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    "None of this makes any sense, Rick," Michelle whispered from where her head lay on his chest.  "The story is that MacLeod went crazy and hallucinated a bunch of enemies, and took your head thinking that you were one of them.  I never heard about any other immortals being present."

    "Lots of things never make it into the Chronicles, Michelle," he said.  "That's why I have so much trouble believing your census figures."  He smiled down at her fondly.  Whatever their differences, they had just gotten to know each other in a spectacular fashion.  Jeezus!  She wasn't kidding about the smoldering part! he thought.

    "Who was he, then?"

    "You know Kalas?  The one with the Watchers' disk back in '95?"  She nodded.  "Well, turns out he had a student.  Hard to believe, knowing that guy.  I heard Kalas had a real thing for Quickenings--hard to believe he could resist taking a head long enough to have himself a student."

    "Kalas' student?  You must mean Caruso, then," she said.

    "Yeah.  I guess you'd know him, huh?"

    "Not much to know, actually.  The irony is that the greatest Italian tenor died of a throat hemorrhage and when he revived, he could never sing another note.  In fact, I heard that he could barely speak a word.  We all just assumed that Caruso and Kalas found that they had so much in common that Kalas couldn't bring himself to kill the new immortal."

    "Hmmm.  Well, that seems to be the story, all right.  But did you know that Caruso spent the last 50 years or so learning electronics and computer programming?  I guess that if he couldn't have the spotlight on the stage anymore, he decided that he'd be the one designing the lighting system, if you know what I mean.  So this former opera singer turns out to be an electronics genius, all up on CCD cameras, digital mapping, and holographic imagery--stuff like that."

    "I don't follow you," Michelle said.  "What does that have to do with MacLeod going crazy and hallucinating ... oh!--"

    "Give the lady a prize," said Rick.  "Mac never went crazy, and he never hallucinated anything.  Seems like ol' Mr. Opera Singer used some henchmen and some department store dummies to act as backdrops for images and faces that he digitally mapped and then projected onto them.  He had a real thing for Mac, planned the whole deal right down to luring me to the racetrack and then projecting my face onto somebody else's drugged body.  When Mac thought he took my head, he was really taking somebody else's head."  Rick smiled ruefully.  "I heard later that Caruso would have used the real thing, but wasn't sure that he could capture me without a fight, drug me, and then place me in just the right spot for Mac to take my head.  Didn't want to leave anything to chance--a real by-the-clock sort of guy.  Too bad for him, I guess, 'cause he knocked me out as easy as one-two-three."

    "But there was a Quickening!  Surely Mac would have known about the substitution then!"

    "I dunno about that, Michelle.  From what I hear, there was a lot going on, and Mac probably wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't at that point.  And Quickenings are funny things.  Each one is different.  Sometimes it's like the one you kill becomes a part of you, and other times it's not so clear.  I mean, if the entire personality transferred during a Quickening, then we'd all end up just like the ones we kill, you know?  So I'm not so sure that Mac would know a real Richie from a fake Richie, just by the Quickening.  All he would know for sure would be that he'd killed an immortal.  And Caruso did have an immortal ready for the slaughter--an immortal who had my face projected onto his."

    "So Mac really thought he had killed you?"

    "Right.  Poor guy thought he'd killed me, and then he ran off into the night to try to deal with it.  There I was, two floors above him--locked in a janitor's closet--while he's convinced he took my head."  Rick sighed.  "Poor guy."

    "So what happened then?"

    "Well ... I had some friends who didn't give up on me.  They took a look at the scene and figured out that there had to be some rational explanation for what had happened, one that didn't involve ghosts and goblins and dead guys coming back to mess with the living.  They noticed some of Caruso's little gizmos, and waited for him to come back.  He wanted to clean-up the scene, I guess.  He probably came back to clean me up as well.  Now that Mac had taken-off, he could deal with me at his leisure, you know?  Nobody to interfere."

    "You mean, nobody to stop him from taking your head."

    "Yep.  But my friends were waiting for him, and he was the one who lost his head instead."

    "So Enrico Caruso, mute opera singer, is finally dead?"

    "As a doornail.  Then they hunted around until they found me.  End of story."  Rick closed his eyes, hoping that he could drift off to sleep.  But Michelle wasn't done yet.

    "Ouch!" Rick cried, eyes wide open.  "Quit pinching my nipple!"

    Michelle smiled innocently.  "But you have not yet finished the story!  Tell me the rest or I'll keep pinching you!"

    "Okay, okay!  I'll talk!  What do you want to know?"

    "Who were your friends that helped you so much?  Was Joe Dawson among them?  Did he interfere once again?  And what happened to MacLeod?  And why are you hiding here in Seacouver instead of being with your teacher?"

    Rick turned to face her.  "Michelle, there's a ton of stuff that's not in your Watcher Chronicles.  And there's a ton of stuff that's not going to ever make it in, mostly because my friends saved my life and they really don't want to be famous, you know?  All the pinching in the world won't make me break my word to them."

    "But it could affect our problem.  They might be able to help us today, if only I knew who they were."

    "Michelle, ma belle.  Let the story end the way I ended it, okay?  Some folks helped me out of a jam, and then they faded back into the scenery."  Rick paused, remembering a passing remark or two.  "And the truth is, I'm not too sure that I have the whole story either.  Some weird things happened that week, all right."

    "But what about MacLeod?  You haven't answered about you and him."

    Rick sighed again.  This part wasn't much fun.  "Mac is my teacher and my friend--and that's forever.  I'd do anything for him, and I believe he'd do the same for me.  But the sad truth is that he's tried to kill me twice now.  Sure, both times weren't necessarily his fault.  I mean, each time there was some force acting on him so that he didn't know what he was doing.  But when you're an immortal and you go up against the best, you have to be ready; and when Mac is around, I'm just not ready for a fight.  Truth is, I don't know if I could even raise my sword to his neck, let alone take him in a fight.  I owe him too much."

    "So you have left your friend?"

    "No.  I was always there for him.  Mac was the one who left me when he ran off that night.  And my friends and I, well, we thought it'd be better if we waited a while before we let Mac know that I was still alive.  There were some weird aspects of the whole thing that he had to deal with on his own terms, before he was ready to admit that it had all been an illusion aimed at him."

    "Did they ever tell him about--?"

    "About me?  I'm not sure.  I think so, but it's been a couple of years since I've been in The Game.  All I know is that Mac hasn't tried to see me, and I haven't exactly gone looking for him, either."

    "How sad.  Two friends, one thinking he killed the other, never knowing ..."

    Rick nodded.  He looked at the alarm clock.  "Hey, cherie--it's almost four in the ay em, and I've got to be up by six to open the store on time.  How about we talk about this disappearing immortal problem tomorrow--over lunch maybe?"

    "Perhaps I have a better idea, my immortal beloved ..."

    "What's that? ... oh ... yeah ... that.  Well, I guess that, um, one night, uh, without sleep won't kill me.  In fact ... oh, yeah ... I'm sure of it ..."
 

*****
 
 

    The rare Seacouver sun pushed through the bedroom window, sneaking past Rick's upraised arm to glare into his eyes.  "Ohhh ... what time is it, Michelle?"

    "Time to get up, sleepy-head!" Michelle replied with a smile.  "What is the matter with you--no energy left this morning?"

    "Ohhh, man.  I guess it all got used up last night ... and this morning, too, if I recall correctly."

    "Last night was wonderful, Rick," she said, "--and so was this morning.  But as much as I want to relax and enjoy my time with you, I can't help thinking about the immortals and why they're all disappearing.  I learned a lot last night, but I'm no closer to solving that mystery than I was a week ago."  Her smile faded as she continued.  "When I heard you were still alive, I thought for sure I had a lead to MacLeod and the rest of the immortals.  But now I just don't know what to do!"

    "Michelle, Michelle," Rick said quietly, massaging her shoulders to help ease the tension.  "For the past two years, I've been on my own for the first time since I was a punk kid breaking and entering into stores, before Mac and Tessa took me in.  For a while, I had friends and laughter and maybe even love; but since then it's been nothing but long days and cold nights.  It hasn't been easy to get the store going and make a life for myself, but I did it.  The problem is that I've been so wrapped-up in this place that I didn't realize how truly alone I was, until I met you.  Now that I've found you, I don't want you to disappear.  Let me help.  Whatever it is, we can solve it together."

    "But I don't know what to do!  Maybe it was hubris to think that a single Researcher could solve a mystery this big--but I was the one who discovered the problem, and there are still many in the Watcher organization who refuse to believe the data.  Like you, they think it is all witchcraft.  All statistical manipulation of numbers."

    "Statistics:  the third kind of lie," Richie said.

    "What?"

    "Just something I heard somebody say once.  Mark Twain said there were three kinds of lies:  lies, damn lies--and statistics."

    "But the problem is real!"

    "Of course it is, Michelle.  I believe you, I promise."

    "You do?" she asked.  "You really do believe me?"

    "Absolutely," Rick replied.  "And I'm going to help you solve this mystery, right after--"

    "Right after what?"

    "Right after we have some breakfast," he answered with a grin.

*****

    "Coffee and toast isn't much of a breakfast, Michelle," Rick said while inhaling another forkful of scrambled eggs.  "You should eat more protein, you know."

    "The American breakfasts--ugghh!" Michelle said.  "I never could get used to them.  How can you face the morning with all that food in your bellies?"

    "Hey--" he replied--"I've been to Paris, remember?  It's no wonder that your average Parisian is so angry ... too much caffeine from too many espressos, I'd say."

    "Parisians are not angry!  They're just sick of tourists who don't speak--"

    The discussion was cut short by a loud RAP RAP RAP at the front door.  They looked at each other in mute question.  Who could it be at this hour?  Rick shrugged.  No idea.  He looked around, but didn't sense the presence of any other immortals.  The store didn't open for another hour, so he stuck his fork back into the eggs.  No sense letting them get cold.  Whoever it was could wait for a while.

    The insistent rap repeated itself, this time even louder.  Clearly, somebody wanted to get their attention.  Rick walked to the door, swallowing another bite and grabbing his sword on the way.  Before the intruder could pound on the door again, he unlocked it and swung it open.

    It was Joe Dawson.

    "Hey, Richie!" Dawson said with a disarming smile.  "Long time no see, buddy!"  He was older now, and a bit grayer, but his smile and twinkling eyes hadn't changed a bit.

    Rick didn't remember dropping the sword, but the next thing he knew he had both arms wrapped around Joe in a big bear hug that nearly brought them both to the floor.

    "Easy, Richie!  Take it easy, pal!" Joe said while his smile grew even larger.  "Remember my balance isn't as steady as yours is."  To emphasize the point, he took his cane and rapped his artificial legs.  Vietnam had not been especially kind to Joe Dawson, taking his legs in a land mine explosion.  But the Watchers hadn't cared about how fast he could run; they only cared about his eyes and his knowlege of immortals.

    Rick ushered Joe into the room and then remembered Michelle.  "Joe Dawson, this is Michelle--"

    "LeBrun," Joe said.  "Yeah, I know.  Research Assistant, Statistics.  European Bureau.  Currently AWOL and not exactly missed very much."

    Michelle's eyes were steady as she looked at Joe.  "No.  You're right:  I'm probably not missed too much right now--not after the Council rejected my report."

    "Well," Joe said, "going over your boss's head and the Chief Researcher's head probably didn't win you any friends on the Council.  What's the matter with you--haven't you ever heard of 'Chain of Command'?"

    "The issue was too important to be left to cubicle politicians and toadying bureaucrats, Mr. Dawson.  We are talking about The Gathering--right now--and those fools wanted to wait and delay and bungle around until they had more data, just to cover their asses in case I was wrong.  More data!  By the time we had enough data to ensure that their asses were properly covered, the whole thing would have been over ... and we would have missed it!"

    "You don't know if it's really The Gathering," Joe said.  "All you have is some half-baked population figures and a picture of a couple of circles.  Everything else is guesswork, speculation--and pipe dreams, if you want my honest opinion."

    "You're in field work--you can't deny that immortals are disappearing!  Where is Duncan MacLeod, Mr. Dawson?  You don't know, do you?  MacLeod is just one of literally hundreds of immortals who have disappeared without a trace--and you have no idea why!  My theory is the only one supported by the data, and regardless of what you believe or don't believe--"

    "Whoa, folks!" Rick interrupted.  "Time out here!  Let's drink some of this freshly brewed coffee and enjoy the pause that refreshes, okay?"

    Joe nodded.  He sat down heavily and picked up the steaming mug that Rick quickly poured for him.  Rick also made sure that Michelle's cup was full as well.

    "There now," Rick said.  "Isn't that better?  Let's remember we're friends here, all right?"  Michelle looked as if she wanted to continue arguing with Joe, but also nodded and sat down across from the gray-haired Watcher.  "Now then:  I want to ask a couple of questions--if you don't mind?"  He didn't wait for a reply, and continued.

    "Joe--you know Michelle's theory, right?"  Joe nodded.  "And you don't agree with it?  Tell me why."

    "Richie--" Joe began.

    "It's Rick, now--please?  I go by Rick these days."

    "Yeah, I guess I knew that." Joe said.  "Okay, Rick, here's the deal.  There's no question that Ms. LeBrun here is absolutely right when she says that immortals are vanishing from sight--without a trace--by the truckload.  Mac is definitely one of them.  One day he's cleaning-up around the barge, and Bang! the next day Maurice is using the shower.  Gone just like that!  And she's right when she says that we have no idea why or where.  I don't have the slightest idea where Mac's gone to, and I've had a dozen Watchers out looking for him.  But that's where it ends, okay?  That's all we know for sure--that's all anybody knows for sure.  All this talk about The Gathering and The End of the Immortals is just wild guesses and uninformed speculation, based on unproven theories and statistical flukes."

    Rick said, "So you're saying that you agree that there's a problem--but you don't agree on what it means."  Joe nodded.

    "But--" Michelle said, standing up and getting agitated again.

    Rick held up his hand.  "Hold on, Michelle," he said.  "Let me finish, okay?"  She sat back down.

    "How many, Joe?" he asked his old friend.  "What's the latest body count?"

    Joe took a deep breath, then looked down at his coffee, as if he could see the answer in its black depths.  "As of yesterday ... three hundred and forty-eight immortals were officially reported as missing and presumed dead by their Watchers."  He took a sip and made a face.  "Yeah, I know.  How the hell could nearly three hundred fifty immortals go missing and nobody know where they all got to?  It's driving us nuts, all right.  No question about it."

    Michelle's face paled as Joe spoke.  "But that means that another hundred have vanished in the past ten days!"  Joe nodded, and sighed.

    "So ... how many are left?" Rick asked.  "How many immortals are you currently tracking, anyway?"

    Joe cleared his throat and looked out the window.  The sun was fading as the Seacouver clouds reassserted their dominance, and it looked like yesterday's rain would be returning.  Michelle looked down at the clouds in her coffee.  Nobody said anything.

    "C'mon, folks!" Rick said.  "What is this, like top secret information or something?  I've got news for you all, but the time for keeping your little Watcher secrets is in the past.  If you want my help, then I need to know what's what around here."

    Michelle looked at Joe, who nodded.  She said, "Rick, it's just not that simple.  First of all, the exact number of immortals being Watched is one of our most closely guarded secrets.  It's usually known by only a very few Council members and a few Researchers like myself.  Secondly, the number usually fluctuates as new immortals are reported and older ones lose their heads.  And sometimes we lose sight of immortals for a month or two, so that number is tracked separately--"  Rick started to interrupt, but she shushed him with a motion of her hand.  "Yes, I will tell you.  As of October 31st, there were four hundred and twenty-one known living immortals listed in the Chronicles, of which three hundred and ninety-two were being actively Watched."

    "That means--" Rick said.

    "Exactly," Michelle replied.  "Of all known living immortals, more than eighty percent have vanished without a trace, and are currently unaccounted for.  When you examine just the actively Watched immortals, the percentage of the missing climbs to nearly ninety percent."

    Rick didn't reply to that, but his long whistle of surprise said it all.

    "And that is why I'm here, my friend," Joe said.  "This is getting serious.  And while I may not agree with Ms. LeBrun on why it's happening, the fact is something very big is going down--and the Watchers need to get on top of it before the last immortal sinks out of sight."

    Rick nodded.  This sounded very serious indeed.  "Who's left?" he asked them both.

    "Not many," Joe replied.

    "C'mon, give."  Rick tried to think of names for all the immortals with whom he was acquainted--the ones whose heads were still attached to their bodies.

    "Amanda?"  Joe shook his head.  She was one of the missing, along with Duncan.

    "Kenny?"  Another shake; gone as well.

    "Kit?"  Gone.  "Keane?"  Gone.  "Ursa?"  Gone.  They were all gone.  Rick felt more alone than he had in years.  Was he the only one left?  No, there were a few left--just ones he didn't know.  What was going on?

    "And Richie ... uh, Rick ... um, there's one more thing you need to know," Joe said.

    "What's that, Joe?"

    "Um ... a Watcher's vanished, as well."

    "What?" both Rick and Michelle said simultaneously.  "Who?"

    "A Researcher.  He retired; he's been inactive for a couple of years--kinda been a consultant, you might say.  He knew so much that we kept calling him back in, but now he's gone--just like the immortals."

    "C'mon, Joe.  There must be some other reason for the guy to go missing.  Are you sure it's connected with the immortals?"

    "Rich ... the missing Watcher is Adam Pierson."

******