Standard Disclaimer for Lawyerly Widgeons: This story includes some themes of fantasy violence. It also alludes to some themes of very real violence, PG-13 or above, (though I've tried to keep the graphic portrayal to a minimum.) Be warned. No overt sex, het or slash, though I am NOT responsible for other people's imaginations.

The characters of Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod and Methos (Adam Pierson) are borrowed from Rysher and Co. without any intent to or clue as to how to make a profit.

Anybody who wants to copy, transfer or abrogate the following story or OC's... what are you, nuts? Talk to me....we may have a lot in common.

This story is set after the end of the Highlander series, and contains some spoilers for Seasons 3-6. Richie may or may not be T.U., but in this story, all the characters think he's plinking harp strings. My thoughts on the matter remain my own.

All errors in canon and content are my own.

Acknowledgements: This story would not have been finished without the extraordinary support and encouragement from my alpha/beta/gamma readers Janeen Grosmeyer, Mary Galasso, Edie and Karen. I'd like to thank Edie for her character insights and timely advice, Mary for her pointed plot and character dissections and flowing solutions to some of the corners into which I had painted my characters, and Karen for piloting us out of the Colima Triangle.

In your honor, the Flying Toe remains excised.

Special above-and-beyond the call of duty thanks to Janeen for not only finding my story's first errant incomplete posting and shepherding it through to its conclusion, but also for shepherding me through the wilds of Netscape, Notepad and Word. I was clueless. You were infinitely patient and helpful.

Special thanks to Codes. Age Fortiter.

Musical Acknowlegements: Music to write by--my thanks to Joe Walsh, Dobie Gray, Rob Quist and Great Northern, Keb' Mo, Santana, Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead, and most especially Jim Byrnes for creating such great music to keep the Muse entertained while I write.

Quoted lyrics are credited after the Epilogue, and are used without permission. (If you find a copy of Dobie Gray's classic "Drift Away" you will be able to hum along during one of the later chapters.)

Risk

by Cathy Butterfield

Part One of Four

It was surprising it didn't happen more often, Joe mused.

All those bodies, over the years.

All that blood shed, over the millennia.

All those curious and suspicious policemen.

As the handcuffs clicked over his wrists and two large, angry patrolmen hauled Dawson to his unsteady artificial feet, Joe mentally kicked himself for being so old and slow and stupid.

"Never allow yourself to be caught at the scene of a Quickening." It was one of the first rules drummed into a rookie watcher. Joseph Dawson had just been well and truly caught.

* * * *

Duncan MacLeod encountered the strange Immortal while making a prosaic foray to the mall. He had been browsing through a music store for the new 'Keb' Mo' CD at Joe Dawson's request. Dawson hated the mall, claiming the lousy acoustics made him dizzy.

The other Immortal was hunting small game. Small, human, pre- Immortal game. He dangled his bait, a beeping nintendoclone, enticing a young boy away from the play area in the center of the mall hallway. The Immortal was disturbed by the frisson of MacLeod's presence just as his prey had become separated from the herd, and vulnerable. The alerted stalker swung his head, trying to locate the interloper and potential threat, and locked eyes with MacLeod.

The two Immortals stood face to face amid the living stream of mall shoppers. No longer enticed, no longer noticed, the small boy pouted and raced back to his friends in the mall minipark.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the Highlander stated tersely. He did not like the smooth good looks or the snaky grace that the strange Immortal affected.

"Ah. The goody two-shoes Watcher Lover."

That would tick off Joe, MacLeod thought. Another Immortal twigging to his so-called secret society. They had more leaks than the Lusitania and the Titanic combined.

"I am Tarc," the other man said.

MacLeod stiffened, loathing and disgust causing him to reach into his coat to finger his sword. "Where will you meet me?"

"Hardly here," Tarc sneered. "North Quay, dock 51, midnight."

It was that simply done.

* * * *

It was a little after eleven on a slow Tuesday night, and Joe's Bar had emptied out early. Duncan MacLeod sat down near the cocktail station, where Dawson was finishing up the glassware. MacLeod slid the new blues CD over the bartop.

Dawson quickly slit the cellophane with the bar knife, and popped the disc into the player. "Wait'll you hear this, Mac. Kevin Moore is smooth." Some of the bluesman's lines of age and care faded from his face as the music flowed through the bar.

It never failed to amaze MacLeod that the simple touch of music could make his silvering friend look so young. MacLeod sat quietly and listened for a minute, before saying softly, "He reminds me a little of you."

Dawson laughed. "Keb's delta blues are more Louisiana crossed with east L.A. I'd say mine are more St. Louis by way of southside Chicago. But the flattery will earn you a free drink, anyway."

The bartender's eyes gleamed as he held the CD sleeve up to the back bar lights to read the liner notes. Seemingly without looking, he expertly poured a beverage for the Scot. MacLeod refused the proffered shot of Glenmorangie.

Dawson's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who are you fighting?"

"I didn't say I was fighting."

"You didn't have to, Mac," Joe grumbled. He tossed down the shot himself. He gruffly assumed his Watcher role, burying the concern he felt each time that MacLeod ran the risk. "Who is it? When? Where?"

MacLeod frowned. Dawson could read him better than the phone book. Joe the bartender was a good friend, but Dawson the Watcher sometimes irritated the hell out of him.

Dawson said, "If you don't tell me, I'll follow you and find out anyway."

He would, MacLeod knew. "It's Tarc. At midnight." Mistakenly, he thought the partial truth would suffice.

Dawson became very quiet. Slowly he reached behind him and shut off the CD player, bringing a sudden, uneasy silence to the bar. Something ancient and ugly flashed in the Watcher's eyes. "It will be a pleasure to Watch you kill him."

"No, Joe. I don't want you there," MacLeod said firmly.

"Wrong answer, MacLeod," Dawson said, affronted, and more.

The vengeful glint in Dawson's eye reminded MacLeod of the way Dawson had looked after his friend and lover Lauren had been murdered. Thinking of Tarc's easy familiarity with the Watchers, MacLeod felt he needed to keep Dawson well away from the encounter. He began again, "Joe, I don't want you there..."

"I _have_ to Watch this one, Mac!" Dawson interrupted, as enraged as MacLeod had ever seen him. "The man's a monster, an abuser and murderer of children!"

"And you and your Watchers have Watched him do it!" MacLeod regretted the barb even as the words left his lips. Dawson went paper white, and swayed. Duncan grabbed the front of Dawson's coat to steady him before he fell against the back bar. There was a lot of glass there.

Dawson held onto the bar, taking a moment to recover. With a violent shudder he ripped away from MacLeod's grip and turned his back on the Highlander.

MacLeod tried to reach out again as Dawson walked away from him.

"Joe, I am sorry. I know you have your pledge to keep from interfering in the Game...but as you say, he's a monster." MacLeod moved down the bar to keep up with the bartender. "There's more. He knows about the Watchers. It wouldn't be safe for you to be nearby, if--"

"If what? If you lose? That's not an option. It's your job to take his head. It's my job to watch. I assume the risks. Just as you take yours." Dawson turned his back to the Scot as he spoke. "What the hell is Tarc doing back in Seacouver?" he then muttered angrily, almost to himself.

"You mean your network didn't alert you?"

"There hasn't been a Watcher on Tarc in years, since he disappeared after a string of killings," Dawson said distantly.

MacLeod sighed. "And back then? I cannot understand someone just sitting back and watching him do what he does. Who could have been his Watcher then?" he said, thinking his question rhetorical.

Finally Joe Dawson turned to face the Highlander. MacLeod stepped back, shocked by the look of pure hatred on the Watcher's face.

For MacLeod? No. For Tarc? Yes... but more...

"I was." Joe Dawson hated himself.

* * * *

Joe Dawson turned his back to MacLeod again, slowly picking up a bottle from the back bar and staring at the label as if he'd never seen it in his life. Automatically he selected a shot glass too, but after a moment, he very deliberately replaced both.

"Maybe I could use a shot of that," MacLeod said wistfully. It was an ancient rite among friends--sharing a drink, sharing a story, sharing a confidence.

Joe poured. Just one. He wouldn't join the Highlander while this subject lay between them.

Dawson's face was now shuttered, unreadable, and the lack of emotion chilled the Highlander more than Joe's previous loss of composure. MacLeod took the risk. "Tell me about it, Joe," he said softly.

Dawson looked him in the eye. "No." It was Watcher business, and nothing to share with MacLeod. Silently, Dawson presented his back to MacLeod, reaching to return the bottle.

MacLeod's own temper flared, and he leaned over the bar to touch the barman's shoulder, intending to hash this out face to face with Dawson. Watcher business had cost MacLeod the lives of friends, too many friends. Galati. Darius. Too many others.

"Don't turn your back on me again, Joe," he said in frustration. Dawson tottered slightly as MacLeod's hand disturbed his fragile balance. Reflexively, MacLeod tightened his grip, till Dawson caught himself.

"MacLeod, get your hand off me," Dawson snapped.

Appalled that he had again laid a hand on his friend, even inadvertently, MacLeod loosed his hold on the Watcher.

Dawson replaced the bottle carefully on the liquor rack, deeply aware that in his prickly pride he was being unfair to the Scot. MacLeod was only trying to help. MacLeod just didn't know the score, and Dawson doubted he had the courage to tell him the whole story, even if he had the time. Midnight. MacLeod would have to leave soon. So would the Watcher.

MacLeod grieved at the rift that had opened between them. Tarc's very existence seemed to create a virulent and irrational anger in them both. Dawson's involvement with Tarc demanded explanation. His penchant for keeping Watcher secrets had caused serious problems for them in the past. MacLeod had thought their friendship had gotten beyond that point, by now.

MacLeod could tell that Dawson seemed to follow his thoughts. Watching, the Scot thought bitterly. Dawson's face softened, with a fleeting touch of regret.

"There's not much I can specifically tell you that would help you in fighting Tarc, MacLeod. I'll tell you what I can. But I won't explain why."

MacLeod realized he had mistaken Dawson's reticence. Dawson knew that MacLeod disliked using the Watcher network to scout his opponents; it seemed unsporting, somehow. Yet the Watcher had broken his oath for MacLeod more than once in the past, sometimes under extremely trying circumstances. He would do it again now. Clearly, if something in the Chronicles could help MacLeod take Tarc, it was his. Dawson's private and clearly painful history with Tarc was another matter, altogether.

Dawson started to move down the bar, absently rubbing the clean surface down, carefully not turning his back again. "Predictably, he's an excellent swordsman. Perhaps more surprising, given his vile personal habits, he is faithful to the Rules of the Game..." he hesitated, "...as far as we know. The Chronicles on him are badly fragmented. He was brought up in the worst of the Victorian traditions, and no Watcher could stomach following him for long. A few were killed while on his trail. He's a clever paranoid and a sexual predator of the worst sort. He also sports a truly degenerate sense of humor."

Joe fell silent, unable to bear or share the sudden crushing memory of opening the parcel that had been so simply addressed: 'Joe Dawson, Watcher'. He would never forget the hideous contents, or Tarc's jaunty note. The note had ended: "...but surely you've read the Adventure of the Cardboard Box? Every would-be detective knows his Sherlock Holmes. Can I be your Moriarty?" Tarc had thought it was funny.

Joe Dawson carefully laid the memory away, so he could function. "Where are you going to meet him, MacLeod?" Dawson demanded again.

"It wouldn't be safe, Joe. He knows you. He might even use you against me. It's not smart for you to get involved." MacLeod didn't add that it tended to weaken his concentration when he had to look out for the Watcher. He knew Dawson knew that, and he knew it pained Joe to think he might handicap MacLeod's performance. MacLeod momentarily forgot that Dawson's initial reaction to pain was almost always anger.

Dawson growled, a humming descant that chilled MacLeod's spine like an Immortal Recognition. In fact...it _was_ Immortal Recognition. MacLeod had the momentary fantasy that Joe Dawson was turning into an Immortal before his eyes...until the bar door opened and Methos wandered in.

Dawson, in his wrath, did not notice. He locked his legs against the bar sink's open plumbing and braced his right hand against the bar. He grabbed MacLeod by the collar with the other, cutting off his speech and most of his air. "I think I would give my life to see Tarc dead," Dawson whispered.

It took both MacLeod's hands to break the stranglehold. "If you were dead, you wouldn't see anything!" MacLeod returned, alarmed and concerned at Dawson's violent reaction and bitter vow.

"We don't," Methos piped in. "See anything, that is," he added. "Is this a theological argument, or just a nice friendly barroom brawl? And most important, do you have beer breaks? You know, like in 'The Quiet Man'?"

Dawson loosed a Celtic oath and pulled away from the Scot. Methos' sudden appearance made him painfully aware of the extremity of his behavior. Embarrassed, he mumbled an apology. "Sorry, MacLeod. I can understand if you don't want me underfoot." Regaining his self-control, he kicked himself loose from the plumbing and made his way down to the beer taps. He poured one for Methos. None for himself.

MacLeod recoiled to catch his breath. Dawson had formidable arm and upper body strength. He paused to watch as Dawson regained a frayed hold on his temper. He was losing touch with the bartender, and he didn't have enough information to figure out why.

Rather recklessly, the oldest Immortal stepped into the breach. "Joe, I didn't know you had such a command of Gaelic," Methos observed.

Dawson shot him a dirty look. "Cussing is cussing."

Methos didn't leave well enough alone. "I know your mother had the Gaelic, Joe, but no Irish lady taught you that phrase."

"You _didn't_ know my mother."

"Not to your knowledge, no," Methos replied wickedly.

MacLeod tried to stop the sniping. "Methos, you are not helping."

Dawson stalked back down the bar and picked up the untouched shot that stood in front of MacLeod. Deliberately, he poured it into the bar sink. Methos winced. MacLeod flinched.

"The bar is closed," Dawson said flatly. "You don't have to go home; you just can't stay here." Depression and anger warred in Dawson's expression. "Go on, MacLeod. You have an appointment."

MacLeod hesitated, watching the bartender with worry and a little suspicion.

"I said _go_ dammit!" Dawson lost his voice momentarily. "Please, Mac...," he whispered, "...take him out."

"You won't follow me?" MacLeod stood firm on that point.

Dawson looked away, and up, then back to the Highlander. "I won't follow you. On the bloody, tattered remnants of my Oath, I won't...follow...you. Now you can go."

Still the Highlander paused, doubting.

Dawson gripped his cane and slammed it onto the bar in front of MacLeod. "Go ahead! Take it! Just to be sure!" A scar marred the bar's proudly polished surface.

Shaken, MacLeod backed away from the cane as if it was a snake. "I'm sorry, Joe." It was wholly inadequate, but the Highlander could think of nothing else to say. He just left.

Methos lifted an eyebrow. "What is going on here?"

Joe Dawson grabbed his cane and a light coat and hurried to the end of the bar. "Drink up. We're closed."

Methos sighed, and drank. He recognized that Dawson was in full Watcher mode, and not to be argued with.

Dawson looked Methos in the eye. "Can you follow MacLeod without his detecting you?"

"If I leave now," Methos said confidently. He headed for the door, Dawson on his heels.

"I thought you weren't going to follow him. By 'the bloody tattered remnants of your oath,' and all that," Methos commented.

"I'm not following him. I'm following you."

Methos stopped him at the door. "What's this about, Joe? MacLeod will not be very happy with me." That was an understatement. MacLeod was likely to be egregiously pissed.

"Tarc."

"Oh." Methos had been a Watcher too, some years before. "Let's go." The Immortal walked into the night, the Watcher closely following.

Dawson got in a last dire warning before the rainy darkness swallowed them up. "And if you make any more cracks about my mother, I will not be very happy with you, either."

* * * *

El Nino ruled the Pacific this spring and blessed Seacouver with its touch. It was raining sideways.

Methos drove erratically, keeping MacLeod just at the edge of his range.

"He won't be aware of you?" Joe asked tensely.

"I've done this before, as you well know. My range overlaps his significantly. A few thousand years of practice helps." Methos glanced over at his companion. "You look like hell, Joe."

Dawson didn't dignify the observation with a response. He hitched himself around in the seat, uncomfortable. Methos' rented runabout of the week lent him insufficient legroom. He wished he could have brought his own vehicle, but it was too recognizable to MacLeod. Possibly it was recognizable to Tarc as well. Tarc had found him, all those years ago; would he have tracked him down again? The thought made him shiver.

Then sudden certainty made him shudder. It was no accident that Tarc had resurfaced after all these years. It was no accident that Tarc had challenged the Immortal Dawson watched. Dawson was very sure that Tarc was planning another mailing, a box big enough to hold a head.

Methos noticed Dawson's shudder, and didn't prod him further. He simply reached down and turned up the heat. "It must have been quite a shock, having Tarc show up like this. How did MacLeod run across him?"

Dawson went still, wondering if Methos had somehow been listening to his thoughts. Then he laughed, without humor. "I don't know. I forgot to ask."

"Some Chronicler you are," Methos said, without rancor.

"Yeah. One of the Watchers' finest," Dawson added self- mockingly.

Then his voice changed, becoming lower and rougher. "Methos...thanks for coming. I don't know if I could have handled this alone." It was a fact that Dawson hated to admit to himself, much less Methos.

"Joe...." Methos tried to choose his words with care. "What happened last time was not your fault. You did your job. There was nothing more you could or should have done."

"By the Book."

"By the Book," Methos agreed.

Dawson stared out the rain-washed windshield, seeing nothing but evil memories of a cardboard box. "And because I went by the Book, Tarc has been able to continue to prey on kids. I had a chance to end it then, and I failed to act."

"You didn't have the right," Methos stated coldly. Brotherly reassurance and compassion weren't going to get anywhere with Dawson tonight. "Tarc preyed on pre-immortals. Despicable as it was, it was part of the Game. You couldn't interfere."

"Methos, don't you think I know that?" Dawson returned bitterly. "The odd mortal he took between 'mentoring' projects had no part in the Game. And none of them deserved what Tarc did to them. There I was, the faithful Watcher, following orders like a mindless guard at a concentration camp. What right did I have _not_ to try to destroy him?"

Methos ground his teeth. The dictums against revenge and taking the law into one's own hands were a part of Dawson's current culture and upbringing, not his own. He had no proper response to the question, especially in light of his own experiences over the last few thousand years.

Methos had killed far more than his share of innocents when he had been a Horseman. A few thousand years ago, he had had a few things in common with Tarc. If Dawson had lived then, would he have tried to destroy Methos the Horseman?

As quickly as it had surfaced, Dawson's anger turned inward. Now he spoke with imploring awkwardness. "Methos...if Mac can't-- doesn't--take him...will you? Because if you won't, I must." Even while Tarc was recovering from the Quickening, if Dawson could move in time. With MacLeod's own sword, if necessary.

Methos glanced over at the Watcher and saw the cold resolve in Dawson that ran as deep as his Irish ancestry. In ancient times, one of his forebears might have had the strength to challenge Methos in battle. He might also have joined him as a brother in arms. The oldest Immortal had not always ridden to war with the Horsemen.

" '...Still the indomitable Irishry...' " Methos quoted to himself. Why did he stay on with these raging Celts?

Joe Dawson stared at him, waiting for an answer.

Methos temporized, "MacLeod won't fail. You know that."

"That's what I thought the last time I saw Tarc fight. The Etruscan should have beaten Tarc twelve years ago."

Methos remembered the Etruscan -- flamboyant, honorable, and all too ethical. Something like Duncan MacLeod.

The Etruscan had also been poetic, discerning, and all too prone to taking extravagant risks. Something like Joseph Dawson.

After a long silence, Methos gave his response: "Yes."

Joe Dawson studied Methos' profile as the Immortal downshifted the car.

" 'Like a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence.' "

Methos braked suddenly and glared at Dawson.

"Hey, don't look at me like that," Dawson protested. "You're the one who started with the Yeats quotes." Dawson leaned forward, looking anxiously about. "Come on, let's get to where they are, before...."

"We're there," Methos said shortly. "And don't."

"Don't what?"

"Quote Yeats. Beastly fellow." Methos stepped out into the driving rain and was swallowed up in darkness.

Dawson waited a few seconds, making sure Methos was beyond earshot.

" 'Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by!' "

"Besides," Dawson muttered to himself as he stepped out into the night, "I'm only Irish on my mother's side. Not that she wasn't indomitable...."

When Dawson pulled himself out of the car into the howling storm, he realized that he should have stuck closer to Methos. The chaotic landscape of the North Quay left far too many places to hide. A single foglight illuminated the ramp leading to Dock 50. Long floating walkways extended out from the dock into the waters of the Sound. To the north, a weaker light illuminated Dock 51.

To the south, at Dock 48, a number of lights surrounded the harbormaster's two story offices.

Row upon row of fishing boats ranging from tiny bow-pickers and stern-pickers to seiners and the larger tenders, were moored to the floats. Much of the southeast Alaskan salmon fishing fleet wintered here, waiting their turn in the repair sheds. Dry- docked boats and piles of netting littered the quay expanse.

The sight sparked a bittersweet nostalgia in Dawson, and the smells of the docks and the sounds of the harbor buoys reminded him of a time long ago. After his senior year in high school, he had spent the summer in Alaska deckhanding for a friend of his father's on the seiner 'Raven Wing'. It was hard, smelly, dirty work in weather that ranged from raging gales to mirror calm seas glowing in the midnight sun. He had loved it. After the season had ended, he had joined the Marines. He had never returned.

Dawson shook himself out of his reverie. This was no fishing trip. The quay extended a mile or more. Methos had a lot of places to hide. Dawson glanced toward the harbormaster's office again. The floodlights glowed gibbous in the slanting rain. He turned north, where the weaker foglight glowed over dock 51. Tarc would not seek out the light.

Dawson's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and he could make out some boat names as he ducked past propellers and gutted engines. There was the 'Gnarly Macho.' 'Copper River Rat.' 'Net Dream.' 'Dances With Clams.' Indeed.

Dawson paused for a moment by the 'N-Seine,' a newly refitted seiner out of Cordova. A 'For Sale' sign was tacked to its stern. Dawson suspected that 'N-seine's' skipper had given up on the gamble that the salmon and herring runs would recover in the Prince William Sound after the Exxon oil spill. The skipper wouldn't be the first.

The footing was lousy, and the dark got darker as Dawson moved away from Dock 50. At least the area was deserted. No one in his right mind would be out in this weather. 'N-Seine.' Case in point: where the hell was Methos?

Dawson tried to advance cautiously, but a piece of dockside litter snagged at his feet. "Sheeii...!" He was going down. Not now, he thought. I can't be late again.

An arm snaked out and roughly hooked him around the neck and shoulder, jerking him back upright. On the very real chance that it was Tarc, Dawson lashed out with his cane.

"Ow!" said Methos. "Luck of the damned Irish," Methos muttered as he let Dawson loose and rubbed his shoulder. Just his own bad luck that Dawson hadn't headed south and found himself well out of this mess.

"Lucky this wasn't a sword," Joe whispered angrily, grounding his cane with a vicious snap.

"I know," Methos said in his normal voice. No one beyond ten feet would hear them in this storm. "You might have had my head." He was not joking.

"Where are they?" Dawson changed the subject. They both ignored the obvious, that this terrain badly challenged Dawson.

"There." Methos pointed at the pool of light at the base of dock 51. "I can't get much closer without them sensing me."

Dawson looked at him. "I can." Slowly, he made his way closer to the water. The light was better, and the footing less crowded there, away from the dry-docked boats. Tall stacks of netting gave him plenty of cover from the combatants. The rain also blew harder, away from the shelter of the boats. In his haste, Dawson hadn't brought raingear. His coat was already soaked.

Methos faded toward the wharf also, trying to keep Dawson in sight. He swung up onto one of the dry-docked seiners to improve his vantage of the battleground, knowing that if the fight moved this way, he might have to retreat. Methos shivered as rain trickled down his neck. He would survive, but Dawson might just catch his death...

A flicker of light caught his eye, back at the parking area. Methos swore. Cops. Probably just trolling through on rounds, checking out strange cars. "It's wet out," Methos urged, indulging in wishful thinking. "You're nice and dry in your patrol car. You're bored, and hungry. Move on."

After an interminable five minutes, they moved on.

Methos turned back to Dock 51. He could see MacLeod and Tarc facing each other under the floodlight. He could also make out a rough shadow hunched behind a pile of netting, near the water's edge, and far too near the fighters. "He's mad. Dawson's bloody mad."

He spied something else that made his blood run cold. A whipcord-thin human figure on the opposite side of the dock from Dawson, out of the Watcher's line of sight. The figure was carrying a sword.

Maybe Tarc did cheat. He'd certainly brought backup. Perhaps he thought that even if he lost, the victor's triumph would be very short-lived. The strategy wasn't unknown. Joe's tactics might be shaky and his logic lacking, but his instincts were dead on. MacLeod needed help on this one.

Then the fight began.

* * * *

They sparred in the blowing rain, sparks spewing from their ringing blades.

They started with the basics, gauging each other's strength and quickness. Parry, lunge, riposte. Tarc's lighter blade flickered around MacLeod's katana, avoiding direct engagements with the heavier, sharper sword. The finely honed folded steel of the Japanese katana could slice through lesser metals.

Tarc slithered just out of MacLeod's reach, leading the fight around the base of the dock. Sometimes dancing under the light, sometimes treading the treacherous footing between the dry-docked boats. Tarc was like a cobra being pursued by a determined mongoose.

Then Tarc began to speak, seemingly barely winded.

"So you are Joe Dawson's pet Immortal. A Highland savage. An English...subject." Tarc laughed. "A pity I was born too late for Culloden. We might have met there. It sounds such a lark-- for the victorious Crown." Tarc had to pause to fade away from MacLeod's attack. He swung up on a bow-picker to catch his breath. The small aluminum alloy fishing boat swayed on its scaffolding.

"Men...women...e'en tha' wee puir bairns..." Tarc taunted MacLeod with a corrupted Scots accent, and leapt away again from MacLeod's reaching sword.

"Sassenach," MacLeod muttered, frustrated.

"Oh, indeed, and much worse." Tarc slid across the deck of the bowpicker above him.

MacLeod knew it would be a grave tactical error to expose himself to Tarc by climbing up the scaffolding after him. He elected to wait him out. Unfortunately, this gave Tarc a captive audience.

"Where's your pet Watcher, MacLeod? Skulking behind the nets with the rest of the wharf rats?"

Skulking behind the nets, Joe swore to himself. It was torture seeing Tarc, and long buried memories were crushing him. Most painful were the crime scene pictures. Four bodies, or parts of bodies. Worse was the long, drawn-out hope, and then the despair when the fifth young boy was never found after Tarc disappeared. After Dawson had Tarc at his mercy. After Dawson let him go.

Then the box. Petey. That was his name. Petey's ears in the box.

"Do it, MacLeod," Joe prayed silently. "Get it done."

Duncan MacLeod was getting tired of waiting, and Tarc was obviously too in love with the sound of his own voice. When Tarc whirled around the stern of the boat, MacLeod moved.

Tarc was disconcerted. The Highlander had vanished. He circled the deck of the boat, searching the shadows below him. Nothing-- unless...? Something moved by the nets at the water's edge.

"You are hiding like a nosy, scheming Watcher, MacLeod!" Tarc said in an evil singsong. He gave a sharp wave to his hidden companion, who began to move in slowly. Then Tarc slipped quietly over the side of the boat and stalked the shadow at the nets. If it was the Highlander, he'd lead the Scot toward his hidden partner and toward the ambush. If it was Dawson...a delightful hostage!

MacLeod rolled out from below the keel of the boat, silently rising to his feet with a cougar's agility. He cut down the Immortal Tarc as he would a rabid dog. Tarc never heard the blade cleave the air, nor felt it part his neck, until he took another step and his head slid away from his body.

Dawson straightened, and came out from behind the nets, staring at the body.

Shocked and more than a little angered, MacLeod caught sight of him in that short moment of rationality before the Quickening struck, and tried to warn him off. Dawson was dangerously close, and the moisture from the storm could magnify the range of the electrical discharges. He should not have been here at all.

Dawson looked up at MacLeod's cry, and seemed to realize his danger. Yet, he continued to advance, his eyes fixed on something behind MacLeod's back. He utterly ignored MacLeod's second, more desperate warning.

MacLeod tried to move sideways, away from the unreckoning mortal, but fetched up against the side of another fishing boat, trapped. He now realized that Dawson was angling to get behind him...beyond him...too late, MacLeod felt the feather light touch of a Pre-Immortal. Tarc had not come alone.

Nor had he himself, MacLeod thought bitterly. Dawson had broken his word, and followed him to the docks.

Then the Quickening was upon him, and Dock 51 exploded.

* * * *

Tarc had not picked the sight for the duel exceedingly well. The marina was a floating fuel dump. The fishing boats carried not only diesel for their engines, but also propane to fire the galley stoves and sometimes even avgas to fuel spotter planes during herring runs.

Fingers of icy blue lightning from the Quickening skated along the rainslicked surface of the dock, hissing and popping, crawling up masts and down mooring lines. From there, it was a short arc to the volatile fumes that accumulated in the engine compartments and in the bilges of many of the fishing vessels.

Methos was running to catch up with Dawson when the concussion from an exploding refueling tank threw him onto his back. He landed hard on a pile of rusty anchor chain. He had been expecting the usual violence, but not this extended conflagration.

One by one, small fishing boats moored near the dock imploded, as fumes and fuel tanks ignited. The noise was deafening, like a series of sonic booms. Dry-docked boats and piles of netting lit up with gouts of St. Elmo's Fire.

Initially, Dawson was luckier than Methos. He was thrown into a pile of rotting netting that smelled of fish and seagull guano. Then the electricity played over his body, settling into his prostheses, sparking.

Any sounds he made were drowned in the explosions.

Like an automaton, the thin figure with the sword advanced through the carnage, past Dawson, toward MacLeod. Desperately Dawson worked to right himself and follow. He fought off the smaller shocks that continued to run through his lower torso. Where the hell was Methos?

Methos was ungluing himself from the scorching links of the anchor chain, swearing continuously in a number of dead languages. The Quickening was beginning to tail off. MacLeod would be at his most vulnerable. Methos did not want to contemplate what had happened to Dawson at the center of that storm.

Worse, a Quickening that size had probably been seen from Blackcomb to Mt. Bachelor, and the authorities would be here any minute. They probably thought a meteor had hit the small boat harbor.

The original floodlight had disintegrated, but the scene was lit by lambent sparking fires, up and down the Quay. By that light,

Methos saw the thin figure raise the sword and swing at Duncan MacLeod. He was too far away to do a thing.

The sword faltered in mid-swing as a bearish figure barreled into MacLeod's attacker. The stroke angled away from MacLeod's neck, and buried itself in MacLeod's chest, killing him instantly. The other two figures crashed to the ground atop Tarc's headless corpse.

Methos didn't waste any more time. As he ran toward the fight he sensed the faint aura of a Pre-Immortal. Tarc's pawn had gained the upper hand on Dawson, who was no longer fighting back. Instead, Dawson simply was simply staring at his opponent, ignoring the upraised sword and the beginning of a downward stroke. Methos assumed he'd been stunned in the fall. Methos was frankly amazed to see Dawson still alive.

The eldest Immortal cracked the assassin in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword, then grabbed the boy's descending weapon and directed it safely away. Dawson sat up, dazed, still staring at his young assailant.

"Joe," Methos said urgently. "Dawson! Come on, we've got to move. I can hear sirens. Can you walk?"

Dawson didn't respond.

"Joe!" Methos couldn't carry both Duncan and Dawson. He knew MacLeod would take some time to recover from both the Quickening and the slash through the chest that had killed him

"Joe, come on," Methos urged. "If we get away now, they'll blame this on the kid." Methos tugged the mortal to his feet. Miraculously, Dawson stood on his own, leaning on the kid's sword, an ancient Irish warrior-bard covered with the battle's blood.

"Hell...there's smoke coming out of your feet," Methos said, fascinated in spite of the circumstances.

Dawson didn't seem to notice.

"Look. Methos, look."

Methos shook his head in exasperation. Dawson was fixated on the little thug that had almost killed him. "Joe, you've got to understand. We have to go now! The cops will think you did this, the bloody way you look, and the kid will walk!"

"No. You look. You understand." Dawson grabbed Methos and forced him to see. "Look. No ears. It's Petey."

Methos looked. The rain had washed the medium long brown hair away from the youthful face. No ears. Then he took a longer look at Joe Dawson, and what he saw made his hackles rise. Joe Dawson might be in shock, crazed with grief, and barely mobile, but he was still in charge of this doomed expedition.

"Take MacLeod and go." Dawson spoke clearly now, calmly. "You can go over the wharf into the water. The police cordon will cut off the car. You can swim around it and come up on the parking lot from behind, pretending to be curious bystanders. If I could carry Petey, I'd... Never mind, I'd sink like a stone, and I couldn't hold the boy up."

Methos tried again. "Leave him. You can hide on the wharf. There are a million boats here. They won't search them all, not with a nice suspect on hand."

Dawson shook his head. "I'd probably die of exposure before the cops cleared out. And I can't leave him. This wasn't Petey's fault."

Methos heard the unspoken self-condemnation, but he didn't have any more time to argue with the hell-bent mortal. The sirens were getting closer.

In the end, Methos did as Dawson asked. He simply didn't have a better plan. There was no point in them all getting arrested. And ten minutes later, when MacLeod revived in the freezing water of the Sound, and Methos explained what had happened, he let MacLeod drown him with hardly any struggle at all.

When Methos revived, much later, he was floating face up in the frigid Sound, with the rain beating down on his face. The vision of Dawson standing over his lost, destroyed Petey still haunted him. If MacLeod hadn't kept hold of his collar, he would have gone out with the tide.

* * * *

The first two patrolmen on the scene caught sight of the blood- covered perp leaning on the sword over two bodies, one clearly very dead. They approached cautiously, with guns drawn. Clearly they were dealing with a major loon. "Drop the weapon!" the older cop commanded.

The suspect looked confused for a second, then hoisted the sword, looking at if as if seeing it for the first time. He swayed. Drunk, or drugged, in all probability, the veteran cop assumed, and therefore dangerous. "I said, drop the weapon!"

"You seen my cane anywhere?" the suspect said randomly, with unnerving calm.

The policemen tensed as the suspect lurched unexpectedly, waving the sword in half-circle before grounding the tip in front of him, and leaning forward hard on the pommel, closing his eyes. The veteran cop and his quick young partner took the opportunity, lowering their weapons and joyfully gang-tackling the suspect. They wouldn't have to file a shooting report on this arrest.

"Talk about being caught red-handed!" the young one joked shallowly, as they cuffed him. The older cop just calmly fished a card from his pocket and read the prisoner his rights.

The prisoner didn't say a word as he was dragged to the patrol car and transported to the county lockup. Not a word.

* * * *

Joe Dawson lay in the back of the squad car, trying to take stock. He kept coming up short on inventory. The cold, rainsoaked coat he wore no longer held heat; in fact, it was a barrier between him and the car heater warming the cop in the front seat. Chills racked his body, and his arms were going numb, trapped behind him by the handcuffs. His fingers were disembodied sausages. He thought he'd never feather a guitar string again.

The cold had its advantages. It dulled the pain caused by the electrical charges that had passed through his prostheses. Maybe the burns weren't that serious. Maybe he could have made the attempt to escape with Methos and the Highlander. Wet as he was, a dunking in the Sound wouldn't have made much difference. Dawson laughed at himself. Maybe Elvis lives.

Dawson sighed as he remembered Petey being loaded carefully into the rescue van. At least the kid was still alive, not killed all those years ago, when the young and dumb Watcher had lost him. What would Petey say when he woke up? If he woke up? If he died...what then?

Of all the children Tarc had taken over the years, he had kept only a few select pre-Immortals for his 'mentoring.' None of those who had survived had turned out...well. Dawson felt sick at the implications. Petey had to be pre-Immortal, and Tarc had trained him.

If the kid came forward and told some of the truth, Dawson might have a chance for freedom. Petey could tell of Tarc being killed in a fight by another man, while he and Dawson had watched. It was fairly close to the truth. No need to identify MacLeod. Dawson had just been trying to get Petey away from the monster. That was rather more of a stretch--an outright lie, really. Dawson hadn't known Petey was there.

Dawson doubted his own ability to maintain such a fiction. He had become adept at concealing secrets over the years, but he had no talent or taste for outright lying. Methos could catch him out every time, just by reading his face. MacLeod was easier to deceive, if only because he expected his friends to act honorably and truthfully. Misleading MacLeod at the bar about his intent to follow him tonight had cost Dawson a large portion of his self-respect. MacLeod would be awfully angry and disappointed in him. He had a right to be.

If Petey just stuck to the truth, he'd be all right. He was the victim in this case. Someday, his testimony might even help clear Dawson, if Petey remembered the old times they had together on the porch, playing the music....

Someday in Hell. Dawson had looked into the boy's eyes when Petey had been starting the downstroke of his sword toward Joe's neck. He was the same boy who had once sat on Joe's porch, quietly humming along to the blues. There had been recognition in Petey's eyes--recognition, but no mercy. Just blame and hate, sown by Tarc.

Dawson berated himself for being hypocritical. He had wanted to kill Tarc. He had urged MacLeod and Methos into his own personal vendetta. Tarc spread hate like the Ebola virus. Petey might be a victim, here, but Dawson wasn't. He was as guilty as sin, maybe not of killing Tarc, but of conspiring in his death.

Joe shook his cold-fogged head. Maybe hypothermia was making him stupid. No. He'd broken the Stupid Barrier and gone on to new heights of idiocy previously unknown to Man or Immortal long before the shivers had set in.

Joe shifted in his seat and tried to test his prostheses. Locked. The ankles and knees had fused as they cooled. The rusted up Tin Man had nothing on him.

The second patrolman riding in the front seat was examining Petey's sword wrapped in some transparent plastic. "Hey, Tommy, there's no blood on this thing," he commented.

Joe laughed to himself. Now he notices. Too bad they hadn't seen that before they made like the Seahawks secondary in a pass rush. On the other hand, given the Seahawks record last year, being tackled by the whole football team wouldn't have hurt as much.

"Way to observe, Sherlock," the older cop said with easy sarcasm. "With this rain, it's washed clean off. Doesn't matter-- forensics will pick up traces, and it's covered with his fingerprints. This guy is toast." The cop flicked a disdainful, righteous look at Dawson in the rear-view mirror.

They need to prove Means, Opportunity, and Motive, Dawson thought. He was there at the scene--opportunity. The sword filled in the square for means. Once they identified Petey and Tarc and tied Joe to the disappearance case all those years back, the prosecutor would spawn a whole list of motives.

No matter that it wasn't the right sword--Dawson doubted they had access to the swordly equivalent of a ballistics lab.

Jail was not going to be fun, Dawson thought blackly, but given the way he had fouled up, busting both Watcher and Immortal codes of conduct, not to mention scoffing at numerous Federal and state statutes and laws, it was probably no better than he deserved.

'The cop is right,' Joe thought, staring at his fused prosthetics. A tiny tendril of smoke spiraled out of the melted plastic at his left ankle. 'I'm toast.'

* * * *

"Come on, MacLeod, we don't have much time before the Watchers twig to Joe's arrest. They'll be down on this place like the locusts on Egypt." Methos, who was also Adam Pierson, former Watcher, rifled Joe Dawson's private office, throwing certain folders, books and zip discs into a satchel. "I could use some help here," he said in exasperation to MacLeod.

"It's Watcher trivia. Leave it to them," MacLeod snarled. He was not in a very good mood.

"Oh, no. Not the raw data. I've seen Joe's notes...remember? I was a researcher. While his finished reports are nicely edited, his private chronicles are very comprehensive. He keeps everything."

"Everything?" For the first time, MacLeod sounded interested, though a bit doubtful.

"_Everything,_" Methos said cheerfully, though not entirely truthfully. "You remember the night you and Amanda did the nasty tango at Joe's Bar? Remember the pomegranate? Remember ending up in the kit...?"

"Alright, alright," MacLeod interrupted, feeling vaguely betrayed. He knew it was Dawson's vocation to Watch, but some things shouldn't be written down about one's friends where they could be accessed by one's enemies. Of course, that was Methos' point. The search for data caches was considerably expedited. Belatedly, MacLeod realized that ensuring the safekeeping of Dawson's life's work might be the largest favor he could do for the Watcher at this time.

In the background, a small TV showed the local KING TV news anchor standing in the rain at the docks. Flames from burning boats were backlighting his broadcast. "And now, exclusive footage of the arrest made earlier this morning by Seacouver Police."

Both Immortals paused to watch. Top Cops, in action. MacLeod cringed as Dawson was blindsided and thrown to the ground, roughly searched, and dragged away to a cruiser.

MacLeod rounded on Methos. "You could have left me, and saved Joe. No matter what he said."

Some video freak with a police band must have been very, very fast on the uptake, Methos thought. He knew they had been lucky the camera angle hadn't picked up MacLeod and him falling into the Sound. "Right, and have you revive in front of an army of cops and rescue workers?" Methos said aggrievedly. MacLeod just wouldn't leave it alone.

"Better than abandoning Joe to the police!"

"Is it? In the long run? You'd advertise the existence of Immortals to the whole country, via the Seacouver Super Station?"

"In the short run, you've left him facing a life in jail. He should have listened to me, and stayed out of it."

"In the even shorter run, if I'd dragged him into the Sound and held him up out of the water until we reached the outer cordon-- like I did for you--he would be dead," Methos stated coldly. He pointed at the TV where the videotape was being rerun. "Look at him, swaying there like a tree in a high wind, waving that sword around to try and catch his balance. He's in shock. Electrocuted. Probably burned. Melted plastic was running out of the place where we keep our ankles." Methos turned back to MacLeod. "He saved your life on pure adrenaline. You might take a little step back and appreciate that fact. If he hadn't been there, you wouldn't be _here_."

The hell of it was, MacLeod did appreciate the fact. He just didn't believe that Dawson should have had to sacrifice his freedom in return. He certainly didn't appreciate being lectured by Methos on the finer points of fraternal loyalty.

"If he hadn't been there, Tarc wouldn't have been distracted, and the fight would have gone normally." MacLeod spoke with a warrior's confidence that the inevitable result would have been Tarc's death either way.

"And the kid would still have killed you," Methos reiterated.

"You can't know that. And even if he had, it was still a part of the Game," MacLeod said angrily. "It wasn't Joe's place to interfere. I trusted him. He broke his word." But MacLeod was mainly angry with himself. He hadn't understood the depths of Dawson's need to Watch this fight.

"You overethical oaf," Methos said, as he returned to his packing. "He had his reasons, and not all of them revolve around you and your hero complex." Methos shook his head. "And then that child reappears from the grave and emotionally guts him...Joe couldn't bring himself to abandon him again."

"Who?" MacLeod demanded, frantic with aggravated ignorance complicated by mounting concern for Dawson. "Tarc's little assassin? What does he have to do with Joe?"

"His name is Petey. I'll tell you everything--back at my place. Let's move before the Watchers or the police corner us."

MacLeod showed no signs of moving. His heels were firmly dug in.

Methos sighed and swore mentally at the stubborn Scot. "Think of it this way, MacLeod," Methos said reasonably. "Dawson may be in jail, but he's at least fed, warm, and has access to medical attention. He'll also have the time to sit back and reflect on the errors of his ways--mainly, that he ever got himself involved with the likes of us. That's what you want, isn't it?"

MacLeod clamped his teeth on his reply. This wasn't the time or the place to argue about what he wanted.

Methos checked the room from the door, then reentered and pulled an antique Dobro guitar from the wall. When he plucked a string, it gave a seriously sour note. "Not like Joe, at all...," Methos whispered. "I know Joe keeps all his backup files in a microfilm cache. This may be it. I've never seen him play this."

MacLeod pulled another guitar, a superbly maintained Gibson Hummingbird, from a stand near Dawson's desk. Carefully, he laid it in its case and carried it to the door.

"There won't be anything in that, MacLeod," Methos objected. "He plays it all the time."

"Yes. He plays it all the time," MacLeod echoed softly. He slung it over his shoulder. "He'll need it more than ever, now."

Methos had no reply to that. They left the ransacked office. Thirty seconds later, Methos returned to the office to snatch up the case that held Dawson's acoustic 12-string. He glared at MacLeod's bemused look. "Well, unless you plan on packing out a monitor and amp, this one will do him a hell of a lot more good in his current accommodations," Methos said defensively.

Together, they ducked out the back entrance and jumped off the loading dock. Ridiculously overloaded with two guitars and a bag and his sword, Methos led the way up the alley. MacLeod allowed himself a small smile over the ancient's grudging sentiment, and followed.

Five short minutes later, a vanload of Watchers arrived at the rear entrance. They broke in the door and headed straight for the office.

Ten minutes after that, a squad of police executing a search warrant on another matter, a possible homicide on the docks, arrested them for breaking and entering.

Joseph Dawson would have company.

* * * *

Dawson had been through it before, but the second time around didn't make it any easier.

Dawson set his teeth against the humiliation of the booking process. He endured fingerprints, pictures, blood and Breathalyzer tests, and being searched. Having to go through the process handcuffed to a wheelchair made it seem somehow surreal. His body seemed to be betraying him, reacting slowly and shivering uncontrollably.

His current guardian was a snippy, officious sergeant who incuriously and professionally processed the prisoner. His partner was an ex-street cop, older than his years. Dawson thought he looked like a burnout case cruising down those last months to retirement in a series of safe station jobs.

To these two veterans, Joe Dawson was just an object on an assembly line leading to the cells. The older man's nametag read Riordan. A fellow Celt. "Failte Chreidheile," Dawson muttered. He remembered the phrase from a woodcut on his mother's mantel. She had said it meant "Welcome Irish Friends." Dawson shook his head. His synapses were beginning to fire strangely.

"What are you doing?" asked Riordan, as the snippy one bent over Dawson.

"Gotta get those fake legs off him. No telling what's hidden in 'em, Riordan. You wouldn't believe what I've seen come through here over the years."

"Yeah, right. He might even whip one off, bust our heads, and escape," Riordan laughed.

Dawson seethed. He would need a lot of angry energy to get through this next step. Peripherally, he noticed the policeman had stopped laughing.

Joe Dawson's anger was insufficient to overcome the wave of agony as the straps and limbs were pulled away. "Jees, that must hurt," Riordan said, not unsympathetically. "What happened to him?"

"Who knows? They don't send them down with instruction sheets; probably some flaky masochist. We get all flavors down here."

Joe cussed them out in low, even iambic pentameter, even while trying to crane his neck to survey the damage. First and second degree burns, scrapes and bruises. Nothing fatal, worse luck. He gritted his teeth, sick and dizzy.

"What do we do with him?" Riordan asked. "It looks like he could use some Bactine or something."

Against his better judgement, Dawson had to laugh.

The two guards looked at him, hearing something in the sound that made Joe Dawson human to them, for the barest instant. Then the officious little sergeant regained his place in the scheme of his universe, and picked up his list, making one last tick. "We'll fill out the forms, pour him into a jumpsuit and send him back to the dicks in homicide. It's their call."

Riordan nodded, complying with a peculiarly gentle reluctance. He moved slowly as he pushed the wheelchair down the corridor to the lift. "Finish the paperwork and pass the buck," the cop growled. In the stark light of the lift, he took a long careful look at his prisoner.

Dawson took a deep breath and tried to rebuild the cranky, defiant shell of anger and disinterest that had carried him this far.

"The hell with the dicks and the paperpushers," Riordan said suddenly. "We're taking the scenic route. By the infirmary."

This little bit of kindness left Joe Dawson nearly undone.

* * * *

Methos led MacLeod just up the street, away from the bar, to an old Victorian house. Once elegant, the house had been neglected when the neighborhood had been rezoned into a light industrial and commercial 'improvement district'. They entered the foyer, and Methos waved at a shadowy figure lurking in the darkened sitting room to the right. "My housesitter," Methos explained. The housesitter replaced his silenced Ruger automatic and relaxed in the seat by the drafty bay windows.

They climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor. Duncan tested the spongy give on one narrow, noisy step near the stairtop, and raised an eyebrow.

Methos said casually, "Security system augmentation." As they entered the room overlooking the street, Methos dumped the Watcher records onto a bed already overflowing with computer printouts, faxes and cassettes.

"Like hiding sand on a beach," Duncan muttered, regarding the mess.

Methos reached out and took the Gibson from MacLeod, laying it carefully away with the 12-string on a wide bookshelf. He leaned the Dobro against the computer hutch in the corner.

Methos withdrew a long thin object from under his coat.

Reflexively, MacLeod stepped back.

Methos smiled wryly at MacLeod's reaction, and set down Joe Dawson's cane next to the Dobro. "I found it on the edge of the wharf. It must have been blown there by the Quickening. Joe will want it back."

MacLeod moved to the window and carefully looked past the heavy drapes that prevented the room's lights from being seen from the street. "Nice view," he commented. All the entrances to Joe's Bar were clearly visible from this height. The lights from three police cars lit up the service alley.

"Indeed. My agents have had some very generous offers," Methos said ingenuously.

"Watchers or Hunters?" MacLeod asked.

"Both, I expect," Methos replied.

MacLeod left the window and turned to face the old Immortal. "How long have you been spying on Joe?"

"A man needs a hobby, MacLeod." Methos took the phone and dialed. At MacLeod's upraised eyebrow, he explained. "Joe is in dire need of legal advice, at this point. I know a lawyer who is familiar with some of our special circumstances."

"Joe's not one of us," MacLeod pointed out. "Nor does he like being identified as a Watcher to every stray Immortal that comes down the pike."

"Murabi wouldn't be particularly thrilled about Watchers twigging to his identity either. If they don't get along, Joe will have to depend on some noninitiate public defender, or a lawyer from the Watchers. They don't necessarily have Joe's best interests at heart."

"And this Murabi does?" MacLeod asked skeptically.

"He's one of the fairest men I know, within his own strict code," Methos answered. "Right up there with you. And with Joe."

The lawyer came on the line, interrupting Methos before he could clarify his statement. The conversation was short, the lawyer asking a few questions, and Methos volunteering only a very truncated version of events. "Just make sure that Dawson is checked out medically. The last I saw, he was out on his feet-- so to speak. When and where can we meet? I don't want to go over the particulars over an open phone. Remember, both you and he have a vested interest in protecting the Game."

Methos listened, frowning slightly. "He doesn't know about you, no, but when he finds out, he'll respect your privacy, if you ask. He's unWatcherlike, that way." Methos listened again. "You won't have to tell him. Give him two legitimate clues and he'll tell you who you are inside an hour. Double or nothing on your fee."

Methos rubbed his fingers, winking at MacLeod. The bet was on. Then his tone turned serious. "If you can, set yourself up as Petey's lawyer, too, and get him to keep his mouth shut. We want him with us, not against us."

MacLeod waited with exaggerated patience until Methos hung up the phone. "Tell me," he said menacingly.

Methos sighed. "Sit down, and I'll get us a beer or eight. This may take awhile."

MacLeod leaned back in the deep comfortable armchair near the window, regularly reconnoitering the activity down the street. The chair was placed perfectly to allow one to see without being seen.

Methos slouched at his computer console, absently fingering the neck of the Dobro as he talked. "This all started some years ago, a bit after I rejoined the Watchers. Joe Dawson was a younger, more idealistic soldier to the Cause back then. He had already started to coordinate your case files as his main subject, though he still took temporary field assignments to cover other Immortals that entered his territory.

"Tarc entered his territory. Dawson Watched him. You have heard, of course, through our own Immortal grapevine, of Tarc's disgusting proclivity for kidnapping Pre-Immortals and training them for his own...purposes. He often kept more than one--a fact the Watchers were unaware of at the time, for Tarc was very careful."

Methos stopped to sip his beer, but the subject matter ruined the taste. He drank anyway. "As I said, Tarc was careful. Watcher Dawson, however, was very, very good."

Duncan MacLeod nearly objected. Joe Dawson had become such a large part of his life that he could hardly imagine Tarc overlooking the extraordinary man. Yet before Darius had left the clues to Dawson's surveillance, MacLeod had been just as oblivious to his presence.

Methos continued. "Dawson got close enough to witness Tarc put one of his charges to death, closely followed by a second, final death and Quickening. You can imagine his feelings, probably better than I."

MacLeod closed his eyes in sympathy and horror. "Joe wouldn't just stand there...he couldn't...."

"He didn't," Methos acknowledged. "Dawson can do an amazing number of things, but moving quickly from one point to another is not one of them. He could not save the child. For one terrible moment, he had the murderer helpless to defend himself before him. He could have thrown over his Watcher Oath. He could have intervened. He could have killed Tarc."

Methos looked at the Highlander, wondering what course of action that Dawson could have taken that could possibly have met with the judgmental Scot's approval. "Then the opportunity was gone. Tarc recovered, laughed in Dawson's face, and deliberately turned his back on the Watcher and walked away. As you can imagine, Dawson was rather upset about the matter," Methos said dryly. "The incident must have rattled Tarc also. He followed Dawson home."

"How do you know all this to be true?"

"I was a researcher for the Watchers. Their confidential files were my secret garden. It's all in the transcript that Joe submitted to the inquiry on the case. I ran across it when I was looking up... but that isn't germane. You want the quick and dirty version of this story." Methos had another reason to stop. There were many parts of this story that were only Joseph Dawson's to tell. MacLeod would have to earn that confidence himself from their reticent friend. MacLeod probably would, someday, which was rather more than Methos had done when he snooped in Dawson's private files.

Methos changed his tone from reminiscent to businesslike. "Joe Dawson was very nearly drummed out of the Watchers then and there, just for attempting the rescue, and revealing himself to Tarc. They allowed him to stay, in part due to the influence of his brother-in-law, a rising star in the organization. You remember him?" Methos added brightly.

"Horton," MacLeod said blackly. "But where does this little henchman of Tarc's come in, the one Joe calls Petey?"

"I'm getting there." Methos deliberately finished his beer, and reached over to crack another one. His next words made MacLeod bristle.

"Tarc started stalking Dawson. It was easier, then--Joe was not so insular, not so cocooned by his bar and his research. He lived in an ordinary little house in an ordinary little neighborhood. The phrase 'ticky-tacky' comes to mind. He even had a little deck, where he would sometimes sit and play his guitar for the neighbors and blues buffs. He'd teach them chords and some rasty old blues tunes. He had a lot of time to play out there while he waited out the suspension issued by the Watcher Board of Inquiry."

MacLeod grumbled a short invective. He still didn't fully understand Dawson's loyalty to the group. At one moment they would lay down their lives for Dawson, sacrificing themselves in the fatalistic manner of their order. The next moment they would turn on him. They were going to harry the man to death with their conflicting morals, rules and dire oaths. How could they punish the man for trying to do the right, good thing? Had they no sense of justice?

"A new kid, Petey, started coming around, and seemed captured by the music like a born bluesman, for all his ten young years. Dawson was really taken with him.

"The kid was dead shy, and rarely talked, but the music called to him. Joe Dawson was suspended from the Watchers, but he was still a quick observer of human nature. This boy had him both fascinated and worried. Petey often stayed too late, beyond the time most parents would have called in their kids. Sometimes Joe had to shoo him off before dark set in.

"Dawson was concerned. One night he confronted the lad, trying to find out who his parents were, where he lived, trying to coax out whatever problems were bothering the boy. He even threatened to cut off the sessions until he met his parents and got some sort of reassurance the kid wasn't wandering the street late at night, neglected.

"The threat backfired. The kid disappeared into the night. Dawson never saw him again. Except..." Methos stopped, gauging MacLeod's reaction to his final words, "...except for the contents of the package that Tarc sent him later that week, containing Petey's ears."

MacLeod closed his eyes against the picture. "Joe must have been devastated."

"Utterly," Methos agreed. "There's more, unfortunately. Dawson got permission to gather a group of Watchers to flush out Tarc and expose him to the police. Tarc was apparently expanding his attentions to seemingly mortal kids like Petey, and while the Watchers wouldn't eliminate the stalker, they weren't above maneuvering the police into a position to capture Tarc.

"There are some precedents in Watcher history. While they are pledged to never interfere, that stricture has been stretched in the past when Immortals meddled overmuch with mortals; that business with the Mad Monk in Russia, for instance. You saw the Watcher reaction to Kalas and Galati."

MacLeod was somewhat disturbed by this revelation, even while wondering what Rasputin had to do with the current debacle. "So the formation of the Hunter groups had some precedents. How hypocritical of the Watchers," he said sourly. "I don't know how Dawson could--"

"They're human, MacLeod," Methos interrupted, "and short-lived humans at that. Don't expect consistency. Remember, you are the one who was wondering how Joe could just stand by and let Tarc operate. Dawson had a moral dilemma. He dealt with it the best he could. He just didn't have the tools to resolve the matter. Not then."

Methos pressed on. "Tarc left the Northwest Territory before the cops could close the net. Dawson could not get any more information on Tarc, though he sent regular inquiries out for years. His task force was reassigned. He retreated into researching your Chronicles and buried himself in that bookstore job where you found him years later."

MacLeod sat for a long time, thinking about the tale that Methos had spun. Suddenly he frowned. "There's no way that you got all that information from a Watcher Inquiry transcript. It had to come from direct field notes."

Methos applauded. "You get the Gold Star, MacLeod. Field notes that Joe's superiors were careful to make sure he never saw. There was another Watcher assigned to Tarc after Joe's near intervention. He Watched as Tarc sent his agent in to spy on Joe Dawson; Petey, the brightest of his little band of Pre-Immortals. Joe never knew. Not until Petey tried to kill him tonight on the docks."

MacLeod sat for a long time, pondering the story. "Joe felt responsible for the child's injury and loss," he said softly.

"Joe thought Petey was dead," Methos said bluntly. "The man has an alarming capacity for assuming guilt for events beyond his control." Under his breath, he added to himself, "Like someone else I know."

MacLeod was bothered by another point. "Why were you digging into Joe's background like this? He couldn't have given you permission to rifle his personal files--"

Methos snorted. "Permission. Hardly. It came up because of a parallel assignment. Joe asked me to pull up what information I could on the formation of the Hunter splinter group, in order to trace down likely members. You remember how anxious he was to purge the Watchers of the Hunter influence. I think I found more than he ever intended."

"You found it? The start of the Hunters? Horton, wasn't it?"

Methos looked away. "Eventually...but not initially. Horton transformed the nucleus of an already existing Watcher group into the Hunters; the task force sent to harass Tarc. Horton didn't start the Hunters."

MacLeod looked at him, still puzzled.

Methos said quietly, "Joe Dawson did."

* * * *

The infirmary attendant noted the new prisoner's symptoms as he treated the unusual burn injuries and wrote them up in his charts. Cold sweats, goose bumps, a slow and disconnected response to his questions. Shocky, and hypothermic to boot; not a good combination. He assigned the prisoner a bed in his small ward to keep him under observation.

His decision probably saved Joe Dawson's life. Scattered in the cells below were half a dozen Watchers who had been thwarted in their attempt to confiscate Dawson's chronicles. They were _really_ not very happy.

* * * *

"How long have you been spying on Joe?" MacLeod asked again.

Methos studied the Highlander carefully before replying, "Not quite as long as he has been spying on us. Turnabout's fair play, don't you think?"

"Why?" MacLeod pressed, mistrusting the older Immortal's motives.

Methos was silent for a moment.

MacLeod eyed him suspiciously. Methos was either marshalling his arguments or--more likely--inventing a cover.

Finally, Methos said, "When Dawson stepped out to confront Tarc, he entered the Game, whether he meant to or not. He entered the very Chronicles that he was charged to keep. As the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle states, if you get too close to the subject of your observation, you begin to affect its behavior.

"Dawson gets very close to his subjects," Methos added dryly. "Think about it, MacLeod. After Tarc, Dawson could all too easily have kept on hunting. We should thank whichever deity is in charge this millennia that he had such a paragon of virtue as yourself to Watch over in those years. It surely helped him balance the evil he saw in Tarc, and the evil he saw done to Petey."

"Dawson and Horton working together...." MacLeod remembered a dark time when he had accused Dawson of that very suspicion. He and Dawson had come a long way together since then, over some rough roads.

"The mind boggles," Methos said blithely. "That's why I keep an eye on him. Personally, I find an unscrupulous Horton a lot less dangerous than a scrupulous Dawson. When Joe is cornered, he can become a very risky customer, indeed."

* * * *

Joe Dawson woke the next morning confused and cold, and the final fringes of a familiar nightmare involving explosions and hospitals left him shaking. Slowly, he gathered himself, letting a spark of anger grow and burn until he almost felt warm. He'd been stupid, and he had let himself get caught. Seeing Petey on the dock had thrown him badly. But Petey was alive, and Joe was alive, and Tarc was dead. It was time to cast around for a strategy to minimize the damage.

It was definitely time to stop feeling sorry for himself.

* * * *

While he was in the infirmary, Joe Dawson had his first visitor.

Dawson was expecting a pair of curious detectives, but instead, the visitor was a spare, regally dignified man with a chiseled, ageless face and Mediterranean features.

The man introduced himself. "My name is Murabi. Vahid Murabi. I am here in my capacity as a lawyer."

"A lawyer." Joe Dawson hadn't had much truck with lawyers through the years. He'd be hip deep in them now.

The lawyer noted Dawson's aggrieved expression without taking offense. He merely continued, "I have had occasion to represent Adam Pierson in various matters...over the years. He informs me that you, too, have...watched over various interests that have concerned him in more recent times."

"Given Dr. Pierson's talent for mischief, you must be a very good lawyer, indeed," Dawson said carefully, now paying close attention to the man. "Nevertheless, I suspect I can't afford you."

"Please do not concern yourself over funds." The man's voice was calm, reassuring, competent. "Dr. Pierson and I have exchanged favors and silver over some time."

"That's what I was afraid of." Dawson smiled wryly. An Immortal, old as the hills, almost as old as Methos himself. How did the Watchers miss this one? The lawyer was apparently as well informed as Methos on the history of the Watchers. What sort of influence did Methos have with him? And why would he reveal himself as an Immortal to Joe Dawson now? Murabi--that name had a familiar ring. Oddly, the lawyer's classical features struck an even deeper chord of recognition.

The historian in Dawson worried at the problem. Murat Bey? The Egyptian Mamaluke chieftain had supposedly died of the plague in 1801. Murad V? No, while the Turkish sultan had died in his sixties, shunned and disgraced for his liberal tendencies in a conservative sultanate, he had lived in the era of the gold standard. Not silver. "Vahid Murabi...Vah..." The Watcher's eyes widened in recognition and awe. "Amraphel...Hammurabi the King?" he breathed in wonder.

The lawyer frowned at his client, nettled. "Methos did say you were both learned and observant," he said tartly. "I will thank you to be discreet." Methos had given the Watcher sixty minutes. Dawson had hit it in two.

"No problem." Dawson was uncharacteristically flustered. It wasn't often one met a 3800-year-old Babylonian king. "I doubt that even the Watchers would believe I had the author of the Code of Hammurabi standing for my defense."

"Let's not give them the chance, shall we? I do value my privacy." Murabi stared intently at the mortal. "If I may ask, how did you arrive at your conclusion?" And so quickly, he added to himself.

Dawson thought for a moment, trying to pull together a logical explanation for his small epiphany. "Babylonian currency was based on a silver standard. There was something in the cadence of your pronunciation of "Murabi". Mainly, I've seen the stone on which your Code is carved, as well as your profile. The likeness is astonishing."

Murabi snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a yellow legal pad. "Let's get on to the problem at hand. After meeting you, I am afraid that I must discard any thoughts of using a defense based upon 'diminished capacity'."

Joe laughed until it hurt. It didn't take long. "All this, and a sense of humor, too."

Noting the fleeting spasm of pain on Dawson's face, Murabi asked gravely, "How badly are you injured?" He had already seen the doctor's chart.

Dawson waved away the inquiry. "Nothing wrong that a good night's sleep didn't cure," Dawson said, even while stretching and clenching the still swollen fingers of his right hand.

Rank pride, thought the lawyer. "It would be in your best interests to recover...slowly," he said, probing. "You are marginally safer here in the infirmary. There are Watchers in the cells below."

"Ahhh..." It was a sigh of grievous regret. Dawson had spent most of his adult life with the Watchers. Expulsion was the best he could hope for from the organization. Assassination was a very real possibility. Nevertheless, he felt oddly compelled to defend his colleagues to this Immortal. "They won't do anything without orders, unless they think I'm going to betray Watcher secrets to the police. They won't help me, but they shouldn't hurt me."

Murabi seemed less than convinced. "You cannot control what they think."

"All too true." All too depressing to dwell upon.

"I have spoken with Dr. Pierson and Mr. MacLeod. They are very concerned for you. They are also divided as to the proper course your defense should take," Murabi said.

"I thought you were in charge of my defense," Joe said cautiously, realizing that the lawyer hadn't yet totally committed himself to the case.

The lawyer allowed himself a small smile. "Good. We understand each other." Murabi's smile evaporated. "Mr. MacLeod is being troublesome. He may insist upon turning himself in for the crime," Murabi added, carefully watching Dawson's reaction.

"He can't," Dawson said shortly. "He'd be a sitting duck. With the publicity this case will get, Hunters will flock upon the jail. He'd be unarmed. I can't let that happen." Dawson was ignoring the fact that he was in virtually the same position in relation to the Watcher Organization.

"Yes. I see we understand each other very well." Murabi paused in thought, then continued. "Given the opportunity, would you be able to discourage MacLeod from taking this course of action? I must warn you that it may limit some of the options in your defense."

"You bet," Dawson said. He had already thought out MacLeod's probable reaction to the situation. It was going to be very difficult to discourage the determined Scot, and Dawson suspected it would cost them both some emotional coinage.

"Very well." Murabi turned toward the infirmary offices. "I will get him."

"You mean he's here? How? They haven't even let the detectives in to interview me yet." Dawson was not expecting such a quick confrontation, nor was he ready.

Murabi looked a touch embarrassed. "Dr. Pierson, ah...acquired... some papers identifying MacLeod as one of my colleagues. He has arranged a similar passport for himself, as your medical adviser. Theoretically, I am bringing Dr. Pierson in to insure your proper care here, and investigate the possibility of excessive force being used in your arrest. The videotapes of your capture were rather graphic, and the mayor has received complaints." Murabi did not add that a fair number of those complaints had been called in by the morning staff at Joe's Bar.

"For now, he is watching from the observation port," Murabi said, nodding to the one way glass overlooking the ward. "He will be sure we are not overheard. You may talk freely with MacLeod."

"Lousy security here," Dawson said disparagingly.

"The core of our problem," Murabi agreed.

* * * *

Murabi stayed to observe the interview. It was not going well.

It had been a happy reunion, at first, given the circumstances. Dawson's eyes had glowed when MacLeod had laid the guitar beside him on the bed. MacLeod reassured the historian that his private files were in Methos' eyrie, and therefore safe from both Watchers and police. Methos, as Adam Pierson, had already delivered Dawson's official files and hardcover Chronicles to the regional Watcher archive, partially appeasing the local hounds.

Relations between Watcher and Immortal began to degenerate when MacLeod began to outline his plan to replace Dawson in jail. Dawson would have none of it. MacLeod would not give it up.

"Spare me the Sydney Carton act, MacLeod," Dawson was saying, with angry sarcasm. " '...'tis a far, far better thing than I have ever done before....' "

"Joe, don't joke." MacLeod was embarrassed, and getting angry. It did not help that Methos had said much the same thing earlier, in much the same tone.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Dawson's tone was savage. "Let's say you play the hero and turn yourself in, confessing to my crime. All of Horton's surviving headhunters in the world will be applying to this fine institution for employment as guards, support staff, even administration. Some of them will get in. One of them will get to you.

"Let's even assume, for the sake of argument, that you fight off all your opponents with your usual Scots flair and panache. After the trial you conveniently temporarily kill yourself, and escape in the coroner's van. Do you know where I'll be?"

MacLeod shook his head, silenced by Dawson's dual attack on the Highlander's logic and ego.

"Right here, Mac. Right here." Dawson's voice changed, as anger was replaced by something colder. "Conspiracy carries the same big ticket as murder in this country, MacLeod. They're not going to let me go just on your say-so. Right, counselor?"

MacLeod shot a look at Murabi, who nodded. "The circumstantial evidence is damaging."

"Then I'll refute it!" MacLeod wouldn't back down. "I can't abide the thought of you rotting in jail for something that I did, Joe. Not if there's an outside chance to take your place."

Joe Dawson paused to marshal his final arguments. This was not going to be easy. He started quietly. "You are an Immortal, MacLeod. I am not. A thousand years from now, I'll only be a blurred memory, and that only if you survive. You might remember me in the taste of an aged whisky. A late night conversation. A riff of music...." Against his will, his eyes strayed to his guitar. MacLeod had tried to bring him his music.

Dawson looked away, steeling himself. Then he pinned the Highlander with his gaze, and said the unforgivable. "You couldn't save Darius. You couldn't save Tessa. You couldn't save DeSalvo or Galati, after I...after I betrayed them." Dawson transmuted the guilt that flared in his own heart into a tone of withering contempt. He launched into a litany of names. He was a Watcher; he knew them all. "Sean Zales, Little Deer, Debra Campbell..."

"Stop!" MacLeod hissed, rising to tower over Dawson, settling back on his heels only when Murabi laid a firm hand on his shoulder. The lawyer's eyes were also sparking with anger.

Dawson did not stop. "You couldn't save Richie. And you Can't. Save. Me. Get over it. You are an Immortal. There can be only One."

"That was evilly said, Joe." Hurt and inchoate rage clouded MacLeod's voice, making it sound foreign to his own ears.

Dawson had nothing to say to that. In the privacy of his own mind, he agreed. MacLeod would remember him when he remembered Horton, Cord, and Pallin Wolf. Despite his best intentions, evil had touched MacLeod through Dawson's associations with these men.

Angered beyond logic, MacLeod retaliated. "When Methos told me that you started the Hunters, I didn't want to believe him. I didn't want to believe you could do something like that, not even to hunt down Tarc. Now I believe." MacLeod spun on his heel, turning his back on Dawson, and left. Tarc's ghostly remnant gibbered in a small corner of his brain, pleased.

"What...?" Dawson gazed after him, disgusted with himself and puzzled and worried by MacLeod's last comments. Maybe Methos could clear it up. He shook his head, suddenly exhausted. "Maybe, down the road, all he'll remember is a bar of music, or so." He closed his eyes.

Quietly, he let MacLeod's last words replay in his mind. There was something wrong there, besides the words themselves. The tone, the 'tune' was off to his musician's ear; yet it was familiar. He shivered.

Just a little leftover reminder of last night's chill, he told himself.

That's all.

Murabi thought to himself that this mortal would be hard to forget. Carefully the lawyer concealed his own anger under his legal persona. He had a well-defined role to play here. The first imperative was to protect the integrity of the Game. The second was to preserve a promising Player, one Duncan MacLeod. The third was to defend this errant mortal, who had so trustingly allied himself with Murabi in pursuing the first two goals.

"You should get yourself a new lawyer, Joseph Dawson," Murabi said abruptly. "MacLeod's offer to confess is your best chance at freedom." He had to tender this much honesty to the client. It was only fair.

"If you'd accepted his offer, I'd have fired you on the spot. This is my problem, not Mac's," Dawson replied quietly.

Murabi blinked. This interview was not proceeding at all as he had expected.

Methos entered the ward, glancing over his shoulder at the departing MacLeod. "I take it you thrashed some sense into him."

Dawson remained silent, leaving Murabi to answer, simply, "Yes." Then, considering the man lying before him, he added in a quiet aside, "The Scotsman did land a telling blow at the end. This may not have been wise."

Methos surveyed Dawson with a medical eye, and began to worry. The man was too ill for combat, and battling the Scot, either with words or swords, was never easy. They had yet to address Dawson's personal difficulties.

Methos took hold of Dawson's wrist, his fingertips automatically finding the pulse points. He tightened his grip when Dawson tried to pull away. "Joe, I have to examine you. For the record." He nodded toward the observation port. "They can't hear us, but they are watching." Methos waited as Dawson took a moment to quash and control his outrage at this new insult to his privacy.

Recovering quickly, if not happily, Dawson threw back the blankets, gritting his teeth against the recurrent cold shivers as much as this new invasion. Silently he endured Methos' blank and seemingly cursory inspection.

Methos clinically noted hematomas, burns, and the lingering symptoms of hypothermia. He replaced the blankets as as quickly as he could without seriously compromising his role as medical advisor. He traded looks with Murabi, who had looked on with lawyerly interest. Then he turned his attention to Dawson. "You look like you 've been trampled by the very large animals in Jurassic Park, Joe. I could get you transferred to a proper hospital..."

"No." Dawson's tone was quiet, but adamant. "I'll live. And I'll live longer if I stay out of the damn hospital. Besides, we're trying to keep this case low profile, aren't we?"

"Perhaps not," Murabi observed. "A complaint of police brutality might be in order. Take the battle to the enemy's camp, as it were."

Dawson shook his head again, tiredly. "I saw the rerun of last night's debacle on JailTV this morning. I was a real celebrity here for about fifteen minutes. You don't have a case."

"You're the client, not the lawyer, Joe," Methos said. Murabi said nothing.

Dawson flared. "I won't blame the cops for just doing their job. I looked like a dangerous fool out on the docks last night. They reacted properly. Hell, they should have shot my hide full of holes when I picked up that sword, and saved us all a lot of embarrassment."

Dawson's anger waned with his sudden burst of energy, and he sunk back on the pillow. "I hate to imagine what the Average Ordinary Immortal will think when they see that tape running on CNN, not to mention the Senior Watcher Council. I'll have a target tattooed on my ass."

Two Immortals who shared nearly nine thousand years of experience between them met each other's eyes, and did not disagree. They did not like it, but they did not disagree.

Dawson roused, pushing himself up to face the lawyer, brushing away Methos' offer of assistance. "Tell me about Petey," he demanded.

"The boy is recovering from a concussion, and being held by the police as a material witness. He has told them about Tarc and his history," Murabi reported quietly. "When I spoke with him, I found him confused and hostile. He did, however, follow my instructions to the letter. I am afraid he is used to obeying a figure of authority without question."

"Why did he want to kill me so badly?" Dawson had to know.

"Tarc was manipulating him. You made quite an impression on the boy those many years ago, and Tarc noticed. He promised the boy that if he succeeded in his assignment, he could stay on with you forever."

"And when I argued with him, that night, and he ran away...."

"Tarc accused him of failure. He said you didn't want Petey hanging around. Just once, Petey rebelled, saying that he'd listened to you, listened to your music. Petey said you wouldn't abandon him."

"And in punishment, Tarc took...." Dawson couldn't say it. They all knew what punishment Petey had suffered for listening to Dawson. And Petey had never seen Dawson again. Tarc made the lie true. "No wonder he hates me."

"He will undergo counseling," Murabi said with more reassurance than he felt. Dawson did not look reassured. "An associate of mine who specializes in such matters may take over his legal interests." When Dawson looked about to object, Murabi added, "It might be necessary in the long run to avoid the appearance of conflict of interest. That is for later. It is now time to look to the matter that _you_ face in the court."

Dawson ignored him. "Adam, I need you to take care of Petey. Find out what garbage Tarc has fed him about the Immortals, and teach him. Protect him."

Methos answered uneasily, "MacLeod would be a better choice."

"I'm not in the position to ask MacLeod any favors right now," Dawson said sardonically. "Just...take care of him. He needs someone to teach him how to be Immortal."

Methos disagreed. The boy needed someone to teach him how to be human, but he knew now was not the time to argue the point. He just nodded.

Murabi reclaimed the conversation, steering Dawson away from that emotional minefield. They occupied themselves with the mundanities of the law for some time.

Dawson was easily irritated and more than a little distracted. He abruptly told Methos to put up the equity he held in his blues bars to cover any possible bail and legal expenses. Deep down he knew it wouldn't be near enough.

Methos did not mention his bet with Murabi. Dawson would not be open to the least hint of charity. There were other ways Methos could assist the beleaguered musician without endangering the bar's finances.

Murabi took Dawson over the events of the previous night, then drafted a short statement.

"You overheard a couple of bar patrons speaking of meeting Tarc. You remembered Tarc as a vicious criminal you'd encountered years previously. You followed the customers in order to check out the story. Tarc was dead when you got to him. Petey was hurt in the struggle with one of the men, who got away when the sirens sounded. You were hurt and dazed in the freak electrical storm, and unable to explain yourself to the patrolmen."

"Well," said Methos doubtfully, "it has the virtue of being strictly true."

"Yes, and therefore painfully unbelievable. But no less unbelievable than a man with Dawson's...disadvantages...attacking an able-bodied man with a sword. We will have to proceed carefully. As suspicion is drawn away from Dawson, it will fall elsewhere."

"On Petey." Dawson closed his eyes against the thought. "You can't do that. He's been through enough already."

"We may have to; reasonable doubt is our best defense. It helps immeasurably that Tarc made himself into a man that needed killing. No jury would convict Petey. I could guide an easy acquittal based on self-defense alone. Your case is another matter."

"Petey'd think I turned on him again. You can't put him through that."

"Petey will have all the help he needs. I'll see to it personally." Murabi was beginning to seriously wonder about his client's attitude. It did not match his expectations at all. "This is your future we are discussing, now."

"Yeah, well, I'll think about it." Dawson sounded listless.

"You will endorse the statement?" Murabi pressed.

Dawson read it again, then signed it without objection.

This bothered Methos even more than Dawson's previous arguments. It was definitely time to stop harrying the Watcher, and he caught Murabi's eye. The ancient lawyer nodded, and placed the statement in his briefcase, snapping the case shut.

Murabi took a final look at Dawson's weary, drawn face. The lawyer knew he would have no trouble persuading the attending physician to keep the prisoner another night. Perhaps longer-- Dawson, especially without his prosthetics, would present a very vulnerable target in the regular prison population. He addressed Methos in a soft undertone. "Dr. Pierson? Can you recommend to the attending physician a proper analgesic for my client? On your dual authority as a doctor and 'legal consultant'?"

"It's set." Methos had already spoken to the physician about Dawson and his deceptively high pain threshold. It would be taken care of once they left. It was high time they left.

"Meth--Adam...?" Dawson caught himself, cursing his carelessness. He took a moment to clear his throat. Looking up, he aimed a wordless apology at the Immortal.

Methos quirked a smile, and winked. No problem. He rose, intent on leaving Dawson to some semblance of privacy, and rest. He moved Dawson's guitar closer to the musician.

Dawson missed Methos' easy sarcasm. It was so much harder to deal with his kindness. He reached out and tried to take the guitar, but his swollen fingers still lacked dexterity. He nearly dropped it. "Take it back," he ordered. "I can't use it yet. Keep it safe for me for a while." Self-consciously Dawson slid his hands under the blanket, out of sight.

"It's your call, Joe," Methos answered softly. "When you're ready." He continued on in a more business-like tone. "I talked to Mick at the prosthetics company. He's going to expedite a new set of legs for you. He has your specs on file."

"Adam...thank you. Divert what you can from the bar slush fund--"

Methos waved Dawson off. They were both embarrassed by the exchange.

But Dawson's next question shattered their fragile understanding. "Adam, I need to know. Tell me why Mac thinks the task force I organized to harass Tarc was a Hunter squad."

Methos mentally cursed Duncan MacLeod. Looking into Joe Dawson's eyes, he could not summon a decent lie. "I'm sorry, Joe. It's true," he said softly. "Horton took over your assignment and changed the task force, twisting it into his own tool. The terrible things that they investigated while going after Tarc made it easy. It wasn't your fault."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dawson asked with deceptive calm.

"You didn't need to know, Joe," was Methos' hollow reply.

"But MacLeod did?" Dawson lay back, appearing curiously shrunken. His final words were short, and simple. "Get out of here."

Methos started to object, but an iron hand clamped on his arm, and drew him out of the infirmary.

"You will cease to disturb my client with these extraneous matters," the lawyer said cuttingly. With friends like Methos and MacLeod, Joseph Dawson didn't need enemies. He already had more than he knew.

Murabi pondered the wisdom of taking the mortal's case. He had always considered mortal Watchers as natural enemies of his privacy and potential meddlers in the Game, itself. This mortal was at the heart of many recent disruptions of the Game's rules. His own words condemned him. Cord. Galati. Murabi sighed.

Perhaps it would be best to let the Watchers take care of the Watcher. Yet Murabi was fascinated with the behavior exhibited by Methos and MacLeod in relation to their short-lived associate. Methos was not given to extending such high profile efforts to protect another, especially at his own possible expense. He was being uncharacteristically incautious; almost...sentimental.

Dawson possessed a dangerous charisma, and if he were to do his job properly, Murabi would have to fortify himself against it in the days to come. For now, Dawson was his client, and Murabi would do his lawyerly best to defend him, until the demands of the Game prevented him from doing so.

It was only fair.

Click here to go to Risk Part 2
Comments to Cathy Butterfield
Return to JoeStories Archive
Report concerns/comments to Archivist

Home | About Raine | Contact

This is a fan site, and all work here is produced without the intention of profit; all characters not my own are the copyright of their respective holders.