. I have been looking forward to this all week.

I wait until we are beyond the outskirts of Paris to unwrap my sandwich. I brought a book to read but I have been unable to concentrate. I open a small bottle of wine and drink from it; it is a small vice, non? When I see the first of the champagne vineyards passing, I relax. Paris leaves me exhausted. I love Paris but I cannot be there without my work taking up every waking moment, it seems; it takes the sight of the vineyards, bare as they are at this time of year, to convince me that I have left that work behind. And then I worry. How will Adam be without me at the other end of the telephone? Perhaps I should not have told him. Tais-toi, Rene. Leave it alone. Joseph and Stephen have managed this far.

Surely there are other things I could be thinking about? Nikki will be waiting for me at the station with Mathilde. I smile at the thought. Veronique is not so young any more; she has been my housekeeper and confidante for ten years now. What would I have done without her? Nikki. Mathilde called her that first. We both liked it.

I am so lucky to have them both. There was another time when I was also very lucky, if that is what it could be called. It could easily have gone so very wrong; it almost did. I have no idea why this comes to mind now, when I wanted a quiet train ride. Perhaps when I have been to see Pere Jean at the Abbey, my mind will be quiet again. He expects me and I look forward to our little visits. I tried to warn Darius; Sean always tried to tell me that his death was not my fault, that Horton and his followers would have murdered him anyway, simply for what he was and not for anything I may have told him, but how can it not be? It has been on my mind since Gabrieli mentioned it; I wish he had not. I will carry so many ugly things to my grave.

How can we be so foolish when we are young? And I was not all that young. Just very foolish. Perhaps if I had known my father... He was a good man, my mother always told me. A good man who died much too young. What does a four-year-old know of war in a far corner of the world? L'Indochine Francaise - French Indo-China... just words. I knew only that he was gone and would not come back and I do not remember him. My mother died with him, it seemed to me, her soul already with him in the next world, and I left alone in this. When she took her own life, no-one was really surprised. Except me. Perhaps this is why I valued Adam's friendship back then; both orphans, or so I thought him. And so he is, though it is hardly the same thing. He is orphaned from far more than his parents; I have my country, my world, my Mathilde. When I heard that he had fallen in love, I was very happy for him. And then I heard... I will do what I can for him. I owe him this much; I owe them all this much.

I watch the countryside go by, watch the shadows on the fields, think about home. It has been too long. I take off my glasses and put them in their case so that I will not be tempted to read. The train is so smooth on the rails, the scene so pleasant that I drift off to sleep. It is what I need.

When the train slows down, I am already awake. I tidy myself up, put my glasses and my jacket on and pick up my bag and my knapsack. I watch through the window as the train pulls in. There they are! Bless them both. I have missed them.

They see me through the window and walk toward where the carriage will stop. As I step down to the platform, Mathilde comes running toward me.

"Papa! Papa!"

It is music to my ears. I drop my bags on the platform and sweep her up into my arms, my beautiful, brown-haired daughter. How I love you!

We embrace each other as Nikki joins us.

"It's good to see you," Nikki says. I kiss Mathilde and set her down, and kiss Nikki on both cheeks.

"You are looking very well," I tell Nikki. And she does. She has always taken great care of herself. She is a wonderful mother to Mathilde.

Mathilde is getting tall now that she is ten. Slender, like her grandmother. She takes my hand tightly. "I missed you, Papa. Nikki says you have a lot of work to do and that's why you have to stay in Paris."

"Oui, ma grande. A lot of work, people who need me. But I am here now. We shall go wherever you want to go, just you and me, and then we shall dress up and go to dinner. How is that?"

"I have a new dress, Papa. May I wear it?"

"But of course. I want to see you in it."

I see her grandmother in her pretty face and take her head in my hands, kiss her hair. She holds me tightly. Nikki looks on at us, smiling, happy.

As am I, Nikki; as am I.

We walk out of the station, Nikki leading the way. Mathilde walks with me, holding my hand tightly. You are growing so fast, my dear child. Why your mother would have neither of us, I cannot say, but we have each other. Darius told me it was a sin not to be married to her but how can it have been so wrong if I have you? And what was one more sin after so many much worse ones? For once in my life, it would seem, I have done something right.

As we walk through the station to the driveway and the street, I catch sight of a man in a dark jacket, following at a distance. It is the same man from the station and from the park. If he has gone to the trouble of catching the train, he is not a thief. He means to speak to me and he is willing to wait until the time is right to do so. I prefer to choose the time myself.

I tell Nikki to take Mathilde home and say that I will follow shortly. She looks at me in alarm; she sees the worried look on my face, no doubt. She knows my work is dangerous; I have never hidden that from her. It is only a short walk to rue Lesage, perhaps fifteen minutes. There is an English pub on the way; I am sure my would-be companion will find that amenable, better than the open street. Especially since I believe I know who he is. He once tried to kill me; I doubt he will try now.

I kiss Mathilde. "Mati, I want you to go home with Nikki and have some lunch. I have seen a patient of mine over there who wishes to speak to me. I will be along shortly and we will go out. Perhaps downtown, yes?"

She tugs on my hand "No, Papa. Come with us. Please!"

"Mathilde. The man is ill and needs me to help him. You want me to help him, non?"

She nods but her head is cast down. "You won't be long?"

"No, no. You and I will spend the afternoon together."

Nikki takes my bag from me. It is not heavy, just a few overnight things. I keep the knapsack with me out of habit. "It will be all right," I tell her. Then I smile and kiss her cheek.

"Be careful, Rene," she whispers. I nod and pat her arm. Life is a little harder when one is loved.

I watch as they walk to the street and round the corner. I look behind me. The man is waiting in the shadows. His name is Eddie Brill, an American. He is a Watcher, like myself. Only not at all like myself. At least, not any more. I was allowed to remove my tattoo many years ago since I work openly with Immortals; he has always worn his most proudly. We were never friends and now I suspect he despises me. I walk toward him but he stays in the shadows; he is dirty and furtive. He is on the run, most likely. It is a bad sign. I am not in the least happy to see him; I would be very happy if I never saw him again.

"Rene Galbon," he says. There is a tone of disgust in his voice. I am not his favourite Frenchman. "Doctor Galbon, I should say. You always were so fucking high and mighty."

"What do you want, Eddie?"

He hugs his jacket around him. He is cold. He is not what he seems, not this unkempt beggar, far from it, but even I did not recognize him. I will play his game; it is safest for both of us.

"A cigarette for starters," he says. "You got one?"

I take the cigarette packet out of my inside pocket and give him one. Then I take one for myself. I light them both. I take a drag on it while I regard him closely. He is frightened; frightened men are dangerous. Especially frightened killers. "What do you want?"

"You got a one-track mind, you know that?'

"I don't want to talk here. If you have something to say, we can go to the English pub. It's not far."

He nods. "Oh, yeah. I got a lot to say. I got your ass in my pocket."

I turn and walk back out of the station. He can follow me as he wishes. I wonder why he is so bold and I do not like the answer. He has something he believes will keep him safe from me - and that can only be one thing. I hear him trotting along behind me, playing the part. I slow to let him catch up but I don't look at him; I would rather he not see my anger. It has been nine years since that night. Oh, I have seen him since then but he has always stayed away from me; he knows I would kill him if I got the chance. I still may kill him; I may have no choice.

"You got a kid," he says. "Pretty. Looks like you. Bet you haven't told the Council about her."

It is a threat; Eddie enjoys threatening people, like a cat toying with a mouse. But I am no mouse. I say nothing; it would only provoke him. When we come within sight of the Roman arch with its circle of tricolors he is surprised, asks me to my back if it is Roman, which tells me he has never been to Reims; everyone who has been to Reims knows about its Roman arch. It means that he does not know where Mathilde and Nikki are going. I can see them up ahead. Once past the arch, I lead him across the street and we lose sight of them.

The King's Arms English Pub is a couple of streets more. I flick my cigarette butt into the gutter and go in ahead of him. I head for a table at the back and slide in behind it. He is right behind me. He pulls out the chair opposite, turns it so that he can see the door and sits down. Yes, he is most certainly on the run and equally certainly it is from Gabrieli's men. If they have followed him, I will be called to explain this and that prospect is one I do not relish. I wait for him to speak.

"You having a beer?" he asks.

"No."

"Right down to business. You can buy me a burger." His manner is insulting. No doubt he sees it as part of the role he is playing for someone's benefit.

The waiter comes and I ask him in English to bring a hamburger for 'my friend'.

"I'll have a Coors with that," Eddie says, exaggerating his accent.

"I'm sorry," the waiter says. "We don't carry American beer."

"Well, bring me a lager then," he says in disgust.

"English or German?" the waiter says.

"Whatever! Just bring me a goddamn beer."

The waiter turns to me, shaking his head. "And you, sir?"

"Black coffee with a little milk."

The waiter leaves. Eddie gives the finger to his back. He was never so ill-mannered; I can only assume it is deliberate. Or perhaps he is buckling under the strain. Being hunted will do that to a man, even a good man, and Eddie Brill was never that.

"If you intend to stay unnoticed," I tell him, "perhaps you should mind your manners. Waiters do not forget so easily as you might think."

"Yeah, well, it's been a little tense lately."

He does not take his eyes off the door, although he is probably watching the movements of the waiter as well. It is what I would do. For my part, I watch him. When he is sure he is not being watched, he drops the pretense and I see the old Eddie Brill, ruthless, intelligent, the self-righteous fanatic.

"You are going to hide me, Dr. Galbon," he says. I notice that he does not use my first name. That tells me precisely where I stand; he is desperate and he does not need my good will - or my respect. He has something else.

"And just why should I do this?"

"I think you know."

"Why don't you enlighten me?'

"I had a really interesting chat with Gabrieli. Seems someone got talkative."

I say nothing. Eddie was never one to be discreet, a common failing among fanatics. Perhaps this was inevitable. My chest tightens and I am sickened; I have dreaded this day for a long time. I light another cigarette to calm my nerves.

"They take me, you're going down with me," he says.

"Are you going to tell me why I should not kill you?" I say quietly.

He smiles and looks me in the face. "That's a sweet little girl you have." It is not a threat; that would be foolish and whatever Eddie Brill may be, he is not a fool. He does not need to threaten me this way. "You'd be risking a tribunal. You don't want to make that pretty little thing an orphan. And you're off your home turf here, Doc; you don't want trouble with the local authorities."

He is right, of course. And now it is unlikely he will oblige me by returning to Paris.

"Nor do you," I say.

"No, nor do I. I see we understand each other."

He looks away again as the waiter comes with my coffee and the beer. We sit silently until he leaves. He drinks some of his beer; I stir the milk into my coffee and smoke. Mon Dieu, what have I done?

I wait for him to tell me what I already know. It could be many things, now that I consider it. Has he discovered who Adam is? Is that what this is all about? But somehow I doubt that. Mais, je ne peux pas en etre sur - I cannot be sure. He saw me on the rue Poissonniere; possibly he saw Adam come out of the cafe but it is common knowledge that I treat Watchers suffering from stress and depression. He must know that I do not have an office in Paris. No, that is probably not it. Perhaps he has nothing at all. He is saying nothing, leaving me to speculate, to become nervous and incautious. In a few minutes, the waiter brings his hamburger and he eats it without excusing himself. I finish the cigarette and stub it out. Then I drink my coffee and watch him.

When he has finished his hamburger, he drinks some more of the beer and wipes his face and hands on the napkin before he looks up at me. There is a hardness to his eyes. He pushes his plate away and glances toward the door. He is nervous but he hides it well; it will make him incautious and that will be disastrous for both of us. This is not the best place after all. It occurs to me that I, also, do not wish our conversation to be overheard. I make a decision, one I hope I will not regret.

"Let's not talk here," I tell him. "I know a place."

He nods and we both stand. We walk back toward the door, he playing the role of beggar again, hugging his coat to him, shuffling a little, his head down. I pay the cashier and we leave. Outside, I find myself looking about me; his paranoia is infectious. When a taxi stops for us, I tell the driver to take us to the Abbaye de Saint Remy. We say nothing to each other during the short ride.

When we arrive, I ring the bell at the front gate. While we wait, Eddie looks around him. I see that he is impressed by the old architecture, by the statue of St. Remy baptizing Clovis, the tidy little garden.

"You brought me to Holy Ground?" He laughs. "Nice little irony, Doc."

When Frere Andre, the gate porter, comes, he recognizes me and lets us in. Once inside, I ask for Pere Jean, who comes within minutes. He is a small man who seems to disappear inside his habit. If he is disturbed by this intrusion, he is gracious enough not to show it. He does not speak English, but Eddie speaks passable French. I see no reason to believe that he does not understand me when I ask Pere Jean if we could speak with him privately. As we go into the parlour to talk, I tell the good Father that I must ask a favour of him. He merely nods; he will not ask why I must do this. When I come to him for confession in the morning, I will tell him then. I thank God there is someone I can tell or it would tear me apart.

In the austere parlour, Pere Jean indicates two chairs and occupies a third. He is a quiet man, accustomed to silence by years of contemplation. He waits for me to begin.

"Mon Pere, I ask for asylum for my friend here. Can this be arranged?"

"Asylum is no longer within out power, Rene; the civil authorities no longer recognize it. Surely you know this. However, we are always willing to offer a temporary home to those in distress."

I notice the careful choice of words. He will not ask me just why my 'friend' should be 'in distress'. And I am quite sure he realizes that this man is no friend of mine. I glance at Eddie, who has understood, I think. He nods without speaking.

"Merci, Mon Pere," I say. It annoys me that Eddie has not said this for himself.

Pere Jean stands. "I will arrange it now, if you wish to wait here?"

Eddie finally decides to speak. "Merci, Mon Pere."

When Pere Jean has left, Eddie gives a little snickering laugh. He thinks me a fool, I suspect. I offer him a cigarette and he takes it. I take one for myself and light them both. Pere Jean knows I smoke and there is always an ashtray for visitors.

"Smart move, Doc," he says. He sits back in the chair and takes a drag from the cigarette. Somehow, it is an obscene gesture but I cannot say why it should strike me this way. "I wouldn't have thought of this, but then, I'm a Baptist boy. But I guess I can handle it."

"They will not expect you to attend mass or observe the hours. You must keep to yourself, follow their rules, clean up after yourself. Do you understand?"

His face darkens. Now that he is safe, he feels free to show me his hatred. "The question is, do you understand, Doctor Galbon?"

He is gloating and I will not respond to that. I have done what he wants; let him have his little moment.

"You need rid of me," he says. "You can't kill me and you can't go to Gabrieli about me because I know what you are. I'm just going to let you figure out how you're going to get me out of Europe."

I am weary; I have carried this burden for many years now. While there was only myself to consider, it was so very different. I might even have given myself up to the Watcher Council and faced my punishment; after all, there are many ways to commit suicide. But now... Now there is Mathilde and Nikki... and Adam. Yes, even he.

"Gabrieli will believe what I tell him," I say. I am bluffing, of course. I have no idea what David Gabrieli will believe.

"And he's gonna love what I have to show him." He is grinning at me, humiliating me. This is his revenge. "When Horton sent me to take you out, you should have gone down then. The guy you killed was my best friend. I swore I'd get you one day, you son of a bitch. If I didn't need you, you'd have a bullet in your head right now. And Gabrieli would have put it there."

"This is hardly the place to discuss such things," I say. "And just what is it you have to show M. Gabrieli?"

"Don't play cute, Doc," he sneers. "I have a certain video tape."

It is as I thought. Le bon Dieu me pardonne - God forgive me. I shrug. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Like hell you don't."

There is a knock at the door before I can answer and it opens. Pere Jean comes into the room and addresses Eddie.

"I am pleased to tell you, Monsieur...?

"Brill."

"Monsieur Brill. I am pleased to say that Pere Michel, our abbe, has approved of your stay. Are you a Catholic, Monsieur?"

"No. I'm a Baptist."

Pere Jean nods. "Bon. Do you wish to be shown to your room now?"

Eddie looks at me, a self-righteous smirk on his face. "Not yet. Doctor Galbon and I have some unfinished business just now." His French is not that good, but it is certainly understandable. Heavily accented, but understandable.

Pere Jean inclines his head. "Of course. If you would care to stay here, Monsieur, I will return after prayers. There will be fresh clothing in your room and a razor so that you may wash and change and someone will come to show you to the refectory for supper." Then he turns to me. "Will you take the sacrament today, Rene?" I know he means Confession, not Communion. He is being discreet.

"I will come in the morning as usual, Mon Pere," I say.

"Bon. I will leave you, then."

When Pere Jean has left, Eddie settles himself into the chair. He relishes this. He sees me at his mercy and I am not sure that this is not so, for the moment.

"Where were we?" he says.

I simply stare at him. The more he believes he is in control of this situation, the more he will talk and the more I will know. Eddie is a man who likes to be in control. But he also likes the sound of his own voice.

"You were one of the best, Doc," he says. "You were the guy Horton sent after the real slimeballs, the worst of the lot. You were fearless and nothing bothered you. Then you got soft. Maybe you got religion, I dunno. Darius got religion; didn't mean he wasn't still the biggest son of a bitch around. We did the world a service."

I shrug and stub out the cigarette. The logic is typical. "And killing me would have been a service to the world?"

He smiles. "Well, I thought so. I guess it's a matter of opinion. But you knew too much. Way too much. I heard you got drunk and tried to eat your own gun after you took out that Viking. What was his name? We just thought we'd give you some help, you know? A little encouragement just in case you were gonna spill your guts in some misguided fit of bad conscience. You've been a little worry to us ever since we missed, you know what I mean? But you went real quiet after that. And now I know why." He chuckles and stubs out his own cigarette. "You like being a daddy?" He watches me, expecting me to be angry. I have been angry since the moment I saw him in the station; I say nothing. "Yeah, well, that gives me an edge I didn't expect. Still, I'm not that soft-hearted. One false move and that tape goes to you know who and your kid's an orphan."

"How do I know this tape exists, that you are not lying to me?"

He shrugs. "You don't. And you didn't ask me what's on it, so I figure you know it exists - and you know what's on it."

I consider this for a moment. It was an error on my part. "All right. I know about the tape. And you know where it is, I take it."

He laughs. "Oh, yeah. I know where it is. You cross me, you're a dead man, even if I make it out of Europe alive. I got your ass in a sling from now 'til doomsday, Doc. Just where I want it."

"Blackmail."

"Whatever it takes. You're an honourable man; you'll honour your 'obligations'. Now ain't that an irony?"

I take off my glasses and rub my hand across my face. In my mind, I see myself breaking his neck. I wait a few seconds until I am calmer, then put my glasses back on and look at him.

"Anything else you want to tell me about?" I ask him.

He laughs. "Is that your best shrink bedside manner? Yeah, well, maybe this will be the last chance we have for a nice little talk. You're entitled to know why you're in the shit, I guess. You remember that Brit from finance? Harold Croft? Sure you do. Believed in the cause but didn't want to get his own hands dirty, did a little fiddling with the books to buy weapons, that kind of thing? Seems I shot my mouth off back in my younger days, bragged about what it was like to waste Immortal scum, how I figured we were saving humanity from one more curse. He got a little nervous when Gabrieli took over. Gabrieli let it out on the grapevine that he would be willing to grant amnesty to anyone with information and he jumped at the chance. Remembered my little tirade from all those years back. Next thing I know, I'm sweating it out in Gabrieli's office. Croft didn't have any proof, of course. I told Gabrieli the guy was queer, which he is, and put the moves on me back then and that when I told him I'd cut his balls off if he did it again he said he'd get even. I doubt Gabrieli bought it but it did give me a little breathing room. He's having me followed, of course. They're following you, too, you know."

Oh mon Dieu! Does Gabrieli suspect me? That explains how he knows that I am treating Adam. Or perhaps they have been following Adam. Calme-toi, Rene. Tais-toi. "He is being cautious," I say, hoping that I sound a lot steadier than I feel. "Perhaps he suspected that you would come to me for help. I am a Watcher who is more or less independent of the Council, you have known me for twenty years..." I shrug. "I was a good possibility." I sincerely hope that I have interpreted it correctly. Panic would be fatal at this point. Quite literally.

"I think I ditched them a couple of days back, anyway. I haven't spotted them since then."

Until an hour ago, my movements were quite legitimate. I have nothing to fear so long as I stay calm. And that will be difficult. I will need to get back to Paris and think.

"You know," he says when I say nothing, "your old boss, Sean Burns, he was on our list that night, too. Real kingpin, high profile, easy to get to... If we took him out, it would have sent a message that no Immortal was safe from us. And then, funny thing... he disappears until the ruckus blows over. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Doc?"

I just look at him; let him think what he will. I saved one life at least. Poor payment for all those I took.

"Horton wanted to take out MacLeod as well but that was personal. We figured MacLeod wasn't important and he was doing a fine job of wasting Immortals himself. We told Horton if he wanted to really do it up proud, he should figure out who Methos was and take him down. He was even working on that, dug up this fucking chronicle that nobody had ever seen before, bunch of clay tablets, if you can believe that, with that writing that looks like chicken feet, you know what I mean? Never said where he got it or how he knew what was on it. Said it had some ancient Sumerian poem. I think it was just crap, you ask me, probably somebody's laundry list he was just using as bait. He figured if he leaked it out that it existed, Methos himself would come looking for it. Nice little trap."

A chill runs down my spine, not for the first time today.

"Only the trap never got sprung. Only guy who showed any interest was that researcher, Adam Pierson. Horton caught him snooping around one night. Man, that guy is not wrapped too tight, you know what I mean? Nobody's surprised you're treating him."

I shrug. "That is confidential. I'm sure you understand that."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the guy's a historian, involved in the Methos Project, so of course he was interested. Horton acted kinda weird about it, though." He shrugs. "Don't know what that was about but I did get that he didn't like the guy too much. Real wingnut. Working in those dusty archives must do something to the brain cells."

I smile. "Perhaps. How did Adam hear of this chronicle?"

"Oh, it was real cute the way Horton did it. Smart bastard." I light another cigarette; he asks me for another one and I give it to him. My nerves are very bad and I need it to calm them. "He got Phillips - you remember him, had a real thing for whacking females - got him to wine and dine some chick in records, just a file clerk, real gossipy little piece. So he beds this girl and just 'happens' to let it slip in the heat of passion that he has a Methos chronicle, only it's clay tablets. This is way too good for her to keep to herself and it's all over the place faster than the flu. Next day, he's called up on the carpet, tells Shapiro it was some bullshit line to impress the girl." He flicks the cigarette ash into the ashtray and stretches. He smiles at me but his eyes are narrow. He is looking for a reaction from me and I have to wonder why. "Cute, huh? Horton figures only the real Methos would know for sure there really was a chronicle on clay tablets because he's probably the one who wrote the fucking thing, you know? You ever hear anything?"

He is fishing. I shrug and shake my head. "Something... I did not give it much thought."

"Yeah, you were staying clear of us by that time, had your head up your ass feeling sorry for yourself. Anyway, who should come sneaking into Horton's office but Adam Pierson. Horton was keeping the place staked out himself. The guy picked that damn lock like a pro, so Horton told me. Interesting, don't you think?" He grins at me. He is telling me something and I do not like what I am hearing. He suspects and I must throw him off the track.

"I am not free to say anything about Adam's background but I am not surprised. He has some... unusual talents."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, he says if there's a chronicle, it should come to him because it's his job. Horton tells him it's in a safe place and to get the fuck out of there."

"Where is this chronicle now?" I ask him.

"Safety deposit box."

"And who has the key?"

He chuckles. "That's one secret I'll keep to myself. I hear it's worth a fortune. It's gonna help me get set up back in the States. And it's an insurance policy. Not that I don't trust you, Doc. I mean, I don't, not for a minute. But I don't think you're a thief. Funny, ain't it? You're a murderer, but you're no thief." And he laughs.

I have heard enough. I finish the cigarette and stub it out, then I stand up and put my chair back in its place. "I'll be in touch," I say.

"That's it? You'll 'be in touch'? You're some cold cat, Doc."

***

Chapter 3

Saturday, November 23, 2002

The Paris train, 2:30 pm

And I left him.

I could not go home right away; I needed to calm down. Perhaps I had seemed cold to Eddie but that is what I do best, how I earn my living. On the inside... That was a different story.

I walked downtown from the abbey and went into a bar I had never seen before. It was the kind of place that tourists like, blue and white tablecloths, photographs of the cathedral and the Smiling Angel of Reims on the walls, a place for good food at low prices where one can buy a good wine to wash it down. It was far from empty, a good thing when one wishes to hide in a crowd.

I found a quiet corner in the back, sat down and lit a cigarette. The waiter came toward me.

"Qu'est-ce que je vous sers?" ["What can I get you?"]

"Whiskey."

"C'est un peu tot pour un whiskey, non?" ["It's a little early for whiskey, isn't it?"]

"Je n'en ai rien a foutre de ton avis. Contente-toi de me servir." ["I don't give a fuck what you think. Just bring it."]

While he brought me my drink, I found myself watching the door. Every time it opened, I felt my stomach tighten. My hand shook as I brought the cigarette to my mouth. I could not go home like this. I took my glasses off and rubbed my face. When the drink came, the waiter slid it across the table and left, muttering something under his breath. I had been foolish to insult him. He would remember me now. I was no longer used to thinking about such things, taking such precautions. I had forgotten and that bastard had reminded me.

I held the drink in my hands and thought about how I should not be doing this, how I should report Eddie to Gabrieli and take my chances. But even with an amnesty, if there really was such a thing, if it came to a tribunal, I could not survive; there would be no mercy there and I have enemies. I would have a bullet in my brain before the day was out. Gabrieli's priorities are not necessarily those of the Council but he does have them. Even so, it would finish me. I would lose his trust and his priorities are not my own. And I had no idea where that tape was; perhaps he had only heard of it and was using me. Until I knew one way or the other, or until I could find it and destroy it, I was at his mercy. If I found it...

It was a set-up. Horton knew that I was losing faith in the Hunters, that I was no longer convinced. I had seen my share of viciousness, of Immortals who thought nothing of the lives they took, Mortal and Immortal alike, and I had been sickened. It is the same old story. I was lost and Horton found me. I was a boy without a father, a boy whose mother had died by her own hand; he knew what I wanted and he gave it to me. I took out my anger and my pain by killing. Le bon Dieu me pardonne.

And then it was too much. He knew. My guilt was becoming overwhelming and he was afraid that I would go to Shapiro. He was not entirely wrong; I had considered it. Perhaps if I had not been doing my residency with Sean, if Sean had not seen that I was troubled and taken me under his wing - perhaps it was even the friendship of Adam Pierson - I would have done it... and I would be dead now.

I drained the glass without stopping, stubbed out the cigarette and lit another one. My hands were still shaking. I signalled to the waiter and pointed to my glass. It would not be necessary to speak to him this time; he is old enough to have seen men like me before, men who are trying to drown their fears before dinner time. He brought me another without a word but his face told me what he thought of a grown man behaving this way. He is young; if he is lucky, he will not learn the hard way why grown men do such things.

I put my head in my hands, afraid to remember, needing to remember, needing to think about what might have happened to that damnable tape.

I was told to see Horton at his hotel. That always meant only one thing. An assignment. I almost did not go but I was afraid. It was too easy to kill me, to denounce me. I was too far gone to realize that that was the last thing on their minds. Questions would have been asked; if the Council had arrested me, I would have talked, taken them all down. They could not risk that. I know that now; I am older and wiser now. At least, I hope I am wiser.

And it was an assignment. His name was Rodrig Ericsson and he was a Viking. Horton told me of his past, told me tales of his brutality, the viciousness of his acts, particularly against women, raping them violently before slitting their throats. I was appalled. He told me it would be my last assignment; if I would do this one last thing, he would release me.

What I found was a quiet man, more than a thousand years old, a married man with two adopted children. Yes, he had lived such a life but it was so long ago. Could I not have mercy? But I was too blinded, perhaps even too afraid. I screamed at him, cursed him, called him filth. He asked for his life for the sake of his wife and children. But I was unmoved. Then he knelt before me and forgave me. And I did it. God forgive me, I did it.

As I thought about these things, things long buried, my heart began to pound in my chest and my hand closed into a fist. I drained the glass and called for another. O mon Dieu... such terrible things! The waiter brought me another glass and I took it from his hand without a word. I held it in my hand but did not drink it. That would not solve my problem. And I could not go home drunk.

I finished the cigarette and lit another. It has been years since I chain-smoked. Tant pis.

After I killed him, I fled. His blood was all over me. I left him to the clean-up crew and went straight to a bar and got very drunk. I remember only that I was weeping, holding my gun, feeling its weight in my hand, stroking the smooth, silken metal of the barrel. Then I woke up in a cell at the police station with the worst hangover I have ever had in my life. My head throbbed mercilessly and I was very sick. The police told me I had tried to kill myself, that the bartender had called them. I remembered nothing. Was it true? they asked me again and again. Did I want to kill myself? Who was I? Why was there blood on my clothing? What had I done that I wanted so badly to end it all? Where did I get the gun? Where had I been before going to the bar? So many questions, over and over, until I could stand no more.

I understood very little; I was very confused. I was not even sure where I was. Sometimes I understood their questions, but mostly I did not. Their faces became his face; their voices became his voice. I did not understand why he was screaming at me. He had not screamed at me, after all. His voice had been gentle, his face peaceful. And I wept for him. And for myself. I begged his forgiveness. And sometimes they were Horton and Eddie Brill, screaming their hatred, questioning me, reviling me. I fought them. I remember blows and I remember waking on the floor, huddled into a ball, handcuffs on my wrists, wet with my own blood. I think they left me alone after that.

They found my identification and called the hospital. Sean came to fetch me and identified me, told them that I was indeed a resident physician at the hospital but that I was suffering from fatigue and was a patient at the moment under his care, that I had wandered away and found a dog that had been hit by a car, that it was the dog's blood on my clothing, that in my precarious mental condition it had pushed me over the edge. Since there had been no report of a body, they believed him. Or at least, they could find no other reason to keep me. And the bartender was firm that I had nearly blown off my own head. They released me into Sean's custody and he took me back to the hospital. He admitted me for nervous exhaustion and I spent months recovering. He knew. I had told him of my activities. I don't know why he never turned me in.

'Admitted'? Why do you lie to yourself, Rene? Sean committed you.

Ah, yes. And he had every reason to do so. I was very serious about killing myself. Very serious indeed. Although I did not remember the bar, not all of it, I do remember still wanting to do it. If the bartender had not called the police, I would certainly have done it. I woke up in that cell without my shoes and without a belt. And if they had let me go, I would have found a way. But they were hardly about to do that. On the telephone, they told Sean that they thought I was insane, that I might have killed someone and was raving. The police doctor gave me a sedative injection at Sean's request and they restrained me. I would have fought them otherwise, fought because I wanted to die, not to live. Sean came prepared. He brought two attendants with him. I cannot tell these things to Adam, but I know what it is like to be strapped down, to be alternately raving and weeping, to have the door locked to keep you safe from yourself, your clothes taken away, to be unable to tell night from day and dread them both. But I also know that I survived it.

But for Adam... Ah, non. Ce n'est pas la meme chose. Pas du tout. It is not the same thing at all. I am a Mortal. There is no-one waiting for signs of weakness to take my head.

And you did not survive all that easily, Rene.

And that is true enough. The terrible nightmares, the fear, the aching sadness that shows itself as a black pit, cold and bottomless, that sucked me down into itself and held me fast - I deny none of this. I did not want to come back to the world of the living, to the world of pain and sorrow; I wanted it only to end. Sean was not a believer in drugs any more than Adam but he kept me sedated and quiet and I was grateful. I judged myself unworthy to live and some of that still lies inside my tired brain; I have fought it every day of my life. He saw something worthwhile, worth saving. He believed in me when I believed in nothing at all. And this I now do for my own patients. Perhaps I have saved a life or two because I understood from the inside. I cannot know this for certain, but I can hope.

I contemplated the glass and smoked my cigarette. Et ca n'etait pas la fin de l'affaire. It was not over.

Even before I killed Rodrig, Sean had been urging me to go to confession, told me it would do me good. He suggested Darius but I refused. Darius was an Immortal and I would have nothing to do with Immortals in my life. I smiled at the thought. Such an irony. I saw Sean as something of a saint, a man who had spent centuries being kind and caring; Darius... that was another matter. Then Rodrig. My next little tete-a-tete with Adam was subdued. It was amusing, really. He was very kind. I was the one who needed to talk and he saw that. I had not seen him for several weeks but he knew where I had been. Sean told me that he asked to come and see me but Sean discouraged him, knowing what Adam did not, that I was there because I had killed Immortals, mercilessly and cruelly. He thought it best that Adam be kept away, and perhaps he was right, whatever his real reasons.

When I saw Adam that day, I was still quite ill - these things take time. I had lost a lot of weight for one thing. When you are as big as I, your clothes hang off your frame and your eyes sink into your head. I had broken my glasses in that cell and my new ones did not fit very well. It did not add to the picture.

"You look like hell, Rene," he said. It was said with sympathy. "Didn't Sean's cook feed you?"

I smiled at him and lit my perpetual cigarette. "He fed me well enough. I did not wish to eat."

"And you could use a beer, I know. I suppose Sean's a bit of a grump about his patients having anything stronger than weak tea. Do you want to talk about it?"

It made me laugh. "It seems that talking is all I do. I talk for three sessions a week with Sean. I talk to myself and now I talk to you."

He shrugged. "Whatever it takes. You feeling any better?"

I noticed that he did not ask me why I had been there. It told me that there was more compassion inside him than I would have given him credit for before then. But my own illness had taught me to be aware of more things, of kindnesses, perhaps, and this was surely a kindness. I found it difficult to talk to him as I found it difficult to talk to anyone other than Sean just then. It was just as well that I did not know who he was. I merely shook my head.

"Can I help?"

I just looked it him. "What?"

He shrugged. "Can I help? I mean, you listen to my little troubles and put up with me getting snarky about those idiots I have to work with. You're always very tolerant of my petty ravings. I thought it was my turn. Least I can do. Besides get you drunk and maybe get you laid. I'm sure that wouldn't go amiss... And I'm past due." He grinned and I had to laugh. And I did feel a little better.

"I was told that you came to visit me."

"Yeah. Your watchdog threw me out. Told me I was a bad influence on you. Suppose I am really."

"Is this true? Sean said this?"

"Nah. Pulling your leg." He drank some of the beer and wiped the foam off his upper lip in a gesture I had come to know well. It was good to have a friend. "Actually, he told me that it was pretty serious, that you'd tried to do yourself in. So, can I help?"

I shook my head. "No. It is nothing that you can help me with. I suppose that it is a matter of conscience."

"Then maybe you need to go to Confession."

It startled me. Had Sean told him to suggest it? "Why do you say this?"

He shrugged. "I just thought it might be an idea. You're a Catholic, it's your tradition, your culture. That's important. Tradition matters."

I drank some beer, smoked a little while I thought about it. "Perhaps."

"Seriously. I think you should."

"How can I tell a priest that I work with Immortals? He will think me mad."

"Then go to Darius."

Mon Dieu! Confess to an Immortal? It seemed no more sensible now than when Sean had suggested it. I was horrified.

He put down his beer and stared at me. "What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a ghost. I think he'd be perfect. And he won't think you're stark staring bonkers."

I wonder now how much Adam knew. He cannot have known what I was but I have learned to take nothing about him for granted. If I saw this as a matter of conscience, in fact, who better to confess to? It would be a penance, and a deserved one. But could I bring myself to do it? Could I tell an Immortal that I had butchered his own kind? Yet, who better to beg for forgiveness? It was fitting.

I nodded. "All right."

"Good. I'll introduce you. I'd rather you go to him than pour your religious problems out on my head. Drink up."

It was my turn to stare. "You know Darius?"

He shrugged and drank some more beer. "Of course."

"But that is interference. Do you want to face a tribunal?"

He looked disgusted. "Since when did you worry about rules, Rene? And for your information, as a historian I have a dispensation to talk to Darius because he knew Methos."

"I see."

"He's a good guy. You'll like him. Tells great stories. With home-made mead. Besides, it's time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. You're no fun when you're gloomy and we need to get down to some serious fun again. I've been getting bored."

And I went - in fear and trembling. He was waiting for us. What could I say to this man, this Immortal whose file showed him to be worse than Rodrig? But he was gracious and Adam was insistent.

Darius spent many hours with me over the next few months. I told him everything, about the Watchers, about the Hunters and my part in it, and now I cannot help believing that that is why he was murdered. Because he knew. Oh, Horton hated him; that was his excuse. But his reason was that Darius knew too much. And it was I who told him. I have this, too, on my conscience. He suggested that I find Rodrig's widow and children, which I did. They had gone to the Ardennes and it was not hard to find them. I sent her money, telling her I had been a friend of her husband's, that he had once helped me. I had his file, of course; it was not difficult to be convincing. She wrote back and thanked me. I sent money every month for years after that.

And somehow Horton found out. Nearly a year after I thought it was all over, I got a call.

"Go to see Horton or you are a dead man," the voice on the telephone told me in unaccented French. I did not recognize it.

"I will not take another assignment," I told the voice.

"Just go to see him, or you will regret it."

When I got to Horton's hotel room, he was pleasant. Too pleasant. One suspects pleasantness in dangerous men.

"Come in, come in, Rene," he said. "I was sorry to hear of your illness last year. Are you feeling any better?"

I looked around me, half-expecting him not to be alone. I was also a dangerous man, after all. And I was not very happy about how things had turned out. Perhaps I would take it into my head that if I was going to be a dead man anyway, I should take him with me. Were they not afraid of that? They should fear me, I told myself. I was also a little mad, non?

"Why am I here?" I asked him.

There was a half-smile on his face. "You don't trust me."

"No, I do not."

"Don't worry. You're safe enough. If I wanted you dead, I'd let Shapiro do it."

"You will not denounce me. You would not dare." It was bravado. I would have believed anything of Horton. With him, you were either with him or against him, and I was certainly no longer with him. There was no middle ground.

He shrugged. "For a man who tried to kill himself not so long ago, you seem remarkably anxious to live. You did a good job for us. It was a clean kill."

I stared at him. "That is over. In the past and I do not wish to speak of such things. I will not kill for you again."

He smiled. "It's all right. There will be no more assignments. I asked you here to show you something. Sit down."

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

He went over to the television set and turned it on. Then he put a tape into the VCR.

"Just watch."

It was all there. I saw Rodrig's face as he let me in. I saw myself... O mon Dieu!... I saw myself screaming at him, cursing him, my face distorted with rage and hatred. My stomach was churning but I could not look away. Then I saw him kneel, speak to me and bow his head. I could look no more. I made it into the bathroom in time to heave my guts into the toilet.

"Yes, indeed. You have gone soft." He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded, one foot over the other. The tape was in one hand, a Glock 36 in the other.

I stayed on the floor, my head resting against the sink, not sure that I was finished. "He was not a bad man," I said, the taste of vomit foul in my mouth.

"Not for three hundred years or so, perhaps, but they never really change, don't you find?"

"Why did you send me?"

He walked into the bathroom and looked down at me as if I were something floating in the toilet. "I wanted you dead. I still want you dead. And now I can have you dead any time I wish while I reap the rewards of being a conscientious Watcher who would turn one of his own in to the Council for such... reprehensible activities. Rodrig had a Watcher who was thinking of becoming one of us; he did us a favour that night and we killed two birds with one stone. You're safe from him, though. He's not talking any more. Too bad, really, but he was even more sickened than you and changed his mind; I had to convince him to turn over the tape."

"You convinced him with a bullet."

"Something like that."

"And why did you not just shoot me?"

"Mm... let's just say that I might have a use for you. Properly controlled, of course. If your conscience bothers you again, I can always just yank on your leash. And just in case this isn't enough to deter you," he waved the tape at me, "I might just show this to that researcher friend of yours, Adam Pierson. Think about that." He backed away and levelled the gun at my head. "Now get out."

***

Do such memories never fade? I downed that third drink like water. I stayed in the bar for a good half hour more, long enough to finish my packet of cigarettes and drink some coffee. When my nerves were a little more settled, I left, bought another packet of cigarettes and went home by taxi. I could not rid my mind of those images, so long quiet now, that haunted me for so long. I barely heard what the taxi driver was saying when we arrived. I threw a ten-euro note at him and got out.

When I opened the front door, Mathilde was waiting. I fell to my knees, caught her up in my arms and held her to me more tightly than I had ever done before. As I felt her warmth, her life, the life that I gave her, I was overcome - with my love for her, with my terror of the danger I had placed us both in and with the rush of guilt for the things I had done, things that were now coming back to tear apart everything I had managed to build. I wept, silently, deeply. Her arms tightened around me.

"Je t'aime, Papa," she said. "Je t'aime."

Nikki did not ask me what had happened. I had hoped that the time would never come when I would have to tell her. And now... Now I could say nothing. I have not deserved such love from these two people.

I took Mathilde downtown to go shopping for a birthday present for Nikki. She is a quiet child, thoughtful. When she was born, I became desperately afraid for her, for myself; she would have no-one if anything happened to me. And I knew myself what that was like. My work took all my attention; I stayed away from other Watchers, even Adam. Our friendship faded as we went our own ways. I wanted no-one to know about my child. Sean was her godfather and Adam came for the christening. Darius officiated. We made a strange group, we six. Nikki will never know how strange. I wanted Adam to be her godfather but he refused, very politely. I did not know who he was then, of course. He merely said that he was not a Catholic and left it at that. He brought a present, a little gold necklace of some antiquity, something, he said, that he had acquired in Iran before the fall of the Shah. I have it safe for her.

Adam insisted on taking a turn holding Mathilde. He was so tender with her, held her so gently. I watched him talking to her, smiling, laughing quietly as if they were the only two people in the world, he and that tiny baby. I told him afterward that I thought he should raise a family of his own, that he would make a wonderful father. He only smiled at me very sadly. I wish I had known.

I bought the house in Reims, worked in the garden, watched her grow. Nikki came with me. She had been looking after Mathilde since her mother abandoned us both when Mathilde was only a few days old. Now she is as much my family as Mathilde and we are hers. My home is her home.

We bought the present for Nikki. Mathilde picked it out herself. I was too distracted to be good company. She showed me all sorts of things and I nodded and made the odd remark. Finally, she took my hand.

"What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing, Mati. Nothing important."

But children are not so easily fooled. "Why were you crying?" she asked.

"Because I was sad."

"Are you sad now?"

I shook my head. "No. Not now."

She smiled at me and I gave her a little hug. She did not ask me again.

We found something to Mathilde's liking. At home, she wrapped it neatly. We went for supper to our favourite restaurant, where she gave it to Nikki. Nikki unwrapped it, a silk scarf, perhaps a little too colourful for Nikki's taste, but gratefully accepted. I watched them proudly, loving them both. But I could not shed the weight of my fears.

This morning, I said goodbye, promised to come back soon, hugged them both and left with an ache in my heart. Nikki looked very worried but I can say nothing to her until this is over and we are all safe once again. And if it does not end well? I must make some provision for that event. I had not thought of it before this. The more years that passed, the safer it seemed until the danger seemed only a fantasy, nothing real. The nightmares receded, my mind calmed, my child grew.

I paid my visit to Pere Jean at the abbey. As I knelt in the confessional, crossed myself and began, it came on me like a flood.

"Pardonnez-moi, Mon Pere, parce que j'ai peche..."

I have told him most of it over the years. Now, I dredged my memory for any detail I had missed before. When he absolved me, he told me that he would like to see me in his study. He did not give me a penance.

In his tiny study, he invited me to sit in the armchair and told me that I could smoke if it would give me some comfort. I took out a cigarette and lit it while he waited patiently.

"How can I help you, Rene?" he asked me.

"You are helping me, Mon Pere."

And I told him about Eddie, what his game was, how I had to do as he asked unless I could think of some way out.

"This tape, Rene. It is most disturbing. It must weigh on your conscience terribly."

I was unable to look at him. "Yes, Mon Pere. Very disturbing."

"Do you think you can retrieve it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I will try."

He leaned forward in his chair and sighed a little. "I must ask you this, Rene. You don't have to answer me. Do you intend to kill this man?"

I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed my forehead with my fingers. So much killing. "Yes. I do. But it is unlikely that he will oblige me by giving me the chance."

"Look at me, Rene." I took a drag on the cigarette. "Look at me."

I raised my eyes and he nodded at me. He has known me ever since Darius died. He understands; his father was a member of the Resistance. "You will do what you have to do, as we all must. If I thought you were judging him, I would have other things to say, but I do not feel that this is so. I have not heard you say to me that he deserves to die." He shook his head. "Not everything is a matter of right or wrong. I leave it in your hands and leave God to judge. To presume to know these things is arrogance and that is something I try not to be. Do you understand what I am saying?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mon Pere. I think so."

He laughed quietly. "And then, perhaps I am being a coward. I don't know."

I smiled. "No, Mon Pere. You are no coward."

"Your friend is behaving himself, at least."

"He knows what is in his own best interest. He will give you no trouble."

"No, I do not expect that he will."

And we talked of the garden and of how the restoration of the church was going. I have donated my time and my labour to the work there over the years, a small penance. I learned to love gardening and recommend it to my patients. The garden at my house is a joy, such as it is. The hard work seems to be good for me.

Toward noon, I thanked him for his kindness and understanding. He gave me his blessing and I left to catch the train. I did not want to see Eddie. Perhaps that was cowardly of me, but I think not.

Chapter 4

The train ride has been uneventful and I have caught up my notes. It keeps my mind occupied, at least. I relax into the seat and watch the fields go by the window. Half an hour and we will be in the Gare de l'Est. I take my glasses off and close my eyes. I did not sleep well and I am weary. Perhaps tonight I will see Martine.

And perhaps if Adam is still doing well on Monday, I will suggest three times a week instead of every day. It is less tiring for both of us. And we will discuss some rules. Always there must be ground rules and responsibility - a kind of contract. He is willful. If he were a Mortal and not concerned for his very life every waking moment, it would be much easier; I would commit him and have done with it. As it is, to do this before he is ready and without his consent would make him worse. It terrifies him. His paranoia is all the greater because it is founded in reality; he has a horror of being in captivity, even one which would do him good in the long run. In the short run, it could be a disaster. I know this. His paranoia would become all-consuming. He is very vulnerable in this fragile state. And yet I may still have no choice. He would be very dangerous if he were to become delusional.

When I first met him, he was merely depressed and a little paranoid. Since I believed him to be mortal, I suspected incipient psychosis, that he was already delusional. It all makes sense now, of course. We must speak of his Immortality; it colours everything. If he does not like it... tant pis.

Many years ago, Sean was 'treating' Adam. That is to say, he was seeing Adam unofficially, listening to his troubles over a beer, being a friend, attempting to steer him toward answers which would help him fight off the depression that was obviously troubling him severely even then. Adam had not long been out of the Academy, perhaps two years. Sean assigned me to become his friend. He did not tell me that Adam was Immortal and Adam did not know that I was a psychiatrist. My official position was as physician assigned to the hospital, doing a psychiatric rotation, no more. Sean was as worried for my mind as he was for Adam's; I was still a Hunter, although it was troubling me more and more. Sean introduced us, then left us to get acquainted over beer. It worked well.

When I think of it now, I realize what a dangerous game Sean was playing, how easily it could have gone so very wrong. If I had known Adam was an Immortal, I would have tried to kill him; if Adam had known I was a Hunter, he would have killed me first. And rightly so. As it happens, by good luck or by the grace of God, we are both still alive. But we became friends, if only casual ones. I was thirty-nine years old and very lonely, very confused; I was, in fact, doing my psychiatric residency with Sean. It began as therapy for Adam, although Adam was unaware of it, and became therapy for me. We met regularly for a beer and talk; soon we were going out on the town together, getting drunk, bedding women. I amuses me now. It was a side of him that he did not show to the Watchers. When I think of it now, I realize that it was incautious of him; perhaps the burden of being Adam Pierson was too much and a little rebellion suited him. I don't know. Promiscuous sexual behaviour and alcohol abuse are symptoms of severe depression; if I admitted to seeing it in him, I would have to see it in myself and I was not willing to do that. Not at all. Even after my breakdown, I would not see.

I still remember those little chats, even with some pleasure. But not always so. One in particular. It was the day Horton showed me that tape. It did terrible things to me; if it was his revenge, then it did what he had hoped. But I was not what he thought; there was no leash about my neck. I was enraged. I called Adam at work and asked him to see me. I cannot say why and I knew it was wrong; to do such a thing was not ethical. He agreed to meet me at our usual place. I went there and waited for him. My nerves were very bad and my hands shook. I ordered brandy and drank it down, then asked for another and another. By the time Adam arrived, I was already drunk. I was also extremely agitated.

He walked into the bar and saw me, smiled and waved. On his way past the counter, he said something to the waiter, who nodded. As he came closer and saw the state I was in, he sighed very heavily and not a little sadly.

He sat in the chair opposite me and leaned forward, keeping his voice down. He knew how to be discreet. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Ce trou du cul Horton!" It was all I could say. I mashed the cigarette I was holding into the overflowing ashtray and lit another one.

"English, Rene. What about Horton?"

I jabbed my forehead with my finger. "The son of a bitch threatens to kill me, holds a gun to my head. Outain de merde!"

A look came over his face. I did not understand it at the time, and perhaps I still do not. It was anger... and something else. His eyes were cold and his face hard. As his therapist, even an unofficial one, and even drunk, it seemed to me strange, out of character.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I know things. I know things and he is a dead man!"

I had expected him to react to the name - I knew he hated Horton; we had spoken of it - but he said nothing. He sat there, quiet, just watching me. "Are you taking your medication?' he asked.

The question struck me as immensely funny and I laughed. "You know that I am not."

"Yeah, well I think a couple of downers are in order about now."

The waiter brought his beer and placed it on the table. He turned to me. "Et vous, Monsieur?"

Adam gave me a look. "He won't be having anything more," he told the waiter.

"Eh, bien."

Adam waited until we were alone again. "What the hell do you think you are doing? You trying to kill yourself again?"

"No, but I am going to kill him. No-one threatens me like that. No-one!"

"Like hell you are. You're going home, you're going to take a couple of those happy pills Sean keeps you supplied with and you're going to stay there until you've sobered up and calmed down even if I have to lock you in. Do I have to spell it out?"

I did not know whether Adam knew that Horton was a Hunter; we had never spoken of such things. I was not even certain whether he knew about them; it was safest to say nothing. I had been on the edge of going to Shapiro for some time, of turning myself in to the Council. Perhaps I was talking myself into it even then, saying my goodbyes. I don't know.

Horton's little game had me badly shaken. What did I care for that tape? How do you control a man who does not fear to die for his own sins? He was a coward. But he was smart to have a gun or I would have killed him and taken it then. And if he had given the tape to Shapiro? I would have taken them all down. It was useless to them. If Horton did not know that, then he was a fool.

I ignored Adam's attempt to talk sense to me. "Can you get me a gun?" I asked him. "The police still have mine."

His face softened and he was Adam Pierson again. He shook his head. "Not really my area of expertise, I'm afraid."

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. "Forgive me, mon ami. I should not have asked."

He shrugged. "It's all right. It's just that it would draw the wrong kind of attention, don't you think? They know we're friends, Rene. A bit suspicious if I nose around in the wrong places and then Horton ends up dead as a doornail, feeding the rats in a back alley. And the police already have a file on you. You do something stupid and you're going to be in it up to your Gallic neck. Sometimes it's best just to walk away." And wait for the right moment. He did not say it, but that was what he was telling me.

But I could not, of course. My anger made me foolish and I ignored his advice. Perhaps if I had known who he was, I would have heeded it.

And he did drive me home. He even came up to the apartment with me, although I was a little more sober again by then. He asked me where I kept my medication and I told him. He made me some coffee and found the pills. He gave me two and put the rest in his pocket, saying that he would give them back to me in the morning. He told me to take them but I only pretended. I spat them into my hand when his head was turned. I thought there was probably something on his mind, since he would not have made such a mistake at another time. When he left, I drank coffee until I was sober enough to drive.

It was dark before I trusted myself enough to do it. My hands had stopped shaking, perhaps because I had made my decision; I was going to kill Horton. I would be dead soon in any case, whether by Horton's hand or that of the Tribunal. It made no difference. I had no-one and part of me still wanted to end it.

I drove to Headquarters because I knew where there was a gun. I would get it and go to Horton's hotel and do it there. I did not give a thought for what might happen after that; I only saw myself putting a bullet between his eyes, poor payment for the lives he snuffed out. But I did not blame him for my own ruin; I had done that all by myself. My death would be on my own head, no-one else's.

Security was very bad in those days and I had no difficulty getting into the building. I left the hallway dark and went straight to the offices of the field supervisors. I had a key, one that I had stolen while I was a Hunter. I had very little respect for their authority and I am glad that I am no longer under their control, little men with too much power, failed field operatives mostly, angry men, jealous of those of us still in the field, still doing what we had come there to do. They were responsible for issuing firearms to field operatives. I had applied for a new gun and been refused after my supervisor read my file and decided that I could not be trusted not to use it on myself. And perhaps he was not wrong. I could have bought one for myself, of course but I did not want there to be a record of it. But I knew where they were kept and it was a simple matter to break the lock and help myself to a Glock 36, with ammunition and a silencer. I loaded the gun, put it into my belt, put the silencer in my pocket and left.

The hallway was still dark. As I closed the door silently behind me, I heard something, a chair scraping across a floor somewhere near. My nerves were very raw and I was still a little drunk. My hand went to the gun; I took the silencer out of my pocket and screwed it into the barrel. It took me longer than it would have if I had been sober and I almost dropped it onto the marble floor but I managed it. Then I heard the sound again and followed it.

It was coming from Horton's office. The light shone under the door and shadows across it showed me that someone was moving about but I heard no voices. I leaned against the doorpost to listen. When I was sure there was only one person there, I pushed the door handle down and pushed the door open.

He was standing behind his desk, intent on some paper in his hand. When the door opened, he was not startled - was he expecting someone? - and when he saw who it was, even though I was holding a gun aimed at him, he smirked and chuckled a little. He put the paper into the desk drawer and closed it.

"What's this, Rene? A little show of backbone?"

"You underestimate me," I said through my teeth. "I want that tape." And I raised the gun to aim at his head.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? Your hand is shaking and your speech is a little slurred. My, my. A little liquid courage was necessary? How the mighty have fallen. You never needed it before."

"That tape? Now."

"Since you seem bent on self-destruction anyway, why do you want it?"

"Ah, que vous avez raison - you are very right." And my finger moved against the trigger. The shot passed a few inches by his head and buried itself in the wall. The smug look on his face changed to one of fear. At last he understood.

"Get it."

He moved to a side table and reached toward the drawer. Then he hesitated. "How do I know you won't kill me anyway?"

"You do not." And I began to squeeze the trigger again. This time, I would do it.

Except that something came crashing down on my head.

When I woke up, the pain in my head was unbelievable. I was lying on my face, soaking wet and very cold. I opened my eyes. I was in an alley somewhere, beside the trash bins of an apartment courtyard and it was raining. I raised my head slowly and saw the blood on the cobbles, mixing with the rain. The pain was worse if I moved. Nausea rushed over me and I vomited. I lay there, shivering, the rain soaking me. I put a hand to the back of my head and felt the blood. I tried to get up but could not. The dizziness and the pain were too much and I passed out. When I woke again, a hand was under one shoulder pulling me up.

"Come on, guy. Help me here." It was Adam's voice. "You are getting to be one big bloody pain my arse."

It took a few moments to get me to my feet and not before I vomited again. His car was in the alley and I leaned on him as we went to it. He opened the back door and helped me to get in and I lay down. I was very grateful to be out of the rain. He covered me with a blanket and took a look at my wound.

"You need stitches. I can do it if you trust me. I don't think we should take you to hospital, considering what I think you were doing at Headquarters. You've got a medical bag at home, right?"

'Yes," I said. It was barely a whisper.

"Right. I'll get you home then. I wouldn't be surprised if you had a concussion to go with all that blood."

I do not remember the ride, although I do remember the clanking of the ancient elevator in my building. I do not remember him getting my wet clothing off but I do remember being in a warm bath and feeling a little better.

I remember opening my eyes and seeing everything white. It was a few moments before I realized that I was in my own bathroom, lying in warm water. He was sitting on the toilet seat beside the tub, a very worried look on his face.

"I wish you'd stop fading on me," he said. "Definitely a concussion. Somebody really worked you over. I'm not sure you were supposed to wake up at all. It made stitching you up a lot easier, though. You'll feel better when you're warm again."

I felt my head and the stitches were there. The hair around them had been shaved and a gauze pad had been taped in place over them. Very professional. "Thank you."

"Don't wash your head just yet. Don't need to get the stitches wet until it starts to heal."

"I know. Thank you."

"All right. I'll get something warm for you to drink. If you need help getting out of the tub, call me. I don't want you falling."

"I will be all right."

"I've heard that one before."

I was able to see to myself. He had put pyjamas and a robe out for me to find. When I was dressed, I went into the kitchen but he made me get into bed and brought me some hot, sweet tea and a couple of painkillers from my medical bag. He sat in the chair by the bed while I drank it.

"How are you doing now?"

"Better, I think. The pain in my head is still very bad. I am sorry to put you to so much trouble."

"Not as if I could leave you lying there."

"How did you know where to find me?"

He chuckled. "I followed you to HQ. I saw you spit out those pills I gave you; you're too bloody stubborn to listen to reason sometimes."

I laughed. "And I thought I had fooled you."

"I couldn't figure out why you weren't going to Horton's hotel, but then I remembered you telling me about that key you stole from the supervisory personnel offices. It was easy to put two and two together. You'd asked me to get you a gun; there are guns there - you had a key." He chuckled at that. "You're not very devious, Rene. And when you didn't come out, I got worried. Then I saw Horton's car leaving and followed it. Somebody else was driving, couldn't see who. He pulled into that alley and when he left, I went looking to see why. It took me a while to find you but there you were. I still don't know who it was and I still think you were supposed to die there. Why the hell didn't you listen to me? I've got better things to do than babysit you."

I felt very foolish listening to him. "I will - keep my head down? - you say this, non?"

He smiled. "Yeah, we say this. Bloody right you'll keep your head down. Unless you want it blown off. Do you want it blown off? Is that what this is all about?"

I had not thought him so perceptive. I sipped the tea while he watched me. "Peut-etre."

"Because if that's what it is, then knock it off. I've lost too many friends, Rene; I don't want to lose another one. All right?"

I just nodded; I had nothing to say to that. "Can you give me a cigarette?"

He laughed. "Sorry. They got soaked." His face darkened then as if something which had been under the surface was drawing him to itself. "I...um...there's somewhere I have to be. I'll come by tomorrow. All right?"

"I will be fine. Sean will give me some time to rest. Thank you, Adam. You may have saved my life."

"Don't get all melodramatic on me. You're a tough nut to crack. And somebody had a bloody good try. Walk away from it, Rene. I mean it."

I only smiled at him. He brought me some more tea, told me to drink it while it was hot and left. I drank the tea and slept the sleep of the dead. When I woke up, I called Sean, told him that I needed some time, that I would come to see him and we would talk. He did not seem surprised and I wondered if Adam had spoken to him.

And I did walk away. Sean told me to wait, as Adam had. And it all seemed to fade away. Horton was transferred out of Paris very soon afterward; I never knew where he went. And now it occurs to me to wonder if Adam had anything to do with that. I was his friend, whether I accepted it or not. Adam Pierson may have been afraid to act, but Methos was not. And now I hear about Horton's little plan to trap him. He must have known. Was he unable to resist the temptation..? Oh mon Dieu! It just occurs to me... the chronicle must be real, or Adam would not have gone looking for it, whether he knew it was a trap or not. He is no fool. And I cannot believe that Methos would not know such a thing; he would have been dead long before the rise of the Roman Empire if that were so. He had gone wherever the chronicle was supposed to be, Horton had been waiting for him... And then?

And something else. Had he gone to find the chronicle... or to confront Horton about me, his friend? Threaten him? What? Perhaps one day he will tell me. And perhaps one day pigs will sprout wings and will fly!

No, it makes too much sense. Eddie was not lying; the chronicle exists. Somewhere.

We are just coming into the station and it is raining. I gather my notes and put them into my knapsack. I must make sure that Adam is all right when I get back to the apartment. I am worried about his manner on Thursday. It is too soon to expect any significant progress beyond a very tenuous state. I still keep a dose of Haldol with me in the syringe in its little case just to be on the safe side. Oddly enough, he may agree to go into a suitable facility, perhaps at Sean's hospital, once the more severe stages of his illness have subsided and he is capable of more rational decisions regarding his own care. So long as he fears that he would be incarcerated involuntarily and unable to leave, so long as his fears and delusions are dominant, he will continue to be adamant and he will continue to refuse medication. And so long as he is not a danger to himself or others, I will accede to those wishes. But it is a fine balance, a little too fine to please me.

***

As the train comes to a stop, I put my jacket on. While I wait to get off, I find myself watching through the windows, looking for any familiar face, anyone who might be watching for me. On the platform, I stop to light a cigarette and as I cup my hands around the flame, I watch over my fingers. I look behind the iron grille of the gate, where people are waiting but there is no-one to worry me. I straighten and walk out onto the concourse.

I take the stairs down to the Metro and buy flowers at the kiosk near the barriers. Half a dozen yellow roses with some greenery dyed deep blue. Very pretty. I buy these whenever I come and I must not disturb my routine, just in case I am being watched. Six euros. The woman smiles at me and greets me, tells me I am looking tired today. I tell her that she is as beautiful as ever and she laughs.

When I get back to my apartment, I throw my bag and knapsack onto the sofa, put the flowers in the blue vase and pick up the telephone. When I called Stephen on Thursday to give him my number in Reims, I told him I would call when I got back. I call Adam's apartment and it rings several times but there is no answer. Perhaps they are at the market. I take my bag into the bedroom and unpack it. Then I take a shower, let Mazout in, put a robe on and go back to the kitchen. There is no more wine but there is a bottle of vodka. I pour some orange juice and lace it with the vodka, then go to lie down on the sofa.

But I am very restless. I sit up and take a drink. I open the tobacco tin and roll a cigarette - I have a packet but I prefer these. I light one and sit there, trying not to think. The telephone is beside me and I try Adam's number again. This time Stephen answers. He has been staying in Adam's apartment since the crisis; I am not sure that he approves of me but he doesn't question what I am trying to do for Adam. He thinks of Adam as his teacher, a role Adam does not care for. Which tells me that Stephen knows that he is Methos. But Stephen has been admirable these past few weeks.

"Oh, hi, Rene," he says. "You're back?"

"Yes. About half an hour ago. I called but there was no answer."

"Yes, I was out doing some shopping. How was your little holiday?"

I ignore him. "How is Adam?"

"He's been a little off-colour but nothing out of the usual. He isn't here right now. I'm sure he isn't far."

He doesn't sound worried and he is concerned for Adam's welfare. He would not lie to me if there were anything wrong but I am disturbed that Stephen would let Adam get out of his sight. "When he comes home, would you tell him that I am back in Paris?"

"Of course."

I hang up. It is probably all right. Very likely, Adam has gone to Le Blues Bar for the afternoon. Joseph will be playing this evening. I like to listen to blues but if I drop in, they will think I am there to keep an eye on Adam - and they would not be so wrong. So long as the therapy is in progress, we are patient and therapist. We cannot be friends in the usual sense and that is as it must be.

I play the tape on my message machine. There is a message from the hospital; two patients have been asking to see me earlier than their scheduled time. I call the hospital and ask to have appointments made for them on my next hospital day, which is Tuesday. I put on some music and try to read. By the time I have finished the vodka, I am very restless. I dress and go out. Outside, I kill a little time looking at magazines at the newsagent around the corner and buy the latest copy of Moyen Age, then drop into the bakery. I take a fancy for some more of the Bordeaux and go to buy another couple of bottles. When I get back to my apartment, I try to do some work but I cannot sit still, as the English say. I pour another vodka, a stiff one, and light a cigarette. I do not normally smoke this much but I am not exactly myself.

I can think of nothing else but Eddie Brill and that damnable tape. To see yourself like that... I have never been able to rid my mind of the image of myself in the throes of the killing fever. I refuse to think of it. I must not.

I want to see Martine. Her phone number comes readily to mind; I cannot believe I have not seen her for nearly two months. I hesitate before calling but I need to see her. She answers after only three rings.

"Allo."

"Martine, cherie. How are you?"

There is a little hesitation. "It has been a little while, Rene. Perhaps I have found someone else."

"You would have called me to tell me to go to hell."

She laughs. "Yes, it's true. You know me very well. Where have you been?"

"In Paris."

"And you want me to believe that you were not seeing someone else?"

"Why would I want to see someone else? I have been preoccupied with work, c'est tout. I miss you."

"You miss my bed, you mean."

I laugh. She knows me too. "That too."

"Are you still living in that dreadful little apartment?"

I take a drag on the cigarette. "It's not so bad. And I cannot afford to live in Montmartre like you."

She laughs. "You don't have a rich dead husband. They are useful for something, non?"

"Do you want to go for dinner?"

"Would you like me to cook for you?" Her voice is soft and very sexy.

"I'll bring the wine."

An hour later, I am knocking on Martine's front door. Her house is hidden from the street by a gate with an iron grille, very fashionable, very expensive. It has a tiny front courtyard, very pretty, and a garden on the other side of the house. I can only dream of such a place. I remember to turn off my cell phone - they have a bad habit of disturbing me when I least wish it. When the door opens, she leans on the doorpost and looks at me.

"You look like hell," she says.

I shrug. "I feel like hell."

"And you expect me to make you feel better?"

I smile. "You always do."

"Then you had best come in." And she reaches for my hand.

Inside, we kiss on both cheeks and she takes the wine from me to put it in the kitchen. Her house is very comfortable, very chic. I have on jeans and an old blue shirt but I know she will not mind. She wears a pull and loose trousers. She tells me to open the wine. I know where the glasses are kept and fetch them. In the kitchen, supper is already cooking. She lets me taste it and it is delicious. When I give her the wine glass, I know that she is happy to see me. And I her.

We have known each other for some time. On again, off again. Always I come back to her and she to me. Perhaps one day it will become something more but not yet. My work is too dangerous and it would not be fair. But we are neither of us getting any younger.

Dinner is served at the little table in the kitchen; we are old friends as much as we are lovers. I do the dishes for her afterward while she tends to the fire. Then I join her in the living room. She has lit candles and put on some music. I sit in the corner of the sofa, grateful for the peace, and she curls up in my arms, her back to me. She has changed into something lacy, something blue and very sexy. Silk. It feels wonderful under my hand. I have needed this.

"Something is wrong," she says.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"It is confidential?"

"Of course."

I wrap one arm around her shoulders, feel her soft, warm skin and kiss her hair. The warmth from the fire is wonderful on a wet November night.

"I love you, you know," she says.

"I know."

We sit like this for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the music. My mind is quiet at last. She knows of Mathilde, knows I did not abandon her. French women find reliable men attractive, or so I am told. Which does not speak well for French men. Martine is special, independent, content. And loving. She and her husband were happy - a rare thing, I think. She is wearing a perfume that she knows I like. Her hair is soft on my face. There is no need for words.

She moves in my arms, turns toward me with a little sigh and touches my face with her fingers. "Your beard is getting white," she says.

I laugh. "I'm getting used to it."

She reaches up and takes off my glasses, leans over to put them on the little table beside the sofa, stretching out her slender body. She has taken good care of herself over the years; her movements are still graceful, still lovely. My hand goes to her breast, feeling the nipple under the silk, then slides down along the lines of her stomach and hip. She is still beautiful and I am very fond of her.

She puts an arm around my neck and kisses me gently. The love she has for me is quiet and soothing. When I am with her, I can forget.

"I do not deserve you," I say.

"Don't talk nonsense. You are a good man. Everyone deserves to be loved." She laughs. "Even me."

I pull her close to me; the warmth of her body thrills me and I feel the familiar ache in my groin. She undoes the buttons on my shirt and slips her hand inside. I have missed her touch. I kiss her deeply; she returns it. My hand slides along her thigh and she moves against it.

"Do you want to go to bed?" she whispers.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Our love-making is intense, her passion born of love, mine of loneliness and need.

***

I cannot sleep. She lies beside me, her breathing soft and regular. She has no cares. I trace the lines of her face with my finger, the bones of the cheek, the fine eyebrows, and she wakes.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I did not mean to wake you."

"I was already awake."

She is lying but it is a gentle lie. "Go back to sleep, cherie."

She puts an arm over my chest and rests her head on my shoulder. "Can't you tell me what is troubling you?"

"No. It will be all right."

Is that the truth?

She is asleep again in minutes but my mind is too troubled. Eventually, I drift off but my dreams are very bad. I see myself raising a sword, my hands drenched in blood, and the Immortal who kneels before me is Adam. I wake up sweating and breathing hard. I am afraid to go back to sleep. When sleep does take me again, always it is the same dream; sometimes it is Rodrig, sometimes Darius, but always then it is Adam.

Chapter 5

Sunday, November 24, 2002, 10 am

Although I slept eventually, I am exhausted. On the Metro on the way home, I try to think about what to do about Eddie. I could buy him a plane ticket, even find a passport in another name - not that difficult with my connections - but always there is that tape. Once I did not care but now it is very different; now it would hurt others - and now I want to live. And there is no-one to help me.

And I am disturbed by what Eddie told me about a chronicle. I cannot ask Adam about this, since we are pretending that he is not Methos. But he will want to know. Perhaps I should tell him that I have heard a rumour that such a thing exists, pretend that I am telling him because he is involved in the Methos Project. On the other hand, perhaps this is not a good idea since it is likely that he will go to any length to find it and since he is still very ill, he could be reckless, could put himself in danger, perhaps even get himself killed. I cannot make a decision. On anything, it seems.

And I never called back! Merde! Stupide! Stupide! This will not do. I should at least have let Stephen or Joseph know where I would be in case of an emergency. I cannot let myself be so distracted. I find my cell phone in my pocket; it is still turned off. Rene, why do you carry this thing if you never remember to turn it on? I decide to wait until I am home.

When the train arrives at Porte de Vincennes, I get off and hurry through the barriers and up the steps. It is cold and raining. I pull my jacket about me and walk quickly to my apartment. Marie passes me on the stairs and asks me if I heard the noise in the courtyard in the night. I tell her I have been out all night; she says, "O, la la!" and laughs. Once inside the apartment, I toss my jacket on the sofa and go to the telephone. I cannot believe my own stupidity. Anything could have happened.

I call Adam's apartment but there is no answer. I leave a message on the machine then call Le Blues. It is still early and it surprises me when Miss Thomas answers it. Although I am not that familiar with her voice, her accent is unmistakable.

"Good morning, Doctor," she says. I do not get the impression that she is pleased to hear from me.

"I am sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, Miss Thomas, but I have been unable to contact Adam. Do you know where he is?"

There is a little hesitation. "He and Stephen have gone to the zoo."

"The zoo? This early in the day? Adam is usually still asleep in the morning."

"I wouldn't know about his personal habits, I'm afraid. Stephen called me a little while ago to say that Adam wanted to go to the zoo. And the Bois de Boulogne. I expect they'll be gone all day."

I do not like this at all but I can hardly tell her that I think she is lying. "I see. And what time was this?"

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps half an hour?"

"Is your father there, Miss Thomas? Perhaps I could speak with him."

"Actually, my father is not here, Doctor Galbon. Can I take a message?"

Her tone is very sharp. What is it that you are not telling me, my dear? "When do you expect him?"

"I really can't say. He may not come in at all, in fact. He needs his rest. I'm sure you can understand."

She will tell me nothing; I am wasting my time. "Of course. If Adam comes in, please tell him that I called."

"He's quite well, Doctor. You needn't worry."

When I hang up, I make myself some coffee. While I wait for it, I roll a cigarette and light it. I am disturbed by this. However, I can do nothing about it. And I have other, more immediate concerns.

I must find the tape. And if I cannot find it? I must at least know if Eddie is lying to me, since I am not convinced that he has it. Apres tout, he offered me no proof. If I had had my wits about me on Friday instead of being in a panic like some damned fool, I would have realized that. But it is not too late. I have a choice: I can do as he asks or I can kill him. There is no other way. I cannot turn him over to Gabrieli any more than he can denounce me; we are at an impasse. But I do not like either choice. Before I can decide what must be done, I must know. Where is that tape?!

I fetch my coffee and take off my glasses and lay them on the table while I drink it. Mon dieu. How did I allow it to come to this? I should have searched for that tape years ago. I cannot think why I have been so foolish, so complacent. It was bound to happen; perhaps I did not want to believe it. I finish the cigarette and roll another.

Two cups of coffee and three cigarettes later, I have something of a plan. I put on the dark pull that I have not worn for some time - I may have to consider surveillance cameras - and find my car keys. I fetch the wooden chest from under the bed, open it and take out the Glock in its case. I had thought never to need it again but it would seem that I must carry some protection, although the idea is abhorrent to me after so many years of believing that I am safe. It is clean and loaded. I put it in my knapsack, pull on my jacket and leave.

I walk to the garage where I keep my car, my head spinning with worry. Although I observe most carefully, I can see no-one who might be following me. When I get into my car, I take the gun in its case out of the knapsack and put it into the glove compartment, noticing my reluctance even to have the thing near me. I have changed so very much these past years.

I drive to HQ, being certain to drive in a leisurely fashion so that I will not draw the attention of the police or anyone who might be following me, since my mind refuses to dismiss that possibility. But I see nothing. Perhaps I was correct to think that it was Eddie they were watching and that Eddie meant only to frighten me by telling me I was being followed. But I do wonder if they are following Adam; I must warn him that it is possible, although I cannot imagine that he would not recognize a tail.

I come to HQ quite often on a Sunday; my appearance there will not be noteworthy. It is for me the easiest time to look into the file of any Immortal patient I am treating, easier to keep it confidential. Security is used to seeing me come and go; it must not appear to be anything more than that.

When I drive through the gates, my nerves are not good. I am losing my edge, I see. It no longer thrills me to put myself in danger; perhaps I am growing old. I park in my usual place. Before I get out, I put my cell phone in the glove compartment and lock it. They occasionally search people going in on the weekend now. Gabrieli's orders. The searches are random and it has only happened to me once but I will not take the chance. I pick up the knapsack, get out of the car and go to the front door. Inside the entrance, the guard is new and does not know me. He nods politely.

"Identification, please," he says.

I smile and reach for my wallet, take out my ID card and hand it to him. "Doctor Rene Galbon," I say.

He looks at it, flips it over and hands it back. "Merci, Doctor Galbon. May I know the nature of your business?"

Ah, he is being thorough. Is it because I am who I am, I wonder? "I come quite often on Sundays to research patient files."

He nods, apparently satisfied. "I must ask you to submit to a brief search, Doctor."

I sigh. "Of course."

He is quick as he frisks me. What is Gabrieli worried about? When he is done, he apologizes for the inconvenience. It seems to be genuine; perhaps he respects professional people.

"May I see the knapsack, please, Doctor?"

I hand him the knapsack, he opens it, searches briefly under the papers and hands it back.

"If you will sign in, please," he says.

It is standard procedure; nothing to worry about. I sign the log. No doubt M. Gabrieli will be intrigued by my presence here today.

"Merci. Please go about you business."

I nod and walk past him. I must see the files. I go straight to the offices which house the banks of files and records and go through the door unobstructed. There are files on everyone, Immortals, Watchers - everyone. The room which has the important records, the chronicles of the ancient Immortals, are in a room by themselves, temperature and moisture controlled to preserve the ancient papers, parchments and even papyruses. It has a combination lock and written permission is required by those without the combination to enter. Adam had the combination as a researcher, although they have probably changed it since, and even he was obliged to sign in and out, although I doubt that he always complied. Those chronicles are worth a king's ransom. I do not need to go there; the files which interest me are more mundane, more recent. Eddie's, for one. And my own.

I find the cabinet of personnel files and open it with my key, a small concession to my need to access them regularly. I do not need to worry about surveillance cameras in here; I notice that Gabrieli does not share the enthusiasm of some of his predecessors for electronic surveillance. Perhaps he realizes that if it comes to that, he has already lost control.

I find the appropriate section of the alphabet and sift through it. Eddie's file is not here. Perhaps it has been mis-filed. I go through the entire drawer but definitely it is not here. Would it be sitting in someone's out-tray? Merde! Although that is unlikely, now that I think of it. In fact, it is most certainly not out in the open. After Croft denounced Eddie to Gabrieli, Gabrieli likely took the file himself; it will be in his office. And I will not even think of breaking in there.

What else do you have, Monsieur Gabrieli? I look for my own file - that too is missing. I should have expected it. Mon Dieu. Is it because I am treating Adam? His questions to me last week were most pressing. Does he suspect that Adam is Immortal? Or worse, that he is Methos? And what does he suspect of me? But I am ahead of myself; perhaps he does not have it. But who else would want my file? My head is beginning to spin.

I look for Mlle Thomas' file and that, too, is missing. And Joseph's, although I have already seen that. Anyone connected to Adam, it would seem. Who else? I know that he does not have Stephen's file because I have it myself. Perhaps it is just as well.

And Adam's file? Gone. Why does this not surprise me?

The Methos files were never in here. They are kept in the locked room, since he is a special project. Adam has no official access to them but that does not stop him from hacking into the database when he feels so inclined. When one feels outside of society, one does not feel bound by its rules. Has he ever felt bound by society's rules?

That my own file is gone and probably in Gabrieli's keeping is very disturbing. It means most likely that I am under investigation. There are significant holes in my records; I put them there myself by removing certain reports on my activities in the eighties. I can only guess why he wants that file. And I do not like the answers. If I am not careful, I will let my imagination take me where I do not wish it to go and that might yet be fatal. And I am now inclined to believe that I have been followed, very cleverly, very unobtrusively, but watched, nevertheless. Which brings to mind the remark Marie made to me about a noise in the courtyard last night. If they are indeed watching me, they would know I was elsewhere. Could they have searched my apartment? For what, exactly? My private journals? Dear God! I hope not. They are not there, in any case. There is nothing there that could get me into trouble with Gabrieli; perhaps they were only satisfying themselves of that. Or am I jumping to conclusions and the noise in the courtyard was only Mazout?

Who else? Croft. I might as well know how he fits into all this. Eddie would not have lied about Croft turning him in to Gabrieli; it is exactly the sort of thing he would do. How far would he go? And why not just blackmail Eddie? Of course, Eddie would not be unhappy about putting a bullet through his head and if he were desperate, that is surely what he would do, since Gabrieli is hunting him in any case. It is what I would do.

Croft's file is also gone. Yes, there is something going on and whatever it is, we are all involved. Perhaps Eddie has done me a favour after all.

I close the file drawers, leave the records office and go to personnel. I have the password to the database and hack in easily enough. I find Eddie's personal data, his address and telephone number, bank account numbers for his pay cheque. I make a note of everything. I also make a note of Croft's data, just in case, since he appears to be involved.

And I have learned nothing that tells me where I might find the tape. I will have to break into Eddie's place, if possible, but someone is sure to be watching his apartment. I do not wish to involve anyone else, however, and I must exhaust other possibilities first. And something occurs to me. Eddie told Gabrieli that Croft's accusations were offered merely as revenge, that they were unfounded. If that is all, why did Eddie run? Just because he was being watched? Je m'en doute. What did you not tell me, Eddie? Gabrieli would have brought Croft in for a little talk... and Croft...? Croft would have proof. And Eddie would run. Yes, that makes sense. And what, exactly, would constitute proof? Documents can be forged, people lie but... Photographs. Tapes.

I leave Personnel and go straight to Finance. I must be careful now. I may have reason to be looking through files and databases but I have no legitimate reason to be in Finance. Before going through the main door into the Finance section, I pull my gloves out of my knapsack. There is no reason to leave fingerprints behind. Fortunately, the outer door is not locked. I slip around it and close it behind me. I should be safe enough. The new guard will not know how long I usually take and he is unlikely to come to look for me. And with luck, no-one else will come to HQ today. It could be very awkward.

Croft has been part of the organization for many years and is very competent at what he does. He has risen nearly to Section Head and has his own suite of offices. And, of course, his door is locked. Except that I know where the key is. I once bedded his secretary after a Christmas office party and she told me a great deal about the strange habits of M. Harold Croft. She kept a key in her desk, she told me, since he was prone to forgetting his. And she is still his secretary.

It does not take me long to find the key, exactly where she told me it was, in a cigar box in the bottom of the drawer to her desk. I take off my jacket, take the watch cap out of the pocket, leave the jacket and my knapsack on her chair and put the watch cap on, pulled low. I unroll the neck of my pull to cover my lower face and beard, and open the door. Once inside, I close the door behind me, lock it again and slip the key into my pocket. And if I am not mistaken, there will most certainly be cameras in here; the head of Finance is not so trusting as M. Gabrieli. The guard will remember the jacket and my thinning hair; perhaps if he is shown a surveillance tape of this little intrusion, he will not recognize me. Unfortunately, I can do nothing about my glasses since I cannot see without them. The drapes are closed and I do not put on the light.

I look up, searching for cameras. I see one, in the corner, overlooking the whole room, above the head of the person sitting at the desk, aimed at the door. My entrance will certainly be on that. I put one foot on the cabinet and climb up. I reach it easily and turn it upward. It is easier than fiddling with the mechanism with gloved hands, and faster. On the other hand, I am likely wasting my time since the time will be on the tape and I was the only person to sign the log today. I climb back down. It is unlikely that there are any more 'official' cameras in here. What is hidden behind a panel, perhaps, I cannot know; I will have to take my chances.

I look about me; Croft's office has a beige, impersonal look to it in the dim lighting. The fact that he is meticulous helps the speed of my search. I begin with the top drawer to his large desk: nothing. The large bottom drawer, however, is locked. Very curious. I jimmy the lock with a letter opener. Inside, there is not all that much of current interest, although there is a large envelope of surveillance photos showing Joseph... shooting Horton! - ah, Joseph, how foolish of you - at the bottom of the drawer, and a video tape tossed carelessly on top of the otherwise neat contents. I pick it up; it is labelled 'A.P.'. I put it aside for the moment and finish my search. I find two more large envelopes, containing more photos of Horton, two audiocassettes and several notes in Horton's handwriting. There is one note in a different hand - Croft's, I believe. It reads, 'A.P./J.H. cassette? Search M. Project files'. I finish with the desk and turn on the computer. Ah. As I expected, it is password-locked. I could try to hack in, but that would take time and time is something I do not have. I turn my attention to what is left in the drawer.

There are more tapes than I expected - five or six. Eddie called Croft a weasel but Croft is so much worse than that; he is a cockroach, something which crawls into everything and befouls it. The tapes all have labels on them - two say J.H., one says J.A., another E.B. There is a small monitor and a VCR at a side table and I go to them, put the tape in and turn on the monitor. I fastforward through the tape, looking for content. I go through them all. The J.H. tapes - Horton's - are disturbing, as I expected. I did not expect to see our little meeting about my resignation. It shows me threatening Horton, which I remember only too well, and it shows Eddie Brill rushing up behind me and bringing something - the butt of a gun, I believe - crashing down on my skull. Several times. That accounts for the pool of blood I woke up in, and the concussion; I believe that I will keep that, and the other Horton tape. Ah, Eddie, Eddie... twice you tried to kill me. It must be very galling that I am still alive. And I am not certain whether Horton knew that Croft taped him as much as he did. I suspect not.

The J.A. tape is entertaining, but not relevant to my search. I wonder what Croft found so fascinating about filming Jason Anders and his mistress copulating on his desk. Did he show this tape to Anders' wife? Was his life truly that empty? Or was M. Croft indulging in a little blackmail? That seems to me the more likely considering his sexual preferences. It must have disgusted him, in fact. The Eddie Brill tape (E.B) was all filmed in Croft's office. It mostly consists of Eddie threatening Croft. I have never been much of a lip-reader, but Eddie's meaning is quite clear. I can see that it is unlikely that I have disabled all the cameras in here.

I glance at my watch. If I am too long, the guard will come looking for me. I am surprised to find that I have already been in the building more than an hour.

I put in the A.P. tape last, wondering what Croft could possibly have on Adam. And what are these cassette tapes that Croft was writing about? When I play it, I see little. The time and date index, and the condition of the room tell me that this is Horton's office around the time that he showed me his tape of me. And what is this? More of the same, perhaps? Ah, Adam, Adam, what did you do? What does Croft have on you?

The flickering, grey screen shows me Horton, moving about his office in the dark and then stepping out the door. I presume that he locks it; he always did when I was with him. This tape is from a different angle from that of our argument. Is this from a different camera? I feel nauseous. This must be the meeting that Eddie told me about - the trap that Horton set for Methos. I must remember that, whatever happened here, Adam survived it. My heart is racing but I scan forward. My question about the camera is answered when the office door half opens and Adam slips sideways through it. Before anything else, he goes over to the bookcase, pulls out a section of books and takes out a small camera. He does something with it, rewinds it perhaps, and puts it back. He wears gloves so as not to leave prints; very professional. At the desk, he rifles quickly and efficiently through the drawers; I am most impressed. Ah, but then, he may have far more practice than I, non?

I see him look up, startled, and duck down behind the desk, under the range of the camera. The door opens, and Horton enters. Has he forgotten something? But no, he does not turn on the light. Instead, he calls out. Adam stands up from behind the desk, keeping one hand behind his back, hiding a file. No... not a file. A gun. Horton speaks, demanding an explanation for Adam's presence, no doubt. He looks angry, but not frightened. I do not think he is yet aware of the gun.

I cannot see Adam's face until he comes out from behind the desk. Then, he turns and I can see his profile; he looks most disgusted. He cocks his head to one side and speaks in what is surely a sarcastic tone. I almost wish for the sound on this, though it is better that Croft could not hear the conversations that he filmed. Horton smiles smugly and reaches inside his coat.

That is when Adam brings out the gun from behind his back, and aims it at Horton's head. Even in the dimness of the street lighting from the window, Horton sees what it is. He looks surprised and freezes in place. He would not be the first to underestimate Adam Pierson. Adam speaks. Taking his hand out of his coat, Horton raises both hands, slowly. Adam speaks again - I wish I could hear what he is saying. Horton's response is angry. Adam smirks at it and jerks his head at the desk. This meeting is not going at all the way that Eddie imagined it. Adam came for his chronicle, and he expected to get it, trap or no trap.

Adam says a word and I am stunned. I rewind and watch that part again. And again. Yes. That is what he said: my name - Rene. Adam, you fool, what were you thinking? You said you never got involved. Horton laughs. As usual with him, there is no humour on his face, only scorn. His answer is clearly negative. Adam's face goes blank. I suck in my breath. I know that look. Few still living do. It was on his face that day I told him that Horton had held a gun to my head. He moves forward, shoving the gun in Horton's face.

Horton sees the danger. He falters, but cannot drop all of his manner. There is too much habit in it. He lets his body relax in place and smiles more gently. When he speaks, it must be in a fatherly tone. I cannot imagine what he was thinking at that moment, but I can amuse myself thinking that Croft must have pissed himself even as he kept filming. Croft is a small man and Adam is far beyond his experience.

Adam's expression does not change, as indeed it would not. He is too angry to be mollified. Just as I am wondering how this impasse ended, both Adam and Horton jump, as if hearing a loud noise, and look towards the door. Horton starts to go behind the desk, but Adam grabs him, shaking his head and speaking to him. Adam is very, very agitated, shaking Horton for emphasis. Horton stares back at him, looking horrified. He does not resist when Adam shoves him toward the door. I watch them leave, more or less in agreement. The tape continues for some minutes after the door closes behind them, but there is nothing more to see. I rewind and watch it again and am no more the wiser.

Except for one small detail. The date and time show that the tape was recorded some four hours after my own visit to Horton's office - the same day that Horton showed me the tape in his hotel room. Had Adam intended to kill Horton before I did? Or was it merely to warn him of the consequences of making my life miserable? Perhaps one day I shall ask him.

And where is my tape, the one which Eddie claims to have? Obviously, it belongs with the others here. Does Croft have it or does Eddie? If I were to make a bet, it would be on Croft. Was it here with the others? Did Eddie know it was here, perhaps try to steal it? Perhaps Croft had the foresight to remove it for safekeeping? Was I to be his next blackmail victim? It is entirely possible. And why did he not try it before now? Because he is afraid of me, of course. I am much more dangerous than Eddie ever was and Croft is a coward. He must believe I am still reckless enough to kill him if he were to try such a thing.

And I must leave. I gather up the tapes and envelopes. Better by far that I have them in my possession. I slip through the door and lock it. Then I replace the key in the secretary's desk and stow the things in my knapsack. I rearrange my clothing and leave. Outside the door, I take off my gloves and put them back in my knapsack. So far, so good.

On my way out, the guard nods at me and notes the time in his log.

"Sign out, please, Doctor."

I suppose I can live with this. I sign in the out-column against my previous signature.

"Are you taking any materials with you, Doctor Galbon?" he asks, eyeing my knapsack.

I do not answer immediately. "No," I say. "Nothing." Apres tout, the 'materials' I am taking with me never officially existed, n'est-ce pas?

I get into my car and drive out through the gate. I must stop somewhere and consider what to do next. I am very hungry and I need a cigarette. I take my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one. As I drive back into Paris, I have time to think about what I found. So much... But I must stop somewhere to eat. It will give me a chance to calm myself. It is a long time since I did such things.

I stop at the first place I see, a small bistro I have never seen before. I park a street away and walk back, my knapsack over my shoulder. As I walk, I look carefully about me but see nothing to worry me. I am becoming paranoid, perhaps, but it is best to be safe, non? Outside the bistro, I flick the cigarette butt into the gutter and go in. It is pleasant inside, if a little dim. There are a few customers, reading the newspaper over coffee, deep in conversation, sharing something amusing - ordinary people. It is refreshing. I choose a place toward the back and settle in, my knapsack on the chair beside me. When the waiter comes, I order something substantial; it might be a while before I have the chance again. And I order a cognac; I need it.

While I wait, I light another cigarette before I notice the sign. Merde! Defense de fumer - no smoking. I pinch it between my fingers and put it in my pocket to smoke later. The waiter comes with the cognac and I thank him. Two tables away, a woman watches me; it makes me nervous. Don't be a fool, Rene - she is merely lonely. Without a cigarette in my hands, I am at a loss. There is a newspaper on the chair at the next table and I pick it up and open it. I am not really interested in the news but I wish to be occupied while I wait; it would not do for the woman to decide to speak to me.

My food comes - a plate of spaghetti bolognese, salade noicoise and bread - and I eat with pleasure. But it does not keep me from thinking of what I have uncovered. I begin to understand why Horton left me alone after that little 'misunderstanding' of ours. Adam, you gallant fool, but I thank you. It would seem that I owe you more than I realized.

And Joseph. I will give him those photographs; they will disturb him, of course, but that cannot be helped. He has a right to have them to destroy with his own hands. I did not realize who it was who shot Horton until today; I did not give Horton a chance to tell me. He arrived at my door - incroyable! - wet and bloody, asking that I shelter him. He was desperate. I told him to go to hell. Unfortunately, he knew about Mathilde. He threatened me with the tape, with harm to my daughter; it was the most foolish thing he could have done. I would have shot him then and there if I had not had my child with me, and Nikki. I told him that if anything happened to either of them, I would hunt him down and I would not miss. He must have believed me for I never saw him again.

And now I know why Eddie ran, I think, non? That tape. It would seem that M. Croft has been most acquisitive over the years. It is most likely that he saw it as a way of protecting himself from very dangerous people. I do believe I need to pay him a visit and remind him that I am still just as dangerous. Except that it is no longer true, of course. Now I have a child to think of; it changes a great deal. He must not know.

And what of my tape? I am convinced that Croft must have it, possibly at his home. I finish eating, take a mouthful of the brandy and open the knapsack. I take out my notebook and look for Croft's address. It is an apartment on some street I do not recognize. Easy enough to find. I wonder if M. Croft stays home on Sundays. I am about to find out.

The waiter removes my plates and I ask him for the bill. I would like another brandy but I do not have the time and I need a cigarette. When the bill comes, I pick up my knapsack and go to the cashier, pay the bill and leave. Outside, the sky is already getting dark and it is raining. I light a cigarette, pull my jacket close and walk toward the car, keeping my head down against the rain. I look at my watch; it is already gone three o'clock.

As I turn the corner, I look up without raising my head. There is a young man in a doorway with headphones. Was he there before? He glances briefly in my direction and looks away again immediately. I do not alter my pace. Before I pass him, he walks across the street, a little too quickly. I have surprised him. They are recruiting them very young these days, I see. It is not music he hears in those headphones; it is instructions. He is not alone. I pretend not to notice. And now I remember where I saw him. He was in the wine shop where I buy my Bordeaux. Ah, Gabrieli... you really do not trust me, I see. Still, now I know.

The young man gets into a car across the street and starts the engine. With a little luck, he will think I have not noticed and will follow me. A blue Citroen. Dirty. I will watch for it. I take my time getting into the car; let them believe I have noticed nothing. The Citroen pulls away slowly. When I leave, someone else will pick up the tail. I am amused. And worried, of course. I wonder if they have only just found me.

I reach across to the glove compartment and take out the gun. I remove it from its case and tuck it into my belt; the silencer goes into my pocket. It has come to this. I put the case back into the glove compartment, then light a cigarette. I cannot be in a hurry. I start the engine and pull into the street. Now I shall need to lose the tail. I drive for a few blocks, taking my time, watching for my opportunity. A black Honda has moved in behind me, three cars back. I turn a corner then turn again. He is still there. I pull to the side of the road and take a map of Paris out of the glove compartment. I make a show of opening it, pretending to look for something, a legitimate reason to stop, to be ducking down the wrong streets. It happens all the time and I am unfamiliar with this part of Paris. The black car drives past and the blue Citroen pulls to the curb several spaces behind me. I must be careful. If they think I have noticed them, someone else will be assigned to me and I will be obliged to begin again. When I lose them, it must be seen to be through their own incompetence. Which may be difficult; they are really quite good if I have not spotted them before.

Before Gabrieli, there was no Internal Affairs. The man is cautious in the extreme, perhaps, but not without good reason. The European Region was becoming very corrupt; the Hunters were not the only problem. In M. Gabrieli's shoes, I would have done the same thing. I suspect, in fact, that this is why he was chosen to head the European Region by the other Regional Directors, although they are not without their own internal difficulties. It is a sign of the times, I suppose.

I look for Croft's street on the map and find it in the 16th Arrondissement. Good. It is not that far. I wait until a car is between me and the Honda, then toss the map onto the seat and pull out ahead of it. I turn left and right again and pull into the first alley I see. When the blue Honda passes me, I wait for a minute, then drive into the courtyard of an apartment block and around the corner, out of sight. I will stay here for a few minutes. No doubt there will be surveillance at Croft's apartment; I prefer to see for myself. I smoke another cigarette before leaving. That should be enough time.

The rain is harder now, and it is dark with heavy cloud. On the way to Croft's apartment, I try to remember what I know of him. Very little. I have not paid attention to him all these years. Even when I was with the Hunters, I did not know that he was involved in any way. But I did not notice very much of anything of real importance then. I saw only the Hunters and the Hunted; the power behind it did not concern me. And it should have. Very foolish, and a mistake I shall never make again.

I have seen no files on Croft; I had no reason to look. His secretary told me that he was a homosexual, although I suspected it; her attitude was not very sympathetic. I realize now that it was the man she disliked, not his private amusements. I never heard it anywhere else, now that I think of it. He was most discreet, it would seem, or he would not have risen so high. A lonely life in such a callous world. I meet them in my practice occasionally. 'Them'. A bit harsh, non? For the most part, I have found them gentle and forgiving but troubled. A difficult existence.

I stop for a red light and watch in my rear view mirror. I seem to be rid of my tail.

The presence of the Anders tape in Croft's drawer tells me something. Anders was neither an Immortal nor a Hunter. Nor was he a field agent. Why was that tape there at all? And the Anders affair has been over for some time. His indiscretions were hardly a secret and the tape would have been quite useless for blackmail. It was... explicit. Very explicit. And the footage was of the fine body of M. Anders, not of his lovely paramour. Ah. I understand. What a sad little man you are, M. Croft. And how you must have hated us all.

I begin to see the picture. He is a man attracted to power, who enjoys wielding power in a world in which he is otherwise powerless. Association with the Hunters gave him a vicarious outlet for his anger and frustration. And he was important to them; they must come to him for money, for weapons. It is speculation, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Horton seems to have given him a great deal of power and not a little trust. Horton would have given him my tape for safekeeping after I showed up to try to take it by force and it gave him ideas. For one thing, it gave him power over me, and he most certainly hated and feared me. My reputation with women would have been enough to disgust him; perhaps he thought it disrespectful. It is not unusual for male homosexuals to have respect for women, after all. All in all, he must have seen my behaviour as intolerable. And... was he so far wrong?

I was a murderer; he was not. I was often drunk and whored with women; he remained chaste and discreet. In his mind, he was my better, my superior. He was better than all of us and he proved it to himself by taking videos and photographs of us in our murderous acts. Even Joseph is a murderer in his eyes.

And why Adam? Why indeed? That tape does not show a murderer. It shows a man confronting one - and surviving. Was that the point? And Adam is an attractive man, attractive to M. Croft, peut-etre? That affair was so long ago and yet the tape is there, on top of the others. Yes, there is a pattern. And when I find you, M. Croft... what else will I find?

I finish the cigarette and drive onto the street. I see nothing to worry me but now that I know, I will watch for others. It has been so long since I have needed to be so cautious; it is most disturbing.

I do not go directly to Croft's apartment but drive around the streets a little, stop for gas, chat with the attendant. Nothing hurried. When I am within two streets of the address, I park and sit for a while, smoking a cigarette. There is nothing to make me suspicious. When I finish the cigarette, I get out of the car, leaving my knapsack under the seat. It is still raining and I pull my collar up. There is a little park and I walk through it. On the other side, there are some shops and I go into one to buy another packet of cigarettes. I pick up a magazine near the shop window and pretend to glance through it. I can see M. Croft's apartment block - and in front of it, a dirty blue Citroen. Ah. This is where they have come. I purchase the magazine and leave the shop. I do not look in their direction but go back through the park and get into my car. It is unlikely that they did not see me. I drive away immediately.

****

Chapter 6

Back at home, I change out of my pull into a light one and put the holster on my belt, sliding the gun into it. It is familiar - and it is not a feeling I enjoy. I make some coffee. While I drink it, I call Le Blues Bar. Mademoiselle Thomas answers it. Where is Joseph?

"Ah, Doctor. How was your day?"

"Uneventful, Miss Thomas. Have you heard from Stephen or Adam?"

"No, I haven't." This time, she sounds worried but she cannot be more worried than I. "I'm sure they're fine."

Mon Dieu. Something has gone very wrong. "I will come there."

"No! No, I'm sure it will all work out."

"Please do not play games with me, Miss Thomas. This is very serious; I am quite sure you know that. I will be there in less than an hour."

"All right. I'll be here."

I light another cigarette, finish my coffee, put my jacket back on and leave the apartment. I take the knapsack with me, with its contents. It would be dangerous to leave it here if they come to search again. And I am quite sure that they did search this place. They have been very careful not to disturb anything that I would notice. The gun feels strange in the small of my back. It has been a long time.

As I walk back to the Metro, my nerves are very bad. I finish the cigarette and go down the steps. At the barrier, I realize that my carnet of tickets is finished and I stop to buy another one. There is a ten-euro note in my wallet but I have forgotten to go to the bank machine and there is nothing else. Even this small thing shows me my mind is elsewhere. I give the note to the ticket seller while I try to remember the line I will need to go to Le Blues. I do not go there very often. I take the carnet and the change and go through the barrier. I go to the map on the wall and find that I must change at Bastille. Now I remember. I wish they allowed smoking but at least the trip will not be a long one.

I wait for the train, pacing along the platform. Calme-toi, Rene. You must think. Has Adam decided that the therapy is too much for him and run off? He is not in his right mind and almost anything can happen. Was he hallucinating again and just wandered away? He was behaving strangely on Thursday and I was a fool to think it was only fatigue. Damn Stephen! He was not to let Adam out of his sight.

When the train comes, I get on. I am very distracted and almost forget to get off at Bastille. I am not even thinking about it until I notice the murals on the walls of the station and recognize where I am. I push the handle on the door to open it just in time. As I walk down the tunnels to the other line, I am very worried. Has Joseph found out? We have only known each other since this affair with Adam and I doubt that he trusts me; he is not a man who trusts easily - Watchers are never very trusting, I have noticed. He will have done a little digging, a little thinking... It is possible, now that I think of it, that his inquiries have been the perfect opportunity for any Hunter who is still my enemy - and which of those Hunters still within the Organization is not? - to finish me once and for all before I go to Gabrieli myself. Or am I seeing Hunters behind every lamppost today? If it is true that Gabrieli has offered amnesty, I am in grave danger from those who hold grudges against me. Who else knows about that tape? Why did I not see this before?

By the time I reach the next platform, I am sweating, even though the air is cool, and I need a cigarette. A security patrol of one man and one woman is in the station with dogs. The Metro is a prime target for terrorists. My spine stiffens at the sight; it reminds me that I am being hunted in a very real sense, and my life may be at stake. Mon Dieu. What is it like for Adam who must feel this way every waking moment, his illness making it ten times worse than usual? How do they live like this? And to think that I would have been the one hunting him had I known all those years ago. You have much to answer for, Rene.

When the train comes, I get on. The Metro is quiet on Sundays and I have a carriage to myself save for a woman with a dog. The dog is lying quietly on the floor, his head on his paws. He looks at me without moving and his mistress smiles graciously as I sit down.

And if Joseph found out? He would have left immediately, with Adam, to keep him safe. Is this what has happened? It is entirely possible. If he has, he would fear for Adam's life - for Methos' life, for surely Joseph knows that much about him. They are very close friends, after all. At the very least, he understands that if Adam hears that I was once a Hunter, there will be no more therapy. Not with me and probably not with anyone. He will have lost all trust. He may even kill me himself. Is that what this is about? I am not thinking very clearly. Perhaps Joseph was as tired as Stephen and I and has merely taken a day to himself. He is not to be faulted for that.

My relationship with Joseph has not been very smooth. I first heard of him after he made inquiries at Sean's hospital, asking hypothetical questions of a colleague of mine about how to handle a 'friend' who was having difficulties. At least, that is how the message was relayed to me. Since the request came from a Watcher, my colleague assumed that the 'friend' was an Immortal or another Watcher and referred the matter to me. When I realized he was talking about Adam, I was alarmed. My fears, it would seem, were not unfounded.

The dog whines a little and his mistress hushes him. It brings me back to the real world. I look at the map overhead. Two more stations. The woman and the dog get off at the next one and some teenagers get on, laughing and chattering to one another. So normal. I feel strange, isolated. I live a very narrow life, with few friends. But that is my own fault. When this is over... Will it ever be over? I could be dead soon if I am not careful and what would happen to my Mathilde then? I cannot think of its being over just now.

I get off at the next station and go through the barrier. Once outside, I light a cigarette gratefully. I pull my jacket around me in the wind and head for Le Blues, a couple of streets away.

My first meeting with Joseph was... difficult. I knew that he had not been expecting me. I suppose I should have warned him but there was not the time. When I heard what Joseph had told my colleague, the seriousness of Adam's condition was obvious. It was urgent beyond what Joseph understood. I did some brief research into Joseph's background, I read his reports, found the trial documents - une affaire degoutante - asked questions, but there was so little time and my preparations were not as I would have liked. What I had read told me that Joseph was unlikely to welcome my interference.

Adam and I had begun therapy - such as it was - although the full-blown crisis was still days away. I contacted the American hospital where he had been treated and they told me of his attempted suicide and the episode of psychotic mania which was part of it. They were surprised, I think, that he was still alive. The attempt had been a very serious one, not a 'cry for help'. It was disturbing. They have sent me the report and I have read it with sorrow. Adam had missed an appointment and I went to find him at Le Blues. He was not there but at last I met Joseph.

"Wondered when you were gonna get around to looking this place up," he said when I introduced myself. His manner was not surly but it told me that he did not trust me. Adam had not told me that Joseph had lost his legs but I had found his history in the files. An admirable man. And I completely understand his dislike of my profession. No doubt there were attempts to help him 'adjust' to his disability after a healthy and vigorous youth. And no doubt he found them demeaning. I would myself, I think. He shook my hand but it was only for the sake of good manners.

"I have known Adam for many years," I said. I was sure he knew that. He is a Watcher; he knows how to find out these things. And I am sure he knows that Adam is Methos. They are too close for that not to have become known. It explained Joseph's protective, almost paternal attitude. Adam was not only his friend but the son he never had. I would have to keep that in mind always when dealing with him.

He showed me to a table at the back of the bar and made a signal to the waiter. He sat down heavily in the other chair and rested his cane beside the seat. It was weighing on him, I could see. "If you'd like a drink, you're welcome. On the house."

I shook my head. "Thank you, but this is not a social call. A coffee, if you have it. Black with some milk on the side."

The waiter arrived, not that nervous young man I had met here when I first went there, and Joseph asked for a coffee for me and a Scotch for himself.

I lit a cigarette and offered him one.

"Nah. Gave them things up years ago. Hauling yourself around with your arms gets harder if your lungs aren't up to scratch. But don't let me stop you."

The waiter came with Joseph's Scotch and my coffee and we said nothing until he had left. The conversation would concern Adam Pierson, not for the ears of the hired help.

"This is business?"

I stirred the milk into my coffee. "Adam did not come for his session yesterday. It is not the first time. And he did not telephone."

He shrugged. "Patients must blow off sessions all the time. It's not like he's never gonna come again."

"You do not understand perhaps, M. Dawson. Adam's condition is very precarious. I will lay the cards on the table for you. When I went to see Adam the first time to propose that he consent to therapy, he was unable to hold the thread of the conversation. I had to draw his attention back to the present and it was obvious that his mind had been drifting outside of our surroundings, vous comprenez? He was not there. This is very bad; it will only get worse."

"He gets a little distracted." He was not telling me everything; he knew exactly what I was talking about. He had seen it for himself, sans doute. He spends much more time with Adam than I could hope to do; he was in the best position to observe. If he had seen nothing, it was because he wanted to see nothing - and I did not think that Joseph would fool himself over such a matter.

"Do you know where he is now?"

He took a drink from the Scotch. "Home, I guess. I wasn't expecting him." His manner was a little too casual; he was worried, though less than I, I suspected.

"I must ask you," I said, "if you know of his previous stay in hospital?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I found out about it. It was in a file that somebody gave me."

"Bon. Then you know how serious that was."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But he got over that,"

"No, he did not. He did not continue the therapy and now he is headed there again."

He sat back in his chair and a look of defiance came over his face. "He doesn't need to go to hospital. He's got you working on it and me watching his back. He'll get through this."

"Then why is it that I have the impression, M. Dawson, that you do not believe this yourself? Did you see something that I should know about?"

He sighed and drained the Scotch. I was not sure that he would answer me but his concern for Adam overcame his reluctance. His face is very expressive; it was all there. "Yeah, I saw something."

"Bon. What did you see?"

He looked down at his glass. What he saw had given him some pain and his face showed it. "He... er... he just kinda blanked out. Told me he was reliving something... only he got it wrong. It wasn't like that."

I took a drag on the cigarette to give him some room to think. Sometimes when I am anxious, I push too hard. That would not help. "He told you what he saw?"

He shook his head. "Sort of. He was talking about Kalas and about me and Don but I wasn't in Paris when that went down."

I shrugged. "It is simple enough. The death of Don Salzer troubled him deeply. I remember. I was most concerned for him and took him for a beer after Don's funeral. I had hoped to see him regularly but he disappeared after that. He cares for you. His mentor was brutally murdered; now he fears for you and you were on his mind, c'est tout."

He smiled but the sadness in his face was deep. "Yeah, I guess."

"Did he seem disoriented?"

He shrugged again. He did not want to speak of these things and I could not blame him. It is never easy for the relatives and if Adam can be said to have any family, Joseph is that to him. "Yeah, I guess. I had to tell him where he was but he seemed to pull out of it just fine. Haven't you ever kinda lost track of where you were? You know, like when you're driving? I know I have and I sure as hell ain't nuts."

"What you observed was a 'dissociative episode'. It is very serious. I want to put him in hospital where he can be cared for before it gets any more serious, before he becomes perhaps suicidal again."

He banged the table with his fist. "No! Christ, no!" He shook his head and his anger was obvious. "I can't let that happen."

"I must insist," I said. My own anger was growing. There was not time for this. Could he not see that? "It is to keep him safe while his mind rests and heals itself. You can understand this, non?"

"No! I promised him: no hospital. I swore I wouldn't let it happen, and I keep my word."

"Then you are misguided, Joseph. You mean well but it is misguided."

"'Misguided'?! You're so full of shit! I know about that little stay on the psych ward, how they had him strapped down and shot full of some heavy-duty drugs. It only made him worse, goddammit!" He jabbed his finger in the air at me. "No way I'm letting that happen to him again. He told me about that flying monkey thing. He's nowhere near that bad. I'm here for him. I can handle it."

I stubbed out the cigarette and looked at him. How was this up to him? What was he not telling me? "You will pardon me for saying it, but you are not the professional. He suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I can help him but he needs care."

"Yeah, well there is no way, Rene. I told him I'd never let it happen."

"Then I will have no choice but to commit him and I do not wish to do this."

He shook his head again. He would fight me all the way. "Oh, no. You can't do that. He made me his Guardian Advocate this week and it's all legal and correct. You'll have to go through me and I won't commit him to no damned hospital."

"C'est absurde! He is not competent to decide his own care and you do not have the knowledge. I treat Immortals; it is what I know how to do better than anyone else. I am his best hope. Their care is much more difficult, much more complex and Sean's hospital is a very safe place. You must allow me to do this."

He looked at me as though I had struck him. "How do you get the idea he's Immortal? Did he tell you that?"

"Oh, mon Dieu! Do not try to fool me on this, Joseph. You know that he is Immortal, just as I do. If we are to help him, we must not pretend with each other. It is foolish."

"Yeah, well maybe I don't trust you. You just show up one day and Hey, Presto! you're his shrink and what you say goes? Fuck you!"

"How does this help Adam?" Stubbornness always makes me very angry and I was almost shouting. "He must be our first concern, not your ego and not mine."

His face was becoming red in his frustration with me. We are perhaps too much alike in this. "I checked up on you," he said, his eyes narrow. "You're what you say you are, only there's squat about you in the late eighties, early nineties when you were supposed to be getting to know Adam. You wanna tell me what you were up to? I can find out. Maybe then I'll trust you."

I had expected it, of course, but it is always a shock to hear it. My temper got the better of me and I stared at him. "We are not here to discuss my private life. Do you know where Adam is or do you not?"

He stared back. Then he shrugged and sat back in the chair. "Yeah, what the hell. It's a reasonable request. I can call, I guess."

"Thank-you."

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. "The bookshop," he said while we were waiting. There was a frown on his face. After a few moments, his face relaxed. "Where the hell have you been?" he said into the thing. "I've got your buddy, Rene, in my bar and he is bullshit. He said you blew off your meeting with him yesterday. I thought you told me you were seeing him today."

I lit another cigarette while I waited.

"Right," he said. His voice was quite neutral but his expression was worried. "Well, I think you'd better come down here and explain that to Rene in person. Somehow, I don't think he's gonna buy that story coming from me, and I don't think he's gonna leave here until he hears it from you." Another pause. "Just get your butt down here."

When he put the cell phone back into his pocket, he was very... subdued?

"Is he all right?'

He shook his head. "He didn't know what day it was. He's coming over."

I smoked for a few moments before replying. He needed time to think and I did feel very sorry for him. He loves Adam; now I see this every time I see them together. I am not sure it is entirely healthy, but in Adam's condition it is perhaps what he needs. Once he is well, their relationship will become more adult and less paternal. It does no harm for Adam to feel that he is loved, although he finds it difficult to deal with.

"Do you understand now how serious this is?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. I know. I didn't mean to give you a hard time. You've got his best interests at heart. You want another coffee while we wait?"

"Yes. Thank-you." He signalled to the waiter again.

"Is there anything else you can tell me," I asked him. It would help him to talk; perhaps I could reassure him. "What was your impression of him when he had this flashback?"

"I guess what got me most was that he wasn't upset by it, you know? I figured it wasn't his first. And I asked him."

"And?"

"He's been flashing on Alexa, too. You know about her?"

"Of course."

The waiter came with our Scotch and coffee. I needed to be alert, otherwise I would have asked for a cognac. I stubbed the cigarette out.

He turned the glass in his hands before going on. "I'd known her pretty much all her life. They met at my place. I dunno. I wanted him to think twice about it, told him she wasn't for him, but I never saw a guy so in love. Kinda ripped my heart out."

"'La folie de l'amour'. We all pay the price."

"You got that right."

He sipped the Scotch. I stirred the milk into my coffee, wondering what else he had not told me. It would have been very foolish to bring up the subject of Methos with a man I had just met, a man whose emotions were raw. He was afraid; so was I. Adam's illness made him very vulnerable. And I had my own reasons, reasons to do with penance and redemption but I could not have spoken to him about that. And I care quite genuinely what happens to Adam; this is not a selfish thing I do. He is my friend.

"He will be all right, Joseph. We must keep him safe; I must insist that the clinic is the best place for him." His head came up ready to object. "But I will not go against his own wishes if I think other arrangements can be made. But surely, you understand the difficulty. The therapy is not working fast enough and he is hallucinating again; what happens to him if another Immortal should find him?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to talk him into it. You're on your own. We can work something out. He can stay at my place."

I shook my own head. I can be just as stubborn; I am French, apres tout. "No, Joseph. That is not realistic. He is much stronger than you are and you are not exactly quick on your feet."

"He doesn't want drugs, either," he said.

"I know. He tells me this every time we meet. But I keep a syringe with Haldol just in case. He is also stronger and faster than I am." I shrug and light another cigarette. "It is the drug for the emergency treatment of psychotic mania. How does this make you feel?"

He tossed his hand at me. "Yeah, I guess. I see your point."

"Bon. At least we agree on something."

"When did you figure out he was Immortal?

I drank some of the coffee while I considered the question. I would keep what I knew to myself for the moment. "After the Ahriman affair. I believe he had his first death then. Can you enlighten me?" It was not a fair question but it gave him some room.

"He's never told me the details. But, yeah, it was about then. Maybe one day..."

And maybe one day we will be able to stop lying to each other.

We were quiet for a while after that. I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes, then drank my coffee; he sipped his Scotch. I put my glasses back on and lit another cigarette. We talked of simple things, feeling each other out. I do not know that we can ever be friends exactly. Perhaps after this is over. I liked him that day but his wariness was obvious. He told me about his daughter; I was tempted to tell him of mine, two fathers talking of their children. He is proud of her, as am I of Mathilde.

In about half an hour, the door opened and Adam came in. He saw us and came toward our table.

"Hey, Joe... Rene."

Neither of us answered him.

"Uh, look, Rene. I'm really sorry about yesterday. I got my days mixed up. A lot has been happening this week, you know?" He smiled and giggled a little. His nervousness was very obvious.

It is what he calls 'doing cute'. He knows that it does not fool me and I doubt that it fooled Joseph. It concerned me that he should be playing this little game. "No, I do not know," I said, "because you have not been telling me anything significant in our sessions." I had no intention of making him feel comfortable. I was angry and he had to know that; he had to start taking responsibility for his own therapy. At the very least, he had to stop hiding things from me.

He said nothing. The door opened again and a man came in, obviously a companion. From Adam's reaction, I understood that this was an Immortal. Joseph had drawn the same conclusion. Then I recognized him from his file. Stephen Keane. We had not met but I had studied his case, since Adam once tried to take his head. He was a patient of Sean's back in the eighteenth century.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. I did not get the impression that he was really aware of what was happening. And now I understood the 'cute' act. It was for Stephen's benefit.

"Sure. Absolutely fine," Adam said. Stephen would have had to be blind not to see that as a lie.

"I think you should come up to the clinic for a few days," I said.

"Absolutely not." The grin and the innocence were gone. Now it was getting deadly serious. He did not give a damn what we thought. This, at least, was an honest reaction.

"Adam, if you are having flashbacks with complete dissociation from reality, you need to be in a safe place. Your current situation is not appropriate for the level of treatment that you need." I could not put it plainer than that. It was in the open and we would deal with it. Now. However it went.

He sat down in the chair across from me, folded his arms and slouched down. Defiance. Anger. Honest reactions, if a little childish. "Fine. Lock me up then."

Now he was being foolish. It made me angrier. "Joseph refuses to give his consent," I said. He might as well know that the matter had come up, that I knew what the arrangement was. "Besides, it would never work without your cooperation. These sessions of ours are not mind games, Adam. I do not wish to trick you, only help you."

He straightened a little in his chair. I was making sense to him. I doubted that he would consent, even so. "Rene, I have no problem with accepting your help, but what I said before goes - no drugs and no hospitalization."

I was not surprised but it still exasperated me. He was not thinking in his own best interests. "Adam, this is not a safe situation for you."

"Are you saying that I might hurt someone? Joe, maybe?" Ah, so that was his fear.

I stubbed out the cigarette. "No. You are more likely to harm yourself, or let yourself be exposed to harm, than do harm at this point."

"Then, I will take that chance." It was exactly as I expected. But it was not a rational decision. A man in his mental state cannot be trusted to decide in his own best interest. That is why such matters are left to the attending physician. Myself. Only in this instance, Adam had anticipated me with that Guardian Advocate paper. It was exasperating. But I understood completely that he did not want to be locked up and tied down. As an Immortal, one who had survived so long by his wits, it was intolerable. I could not have made him understand that I knew this; I could not tell him that I knew who he was.

"Um, what is going on?" Stephen had come to the table. He came to Adam's left, a significant position of non-aggression in an Immortal. I think that it was at that moment that Adam realized I knew that he himself was Immortal. Bon. That was out of the way.

"Rene is my shrink," Adam told him without taking his eyes off me. "He works for the people who took over after Sean Burns died." Adam was slipping. We were not to know that Stephen was an Immortal; mentioning Sean Burns was a mistake: how would he know who the late Sean Burns was if he were mortal and not a Watcher? And it was a mistake he would not normally have made. "Rene thinks I should check into his psychiatric facility until I stop having vacations from reality like the one you saw at the bookshop today."

Joseph was horrified; it was finally hitting home. I was saddened but resolved. Adam would have to be placed in care somehow.

"Christ! You had another one?" Joseph said.

"Rene, Joe," Adam said, hooking a thumb in Stephen's direction, "this is Stephen Keane. He was a friend of Sean Burns."

"I see," I said. Joseph made no comment, perhaps for my benefit. Undoubtedly he knew who Stephen was.

"You're in therapy?" Stephen asked.

"Yep," Adam said. It was bravely said; he is a stoic. He does accept his condition, even if he is unwilling to cooperate in his care. I have always known that about him.

"Why?" It was Stephen. It was a question only an Immortal would have asked. Insanity is not uncommon among them; their whole existence is an insanity, perhaps even an obscenity. I once thought so. I would have hunted both of them not so very long ago. I heard the courage in the question and I was ashamed.

"Let's just say that you are not the only one who could benefit from some new survival strategies," Adam said. It was not a bad way of putting it, I had to admit.

"You need to be in a safe place," I said. "At the clinic, you will be on Holy Ground. No one can harm you there." It was the only argument I had that I thought he would accept.

"Like Darius?" he snapped back.

I was unprepared for that. "We are not Hunters," I said. I doubt it sounded very firm. Stephen must have wondered what the hell was really going on beneath the words.

"Listen to me." He is angry and it is almost a snarl. But it is bravado, for he is also very afraid; that too is in his voice. "I am not going into hospital and I am not going to hide on Holy Ground. And since when did you peg me for an Immortal, Rene? I thought I was just a confused ex-Watcher research guy who saw a little too much action in the field."

"You are that, as well. I can understand that discovering yourself to be an Immortal during the Ahriman crisis, after studying them for so many years was a great shock, but you need to get beyond it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It makes sense, non? Your disappearance during the Ahriman crisis? Quite a shock to find out about your Immortality that way."

"That is not what happened." No, it is not how it happened. But at least he knew that I knew. It was out in the open. Then his eyes narrowed, his face became slack and his voice softened. "That's not what..."

"What the hell...?" Joseph was startled. I recognized what was happening - Adam was sliding into a flashback right in front of us. I fished in my jacket pocket for the syringe, took it out of its case and held it ready. I slipped the case with the second injection back into my pocket. Stephen, too, appeared to understand what was happening. It had been brought on by my mentioning Ahriman; no doubt he was back there, God help him. Adam leaped out of the chair, his eyes fixed on Joseph and calling Richie's name. I was already standing; Stephen was behind him, watching for the sword.

"Be careful. Hold him!"

Joseph had got himself to his feet and was coming around the table, drawing Adam's glazed attention. Just as Adam's hand went to the sword, had his hand on the hilt, in fact, Stephen grabbed his arms from behind and Joseph took the sword out of harm's way. Adam let out a roar and I lunged forward, stabbing his thigh with the hypodermic and pressing the plunger. Haldol works very quickly but not instantly. We would still need to subdue him.

"Hold on!" I said to Stephen. Adam was shrieking and struggling. I dropped the syringe on the table and helped Stephen. We are both big men, I a little bigger than Adam, but anyone experiencing a psychotic episode becomes remarkably strong.

"It's all right, Adam," Stephen said into Adam's ear. "It's all right. You're safe. Let us help you."

But Adam broke Stephen's grip and rammed an elbow into Stephen's stomach. I grasped his arm and wrapped my other arm around his neck, trying to get a headlock on him. He threw his head back but I saw it coming and pulled my own head out of the way. By this time, Stephen had recovered his own grip on Adam's other arm. Between the two of us pulling and shoving, we got him moving toward the door, screaming something in a language I did not recognize. Then his eyes seemed to fix on Joseph and his tone became desperate, pleading. "Joe we have to go we have to go... Joe, please...Joe!"

"It's all right, Adam. I'm here. We're okay. We don't have to go anywhere." Joseph was almost in tears but he was holding up well. A good man, a good friend. He walked toward a door and opened it. The bar staff had stopped to stare, horrified. Joseph gestured toward his bartender. "It's under control," he shouted.

Adam's struggles were becoming less coordinated but still very strong. "Oh God oh God oh God... swords don't do that they can't... can't do that can't do that... No!... No!"

"When's this stuff supposed to work?" Stephen hissed at me, one arm around Adam's neck and the other grasping a shoulder and barely able to maintain his hold.

"Two or three minutes," I told him, breathing heavily. "It will snap him out of the hallucination. Then he will be exhausted and fall asleep. Watch his legs!"

Adam lashed out and I had to jump backward. A table kept me from going right down but it hurt like hell and I had a nasty bruise for several days afterward.

Stephen managed to get a tighter grip. "I'm going to be fucking exhausted as well!"

"In my office," Joseph said.

We had a hell of a time. Adam fought us every step of the way, yelling at imaginary demons. If this did not show Joseph how serious it was, nothing would.

"Joseph!" I shouted. "Sit on the sofa. Stephen, we must get him on the sofa and Joseph can hold him. There's a second injection I must give him."

Joseph sat down on the end of the sofa in the office. Stephen and I manoeuvred Adam to the sofa, and wrestled him onto it, his back toward Joseph. His body was growing less coordinated and a little slack, responding to the drug, but it was not over. We got his jacket off, which was quite a struggle, Joseph wrapped his arms around him and held him, with Stephen's help, while I pulled the case back out of my pocket to administer the second injection.

"What's that for?" Stephen asked.

"It eases the side effects of the Haldol," I said. It was easier just to give the injection through the material again than struggle to expose his hip. He flinched and cried out a little as the needle went into the tense muscle. In that heightened state, the sensation of pain is intense. "He will sleep," I said.

Adam was relaxing visibly but still very agitated and still shouting, his breath coming in pants. "Sean! Put the sword down put it down put it down... Joe!... Oh, Joe... we have to get out of here..."

Joseph hung on bravely. "Easy, man. Take it easy. That's it. It's all right. You're right here. Come on. Just breathe, Adam. Take a deep breath for me. That's it..."

"Joe..." Adam was back with us. Joseph still held him, weeping now. I put the syringe back into the case. I would need to retrieve the other one.

I bent down by Adam's head and stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him. "I'm sorry, old friend," I said. "I had to give you something to bring you back down. You were not responding to anything else."

"What?" he tried to sit up again, but Joseph would not allow it. He was just realizing where he was, realizing that he had probably fought, probably put Joseph in danger.

"I didn't... Where's my jacket?" Even now he was looking for his sword.

"Stephen is keeping your sword safe in the bar. You tried to take it out. It caused some alarm."

"Safe..." The Haldol was bringing him down. Soon he would fall asleep and we should have to decide what to do. "I said Ôno drugs'."

"And I said fine, so long as you did not become a danger to yourself or others. We have passed that point. You need to be in the hospital."

"No. No, I won't go." He looked terribly afraid. My heart went out. "Joe, please. Don't let him put me in hospital."

Joseph said nothing. His love for Adam was tearing him apart. It was up to him. I stared at him, trying to warn him, begging him to agree to what I wanted to do. Surely he understood now.

"Joseph..."

Joseph sighed. "Okay, Adam. We'll work something out."

"No hospital."

"No hospital."

I cursed in French. As Adam slipped into sleep, Joseph wept openly.

***

And now I was walking to Le Blues, smoking yet another cigarette and out of my mind with worry. I was going to find out just how far Joseph went to avoid that hospitalization. Mon Dieu! It was all going so very wrong.

****

Chapter 7

Sunday, November 24, 7:00 pm

I finish my cigarette just as I arrive at Le Blues. It is closed for business but when I try the door, it opens and I go inside. The door to Joseph's office on the far side of the room is open. As I go toward it, Stephen appears in the doorway. Is Adam here, then?

"Ah, Rene. Wondered when you'd get here." His manner is almost surly. Has Mlle Thomas perhaps been lecturing him? He is also drunk. "Thought you'd got lost."

"I took the Metro," I say as I reach the door.

He gestures toward the office. Mlle Thomas is at her father's desk looking through some papers. When she sees me, she stands to greet me. I do not think she is pleased to see me.

"Dr. Galbon," she says, a little stiffly, it seems. The lady has secrets. But she is quite sober.

We shake hands. "Miss Thomas."

Behind me, Stephen clears his throat. "I... um... I'm getting a taxi. Going home."

I turn to face him. "Where is Adam?"

He spreads his hands in a gesture to placate me. In his condition, I am surprised that he is still able to stand. "No. Fucking. Idea," he says.

His words are slurred; he has been drinking for hours. He was here when I called, non? He has not been with Adam then; they have been lying to me. He glances over my shoulder and straightens. I turn my head to see Mlle Thomas signalling Stephen to be quiet. She looks at me sternly. I can see I will have difficulty here.

"I'll just get my coat," Stephen says, pushing past me into the office. "Adam is fine." He takes his coat off the sofa and almost stumbles. "Wherever the hell he is."

"I demand to know what is going on," I say. The anger in my voice should be obvious even to Stephen.

He observes me with drunken nonchalance. "I leave that to the lovely and generous Miss Thomas," he says. He is barely able to form the syllables. "For I..." - he pulls on his coat - "...am going home to bed."

I block his path to the door. "Where is he?"

"Leave the poor sod alone, Rene." He waves one hand at me as if swatting a fly. "We're all barking mad, you know. He'll get over it. We all do. You wake up one morning," - he wiggles the fingers of both hands in the air and leers at me - "and all the nightmares have flown away." And he laughs.

Mlle Thomas takes Stephen's arm and guides him past me. "I've called you a taxi, Stephen." Then she looks at me; I believe she is embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Doctor. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a moment." And she steers Stephen through the door.

I take off my jacket, place my knapsack on the sofa and sit in the chair at the end of the desk. I take my cigarettes out before I remember that Mlle Thomas does not smoke. When she returns, it is with a tray, a bottle of her father's best Scotch, two glasses and an ashtray. She places them on the desk between us and pours the Scotch without a word.

"Thank you," I say.

She sits down. "If you're going to smoke, I'll take one."

I raise my eyebrows and offer her one. She takes it and I light it for her. She is troubled. Her hand is steady, but her nervousness is obvious. I doubt I am its sole cause.

"I did not realize you smoked, Miss Thomas."

She draws a lungful of smoke easily. "Not since Sixth Form. But I believe I need one."

I smile and take a drag on my own. "And you went through the Academy without starting again? That shows remarkable restraint."

She leans back in the chair. "I am not particularly fond of restraint, but I was well brought-up. Another kind of restraint." She sighs and blows out the smoke. "I am not the same person."

I take a sip of the Scotch, cross my legs and try to relax into the chair. "You are a human being. Change is a good thing, non?"

A little smile plays around her mouth and she picks a bit of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "I suppose it is. And what about you, Doctor? Are you a changed man for being a Watcher?"

I am tempted not to reply but the irony is amusing. "Mais bien sur - but of course. Why did you become a Watcher?" I take a drag on the cigarette while she responds. If you leave someone room to think, it eases their fears. I do not need her to be afraid of me.

"My mother was a Watcher." Her voice is flat, a little hard. I do not think there is much love there. We are all orphans in our own way, non?

"I see. I will not lie to you, Miss Thomas. I have seen your file."

She looks up at me; her eyes are wide. I see I have startled her.

"What on earth for?"

I shrug. "Your name came up in one of my sessions with Adam. I was curious."

"Ben mentioned me in a session? Because he saved my life?" Something in her eyes tells me that this pleases her. A little... eagerness, perhaps?

I ignore the question and take another sip of the Scotch. "Do you have feelings for him?"

I see I have startled her again. Tant pis.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, Miss Thomas, we are two people concerned for the same man, for his welfare, for his continued survival, I in my way, as his doctor but also as his friend, and you, I think... There is something there, non?"

Her face flushes a little and she takes a drink of the Scotch. "It's really none of your business. And I resent being psychoanalyzed."

"This has nothing to do with psychoanalysis. Nothing at all. We must be on the same ground, you and I. On this we must trust each other. Do you understand?"

"That we both have his best interests at heart? Oh, yes, I understand very well. And whatever else I may think of you, Doctor, I do believe this of you."

"Bon. Where is he?"

She sighs heavily; she is resigned. "He's in Scotland."

Now it is my turn to be startled. "Pardon?"

She takes some of the Scotch before answering. "He went with my father. He had some business, something to do with MacLeod, I think. My father, I mean. Not Ben. My father asked him to come, thought it would be good for him to get away for a day or two."

"Without telling me?"

She shrugs, takes a drag on the cigarette and stubs it out. "You would never have approved."

I am stunned. "And rather than risk my disapproval, they did not ask for it? This is absurd."

"It might interest you to know that they are both there with Gabrieli's approval."

Merde! This is a slap in the face. Gabrieli is telling me that he is still my superior, whether I like it or not. I see that he does not tolerate insubordination well, and my refusal to tell him what he wanted to know has come to this. It is an insult. I finish my own cigarette and stub it out. I cannot say anything. I drink some of the Scotch and rub my head with my hand.

"You're very quiet," she says and lifts the glass to her lips. "I suppose it goes with the job." She drinks sparingly, her eyes cast down. "I can tell it makes you angry and I can't blame you, really. It was probably very foolish. I was a bit concerned myself."

In fact, I am relieved. My imagination, it would seem, has been running wild, which is hardly surprising. "I was afraid for Adam," I say, meaning it. "I was worried the last time I saw him and I suspected that he had run away again. But I am disturbed by this news none the less. When were they due back, may I ask?"

"They were supposed to have checked in with me by now."

"What?"

She drinks a little Scotch and stares into the glass. "I have been sitting here for the past hour wondering if MacLeod found them first. I don't much like MacLeod; I don't think he was good for my father and I don't believe he's good for Ben. And I think he might harm Ben if he got the chance. I honestly think he sees himself as the One. And one day he will kill Ben if he gets the chance, take his head. He'll call it justice or keeping the world safe from one more raving lunatic, of course. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

I close my eyes for a few moments. When I open them again, she is looking straight at me.

"You do know what I'm talking about, don't you, Doctor." It is a statement. "My father told me that you thought Ben became Immortal during the Ahriman affair with MacLeod, but that was a lie, wasn't it?" I smile and drink some of the Scotch. "I can see that it was. You know."

Ah. Now it is on the table. There is little point in pretending; what I have to tell her is easier if we each know where the other stands. "That he is Methos? Yes. I have known it for years."

"And that's why you're so anxious to help him? Always so ready to protect him?"

"That. And other things... Many other things." I hear the bitterness in my own voice. I am quite sure it did not escape her notice.

"What's that dark look on your face, Doctor? Are you hiding something? It seems everyone else is hiding something and I suspect you're good at it. You're even trained to hide things." Her fingers, tight on the glass, betray her nervousness. "Why didn't Gabrieli tell you that your patient had flown the coop? Is that what's bothering you?"

"M. Gabrieli and I do not see eye to eye. He wanted me to tell him about my sessions with Adam. I told him to go to hell." I laugh to myself and drain my glass. "Politely, of course."

"Of course. I can imagine. I did wonder why Gabrieli let them go. Now I understand. A little anyway."

"Gabrieli is not a fool. He gives them permission, gains their trust a little... and disciplines me. He kills two birds with one stone." Discipline. Something you are a little short of yourself these days, Rene.

"Would you like some more Scotch?" I push the glass toward her and she refills both. "And are you properly chastised?" She leans back in the chair, observing me. She will be a very good field agent one of these days. She is already better than most but she must learn to control the nervousness before it controls her. She must not expect it to go away; it never does. And it can be her friend, keep her safe. Or her enemy.

"He would not think so." I take my glass and hold it, letting it warm in my hand. I would have preferred cognac, but the Scotch is welcome, something to calm my own nerves. "And now you are worried that MacLeod has taken the head of Methos."

"The thought must have occurred to you, too."

"It has, I am sorry to say. But if the thing is done, then it is done."

A shadow passes over her face and for a brief moment, I think she will cry, but it passes and she is again in control. Still nervous, for all her cool words, but in control. My own heart is heavy.

"You needn't wait with me, Doctor," she says. "I'll call you when I hear something. No need for both of us to lose sleep."

I put the glass down, stretch out my legs and fold my hands over my belly. It is a posture which relaxes me, the one I use when I am with my patients. "Why did you not tell Stephen where Adam and your father have gone?"

She sighs. "I didn't want him haring off after them and only succeeding in making matters worse. You must know he and MacLeod hate the sight of each other."

I smile. "Adam told me. He found it rather amusing to play them against each other." I take out my cigarettes again. "Would you care for one?"

She shakes her head. "Thank-you, no. I should eat something, I suppose. Don't let me stop you."

I light one and smoke for a while before saying anything. She is quiet. Perhaps she is thinking of Adam; I do believe the lady is in love. If Adam were well, this would be very good; as it is, it could be disaster for them both. Joseph has told me how Adam does not hold himself back in such things and the emotional load would be more than he could handle. Although I suspect there is some feeling on his side already. He was telling me about Alexa at the time and used the name 'Amy' without noticing. But I noticed. I did not call him on it at the time; it would have caused him some distress, I think. And when he is well enough, when he is ready, I will wish them well.

And I have made a decision. "Miss Thomas, I need your help," I say.

"With Ben?"

"Indirectly."

"Why my help?"

"It is an extremely delicate matter. I cannot go to your father and Adam must not know. Perhaps one day, but not now."

"You're being very circumspect, Doctor. Does it have to do with the Watchers?"

I nod. "Oh, yes. I'm afraid it does. And it is dangerous. If you help me, you will almost certainly be risking your life."

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily. "Oh, God." When she opens them again, her face is drawn. "Please, no, Doctor. Don't ask me. Surely there is someone else. What about Stephen? He's eager and he won't be risking his neck."

"Stephen is not a Watcher."

"No, and I'm beginning to wish I weren't. You must know what I've already been through, how close I came to being murdered, for God's sake! You've seen my file."

"Indeed I have. Miss Thomas... what do you know about me? I know that you have researched my file and I am equally sure that it was at your father's request. What did you find?"

"That you are what you say you are. But surely you know that, Doctor. I doubt you resisted the temptation to snoop in your own file while you were into everyone else's." She is annoyed. Tant pis, Mademoiselle. Annoyance will be the least of what you will feel when I am done.

"And what else?"

"That was bloody it! And well you know it. Your field experience in the late seventies - which sounds as traumatic as my own, by the way, only a lot more of it - your entry into medical school, your residency at Sean's hospital, work record, all the usual things. But you weren't there. If I had only that file to go on, I would have no idea who you were. Being in the Watchers is hellish dangerous, as I am finding out. But your record is all smooth sailing. And there's nothing at all from 1987 to 1994. It says you took over several of Sean Burns' patients after he was murdered by Duncan MacLeod, after which your record is just as innocuous as the rest of it."

I smile. "And you do not believe it."

"No. And neither does my father. I have made inquiries."

"I must ask you to curtail those inquiries." She stares at me. "Do not underestimate me, Miss Thomas. I am deadly serious."

"Are you threatening me, Doctor?"

I shake my head. "No. But you would be endangering everyone. And that includes Adam. Let me show you something."

I reach for my knapsack and open it. I sort through the manila envelopes and find what I am looking for. I draw it out and hand it to her.

She looks up at me; she is afraid. I nod at her. She opens the envelope as if it will bite her. She slides the photograph out and gasps. "Oh, my God! Where did you get this?"

I shrug. "I stole it. From Headquarters this afternoon. Do you recognize the other man in the photograph? You should."

She says nothing for a few moments but she is horrified. It is on her face. I wait until she chooses to speak. "I thought... Forgive me, Doctor. I am a little confused. I thought that my uncle was killed by Duncan MacLeod. Stabbed." She is clearly shaken; her voice is tremulous.

I nod to reassure her. "I do not give you this to imply that your father was the murderer. Horton was, in fact, murdered by Duncan MacLeod, and perhaps that is fitting. I am quite sure they know this at Headquarters. But your father did shoot him. Horton fell into the Seine and your father believed him to be dead. Your father carries that guilt to this day but he should not. Horton was a bad man who caused many deaths." And who knows this better than I?

She studies my face but I do not change my expression. She must decide for herself; it is only fair. "May I ask how you know this?"

Am I ready to tell her? Tell her what? That it was I Horton came to that day and that is how I know? I decide that I am not. Not just yet. "I am a psychiatrist, non? People tell me many things. Troubled people with a great deal on their minds." I take a swallow of the whiskey and finish the cigarette.

She looks down at the photograph. Her face is very expressive of sadness, it seems. Does it also show happiness? It shows love; this I can see. She loves her father; it is obvious, whatever she tells herself. "Why did you give me this?"

"It was not to hurt you, Miss Thomas. I took it from the office of a man who has many things like this, on many people. Letters, photographs..." I shrug. This is not the time to be a coward, Rene. "Tapes."

"He's blackmailing people?"

I wave my hand in the air. What do I really know? Nothing. I will not lie to her. "I cannot say. I thought so at first but now I suspect that he has these things to protect himself."

"Is he a Watcher?"

I shrug and shake my head. "I do not wish to put you in danger unnecessarily, Miss Thomas. If you decide to help me, I will tell you his name."

"If it is to protect my father, of course I'll help."

I shake my head again. It would be very unfair of me to accept her help before I have told her why I need it. I do not want this, too, on my conscience. "Do not decide yet; you do not yet know what it is I want from you - or why I want it."

"If he's a Watcher, it's very simple, Doctor. You have to go to Gabrieli with what you know. If this man is blackmailing people, it's a criminal matter and the police will be involved unless it's stopped before it gets to that. Gabrieli has to know."

I rest my elbows on the arms of the chair and place my chin on my hands. It is already too late to turn back.

"I see," she says. "He has something damning on you. And you can't go to Gabrieli because of it."

I close my eyes and incline my head toward her. Yes. When I look at her again, she is merely watching me. Is it sympathy? What would I feel in her place? I have just given her a photograph that shows her father to be capable of cold-blooded murder; I doubt she thinks my motives are pure as the driven snow.

"You don't have to tell me what it is," she says. "I suspect it's best if I don't know. Who else is in thrall to that man? What else do you have in that little bag of yours?"

I am hesitant to tell her much more. What is the purpose of showing her something that would mean nothing to her? Most of the photographs would be meaningless to her, of no personal interest save to prove that Croft left no stone unturned. He does not strike me as a blackmailer; he is far too timid personally. No, his own safety has been his concern since the beginning. I am quite sure that I am right in this. And his prurient interests are no concern of mine. I will not show her the tape of Adam and Horton; until she understands much more, it would only serve to disturb her further.

"Tell me something, Doctor. You said that this man has these things to protect himself. Does he believe my father would harm him?'

I shrug and sit back. "I have no idea what he believes. He knows your father is capable of murder; perhaps that is enough to frighten him. Certainly he has never gone to the Council with it."

I see the fear on her face. Her thoughts are leading her into dangerous places, perhaps. "Why would he take such a photograph? How did he know to be there?" She is agitated. The nervousness has betrayed her; this latest little shock is breaking her control.

And that is a most interesting question. How indeed? How is it that he was always in the right place?... Mon Dieu. I understand. At long last, I understand. Croft was Horton's eyes and ears. What he knew, Horton knew. That is how Horton knew Sean had committed me, how he knew that I had been sending money to Rodrig's widow and how he always knew where to find me.

Horton knew MacLeod would be at the barge. Croft went with him. Croft saw him fall into the water and rescued him; Croft brought him to me. Horton knew about Mathilde - then so does Croft.

And Croft is a dead man.

"Doctor? Answer me, Doctor!" She is almost shouting. I have frightened her. "How the hell did he know to be where my father would be? And how do you know?"

She is on the edge of tears. It is time. "He was with Horton that night."

"And how do you know this? Did 'a patient' tell you this, too? How do you know any of it? You have lied before. Please don't lie to me now!"

It is time.

"Because I was one of them, Miss Thomas."

****

Continued in Part 2.

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