Wanted, Sort Of
"No, I mean, I'm so over the Billy the Kid thing, but this is different. It's the same freaking guy." The boy held out his "proof"-one poster from his collection and one printout from the Internet.
"Nice language. You've been watching too much television, and you know what Heather says about you and that computer…"
"Yeah, right. Just take a look, okay?"
"By God, Zach, I think you're right…that is one creepy coincidence," Dan Martins told his son. He was simply being supportive of the boy's enthusiasm-the kid had been collecting Old West memorabilia for the last two years, and could sometimes be a little obsessive-but then he really looked.
It was a "Wanted" poster, a reproduction of one better than one hundred years old. He stared at it. The bearded face seemed to stare back at him, with one menacingly scarred eye. It could be the same freaking guy.
"Zachary, you didn't do this with PhotoShop, did you?"
"Dad," the adolescent moaned, rolling his eyes. His father could be so brain-damaged. Of course, he wouldn't have doctored a thing like that. He knew what he was looking at the minute he heard that guy's alias-come on? A guy calls himself after El Gato? It was too much. Sure, he could see somebody wanting to be "Jesse James", for example. Or if the guy was being a smartass, "William Bonney."
But who would honestly want to be called Melvin?
"Um, son, would it be all right if I showed these to my friend at Channel 8?"
The boy simply grinned. That was exactly what he was hoping his dad would do. Maybe the old man wasn't so brain-damaged, after all.
****
The old man squinted when he saw the name-it stirred something, but he couldn't make out just what. "The Whore." Not the most pleasant of nicknames, but still…
And then he chuckled. Ah, he was getting old. Seeing conspiracies and coincidences in everything-perhaps it was from too much study. Tracking down the legend of Ahriman must have finally knocked that screw loose, he told himself. Only someone who spent the last fifty years with his nose in old Persian scrolls would have made that silly connection.
Jahi-of course. Jahi the Whore, also called Jeh. Ahriman's helpmeet, who wakes him from his sleep. Of course.
How strange of him to think of it when looking at a picture of that little terrorist.
*****
She closed one eye as she lowered the Berretta to just about chin-level with the flickering image of Jay Leno on the screen. If she heard one more Scarface joke, she would lose her ever-loving shit. For one thing, it was too easy, and for another, it only reminded her that she had no idea where Kronos was.
"Genevieve, you put that thing away, now. I don't really like the way you play with it."
She put it down on the coffee table, which was littered with the refuse of a day's worth of trivial pursuits. She grinned at Carl. "Okay, Ma. I won't be pulling an Elvis on the t.v. Or at least, not while you're still up."
"I think you want to get caught," he said. "Either that, or you're stupid. I haven't figured out which."
"Both," she muttered. "Try both. I'm so bored."
Both of them knew better. She was a worried wreck. Kronos set out for Bordeaux, where he had a sample of the virus. Methos followed him-not that Kronos agreed to or knew about that part of the plan. They last saw Claudia and Jacob in Mexico-and split up with them there. And that was what left Carl "baby-sitting" Genevieve. And she worried about all of them-except, apparently, herself.
He looked at her, absently running her fingers through her hair. She had been about to bleach it-but then elected to wear wigs. And she had amassed something of a collection. All of them made her look cheap, though. Apparently, wearing one with all that hair up under it made her head itch.
"He can take care of himself, and you sent Methos out after him. They are both big boys. Older than you and me put together, and then some. Are you going to throw that shit out?"
She eyed the baggie of the fabled Seacouver weed. It had been disappointing-mostly leaf, no bud, and pretty tame. It was like smoking catnip.
"Flush it. I only scored it because it was supposed to be good."
He rolled his eyes at her. "And because you're stupid, and want to get caught."
"Bingo. Public enemy number two-busted scoring pot in Seacouver. It's a great freaking headline, you know?"
"Right up there with 'Black man goes insane, beheads wanted terrorist.'"
She went off into a peal of laughter at that. Newspapers went fluttering to the floor, and she looked, for a moment, as if she were finally relaxed.
"That's why I'm glad you hooked up with us," she said, once her composure returned. "That was funnier than Leno." She found the remote, and began flicking channels. The hotel t.v. had very few channels that came in well and all of them sucked. She hated network t.v.
"Who's being funny?" he responded, and then went to the bedroom. He would leave her to the couch. He knew she wasn't kidding when she had said she hardly slept, but wondered how she managed to do it, when she did, on the couch.
*****
Kronos caught on that he was being followed somewhere between flights. He knew three things about that person. The person was Immortal. The person was an experienced traveler. And the person was not supposed to be following him. It all came together when he realized it was Methos.
If it weren't for Methos making decisions for him behind his back, and Genevieve making decisions for him while on her back, he would almost think he was in charge of this crew.
He smiled behind his Wayfarers and a micrometer of concealing make-up. He had made a decision. He definitely had to lose him. Or at least, try to.
After all, it was fun putting Methos out. The man could truly act superior, and taking him down a little was really only good for him. And it was amusing watching him get angry. He showed a little life then.
But to put the cream on the jest-really, if one is going to plot total chaos, one might as well have fun doing it. Methos took things like this too seriously. He was really going to have to lighten up and enjoy the opportunities that were presenting themselves. It only occurred once every few hundred years or so that things were so unstable as to be upset with the least push.
He settled into his seat. The kid next to him-who, in a less "civilized" era, he would have simply throttled and packaged up for delivery to his people, had the headphones up so loud it could cause deafness in the people surrounding him. He was about to do something slightly unpleasant, but then realized that he could always do something unpleasant, later.
To everyone. Something very unpleasant.
*****
It wasn't until he saw the glares of the little old people around him that he realized he was swearing. It wasn't until he realized that they were looking at him like he was insane that he realized he was cursing in Sumerian. Not that any of them would know Sumerian. But it was a good language to curse in, because there was a lot of good bloody phrases. He blamed Genevieve's influence, and then grinned. He was being evilly influenced by an MTV-age lunatic with a potty-mouth. He grinned even wider when one of the blue-haired old ladies commented, in the unsubtle accent that betrayed a Northern New Jersey up-bringing, "A generation of hooligans, that's what. You can't even understand anything they're saying anymore."
But the bastard had given him the slip. He wasn't sure exactly how it happened-unless it happened when he realized Kronos realized that he was following him…and then realized Kronos was trying to lose him, and then…well, safe to say, there had been a lot of realizing going on. And somewhere in there, Kronos actually had managed to lose him.
A part of him considered just letting him go about his business, but the fact that his business might very well entail releasing a vial of fast-spreading plague into the nearest large body of water, and then sitting back to chuckle over the decaying bodies, made him decide against it. He would feel bad about a thing like that.
He had last seen him at the counter-he hated doing it, but he would. After all, there was no reason not to ask.
The fellow at the ticket counter remembered him.
"Ah, yes. Seriously? The guy what had the retro-looking glasses and the leathers what made him look so butch? The maricon? I think you can do better, honey, but if that is what you're following, he's going to Nice, he says."
"Maricon?" Methos repeated, wryly.
"Si. Tell him he isn't hiding a damn thing with that Max Factor. You can tell he got lines." And with that, the man wrinkled his nose. "You should get you somebody more younger," he added, with a certain look.
Methos considered that proposition with considerable amusement. He leaned over the counter, and had the man also lean forward. "You do know what they say about older men, though, don't you?"
"No. What they say?"
Methos whispered something then that would defy a literal English translation. It made sense in Spanish. There was actually no phrase for it in Sumerian at all. But it left the ticket agent with a distinct urge to cruise for senior citizens.
*****
James Horton was not, by nature, a very introspective man. If he were, he would have questioned the reason he had for relying on the advice of one of those freaks, particularly a man who seemed as arrogant and smug as Roland Kantos. He had assured himself, however, that it only made sense to use the man. After all, who would know better than another Immortal how these creatures ticked? He would manipulate Kantos just as well as he had manipulated the Watchers-and once the job of ridding himself and humanity of the Immortal cancer had been completed, Kantos himself would be done for.
He was, again, not a very introspective man. He did not question the validity of this reasoning any more than he realized that this same reasoning was what had brought him to hire St. Cloud-who had failed utterly in the one task he was contracted to do. At one time, perhaps, he would have considered the ability to question to be a sign of an active intelligence.
His intelligence was no longer active. It had been all but burnt away over the last year and a half by his association with Roland Kantos, who now regarded his "associate" with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Much the same way as Horton regarded Kantos.
"I am rather pleased to see how you came out of that unfortunate incident at Lyons. Tell me, how did you manage? I'm beginning to think my Immortality is rubbing off on you. You're hard to kill."
The mortal's ice-blue eyes narrowed to angry slits. For Horton, that was a horrible insult, but he let it pass. He would satisfy himself later when his people took Kantos' head.
"They had contaminated the food. That must have been how they pulled it off. I didn't have anything. There's a time to eat and a time to work-and I had gone there to work. I expected the same from my retinue," he answered, dryly. In truth, he half-expected that he would be poisoned. He knew there were still some in the group who disagreed with his view.
"Have you heard any word about the 'terrorist' activity?" Horton then asked, changing the subject. He did not care to consider the events that had taken place at the ill-fated conference. In his eyes, it only reinforced his impression that the Immortals were too dangerous to be allowed to live, in particular those of the group that had caused that catastrophe.
"The cockroaches have scattered, it appears. As I imagined they would, after your press release. They aren't going to be easy to find now that they've gone their separate ways," Kantos answered.
"They're very dangerous. How many people died in the hotel explosion? Some two dozen?"
Kantos smiled, briefly, and then attempted to appear outraged. "Not quite that. They must have put the bombs in place before there was even any sign that they would be tracked down there."
This much had been obvious. From the reports that came back, it seemed there was one device planted in the room where "Gwen Vickson and guest" were staying, and another had been placed in the hotel lounge. They were similar to the ones used to blow up Dawson's place, from which he could only infer that they had also pulled off that unfortunate's execution. They didn't seem to even require reasons for their violence. Kantos could appreciate that.
"Monsters. It only proves that they should be eradicated."
"Of course. As you know, my goal in this matter is the same," Kantos replied, smiling. He did not even need to use the Voice anymore to find himself in agreement with Horton. But he did feel a sudden need to be away from the man. Sometimes, Horton gave him a bad feeling. "I have people working on locating them. But I'm sure you have business to attend to," he added, using his power of persuasion.
Horton's eyes clouded, and then regained their spark. "Yes. I am a busy man." With that, he left.
Kantos looked out of the chateau window, deep in thought. He had been burdened with a sense of foreboding of late that he couldn't shake. He knew who to blame for that. It was the witch. It all could be traced back to the witch.
If Roland Kantos seemed to Horton to be a smug and an arrogant man, perhaps he had reason to be that way. He had the gift of the Voice, and could use those around him easily. He had wormed his way into the confidence of the one man who could help him with his plans of winning the Prize. Finally, he had killed his teacher, Cassandra, a foolish woman who had taught him nothing of use. She had spoken of good and evil, of right and wrong, as if they were things that existed. She had held him back for years under the guise of trying to "instruct" him. She had wasted his time, and for that, he wasted her life. It had been an easy thing, really. Her one gift was useless against him, and otherwise, she was weak-even resigned to die-when he finally caught up with her.
But the price of success turned out to be knowledge, and that knowledge had been of a terrible kind. In the throes of taking her Quickening in, he was favored with a vision-the first of several. He knew two things from these visions-one good, and one, decidedly bad.
The first thing he knew was that the man who could stop him had never been born. That had even been the woman's last regret: she had no champion. He could take comfort in that. The second thing, though-the second thing was more vague, but more ominous than anything he could imagine, if it were to be believed. He desperately did not want to believe it, but all the same, it made him keep Horton at arm's reach and guide him in the pursuit of those two ancient horrors, their young whore, and the rest of the crew they were assembling.
He could remember Cassandra's voice trembling when she first told him about the Horsemen. She had spoken of them as if they hadn't been merely men, but something more terrible. Her hands even seemed to shake from the memory of what they were.
The visions told him that if such a group were ever to be assembled again, the world itself would shake. It might even shake apart.
*****
It was 4 a.m. and she was still awake. Her pacing, looking out the window and general restlessness was keeping him awake, but Carl couldn't even yell at her when he saw her. He knew it was an illusion-her appearance of youth and innocence were the result of dying young, nothing else. The media had seized on her appearance, and the talking heads made something out of how someone could turn as bad as she had at such a young age. Her rap sheet came out-one university laboratory, blown up under suspicious circumstances, while she was supposedly doing an assignment there. Suspected mob ties-not that anyone was talking. And the two seemingly unrelated incidents-the fire at some so-called "historical society's European chapter" and the "killer cocktail" as they enjoyed calling it, that was dumped in the water supply in Paris-both tracing back to her and the mysterious Kronos. It seemed impossible, looking at her, but he knew firsthand it was all true. The media blamed Kronos' influence (although they had no idea who the man really was, they seemed to enjoy the "sound" of the name and his rugged evil looks).
But Carl had his suspicions that there was more to it than that. Whatever made her the way she was happened before she even met Kronos. It was the only way to explain how she was taking this.
He could see that she considered herself responsible for everything. And that meant everything. Maybe that was why it was 4 a.m. and she was staring out the window again, deep in thought. She turned when he stepped a little closer, seeming almost startled. Of course, she had to have sensed him, he thought, but then he knew of one reason why she would be startled. He put that thought out of his head when she smiled, apologetically.
"I'm sorry. I guess I was making noise. I'll try to be more careful."
"No, you weren't too loud, it's just…" he began. He didn't know exactly what to say to her. She turned back to look out the window, and he found himself asking, suddenly, "You're worried about Kronos, aren't you? I told you he can take care of himself."
"I'm worried about the world," she said, and then laughed. "I'm worried about everything. I don't like running or feeling like I'm running. I like to," and she made a gesture with her hands, smacking her fist into her palm, "confront things, you know?"
He did know. He would prefer confrontation himself, most of the time. But he also knew there were two choices-run, or die. He didn't feel the need to tell her that dying was not the preferable option.
"But I do worry about Kronos. Who else would? I wonder what he's doing right now, and whether or not Methos is still tracking him. I guess I should be honest with you, Carl. The plan is to just make a threat-but we could do a hell of a lot more. A whole hell of a lot more," she emphasized. She shook her head, sadly. "I know what Kronos is capable of."
"You think he's crazy." It was a statement, not a question.
She took it in stride. "Obsessive, maybe. Neurotic with high sociopathic tendencies and a touch of a god complex, not that I really studied psychology seriously. And possibly some post-traumatic stress-I mean, considering that over two or three thousand years, you can really live through some shit. Yes, I think he's crazy. Don't you?"
"Hell, yes." Kronos was, in fact, the craziest white man Carl Robinson ever met, and that was something of a dangerous collection of characters. One didn't have to be around the man very long to wonder exactly what floor his elevator stopped on.
"I love him, though. He's crazy, but I don't think you could call it evil. And I have to just trust that he's going to do the right thing." She rubbed her eyes then, obviously very tired.
"The right thing?"
Her eyes were very sad as she looked at him, and deadly serious. "Ever read the Bible? Revelations? I told you the name of the virus is Mysterium, right? Well, I named it pretty well. Because what it can do? Is biblical," she pronounced. "And Kronos is crazy. And here I am in fucking Seacouver."
Carl felt a chill as he turned around to go back to bed. He figured if he had to walk a mile in Genevieve's shoes, he would never be able to sleep again.
*****
The Anglo was fucking insane. That was the only possible excuse for the way the man laughed when they announced that the flight was being hijacked. He was fucking insane, he knew fucking Arabic, and…
And the son of a whore was the most wanted man on the planet. Ahmed realized it seconds before the lights permanently went out as the butt end of the rifle crashed into his face. It explained everything, really. The astonishing irony of it all-they had to hijack a plane with Kronos (the most dangerous terrorist threat-a man without a soul, to hear Time magazine tell it) on it.
The last word Ahmed heard was "Amateurs."
It caused something of a stir. The irony, of course, hadn't been wasted on his companion-he had even died with a grin. And a fork hanging out of his windpipe. Last of all, the irony wasn't wasted on the other passengers, who had just been rescued from an unpleasant change in flight plans by someone who, by all accounts, was himself a terrorist.
The only person who did not see the irony was Kronos himself. He was a little occupied by the fact that the idiots had killed the pilot. They knew enough to get the rifles on the plane before take-off, they knew enough to almost be threatening in their demeanor, without being actually violent, but they did not know enough to keep the goddamn person who flew the plane alive.
And the co-pilot was simply useless. He actually had to be killed, because-well, he was irritating.
Kronos weighed his options. Everyone on the plane knew who he was. The pilot and the co-pilot had met their maker. His travel plans were obviously ruined.
Crashing the plane was the only thing that made sense, under the circumstances.
The irony occurred to him on the way down, as the screams of his fellow passengers became almost deafening. It made him smile-the screaming, not the irony. If anything, the fact that the plane had been nearly hijacked was just another sign of how things were changing. There was a day and age when things like that didn't happen.
He then grit his teeth and prepared himself for a landing he expected to walk away from, alone. He rather wished he had taken a train.
*****
Methos knew something had gone terribly wrong when they were holding all of the rest of the flights. One word-the word that kept him alive all these years, "danger", went through his head-his own little Immortal Emergency Broadcast System. And that made him suspect that Kronos was involved in it. He had grown accustomed to associating danger and Kronos over the years. Thinking of all that could go wrong on a plane, he hoped he was wrong, but wasn't counting on it.
He thought, briefly, of what he should do next. There was one, time-tested course of action, however, that had never steered him wrong in all his five-thousand-or-so years. He resolved that he would stick with Plan A.
He would do nothing.
Getting on the phone, he began looking for accommodations for the evening. The best case scenario would be that Kronos would simply do whatever it was he was planning (which, gods willing, should not involve the Black Death, take II) and there would be no ruckus surrounding it.
The worst case scenario, he would catch on the news. And that really would be a worst case scenario.
Everything was so much easier before Genevieve and Kronos became Bonnie and Clyde.
*****
Roland Kantos was a smug man, and an arrogant man, and he had visions about the end of the world, and the utter certainty that he was in control of James Horton's mind. He wasn't entirely correct about that last thing. Horton was not quite sure what it was, but he sometimes felt that he was falling into the influence of those around him-and that included the rather despicable Mr. Kantos. And sometimes, he felt he needed, shall we call it, an edge? He regarded his edge with interest.
He took the CD out of the drawer, and gazed at it like a mandala. Adam Pierson had essentially dug this grave for himself and his comrades-and Horton was becoming more and more inclined to shovel the dirt over them. It had information on all of them-from that jackal Kronos, to his tramp, and, of course, Kantos himself. If this information were released, it would call all of them out into the light of day-what was it Kantos had said? "The cockroaches have scattered." If this were to hit the public eye, certainly, all the cockroaches would scatter, but not for long. There would be some initial violence, but that would be, as the generals called it-"collateral damage." The important thing would be finally ridding the world of those monsters.
The recent events had made him certain that his impression of the Immortals was entirely correct. They were going to move beyond their defense-and try conquest. He, Horton, could not allow that. The glory that is man would not be diminished by those creatures. If he had no other purpose in life, he could be sure of that much.
When the time was right, he thought he would use this weapon. He gave it one last, almost tender look, and then put it back into the drawer. It had been well worth killing Salzer for that. Poor old Don. His widow had taken it rather badly, but she was well compensated. He had seen to it, personally.
It was the only decent thing to do.
*****
Sometimes she would stare at the ceiling, and sometimes she would turn around to see what she could of the tattoos he had put on her back. Just a little parting gift before they separated. She wasn't sure what languages some of the lines were. She knew he took a lot of time, scraping out the lines that didn't look right with a razor before he would go back over them. She felt oddly protected, knowing they were there. He told her what they meant.
"Property of Kronos. His whore and soldier. Not to be touched."
It was true-that was what she was. He said that he put them there for Methos' benefit as well as hers-just so that he remembered. Kronos didn't question whether or not she would remember, anymore than he had to. She would never forget that.
"Not to be touched."
That was why she was jumpy, she told herself. Anything could happen when she was out of his sight. She didn't trust herself around anyone, not even Carl. She didn't even trust herself alone. She…didn't trust anything. Except in what she was going to do. That she had no choice but to trust in.
"Not to be touched."
Except by him, whenever and however he wanted to. The thought made her miss him terribly. But she had to do what she had to do. It couldn't wait. She had wanted to get to Canada, as she liked her odds better there, but this was as good a place to be captured as any.
She figured it was better to be in the hands of the Feds than the Watchers, anyway. And once she told her story, the world would simply have to decide for itself.
Heaven help them all if the world decided wrong.
*****
The patient was in fine spirits, for a psychopath. Or at least, this was what Dr. St Germain told himself. It was a wonder the man was not burned at all. Even the other survivor of the crash was a terrible mess when he had come in, a young American, maybe eighteen years old. At least that patient was lucid, although it was hard to credit the things he said.
But this other fellow, he was not so lucid. He was in excellent shape, despite the condition of his clothing and the very nasty scar he had. That, from the look of it, he had gotten some time ago. Also, some time ago, he must have suffered some sort of a trauma. That was the only way to explain the things he said in his sleep, when he called out for someone named "Methos," and muttered things in a language that seemed very strange. It was not a Slavic tongue, perhaps? Or maybe it was more like something Middle Eastern.
St. Germain didn't know what to make of it. He only knew that once the man was awake, he was a danger to himself and other people. He tried to kill one of the nurses, and screamed about escaping. It was with pleasure that he signed the order to have him heavily sedated and sent to the psychiatric ward.
He scratched his chin in thought as he returned to the reception desk, where the paramedics were still talking about the horrors they had seen at the site of this tragedy. They were saying that the cameras were filming even while the wreckage was still smoldering.
"The American, he says that Kronos was on the plane," one of them said, smirking.
"Bah, who? That guy? He's like the Jackal or that Bin Laden. He's like, you know, a myth. One guy can't do the things the papers say he's done, not is this short a time. The kid's probably…" And at this, the other made a gesture, suggesting smoking a marijuana cigarette.
"Ah, but he has accomplices. Like that woman."
This brought about a snort of derision. "A nice piece of ass like that, and she finds a crazy son of a whore that looks like that. You know, that's what explains it. A woman only does things like that if she's getting it good and regular."
The nurses at the reception desk made horrified faces, but they were giggling as well. The news had recently pointed out that the woman's nickname was "the Whore," and if nothing else, it seemed appropriate. But the idea of a woman blowing up buildings because she was a sex fiend wasn't the comment that had the doctor's interest. Leaning over, he asked them,
"What do you mean, 'that looks like that'?"
"You don't know? Kronos, that guy who they say is this terrorist? The guy that caused the fire in Lyons, and that riot in Paris? He has this scar, like so." And at that, he drew a line with his finger from forehead to cheek, right across the eye. It was the exact placement of the scar on his patient's face. St. Germain paled, realizing that this could not be a coincidence.
His face ashen, the doctor leaned over the desk, and told one of the nurses, "We have to notify someone. The patient-the crazy one they just took to the second floor? I think he is that terrorist."
Another snort of derision was heard. One of the men shook his head. "The other survivor? Impossible. How could you tell?"
The doctor stammered, "Because the scar…he has just that same scar."
"Again…how could you tell? The other survivor…I brought him in, myself. And I tell you, his mamma would not have recognized him. He was…a crisp."
The nurse excused herself, and left the desk. The paramedics continued speaking, heedless of her sudden departure. She went to the pay phone, realizing that someone did, in fact, have to be notified of this recent development. She whispered a few terse words into the receiver, and then waited for her party to come on the line, and as she waited, she regarded the tattoo on her wrist.
Some days, it was very good to be a Watcher. She hoped this was only the first of many.
*****
The first thing Methos did once he got himself situated at the hotel was switch on the t.v. He wasn't thrilled with what he saw-two survivors. One charred beyond recognition, and the other a boy. And the boy said that he saw the celebrity-terrorist-known-as-Kronos. Have mercy. And it didn't explain the $64,000 question.
Where did Kronos think he was going? Because he sure wasn't going to Bordeaux. That flight had been heading for-well, who knew where Kronos had intended to go?
He would have to go to that hospital. Hopefully, no Watcher, or other mortal, had figured out what was going on, but he knew someone would have. Kronos was-curse it all-a sore thumb. He stuck out. Anyone would have seen what he was-he survived the tragic flight, and then, having been ushered into that hospital, he'd have been observed. And then-that handsome-ugly face of his would have caused its usual attention.
The stupid thing was-Kronos, for all his vicious, backward, old-ways nonsense, didn't seem so mad, under the circumstances. He had the fire, and always had. He knew how to smile when he killed, and laugh when he felt pain, and scream his victory while he was losing. And that was what this whole Watcher-business called for.
Could it be that he loved the bastard? Methos felt a little surprised at himself, but it was true. He loved Kronos. That was the reason he chose to follow him from the beginning. No matter how evil Kronos could be-he inspired something. Love-hate-something. One could not know him and be indifferent. And Kronos never changed.
Unlike the world. Perhaps Kronos had a point about that, as well.
And so-on to France. No rest for the wicked.
*****
Kantos headed to the hospital. Horton had explained the matter fully, once he had received the correct degree of prodding. The leader of the resistance was there-Kronos. He was the one Cassandra-the witch-had seemed to fear most of all when she had spoken of them. He would be the first to go, Kantos thought, with a touch of glee.
How old a head was this? He scarcely dared to contemplate. Old enough. And charismatic-so the magazines would have one believe. How else would he have gotten a nice slut like that whore to fall in with him?
He thought of that-the blue-eyed monster she was. He wondered what she would be like to kill. Not as beautiful as Cassandra-there was a beautiful bitch-a classic kill. A lovely rape. No wonder she had retreated into her vision of some Highland child who never came. It was all a bunch of wishful thinking, constructed to convince herself that she hadn't liked it. But then-why wouldn't she?
He thought about her even now-his old teacher. Lovely green eyes, full of pain when he turned on her. Lovely body, arching and twisting to evade him when he attacked her-she struggled in a way that would excite a lesser man than himself. But she was a fool and she died. Of course, it was as the prophecy foretold, wasn't it? How could she stop a man like him? The one who would stop him hadn't been born.
It only took a few words to get him past the reporters and the various forms of police that guarded the door. Once within, he conned the receptionist-she, the lovely Watcher who called Horton in the first place.
He found out the man was in the psychiatric ward and softly tread in that direction. He was not prepared for the Immortal presence he would encounter, anymore than he was ready for those eyes.
Wearing a straitjacket and seeing Roland Kantos-Kronos apparently found something very amusing. And he laughed. Appalled, Kantos cringed-and then wondered why he should do so. What the hell was Kronos? Why should he care for anything but taking his head?
But Horton wanted the man alive.
He would let the man live, for now, but then, after Horton had seen him with his own two crystal-blue and psychopathic eyes, he would take the man. That was probably all Horton wanted to see, anyway-that the job had been done.
Damn him for laughing, anyway. Just as that bitch Cassandra had laughed even when he took her head.
He couldn't imagine what they found so funny.
Looking at the gray blur of an Immortal who stared at him with a touch of surprise and disgust, Kronos knew exactly what he was laughing at.
The world was so damn full of amateurs.
*****
Carl looked at the handwritten note with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Genevieve was gone, the gun was gone, and she had left the damn wig collection. He'd been right, after all-she did want to get caught. In fact, that had been the idea all along.
He switched on the t.v. The top stories said it all.
"Genevieve Fowler turns herself in to authorities."
"The survivor of an overnight crash, believed to have been wanted terrorist, Melvin Koren, vanishes."
And on a lighter note, something of an interesting coincidence had hit the wire. "Melvin Koren" was also the name of a Wild West desperado-who bore a striking resemblance to the modern-day desperado.
Carl could only shake his head at that. You'd think a man as old as that would know not to use the same alias twice.
Things were coming to head.