Chapter Six

Duncan stood frozen beside the storage shed as he watched Daniel Mboku's strange transaction, still wondering what the hell the man was playing at. Suddenly, the sound of a vehicle roaring to a halt close behind him broke into his concentration and tore him from his hiding place. Methos! Careless of everything else, he ran towards the front of the hospital building, pounding over the soft ground with fear and hope warring in his head. As he neared, no warm flush of Immortal presence greeted him, but still he ran on, hoping until the very last step that Methos was only temporarily dead and this nightmare would soon be at an end.

He skidded around the last corner of the building and felt his gut twist. He didn't recognize the vehicles or the people. He stepped into the path of a passing man in an orderly's uniform. "Are these the wounded from the chopper crash?" he demanded urgently, aware of the man's surprise at the intrusion but unable to make himself care.

It was not the rescue party at all, but the team that had been dispatched from another camp to retrieve the wounded from the cargo plane crash, the man told him before slipping away. Duncan watched as nursing aides and orderlies, accompanied by two doctors, hurried out to greet the arrivals. Two stretchered casualties were whisked into the hospital and the single bagged body was borne away by two orderlies with a trolley in what Duncan guessed was the direction of the morgue.

It became a little harder to hold himself upright as he turned away from the hospital and headed for his office. The rescue party had to have reached the crash site by now, Daniel must have heard something on the radio.

Daniel.

And there was another problem -- what Duncan had seen by the loading dock had thrown him. Daniel had never been high on his list of suspects. But whatever it was that he had witnessed, Duncan had nothing more than suspicion to confront the doctor with as yet. He had a very long way to go before he could confront anyone with his questions, but what he had seen layered his thoughts with mistrust and made him re-examine everything that had passed between them so far.

He would have to get his misgivings under control quickly, though, before it gave the game away completely. Bittersweet memories flushed through his body as he felt Methos very close to him once more. "MacLeod, did you ever have an emotion you didn't wear all over your face? You're not exactly difficult to read." Methos' long ago words echoed through Duncan's mind, making the pain flare sharp and hot once more. He pushed it down, though it grew harder each time he tried.

You're not right all the time, Old Man, Duncan told Methos in his mind, just because I never hid anything from you....

"Mr. Mac?" The voice behind him jolted Duncan from his thoughts. "I have finished cleaning up and locked the generator shed."

Duncan shook his head to clear the lag between thought and reality. "Thanks, Gus. Why don't you go find your sister and little Agustinho and take them home?"

The young man smiled that hundred-watt smile once more. "That would be very good. Thank you, Mr. Mac." Gus almost ran as he headed in the direction of the tents and, with a faint smile, Duncan watched him go. If only his own problems were so easily handled...

Duncan continued in the direction of his office, walking around the front of the hospital building. The shadows blended together now, the short African dusk almost at an end. He passed a group of nurses walking towards the mess. The shell-shocked looks on their faces made him pause, reminding him that he was not the only one anxiously waiting for news. Everyone in camp knew the missing team, worked with them, lived with them...loved them. But there was something more than shock on the women's faces. Duncan looked closer and caught the tears on several faces, just visible in the growing gloom. His hands began to shake and he clenched them into fists at his sides.

One of the nurses spoke as the group stopped near him. "Have you heard?" she asked, her voice wet with tears.

Duncan flushed hot and cold, and for a moment it seemed his empty stomach would rise through his throat to choke him. "Heard what? Has there been news?" He didn't need to be told that it wasn't good.

"The team radioed...they found them..." the nurse answered, her voice breaking into a sob. "They're all dead. Oh God..." She broke down completely and was immediately enveloped into the group, hugged tightly and borne away towards the mess before Duncan could say another word.

Duncan sprinted towards his office, running from the news, or towards it, he didn't know. Methos couldn't be dead, not in their sense of the word -- he would know it...wouldn't he? Faith, or self-delusion? It didn't matter -- he would not give up on Methos until he held proof in his hands. And at least they had been found -- the waiting would be over soon. He was at the logistics office within seconds.

Dr Mboku sat in front of the two-way radio set in one corner of the office. He had the radio handset in his hand and Duncan heard a transmission sign off as he entered the room.

"Daniel?" he called. "What's going on?"

The doctor turned away from the radio, replacing the handset slowly. "It's not good news, MacLeod. The team are on their way back -- there were no survivors that they could find."

Daniel had his mouth open and Duncan was sure the doctor had more to say, but he had to ask, "What do you mean, 'that they could find'? Is someone missing?" The temperature in the room had just dropped ten degrees, Duncan was sure. He held himself taut, his muscles bunching between his shoulders.

Daniel leaned forward in the office chair, sighing heavily. "It's Matthew...there's no sign of him at the crash site. They've recovered the bodies of Djube Hussuf, Paulina de Guevara and Tin Wong, but Matthew just wasn't there." The doctor rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger, breathing out noisily. "There are some questions about what happened after the crash...it looks like Djube didn't die until sometime later...and it appears as though it might have been deliberate."

"What do you mean, deliberate?" he asked, frowning. This was unexpected.

Daniel stared at the floor. "His throat had been cut."

There was something in the African's voice. "You don't think Matthew had anything to do with it, do you?" Duncan asked disbelievingly. "There is absolutely no way he would ever do anything like that." Oh, wouldn't he? a poisonous little voice in Duncan's head insinuated. If it came down to his own survival... Are you sure there's anything he wouldn't do? Duncan slammed a mental door on the voice and shook his head. "It just isn't possible. And if he isn't at the crash site -- then where the hell is he?"

Daniel shook his head. "We don't know. There's just no sign of him. All we know is that his body wasn't found at the crash site. It doesn't mean that he didn't wander off wounded. Or that his body wasn't dragged off by animals."

Relief rushed viscerally through Duncan; he could feel it running through his veins, almost making him stagger. Methos was alive. It wasn't too late for them. He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding and felt the tightness in his chest ease just a fraction. The vision he'd been carrying in his head ever since the news -- cruelly sharp metal flying through the air and slicing through the tender flesh of Methos' neck -- dissipated like a nightmare on waking.

Wherever he was, Methos was alive. Everything else was negotiable.

His decision was made in the blink of an eye. "I'm going after him," Duncan told Daniel. "He's out there, and I have to believe he's still alive."

The doctor's face hardened, his eyes finding Duncan's once more. "This doesn't change anything, MacLeod, it would still be suicide for you to go wandering around out there. They went down in Angola...have you any idea what that really means?"

"Of course I do," Duncan shot back. "I'm not as naive as you seem to think. I have been in Africa before -- many times."

"In a war zone?" Daniel returned, a skeptical twist to his mouth. He didn't give Duncan time to answer before he went on, "Between both armies -- neither of whom will give a damn who you are or why you're there -- the landmines that cover a bloody good percentage of the country, the endemic diseases and the terrain, what makes you think you have a snowball's chance in hell of getting anywhere near Matthew -- even if you knew where to start?"

"I am going," Duncan answered, pitching his voice deliberately quiet and low and emphasizing each word evenly. "Help me, or get the hell out of my way." He turned away from the doctor and picked up the telephone.

This time the call went through straight away and Duncan listened anxiously to the burr of the ring tone as his mind raced ahead. At last the same crisp British tone that had greeted him previously, answered. Duncan quickly asked for Grant Montgomery.

It didn't take long. "MacLeod? I've been waiting to hear from you. What's the situation?" the Englishman asked as soon as he came onto the line.

Duncan explained as quickly and clearly as he could.

"And our other concern?" Montgomery asked, his voice layered with meaning. "Anything yet on that?"

Duncan's gaze flickered over the African man still sitting in the corner of the office. "Perhaps." Impatience flared again quickly. "I need to get out there as fast as I can, Montgomery. Can I count on you for help?"

"I'll have someone there with supplies and equipment by morning. He's waiting for my call. I think you'll find his help invaluable."

"Help?" Duncan repeated. "I'm going alone -- I don't need anyone with me..." Anyone else to be responsible for.

Montgomery cut in on top of Duncan's objections. "Trust me, MacLeod. You need this man. You'll need all the help you can get. He can...what's the phrase...track a snake over a rock in the rain? I think you'll find that useful."

The Englishman's tone was implacable and Duncan bit his lip. "Fine, I'll take him with me. Just have him here fast," he answered tightly.

Montgomery made no reply to the rudeness. "As soon as I can," he replied. "Oh, and MacLeod? Keep your eyes open while you're over there -- you know that's where the goods are coming from."

Duncan dared another look at Daniel -- he was still sitting in the chair, and his eyes were narrowed and fixed on Duncan. Duncan didn't flinch from the stare. "Yes," he said. "I will."

"Mpande -- your guide -- will be there before daybreak. Good luck, MacLeod."

Duncan said a brief goodbye and replaced the phone. He hung his head for a moment, centering his mind and breathing deeply.

The sound of Daniel's voice broke Duncan's concentration and he looked up. "So, you're going then." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Duncan lifted his chin and dared Daniel to tell him otherwise.

The other man rose from his seat and took a step towards him. "Despite the fact you have responsibilities here -- people relying on you -- people you agreed to help."

Duncan let the defiance slip from his posture as he answered, "I'm sorry, Daniel. But you managed before I got here, surely you can manage a few more days without me.... I wish there was another way, but there just isn't."

The African man snorted and strode past Duncan without another word, displeasure drifting in his wake like the slipstream of a jet. Duncan ignored it. Instead, he decided to use the time he had left in camp to get through as much work as humanly possible. He settled down at the computer, with the telephone close at hand, and tried to focus.

It must have worked. He'd just put down the phone after finally managing to source a month's worth of IV fluids from Botswana, completing the list of tasks he'd set himself, when there was a tentative knock on the office door and he suddenly realized that several hours had passed. Duncan swiveled the chair towards the door and called, "Come in!"

A fortyish woman with short, frizzy red hair opened the door and leaned tiredly on the jamb. "MacLeod?"

Duncan nodded and stood up, rolling his stiff shoulders absently. The woman looked exhausted, her eyes red and swollen as if she'd been crying. "Some of us are having a bit of a get-together in the mess, kind of a wake, if you know what I mean. Did you want to join us?" she asked in a broad Scots accent.

Duncan went to her and held out a hand. "Call me Mac," he said, warmed that they had thought of him. "Sure, I'll come. Just let me close up shop and I'll be with you in an minute."

Her name was Anita Mackenzie, a nurse from Edinburgh, as he found out as they walked across the compound towards the mess. Duncan could hear the tightly constrained grief in the woman's voice as they talked, she'd known them all since their arrivals, had worked with them all. She was devastated.

They were a few meters from the mess door when Anita stopped and grasped his arm with sudden vehemence. "And I don't believe a word of what they're saying, Mac, and neither should you. Matthew's a good man -- a gentle man -- he would never've hurt Djube."

Duncan knew he shouldn't have been shocked at the speed or ferocity of the rumor mill, but he was anyway. "I will never believe it," he replied, covering her hand with his own. "I'm leaving in the morning to find him and bring him back. Then we'll know what really happened."

The nurse managed a smile that didn't reach her eyes and they went into the mess without another word. Fifty pairs of eyes turned towards them as they entered and Duncan dipped his head, uncomfortable at the attention. He followed Anita to a long table where several other men and women already sat. Bottles and glasses littered the table.

"This is Mac, folks," Anita said, introducing him to the group as a friend of 'Matthew'. She was pointing to a man sitting at the far end of the table when Duncan spotted the tattoo on her wrist as the cuff of her long-sleeved blouse slipped back. Well, that answered that question...he'd been wondering where his and Methos' Watchers were. Now he knew -- Methos' at least. A pity, really, he'd been ready to like Anita too.

Since Joe's death, he'd had no time for the Watchers, had made a point in fact, of ditching his whenever he could. He could never ever forgive their complicity in Joe's murder -- they had stood by and let it happen. Now it seemed this whole episode would be entered into his chronicles, including the fact that he was going into Angola after 'Matthew'. Still, it couldn't be helped now.

He tried to ignore his annoyance over the Watcher and concentrate on what his colleagues were saying. They were people well used to death in all its unlovely forms, but this had hit them hard, Duncan could hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes and the tremors of hands as they lifted drink after drink to dilute the grief. He listened as they spoke of people he hadn't known...and one he knew only too well.

Methos had been popular, which didn't surprise Duncan at all, he knew how engaging the old man could be when he chose. Everyone had a story, some anecdote, to tell. A wild R&R weekend in Lusaka, working seventy-two hours straight during the last cholera outbreak, and then there was the snake story... He heard that in at least three versions from three different people. Only now, each time he heard it, he was finding it more and more difficult to smile, when all he wanted was to hear Methos tell it himself, hear that beautiful voice wrapping around the words, watch the self-deprecating little tilt of the head Methos always gave when he was talking about himself.

Duncan listened to all the tales, the feeling of missing Methos becoming more and more intense until it was a searing ache in his chest and he stood up so suddenly that his chair clattered to the concrete floor.

"I'm sorry," he said, bending to pick up the chair, feeling their eyes upon him but unable to meet them. "I'm leaving at dawn, I should get some sleep. It was good to meet you all," he managed to rasp, then he spun away and strode out.

The night air was cool and damp on his skin as he rushed out into it. Footsteps shuffled behind him and he paused in his flight and turned towards them. It was Anita Mackenzie and Duncan couldn't help the cynical grimace that pulled at his mouth. He pulled his anger around him like a shield, leaping at the chance to subvert his pain. What did the bloody Watcher want anyway -- an itinerary?

He watched her take in his expression and the beginnings of a smile faded from her face. Anita folded her arms across her chest and looked up at him with her chin at a pugnacious angle. "I know you know what I am, MacLeod," she said in a quiet, firm voice. "Just as you know I know who and what you are...and who 'Matthew' is, too."

That he seriously doubted. "And?" he asked, folding his arms in a mirror of hers, not giving an inch.

"And I know what he was to you five years ago in Paris." She paused and Duncan glared at her, stunned out of speech by her presumption.

"Good for you," he growled at last, turning to walk away.

A hand on his arm restrained him. He stopped short, looking from the hand to its owner until it was plucked away. "I'm sorry," the Watcher said, biting her lip nervously. "I didn't come out here to argue with you. I know you don't like us. But I care about him too. I've been Watching him for three years now... I meant what I said before, he's a good man, the best I've ever watched...damn it, I know we're not supposed to interfere, not supposed to get involved, but it's bloody difficult when you watch someone like him day in day out for all these years... Hell, he doesn't even like to take challenges, I've only ever seen him take one."

This got his attention. Methos had taken a challenge? The questions fired through his head like volleys of gunshots. But, "Really?" was all he said, as he tried to soften his manner towards her and uncrossed his arms to let his hands rest lightly on his hips.

The Watcher sighed before she answered, "It must have been two years ago, just before we came out here, Adam was working in a hospital in London and one night he went out to a nightclub with some of the other doctors and I guess he must've run into the other guy in there, because when I saw them come out they headed straight for an alley and went for it. Adam never even looked like walking away, just hauled that big, old sword of his out of his coat and started whacking away at Keane like a bloody madman."

The name caught Duncan's attention. "Keane? Stephen Keane? Tall, blond hair, English accent?" What the hell was Methos doing fighting Keane?

"Aye," Anita said. "That's the one. Took Adam forever to finish him, he had me worried for a while...but he slipped that little bugger of a second blade of his under Keane's ribs, then..." She drew a finger across her throat, not that Duncan needed illustrations to imagine how it had gone.

Keane fell for that again? "Did he ever tell you why they fought?" Duncan was still coming to grips with the fact that they had fought at all, especially after the last time.

A small, wry bark of a laugh escaped the Watcher's mouth. "Y'have entirely the wrong idea about Adam and me, MacLeod... He knows I watch him and I know he knows, we work together, sometimes we talk. But we never -- I mean, not ever -- talk about him being an Immortal or me being a Watcher. We just don't." Her eyes held his significantly. "I think it’s better that way, don't you? Keeping things separate?"

Six years ago he'd have said no, Joe's friendship had been a lifeline to him so many times -- such a good, strong man -- but the image of his friend's butchered body had haunted Duncan all the years since and he would have willingly foregone all the joy of their friendship to have spared his friend that horrible end. At last he answered, "I don't know, Anita...I just don't know."

He didn't, either. But then he couldn't change the past even if he did. The future, though, was another story...

***

Duncan was awake before dawn, rolling off the narrow cot and standing up when the calls of the bush doves echoed out of the nearby forest. He propped open the shutter of his hut's single glassless window and let the cool, pre-dawn breeze clear his head. He'd spent several hours of the night before packing and readying himself for today. He felt ready now -- clear and focused. Now all that remained was to dress, eat and wait for his guide to appear. Mpande... Duncan only hoped that the man was as good as Montgomery had promised.

He gathered up his gear and headed to the showers -- who knew when he would have the chance for another? The facilities were as basic as he'd expected, but, he reminded himself, a boy who grew up thinking that a wash in a bowl in front of the fire was a very great luxury probably shouldn't complain about the absence of hot water. Nevertheless, he washed quickly, dressed in loose-fitting cargo pants and a t-shirt and headed to the mess in search of breakfast as dawn began to gray the landscape.

A stoop-shouldered cook was just unlocking the kitchen door when Duncan startled her by clearing his throat behind her. The woman gave a little shriek as she spun around and demanded to know why he was sneaking up on her like a tokoloshe, while her small, black fingers fluttered against her chest. She glared at him sternly, making him feel for a moment like the schoolboy he'd never been.

But Duncan gave her his best smile and managed to charm his way into the kitchen, despite her hmph-ing and grumbling under her breath. Her displeasure rang out in the clattering of pots and pans as she bustled about, clearly getting ready for the morning influx of staff and mightily inconvenienced by his intrusion. Duncan wasn't sure if she was feeding him or if he was supposed to helping himself, until she plonked a plate of thick-cut home-made bread and a glass of improbably colored juice in front of him as he stood near one of the long kitchen benches.

He thanked her sincerely and ate. The bread was as good as the juice was not, but he ate and drank anyway, conscious that every minute passing brought him closer to the time when he would find Methos. That he would find him was not in question and perhaps, he thought, that was the reason for the lightness in his step and in his mind this morning -- the previous day had been such an insane mixture of hope and despair, inertia and frenzied activity, but today had just one objective: find Methos.

In his mind it was like moving from the labyrinth to the light. He could breathe again, square his shoulders and hold his spine straight without effort again. It was a good feeling and Duncan smiled once more at the provider of his meal as he finished eating and had gulped down the last of the too-sweet juice. Something in the depth and breadth of his expression must have struck her as sincere, because she managed to return the smile, banishing her glare at last.

"You go, you find Doctor B," she said in halting English, startling him slightly.

He hadn't even known that she knew that was what he was doing, but he guessed that the bush telegraph was as efficient here as anywhere else in Africa and nothing should really surprise him. It was probably all over the camp by now. All Duncan could do was nod at the cook, assuring her with the confidence he could feel pounding through his body with every beat of his heart, that he would definitely be finding her 'Dr B' and bringing him back.

His mind would not allow him any other option.

He left the kitchen and headed back to his billet, feeling the warmth of the new day heating his skin already, a faint promise of the scorcher the day was sure to be. Now that the time was upon him, all he wanted was to be gone as quickly as possible. It was after dawn now, although not much, Grant had promised that Mpande would be here by now, so where was he? With his heart pounding impatiently against his ribs, Duncan collected his pack and his blade and walked out over the bare, baked ground to the road.

All sign of yesterday's rain was long gone, sucked from the thirsty ground by the fierce sun and the clay was already beginning to crack and split into patterns like the scaly skin of some ancient beast. He could feel it flake beneath the soles of his boots as he strode across it. Dragon skin, Duncan thought, with a prescient chill rippling over his skin despite the heat of the day. Well, that fit. He was going out to face the dragon; the only one that had ever defeated him -- the one that lurked in the dark places inside of him, making him doubt his right to ever find happiness or contentment. Small realizations had been creeping up on him ever since he'd come to this place, sneaking stealthily into his mind almost unseen until they coalesced and could be ignored no more.

Whatever had led him here was right, although to feel the hand of fate quite so strongly against his back made him a little uncomfortable. It was time he faced up to things and stopped letting the past poison the future. His fear was not protecting Methos, fear wouldn't protect either of them, only love could do that. It had only taken five years for him to realize it, or maybe it was four hundred. The shadows in his heart were drawing back into the dark corners where they belonged and he felt the warmth of life come flooding back into the space they left behind. And, although it seemed almost too easy, to do this in the small space between one heartbeat and the next, it was undeniably true.

An ancient, battered Land Rover the color of the Kalahari churned up the dirt road in a cloud of dust, grinding noisily to halt in front of Duncan and jolting him out of his thoughts. He squinted through the dust as a slim young African man in decrepit blue jeans and a lurid yellow t-shirt advertising a strip bar stepped out. He looked as if he'd just stepped from the mean streets of Johannesburg or Lagos. This was his tracker? His guide? The young man grinned broadly and stuck out a hand, grasping Duncan's in the African fashion. "Sakubona," he said cheerily, by way of a greeting. "Mpande, Joseph Mpande. Grant Montgomery said you needed a hand."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Seven Back to Main Page Back to Contents