Chapter Six

"Yes, Paul, I know what time it is," lied Joe, glancing confusedly at Richie. He mouthed 'time,' and Richie shoved his watch in front of Joe's face. Five in the morning; it was seven o'clock in Istanbul. Oh, well. Early to bed and early to rise. "This is important. I'm trying to reach Jack. There's no answer at his house or in the office. Any idea where he is?"

"I don't know and I don't bloody care," snapped the man in an aggravated tone accentuated by a British public school accent. "Do you have any idea what it's like to work with that bloody maniac? He's not stable, Dawson. And Zwirner's death--you heard about Zwirner?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"Zwirner's death has only made him worse. Do you know he actually thinks that Lucius is the killer? Lucius, for God's sake!"

"I heard that Gabriel's missing chronicle was found with the body." Joe hoped that Paul would be either sleepy enough or aggravated enough not to ask how he had heard. He was.

"Yes, it was. It's on its way to European Headquarters right now for inspection, but I've no doubt it's genuine. That's scarcely proof that Lucius is back from the dead! More than likely some Immortal who knows about us is trying to put the fear of God into us--and he's succeeded in Istanbul, I can assure you. We don't go anywhere alone."

"Good idea. So you have no idea where I could find Jack? There's no other place where he might be?"

"You might try calling Carol, but I doubt that she'd know. I'll give you her number."

Joe sat up in his chair. "Wait a minute. Carol and Jack aren't together?"

"Where the hell have you been, Dawson? Carol moved back to France six months ago and took the girls with her. Jack was impossible to live with. He's been obsessed with this Lucius business, and Carol just couldn't take it anymore. And that was before poor Johann turned up dead. Finding that mess on the doorstep just sent him over the edge."

Joe swore silently. "So you don't think that Carol would know where he is?"

"I'd be very much surprised if she'd heard from him at all. It took him two weeks before he even noticed that his house was empty. He had to ask me where they'd gone."

Joe sighed deeply. "Well, give me her number anyway. I'm running out of options."

"Hold on." The receiver was put down with a rattle.

"What's going on?" whispered Richie impatiently.

Joe covered the mouthpiece. "He doesn't know where Shapiro is. He's going to give me his wife's num--"

The receiver was picked up again. "Found it," said Paul. "She's back at their house in Paris. 7289304. Do you have that?"

"Got it. Thanks, Paul." Joe hung up the phone and stared at the instrument thoughtfully.

It was true that Shapiro had never been the same after his son was killed, but Joe had never stopped to consider the idea that he might be 'unstable.' His actions after his son's death had certainly been extreme, even unbalanced, but any father losing a son under those circumstances might go off the deep end. Joe had thought that the move away from Paris and all its bad memories would have helped Shapiro deal with his grief and regain his perspective. It was possible he had been wrong.

Great. Just great. An 'unstable' Jack Shapiro was just what the doctor ordered.

"Well?" demanded Richie.

"Nobody in Istanbul knows where he is. Evidently his wife and kids left him six months ago and came back to Paris. Paul says he's been 'unstable'."

"Now there's a flash from the newsroom," growled Richie.

"I don't know," said Joe slowly. "Jack Shapiro was as stable as they come until his son was killed. I just don't think--"

"Come on, Joe. The guy tried to whack you for being Mac's friend. You've got three choices here: one, unstable; two, vindictive prick; three, both. Choose."

"Go away," said Joe crankily. Damn, he hated it when this kid was right.

"Are you going to call his wife?"

"Not at five in the morning, I'm not. We'll have to wait a couple hours."

Richie sighed. "More coffee?"

"More coffee."

***

Duncan froze for a moment, staring into Methos' face. Then he pulled his wrists out of Methos' grasp and fell back against the foot of the bed. His eyes darted about the room briefly; then he looked at the floor around him.

"Where's m'boddle?" he slurred.

"Excuse me? I didn't quite catch that." Methos leaned forward politely.

"My bottle!" Duncan glared at him angrily.

"Oh, your bottle! That's gone," said Methos pleasantly. "I threw it away."

"You what!" Duncan tried to stand, but slipped onto his rear again, unable to rise.

"I threw it away," repeated Methos very distinctly.

"You bastard," snarled Duncan. "I'll have another then." He leaned on the bed to pull himself to his feet, where he swayed precariously.

"No, I don't think so," replied Methos in the same pleasant tone. "I threw them all away, you see. How about some coffee?"

Duncan sneered and staggered in the direction of a recently uprighted cabinet. "Don't believe you. It's right here, and I'm goin' to find it."

"Yeah, well, whatever blows your kilt up," said Methos airily, leaning back against the bed.

Duncan rifled the cabinet with no success, then began going through the others with increasing agitation.

Methos watched every move, struggling to keep the sardonic smile on his face. "Any luck?"

"Where is it?" shouted the Scot, whirling to face Methos. "Where'd you put it?"

"I put it down the sink," said Methos evenly, bracing himself as Duncan's muscles tensed for action. "Are you ready for coffee?"

Duncan lunged across the room and tripped, falling to his hands and knees. Methos' eyes closed involuntarily at the sight, then snapped open as the man staggered to his feet and flung himself forward, grabbing the front of Methos' shirt.

"Where is it?"

"It's down the drain," said Methos with firm, quiet emphasis.

Duncan stared at him stupidly for a few seconds. "Why?"

"Because it's only making the dreams worse," said Methos in the same quiet tone. "It has to stop, Mac."

Duncan leaned closer, and Methos held his breath against the smell of body odor and whiskey. "The drink is all that makes it stop. Get me some!"

"No," said Methos simply.

"Bastard!" hissed Duncan. "What are you doin' here? Haven't you done enough?"

"Believe me, MacLeod, there are places I'd rather be," snapped Methos, leaning away from the violence and the stench.

"Then go!"

"No."

Cursing in Gaelic, Duncan shoved Methos away and looked around wildly.

"If you're looking for the katana, that's gone, too." Methos knew that would produce a reaction, and he was not disappointed.

Duncan let loose with a howl of pure rage, grabbed Methos by the front of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. "Where is it? Where's m'sword?"

"Amanda has it," gasped Methos.

"Amanda?" Duncan relaxed his hold slightly. "Why?"

"Why do you think? Or do you make a habit of threatening to put a sword through her?"

Duncan stared dumbly for a moment, obviously trying to make sense of the words; then his face changed as some part of the memory came back to him. He let go of Methos and turned away. "Didna want to hurt her. Wouldn't ever hurt her."

"You came damn close last night," said Methos ruthlessly. "The sword's better off where it is."

"Is she all right?" whispered Duncan.

The remorse in the man's voice steadied Methos. So he wasn't as far gone as he looked. "She's all right. She's worried about you."

Duncan turned, swaying on his feet. "Sorry," he whispered, tears in his eyes. "Methos...tell her I'm sorry."

Shit. Methos' felt his throat tighten absurdly and he cleared it. "You can tell her yourself later. Sit down. I'll start some coffee."

Duncan shook his head dumbly.

"Fine. Then I'll have some, if you don't mind. It's been a long night." Methos ventured cautiously to the door of what passed for the barge's kitchen. Not seeing anything moving, he entered, located the coffee maker and started scrubbing the half-inch of crud from its bottom, muttering under his breath. He sensed Duncan's proximity, and looked up to see him standing in the door watching him with a lost expression.

Methos cleared his throat again. God, what a pain in the ass! What was it about this man that made Methos feel compelled to come to his side again and again? This self-righteous twit had insulted him, rejected him, abandoned him when he needed him most...and here Methos was scrubbing his goddamned coffee pot. Methos briefly considered clubbing him over the head with it. "Change your mind?"

"Did that really happen?"

Methos rinsed out the pot and turned off the water, wondering where the drunk's mind was wandering now. "Did what really happen?"

"All of it. The dreams."

Methos grabbed some paper towels and started drying off the pot with unnecessary thoroughness. Damn. "Mac, let's talk about this when you've sobered up a little, okay?"

"Did they happen to you?" Duncan's voice was ragged.

Methos started going through the cupboards, trying frantically to come up with something to divert the Scot's attention. "Where do you keep the coffee? Or did you throw that overboard with the phone?"

"Do ye know what I dreamed last night?" asked Duncan, raising his voice.

Methos pulled the coffee down from the shelf, deliberately refusing to meet Duncan's eyes. "Mac, this is not a good idea. If you'll just--"

"I dreamed someone took out my eyes with a knife."

Methos dropped the coffee and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes. That particular memory was all too vivid.

"Did that happen to you?" Duncan's voice was thick with emotion.

"Yes. It happened," grated Methos. He opened his eyes, straightened, and slammed the coffee and the pot into the machine.

"Why am I dreamin' about it? Why do I feel it?"

Methos drew breath to give him an oversimplified explanation, one Duncan could understand in his present state, but was prevented from doing so as Duncan continued, "What did you do to me?"

Methos swung toward the younger man in a rage, barely managing not to strike him. "What did I do to you? You ass! You've brought all this on yourself!"

"You're goin' to make them stop," said Duncan in a commanding tone somewhat at variance with his slurred speech and swaying body.

"Fine," hissed Methos. He pushed past the Scot, made his way to his coat, and pulled out his sword. Before reason could rein in his emotions, he thrust the hilt into Duncan's hand. "Go on, then!"

Duncan stared at him stupidly, then down at the blade in his hand. "What d'ye mean?"

"You want the dreams to stop, don't you? It's all my fault, isn't it? Surely you don't have any reservations about killing a butcher like me, do you? Do it! Because it's the only way the dreams will ever go away completely." Some small part of Methos' mind remarked, in its small voice, that it was possible that he had dropped some marbles out on the deck, and wouldn't now be a good time to look for them?

Duncan looked up again, tears in his eyes. "They won't ever go away?"

"Not unless you take my head," snarled Methos relentlessly, feeling a peculiar relief at the possibility that Duncan might actually do what he suggested. The small voice reminded him that this was precisely what Joe had been afraid of, and hadn't he said that he wanted to live? What was he doing?

Duncan handed him the sword hilt first, a tear running down one cheek. "Then take mine."

Methos shoved the blade back at him angrily. "Oh, no. You don't get off that easy."

"I cannot live like this. And I cannot kill you."

"Why the hell not?"

Duncan stared at the floor in silence for a moment, then muttered something.

"What?" demanded Methos loudly.

"You're my friend."

"And just precisely when did you come to this conclusion? I assume it was at some point between the time you told me we were through and the time you killed my student."

Duncan raised wide brown eyes to Methos. "Byron was your student?"

"Among other things." Methos paused, trying to regain control.

"I didn't know," faltered Duncan.

"You didn't ask. You've never asked," said Methos bitterly. "You ask nothing and expect everything."

Duncan glowered at him, his moment of uncertainty vanished. "Why are you here then?"

"Damned if I know. Maybe I have some sick need for the smell of stale whiskey and unwashed socks," snapped Methos.

Duncan's glower intensified. "I didna ask you to come!"

"Case in point," said Methos acidly. "You have two options, MacLeod. You can take my head and end the dreams completely. Or you can let me teach you how to manage them. Your choice."

Duncan stood in silence for a few heartbeats, and Methos' small voice began speaking longingly of the benefits of a brisk sprint and some fresh air.

"I will not take your head," Duncan said finally, offering Methos the sword.

"Fine," said Methos evenly, accepting the blade as the small voice uttered fervent prayers of thanksgiving to several now-defunct deities. "And you'll listen--"

"I said I will not take your head," growled Duncan obstinately, the quintessential immovable object.

Methos let fly with a sampler of Sumerian obscenities and pushed past Duncan into the kitchen, thinking furiously that the third as yet unstated but extremely attractive option of having MacLeod's head stuffed and mounted on Joe's wall was looking better and better to him.

***

"Carol? Hi, it's Joe Dawson. Sorry to call so early."

"Joe Dawson?" The sleepy voice at the other end of the line cleared its throat and went on warmly and without any awkwardness. "Joe, it's been so long! How are you?"

Joe sighed inwardly. Obviously Jack had never told her about presiding over Joe's trial and near execution, and he wasn't surprised. Jack had never been one to take Watcher business home. Just as well. "Well, I'm holding together. And you?"

Richie rolled his eyes and mouthed 'Cut to the chase,' and Joe waved him away with a glare.

There was a pause. "I've had a bit of a rough time, but it's getting better. I suppose you've heard about Jack and me."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Carol."

"Me, too," said Carol with a shaky laugh. "But he...just wasn't the same man I married, Joe."

Joe nodded. "I guess he just never recovered from losing David."

Richie gave Joe a sharp, questioning look, and Joe shook his head with a frown.

Carol hesitated a moment, then started speaking very quickly in a strained tone. "It started long before that, Joe. Jack started to change a few months after becoming Regional Coordinator. I don't know what it was. The power, maybe, or the pressure. And then Watchers started dying, and he felt responsible. He was the RC for Western Europe, he said. He should be able to protect his people. He couldn't see that there were some things beyond his control. And then David...."

"What is she saying?" asked Richie in an impatient stage whisper. Joe threw a pillow at him with an impatient scowl.

The woman took a deep breath and continued. "Things were very bad after we lost David, and even worse after the move to Istanbul. Jack talked about David's death constantly. He wouldn't let David rest, Joe. He wouldn't let us move on. And when I told him that I had to move on, he started spending more and more time away from me and from the girls. He was constantly at the office. He became so cold, so obsessive about his research. The Lucius project totally consumed him. I don't know why he was so drawn to it; the story is so horrible, Joe. But it became all he cared about, all he could talk about. He would even talk about it in front of the girls, and they were starting to have nightmares. I tried to make him see what was happening to him, to get help, but it only made him angry. One night it made him so angry that...that he hit me." The voice broke.

"Oh, Jesus," murmured Joe. "I'm sorry, Carol."

Richie rolled his eyes and collapsed backward to lie on the floor.

"I had to leave, Joe, for the girls' sake and for mine. I had to go."

"You did the right thing," said Joe bleakly, wondering now if he had. Sending a man who had just sustained such a devastating loss off to the relative isolation of Istanbul, demoting him to an obscure position...how much had that contributed to his deterioration? Don't go there, Dawson. "Have you heard from him since you left?"

Richie sat up quickly with an expectant expression.

"Not a word," said Carol shakily. "Part of me is relieved. Paul tells me that he's become much worse, that finding poor Johann Zwirner dead last week has just fueled his obsession." She paused for a moment, then continued in a sharper tone, as if struck by some realization. "You're calling about Jack, aren't you?"

"Carol, I--"

"What is it?" hissed Richie. Joe rapped him across the shins with his cane, and Richie scrambled out of range with a reproachful look.

"Has something happened to him?"

"No, not that we know of," said Joe quickly. "But we don't know where he is. No one's seen him in Istanbul for several days. He doesn't answer at home. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

"No," replied Carol, sounding more frightened than worried. "The only place I can think that he'd come is here."

"That's a possibility," said Joe quietly. "We ran into Étienne Dupré last night. He was pretty worked up over the Lucius thing; I guess Jack's been working on him."

"If Étienne is here, then Jack must be too," said Carol, panic building in her voice. "Oh, my God, Joe. If only half of what Paul says about the way he's been acting is true, I have to get the girls back to the States. We have to get away--"

"Go," said Joe grimly. "Pack and go, Carol. I'll find him. Call me when you're settled in and let me know where you'll be."

"I will. Thanks, Joe."

The receiver was hung up before Joe could say goodbye. That was one scared lady. Jack must have really melted down to get her on the run like that. Damn.

"Let me guess. She doesn't know where he is either," said Richie drily, still rubbing his shins.

"She doesn't, but she's scared to death that he's coming here. The son of a bitch hit her; that's why she took off. She's on the next plane to the States."

"Can we go, too?"

"No."

"More coffee?"

"More coffee."

***

"Have some coffee, MacLeod."

"No."

Methos grit his teeth, valiantly resisting the urge to dump the steaming contents of the cup into the Scot's lap. Duncan sat on the end of the bed in an excruciatingly profound MacLeodian sulk, the sulk of all sulks, a sulk that made Methos' sword hand itch for the feel of his weapon. One clean slice and it would be over; that lower lip would never exceed its bounds again. It was a truly intense species of pout, and Methos could see how Richie had succumbed to its conditioning. It was almost impossible to resist; he felt his own lower lip struggling to extend itself and bit it unmercifully as he set the coffee on the floor at Duncan's feet.

"Then how about some food?"

"No."

Methos straightened. He took a deep breath, then stepped further away, wishing he hadn't. "Then how about a shower?"

"No."

"Why not?" demanded Methos, holding on to his control with difficulty. "Do you have some philosophical affinity with reek, MacLeod?"

"I dinna want a shower."

"I don't give a damn what you dinna want," snapped Methos. "You stink, MacLeod. Do the city of Paris a favor; it's been good to you."

Duncan scowled, his furrowed brow now threatening to meet the lip somewhere in the vicinity of the end of his nose. "If you don't like it, you know where the door is."

"Listen, MacLeod," said Methos in a dangerous tone. "I have endured stenches that would disintegrate your sinus cavities. Food rotting on my plate as I ate it. Open sewers in a city of ten thousand people. Thousands of decaying corpses on a battlefield. But I can honestly say that in five thousand years of experience, I have never encountered a smell quite like yours. I acknowledge the raw power of your reek. I surrender. Okay? Now get in the bloody shower!"

Duncan's eyes widened, and the lip receded slightly as he opened his lips to speak, groped for words, then spluttered, "Get stuffed!"

It was too much. That this...this child would sit there in his own filth just to prove he could.... Methos grabbed Duncan by the arm and tried to haul him off the bed, but Duncan shoved him away.

"Keep your hands off me!"

"Get in the damned shower!" shouted Methos, grabbing the arm again.

Duncan shoved harder this time, and Methos lost his balance and fell onto his rear with a thud. "Dinna touch me again!" he bellowed at top volume.

"That's it," hissed Methos. "That's the bloody end!"

Leaping to his feet, Methos snatched up his sword and lay the edge of the blade against Duncan's throat. "You are going to bathe. You are going to bathe now!"

"If you kill me," said Duncan truculently, "I'll still smell."

Methos' eyes narrowed dangerously, his thoughts turning longingly to unbridled carnage. "Not if I run you through and drop you into the Seine, you won't."

Duncan leaned away from the blade, appearing uneasy for the first time. "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, wouldn't I, though?" Methos met Duncan's eyes unflinchingly. For one glorious moment Methos thought that fear would triumph over obstinacy; then he watched, heart sinking, as that lower lip assumed its previous position.

"Do it, then," said Duncan belligerently.

Methos stared at the drunk for two seconds, then tossed aside his sword in disgust. Time for Plan B.

***

"Yes, Urquhart, I know what time it is," said Joe wearily. He smacked Richie's arm as the younger man shoved his wristwatch in front of Joe's nose with a wickedly helpful expression.

"7:40 A.M., Dawson. This had better bloody well be important."

"It is. Has anyone at Headquarters heard from Jack Shapiro?"

"Jack Shapiro? You called me at this hour to gossip about that lunatic?"

There but for the grace of God, pal, thought Joe in weary annoyance. Winston Urquhart, Regional Coordinator for Western Europe, was as likely a candidate for Officious Prick of the Year as Joe had ever had the misfortune to encounter. "He's gone missing, Urquhart. I've spoken to his wife and a couple people in the Istanbul office. They say he's become increasingly unstable."

"And may I ask what business that is of yours, Dawson? Are you his bloody therapist?"

"No, I'm a bloody Watcher," snapped Joe. The man's arrogance reminded him too much of Jack Shapiro before he started to lose it. If this is what the RC job did to a guy, they could keep it. He'd go play his guitar in the street and pass the hat before he'd let a job do that to him. "Étienne Dupré showed up last night babbling something about Lucius Germanicus."

"I know, I know," snapped Urquhart. "He was here too."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And did he have any proof of what he was saying?"

"How could he? Lucius has been dead for nine hundred years! What proof could he have?"

"That's what I'm asking you!" Joe tried to control his irritation; it didn't help that Richie was mouthing the word 'dickwad' as Joe was trying to carry on the conversation. He tossed a cushion into Richie's face and continued in a lower tone. "Did you ask Étienne what information he had?"

"As I recall, I asked Étienne if he had indulged in any controlled substances and told him to go home and sleep it off," said Urquhart brusquely. "What is this about, Dawson?"

"It's about a dead Watcher, in case you've forgotten, and the coincidental reappearance of Gabriel's chronicle of Lucius after nine hundred years."

Richie rolled his eyes, mouthing 'asshole'. Joe made a slashing gesture across his throat and pointed to the empty space on his wall with as fierce a look as he could manage.

"I haven't forgotten anything. What I want to know is what you have to do with it."

Joe cursed inwardly, his mirth curdling. "Look, Urquhart, when someone nearly runs you down in the street and tries to kidnap you because Lucius Germanicus has just come back from the dead and killed a Watcher, you tend to have an interest, okay?"

"Kidnap you? Why the hell would--"

"Obviously Shapiro believes that Lucius is alive and killed Zwirner, and he's made Étienne believe it too."

"The man must be insane."

"Or the man knows something we don't. Look, even if this Lucius stuff is bogus, we've still got one Watcher killed by someone with access to Gabriel's chronicle, and another one unstable and on the loose. We've got to find Jack, Urquhart. We've got to find out what's going on."

"All right. All right. I'll get some people on it. But you stay away from Shapiro, is that clear? I don't want any ugliness."

Joe wondered briefly if Urquhart had classified the pieces of Johann Zwirner arranged so neatly in an Istanbul gutter as 'ugliness'; his attitude seemed to indicate that he hadn't.

"And Dawson? Don't ever call me at this hour again." The receiver was brought down with a bang; Joe held it away from his ear with a grimace.

"Well?" demanded Richie.

Joe started to laugh, hanging up the phone. "He doesn't want any ugliness."

"Butt-munch," said Richie with calm succinctness, assuming the air of a professional delivering a well-considered assessment.

"And he'll send out some people to look for Jack."

Richie shrugged, obviously unimpressed. "Meaning he doesn't know where he is."

"Right." Joe rose with difficulty, waving Richie off as the younger man offered his help. "I've had enough of this. There's one person in Paris who knows where Shapiro is, and he's right at my front door."

"No way, Joe," said Richie firmly, planting himself between Joe and the door. "Methos said to stay put, remember? No one in, and no one out."

"And since when do you take orders from Methos?" growled Joe, genuinely surprised.

"Since they started making sense," retorted Richie. "For crying out loud, Joe, even if the Bogeyman hasn't rolled into town, there's still Crazy Jack. I really don't think leaving is a good idea."

"I'm not leaving," said Joe impatiently, beginning to realize that his 'nanny' strategy had come back to bite him in the rear. Damn Methos; that's probably exactly what he'd had in mind. "I'm going down to the front door. If you're that set on babysitting, come along, but I'm going to talk to Étienne." He fixed his most intimidating U.S. Marine do-I-have-to-go-through-you-son look and Richie sighed and stepped to one side.

"Okay, okay. We'll go down to the door, talk to our little friend and come right back up. Right?"

"Right," said Joe reassuringly, making his way slowly toward the door. God, he was tired...tired, sore, and cranky, and he suspected he was going to get a lot more tired, sore, and cranky before this day ended. If it ever did end.

***

Richie bounded back to the front door from the adjoining alley. "He's not here."

Joe felt his hackles rise. "If Shapiro sent him here to try to talk to me again, he wouldn't leave until he had."

"Unless Shapiro came and picked him up," said Richie, looking as if he didn't believe what he was saying.

"Or unless someone else did," murmured Joe, unable to shake the sinking sensation of being too far from cover.

"Shit," said Richie quietly. "Oh, man, Joe, are you saying--"

"I'm saying we need to tell Methos what's happened. I'm saying we get our asses to the barge now."

Richie angled himself in front of Joe again. "Whoa. Now hold on, Joe. You said we weren't leaving. You said--"

"Yeah, and now I'm saying we're going to the barge," said Joe determinedly, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. "You coming or staying?"

Richie sighed. "Being your nanny is a thankless job, you know that, Dawson?"

Joe grinned and headed toward the alley beside the apartment building that led to the garage, then stopped as he realized that Richie hadn't followed him. Turning around, he saw the younger man glancing about him with an uneasy expression. "What?"

Richie caught his eye and shrugged, a trace of sheepishness in his expression. "Sorry. It's just that feeling of always being watched."

Joe felt a chill touch him between his shoulder blades. "Let's get the hell out of here."

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