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    Methos was being reasonable, for Methos.  "Look.  You are not going home right now.  There are people out there who want to hurt you.  If you go home, they will find you and take you--and kill you.  Is that what you want?"

    The motel room wasn't cheap-looking exactly; it was downright slumlord urban-decay post-Millennium modern in its torn and faded wallpaper, brown-stained once-pastel floral print bedspread, and its Asian-meltdown non-cable ready, non-high definition television set.  Outside was Rick's old neighborhood, and although he didn't recognize a single falling-down vacant apartment or gaudy adult bookshop from his childhood days roaming the streets, it was still the closest thing he had to a homeland.  Not exactly the Scottish Highlands, he thought, or the Left Bank either.

    "I need to get to Joe and Michelle!" Rick argued back.  "They need to know that I'm okay!"

    Methos rolled his eyes, and shook his head in pity at Rick's stupidity.  What a noble boyscout!  Just like MacLeod!  "Haven't you ever heard that discretion is the better part of valor?  Well, maybe there's a reason that the saying has survived a thousand years.  Maybe there's some truth in it!"

    "Look, Methos," Rick said.  "I'm not a fool, and I'm not the young kid that you take me for.  I understand that it's dangerous--but I've got to see if Michelle and Joe are all right!  Joe's your friend too--don't you care what happens to him?"

    "Don't you understand that it's not Dawson or LeBrun that they want!  They're not immortals!  These fanatics want you and me, and all the other immortals that they can lay their hands on!"  Methos paused to take a swig of beer.  "If you go back, then you'll be taken--just like all the others have been taken.  And this time I won't be there to bail your ass out.  Is that clear?"

    "So what are you saying?  Just cut and run, and live to fight another day?  What about Mac?  What about Amanda and Keane and the others?  What about them, Methos?"

    Methos put in another CD.  Hmm, Pearl Jam--the classics don't ever go stale!   "What I'm saying is that we need a plan, not a madman's rush right into the arms of Cristos and his gang of Millennium-crazed zombies!  Rich--listen to me!  For every thousand brave heroes charging to their death as the trumpets sound, there's one or two disillusioned old bastards sitting on their butts back at Headquarters, patiently waiting for the end of the war so that they can go back to their wives and lovers and children in one piece.  And that's what matters, my friend.  Not honor, not glory, not a shiny medal on your dead corpse.  What matters is surviving.  Be the survivor, not the martyr."

    "Fine," Rick said, at last.  "I can hold-off long enough to make a plan.  But I'm telling you right now that I'm not going to sit here on my butt when Michelle and Joe are counting on me to get to the bottom of this."  He looked Methos right in the eye, staring unblinkingly at the eldest immortal.  "If you're planning something that helps solve their problem--great:  I'm your man.  If not, then I'm back on my own, and you can take a hike."

    Methos sighed.  Ahhh, the arrogance of youth!  How quickly it turns to despair when an unforeseen crisis arrives.  He said aloud, "Then we'll take on Cristos together."

    Rick nodded.  "So what's going on?  And how did you escape Cristos' goon-squad?" he asked the ancient one who looked no older than a graduate student.  "And for that matter, how did I escape Cristos' bunch of zombies?"

    Methos smiled.  "It's quite simple, really.  Cristos infiltrated the Watchers two or three years ago.  As his word spread and gained him converts, each new convert told even more friends and loved ones, so within a relatively short time he had thousands at his beck and call.   Some of the converts were Watchers--and several were very highly placed ones indeed.  That's how he got the names and locations of the immortals.  As his organization grew and became filled with zealots and fanatics, he targeted the immortals and planned how to make each one 'vanish' without a trace.  He's got a core army of the militant faithful, maybe as many as three or four hundred, who are ex-soldiers or ex-cops, and he uses them to kidnap the immortals."

    "I met some of those guys," Rick said.  "He calls them the Matthews, for some weird reason."

    Methos nodded.  "So he's racing against time, trying to kidnap all the immortals he can grab before one of us figures out what's going on, and manages to somehow take his head.  Problem is, it looks like he just might make it."  He took a deep swallow of the beer and changed the CD to the new one by Black Aura's Shadow.  He wasn't sure if he liked the new retro-suburban sound yet.

    "So how did you and I escape the net?" Rick asked.

    "Isn't it obvious?" Methos said.  "He didn't go after me because my name doesn't appear on any Watcher list of immortals, and he didn't go after you because your name only shows up on the list of dead immortals."

    "But he had me yesterday!  He and his Matthews had me cold.  Why did they let me go?"

    Methos shook his head.  "Richie ... um, Rick ... Think about it!  He's creating a mystery here, trying to fool both the Watchers and the other immortals.  There's no way he was going to make you disappear out from under the sight of nearly fifty people.  He's going to wait until it's dark and you're alone.  That's his plan.  That's the way he operates."

    "So why didn't he take me as soon as the Watchers located me again?"

    "No time," Methos said.  "It wasn't until maybe a month ago that they found you again, and he probably didn't have time to set anything up for you, unless--"

    "Unless what?" Rick said.

    "Unless this little Seacouver junket was a last-minute cover for your kidnapping," Methos said thoughtfully.  "Maybe the reason that Cristos is here, is to grab you and stash you wherever he's got the others."

    "You mean the others are still alive?" Rick said.  "But why in the world would he let them live?"

    "I'd bet on it," Methos said.  "This guy's a religious nut, Rich, as well as being an immortal.  He's going to stage some grandiose show to impress the faithful and win some more converts.  He's not going to secretly take a bunch of heads one-by-one over a period of months--he's going to take them all at once, on stage in front of thousands of his adoring worshippers.  It's going to be the greatest Quickening that the world has ever seen, and when it's over--if he has his way--then not only will he have The Prize, but he'll also be the priest-king of the world.  And when Judgment Day comes, Cristos will be the Judge."

    "Unless we stop him," Rick said.

    Methos nodded.  "Unless we stop him," he agreed.  "But first--we need to know more than we do.  A lot more.  Have you ever heard what Sherlock Holmes said about criminals who think they have the upper hand?"

    Rick shook his head no.

    "Well, I happen to be somewhat of an expert on Sherlock Holmes, and so here's the plan--"
 

*****
 
 

    Dawson would have paced if he could, but he was severely limited by his lack of legs, so he settled for sitting in a chair.  The absence of physical movement didn't prevent him from nearly constant activity though, as he spent hour after hour on his cellular phone, directing the citywide search for Rick--the manhunt which he had initiated as soon as he'd learned that Rick hadn't made it out from Cristos' meeting.  Dozens and dozens of Watchers were combing the streets--as well as guarding the airport and train station, and standing watch outside of the mansion leased for Cristos' use during his stay in Seacouver.  Joe and his team were doing what they could, but it wasn't enough--not nearly enough.

    Last night, Joe had taken a deep breath and called Paris for more Field reinforcements.  He'd taken a verbal beating from the Council--and he was on the verge of being removed from the search--but another 40 Watchers were winging their way across the North Pole as he sat in Rick's cheery yellow kitchen, waiting for the phone to ring with the latest news.

    Plenty of Watchers available for reassignment these days, Joe thought, 'cause there's almost nobody left for them to Watch.  Wonder what we'll do if tomorrow we all wake up and every single immortal has vanished for good?  Will we pack it all in?  Close down the Organization, call it a day--and tell ourselves we served a noble purpose, 'til one day that sacred purpose just went away--just popped like a soap bubble?  Will the Council send each one of us a letter saying, 'Hello.  Your lifelong reason for being just up and disappeared, folks, and we don't have any idea what the hell happened--but we did what we could for as long as we could, and now it's all over.  Have a nice day.'?

    The Watchers had given him purpose and meaning since he'd lost his legs in 'Nam.  They'd put a tattoo on his wrist and taken away his .45, giving him a new life to replace the one Vietnam had taken from him.  Maybe, just maybe, if all the immortals did take a powder, then maybe it'd be time for him to do the same--finish the job the Cong had started in 'Nam; finish the job he'd been ready to finish when his future was controlled by Army doctors and those oh-so-caring
nurses, who were so very damn eager to smilingly plop him into a wheelchair and set him out to pasture to watch the taxpayer-funded V.A. grass grow.  Maybe he'd finally get around to finishing the job Ian Bancroft and the Watcher Organization had wheedled him out of.  Suicide, they'd call it, with frowns on their prim and proper faces.  He called it finishing the job.

    Meanwhile, Michelle, caught-up in her own dark thoughts, was attempting to wear a hole in Rick's kitchen floor with her pumps.  While Joe had had his constantly ringing phone and his team of Watchers to keep him going throughout the afternoon and too-long night, she'd had nothing to do but think about Rick and dwell on the ominous possibilities that threatened her lover.

    The Watchers had no use for her anymore.  Her ludicrous theories had impressed no one.  Her so-called superiors in the Organization kept pointing out, to everyone they could find, that she had run-off during a time of crisis and, frankly, they really had no use for a young Researcher who cracked under pressure. Sorry, Michelle, but it's good-bye and farewell.  And as a Researcher, she had no official role to play in Field Ops--even if Joe had felt enough pity to find one for her.  Even worse, everybody knew about her affair with Ryback--and they no longer trusted her, wondering if somehow she had revealed some secret that had actually caused Ryback's disappearance.

    There were those--back in Paris--who were trying out a new theory, spoken in conspiratorial whispers around the office water coolers and over Kir Royales in local bistros, a theory that somehow she was linked to the mysterious disappearances of the immortals--that perhaps Michelle LeBrun knew more than she was letting on.  Why not bring her back to Paris--by force if need be--and get the truth out of her?  There had been no formal actions yet taken, but she and Joe had agreed that it was just a matter of time until she was recalled to Paris for "questioning."

    But those thoughts didn't matter.  Nothing mattered to Michelle except finding Rick and getting him back into her arms.  It had only been a few days, but those few glorious days had made the rest of her life fade into pale shadows.  She couldn't see into the future, but she knew in her heart that whatever future she had would be shared with Rick, for as long as he would share it with her.  Six weeks or sixty years--they were his, if only he would be there to accept them from her.  Where is my Rick? she screamed in her head, while outwardly she remained silent, pacing and pacing across the kitchen floor.

    She looked up as Joe's cell phone rang yet again.

    "He's been in jail!" Joe said, his expression alternating between exasperation and elation at the news.  "What in the hell for?"

    Michelle couldn't catch the other end of the conversation, but she understood that Rick was alive.  Thirty-six hours of torture ended with a phone call.  Her heart pounded and the blood rushed into her head, its loudness nearly blocking-out Joe's side of the conversation.  Rick was alive!

    "Material witness, huh?  Okay.  Forty-eight hour hold for questioning.  Yep.  Uh-huh ... Made bail this morning?  How?"

    Michelle watched as Joe's face went through a few more changes.  Whatever news he was hearing kept surprising and angering him on alternate phrases.

    "His attorney.  Yeah, right Aaron.  Listen, pal--Ryback doesn't have an attorney!  That could have been Cristos' man!  Tell me about the guy.  Mmm-hmm.  Yep.  Okay ...  No, no bells.  Sorry.  So--did you follow 'em? What!  You lost them!  How in the hell could you and your team lose Ryback?"

    Michelle's face started to go through the same series of expressions as Joe's had.  Found, and then lost? Rick is alive, she kept repeating to herself, as if that fact could keep her afloat in the rising flood waters of despair. He's alive, and he's coming back to me.  He's got to.

    "Look Aaron!  I understand that your team was spread-out thin, looking for Ryback, and that it was just you and Princely at the station house!  But how could you goddam lose Ryback?  What the hell were you thinking--you know how important he is!  All right, all right.  Yeah, I understand, pal.  These things happen ... but they sure seem to happen a lot when Cristos is around.  No ...  calm down.  I'm not saying that you deliberately ... Relax, Aaron!  I'm just venting here; no offense ... Aaron!  Well, screw you too, pal--and the horse you rode in on!  I wasn't the one who ... Aaron.  Aaron?"  Joe shook his head and closed-up the phone.

    He looked at Michelle.  "Things keep getting weirder and weirder, sister."

    "Tell me," she said, though she thought she already had a fairly good idea as to what had happened.

    "Relax, Michelle," Joe replied, "Richie's alive--or at least he was alive this morning at ten.  Somehow the kid got himself thrown in jail for forty-eight hours as a material witness to somebody getting hurt at the prayer-meeting yesterday morning.  Okay, that part almost makes sense, right?"  Michelle nodded impatiently.  "All right, hold on--I'm getting to it.  So this morning the kid has his bail paid and gets released a day early--by his attorney!"

    "But--"

    "Absolutely!  Richie doesn't have an attorney!  So who could it be?  We have no idea."

    "So then--"

    "Right," Joe said.  "So then Goldman and Princely, who are the only two Watchers in the area at the time, lose Ryback and the 'attorney' in the crowds.  And then they decide to 'search the area thoroughly' before they get around to calling me, wasting another two hours."  He shook his head.  "Figures.  With the way this whole vanishing act mystery is shakin' out, it just friggin' figures that we'd lose our only lead."

    "What about the attorney?  Why would Rick just leave with him?  Did he have a gun, or something?"

    "Well, not that anybody could see," Joe answered.  "But these guys weren't exactly the 'A-Team'--and they probably missed about half of what they were looking at."  He shook his head again.  "Figures.  It just figures."

    "Well, what are we going to do next?  Do we just continue to sit here, or--"

    She was interrupted by the door swinging open.

    Rick walked in.

    "Hey folks!" he said with a grin.  "Look who's--"

    Michelle's intense hug and deep kiss muffled whatever Rick was trying to say, and he was very quickly too busy kissing her back and wiping away the tears to finsh the sentence.  Joe sat patiently, smiling at the two young lovers, until he thought they'd spent enough time getting reacquainted.  Then he cleared his throat.

    "Okay, pal," he said, "you had us all worried there.  Let's have the story."

    Michelle couldn't speak, but nodded her agreement as the tears continued to wander down her face.  She clutched at Rick's hand as if it were the safety line keeping her from falling into an abyss.

    "Okay," Rick said.  "Here's the scoop.  Cristos is our immortal, all right.  What's more--the guy recognized me ... knew my real name and linked me to Mac in about two minutes flat."

    "But--" Joe tried to interrupt.

    "Hold on a sec, Joe," Richie said.  "If you're going to ask me if I recognized our Mr. Cristos--the answer is 'no.'  But I'll tell you both something:  I felt like I ought to have recognized him, you know?  Like I should have known his face the same way he knew mine.  But I've had more'n a day to rack my brain on the guy's face, and I have to tell you I have no idea who the creep is."

    Joe looked pensive.  "I've checked, double-checked, and even triple-checked the database, Rich, and there's no Cristos listed.  What's more ... I took his picture Sunday and his face doesn't track to any other known immortal--active or inactive--either.  So if he's an elder immortal, he's either in disguise ... or he's been hiding-out for a long, long time."

    "Right," Rick said.  "I noticed that the guy wore a ton of makeup, so maybe that's the reason he's not found in your database.  But one thing's for sure--"

    "What's that?" Joe said on cue.

    "He's been around for a while, long enough to have seen me and Mac together.  And if it'd been a normal encounter, then Joe would have recorded it--right, Joe?"

    Joe nodded.  "Yeah, normally I would have.  An entry--plus a picture, if we could snap one."

    "So if I don't recognize our friend, and Joe doesn't recognize him either, then chances are he's changed his appearance somehow."

    "Makes sense," Joe replied.

    "I understand," Michelle said in a cracked voice.  "But that still leaves three or four mysteries left for you to tell us about, Rick."

    "And they are?" he guardedly asked his lover.

    She replied in a still-unsteady voice.  "One--What happened when you met Cristos?  Two--Is he connected to the disappearances and, if so, how?  Three--How did you land in jail?  And four--Who was the 'lawyer' who bailed you out, and what happened to him?"

    "Yeah, Rich," Joe interjected, "what's the full story, son?"

    Rick looked up at the ceiling.  "Those questions aren't as easy to answer as you might think.  One, two and three are really the same question ---and the answer is 'yes.'  As to question four, all I can say is that it's nice to have friends, you know?"

    Michelle's love for Rick didn't get in the way of her temper, short-fused as it was from going nearly two days without sleep.  "That is not good enough, not nearly good enough!  Joe and I have sat in this damn yellow kitchen for almost two days, worried sick about you--and we have a right to understand what happened while we sat here, not knowing, waiting and hoping that you were still alive!"

    The tension was too much, and Michelle hid her face in her hands as the tears once again forced their way out of her green eyes.  Rick tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away angrily--almost knocking him down across Joe's artificial legs.  "No!  I won't be treated like a little girl!  I can't stand not knowing!  Either you trust me enough to tell me the truth, or it's over between us!"

    "Michelle ... Michelle," Rick said soothingly.  "I never said I wouldn't tell you what happened--but you have to let me tell it in my own way."

    "Your own way?" she bitingly said through her tears, "Your way is the way of evasive half-truths and outright lies!  Your way is to tell the little girl whatever she needs to hear to keep her happy, and to hell with what is really going on!  I won't have it, I tell you!  I deserve the truth!"

    "And your way is to interrupt, and to question--and to demand answers--until the story is so tangled and confused that nobody could tell you the straight scoop!  If you'd only let me just tell the damn story the way it happened, instead of giving me the third degree--"

    Joe watched with interest as Rick's temper rose to match Michelle's.  He'd wondered just how far the young immortal could be pushed.  The Richie he'd known-- the teenage mortal and, later, MacLeod's protégé--had been somewhat gullible and easily manipulated.  Joe liked the way this new--more mature--Rick didn't back down so easily, how he firmly stood his ground when confronted by his lover.  Rick's newfound maturity had impressed him a few days ago during their little meeting after the Field Planning debacle, and it continued to impress him today.  I guess dying a couple of times could give a guy a more mature perspective on life, he thought.  He'd never had any kids, but if he'd had a son, he hoped the boy would turn out to be a lot like Richie--now Rick.

    "Folks," Joe said loudly.  "Let's all calm down.  As Rick said a few days ago--in this very kitchen--time-out for a minute, okay?"  The other two paused in their argument to look at him.

    Joe continued to play peacemaker.  "Michelle, Rick's right."  She started to retort, but the gray-haired Watcher held up his hand.  "No, hold on a sec.  He's right when he says we haven't given him ten uninterrupted seconds to tell us what we need to hear.  So what say we all sit down around this kitchen table--and you and I shut our traps while Mr. Ryback here fills us both in."

    He turned to look directly at Rick.  "And you, Mr. Ryback.  We expect the whole truth and nothing but the whole truth.  And after you're done, you'll answer our questions openly and honestly--right?"

    Rick nodded.  "No problemo.  Just as openly and honestly as I possibly can."  He held out a chair for Michelle.  "That okay with you, sweetie?" he asked her.

    She grimaced and wiped at her eyes, willing the tears to dry up.  I must look a fright, she thought.  She said, "If you are willing to tell us the truth, then I am willing to listen to you."  But she didn't let him take her hand, reserving the right to hold on to her anger until he had proven his trust.

    "Okay," Rick said, as the other two gave him their undivided attention.  "I made it in to see Cristos, in that special little room of his.  That's where we talked--and where he admitted that he was an immortal.  But unfortunately, there was this little scene on the way in to see him, and by the time all was said and done ... well, let's just say by then I'd managed to lose my sword and had three Glocks pointing at me."

    Rick went on to relate his conversation with Cristos and the strange name he'd given to his security force, the Matthews.  At hearing their name, Joe got a funny look on his face, as if that ought to be ringing bells in his head, too.  Rick described his time in the county jail, and how he had been mysteriously bailed-out by his attorney.

    "So who was this mysterious attorney, Rick?" Michelle asked.  "And what happened to you after you were freed from the jail?"  She held her breath, knowing that Rick would have to reveal one of his secrets--and not knowing whether their love would be enough to give him the confidence to trust her.

    "Michelle," he said, "the attorney was Adam Pierson."

    "What!" Joe exclaimed.  "What in the friggin' hell are you talking about, goddam it?  How could Pierson be here when he's been missing for nearly six months?"

    Rick ignored Joe's outburst and kept looking into Michelle's green eyes.  She nodded, accepting his statement as the truth--and knowing that he did trust and love her, after all.  The clouds of confusion in her heart seemed to blow away.  She said, "Pierson is the one who--"

    Rick's hand closed over her mouth, silencing her.  Before she could react, he pointed at the ceiling and then at his ear.  She quickly understood.  Others were listening, and he didn't want Adam Pierson's identity as an immortal to be revealed. But wait a moment, she suddenly thought, the listeners are Watchers.  They can be trusted, is that not correct?  What does he suspect?

    Joe was oblivious to the silent communication Rick and Michelle had just shared.  He was still wrestling with the thought that his friend, Methos, was not only alive, but was also in Seacouver and ready to help them out if needed.  And my God, he thought, we sure as hell need him and all the help he can give us.  If there's anybody who can get to the bottom of this mystery, it's gonna be ol' Sherlock Methos.

    "I don't get it, Richie ... uh, Rick," he finally said.  "Must be going senile or somethin'.  It's what happens when we mortals get old.  Can you just give it to me slowly?"

    "Sure, Joe," Rick replied.  "Cristos is an immortal.  He just said so right to my face.  And what's more, he recognized me right off.  After a little talking, he had me thrown in jail to put me on ice--so I couldn't throw a monkeywrench in his plans, I guess.  Adam found out about the deal--how, I have no idea--and bailed me out this morning.  We spent the rest of the day talking and comparing notes."

    "And?" Joe asked, needing to hear more.

    "We're pretty sure that Cristos is behind the disappearances.  How he does it, we don't know.  Why he does it ... well, it's a good guess that he's doing it for the usual reason."

    "And that would be?" Michelle asked.

    Rick shrugged.  "Well, you know--'There Can Be Only One'."

    "What?" Joe exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that this guy's actually after every single immortal on the globe--just so he can take their heads and get The Prize!"

    "Something like that," Rick said.  "It's what we do, you know.  It's just that this guy has plans a little bigger than most of the rest of us immortals.  Here we are, naively planning our little challenges one at a time, mano-a-mano, nobody interferes--all according to a set of rules nobody's ever really seen ... and this guy's planning to take out hundreds in one fell swoop."  He shook his head.  "You almost have to admire the guy.  What cajones!"

    "Well, I don't have to admire him," Michelle said with feeling.  "I don't have to admire anybody who is planning to murder hundreds of people in cold blood."

    Joe looked at Rick.  "Something you said, pal--about 'planning to take out hundreds' ... you think the missing immortals are still alive, somewhere?"

    "Adam is pretty confident about that, Joe," Rick answered.  "We think Cristos is going to stage some kind of Year Two Thousand, Apocalyptic Millennium prime-time spectacular, brought to us all live on cable TV.  You know, like a New Year's fireworks display ... two or three hundred Quickenings in living--or should I say dying?--color."

    That last statement rocked both Michelle and Joe, though in different ways.  Michelle went pale, and covered her mouth in horror.  Her mind couldn't grasp the enormity of the act.  How could anyone plan to kidnap and murder hundreds of innocent people, whose only crime was--through no fault of their own--that they happened to possess the Quickenings that Cristos wanted?  It was on par with Hitler's "final solution"--though on a smaller scale.  Nonetheless, it was every bit as much of a genocidal act.

    Joe shuddered, then closed his eyes and shook his head.  Michelle had actually been right, in a way--it was the time of The Gathering, and it was going to be the end of the immortals--only it was going to be on Cristos' timetable, and it was going to happen in front of millions of viewers.  And when it was over, there was just going to be Cristos and The Prize--and a nation of worshippers.  He didn't want to think about what it would be like to be a servant to the priest-king who'd won The Prize.  It'd be like the old-style Popes, he thought, the ones who lied and cheated and murdered their way to the top, then used the Church as a brothel or as a tool to loot the rest of the world.  It wouldn't happen, he vowed, not if he had anything to say about it.

    "What's the plan, Rick," he finally growled.  "Whatever it is, count me in."

    "And me, too," Michelle said firmly.  "We must stop this madman!"

    "Well, if you really want to help--" Rick said.

    "We do!" they both replied.

    "Then let's go for a walk.  Kinda stuffy in here, y'know?"

    As the door closed behind them, any listener with above-average hearing might have caught Rick's parting words.  "So, Joe--" he said, "--how do those infamous Watcher trackers work, anyway?"

*****