Revelations, Prophecies, and Stuff
They had taken to holing up in bars, keeping a close eye on the t.v. English, Spanish, static, it was all the same-quite an addiction. Beer, wine, tequila, and black, black coffee came and went-but watching the t.v. had become a constant.
Jacob and Claudia found themselves, when they weren't in the trailer trying to keep themselves otherwise occupied, becoming news junkies. Their ears were peeled; their eyes were bleared. They knew things they never wanted to know about the weather in west Texas, or the per barrel price of fuel oil. But the one thing they didn't know, was "what next?"
But Genevieve and Methos had assured them before they parted ways that they would get their cue from the news.
Not that Methos could always be trusted to tell the truth, or that Genevieve could necessarily pull off all of the things she promised. Oh, but when the both of them were planning-there really wasn't any choice. Or rather, they had left them no choice. They left them with enough money to manage to do nothing. They left them with a lot of questions. And they left them fresh out of choices. They knew something was definitely up when Methos went after Kronos back to France ("Oh," Methos had commented. "I'll just be making sure nothing…Apocalyptic happens") and Genevieve set out for Canada ("You know, because I like Molsons and hockey," she had said, cryptically).
The story about the crash almost came and went without notice. It hadn't even been what they were looking for; they were expecting to hear news more profoundly disturbing than that. A sudden outbreak of a mysterious plague, perhaps. That would be worse. But that would be obvious. The capture of "Fearless Leader", as Methos had termed Kronos in one of his more-frequent bitter moods. And both of them were particularly looking forward to the inevitable story-
Genevieve carries out whatever her mission was supposed to be. Something more desperate than suicide and dumber than wrestling bears. Something that Methos and Genevieve apparently did a good deal of talking about when Kronos wasn't around.
But then they heard the rumor-just a tiny one. Kronos was in the crash. It was too absurdly awful not to be true. Heaven only knew how he'd be getting out of that.
No one would have guessed, least of all Kronos, where he'd be getting assistance from.
*****
"So I hear that you are Kronos-part of the Immortal resistance. Greetings. You will be coming with me," Kantos began, only just employing the Voice. He gave the very restrained (literally, not figuratively) man the sort of look one might give a coiled snake.
Sometimes life is just a cakewalk through a minefield, but if you don't dance-no cake, Kronos thought, disjointedly. His thoughts were more than a bit disjointed-they had seen fit to sedate him rather well. He couldn't say he wasn't enjoying some of the effects. He wondered, again, disjointedly, if this wasn't how Genevieve-perpetually drunk and possibly mad-felt all the time.
But even the more amusing effects of the several cc's of Thorazine that they had pumped him with were nothing compared to what the gods had just dumped into his lap. What he had on his hands, or in his lap-depending upon your preferred metaphor-was "A Man Who Couldn't Lose."
They usually lost, eventually. Kronos elected to sit back and watch this one unravel. The fun lay in knowing something the other did not, particularly if that something were important.
He imagined that the thing he knew was important. When he got over his laughing jag, he simply smiled.
"It's good to see another one of us for a change. Are you the cavalry?" the Horseman asked, in an easy tone of voice that made Roland Kantos uneasy. It had been bad enough in the first place that the man had found him amusing at first glance, but that he now seemed genuinely happy to see him was also unforgivable. Not that it couldn't be used to his advantage.
"I've come to get you out of this, if that's what you're asking. But I need you to trust me. We have to act quickly."
Kronos nodded, reasonably enough. "Well, we aren't going anywhere with these restraints still on me. You get me out of this," he shrugged, implying the straightjacket and cuffs, "and we'll go wherever you want to take me."
Kantos stared. The man was right-but now he was beginning to wonder-restraints? Of course, he couldn't leave the room in a straitjacket-he would stick out more than he already did. He approached, cautiously, and began to undo the buckles. For a person who was supposed to be vicious and demented, the fellow seemed almost calm. Which was good. Useful. Not at all disturbing.
Like hell.
As he worked the straps, he began using the Voice in earnest. "I'll let you out, but you must stay close to me at all times. I am the only one who can get you out of this alive," he said. "But you must listen to me and do whatever I say."
Kronos resisted a surge of resentment. If he listened to this fellow and did everything he said, it would be a first. But all the same, he docilely allowed the man to slip the straitjacket off of him and help him off the bed. He suppressed a feral grin as an idea danced in the corner of his mind-rather like a cakewalk through a minefield.
"Of course, there is the matter of my attire," he said. Again, he spoke calmly and rationally. Kantos could plainly see what he meant. He was wearing no more than the standard-issue hospital nightgown. "If my face was beginning to attract attention…why, you can only imagine!"
There was a bind. Kantos had not given thought to that part. But it would, in fact, be beyond him to escort a half-naked man through a hospital-particularly a hospital swarming with reporters and who knew what "interested parties" following up on the bizarre rumor of terrorist involvement. He was beginning to get a sensation that he was unfamiliar with.
Panic.
"Good thing you have that long coat," Kronos then said, simply.
In Kantos' world, things were not going all that well, but he realized he was still in control. Kronos obviously relied on his help to get out of here, and still had no choice but to follow him. As if he had a choice against the power of suggestion in the first place. All he needed to do was get the man out of the hospital, into the car, and bring him to Horton-alive. Temporary loan of his coat would not matter. He shed it, and passed it over.
Although he found the fit a little long, it was a nice coat. Leather. Well made. Had a scabbard and sword in it. Kronos rather liked it. He wasn't, in fact, sure he would give it back.
*****
"How do you like this?" the businessman harrumphed to no one in particular, but in Methos' general vicinity. Methos, accordingly, looked up. His mood had been growing fouler with each turn of this Kronos-chasing escapade. He had been hoping to catch a nap on the train-but no, he had to have a "talker" sitting across from him.
"How do you like broken teeth?" Methos commented under his breath.
The man, heedless of the implicit threat, went on. Either he had not heard, was pretending not to have heard, or was fairly stupid. All were great reasons to see him dead in a ditch.
"The Whore. She's turned herself in. The late edition, you see?" And with that, the man waved the paper about. "That's what they call her, you know? The redhead that blew up the American hotel."
"Oh, her," Methos responded, wondering what a nice piece of luck it was that the idiot picked that topic to be "chatty" about. But she had finally done it. He knew she would crack before making it into Canada-she had hardly any attention span. He couldn't remember what part of that plan he had enjoyed more: that it was the perfect fool's errand for the perfect little fool-or that it got her out of his way. Uh, the way. Not his way. And of course, it wasn't like she was in danger. After all, she was probably safer in the hands of the Feds. Sure. "Have they any clue why she did that?"
"They say that she wanted to make a statement. She makes quite the statement, eh? 'I'm an anarchist cunt that would rather throw bombs than work for a living.' I hope she turns in the rest of those pigs. I don't get this-people these days. In my day, sure, we protested a little. Nothing like the Americans. But these-college types. Oh, beg your pardon. Didn't mean to offend?" the man offered, noticing that, by virtue of appearance and obvious physical attitude, he might, himself, be a "college type."
"Pigs, you say?" Methos began. His eyes narrowed to hard, cold slits. He leaned forward, and, in spite of himself, the businessman leaned back and clutched his armrest until his knuckles turned white. "You've never, by any chance, read Orwell's 1984, have you? Seen the movie? The Macintosh commercial?" The odd thing about the loud-mouthed political know-it-alls was that they were so rarely well read. It was as if they simply stuck to their own little spheres of interest, and anything else be damned. This character was just as flabby as his mind. He took quick note of the soft jawline, the nodding head, the complacence. Mindfuck or murder? It had been a while since he'd indulged himself in either.
"Wha-what do you mean?" the businessman stammered.
"You seem like a smart fellow," Methos drawled, with only enough sarcasm to be noticed by the truly perceptive. It went unnoticed. "Haven't you noticed how the world has changed? Radar. Video cameras. Motion detectors. Have a computer? Passwords-easily circumvented-and an electronic trail of what sites you visit, what you like. Your porn habits are being monitored. Companies know what brands you shop. Travel much? Use a credit card? They can record where you go. Has it ever bothered you that you're being watched?"
The man gaped as if he were hearing the ravings of a paranoid at first, but then his eyes grew wide as if it were downing on him for the first time. It was true. He was being watched.
"Well, yes, I suppose you're right…but you know, it's also for our protection…"
"And just what do you suppose everyone needs protected from, hmm? Themselves? Or do you think there might be a bigger conspiracy? Think about that the next time you pay taxes, or read the paper."
Dim thoughts regarding Freemasonry, Communism, and, oddly enough, the monitoring of his porn habits, circled in the businessman's mind. Darting his eye towards the newspaper, he sputtered, "What are you saying?"
Methos leaned back in his seat and gazed out of the window. He was beginning to wonder why he even bothered. Of course, it was all true-especially for Immortals. It was too easy to be Watched. All of them knew what the "global village" meant. Being easily tracked. Hard as it was already to travel when you had to carry a sword-try having photo ID that needed to be regularly changed. Paperwork that always needed updating, and checked against birth records. And bloody buggering hologram cards-just try getting those things faked. Magnetic strips. You couldn't be Immortal anymore without it costing a small fortune. All in the name of progress.
It was progressively becoming a hassle he'd like to see done away with.
"Sir?" the businessman asked, still interested in this New Idea he was exposed to. "A bigger conspiracy? They are against a bigger conspiracy?"
He was beginning to feel his age as he looked at the gray buildings, gray grass, gray sky rushing past the window, and turning into a blur. It seemed like the world used to be a more colorful place, once.
"I don't know. All I'm saying is-keep your eye on the watchers."
He glanced over at the businessman, who now wore a very thoughtful look. It might, he mused, be the first time the man thought. He also mused at how a knife handle might look dangling out of the man's throat.
*****
There was no sense hanging around Seacouver, unless it was to experience all the wonder and majesty of the Zone and explore society's underbelly in all its sordid glory. Genevieve's handwritten note seriously implied it would be for the best if Carl headed back down to Mexico, meet up with Jacob and Claudia, and just hang tight there. It tickled him, momentarily, that the youngest one turned out to be the mother hen-concerned about her chicks. She wanted them all in one safe spot. Just holding tight.
Right. And together, what were they going to do-try to figure out which of them had gone further off their nut-Genevieve for turning herself in, or Kronos, for threatening the endgame?
He was beginning to see it while Genevieve was there-but it wasn't until she was gone that he could fully appreciate how deep this mess had gotten. She was too far gone in responsibility-ville to see what she was angling at. Her plan seriously flirted with the possibility of telling the world that Immortals were among them. Part of him could see why she wanted to. Being Immortal was being invisible-people could see only the surface, and would never imagine the depth of your experience. Immortals always had to hide their true age. Even a kid like her knew things and felt things a mortal would never know. And the hardest truth was that their present problem might only be solved if it was all in the open.
But of course, there would be repercussions. There were always repercussions. He'd been around long enough to know that the attitude of Horton and his hunters wasn't some aberration, but just a nasty side of human nature. It was a side that he knew might come out in force if the truth was known. She had her point-but it could mean disaster if she were wrong.
Not like Kronos' plan, which was just-disaster, right or wrong. There was no need to go into what Kronos was planning. Hold the world hostage. Safety for Immortals-or the Immortals will be the only ones left. And he could see where that would lead, just from knowing Kronos the little that he did.
He would be the one to save them. So he'd be the one to rule.
He'd be pissed at the man for being such an opportunist, if he didn't think Kronos' plan-sick as it was, would be more effective. Not the Kronos in charge part. The threatening mortals to get a little space part. When all was said and done, action did speak louder than words.
Seeing Kronos' point of view, though, scared the hell out of him.
Carl paused in the midst of packing to listen to the sirens-they were practically heard day and night in this neighborhood. Oh, yes, the lovely and scenic Zone had it all, from the dealer that Genevieve bought the weed from (a thought which reminded him to flush the woman's stash), to hookers, to killers-all kinds. There were neighborhoods like this in just about every major city he'd ever known. Atlanta. Chicago. New York. And Philadelphia. He remembered being surprised when Genevieve right at home, there in the Zone. She knew the walk, and how to keep her eyes still. And her mouth shut.
"Nobody down here but people like you and me," she'd said, taking note of something she saw-a fight in the street. He didn't even have to ask what she meant by that.
Desperate people. People who would do anything.
*****
Kronos wasn't surprised at the effect his new "friend" had on people. He'd found that sometimes he could get similar results from weak persons just by using the right touch of menace, the right tone of voice-or by actual threats with actual weapons, which was the method that he tended to prefer. And from time to time over the millennia, he'd seen others who could demonstrate this same talent. It never ceased to amaze him, really, how little will most people actually had. The majority of people he had ever known were weak, to some degree.
He never had been. This trick that Kantos had was a trick Kronos knew never really was all that effective on him. Oh, on the contrary. There was something about it that made him feel rather deliberate about resisting it. But he had no intention of making that little detail known right away.
Better, he imagined, that he should watch and see what this man's intentions truly were. The use of the Voice on him already gave him reason enough to be suspicious.
Before leaving, Kronos looked down at his feet. He could see them. That was a problem. He gestured.
"Is there a…guard outside?" he asked, innocently. Or, it sounded innocent.
"I'm afraid that he's gone for a walk," Kantos answered, but then saw what Kronos was getting at. Pants. Shoes.
"Well, if you see someone who looks about the right size, show him in," Kronos responded, but his tone of voice had gotten a bit distracted. He was looking out the window, trying to estimate what the people-traffic was like. Kantos took a good look at the man before poking his head out the door, unsure what the man's next step would be. For some reason, he didn't feel entirely comfortable turning his back on him. Then, just as he did turn, he heard that calm voice again, forcing him to turn.
"I was just wondering-where will we be headed? Once I have shoes, I mean?"
Kantos thought. There was another thing he hadn't quite thought about. First clothing, now destination.
"Friends-I have friends with an interest in you," he answered, honestly enough.
"Oh. It's good to have those." He continued looking out the window with an interest. Kantos felt a momentary temptation to inform him that the window was probably sealed shut. It would be a good idea to prevent jumpers in the mental ward. He decided against saying anything, only scanned the hall for someone who looked to be of a size.
He saw someone who seemed a bit likely-a doctor, a distracted-seeming man in a sweater, khakis, and a white coat who was muttering to himself.
"Excuse me, but I am having a bit of trouble in here," Kantos called, with a touch of urgency. It was enough to pull the man out of his reverie. He paused, quizzically, and then shuffled towards him. Kantos felt a momentary bit of relief at not having to use the Voice on this one-it could be a tiring exercise. "The patient…is behaving strangely."
"Sans blague?" the doctor began, with a touch of amusement. He thought it amusing to speak of a person acting strangely-for a mental patient. He looked in, curiously, but was then pushed inside, and the door was slammed behind him.
"We have an interest in your clothing, Doctor," Kantos smiled.
"This is an outrage…what is this about?"
Silence filled the room. Kronos had the arm of the straitjacket in his hands, and was twisting it. He smiled at Kantos. "Do you imagine the doctor would be so good as to lie right over here-on the bed?"
"Oh, I think he could be persuaded," Kantos smiled, but with a wary look. He could tell that the doctor was about to open his mouth in a yell, but he whispered, employing his little gift, "Why don't you do as the man says? You would be better off."
In a daze, the doctor approached the bed. He was about to sit on the edge, but with a sudden lunge, Kronos had wrapped the arm of the straitjacket about the man's throat, and was strangling the life out of him. Kantos was almost frozen at the suddenness of the act, but then showed the presence of mind to command. It hadn't been his intention to have a trail of dead bodies lying around to alert people to a "problem" like the breakout of a mental patient, who, it so happened, was one of the more deadly people on the continent. That would be a headache he could ill-afford.
"Stop. Stop what you are doing."
With a touch of deliberate slowness, Kronos let his features arrange themselves into a blank palette, but did not loosen his grip on the sleeve. The man's face turned from red to purple, to black.
"Let the man go."
The uncomprehending look Kantos received in return unnerved him. Kronos did let go, but only after the doctor was quite dead. He continued looking forward, blankly, but then smiled.
"Well, now that he's dead, he'll be much easier to manage, don't you think?" he asked, cheerfully. "I'd be much easier to manage that way-wouldn't I?"
Kantos resisted a shiver that threatened to crawl down his back. Of course, the man couldn't be implying that he wasn't being controlled-that he knew what was going on-could he? Of course not. He had let the man go after all, hadn't he? It had only taken longer than he had expected. He looked down at the dead man, whom Kronos was in the process of stripping.
"Perhaps you would," he answered, softly, but he did not return the smile. No, he certainly did not.
"Loafers," Kronos then spat, and cursed in some long-dead tongue. "Brown loafers-who the hell wears loafers?" He took off the coat, and placed it over the dead man. "But it matches the rest of his insipid clothing-do you mind?" he asked, suddenly.
"Mind?" Kantos echoed.
Kronos made an annoyed face. "I would rather not undress in front of you-I hardly know you. It's…undignified."
Kantos momentarily thought of pulling the coat from the dead man-but then decided against it. He momentarily considered using the Voice to be insistent about remaining in the room-but then decided that was also not a good option.
Perhaps this Kronos would be easier to control if he were dead.
*****
A celebrity terrorist may expect to receive certain privileges that other, more common criminals can only dream of. Such is the power of having killed more people.
Breslaw found himself thinking these and other unpleasant thoughts as he considered the young woman who sat, it would seem peacefully, in a maximum-security private cell far from the rest of the general population. As an American citizen, she would have privileges enough-but it was the celebrity that made her so very safe and sound. He knew there were countries where the likes of her would have been casually stabbed before arrest. But no…this was a "civilized" nation, and as such, they had a reputation to maintain.
And of course, she had not been strictly apprehended, so much as she had waltzed into the local police office and turned herself in to the unbelieving desk sergeant, and then submitted herself with what seemed to be a mixture of earnestness and amusement to a battery of questions under the sub-heading of a "grilling." And then, above all surprising, she had done the most amazing thing-amazing in this day and age of high-powered and high-priced defense attorneys.
She confessed to everything.
And that meant-everything. There was scarcely a crime that she did not "cop" to. She had apparently had quite an exciting little life. She covered everything from larceny to vice to manslaughter. She mentioned all of it-a "full confession." Drug-dealing, car-swiping, prostitution, bunco in the name of a stock-trading Ponzi scheme, association with many known organized-crime personalities, bombings, murders-she left out little but "impure thoughts" and "taking the Lord's name in vain." He felt more like her priest than her interrogator by the time he was through.
No matter how many things she brought up, he found it hard to take such a direct figure completely seriously. Her honesty was not merely appalling, but refreshing. No weak "Patty Hearst" arguments for her-she, in fact, laid claim to not only following Kronos' orders, but also giving him ideas for larger things. It seemed absurd. Of course, she had to be exaggerating. He could appreciate a creature so deluded that she longed to seem more a monster than she already was. He had seen enough of life to know that it was not so much what a man has done that makes him a monster-but what he would do, if only pushed to that point.
Whatever these people were-he could not imagine what it was that had pushed them to the point she was describing-a point that pressed home to possible world destruction. She had even hinted at such a thing occurring in the near future, if she failed at her task. But she showed reluctance to explain what that task actually was. She only made it clear that she wanted to tell the world what lie in store for it.
Obviously, these were simply the ravings of a disturbed child, but he wondered, cynically, if her ravings would not only serve to make these creatures seem more mad and pathetic than they already were.
To all but a few.
Because of the perversity of human nature, there were some who were not appalled at the antics of these terrorists, whose cause was so vague that even the very forth-coming and articulate Genevieve could not seem to express it. It appealed to something in the minds of the populace that gravitated towards anarchy, chaos, and the darker impulses. It was said by the tired and irritated local constabulary that her presence had caused a near-riot in the police station. The common street-walkers and dope dealers found her to be most charming-one man boasting that he had sold her a "nick" of marijuana, and the call girls twittering that they thought she was "one of them."
It scarcely seemed to matter to them that she was mad and dangerous-she was famous. That was what counted, in their minds. It was a sad commentary, indeed, on a society that could not see beyond the flashbulbs of the cameras and the blur of the headlines, that a killer should have a fanclub.
He was interrupted from his musings by the entrance of the American. Nick Wolfe was late of the NYPD, and was new to the FBI, but he did not seem to be a stranger to deep thought or cynicism. Breslaw had decided he liked him, even though the good-looking man had received a bit of attention from the news media concerning the woman's capture.
Although the FBI's interest in her case was honest, and Wolfe's involvement seemed genuine, he thought, wryly, that the man's appearance might have something to do with that fact that he was the one before the cameras, instead of an old man from Interpol.
"The Fowler girl…she's given you something to think about?" he asked, taking note of the worried, almost brooding look in the man's eyes. Wolfe nodded, apparently uninterested in giving an answer.
"Hers is the kind of case that gives everyone something to think about," Breslaw said, trying to draw him out. "And of course, she has that way of asking questions-she asked me if she made me uncomfortable. And if I was disgusted by her. I'm sure she also had questions of you today."
The young man paused by the door, apparently thinking hard before responding, as if he was still uncertain of what to make of what he had been asked.
"She told me," he began, finally, "that I might do the same things she had done, if I had to. But the look she gave me…"
Breslaw nodded. "As if she knew something you did not. She is a very self-assured young woman, but as anyone can see, she is mad. You must have seen the photographs of her back-only someone used to madness can be so completely sure. A sane man questions…always questions."
"You don't understand," Wolfe responded. "She questions-I think she's…sane."
Breslaw's eyes widened at that, but his incisive mind probed at the thought. Perhaps. Perhaps she was sane, but if that were the case-the world itself was very, very ill.
*****
James Horton had a fairly good feeling, all things considered. A "top of the world" feeling. An unbeatable feeling. Kantos was on his way to pick up the leader of the most virulent, no pun intended, faction of the Immortal resistance. His success or failure was almost irrelevant-the death of either at this point would simply be a pleasure. Genevieve Fowler was sitting behind bars. The capture of Kronos would only pull a few more of the Immortal scum out of hiding. And, he had picked up a few good leads on some more of the rebels-led by an Immortal named Ceirdwyn.
Things were looking good. But not so good that he was ready to stop there. Oh no, he was just getting warmed up for what promised to be the killing blow.
The CD. He had his mind made up about that CD.
It was strange how the power of an oath might hold a person back, even when that person knew full well how important it was for it to be broken. One time, years ago, he had sworn never to interfere-until he realized just how depraved these monstrosities were. And so, that part of the oath went out the window.
But keeping the secret-that he had done, and even now felt something like a chill at the possibility of making the secret public. But even more than that, he felt a thrill at the thought of their destruction. Then, and only then, could he be certain that the world was truly safe from their contamination.
He had a few phone calls to make. Yes, he had a very good feeling.
Although he would not, he imagined, be memorialized for what he had accomplished, it struck him that if he could only put an end to the Immortals once and for all, his efforts would have been well worth it.
The only thing that remained to be worked out was timing.
*****
Claudia had found a piano bar, and suckered the proprietor into letting her perform for pesos and American dollars. Jacob cringed, but he had discovered he couldn't stop her once she had set her mind on something. It was that kind of pluck that made her a modest name in the music business without the benefit of the classical education he knew she once had her heart set on. She had spoken of her dreams of performing at the Met, or Albert Hall, with a kind of rue and wistfulness that made him ache a little for her-she had a passion for one thing, and that thing was music. He could appreciate that. And even though he thought it might be a good idea for them to keep a low profile, he found it hard to resist letting her do something she really cared for.
He tried to feel happy for her as she played, but his eyes darted around the room, as if the patrons of the lonely cantina were all going to turn out to be Watchers, and they only wanted to hear the swan make a lovely sound before she died.
As his eyes darted to and fro, checking the expressions of the tourists and the locals, they caught a glimpse of that familiar face again-Genevieve on the little black and white t.v. behind the bar. She'd been captured, or she turned herself in, he couldn't tell which. He was tempted to ask what the story was, but knew better than to show any interest. It was enough to know that she was in custody-they could stop waiting for her next step, now.
He didn't see how she could be making any steps from behind bars.
He wondered, briefly, how she would be faring locked up, but then felt a shock of recognition-they were also behind bars, Claudia and himself. They were stuck in Mexico with the walls of the trailer closing in every night, the walls of bars and truckstops closing in by day. The more he considered that thought, the more closed in he felt. He suddenly felt the need to move-it was impossible to just sit and tolerate four walls and anxiety. He got up to the men's room.
He gave himself along, hard look in the mirror as he turned the faucet, hoping the water would turn a less evil-looking color before he splashed his face with any. He wondered if anyone else could see the thing he was starting to find there-desperation. Just a little more, every day. Just a little closer to accepting the plan he saw only the possibility of that night in Lyon.
No, it wouldn't be just Watchers. Oh, it would probably stop the killing, but at such a price! Not revenge, not self-defense…what the hell could it be called?
Oh, that was right. Wholesale murder. It was a definite switch from just knifing a few Watchers in alleys. The more he looked at how dire the situation had become, the more it seemed like something drastic needed to be done. When he gave a thought to Claudia, sitting out there, barely two years from her first death and nothing but more death to look forward to-
He shuddered. More death.
He splashed the water on his face and tried to calm himself. The walls were not closing in. They were stuck in Mexico, but they were by no means trapped. Kronos was in a hospital in France-and he'd probably escape. Genevieve was behind bars, but she would probably escape. And he and Claudia would get the hell out of Mexico at some point, and get back to living.
Once he felt more himself, he dried his face and went back to stand by the piano and watch Claudia play. He couldn't recognize the tune she was playing, and then it occurred to him that she was simply improvising, playing whatever came to her heart. The melody was beautiful, but sad. Watching her face, he knew that she was no longer in the bar, but somewhere else. With every note, she wrenched some more emotion out of the instrument, and he could almost imagine the events of the last year were woven into the music. It struck him then, as it might strike anyone who'd lived long enough, how strange it was, that so much beauty could be derived from tragedies.
*****
The businessman got to his destination-he left the train unharmed. Thinking unaccustomed thoughts, but otherwise, unharmed. In peace and quiet, Methos considered how he was going to break Kronos out of a hospital where he was probably being kept under close observation.
Provided, of course, that he would need to. The man was very resourceful. But there was one, unpleasant thought that whirled through his mind-
Of course, he realized that a man who survives a horrible plane crash in pretty good shape and resembles Kronos is more than likely the man himself. Which meant that the Watchers would more than likely figure it out as well. And that would mean they might remove him from the hospital, and then remove him from the picture. He could be simply dragged into a convenient alleyway and beheaded, no longer a danger to himself or other people. For a minute, Methos entertained the notion of breaking the tale to Genevieve while paying her a visit under the guise of her "attorney."
"I was just moments too late. If I were only there sooner…"
He quickly put the thought out of his mind. He could only imagine what would happen at that point. She'd blow up the prison, make her escape, start WWIII-and then she'd really make trouble. He didn't particularly want to see the woman in revenge-mode, and he shuddered to think what would happen should it prove that Kronos was the stabilizing influence in their relationship.
But he did want a bit more time to think, and made the choice to do so once he'd walked the five blocks from the station to the hospital and made a note of the thronging crowd, and then noticed the relatively secluded-looking bar right across the street.
No reason not to grab a quick beer first and think a bit further on what he wanted to do.
*****
Taking a Greyhound bus out of Seacouver, particularly when the station is on one of the seediest blocks in the Zone isn't just undignified-it's depressing. If you ever wanted to find reasons to hate your fellow man, that would be a great place to start. If the miserable people are not-in fact-so much your fellow men and women so much as a bunch of sorry-assed mortals who might not live another year if everything turns out the way you suspect it will…
But there is one thing that you can't deny-it is comforting to be somewhere where people are so beat down they don't even look you in the eye, don't even recognize you as that former ball-player. Just a smaller footnote to the annals of athletics and crime than O.J.
Greyhound station connects to another station and the realization hits-there is such a thing as spending too much time on buses. There's another bus connection. Fading into sleep, Carl Robinson's mind considered the backs of buses, the minor league buses, the Freedom Rides…but mostly he thought about buses between one place he never cared to be and another place he never cared to go.
The last stop would be in Texas. If he had a fond memory of Texas, it must have caught a bus somewhere and left, because he couldn't recall one.
*****
Kantos stood outside the hospital room growing more agitated by the moment. He wondered how long it took the man to strip a dead doctor, get dressed, and get his show on the road. He considered knocking on the door, or simply peering in, but there were certain propriety-issues to consider. He didn't want the man to feel rushed. All he wanted was for them to get moving. The sooner they got moving, the better the odds of leaving relatively unnoticed. Accent on the "relatively."
First thing he had to consider was the likelihood of one of the numerous versions of "cop" that would doubtless be in to take a look at the "patient." The second thing he had to consider would be any media types. And the last thing-
The last thing was Kronos, himself. The man opened the door, grinning like a mad idiot. Which wasn't an exactly inappropriate expression, all things considered. He succeeded in pulling off the doctor's ensemble with an almost jaunty aplomb-especially since he topped it off with-Kantos' coat, meaning he was the son of a bitch in possession of a sword, not Kantos, himself.
"For what it's worth, I have the doctor…under wraps," he casually mentioned, jerking a thumb in the direction of the corpse, who now occupied the same position Kronos had been in not an hour ago.
"Not that he needs the restraints," Kantos commented.
"I suppose not," Kronos responded, agreeably enough. "Now what?" The man's face was an absolute challenge. "It would be nice if we had a distraction, don't you think?"
"Distraction?"
"Fire alarm…minor disaster. You get the idea."
Oh, Kantos did, indeed. He could see the "minor disaster" in progress when the sword came out. And he could hear the "minor disaster" in progress when some anonymous lunatic in another room of the ward began screaming about a "dark man." There were a few extremely tense moments before Kronos let out a soft chuckle.
"Hmm…inmates running the asylum…well, not exactly, but there is something to be said for having other…"
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a shriek of terror. There was nurse in the hall, and…other people. People who began running in the opposite direction. Kronos began opening doors. And humming. He looked over his shoulder as if he did this sort of thing every day.
"You said you had some friends?"
Kantos gazed at him in shock. "Friends?"
Kronos turned around. "Why-the ones with an interest in me, of course! The ones who sent you to find me! Would there be anyone I know?"
If ever eyes conveyed a surer sense of having nailed another person to the wall, Kantos had never seen them. "Why should you…"
"Immortals…" Kronos began, dodging the flailing-armed figure of one of the persons he was letting go-and scaring the paranoid screaming hell out of in the process, "eventually at least hear of each other. And I've been around!" The man continued in motion. Occasionally, he skewered someone. There was a flashing light. Someone, somewhere, had pulled an alarm.
"This isn't helping!" Kantos screamed. "You fucking lunatic!"
Kronos' face was at once concerned. He went to Kantos' side, and then gestured to him to get closer.
"No? Perhaps we need more of a distraction, you think?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Kantos towards a door leading to a flight of stairs. "Come on! I have an idea!"
Kantos could feel things were growing more out of control by the minute. He was being pulled down a flight of stairs by a man possessed with apparent manic strength and brandishing a sword. It occurred to him that things simply did not get worse than that.
"Where are we going?" he demanded, employing the Voice.
"You tell me!" Kronos responded. Kantos grabbed his arm.
"No!" He felt a certain helplessness as he realized that there were people coming up the stairs. "You have an idea. Tell me!" He was over-exerting himself to get an answer out of the man, and he could feel the tension headache beginning.
"A Quickening. There's a distraction," Kronos grinned. And then the son of a bitch laughed, and suddenly, it was very clear. What Kronos was laughing at. What Cassandra was laughing at before she died. And, before Kantos died, he almost got the joke, himself.
There was a man who would vanquish all before him, possibly. And there might have been a Champion…who never came. Cassandra more than likely hadn't been lying about those things. But Roland Kantos wasn't the one the prophecy was about. She had just been setting him up to die a ridiculous death.
The havoc caused by the Quickening was enough to get Kronos out of the hospital, where he spied a familiar face looking out the window of a bar. Methos certainly never lost his touch at tracking a person, that was sure.
*****
Special Agent Wolfe looked in on the prisoner. She looked back. She didn't seem to sleep-he had been expecting her to be sleeping. The orange jumpsuit made her look pale, the handcuffs made her look fragile. Her direct gaze made her look too self-possessed.
"I'm a curiosity," she said, simply. "You want to know what I am. Why I do what I do."
He nearly jumped out of his skin. She smiled, disarmingly, and then, sat on the floor. She closed her eyes, as if concentrating on a very deep philosophical question, and he heard a strange sound. The cuffs slid off her hands. She shook her hands then, like a woman trying to get her nails dry after a manicure.
"That always stings," she offered by way of explanation. "I've never been much of a bottom, but I always end up in cuffs. Or ropes. Mama said there'd be days like this. Did your mama ever warn you? Do you have a family, Agent Wolfe?"
"Uh, yeah…" The look she was giving him made him very uncomfortable. She seemed to see that, and then, she began scratching at her arm, as if looking for something there. "What the?"
"You're about to get a little demonstration. You're curious about why I did…everything. And since you're here-please don't think about coming into the cell. I'll scream 'rape.' And, unfortunately…since I know you aren't supposed to be in here…they may very well believe me. Especially since you uncuffed me." Her gaze returned, every bit as direct as before. Possibly twice as unnerving. And then, something yet more unnerving than her eyes-
She had found what she was searching for. She pinched a centimeter of skin firmly, and then seemed to be poking at something with her thumb. He thought he could see something break through the surface, and then blood welled up. She grimaced.
"Stop…that…" he said, weakly. Every instinct he had told him he should be either bursting in to stop her, or trying to get assistance, but he was compelled by the strange sight. His feet were rooted in place.
She had pulled whatever it was free. She held it up, and despite the blood, he could make out the shape of a razor blade. She licked it clean, and then licked at the blood on her arm.
Like some kind of animal, he thought, but he was too aghast to say anything. And then, with horror, he realized what was going on. She had stopped bleeding. She had pulled a razor blade through her skin and should be slowly bleeding to death-and yet she wasn't. He stared at her arm. It looked…flawless.
"It's some kind of trick," he whispered. There had to be an explanation. Firewalkers, or yogis in a deep trance…or…
She smiled. "No trick. Nothing up my sleeve. At least, not anymore. Want to see another?"
"No, please…I think I want an explanation of what you just did."
"Agent…your first name is Nick, isn't it? Can I call you that? I mean…since I'm going to let you in on an important secret, we might as well be…I know. You're a cop. You're a Fed, but you're still a cop. But that's okay. You can call me Genevieve. I'm…informal. And…I'm Immortal."
"You're insane."
"That too. But the Immortal part…is the important thing. I can't die. Want to see me…not dying?"
"You…"
It was too late. She was slicing into her wrists, expertly. As if she'd done it hundreds of times. As if determined to kill herself. He couldn't get the key out fast enough.
"Christ…Christ…Jesus…."
He got the cell open, and he knelt beside the unconscious…
Living, breathing Genevieve. Her eyes were back on him, dancing evilly. He nearly fell backwards, but out of curiosity, he grabbed her hand. Her wrist seemed untouched. He broke out in a cold sweat.
"You could kill me, couldn't you? I mean…just kill me?" she said, barely repressing a stream of giggles.
"If I knew how…"
"Exactly. You aren't alone in the desire…let me tell you a little story, Nick. You won't like it, but if you really want to know…"
And as she told her story, swearing him to secrecy, he wondered why she was bothering. But she had no intention of telling him. It simply wasn't done, after all. And she imagined he would be finding out why soon enough, anyway. She knew he wouldn't tell her little secret, either.
He struck her as being something of a Boy Scout.
*****
"Interesting fashion statement, Brother," Methos commented dryly, looking Kronos up and down. "Right down to the canary feathers on your lip."
"Huh?"
"Canary-cat that swallowed the-killed someone, I guess?"
"Oh, maybe a few people. And…"
"Caused a riot. You need to find another hobby. Fishing. Painting. Basket-weaving."
"Funny you should mention that," Kronos said with a grin. "Been keeping occupied? Having fun following me?"
"Always a pleasure."
"And Genevieve-it was her idea that you should follow me, wasn't it?"
Methos gave a good, long, hard stare into the head of his beer. He couldn't make up his mind if Kronos was being intentionally obnoxious, but it certainly seemed that way.
"She worries about you. And I…"
"I'm touched. I've given some thought about the virus…and using it. I think you're right. Start small and build. Before we go overboard, we might want to…"
"She's in prison. She turned herself in. Because she…didn't want things to get out of control," Methos said, calmly, and then turned to see what Kronos' expression would be. He wasn't sure what he should expect. He saw the outline of concern, and continued. "She said it would be a good idea for them…you know-the world-to be apprised of any possible…"
He stopped there, realizing that, if he had wanted a reaction, he was now getting it. Kronos' knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the barstool he had been leaning against, and there was a look of something very familiar in his eyes. It was an emotion so intense that it didn't register on the scale of normal emotions.
"This was your idea," he said blankly.
"She wanted to get the word out-there is no way to effectively use the virus without someone warning them of what's to come. And she figured she was the logical choice."
"No, Brother, this was your idea," Kronos said, with a touch of heat. "She's in a cell…alone…"
Away from you, Methos thought, suddenly. He could see that Kronos was not getting the basic concept of this plan.
"Where the Watchers can't get to her," he pointed out. "She's safer there than anywhere in the world. And it was her choice." He could see Kronos' expression soften, so he continued. "She knows what she's doing."
"She usually does," Kronos admitted. "She'll tell them…"
"She'll…do what she has to do, and then make her escape to meet up with Jacob, Claudia, and Carl. And I hope you know what you're doing." And with that, the older man put his hand on Kronos' shoulder. "You do, don't you?"
Kronos, resigned, shook his head. "What's the plan?"
"Seven vials. We can do that, can't we? You said you had the sample at Bordeaux?"
"I lied. Under the chateau. Back outside of Lyon."
"You mean-where we were run out of to the tune of gunfire?" Methos asked, incredulously. "The place is probably…"
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"We aren't exactly armed for taking it back over," Methos persisted, gamely, attempting to ignore the depressing sight of emergency vehicles and street barricades he could spot outside the window. "The place is probably swarming with…"
"Watchers…could be." Kronos paid no particular attention to the commotion outside. He tapped the bartender's shoulder. "Damn terrorists-bombing a hospital-you don't suspect they would evacuate the area?"
The proprietor offered a Gallic shrug. "Eh? Who's to say? Fate is always unkind to Maurice…I get a nice place…something has to interfere with business. You're having a drink?"
"Your best whiskey-we're toasting a friend in prison." Kronos felt in the pocket of the coat he'd appropriated. He pulled out a few franc notes, and a piece of paper with a name and an address scrawled on it. "Some friends…" he said, appreciatively. He put the note in front of Methos. "Familiar address?"
"Very. Familiar name, too."
"Swarming with Watchers-and Horton." Two shot glasses appeared before them. "To killing Horton, to the Apocalypse, and to the Whore," he added, once Maurice was out of earshot.
Methos simply lifted the shot glass, eyeing Kronos with a touch of surprise. "Killing Horton?"
Kronos laughed, "Before we left, Genevieve redecorated. And the new occupants probably haven't caught all of the little improvements she made."
Catching the joke, Methos started laughing. "To the Whore." He took the shot.
"She doesn't tell you everything," Kronos added, then, softly.
"Brother," Methos said, calmly. "She doesn't tell anyone everything. I wonder when she'll get the chance…" He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Knowing the public taste, Barbara Walters was already on the phone, with Geraldo and the entire "60 Minutes" team forming a line.
*****
Horton set down the receiver and no longer felt all that unbeatable. Kantos was dead, and that meant…
Well, it wasn't that he liked Kantos at all. As a matter of fact, he really couldn't be said to have even had very much use for him. In fact, he began to reason, maybe it was for the best that the man was out of the picture. And it wasn't like he wasn't going to get an opportunity to see the end of those damn monsters-he had every reason to believe that someone might return for the very interesting thing that was found in the sub-basement.
He picked up the receiver again. He had a few phone calls to make, just in case he needed to hedge his bet a little.
Once he was finished, he rubbed his hands-a lovely day it was turning out to be. Kantos-dead. The Whore-in prison. The CD-in play. And he didn't imagine it would be long before that damned Kronos turned up again. Things were definitely going his way.
Given a few hours of such thoughts, he'd convinced himself that he might have sent Kantos out to fetch Kronos back alive in the hopes that the man actually would end up dead.
The funny thing was, deep down, he had.