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    The countdown clock loomed over Rick's head as he made his way toward the roped-off stairway to the reception area, its glowing digits casting red strobe-light shadows as they flashed by, a constant reminder that time was quickly running out for both mortals and immortals alike.  A small line of the faithful waited respectfully for their tickets to be checked, so that the rope, composed of golden cords braided together, would be raised to admit them into Cristos' inner sanctum.  Rick joined the line, indistinguishable from the others--except perhaps by his trenchcoat and his clear lack of excitement at his proximity to the great man.

    Two burly security guards kept sentry over the golden rope, checking the tickets and slowly admitting the confirmed believers one at a time up the stairway leading to the smaller upstairs room that served as the reception area.  The stairway was of a fairly short length, perhaps seven or eight plushly carpeted steps, and made a sharp turn at the top landing so that the entrance to the reception room itself was hidden from those penitents waiting at the bottom for their turn to be admitted.  As he drew near the security guards at the rope, Rick felt once again the presence of the other immortal, an unpleasant sensation of pressure that was around and through and inside him.  And now the other immortal at the top of the stairs, in the room above, was also aware of him as well.  Time was indeed quickly running out.

    "Ticket, please, sir," one of the security guards asked Rick.  He pretended not to hear the question, but kept walking slowly toward the golden rope.  The guards weren't expecting trouble, and their reactions were bound to be slowed by the crowd. Almost there--just a couple more steps.

    "Sir--may I see your ticket, please?" the guard repeated in a louder voice.  His partner took a step forward, to physically bar Rick from entering the stairway.  Rick stopped, then looked up at the guy.

    "Huh?" he said in his best retard voice.  "Whaddya say there, buddy?"  The other faithful in line were looking impatiently at the scene.  Rick was holding up their turn to personally visit with Cristos.  Couldn't these guards see that they had an idiot on their hands?  Just toss the loser out and let them through!

    "Sir, I need to see your ticket before you can go upstairs."  The guard leaned toward Rick, as if his closeness would help Rick understand the statement, while the other guard prepared to grab Rick's arm if it was needed.  But they weren't worried.  One moron wasn't going to be a problem, they figured, not when the two of them were on top of things.

    "Whadda I need a ticket fer, anyway?" Rick's slurred voice increased in volume.  Maybe he was deaf as well as stupid?  "Ain't this da way to the boy's room?  I gotta go reeeaal bad."  He inched a bit closer to the rope--could he duck these two and slip under it?

    No way.  They weren't buying the act and there was no way.  The guard grabbed Rick's arm and swung it up and back in a classic come-along, but he didn't know Rick was an immortal who could heal, one who was prepared to sacrifice a broken elbow to gain admittance to Cristos, and those in line heard a sharp crack! as the bone went but it didn't matter because Rick turned and front-kicked the one on the left in the balls, then turned away from the arm hold, tearing the tendons even more, but that didn't matter either because he let loose a spinning hammer-fist into the other one's temple, and then both guards were down and he was over the rope and up the stairs, pausing only to announce to the open-mouthed faithful below, "Uh oh ...  I think somebody had an accident."

    He was up the stairs in a flash, sword in the left hand, prepared for the immortal, but there were two more guards at the top--and they were ready this time.  He tried a spinning kick but the stairs were too narrow and there were too many people in the way, and the right arm wouldn't work for some reason, and then they had him, pinning his arms back until he dropped the sword and the right one flamed agony and he yelled, "Easy, easy!  Okay, you got me!  Take it easy there!"  Then the world went gray, and he sagged in their arms.

    All in all, it was not one of his better entrances.

*****

    Rick looked into the mirror, seeing two imaginary opponents as he performed the jichin kata.  Focus, focus, he told himself.  Find the chi and channel it.  Front kick--turn.  Block low.  Turn.  Break, counter and right hip throw.  Elbow strike, reverse punch.  Counter, counter.  Block, block--spinning dragon kick.  Land--balance, balance!  Back-step left, right side-kick low, side-kick high.  Block low left, right guard up.  Balance!  Shield-hand left; sword-hand right.  Block high left and counterstrike right.  Reverse punch, temple strike.  Turn.  Shield-hand right; sword-hand left.  Block high and close.  Three-point fist, heart strike.  Elbow strike, back-knuckle throat strike.  Turn.  Break hold and counter.  Front kick right.  Block high and turn.  He lost himself in the movements, ego and thought gently drifting away as his body performed on its own, unconscious competence finally achieved after so many months of sweaty effort and painful aches.

    If only he could walk into DeSalvo's dojo and show Charlie what he'd learned; if only Mac were here to say to him, "Good job, Richie.  You've come a long way," then it would all be worthwhile.  But he was on his own now--had been on his own for years, with only his drive and his sweat and his burning desire to show Mac keeping him coming back to Mfune Ryu night after night, taking the falls and bruises and still coming back for more, impressing sensei with his heart and with his warrior spirit.  Yes, he had finally earned the ebon belt of mastery, was entitled to teach the art now--if he cared to--but it was all hollow achievement without Mac here to share it with him, to pat him on the back and say, "Good job, Richie."  Meaningless without someone to share it with....

    But Mac was here, wasn't he?  Mac and Charlie were here with him, here in front of him, his imaginary opponents against whom he performed the kata, showing-off his form and grace and balance as he fought them as equals now, blocking their strikes and countering with moves of his own, breaking their holds and throwing them onto the hard mat, striking and blocking and striking again--hitting them until they fell down, unable to continue, raising their hands as they said, "Enough, Richie.  That's it, guy.  No more."

    And then Mac was up from the mat, holding his hand out to him in friendship.  And he reached out and took Mac's hand, but it was a wrist hold--Idiot!  What was I thinking?  Why did I trust him?  Mac always tries to take my head!--that turned into a throw.  Stupid, stupid, now I'm gonna hit the floor!  And he was high in the air, falling, falling in slow motion waiting for the thrummp! and the pain, but it never came.  Never ever came.  And there he was in the air, falling, eternally falling, always falling forever and ever and ever, but the end never came...

*****

    The couch was soft and the water in his face was icy cold, and Rick's first thought was for his sword because the immortal's presence was still there, but as he came awake he realized that there were too many people around him for a confrontation even if the three security goons didn't look as if they were ready and eager for another go-round with him.  He sat up slowly and wiped away the water from his eyes, idly noting that the right arm worked fine now.  Where were you when I needed you the most? he asked the arm.  It was probably the friendliest conversation that he was going to have for some time to come.

    Rick couldn't see much over the shoulders of the three security guards, who were now openly displaying nine millimeter automatics for him to see.  Clearly, there would be no repeat here of his performance downstairs and, if he tried anything, he was going to take a bullet or six.  Cops or no cops, the guards would rather put a few bullets in his gut than be embarrassed in front of Cristos again. C'mon punk, their angry eyes told him, try us now.

    Rick had no such ideas at the moment.  He was trying to look past the hulking guards to see if he could pick out the immortal from the crowd of the officially admitted faithful.  No luck.  Beyond the guards he could see a dozen or so faces, peering back at him like he was some kind of monkey at the zoo, each face with varying degrees of anger or fear or disbelief, as each of the faithful believers wondered why in the hell some wacko would come after their beloved Cristos with a sword.  Rick smiled back at the faces, trying to look like an innocent man--perhaps somebody who'd merely found the sword on the stairway and was bringing it upstairs to turn it in to security--but he didn't think they were buying it.

    "Give him some air," said a voice from across the room.  "Let's give our surprise guest a little breathing room, please."

    The crowd of faces moved away in response to the command, revealing an ordinary anteroom--perhaps normally used for storing props and scenery--made more festive for the occasion by wall hangings and banners.  Rick could see a long table covered in white cloth and lined with trays of hors d'oeuvres and various brunch items.  It's been a long time since breakfast, he thought, and then a pang of loneliness hit him as he remembered with whom he had shared breakfast that morning.  Michelle was probably waiting for him back at the store right now, pacing the floor and worrying.

    "But, sir!" one of the guards responded to the unseen voice, not taking his eyes off Rick's seated body.  "This sicko tried to take you out--and he nearly killed Matthew!  We should be calling the cops, not giving him some breathing room!"

    "All in good time, Matthew," the voice replied.  "Remember that to forgive is to approach godliness.  And we will call in the authorities when the time is right.  But first, let us see with whom--or with what--serendipity has chosen to grace us.  After all, our visitor did have a very nice sword.  It was an El Cid, if I'm not mistaken."

    And there was Cristos, right in front of him.  Rick took a long look ... did the guy look familiar?  Nothing rang a bell, but Rick felt like he ought to recognize the man.  Late forties, very light stringy blonde hair--almost white--and heavy, heavy makeup pierced by brilliant turquoise eyes.  The lips were funny--sculpted-looking.  Plastic surgery?  The dark flowing robes failed to fully conceal a middle-age paunch.  If Cristos was the immortal Rick sought, then he was definitely out of shape.

    And if he wasn't the immortal, then somebody else in the room was, because the buzzing sensation was still with Rick and all around him in the room, like a pressure wave bearing down on his entire body.  Where is my sword? Rick thought.  He felt more alone without his sword than he did with the eyes of a dozen hostile Cristos-zombies staring at him while the revered man in the make-up and dark robes bent down to speak.

    "Not exactly a subtle entrance," Cristos quietly spoke, "but nonetheless you are here.  If it's my attention that you wanted, then now you have it.  Shall we start with your name, please?"

    Rick saw no reason to keep his identity a secret.  "Ryback.  Rick Ryback.  I run a small shop in the downtown area.  And I didn't come here to hurt you.  I just wanted to talk.  But your security goons--" he gestured at the three who surrounded them--"these guys wouldn't let me in.  So one thing led to another, you know?  And here I am, stretched out on your couch with a headache and a couple of guns pointing at me."

    Cristos studied Rick for a long moment.  "No.  I don't think so.  I don't think you just happened to wander in here."  He stopped Rick's interruption with a small motion of his hand.  "Let's not bandy lies and half-truths, please.  You came here for a specific reason, I should think.  This little scene is not just an accident--not with your dramatic entrance with sword in hand and the fact that one of my guards is on his way to the hospital right now, looking at a probable concussion.  Yes, you took out Matthew very nicely--and very easily.  You're much more than you appear to be, my young friend."

    Rick didn't need to fake the look of regret that crossed his face.  "Sorry about the guard--what's his name?--Matthew?"  Cristos nodded.  "But I thought this guy here was Matthew.  How many Matthews do you have around here, anyway?"

    Cristos smiled.  "All of my security guards are named Matthew.  It's my way of honoring an old friend, now deceased.  The first Matthew wanted to be my protector and, after he passed on, all my current protectors were named after him."

    "Weird," Rick said, shrugging.  "But you have to realize that I never wanted to hurt anybody.  Matt ... the Matthew downstairs--he had my arm, you know?  And it was hurting, too.  What was I gonna do?"

    Cristos nodded.  "Yes, I can see that would be quite a provocation.  But violence is rarely an excuse for violence."  He looked down at Rick, an amused smile crossing his heavily made-up face.  "And your arm seems to have healed quite nicely, in any case."

    Think fast Rick old boy.  Explain the arm if you can.  "Uh ... maybe it was your presence?  Maybe you healed it?"

    Cristos snorted his disbelief.  "No, I don't think so.  Sorry, Mister ... Ryback?  Good try, though.  But I don't claim to be able to heal the sick.  And I don't think you are what you claim to be--or whom you claim to be, either.  That name, Ryback--it's just not you.  It really doesn't feel right to me."  The Matthews overheard the exchange.  They were nudging each other and smiling, obviously impressed with Cristos' acumen.  He was impressing Rick, as well.

    "But it feels okay to me," Rick said.  "Look, Mr. Cristos:  I don't know what you mean--I'm not hiding anything.  I'm like Popeye:  I yam what I yam ... just a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time."  And one who wants to be on his way, too--just as soon as you tell me which one of you is the immortal.

    "You certainly may be in the wrong place, my new-found friend.  But Rick Ryback?  Hmmm ... No.  That's not your real name.  I should know your name, shouldn't I?"  Cristos closed his eyes, searching for the answer.  "Hold on.  It's coming to me.  Ryback ... Ryback ... Rytan ... Ray-ban ... Rayon ... Ryan.  That's it.  Your name is Ryan ... Richie Ryan.  You were with MacLeod.  And you are an immortal, just as I am."

    Rick looked into Cristos' smiling eyes.  The guy had nailed him, and denying wasn't going to do him any good.  How had Cristos known his real name?  And how was he going to let Joe and Michelle know that the guy was an immortal?  He sighed.  Some days it just didn't pay to get up in the morning.

*****

    The detective was short and heavy, and from up close Rick could tell that he liked cheap cigars--and that his deodorant really wasn't strong enough.  He ignored Rick's wince of pain as the handcuffs slammed closed, and signaled to one of the uniforms.

    "Take Ryback to the patrol car--and keep him away from the press."  As Rick was taken out of the room, the detective looked searchingly at Cristos one more time.  "No publicity, right?  And that means no charges?"

    "No, Detective Weaver, " Cristos replied smoothly, "you know my needs here.  What publicity we have, we want to generate deliberately, according to our timetable.  We don't need the kind of random sound bite that detracts from our message."

    The dumpy detective nodded.  "Okay, Cristos.  You're the man."

    "And you, Detective Weaver, are the man who has Ryback.  I think forty-eight hours in the county jail ought to be adequate for our needs.  Then you can release him for lack of evidence, or something similar.  Just let Bryson know the exact time Ryback is going to be released.  Fair enough?"

    "Fair enough," Weaver said.  "So the story is that Matthew tripped and hit his head against the steps.  Maybe he was pushed, or something--and Ryback is a material witness to what happened.  We question him, find out he knows nothing, and then release him a couple days later.  That work for you?"

    Cristos nodded, then turned away, dismissing the police detective.  He spoke to the assembled guests.  "My sincere apologies for the interruption, beloved ones.  The man was obviously disturbed--and is therefore deserving of our forgiveness and our prayers."  Cristos looked around, making eye contact with many in the crowd.  "And my sincere gratitude for our small white lie to the authorities.  While we do not, as a general policy, condone lies and untruths, in this case they served to keep a young man out of prison and therefore allowed him time to prepare for the coming Judgment Day, which is surely the greater good."

    He raised his hands in benediction.  "We need not judge young Mr. Ryback.  Nor, indeed, must he be judged by the judicial system, the corrupted judges and attorneys that have perverted the goddess Justice in this decaying country.  No, my friends and loved ones.  Mr. Ryback will be judged in six weeks--as indeed will all of us be judged in six weeks--when the Millennium arrives and Judgment Day is at hand.  So let us now practice forgiveness and forgetfulness, and let the young man go his own way.  That is my desire in the matter, and I ask that it be done according to my will."

    The crowd nodded its acceptance, with many saying, "Yes Cristos" and "Amen" and "So let it be done."  These were the confirmed faithful, those who had donated their worldly goods to Cristos' mission so that he might reach out to all mankind with his message of coming judgment.  These were the inner circle of confirmed followers who would do his bidding without question and without hesitation, trusting in the knowledge that with the Apocalypse a mere six weeks away, following Cristos would secure them and their families a place in Heaven.  They were lambs, and like lambs could be safely trusted not to stray when they knew the wolves were about.  They would keep Cristos' secret as he would keep Ryback's sword.

    Cristos gathered the three remaining Matthews close and spoke quietly to them.  The other faithful realized that the show was over, and headed back to the food table to snack on the goodies spread out before them.  They courteously left Cristos and the Matthews to themselves, giving their leadership respect and privacy.

    "My dear Matthew," Cristos said to his three guards, "let us not dwell on your near failure.  Let us not dwell on the fact that Ryan--or Ryback, as he now calls himself--came within mere yards of striking me with that beautiful sword ... that he came within seconds of wounding me--or worse.  And while it was most unlikely that he'd be able to accomplish his goals before you could stop him, it does distress me that he could come so close.  I believe that it is my destiny--my fate, if you will--that I will live to see not only the Apocalypse, Judgment Day, and beyond--but will also live far into the New Millennium.  And although you know it is true--because you have seen it with your own eyes--that I am an immortal, and will live forever so long as I can keep my head, it was a foolish risk to take when we're so close to The End, and to the New Beginning.  I am very disappointed that you could not guard my person with better solicitude."

    "Yes, Cristos," said one of the Matthews.  "We're sorry; you know we are.  But what does it really matter what happens, when you heal from just about any wound?  So long as Ryback doesn't take your head, then you'll recover, right?  So why the worry?"

    "My own life is relatively unimportant--yet I cannot trust too many with the secret of my immortality.  There have been times in my past lives when I was seen to recover from an injury that would have killed a mortal ... and although it impressed my followers, it brought me unwanted attention--and ultimately thwarted my plans.  We are too close to Judgment Day to have our plans threatened by unwanted attention--whether from the police, the news media, or from other immortals--and therefore it is far better that I not be seen to display any special powers or gifts.  Do you understand?"

    "Sure Cristos," another of the Matthews said.  "But what about Ryback?  He's another immortal, right?  Won't he come after you?  Won't he come looking for your head after he gets out of jail?"

    "Forget Ryback, or Ryan--or whatever his name is today.  He's just a child, and you ought to be able to deal with him appropriately.  The real danger's from Duncan MacLeod.  We've had run-ins before and although I thought we'd made our peace the last time--we can't let MacLeod interfere with us for at least the next six weeks.  After that, it really won't matter a tinker's dam what he does.  It will be the New Millennium and a fresh beginning for us all, mortals and immortals alike."

    The Matthews glanced at each other.  One said, "All right, Cristos.  We'll keep a look-out for MacLeod, and we'll keep him away from you if we see him.  But if Ryback comes back looking for trouble ... then he's going to get it."

    Cristos nodded distractedly at that last comment, thoughts clearly elsewhere--perhaps on the upcoming Apocalypse, and how it represented the best hope for lasting peace and harmony that he'd seen in his nearly thirteen hundred years.  If only I can convince enough people to open their hearts, repent of the past, and make a new beginning, he thought.  It was the same thought that constantly occupied his waking mind and visited his dreams.  I was able to change--why not the rest of humanity?  What did one life matter--Ryback's, MacLeod's, or even his own--when the world was looking at such a once-in-a-thousand-year opportunity?  He patted each of the Matthews on the shoulder in silent benediction, then moved away to rejoin his flock over by the food-laden tables.

    The three Matthews watched their leader walk across the room, then paused to share a quick word or two.  If any of the other guests had overheard, they would have been puzzled by some of the cryptic comments that passed between the security guards.

    "MacLeod?  Not very damn likely," one of the Matthews said with a smile.

    "Too true; too true.  And if all goes per plan, the rest of 'em'll be ready and waiting for New Year's," said another.

    The third Matthew said, "And Ryback?"

    He got a shrug in reply.  "Missed or overlooked.  Not sure why.  A problem, d'you think?"

    "Not if Bryson lets us know when and where.  Two days is not a lot of time, but we ought to be able to pull it off."

    One Matthew said quietly, "I'll call it in."

    All three nodded at that, and began to move back to their routine security stations, guarding their beloved leader from danger, no matter from whence it came.

*****

    Rick paced back and forth across the battleship-gray jail cell, whose painted cinderblock walls were scarred with momentos from past inmates:  names and dates and gang affiliations that were the only epitaphs they would ever receive from an unmerciful and largely uncaring court system.  His booking had been an all-too-familiar routine, made slightly more interesting by the fact that Detective Weaver had bypassed the fingerprinting and taken him directly to the cell.  Material witness, huh?  What a joke!  As soon as he saw a judge, he was going to be free as a bird, and then he was going to make a beeline straight for Dawson, try to find out what Cristos was up to, see if it had anything to do with the missing immortals.  One thing's for sure, he thought, Cristos knows who I am now, and if he's behind the disappearances, then he's gonna come looking for me and try to make me disappear as well.

    Hours passed like shadowy ghosts of dead soldiers, who had given their lives in an unknown cause.   How many hours, he had no idea.  He only knew that he was trapped in the claustrophobic grayness of the cell--and he needed to escape.  Thank God I'm immortal, or else I'd be afraid of the stuff they call food in this joint.  He remembered the taste of halibut with mango salsa, salty and sweet, and spicy too--like the taste of Michelle's lips and tongue, the taste of her moist skin early in the morning as the dark night turned into fuzzy grayness and then into dawn.  He began to hum a song to her in his head, willing her to hear it through the gray mists, and know that he was okay.
 
 

    "Hey Ryback!  Wake-up!" yelled the jailer as he opened the cell door.  "You made bail, my young man!  Time to get out of here!"

    "Huh?" was Rick's groggy reply.  "What happened?"

    "Your lawyer posted bail.  That's what happened to you, Ryback.  Now drop your cock and grab your socks--and let's get your P.E. and get you out of here!  Or do you want to move in here permanent, and call this place home?"

    "All right, all right," Rick answered, moving faster as the idea of freedom began to percolate through the gray fog in his brain.  "I'm coming, I'm coming.  Anything to avoid any more of that crap you call food!"

    "What?  You don't like our nouvelle cuisine?" the jailer laughed.  "You wound me, Ryback, you really do.  Does this mean we're gonna lose our Michelin star?"

    "Save it," Rick said.  "The only star you've got is the one on your chest, and that one's tin, I think.  Now just show me to the front door and I'll be on my way.  How long's it been, anyway?"

    "You've been in our good graces here for just over twenty-four hours, Mr. Ryback.  Now you're being released via H.C. all nice and preachlegal, just like the good book says.  So kindly give our regards to your attorney, huh?"

    Michelle.  She heard my song and came to get me out of here.  "Is she waiting for me?"

    "She?" the jailer laughed harder.  "Yeah, right.  Sure, Ryback, she's waiting right in front of the station.  Must be your true love--if you like 'em hairy, that is!  Give her our regards, like I said, and tell her that she needs a shave, all right?"

    Rick shook his head, too tired and too snowblind from the ubiquitous grayness to care about the humor in the situation.  Free at last!  Thank God I'm free at last!  He went through the exit routine in a daze, signed his name where indicated on the dotted line, and allowed himself to be escorted to the public area in the front of the jailhouse.  With a final pat on the butt from the jailer, the door was open and he was gone.  Out of the grayness and into the Seacouver sun, whose brilliant light, clear and shining like a diamond, welcomed him back home.

    Right into the arms of Methos.

*****