The Parallel World Series: Part Three

                                 The Guilty

                                by Alexandra

(...Continued from Part Two)

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."

                                   * * *

"You're kidding me," Joe Dawson said. "He *told* you that?"

"Yeah." Mac had phoned him with the news bright and early the next morning,
while Pierson lay on the couch fast asleep. At least, Mac dearly hoped the
reverberating snores emanating from beneath the blankets indicated deep
slumber.

"And you believed him?"

Mac thought over the events of last night. After the initial revelation,
Pierson--no, he would have to start thinking of him as Methos now--had gone
quiet, claiming to be too tired from the earlier fight to answer a lot of
questions. But he did not need to ask a lot of questions--Mac had read the
truth in Methos' face, and had seen it in his eyes. "Yes, I do."

"*Man*."

There was a long silence, and Mac could practically hear Joe's mental gears
turning. "I don't think he'd appreciate my telling you this, so if we can
keep it between ourselves--"

"But Mac, if this is for real, it would be the biggest addition to the
Chronicles ever--the guy is *five thousand* years old!"

"Yes, I know." He still felt amazed that anyone could survive so long.
Methos was living history, nearly as old as civilization itself. No wonder
Joe sounded disappointed. "But he's stayed alive that long by keeping out
of the limelight, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that. I
want to him to stay alive." And to think he had come so close to taking
Methos' head. MacLeod didn't even want to begin to imagine what Methos'
quickening would have felt like. "Besides, he would be useful as Adam
Pierson, mild-mannered Watcher."

"Useful to you, maybe."

"Joe, please. I trusted you enough to tell you who he is--now I'm asking
you, as a friend, not to tell anyone else. Will you do that?"

He heard a loud sigh. "You know I will."

"Thanks."

"Hope you know what you're doing. And what about Rouen?"

"'Adam' and I will go to the archives. Alone."

"Somehow I knew that was coming."

MacLeod smiled at the note of disgruntled acceptance in Joe's tone. "I'll
check in as soon as I find anything there."

"Be careful," Joe said.

"I always try," Mac replied. He rang off.

The snoring abruptly subsided, and the rumpled blankets stirred. A tousled
head popped out from beneath, followed by two arms stretching and rubbing
sleep from tired-looking eyes. Methos let out a huge yawn, blinked, and
focused on MacLeod. "Morning."

"Morning. Did the five-thousand-year-old man get a good night's sleep?"

Methos rolled his eyes and moaned. "No, actually, I had dreams that a
four-hundred-year-old Scot relentlessly teased me all night long."

Mac grinned. "I try."

"Right."

Methos threw back the blankets and stood, wearing nothing but a pair of
boxers. MacLeod couldn't help but take in an appreciative assessment of his
lithe, attractive body. "Are you planning to avail yourself of my shower
again?"

"Yup." Methos padded off towards the bath. He paused to glance back. "And
you can avail yourself of the kitchen. It's your turn to cook." With that,
he continued on his way.

*What have I let myself in for*, Mac wondered. He strolled into the
kitchen.

*Just possibly*, he answered himself as set about fixing breakfast, *the
most intriguing relationship of my long and eventful life.*

                                   * * *

Warm spring sunlight slanted across the roadway as they drove towards
Rouen. Methos hunched into the passenger seat, uncomfortable in the small
confines of the Porsche. He preferred to stretch out. Fortunately, it
wasn't that long a drive, and MacLeod seemed to like keeping a fast speed.

*So here I am*, Methos thought as he glanced at the man beside him,
*hanging out with a regular Boy Scout.* How had that happened?

MacLeod's Chronicle had been enlightening. Son of a chieftain, raised to
protect the clan, trained to serve up justice, ready to fight for it, ready
to die for it. And after he *had* died for it, he'd been banished from the
chieftain's sight for having the unluckiness to return from the dead. It
must have been hard enough to deal with the pain of isolation without
having to handle the anguish of not knowing why he had been cursed.

At least he had eventually found a teacher, and learned what he was and how
to live. And survive. Duncan MacLeod had then gone on to wander the world,
seeking a new home, and new people to protect. He had found them over and
over again, and had done all he could and more for them, and had still lost
them again and again. But then, how else could it be for their kind?

Methos had trouble remembering what he had been like at four hundred. There
hadn't been so much world to wander then, not if he wanted to stay within
the confines of civilization, such as it was. And he did. Sumerian and
Akkadian city-states, the kingdoms of Egypt and Crete--not a lot of new
places to go or new things to see after the first few hundred years. Mostly
he spent his time trying to avoid wars, and striving not to get captured
and sold into slavery. Though that had happened, too, more times than he
cared to remember.

He had tried to make homes for himself, here and there, now and then.
Knossos had been a pleasant place, full of music and art, and a content
people who preferred wine-making to fighting wars. That had ended when the
earthquake turned the city into rubble. *Civilizations rise and fall...* He
told himself that often enough. So, too, did his life, his home, his
friends and lovers fall into the rubble and dust of time, countless times,
until he lost the desire to make yet another vain attempt at stability. Why
try, when the outcome had already been written?

At a mere four hundred years old, Duncan MacLeod had not given up his
passion for life. That didn't surprise Methos. What he did find intriguing,
though, was the fact that MacLeod had already lost so much, so many times;
he had suffered beyond endurance and had yet endured. That strength
impressed Methos, as did MacLeod's capability for experiencing life to the
fullest.

*Neat intellectual analysis*, he thought with amusement. *But that's not
the sole reason you allowed yourself to be drawn in.* No, he couldn't
honestly claim that he sat in this car only because MacLeod's character
traits were appealing. Emotionally, physically, he was drawn by another set
of factors entirely, such as that extremely athletic body--

"Hey," MacLeod said. "Did you suddenly take a vow of silence over there?"

Methos felt relieved at the interruption to his train of thought. If he had
gone very far with it, things might have become a tad embarrassing. "I was
admiring the view," he replied, staring steadfastly out the window and not
at MacLeod.

"So you're not a jaded traveler yet?"

"Well, admittedly, I've been down this particular road before. But you
never know when you might see something new and interesting."

"That's true. I'm glad to hear that after five thousand years, you can
still keep a fresh outlook."

Methos nodded. "On some things."

They rode in silence for a while, then MacLeod said, "So, tell me, have you
figured out the meaning of it all?"

"Sorry," Methos replied. "I hate to disappoint, but my autobiography would
never be titled 'Secrets of the Ages Revealed'."

MacLeod laughed softly. "What would you call it, then?"

"Oh, I don't know," Methos said. "How about, 'Memoirs of a Really Old
Guy'?"

"It would be remaindered in a week."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Methos relaxed a bit in the seat, managing to slouch a little. He felt very
comfortable here, talking with MacLeod, idly whiling away the time until
they reached Rouen. Although it seemed such a simple thing, it felt right,
somehow, like something he had been waiting for for a very long time.

*Along for the ride*, he thought. Wherever Duncan MacLeod might take me,
I'm going to stay along for the ride.

                                   * * *

Mac turned down the side road that Methos indicated, and drove another mile
onto a private estate. "Adam" got them through a gatehouse with his
credentials, then MacLeod pulled into a small parking lot next to the
archive building.

The place looked extremely stark--a three-story gray square block of a
building, with no decor to speak of besides the sturdy Ionic pillars of the
front porch. As they got out of the car, MacLeod said, "Not exactly
inviting, is it?"

Methos stretched his back. "It was built in the 1880s, as a sanatorium for
consumptives."

"You've been here before?" He had the distinct impression Methos had known
this building in its prior incarnation.

"Yes," was all the answer he got as Methos strolled towards the porch.

*Fine*, MacLeod thought, *be that way*. But sooner or later, he would find
out more about his companion. One way or another.

They entered the building and stopped to check in a second time at a
reception desk. Methos told the same story Joe had-- that he was giving
"Ryan Lindsey", a new Watcher from the States, a tour of the facilities,
and why, no, he didn't need a guide, he knew his way, thanks.

"Ground floor is sort of a museum," Methos told him as they walked through
the bleak gray corridors. "Objects of interest collected by Watchers
throughout the centuries. Swords, jewelry, clothing, all belonging to
immortals--you can imagine how they were 'collected'."

After their owners had lost their heads, Mac thought. "Bit morbid, isn't
it?"

"Just another part of history." Methos led him up a flight of stairs. "The
main book stacks are up here--this is where we're most likely to run across
any research staff."

The stacks were quiet, with an empty, abandoned air about them. They walked
up and down the rows, and into little side study rooms where tables and
desks stood. In one of these, MacLeod saw a computer. "Access to the
database?" he asked.

Methos stood close beside him in the doorway. "The system here is networked
to HQ in Paris. Any updates there will also show up here."

"Now if we can just find out who's using that information--" Even as he
spoke, a familiar sensation shot through MacLeod, the *buzz* of another
immortal. He and Methos both turned round and looked back down the nearest
row of books.

At the far end of the stacks stood a woman, staring at them in turn. Though
nearly three hundred and fifty years had passed since their last encounter,
MacLeod had no difficulty identifying her--she had a cruel beauty which
stood unmistakably in his memory.

*Kristin*. He strode forward.

She waited for him, tall and proud, with hatred flashing in her eyes. They
had not parted on good terms. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," she
spat. "Don't you know what this place is? What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to ask you the same question," he replied coldly. He had no doubt
he had found the real killer; she had stooped to murder before. "You've
wormed your way in here to hunt--and to execute our own kind."

She laughed. "Oh, dear Duncan, you haven't changed. Always standing up for
justice." Her eyes narrowed as she looked past Duncan. "Who's your friend?
Are you planning to take my head-- the two of you? Now, that wouldn't be
*fair*, would it?"

He stepped closer, fighting an urge to take her throat and throttle it.
"What you're doing is wrong, and you know it."

She shook her head. "No, what I'm doing is *surviving*. Any way that I
can."

MacLeod found it hard to believe that he had once loved this woman, that he
had allowed her into his heart. "I won't challenge you here," he said,
knowing that it would be insane to let the Watchers see them fight. "But I
will *not* let you go on killing this way. That's a promise."

He couldn't stand the sight of her a moment longer, and turned round to
walk away.

"Would the noble Duncan MacLeod kill a woman?" she hissed after him. "One
he once made love to? Has he no shame?"

Mac halted and looked back. Rage fought with regret within him; rage over
the senseless death of Brian Cullen and the others, and regret that he had
once held her dear. He had a strong sense of chivalry, and she had touched
its core; how could he cut down someone he had loved, no matter what they
were now? What you loved, you protected...but that was hundreds of years
ago. He did not love her today, and she did not deserve his protection.
Still, if it came to a fight, which he knew he would win, could he strike
the fatal blow?

She laughed. "No, of course not." Then she advanced on him, her expression
now deadly. "Stay away from me. You have no idea how much I hate you still.
And it would be worth any risk to me to watch you die. That's *my*
warning." She turned and stalked off.

Mac watched her, anger replaced by sorrow. After all this time, she
couldn't forgive him for leaving her. He simply did not understand it.

"Hey." Methos tugged his sleeve. "This isn't the time or place for
brooding. Come on."

He sighed and followed Methos out of the stacks. "I wasn't brooding."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Thinking," he replied as they headed down the stairs.

"How startling," Methos said. "And what grand conclusion did you reach?"

MacLeod waited until they were outside the building before responding.
Methos' sarcastic tone did not wear well with him. "Look, you can leave
this to me now, if you like." He unlocked the car and they both climbed in.
"We found her, you're in the clear, and you can go back to being Adam
Pierson. I'll take care of things from here." He gunned the motor.

"Well, that sounds good in theory," Methos said. "But forgive me if you
didn't look too keen on putting it into practice."

Gravel spewed from under tires as Mac sped down the drive. "All right, so
it would be easier if she weren't someone I knew, but I can still handle
things on my own. She's been warned. If she stops killing now, I'll let it
go. If she tries taking another immortal's head by breaking the rules, I
*will* stop her."

"How?" Methos asked calmly. "You don't know where she'll strike next.
Without my help, how will you find out who her next potential target will
be?"

"I'll ask Joe to keep an eye on the database updates for me," MacLeod
replied. "He can tell me when another inactive immortal is found, give me
the address, and I'll get there before her."

"Nice friend you have there. It could be weeks, even months before another
inactive is located. I gather he has nothing better to do with his time?"

MacLeod frowned. Why did Methos have to go around being so damn logical? "I
thought you just wanted to clear your name and that was it--why would you
want to keep helping?"

Methos shrugged. "Nothing better to do with my time."

As he turned onto the main road leading back to Paris, Mac had a feeling he
wasn't getting the whole truth. He began to wonder if that would always be
the case with this man. "Look," he said, unwilling to deal with any more
evasions, "if you want to keep hanging around me, for no other reason that
you'd like to be friends, all you have to do is say so." He cast Methos a
quick, questioning glance.

Methos stared straight ahead, steadily focused on the road. "Yes," he said
simply. "That will do for a start."

MacLeod swallowed. Then he, too, concentrated on driving. *For a start.* To
what? He knew the physical attraction lay beneath the surface of everything
they did and said to each other; he had felt its sexual undercurrent. It
excited him, while at the same time, it made him wary. Getting involved
with another immortal held special risks. He tried to shove these thoughts
to the back of his mind, and tried to think about Kristin instead. And
about what he might have to do to keep her from killing again.

As if reading his mind, Methos cleared his throat and said, "So, why don't
you tell me what she did to you? Hm?"

"It's a long story," Mac replied.

"Long enough to get us to Paris?"

"Just about. But I thought you'd read my Chronicle."

"Bare facts, MacLeod. I want the stuff that goes between the lines."

Mac hesitated. Why tell Methos even more details of his life, when he got
nothing about Methos' past in return? "How come when I asked you if you'd
been to the archives in the past, and you *know* I didn't mean recently,
all I got was 'yes', yet you expect me to spill my guts out about a sordid
love-gone-wrong memory?"

Methos sighed. "Your past with Kristin is far more pertinent to the problem
at hand."

"Yeah, well, remember that little exchange we had about you wanting to be a
friend? People don't become friends without knowing something about who
they are, and that comes from personal history, so stop stalling and tell
me about the archives." He realized he had raised his voice; he lowered it
to a normal level and added, "Please?"

"There isn't that much to tell," Methos replied. "I practiced medicine from
time to time over the centuries. Doctors were reluctant to work at places
like the sanatorium, for fear of catching the disease. No one knew about
tuberculosis germs then, or how to kill them. But I wasn't worried about
dying from consumption, so I treated patients there in 1890 and stayed
until the start of the First World War, when it was turned into an army
hospital. I had to leave then because people were starting to notice my
continued youthfulness."

MacLeod discovered he was gripping the steering wheel very tightly. He
tried to relax. Immortals could catch contagious diseases like anyone
else--they simply couldn't die from them. And they usually withstood the
symptoms better, and healed more quickly, than mortals. Still, in fourteen
years, Methos must have caught TB while working there, probably more than
once. Suffering through that, while watching the patients inevitably die
around him, must have been grueling. "Thanks," he said, feeling it was
inadequate. "I appreciate your telling me that."

Methos waved a weary hand. "Whatever. It's your turn."

The man's dismissal of his own tale was faintly exasperating, but MacLeod
accepted it. "Fine. I met Kristin when I was fairly young, a mere fifty or
so. I was a rough and ready Scot with uncouth manners, and she was an
English lady of style. She took me under her wing, taught me how to be a
gentleman--how to walk, how to talk, how to dress, how to comport myself in
any situation. I was grateful; it gave me entry into a whole other level of
society and experience. But eventually I discovered that Kristin wanted to
own me, body and soul--she thought that because she had 'made' me into a
new man, that she could control everything that I did. Nothing happened
without her approval; I had not a moment of freedom. At the point where I
was beginning to realize the prison I was in, another woman arrived on the
scene. A painter Kristin hired to do my portrait. Her name was Louise
Barton. We had many sittings together without Kristin around, and I found
Louise to be all that Kristin wasn't--gentle, kind, undemanding. We fell in
love. Kristin found out, and soon after, I found Louise dead, drowned in a
pond. While Kristin never confessed to the crime, I knew she had murdered
Louise, and I left her. This is the first time I've seen her since then."

"Why didn't you kill her?" Methos asked. "She's obviously not good with a
sword, or she wouldn't be hunting the way that she is."

MacLeod remembered the brief fight she and he had fought all those years
ago. "She's a better fighter than one might think. But yes, I thought I
wanted revenge, and I did fight her. But she begged for mercy. I had never
killed a woman, and certainly not a lover."

"How chivalrous of you," Methos said. "And what happens when she begs you
for mercy here and now? You *know* you can beat her. You know how it will
play out."

"I don't have the answer to that," Mac said honestly.

Methos shook his head. "So I thought. It's a good thing I'll be sticking
around the barge, then. Always smart to have a backup."

MacLeod cast him a quick look of puzzlement. "And why are you staying at my
barge? You could go back to Adam Pierson's apartment."

"I doubt it. Kristin saw me, and she knows what I am. How long do you think
it took for her to check with reception to find out who I was?"

"Damn." He hadn't thought of that. "She'll report you to the Watchers--you
shouldn't have come along!" He cursed silently; he should have brought Joe
instead.

"Calculated risk," Methos said. "Tell me, how intelligent is she?"

"Pretty smart," Mac replied.

"Then the odds are she'll keep my secret to herself. For one thing, the
Watchers might want to know *how* she knew what I was. And for another, if
she told them, they would assign me a Watcher of my own, and she wouldn't
want any witnesses when she came to kill me."

MacLeod raised an eyebrow. "We don't know she'll come after you."

"Why wouldn't she? She'll need to protect her identity within the Watchers.
You don't really believe she's going to give up such a good situation just
because you chastised her? No, she'll want to keep both of us quiet.
Permanently. She'll be able to find out where Adam Pierson lives easily
enough, so I'm not going back there. Not when I know she doesn't care about
the rules."

"The barge won't be much safer," MacLeod pointed out. "She'll be able to
find my address in the database, too."

Methos smiled. "Which is why we need to stay close together. Two against
one--much better odds."

It all made sense. MacLeod wondered, though, how long they could stay on
the barge in each other's company without getting up each other's noses to
the point where they either killed each other, or--

He bit his lower lip. *Or found another, more pleasant way to keep from
irritating each other.* Did he want that? Mac glanced over at his
companion. With his fine-boned features, warm eyes, and strong, lithe
figure, Methos was undeniably attractive. MacLeod had also noted a superb
control Methos had over his body, a control that could prove extremely
interesting in the bedroom. And there was the unique appeal of making love
to the world's oldest immortal--the sheer bounty of experience Methos
carried with him should make for an intense encounter.

But with that thought came the next question--just one encounter, or many?
Methos had said he wanted to be Mac's friend--*for a start*--and friendship
implied the long term. If they became lovers as well, would that also be
for the long term? And if not, would they remain friends afterwards?

*You're thinking too far ahead*, MacLeod decided. Might never happen. He
would wait and see, and try to stay focused on more pressing matters first.

Such as what he was going to do about Kristin.

                                   * * *

One week later, Joe stopped by the barge in the early evening to say his
farewell.

"Sorry, Mac," he said when he got inside. "The bar can't keep running by
itself. I wish I could stay longer."

"No, that's okay." MacLeod knew it might be weeks before the Kristin
problem was resolved. "It's been great to see you again." He clapped
Dawson's shoulder.

"Got a present for you." Joe handed Mac a long, narrow package, then
scanned the barge's interior. "Where's Pierson?"

"At the Watcher HQ building. The daily updates go into the database at
five; he checks them as soon as they're up to see if any new inactives have
been reported." He took the package, and from its shape and weight, guessed
what it contained. "His sword?"

"Yeah," Joe replied. "Back from the tests." He paused, then took a deep
breath. "They got a set of prints off it. They didn't match any prints in
the victims' homes."

"Good." Mac unwrapped the sword and set it down; Methos would be glad to
have it back. "That's okay, then."

Joe coughed and glanced at his feet. "Not quite."

A prickle of apprehension ran up MacLeod's spine. "What do you mean?"

"The Watchers have a man inside Interpol. He ran the prints through their
computers. He found a match with a set of unidentified prints taken from a
crime scene in England ten years ago."

The prickle turned into a full-fledged shiver. Mac stared down at the
sword. "What kind of crime?" he asked dully. He already knew the answer.

"A beheading," Joe replied, confirming his suspicions. "The victim was a
young college student at Christ Church, Oxford. He was found in his
bedroom. The murder was never solved. The police report said he had a
roommate who disappeared afterwards, never to be heard from again."

"I see." Mac heard Methos protesting in the overpass fight-- *I haven't
taken a head in two hundred years*--and he had believed him. Had taken him
into his home. Had offered him his friendship and protection.

"I'm sorry, Mac." Joe touched his arm. "Remember, he's five thousand years
old. He has to have learned every way in the book to get what he wants from
people. It's not your fault you trusted him."

Then MacLeod thought back over the conversations he and Methos had had, and
saw the bright concern in Methos' eyes, and the warmth, and heard the
heartfelt answers Methos had given him when Mac had demanded them. "There
could be a simple explanation," he said. "His prints were there because he
lived there, as the roommate. Another immortal came in, and took this
fellow's head- -" He paused. "Was the victim an immortal?"

"No," Joe replied. "He wasn't."

"Well, not all beheadings are ours, Joe. Some mortal killer, a madman,
could have done it. Anything's possible. Or Methos may even have simply
visited the victim at some point, and that's why his prints were there. He
may not have known him well at all."

"Oh, I think he knew him pretty well," Joe said.

Mac didn't want to hear this. "Why?"

"Because the victim's name," Joe replied, "was Adam Pierson."

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

Send email to the author: alexa@aa.net