Disclaimers: No harm intended, just having fun, certifiably non-profit (among other things.)
Characters: D, J, RR, OCs. This story is re-edited from a Halloween challenge on the Joefic List, a little tale with a ghostly touch occurring after the events in “Brothers in Arms.” Rating: Gen. PG for the violence war inflicts on the spirit. This version posted Fri, 09 Nov 2001.

This story was first put up in answer to a challenge on the Joefic list, a ghost tale for Halloween. It has undergone considerable editing since then with great good help from betas by Raine Wynd and Tritorella. All mistakes are my own!

Robin and Janeen must take credit for being guiding lights at the inception of the story. And finally, thanks to Listen-r for the encouragement (and whomping upside the head). It has been a long, dry spell.

Feedback is always welcome, both pleased and disgruntled. It is all valuable. – Cath

“Work for peace, and remain fiercely loving.…” – Jim Byrnes

Whispers

by Cathy Butterfield

“Semper fi....”

The words escaped as Joe Dawson watched Charlie DeSalvo's funeral from a distant knoll. He squinted against the intermittent rain. Late August had turned into September before the body had been released for burial, and a sharp wind cut from the northeast, chilled by the snowy crags of the Canadian Rockies.

Leaves whipped around the tombstones to dance around Dawson's legs, the only part of him that wasn't clenched against the cold. He shifted, leaning into the wind, minding the small memorial plaque imbedded in the earth near the ferrule of his cane. Petey, it said. Just Petey. Nothing else. Petey's sad, young spirit kept him company, calling to Dawson's conscience in the language of rustling leaves.

Dawson could see from his removed post that the funeral was well attended by Charlie's former students, and family, and friends. And MacLeod. It was in deference to MacLeod that Dawson watched from this cold, windy and well hidden point overlooking the gravesite. MacLeod had made it painfully clear that Dawson was not welcome in MacLeod's life, and by extension, the observance of Charlie DeSalvo's death.

“We are different.” Dawson couldn't get the words out of his head. “We crossed the line.” He heard the timbre of MacLeod's voice in the wind bending the tree limbs, felt the coldness of his tone in the spattering rain. “I am Immortal.”

MacLeod's lack of anger made it worse. There had been no accusation, just the implacable decree. Dawson tried to take the responsibility, and MacLeod took even that attempt at atonement away. Dawson gritted his teeth, tasting the bitter memory. Let MacLeod assume responsibility alone.

Dawson would assume the guilt. Alone.

Andrew Cord had killed Charlie DeSalvo. Duncan MacLeod had killed Andrew Cord. An impossible tangle of motives had brought them together—loyalty and friendship, hate and love, vengeance and greed. Dawson's attempt at friendship with the two Immortals had crossed the line, and now there were two bodies to show for it.

Dawson waited a long, empty hour after the services before picking his slow way down to the gravesite to pay his final respects. A crunch of gravel interrupted his final farewells. He hadn't waited long enough.

“You had to come.” The same stern tone. The same unyielding timbre. MacLeod.

Dawson finished his silent graveside salute and apology to DeSalvo before turning to face MacLeod. Yes. He had to come.

“You had to Watch.” MacLeod's voice carried an edge of reproof. Dawson expected that; it was the disdain that seared his soul. MacLeod judged, and found Dawson mortally wanting.

Dawson remained silent, letting the cold and the wind and the rustling leaves answer Duncan MacLeod. Dawson had no excuse to offer, no justification to present. He had no defense at all. Maybe Charlie DeSalvo, a fellow mortal, would have understood the sense of duty that had compelled Dawson to observe this passing. It did not matter if MacLeod didn't recognize his motives. Not anymore.

I am mortal, MacLeod. The words hung between them, unsaid. Dawson did not look down at the fresh-turned cemetery dirt, or away at the gray rain-muted horizon. He looked at MacLeod, as if looking upon him for the last time. When their eyes met, Duncan MacLeod's snapped away first.

Without a single word, Dawson turned down the cemetery path and walked away from the Immortal. He had no more duties here. His requested temporary leave of absence had been approved. Dawson no longer Watched MacLeod. He hadn't for days. Apparently, MacLeod hadn't even noticed.

This week, Dawson had another duty to perform, another passing to observe. This duty was for a man with no students, or family, or friends. Joe Dawson had to bury Andrew Cord.

As Dawson drove back to his blues bar, MacLeod's words echoed in his mind. “We are different. We crossed the line. I am Immortal….” Dawson had betrayed both MacLeod and DeSalvo by trying to protect Cord. Dawson had lost three friends, not two, because he could not stop Cord. And in the end, he'd finally and fatally betrayed Cord.

Dawson's vehicle wavered on the freeway off-ramp, and he tiredly cursed himself for allowing his attention to wander. Grief did not excuse carelessness, and Dawson blanked out his feelings, concentrating on his driving. His grief didn't matter. He still had work to do. Self-indulgence could come later.

Dawson pulled up at the bar, shivering as the rainy wind scoured the parking lot. Even here, surrounded by concrete, the smell of freshly turned earth plagued him. He embraced the familiar fug of the bar as he pulled the door shut. With a wave to Mike Barrett behind the bar, he surveyed the floor with a critical eye. The lunch crowd was small. Business was down, since Charlie's murder.

Barrett hurried around the bar, meeting Dawson at the back hallway. He looked worried. “Hey, Joe—jeez, you're soaked. What did you do, stand out in the rain all morning? Let me get you some coffee.”

Dawson irritably shrugged off Mike's attempt to take his coat. The tracklight in the far corner had burned out again. The last thing the place needed was more gloom. “Get out the ladder for me, Mike, and I'll rewire that damn spot again.” Time to take care of the business. His business, he reminded himself.

“The light can wait,” Mike carped back. “You've been standing too long. I know the look. You need to sit down for a while.”

“Enough, Mike. I need to get back to work,” Dawson stopped Barrett short. The man had developed a lamentable tendency to hover in the past couple of days. Then he relented slightly. “Give me the coffee. Then get me the ladder. How's that sound?”

Mike retreated to the bar to get out Dawson's large personal mug and poured a coffee nudged with a touch of Irish. Maybe more than a touch. “The police were here again,” he said apologetically.

Dawson nodded. Only to be expected. DeSalvo's death couldn't be covered up by the Watchers, and he had died in the alley behind Joe's Bar, hurled from the roof. Dawson had been answering their questions for days. The same questions, the same answers. He hadn't seen or heard a thing. The fact that Dawson was telling the exact truth lent no comfort. The sick irony that he was covering up one death while answering questions about another did not escape the Watcher.

Dawson leaned against the bar, inhaling the caffeine, his eyes drooping slightly. Maybe he would take a short break.

Mike Barrett eyed Dawson hesitantly. “Joe—another thing. Gleason is in your office. Cord's Watcher. He has some of Cord's effects, and wants to talk to you. He doesn't sound happy.” Barrett added under his breath, “Officious little creep.”

“You should have told me that first. You know Watcher business takes priority.” Straightening his shoulders, Dawson pushed himself erect, hiding a wince of pain. “And he just lost his Immortal. I have to give him that. It could have been MacLeod.” There. He'd said it. Nearly normally. Just like a Watcher.

Privately, Dawson agreed with Barrett's character assessment, but Gleason was Cord's Watcher, and that gave him a right to see his assignment through to the end. Even if the asshole had lost Cord and let him ambush DeSalvo without Dawson's knowledge.

Goddamn useless Watchers...and Dawson was the worst. DeSalvo had died on his doorstep.

Dawson realized that Mike was leaning away from his negative vibes. Clamping down on his frayed nerves, more for Mike's sake than his own, Dawson abandoned his coffee and pushed wearily toward his office. Delaying would not make this interview any easier.

Gleason was sitting behind Dawson's desk, half hidden by some cardboard boxes. At Dawson's approach, he jerked upright and then out of the seat, looking for all the world like a school kid sneaking a look in the teacher's desk. “Dawson. Barrett said you were due an hour ago.” Gleason sounded partly put out, and partly patronizing. Officious little creep, indeed.

“Something came up. Mike said you had something for me.” Dawson wanted to get this over with. He'd be damned if he wasted time explaining himself.

“Well, you know this is highly irregular. I was clearing out Cord's hotel room, as per instructions....”

Yadda, yadda. Get on with it, Dawson thought.

“…and I found Cord's will.” Gleason waited expectantly, his eyes sliding over Dawson in search of a reaction.

Dawson just looked at him. Watchers routinely turned over such documents to the Legal Section. Those bequests that were practicable or even possible were faithfully carried out anonymously, as long as Watcher interests weren't endangered.

Dawson said curtly, “Turn it over to the mouthpieces. They'll take their cut and make sure the beneficiaries get more than they ever dreamed.” Immortal wills were an art form of financial juggling for living Immortals. Dawson was tired, and cold, and did not want to deal with the ghoulish legal remains of the dead. Dealing with the actual remains had been ordeal enough.

After Duncan MacLeod beheaded Andrew Cord, Dawson had followed strict procedure. He secured the kill site at the paintball factory, and called in a Watcher cleanup crew. The body was delivered to a Watcher-underwritten funeral parlor for preparation for burial. There were Watcher mortuaries all over the world. It was one of their most lucrative side investments.

Just that morning, Dawson had called the cleanup crew chief and checked on the burial site. It was an obscure location, much like Petey's lonely marker on the blustery hill. All the necessary paperwork was being forged now. The burial was scheduled for the early morning. Dawson expected no company. Gleason was clearly a model Watcher. Gleason would steer well clear of Cord's physical presence, even in death.

“Well, the will is the reason I'm here. It's a little unusual.” Gleason sniffed in disapproval. No, not disapproval. Downright suspicion. It was Gleason's job to erase the paper trail of Cord's existence in Seacouver as he tied up his Chronicle. It should have been done by now.

“So. Why tell me?” Dawson asked, keeping his voice barely out of the rude zone.

“I did take it to the lawyers. They said I should deliver the codicil to you, as the local supervisor and as the...beneficiary.” Now Gleason sounded just sly.

“What the hell are you talking about, Gleason?” Dawson snapped. He wasn't in the mood for dicing around.

“Cord's last will. He changed it, just before he died. It's dated the day of his death, in fact. He left these boxes to you. I found them in his room, still sealed. Addressed to you. This is highly irregular,” Gleason repeated. “I'll have to put it in my closing report.”

“Well, you do that,” Dawson said coldly. “Now, if you will excuse me?” He had no doubt that news of a dead Immortal leaving a bequest to a live Watcher was already heating up the phone lines between the Legal Section and Headquarters. Gleason's report would just be the capper.

“I'd like to see what is in the boxes,” Gleason fished. “To finish up my report, of course.”

“I'll send you a memo,” Dawson said, pointedly turning his back. Belatedly, he peeled off his still dripping black dress coat and hung it on the coat tree. His hand curled around the hook, bending it slightly, as he briefly wondered how much more interesting Gleason's report would read if he finished it up with a broken jaw. Dawson looked up in relief as Barrett poked his head in the door.

“Shapiro in Europe wants you to call him, Gleason,” Barrett said tersely, using the opportunity to bring in Dawson's abandoned coffee. “Feel free to use the phone in the bar.”

Finally getting a clue, Gleason left.

“Thank you, Mother Barrett,” Dawson breathed, wrapping his fingers around the cup, offering a small smile of apology for his earlier sharp words.

“Want me to bounce him, Joe?” Mike asked hopefully. “Gleason's been asking a lot of questions.”

“Nah. He isn't worth the trouble,” Dawson said dismissively, his anger leaching away. He was too tired to be curious. “Just get back out there and make sure he keeps his fingers out of the tip jar.”

Dawson closed his office door firmly, locking it against further interruption. He looked longingly at his padded armchair. Refusing to be tempted, he hooked a finger under the packing tape and ripped open the seal on the first box.

What the hell had Cord been thinking? Steeling himself, Dawson took a hit off the coffee before proceeding, appreciating the underlying Irish burn. He was freezing.

There were the usual miscellaneous mementos that Dawson laid aside for later cataloging. There was a single, simple wedding band. There was a well-stowed and maintained set of handguns, some dating back to the Civil War. Nothing recent but for one Vietnam era sidearm. Dawson hefted the piece, wondering at how familiar it felt to his hand. Shaking his head, he thrust it aside.

The box held carelessly tossed commendations for gallantry under fire from the Civil War, two world wars, and Korea. There was a Bronze Star. Two Silver Stars. A Good Conduct Medal. Only one. Dawson almost smiled at that.

There were fading pictures of young men in old wars. Cord in a Union uniform, as a Buffalo soldier, even as a Mississippi Guardsman fighting fires in—Dawson double checked the caption—the Idaho panhandle in 1910. Go figure.

None of the pictures were from Vietnam. Dawson didn't find that odd at all. He didn't particularly wax sentimental about jungle rot, either. He found nothing else from in country, until he opened the second box.

Roughly ripping the box lid, beating up his own hands in his tension, Dawson came upon a folded khaki shirt. Recognizing the cut of the cloth, Dawson felt a roiling sensation in his gut. He carefully pulled out a stained old Marine uniform.

The placket read “Cord.” There were three bullet holes across the chest, with three matching bloodstains. Cord's blood. Immortal blood.

The lower part of the shirt was wholly discolored. Mortal blood. Dawson's blood. In the center of the shirt, the blood flowed together.

Dawson shivered. He really should have changed out of his wet clothes. Slowly, gingerly, he refolded the shirt, trying not to touch the old stains.

Shutting his emotions away in favor of the Watcher's proper detachment, he noticed that the sergeant's insignia had been roughly cut away. All identifying Marine patches had been sheared off, as if Cord had court-martialled himself. Dawson wondered how much damage Cord really took in that last firefight at Thien Duc. Cord's physical wounds evaporated as all Immortal wounds did, but Dawson doubted that the scorch marks on Cord's soul had healed any better than Dawson's legs.

Then his fists tightened. Cord killed that woman in Thien Duc. There was no excuse for that. Not Bravo company brotherhood. Butler, the rapist, was Bravo Company. Dawson was practically an accomplice. He'd just...stood aside. Followed orders. Watched. Dawson sank into his desk chair, as phantom pain tangled with real rage. Why the hell had he tried to protect Cord?

“Semper Fi, Boy Scout,” Cord's voice whispered from the jungle of guilt. “You're not going to die on me, Boy Scout. And I'm not going to leave you. I'll kill you myself, first,” he'd promised, showing him the gun. That gun. Cord cajoled, pled, threatened, lied, every word whispered so the enemy wouldn't hear.

Sixteen miles. That's how far Cord carried Dawson, back through enemy lines. Cord could have left him at any mile of that march. Any foot. Any inch. There was a Semper Fi for every leech-ridden bug-bit mile. The doctors said you forgot that sort of pain. They were wrong. Cord hauled him every inch. Dawson never forgot.

Bravo Company had written them both off. Someone had grabbed Cord's dog tags, turned them in. KIA. Dawson they hadn't even checked. Click. Boom. Pond scum. MIA.

With an effort, Dawson boxed up the harrowing memories with the medals and the guns and the brown stained uniform. His hand didn't shake as he downed the rest of the coffee and Irish. Not much.

Ruthlessly, he tore into the third, and smallest box. It was full of papers. Legal papers. His favorite.

Cord had packed a copy of the will. He had made a last request. He wanted to be buried next to his first mortal wife. He also listed a few names of persons to be notified in the instance of his death. It was a very short list. It included a very wily Immortal, Cord's first teacher and an associate of the gunrunner Grayson. That didn't bode well. Grayson's associates tended to have long memories.

Dawson unthinkingly reached for the phone, and arrested himself only after dialing the first five digits of MacLeod's phone number. MacLeod did not want to hear from Dawson about this nebulous Immortal threat. MacLeod did not want to hear from Dawson ever again. So be it.

Dawson barely recognized his own voice as he called the cleanup crew chief to cancel Andrew Cord's local burial. Over the long course of the afternoon, he made the arrangements for Cord's body to be transported to Boston, the city where Cord had been raised, and first married, before the Civil War. He would be buried in the long held plot next to his first and only mortal wife.

“Semper Fi,” Cord whispered.

The bar had been closed for an hour. The pink neon sign was turned off. “Time to clear out, Mike,” Dawson said as he sat on the darkened stage. He picked at his guitar, dissatisfied with the sound. He was having a hard time stringing three chords together. The sounds would trail away in vapid echoes of his locked-down feelings.

Mike was malingering over the bar cleanup, sending Dawson the occasional pony beer and concerned look. The beers were welcome. The concerned looks were really beginning to tick Dawson off.

Then Mike's head turned, his attention drawn to rear door. Dawson more than half expected it to be the cops again. He less than half hoped it might be Duncan MacLeod.

It wasn't Duncan MacLeod.

“Hey, Joe! What's going on, man? A Thursday night, and you're buttoned up like a biker bar on Mother's Day!”

Richie Ryan. Wonderful. Dawson could not think of one damn word to say. His hands tightened on the guitar, pulling it closer, as if it would shield him from Richie's innocent well-meaning presence. He bent his concentration on a riff that had been evading him all evening, trying to ignore the interruption.

Mike tried to shortstop the young Immortal with a hoary old standby. “Sorry, we're closed,” he warned softly.

Some bouncer you are, Barrett, Dawson observed silently. Maybe tomorrow he'd head on down to the docks and hire a nice thug.

Still oblivious, Richie leaned up against the bar and shed his leather jacket. “Yeah, right, like Joe ever locks the door before 2:00 am.” Richie's grin softened his youthful sarcasm. “Immortal Happy Hour, right, Joe?”

Mike flinched.

Dawson sighed. Good thing Gleason hadn't hung around to hear that pithy observation.

Dawson's hand closed off the vibrating guitar strings on an ugly E flat. “Richie. You were supposed to be off racing motorcycles, somewhere.” His voice was as flat as the chord.

“Caught a break. Sponsor upgrade. They cut me loose for a few days while they work on the bike. Where's Mac? He's not at the dojo—thought I might catch him here.”

“No,” Dawson said shortly. “He's not here.” Dawson could almost see Richie vibrating with the long miles of road behind him. He ached to share some highway stories over a beer or three. Impossible, now.

Again, Mike tried to step in. “This really isn't a good time, Richie,” he said softly.

“Mike, time for you to go,” Dawson said abruptly. Barrett had been covering for his sorry ass for too long. He was just too damn nice to be a Watcher. “Lock it up. I'll see to Richie.” His tone brooked no debate.

“Okay, Joe. You take care of yourself,” Mike said doubtfully. He left with the guilty air of a man walking away from a street accident.

“You know, I'm getting some bad vibes here, Joe. You don't welcome me home, you don't buy me a beer….” Perturbed, Richie cast a harder look around the shadowed bar. “The way you snapped at Mike, you'd think he'd been watering the scotch or something.” It was clear from Richie's expression that the young Immortal was getting the idea that something bad had happened. Something very Not Good.

“Let me buy you a beer,” Dawson offered automatically, but he didn't make a move to get down off the stage and pour.

“Joe, what's wrong? Is it Mac? Is he all right?” Richie peered from the well lit bar to the darkened stage.

“Relax, Richie. MacLeod is fine,” Dawson said formally. “If you didn't find him at home, he's probably at the Island.” It gave Dawson a pang to realize that he didn't know. He hadn't been watching. Watching.

“He took a Quickening?” Richie asked.

“Yeah,” Dawson agreed, turning his face further into the shadows. “He took a Quickening.”

Richie edged closer, clearly disturbed by the emptiness in Dawson's voice. “Joe, what's wrong? You look like you haven't slept in a week. You sure Mac's okay?”

Dawson allowed Richie a ghost of a reassuring smile. “I'm sure. Mac's okay. Listen, Richie, MacLeod should be the one to tell you this, but—Charlie DeSalvo is dead.”

“Aw, no way!” Richie was shocked, and properly outraged.

Dawson endured Richie Ryan's exclamations and denials, fending them off with small slices of truth. “A dishonest gunrunner killed Mara. Charlie chased him over here. He didn't know he was up against an Immortal. Charlie didn't know Immortals from Bruce Lee.” Dawson drew a ragged breath. “I knew what Charlie was up against. I should have told him.”

“Why didn't Mac tell him?” Richie asked blankly, shocked.

That stopped Dawson cold. “I don't know.” Dawson ducked his head, studying the grain of the wood on his Gibson.

“But Mac got the guy who did it,” Richie said with grim approval.

“Cord. His name was Cord,” Dawson rocked slightly, cradling his guitar. “Time for you to go, now, Richie. MacLeod can fill you in, when he gets back. There's more, but you should hear it from him.”

Richie backed off slightly, obviously sensing the off note in Dawson's voice. “There's something else you aren't telling me.”

“Later, Richie,” Dawson said, a growl of frustration curdling his even, unemotional words. “Ask Mac. Tomorrow. He'll tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Richie asked with the mixed impatience and forgiveness of youth. “I'm your friend too, Joe.”

Oh, that hurt. Dawson held. By a thread. By a guitar string.

He didn't say it. Mac will tell you to stay the hell away from me. We are different. I crossed the line. You are Immortal.

Dawson ran a harsh hand along the strings from high on the frets down to the base of the guitar. It made a harsh noise, beyond the blues. It was not music.

But Dawson couldn't bring himself to speak harshly to Richie. “Ask MacLeod. He'll tell you the truth.” The words were soft, and truthful, and hard.

“I trust you, Joe,” Richie said quietly, searching Dawson's face in the dim light.

Richie didn't trust anyone easily, Dawson realized. It was his best survival trait.

“I'm sorry, Richie. This is wrong. I shouldn't be talking to you.” Richie was MacLeod's student, a part of MacLeod's clan. MacLeod would consider that way over the line. “You know the rules.”

“I don't care about the Watcher rules,” Richie said carelessly. “You and Mac break the rules all the time.”

Hell. Dawson was in his own personal Watcher Hell. “My mistake.”

Richie started at the pain and emotion thinly buried in Dawson's controlled voice. “I just thought you might like to talk. Like to a friend,” he offered with awkward honesty.

“Richie, it's late, and I'd like to lock up,” Dawson said sharply.

Better to cut this off cleanly. Get back on the right side of the line. Or the wrong side. The Watcher side. Just like MacLeod. Get Richie to walk away. Just walk away.

“All right, already. I know when I'm not wanted,” Richie backed off. “Jeez, what's your problem?” he grumbled defensively, as he left the bar, expecting no answer.

He got none. Dawson had gotten what he wanted. He was alone.

Dawson sat on the stage, staring into the empty bar. He carefully put aside his guitar. It sounded as stale as his beer tasted. There was no music in him tonight. Just whispers. Whispers of ghosts.

“Semper Fi....”

Finis

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