The Parallel World Series: Part One

                                 The Hunter

                                by Alexandra


Duncan MacLeod didn't often hear from anyone in the States during his stays
in Paris. When the long-distance call came through he was not surprised,
though, to hear Joe Dawson's voice on the other end. If anyone would phone
him, it would be Joe, his official Watcher and his friend. He was, however,
surprised to hear that Joe planned to fly to Paris that evening. And he
would not say what his business was until he got there.

A mystery. He would just have to wait for the explanation.

He drove out to Orly the next day, and met Joe at the baggage pick-up site.
Joe looked tired from his flight, and after he picked out his suitcase,
MacLeod automatically took it in hand, brushing aside Joe's protests that
he could carry it himself. "It's a long walk to where I parked. You're not
getting this back."

"Yeah, yeah." Joe sounded grumpy as well as tired. "Thanks."

"Don't get me wrong, Joe," MacLeod said as he hefted the case over his
shoulder. "I'm always glad to see you. But somehow I don't think you flew
six thousand miles just to see my sunny face."

Dawson walked beside him out of the airport, cane tapping loudly on the
tiled surface. "It's Watcher business, Mac. Only this time, I need your
help."

MacLeod cast him a puzzled look. "What's up?"

Dawson paused to rest a moment. He gave MacLeod a steady look. "I think an
immortal has infiltrated the Watchers."

Mac gaped at him. Surely that was impossible--or was it? "Not in the field,
I take it." There were other areas, administration and research, where an
immortal wouldn't be detected by one of his own kind. And what a perfect
place to hide, with access to the Watcher database records, always able to
find out where your enemies were. "What makes you think this?"

"I got a call from a Watcher buddy of mine, name of Jacques Delacort."
Dawson strode on towards the car park, and MacLeod kept pace beside him.
"He's in charge of updating the database at the HQ building here in Paris.
Every day, reports come in from the field, and the records are all entered
and updated at least once a day. He started noticing a pattern developing
over the past few months--a very disturbing one."

They reached Mac's Porsche, and he stuffed the suitcase into the trunk.
They climbed into the car and Mac drove off. "What sort of pattern? Are we
talking a lot of dead immortals here? Is this guy using the database to
hunt?"

"It could be a woman," Dawson pointed out.

"Maybe." MacLeod stopped to pay for the parking at the airport exit, then
turned onto the motorway that led towards Paris. "So who are the victims?"

"Inactives, that's what we call them. See, there are three basic categories
for immortals in the database--well, four, if you count 'deceased'. There
are active immortals, who are the ones we currently have Watchers assigned
to. Then there are the inactive ones--these are immortals we think are
still alive but who don't have Watchers. Either we had a Watcher on them in
the past and the immortal managed to change identities without the change
being picked up, or they simply vanished but never turned up dead anywhere.
From time to time, a Watcher will spot an immortal who's on the inactive
list, and will report that in. We rush to track them, get the new identity
and address, so we can assign a Watcher and turn them into active status
again." Dawson paused to catch his breath, then went on. "What Jacques
noticed was a series of recent reports on newly located inactives that
showed up in the database--within twenty-fours or less, before a new
Watcher could be assigned, these same immortals turned up with their heads
chopped off."

MacLeod focused on the roadway, but his mind was churning. This was a
devious way to hunt, and he didn't like the sound of it at all. "So Jacques
believes an immortal has worked his--or her--way into the Watchers, and is
checking the database regularly for the daily updates. And once one of
these inactives has been reported, he gets their new name, their new
address--and kills them before a Watcher is around to see and record."

"Exactly. And so he remains anonymous. There have been six of these
beheadings in the past three months, all in the Paris area."

"Clever bastard." Despite his dislike of the method, MacLeod had to admit
it was a very smart way to hunt. "Wait a second-- you said there were four
categories. Active, inactive, deceased- -what's the other one?"

"Nothing important. We call them the 'myths'. Immortals no one has ever
gotten any solid evidence on, who may not have ever existed at all, except
that they've been mentioned somewhere, sometime, almost always in very old
Chronicles that can no longer be verified. It's a small category. The most
famous member of it would be Methos."

Mac nodded. "Even I've heard rumors about him--the world's oldest immortal,
supposed to have been alive for five thousand years. Has to be a legend.
Nobody could survive for that long." The oldest immortal he had ever met
had been Cassandra, a mere three thousand...well, now that he thought about
it, perhaps another two thousand years on top of that wasn't beyond the
realm of possibility. But it was highly unlikely. "He'd have to be the
world's luckiest immortal, too."

Dawson chuckled. "Yeah. Or the world's oldest hermit."

"Doesn't really matter. Let's get back to your little problem of the
infiltrator--what exactly do you want from me?"

"I want you to come to HQ with me," Joe replied. "In disguise, of
course--too many people there would recognize you. I've already arranged
with Jacques that you'll be a new Watcher working with me in the States who
wants a tour of the facility. I'll show you around, concentrating on the
research section, and you can tell if there's an immortal present."

"And then what?" Mac didn't care for the sound of this. The word
"interference" came immediately to mind.

"Then we figure out how to stop him." Dawson paused. "Or her."

"No." Mac shook his head. "Not me. Yeah, it's sneaky, but that's not a
crime in my book. Once he finds these immortals, he fights them, right?
Nothing unfair about a challenge, even if the means of finding someone to
challenge is a little underhanded."

Dawson let out a long sigh. "There's more to it than that, Mac. He isn't
fighting fair. Every one of those six immortals had bullet holes in his or
her clothing."

A flush of anger rose within MacLeod; he detested those of his own kind who
ignored the rules of the Game. "That's not a challenge, then--it's an
execution."

"They never had a chance," Joe agreed. "Whoever it is, he's as bad as
Horton."

"Maybe worse," MacLeod said. "Horton was mortal. This bastard knows the
rules, and doesn't care." Still, angered as he was, he hesitated to get
involved in Watcher business. "I'm willing to pick the guy out. No problem.
But once you know who he is, the Watchers can deal with him."

"We might be able to," Joe said. "We might not. There is one thing which
might make a difference to you."

MacLeod spied the turnoff he wanted and took it. "What's that?"

"One of the dead immortals was a friend of yours."

*Damn*. Mac got off onto a side street, pulled over to the curb, and
stopped the car. More death. Always more friends to lose... He steeled
himself, hands gripping the steering wheel. "Who was it?"

"Brian Cullen."

*No*. MacLeod shut his eyes, and rested his forehead on his hands. Not
Brian. He hadn't seen his old friend in decades, but once they had been
closer than brothers. They had traveled Europe together, drinking, whoring,
fighting--Brian had been the best swordfighter MacLeod had ever seen. Wild
times, but good times. And now he was gone, unable to defend himself
against a coward with a gun.

"I'm sorry, Mac."

Dawson's voice brought him back to the present. Mac opened his eyes and
raised his head. "I want him." He spoke with utter determination. "Forget
the Watchers. You leave this one to *me*."

Joe nodded. "You got it."

MacLeod started the car up again, revved the engine, and peeled away from
the curb.

                                   * * *

Methos scribbled down a few lines in his notebook, then flipped the page of
the Chronicle he was studying. The book dated from the late 1700s, and had
been written by an Italian Watcher who claimed to have overheard his own
immortal talking about Methos being a real person and not a myth. *Well,
yes, I am real*, Methos thought. Of course, here at Watcher HQ, he was Adam
Pierson, researcher. A good cover, and one he had used successfully for
nearly ten years. Soon, though, he would need to move on, perhaps in
another year or two. By then someone would surely notice that Adam, that
dedicated graduate student, had not yet finished his dissertation, and more
surprisingly, he had apparently not aged any while working on it.

He sighed. This life was very much to his liking. He loved history; he
could be quite content to spend all his waking hours studying ancient tomes
and writing in his private journal. He had been putting down his own
personal history for nearly as long as writing had existed; keeping the
past alive was important to him. As was making sure that people got the
facts right. But all good things came to an end--he had learned that lesson
millennia ago. Adam Pierson would need to disappear, and he would yet again
invent a new persona somewhere else. Permanence could never be woven into
the fabric of his most peculiar life.

He finished up his notes and closed the Chronicle. As he rose from his seat
at the long wooden table where other researchers also pored over their
books, ready to return his book to the stacks, Methos abruptly froze.
Something he had never expected to feel in this sanctuary had hit him--the
presence of another immortal.

Methos rapidly scanned the room. The research section of HQ covered a good
10,000 square feet, most of it book stacks, with a fairly large area for
tables and desks. There were two doors at front and back leading to other
parts of the massive HQ building. He stood close to the back door, a
fortunate choice. For in the other doorway at the far end of the room were
two strangers, and one of them was busy scanning as well.

Their eyes locked. They both knew what the other was in that moment, a
frisson of unique energy flashing between them in a split-second. The other
immortal nodded to his companion and pointed.

Methos stuffed his notebook into his backpack in one swift move, and bolted
through the back door. Whatever they wanted, he wasn't about to stick
around to find out. The Watchers would *not* be pleased to find an immortal
in their midst. He dashed along a corridor to the stairwell and took the
steps two at a time down to the ground level. Not once did he pause to
glance behind him as he tore through the hallways towards the main
entrance, making a few forays through other rooms in the labyrinthine
building in an attempt to throw his pursuers off track. Only when he
reached the main reception desk did he stop, panting. People were staring
at him, but the two men were not behind him. He must have given them the
slip somewhere along the line, yet he knew it wouldn't be long before they
found him here. He might have a minute, maybe a little more...or less.

"Are you all right?" The young red-haired woman behind the desk studied him
with concern.

"I'm fine. Look, can you do me a favor?" He tried to get control of his
breathing. "There were two strangers who came past here a short while
ago--one tall, wearing a hat, the other one gray-haired, using a cane. Who
were they?"

"Well, I'm not sure--"

"It's all right." He smiled one of his most charming smiles. "I'm Adam
Pierson, in Research. It's urgent--I need to find them."

She smiled back. "They were from the States, taking a tour of the building.
The one with the cane is Joe Dawson--he's well known over there. The other
one is brand new, his name is Ryan Lindsey. If you want to wait, they
should come out this way."

"Fine." He had no intention of staying a second longer than necessary.
"Look, um, can you check the database for me while I'm waiting?" She had a
terminal right there, and it was already on. "I need some information on
Joe Dawson's current immortal." He constantly scanned the entrance hall as
she tapped on the keyboard, ready to make a hasty exit. *Hurry*, he
silently urged the woman.

"Here it is. Duncan MacLeod."

He leaned over the counter to tilt the screen towards him. "Thanks." His
eyes darted across the screen, taking in the most pertinent
information--current address being top of the list. Then he heard a
commotion, and saw the immortal hurtling through the entrance hall towards
him.

Methos sprinted for the main doors, tore them open, and ran at breakneck
speed down the sidewalk, and he did not stop this time until he had well
and truly lost his pursuer in the crowded streets of Paris.

                                   * * *

He had time--very little, no doubt, but enough--to go to his apartment to
pick up the holdall he always had at the ready by the door. Inside were a
variety of IDs and passports, cash in a number of currencies, the keys to
safe deposit boxes and storage places where he kept his mementos stashed
around Europe, a few wigs and false mustaches, and a change of clothing.
That, and his sword, were all he really needed to survive until he could
get resettled. Methos took a precious moment to gaze around his home for
the past ten years. The plain, functional furniture would not be missed.
The pieces of art and the artifacts he had collected were pleasant to look
at, but he had plenty of others stored away. The books were replaceable.
His journal was kept safely locked up in one of his storage sites, taken
out only at occasional intervals for additions. There was nothing here to
stay attached to; he had carefully planned it that way.

Still, in ten years, he had grown comfortable in this place; everything
familiar, everything unchanging. Now that was lost and he didn't even know
why. This Joe Dawson had brought his immortal into HQ--for he was fairly
certain it had to be Duncan MacLeod who had spied him out. His scan of
MacLeod's record stated clearly that he and Dawson had become friends,
something that wasn't supposed to happen, but sometimes did. Dawson must
have known, or at least suspected, that there was an immortal hiding within
the Watcher system, and brought MacLeod in to find him. But how had he
known?

Methos had never done anything that he could think of to give himself away.
He had quietly pretended to be searching for evidence of the "mythical"
Methos, had never stood out in any way, had always striven to be just
another faceless researcher. He had used the database from time to time to
check on the whereabouts of immortals who still held grudges against him
from centuries past, but he had not once needed to act on that knowledge.
No one knew who he really was, not the Watchers, and certainly not most
immortals--he could count the ones who might still recognize him as Methos
on the fingers of one hand. He kept out of the way, and out of the Game,
and did not fight; it had been two hundred years since his last challenge.

Yet somehow someone had figured out that an immortal had wormed his way
inside the Watchers. It wouldn't take long for Dawson to find out his name
and his address. They would come here. But he would be gone--and knowing
that his enemies would be here gave him a certain advantage, for that meant
there was one place they *wouldn't* be right now, a place Methos wanted to
see.

He transferred his notebook from the backpack to the holdall, shouldered
it, and left, heading as quickly as possible to the riverfront and the
location he had read on the computer screen for Duncan MacLeod's barge.

                                   * * *

"He's gone," MacLeod said after a swift perusal of the studio apartment.

Joe stood in the entry way, leaning heavily on his cane. "He might come
back."

"No." Mac had seen what he needed to see. "There's no sword in here. He
doesn't need anything else; he's not coming back."

"So now what? Any bright ideas?"

MacLeod leaned against a bookcase, arms crossed, concentrating. Events had
happened so fast and furiously that he hadn't had time to ponder them
fully. He did so now. After a few minutes, he straightened. "Call HQ and
ask for the receptionist with the red hair. She was talking with this
Pierson, or whatever his real name is, right as we burst into the entrance
room."

"Right." Dawson made the call. He spoke for some time, his brow creasing
into a frown. Then he finished and put away the cell phone. "He asked her
who we were, and then asked who my immortal was. She let him look at your
record."

*Smart*. Once again, MacLeod had to admire the man's intellect. "Is my
address on that screen?"

"Yeah. We'd better hurry."

Mac was already heading out of the apartment. "What do you think Porsches
are built for, hm?"

                                   * * *

Methos took a taxi to the barge. Once inside, he set to ferreting out
anything he could about MacLeod and his motives. The database record had
given him only the basic facts--that MacLeod and his Watcher were friends,
that MacLeod was four hundred years old, had been raised in Scotland, that
he had this home and another in the States in a northwestern city called
Seacouver. What it hadn't told him was anything useful about his character,
or why he should be helping to hunt Methos down.

The more you knew about an enemy, the better. The contents of the barge,
however, were not informative. Antiques, books, a passion for opera and
fine wine--not enough to know what he was up against. After fifteen minutes
of fruitless ransacking, Methos gave up, unwilling to take any more time.
He needed to figure out where to go next, whether to continue trying to
elude these two men or to confront them instead. He felt little desire to
challenge this Duncan MacLeod; yet perhaps after two hundred years, it was
time to fight again. His skills were a bit rusty, but he did keep up sword
practice when he could. He didn't like to fight, and he didn't like to
kill. But if he wanted to keep surviving, he would have to make sure he
still knew *how*.

And that meant living, breathing opponents. Methos knew he had been
courting danger by coming here; perhaps subconsciously he had done so in
order to face another immortal in combat, just to get some practice in.
Well, it wasn't as if he had started this--MacLeod had started it. Running
away was his standard response to danger. This time he had hesitated. Could
he take MacLeod? Should he try? If only he'd been able to find out more
about him here, such as how skilled he was with a sword--there were a few
books on the art of swordfighting on MacLeod's shelves, but reading about
it and doing it were two different things.

*Get it over with*, part of him spoke; while *keep running* whispered
against it. Which to choose.... If he ran, MacLeod might keep coming after,
and he didn't want to run forever. Hiding out from the world got tedious
over time. If he fought, he might lose. But challenges could happen
anytime, anywhere-- around the next corner--he had been very lucky to avoid
them for so long. And the longer he avoided the fight, the more precarious
his survival became simply from lack of practice. And the duller his life
became as well. There was truly no other way to test himself besides
risking that life in a challenge.

He dearly wished, though, that he knew why Duncan MacLeod pursued him. Why
not simply tell Watcher HQ the truth about "Adam Pierson" and let them
handle things? It made no sense. And he always wanted to know the reason
behind events.

Methos did know one thing--he wouldn't confront MacLeod inside the barge.
Open space would be better. He left the boat and strolled along the river's
edge, scouting the area. Up ahead he saw an overpass, part of a nearby
bridge. That would be a private place to fight, away from any prying eyes.
He walked towards it, and as he reached the opening, he felt the
unmistakable presence behind him, and turned to see a black Porsche pull up
alongside the barge. Methos paused, standing there under the arch,
silhouetted against its dark interior.

MacLeod leapt out of the car, drawing out a sword as he scanned the area.
He spotted Methos and strode forward.

*Run* cried a voice in Methos' head. *Stand and fight* shouted back the
other.

He shook his head as if to clear if of unwanted intruders. "Too late," he
muttered under his breath, dropping the holdall. As he backed slowly into
the privacy of the overpass, he took his sword from inside his coat. And
then he waited.

                                   * * *

Mac shrugged off his coat as he moved towards the overpass. The bastard
wouldn't get away this time. Nor would he be able to pull anything
underhanded; Mac was wise to that. This would be a fair challenge, and a
fair fight. He steeled himself for it; the anger that had flared up at the
news of Brian's execution had been pushed aside, and now he centered
himself--coolly, calmly--a warrior to the core.

He swerved to his left as he entered the darkened cavern of the overpass,
keeping close to the high, curved wall. He needn't have been so cautious.
His quarry stood openly in the center, sword raised. Mac moved closer in.
"Adam Pierson" looked young- -early thirties. How old might he really be?
That was a problem when facing unknown immortals; you had no idea how many
centuries of practice they had in fighting. This one, however, did not look
that dangerous. Slim, a little shorter than MacLeod, and a bit uncertain in
his stance. He probably hunted with his rule- breaking tactics because he
couldn't win any other way.

Mac confidently stepped within a few feet of his opponent, sword out. "I'm
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said.

"And I'm ready," his opponent replied, and he lunged at Mac.

MacLeod beat off the attack, which came more strongly than he had
anticipated. Once he got the measure of the man, he went on the offensive.
Pierson parried effectively at first, not as quick as Mac, but accurate.
They danced around each other, jockeying for position, then thrust into
bursts of fighting, blade striking blade with fierce determination. MacLeod
continued to assess the man's style, and to appreciate his skill. Good, but
not good enough. All Mac would really have to do would be to double his
efforts, and he would win the day.

Soon after, they met in a close pressing of swords against each other's
throats, only their other hands holding the deadly steel at bay. Their eyes
met, and Mac was startled to see confusion in Pierson's gaze. Their faces
mere inches apart in the clinch, Pierson rasped out a fractured, "Why
*me*?"

MacLeod shoved him hard, breaking the clinch. As Pierson stumbled
backwards, reaching for the stone wall for support, Mac paced around him in
a small semi-circle, keeping him at bay. "You know why! Six dead immortals
at your hand, and not one in a fair fight!"

Pierson shook his head. "I don't know what you mean!"

Mac could see his dear friend Brian, shot down like a dog. Killing each
other was what they did, but not like that. "It wasn't part of the Game,"
he said coldly, "it was murder." He leaped in for the kill. Pierson struck
back the blows, each counterstrike less powerful than the last. He tried to
move away from the wall, but Mac expertly hemmed him in with his katana. It
would all be over soon.

"Listen to me!" Pierson's breaths were ragged now, sweat dripping down his
face. "I haven't hunted in centuries--I haven't killed anyone in two
hundred years--" He frantically parried MacLeod's thrusts.

Mac saw desperation in his eyes, and something else--as he made his killing
lunge, striking deep into Pierson's chest, close enough to see his
expression more clearly, he recognized what it was. Bewilderment. Complete
and utter bewilderment.

MacLeod had speared the man on his blade like a slab of beef, clean through
to the stones behind him. Pierson's sword clanked uselessly to the ground.
Mac put one hand on Pierson's shoulder, pressing him hard against the wall
for leverage as he yanked the katana out of his body. Blood spurted from
the gaping wound, more blood spurted from Pierson's mouth as he slid down
the wall. MacLeod stood over him, ready to strike the final, killing blow
to his neck. Yet he could not get that expression out of his mind.

And then he heard a rattling, gasping voice. He lowered his sword and knelt
beside the dying man, and listened.

"...it...wasn't...me..." Pierson choked then on his own blood, his eyes
closed, and his body slumped into lifelessness.

MacLeod stared at the bloody katana in his hands, then back at his victim.
Had he and Joe been wrong? But they had such clear clues, had followed such
a straight path--an immortal had infiltrated the Watchers here, had killed
his fellow immortals unjustly--and here they had found an immortal inside
Watcher HQ. How could it be anyone else? He raised his sword once more....

------------------------------------------------------------------------
..to be continued.

Please send email to the author: alexa@aa.net