The Parallel World Series: Part Two

                               The Revelation

                                by Alexandra

(...Continued from Part One)

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, and
then stopped again. He couldn't be certain. Something was not right. If the
puzzlement Pierson had shown at Mac's accusations had not been genuine,
then the man had to be a consummate actor. Which was entirely possible. But
he could not be sure.

Mac stood and sheathed his sword. He would just have to find out.

He picked up Pierson and slung him over his shoulder. As he carried him
towards the barge, he met up with Joe, who had been waiting by the car.

"What on earth are you doing, MacLeod?"

"Taking on a houseguest, what does it look like?" Mac paused on the barge
ramp. "Listen, go find a nice hotel room and call me later. I've got some
questions to ask our young friend here." He frowned. "Or maybe not so
young. I'm not sure we got the right culprit."

"Oh, come on, Mac!" Joe looked at him with disbelief. "It all fits!"

"Does it?" Mac took a steadying breath; his load was getting awfully heavy.
"Look, I was upset over Brian's death, and maybe I wasn't looking at this
logically. We found *one* immortal inside the Watchers, but did we find the
killer? There *could* be other explanations, Joe. You should know me well
enough to know that I won't take someone's head without just cause."

Joe started to say something, then stopped. He gave MacLeod an exasperated
look. "All right, so what are you going to do?"

"Question the hell out of him first." Mac started up the ramp. "*After* I
tie him down very thoroughly. I'll see you later."

He carried his burden inside the barge.

                                   * * *

Methos ached.

This was a good thing; it meant he still lived. He slowly opened his eyes,
and recognized the interior of MacLeod's barge. Not so good.

He sat tied to a heavy wooden chair--arms, legs, chest--all bound round
with miles of thick cord, expertly knotted. Dried blood covered his
sweater, and he could feel stiff, itchy patches of it along his chin and
throat as well. Quite the dramatic death he'd undergone. Very painful, too.

*I'm far too out of practice*, he thought. *This little lesson didn't kill
me, but the next one could.* He didn't wish to get back in the Game. But he
would, at the very least, need to find a way to hone his rusty skills. If,
of course, Duncan MacLeod decided to let him keep living.

His captor was on the phone. Methos tried to listen for anything useful. He
heard only "meet up later" and "let you know", and then MacLeod rang off,
and walked over to stand in front of the chair. "Feeling better?" he asked
cheerfully. He pulled up an old chest and sat down across from Methos.

"I would if I weren't trussed up like a pig."

"Pity."

The overpass had been fairly dark; here in the light of the barge Methos
had an opportunity to study his adversary more closely. Tall,
broad-shouldered, well-built, with long dark hair tied back. He had warm
brown eyes and ruggedly handsome features--Methos liked what he saw very
much and rather wished they had not got off to such an unpromising start.
There were much better things he could think of to do with Duncan MacLeod
than fighting.

"I'm relieved that you didn't take my head," he said. "But would you mind
telling me what you wanted with it in the first place? You didn't chase me
all the way from Watcher HQ just for an ordinary challenge."

MacLeod kept his expression deadpan, not giving anything away. "An immortal
has been using the Watcher database to hunt here in Paris. He's left a
trail of dead immortals, all killed in unfair fights. And I suppose you
don't know anything about that?"

Another one? Methos shouldn't really have been surprised. If he had been
smart enough to think of infiltrating the Watchers, why not another of
their kind? "No, I don't. How far back does this trail go?"

"Three months," MacLeod answered after a small hesitation.

Methos felt relieved at that. "I've been with the Watchers for ten years.
And I haven't suddenly developed a taste for blood. It's someone else."

"If there were another immortal using the HQ building, surely you'd know
about it," MacLeod pointed out.

"Yes, but is that the only place your friend Dawson took you to?" Methos
shook his head in disbelief. "Didn't you stop to think that there might be
other locations for this fellow to hide out in?"

At last MacLeod's stony expression broke, and a puzzled frown creased his
face. "Dawson didn't mention any other places."

"Great. So I nearly lose my head because your friend doesn't keep up with
the European Watcher news. When did he last come over here, anyway?"

MacLeod shrugged. "I'm not sure--maybe two years ago. Why?"

Methos had trouble believing this fool had relied on information from
someone unfamiliar with the Paris branch, and had jumped to hasty
conclusions based on that information. And then acted on them even more
rashly. How had he managed to survive for four centuries? "Simple," he
replied. "Because a year ago, all of the Chronicles and files prior to 1700
were moved to a new archive building outside Rouen. We needed more room
here. There is a small research staff at the archives, and yes, they have
computers there, and yes, they're networked, so they get the same daily
updates as the rest of us."

The Scot had the decency to look chagrined. "Joe must not have known about
that."

"Obviously not." He felt highly irritated by this disregard for getting the
facts right. "You looked in the wrong place for your killer. So thanks to
your haste, I've lost the best hiding place I ever had." No need to mention
that he'd been planning to move on in a year or so. Much more entertaining
to instill a little guilt first. MacLeod deserved it. "I really liked it
there, you know. I loved the work I was doing. But now I imagine your
friend Dawson is busy telling them what I really am, and I really doubt
they'll be throwing me a retirement party."

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said.

"Good." Methos squirmed against the ropes. "Sorry enough to untie me?"

MacLeod pursed his lips. "You could be a very good actor, for all I know."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Do I look like an actor? Listen, if you're going
to kill me, just get it over with, okay? If not, then what *do* you want
from me?"

"I'm not sure yet." MacLeod stood. "But I'll let you know." He reached for
his jacket. "Right now, though, I'm afraid I need to go out."

To meet Dawson, no doubt. "And you're going to leave me like this?" The
cord bit into his wrists, and he could barely breathe, let alone move.

For the first time since their encounter, MacLeod smiled. "Nah. Maybe I
should pop an apple into your mouth before I go."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. Nice to know you have a sense of
humor."

MacLeod halted on the steps to the doorway. "Yes, and if you want to see
more of my good humor and less of my sword, you'll behave yourself while
I'm gone." With that, he left the barge.

*Behave, my arse.*

With that trenchant thought in mind, Methos immediately set to scanning the
barge for something nice and hard and sharp.

                                   * * *

"The archives?" Dawson scratched his beard. "No, haven't heard about that.
But it would be easy to doublecheck his story." He got on his hotel room
phone.

MacLeod paced the small room while Joe talked to Watcher HQ. He didn't want
to stay here very long; perhaps it would have been wiser to simply phone
Joe, and not leave Pierson out of his sight. He had taken the precaution of
putting all the kitchen knives up out of reach, yet he knew he probably had
no more than thirty minutes at the outside before Pierson found a way to
get loose. Risky. But there was something he wanted to give Joe in person,
the sooner, the better.

Dawson hung up. "Yes, it's true--they did open an archive building near
Rouen last year." He checked his watch. "Getting a bit late today. We can
drive out first thing tomorrow."

"Sounds good. If Pierson isn't lying, then maybe we'll find our real
immortal hiding out as a researcher there."

"What did you think when you questioned him?"

Mac pondered this a while. Pierson had seemed genuinely upset at their rush
to judge him guilty, and irked at being thought a murderer. His manner held
a certain charm, and his looks were quite attractive...he mentally shook
himself at that thought. Just because someone was appealing did not mean
they were also innocent. "I'm not sure. He could be telling the truth, or
he could be extremely clever. But then, why did he face me for the
challenge if he were guilty? All the signs point to a coward committing
these killings, someone who would run, and keep running if found out. Yet
he stood to fight me. Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," Joe replied. "Maybe he just wanted to try to keep you from
talking. If he'd won, who's to say he wouldn't have come for me next? And
then gone right back inside the Watchers to keep on killing? This immortal
might be perfectly capable of fighting, but just prefers the easy way. He
could be willing to fight to protect his secret."

MacLeod nodded. "Maybe. Have you told HQ about Pierson yet?"

"No, I haven't. I thought I'd call Jacques tonight and let him know."

"Can you hold off for a while?" Mac didn't like the way Pierson had accused
him of ruining his life with the Watchers, and if he *were* innocent, there
was no reason to betray his secret to them. In fact, in many circumstances,
it would be very useful to have a fellow immortal on the inside, especially
here in France, where Dawson normally wasn't around to help him find out
information.

"Yeah, I can hold off." Dawson sank into a chair. "Ah, that feels good.
Been a long day."

"You want to have dinner?" It was getting on to seven.

Joe shook his head. "You go on. I'm going to call room service."

"Fine." Mac preferred to get back to the barge anyway. "Look, I've got one
more favor to ask. The Watchers have forensics experts to hand, haven't
they?"

"We've got people we can use for that, if the need arises. What have you
got in mind?"

"This." MacLeod reached inside his jacket and pulled out Pierson's sword.
"I want you to get your experts to check for fingerprints. Then see if you
can talk them into dusting the homes of the six victims and see if they
come up with a match."

"Okay. But this guy's smart enough to use gloves."

"More than likely." Mac set the sword atop a dresser. "Things happen
sometimes, though. Mistakes get made. So just in case, I'd appreciate the
effort."

"You got it."

"Thanks." MacLeod hoped there would be no match, though he wasn't entirely
sure why he hoped this. Perhaps something about Pierson had got to him,
some intuition about his character which made Mac want him to be innocent.
Didn't have anything to do with his physical charms...did it?

"Mac?" Dawson's voice startled him. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said brusquely. "Look, I'll call you in the morning."

"Not too early," Joe replied.

MacLeod grinned. "That's what you get for flying six thousand miles to
solve other people's problems, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." Dawson waved him out, and Mac left the hotel room smiling to
himself. The Watchers were Joe's life, and he was dedicated to keeping
things running smoothly, especially after the Horton debacle. That often
meant sticking his nose in whenever any sign of trouble arose, no matter
what it was, who was involved, or where it took him. Mac admired his
friend's tenacity in solving problems, and appreciated his willingness to
do more than just "watch" when needed.

He went down to his car and headed back to the barge, hoping they could
solve this latest problem without too much trouble. Joe wasn't a young man,
and not exactly quick on his feet; during the chase through HQ, Mac had
left him far behind. And he was mortal. MacLeod didn't want to lose him to
a bullet--or to a sword. It would be best if he stuck to a non-active role
in this investigation. On the other hand, Mac wasn't sure he could take
this immortal on his own if the bastard refused to play fair. And he wanted
to take him, in the worst way. For Brian, and for the others. And for those
who had loved them.

If only Richie or Amanda were in town--they would gladly help. Another
immortal, someone he could trust, might be invaluable. At the very least,
with two of them confronting this killer, there was a good chance of
ensuring a fair challenge and a fair fight.

                                   * * *

When he walked inside the barge, MacLeod's nostrils were hit by a wave of
garlic.

He paused on the landing. The chair Pierson had been tied to stood empty,
and the holdall Pierson had dropped inside the overpass sat opened on top
of it. MacLeod drew his sword and walked down the few steps to the
interior. Garlic, onions, and ginger...he blinked as he turned the corner,
and saw Pierson standing in his kitchen stirring something in a saute pan.

Mac lowered his sword, but did not put it away. Keeping his distance, he
stood in the lounge area and stared at the dining table, which had been
laid with tablecloth, plates, silverware, wine glasses, napkins, and a lit
candle. His stereo was on, playing Beethoven's Third. If he hadn't known
better, MacLeod would have sworn he was the object of an attempt at
seduction. Fortunately, he knew better. Still, this latest development was
decidedly curious. Pierson had gotten loose, and had not taken off. Why?

Pierson obviously knew he was there, yet had not turned round from the
stove. He had put on a clean pullover sweater, apparently a spare from the
holdall. And his hair looked freshly washed. MacLeod cleared his throat.
"Making yourself at home, are you?"

"Nice place," Pierson replied, still focused on the saute pan. "All the
modern comforts."

"You used my shower," Mac accused.

Pierson turned round, a soft smile on his face. "Your fault, you know.
Shouldn't get blood on your houseguests."

The smile and the humor made MacLeod relax. He resheathed his katana, then
put it and his jacket on the chest by the kitchen entry. He hadn't gotten
to the point of trusting Pierson by any means, yet there was an undeniable
openness in him that Mac did not believe could be faked. Yes, relaxing
around him carried an element of risk. But when had his life ever been
simple?

He walked into the kitchen area and sniffed. "What are you planning to put
in that sauce?" Then he spied the prawns he had purchased early that
morning sitting on the counter. "Maybe I was saving those for a special
occasion."

"Best to eat them while they're fresh." Pierson plopped a large handful of
them into the pan, where they immediately started to sizzle in the
garlic-ginger sauce. "Be ready in a few minutes. Make yourself useful and
open a bottle of wine."

MacLeod started to turn towards the wine rack when he abruptly realized
he'd just been given orders in his own home. He planted his hands on his
hips. "Who do you think you are?"

Pierson shrugged. "I'm just a guy." He kept stirring the prawns.

"Right." Mac stomped off to the wine rack and picked out a fairly decent
merlot. He set about uncorking it. "And you just happened to stay here
instead of running off to points unknown because you were hungry?"

"Not entirely." Pierson turned the prawns. "I stayed because you could use
some help in finding this infiltrator, and I'd like to clear myself of any
suspicion." He searched round the cupboards, pulling down a serving plate.
"There's a salad in the fridge and some bread warming in the oven."

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. "Please don't tell me you whipped up a chocolate
mousse for dessert as well." He retrieved the salad and the bread and took
them to the dining table.

"Didn't have time. Too busy reading." Pierson piled the prawns on the plate
and brought it over. "You know, your Chronicle is absolutely fascinating."

They were standing close together by the table, close enough for Mac to
grab him by the front of his sweater. "*What*?"

Pierson grinned. "Come on, MacLeod--you didn't honestly think I'd stick
around without knowing a whole lot more about you first, did you?"

Mac glowered at him, keeping a firm grip on the sweater. "*How*?"

"Like I said, this is a nice place. Very modern." He jerked his head
towards the far end of the barge, where Mac kept his mini-office, with
desk, computer, and fax machine.

A pile of papers sat there which had not been on the desk that morning. "My
Chronicle?" Mac asked in astonishment.

Pierson nodded. "I phoned HQ. Thanks, by the way, for not blowing my cover
there yet. They didn't mind faxing over your records at all." He looked
down at Mac's fist. "Would you mind letting go of my sweater, or were you
planning to rip it off?"

MacLeod instantly let go, pushing him back a little. Pierson had a
decidedly teasing twinkle in his eyes, as if he wouldn't have minded having
his sweater ripped off, or any other article of clothing. And Mac was not
about to let this man get to him in *that* way. Not, at least, until he
knew a whole lot more about him. He felt at a distinct disadvantage. The
bastard knew Mac's entire history now, and he knew nothing about Pierson
except that he was extremely wily. "So you read all about me."

"Yup." Pierson sat down at the table. "Where's that wine?"

*Ordered about in my own home again.* MacLeod sighed and went back into the
kitchen to get the wine bottle. He sat down at the table and poured it out.
"Right. Fair is fair." Time to find out more about his peculiar dinner
guest. "Let's start with your real name."

"Oh, you can keep calling me Adam."

He might have expected evasion. MacLeod helped himself to salad, bread, and
prawns. "And how old are you?"

Pierson hesitated. "Mm, around five hundred or so." He dug into his meal.

An out-and-out lie, of that MacLeod felt certain. "So why do you use a
broadsword dating from the twelfth century?"

"Aha." Pierson cast him an admiring look. "Your record did say that you
knew your weapons. By the way, what did you do with it?"

"Put it in a nice, safe place." The prawns were delicious. Mac was
impressed.

"Right. Please tell me you gave it to the Watcher forensics people and not
the police. I can get it back from HQ a lot easier."

*Smart*, thought MacLeod. "It never hurts to check."

"They won't find anything."

"Why not?" Mac asked. "Because you're innocent, or because you're extremely
careful?"

Pierson smiled. "Still don't trust me, then. Well, that's understandable."

"Maybe I would if you told me who you are and what game you're playing."

"Maybe later," Pierson replied.

"No, *now*." MacLeod wasn't about to let anyone as smart and sly as this
man was continue to worm his way inside his defensives without a little
give to go with the take. His basic inclination was to believe that most
people were good, and to give them the benefit of the doubt until proven
otherwise. But this "Adam Pierson" was different. He had a charming, self-
effacing manner on the surface, and beneath it he had an underhanded,
devious talent for subterfuge. "Well?"

He got a long, drawn-out sigh in response. Then Pierson took a large drink
of the wine, and twirled the glass in his hand, gazing at it; the movement
made the candlelight flicker. He set the glass down. "Do you know why I
faced you back there?"

MacLeod considered the challenge at the overpass, and the fight. If Pierson
had told the truth about not having killed anyone in two centuries, then
standing to face him had been an incredibly dangerous act. "No, I don't."

"Neither do I." Pierson pushed his empty plate aside and rested his arms on
the table top. He looked steadily at MacLeod over the candle flame. "My
life goes in cycles. I spend long, long periods of time hiding out from the
Game, holed up in dusty libraries, or travelling in out-of-the-way
backwaters, and sometimes seeking haven in monasteries or on other holy
ground." His tone had taken on a quite serious edge. "Eventually, after a
century or two of this, I decide that I've lost touch with life--that part
of life which makes one want to shout, or cry, or sing, the part that stabs
you through the heart with pain or anger or fear, and lifts you into the
heavens with joy or love. The part that brings risk and chance, that
produces that surge of adrenalin when you don't know what's going to happen
in the next day, or hour, or minute. Do you know what I mean?"

A change had settled over them both, and MacLeod knew that he was finally
getting to the truth of Adam Pierson. No more games. "Yes," he said softly.
"You're talking about passion." He knew it well.

"An artist I once knew told me that without great darkness, you couldn't
have great light. He was talking about his paintings, of course. In a way."
Pierson kept holding Mac's gaze, and the candle flame reflected in his
bright, warm eyes. "I like being comfortable, at times. Our kind need to
take rests from the world. But we also need to come back if we want to keep
living."

MacLeod felt himself being drawn into those eyes, into the light and the
flame. "And living life with passion means living with uncertainty. And
taking chances."

"I thought about running," Pierson said. "I wanted to stay safe. But I also
thought about fighting, win or lose, just to feel something strongly again.
It's been a long time since that happened."

"And standing to face me won out over staying safe?" Sheer chance. He
simply hadn't been able to make up his mind, caught in that nebulous state
between wanting stability and needing change. Only in the final seconds, as
MacLeod strode towards him with sword at the ready, had Pierson opted to go
for the risk. "Tell me something--if you had beaten me, would you have
taken my head?"

Pierson broke the steady gaze at last, leaning back in this chair,
contemplative. "Probably," he said. "But I'm glad it didn't come to that."

Mac nodded. *So am I*. He had finished his dinner; he shoved back his
chair. "What next, then? You said you wanted to help clear up this
mystery--does that mean you want to come with me to Rouen?"

"Yes. Since I'm still a bonafide member of the Watchers, I can get us
inside the archives. You won't need to drag Dawson along that way--he'll be
much safer staying here."

Precisely what MacLeod had wanted--another immortal to provide backup in
catching the killer, while Joe kept out of harm's way. "Sounds good. Just
one thing--if we find him, he's mine alone to challenge. He killed a good
friend of mine."

"Ah. That explains a lot. You were awfully fierce in that fight." Pierson
absently touched his chest where MacLeod had speared him.

"Sorry." Mac rose and began clearing off the plates.

Pierson got up and walked over to the couch, where he sat down in an
ungainly sprawl. "I cooked." He waved a regal hand in Mac's direction. "You
can wash up."

"Oh, great." Amazing how this man just took over his home, settling in as
if it were his own.

"Hey, if you don't like it, you can always send me packing."

"Not on your life." MacLeod tossed everything into the sink and filled it
with steaming hot water. "You're staying where I can keep an eye on you."

"And here I thought we had bonded over dinner."

"Uh-huh. Nice try. But we're not doing anything of the sort until you tell
me your real name." This was important to Mac. It was a matter of trust.
Pierson was older than five hundred years, of that he was certain. How much
older, that was the question. And he needed to know the answer, wanted to
know how much experience and knowledge this man might have, how many
quickenings he might have taken, needed to understand who he was truly
dealing with. And, most critical of all, he needed to know who he might be
offering his friendship to.

"Is it really that important to you?" came Pierson's quiet reply.

MacLeod turned from the sink, his expression determined. "Yes," he said.
"It is."

The searching look Pierson gave him startled Mac in its intensity. The
depth of that gaze was fathomless; MacLeod felt as if he were being
weighed, numbered, and divided down to the core of his being, with every
act he had ever committed viewed and assessed, every thought he had ever
conceived turned over, every emotion he had ever let fly free considered in
every detail. His entire life was placed on a scale, the balance of good
and bad shifting back and forth until the final reading stood clear.
Shocked by the profound insight into his own soul that Pierson's gaze
mirrored back to him, MacLeod took a few trembling steps forward. "What
*are* you?"

Pierson smiled softly, and in that moment, the spell broke, and MacLeod no
longer felt overwhelmed by that astounding examination. He stood there,
waiting, knowing that something extraordinary was about to be revealed,
anticipation coursing wildly through him.

"I'm a myth," Pierson replied. "And my name is Methos."

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

Send email to the author: alexa@aa.net