Title: Sugar

(Part One of a Novella entitled 'Common Ground' originally published by Angel-wings Press.)

Author: Sarah Saint Ives

Archive: yes

Category: Alternate Universe/ First Times/crossover

Rating: Heavy R for graphic violence, description of rape, murder, m/m sexual situations

Fandoms: Highlander, The Sentinel

Pairing for Part 1: Richie/MacLeod

Title of Part 2: Child of Mine

Summary for Part 1: Before he met Blair, big, bad Jim Ellison worked a case in Seacouver. A serial killer brings the characters together.

Author Notes: I began not even a true fan of Highlander, but once you've watched the various episodes, you get sucked in, its many characters stick in your mind and slash-hungry muses get inspired with countless weird ideas for stories.

The first part predates Blair and Methos, but please read it anyway. Blair is in Part 2 and there are later completed Highlander stories by the author (yet to be published anywhere) which pairs Duncan/Methos.

I hope everything has been kept in context. Just in case it isn't, I have added the 'Alternate Universe' category in the template.

Disclaimer: Duncan and Richie belong to Rysher Pictures. Jim Ellison belongs to Pet Fly and the SciFi Channel. Jack Tier is really not my original character, either. Sentinel fans will recognize him immedi-ately. Baxter and Abel, however, are my own
cracked creations.

Poster's Note: As everyone probably already knows, Sarah Saint Ives was taken from us on Oct. 31, 2001. We miss her. Please enjoy her story. :) The later Highlander stories she wrote were destined for a zine called 'Spectrums in Slash', but when Sarah died, the family gave up the idea of a zine. But her stories are too good to go unread. Eventually, I plan to either post them or actually create that zine. If so, all the proceeds will go to a charity that does research for the treatment and cure for diabetes.

*****************
Sugar
by Sarah Saint Ives
*****************

October 1994

It began with eight gruesome homicides in the Seacouver area, the first of which had occurred in the month of September. All eight murders were identical in pattern and in execution, unquestionably the work of a serial killer. The victims had been select
customers who frequented the Rose Club, a just-out-of-town night club that catered to gay men. Each victim had been found lying naked, face down on a picnic table in Rich-ard G. Hubberson National Park, which was five miles east of the club. All the victims had been middle-aged males predisposed to flaunting their homosexuality in its most decorated forms; drag queens in outra-geous fashions.

The victims had each been abducted from the parking lot of the Rose Club, had been bound, tortured, bat-tered, scalded with hot water, sodomized and finally strangled to death with a yellow silk scarf. Oddly, a small quantity of water was found in each
man's lungs.

The police sent in their best-trained homicide detective as an undercover drag queen to investigate. The following day, his nude body was discovered in the west section of Hubberson Park, face down on a picnic table, a yellow scarf tied high on his neck so tightly that it had cut into the flesh.

Two other detectives went in during the next two weeks and each man turned up sequentially dead, fol-lowed by three other victims. The police were stumped.

Ellison and Baxter were special homicide detectives assigned to the case, on loan from Cascade. Neither detective had the looks to go undercover. They had settled on employing a volunteer. Jim Ellison was in his thirties, tall, handsome, carved with impressive muscles, very masculine. The only thing unattractive about the cop was his bitter attitude. He considered himself unusable as an undercover detective even though he had worked vice on many cases. He was not drag queen material. His idea of fashion was a Jags cap to cover his thinning hair, a numbered basketball jacket, a button-down shirt, top button left open, no tie, department store trousers, white tube socks and sneakers with frayed aglets.

Baxter had a smoother perspective toward the world in general. He seemed to have a sympathetic accord with the homosexuals they had questioned at the Rose Club that had made Ellison grit his teeth. He dressed better than Ellison, but he was not the sort of man who could get away with cross-dressing, either. He was six feet three, a hundred ninety pounds, dark hair and eyes, a bushy mustache and a well-trimmed beard. He wore brighter colors, tailored jackets and pants that outlined his muscular physique. His voice was bass and his sharp, penetrating brown eyes were shamelessly flirtatious, regardless of gender.

Baxter had, to his partner's dismay, exhibited a profound magnetism for the very men they were assigned to protect, the drag queens. Ellison had an inkling of his attraction to gays and often made offensive re-marks about his possible persuasion.

They needed someone who could go undercover and could defend himself once the connection was made between
killer and intended victim. Baxter had recently, at an antique auction, met a man he deemed could pull it off.

+++++

Friday, October 14, 1994

Duncan MacLeod was not a cop. As far as Ellison and Baxter knew, he was just an ordinary citizen who happened to be a Master of the Martial Arts. He owned a training facility in town otherwise known as a dojo and hosted numbers of men who worked out daily. His background was vague, but they did not delve because MacLeod was not the criminal and they needed his help. As far as the Cascade detectives were concerned, he was their last hope.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, in very good physical condition, a firm, slender body with perfect mus-cle definition and no visible scars. His long, dark, flowing hair framed his solemn, olive face. The brown eyes were wide with intelligence, but there was an ancient sadness in those abysmal eyes, hinting he had seen more than his share of tragedy, that the injuries he had physically escaped had been emotionally in-flicted.

MacLeod lived in the apartment above the training room, nothing rich or flamboyant about him, his life-style very laid back, very unassuming. He made occasional trips to France and other countries about the globe, but he made a point of never making himself a spectacle. To Ellison, it was instantly suspicious be-havior when a rich man lived quietly.

Friday afternoon, Ellison and Baxter found Duncan MacLeod at the heavy punching bag in the training room and watched him for a short time before they interrupted the controlled, graceful workout. "You're pretty good." Ellison began. "How long have you been into the Martial Arts?"

Duncan continued with his gloveless punches, not bothering to look at him. His knuckles were raw from repeated scrapes against the grainy material, but his perseverance was undaunted. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"We need to talk to you, Duncan," Baxter urged. "It's important."

"Go ahead and talk." Duncan did not pause. He spun in several roundhouse kicks, each striking his target on the bag. His focus had not wavered.

"MacLeod, if you don't mind..." Ellison impatiently grabbed him by the wrist and whirled him around, fi-nally gaining his attention. "I don't know much about you, but I'll tell you something about me. You don't want to piss me off."

MacLeod merely gazed at him.

"Come on. Let's go sit down." Baxter said, stepping between them. "Come on, Duncan. Let's talk."

"The office." Duncan pointed the way, keeping hard, disdainful eyes on Ellison.

The office was a room off to the side of the dojo. An oak desk was centered between the door and tall, dra-peless double windows. To the immediate left of the window, on a three-shelf cart was a coffee-maker and all the essentials that went with it, a can of ground coffee, powdered creamer, sugar, plastic spoons and polystyrene cups. Water could be readily obtained from the basin at the far end of the room and next to the basin was a narrow hall that led to a bathroom. Brief, basic and comfortable.

He handed each of the detectives a cup of already brewed coffee, still relatively fresh, and invited them to take a seat. As they sat, a young man who looked to be no more than twenty entered the office and sat idly on the windowsill. Duncan acknowledged him with a half-smile as he poured coffee for himself into a mug labeled MAC. The boy was very good looking,
strawberry-blonde, curly hair, brilliant blue eyes, had the muscular upper body of an Olympic gymnast. "Richie, this is Lt. Baxter and...his partner."

"Ellison." Ellison growled, recognizing that Duncan's skill at verbal combat was as well-honed as his physical competence, both annoying traits in a civilian. "The kid needs to take off. What we have to talk about is confidential. So, beat it, kid."

Duncan put a palm on Richie's chest before he had a chance to retort or obey. "No, Richie. Stay." he said, giving Ellison a resolute face. "If Richie's not welcome, neither are you. He can be trusted with anything you have to say."

Ellison groaned. "Okay, whatever. Baxter, he's your girlfriend. You talk to him."

Baxter began the discussion, waving off his scornful partner's typical contempt. "Ignore him, Duncan. Just listen to what we came to say, okay? It's about the Rose Club murders. We need an operative who can de-fend himself against this maniac who is killing men and, Duncan, I think you can do it. We've had three men turn up dead. Counting them, this nut has whacked
fourteen men now."

Duncan sipped at his coffee without expression, thoughtfully set the cup on the desk. He lowered himself slowly into a rolling armchair facing the door. His dark eyes were lost in a faraway gaze, black armor that shrouded the fearful pictures of his
violent past; those cruel, unpleasant memories he kept stoically to him-self.

It was Richie who spoke to the cops. "Am I understanding this right? You want him to go in there under-cover?"

"Yeah, that's the idea." Baxter answered.

"He's not a cop. Why him?"

"Because the guy wouldn't know him, and because he's a Kung Fu expert." Baxter answered. "The killer wouldn't expect a drag queen to be capable of self defense. He's perfect."

Richie shook his head, looking for Duncan's negative reaction to this proposal, but there was no reaction at all from the older immortal. He sat calmly, staring intently into his coffee. In irritation, Richie asked, "Okay, I don't think he looks the type to play a drag queen, but just say he plays this game. He dresses up, goes in and the guy follows him out and grabs him. What if Mac can't beat him? What if he gets hurt or killed?"

"That's always a possibility." Ellison answered without warmth.

Richie nodded. "You're a real sweet cop, you know? A real considerate fella."

"Shut up, kid. We're waiting for MacLeod's answer, not yours. You shouldn't even be here."

MacLeod spoke softly. "Richie, please."

"Yeah, Richie." Ellison mused. "Go lay down, boy. Good dog."

Duncan's vexed brown eyes fixed on the cop's ice-blue gaze. "What do you want me to do?"

Ellison locked eyes with him, a nasty smile curling his lips. "Dress the part, we'll supply the threads, get you a makeover, all that. Personally, I agree with the kid. You don't look feminine enough for this job, but since Baxter thinks you're our man, you're hired. You'll go in the Rose Club, twist your ass and bat your eyelashes so as to attract our bad guy. He likes the 'gals' who dress up in the wild styles, you know, in the bright colors, lots of accessories, flashy shit. Pretty faces seem to attract him, lots of cosmetics, red lipstick, you know. He hasn't grabbed a blonde or a redhead yet; he's into brunettes, so you're already his type there. He seems to like big, brown eyes like yours. Every one of those guys we found had big brown eyes bulging right outta their heads. That happens when you get strangled to death, you know. You might just be the one to bait this crappie with your looks alone. If you can kick his ass, that's peachy, but until we've got proof, I'd prefer you put on a little helpless act. Cowards turn him on, so be a coward, at least until he throws the first punch so we know he's our man. Lead him out, you
know, flirt a little, be what he wants you to be. Get him outside, let him follow you out at closing time, whatever, and let him grab you. We'll be there, watching. As soon as we're sure we've got the right man, we'll nab him. Just be sure to let us know if you decide to take off with an overnighter so we don't collar some dumbshit horny toad."

Baxter shook his head in aggravation. "Ellison, shut up, will you! He's our one shot at arresting this killer! If you piss him off, we're screwed. Duncan, I apologize for my partner."

Duncan nodded as if he had not been listening. "When do we do it?"

Richie stared at him in surprise. "Mac, no!"

"The man is murdering innocent people, Richie. He deserves to be caught."

"Don't you cops have people who can do this?" Richie asked. "Why does it have to be MacLeod? Excuse me, but this doesn't make sense to me."

Ellison ignored him, getting to his feet and setting his cup on top of a stack of papers on the desk, heedless of the sloshed coffee that soaked several layers in a wide, brown stain. He took up MacLeod's hand in the mockery of a shake with the intention of
squeezing the raw knuckles that had been bleeding from punching the grainy heavy bag, but the skin on the back of the hand was smooth, unabraised. Ellison frowned in puz-zlement, pondered on it, and let his wretched intent expire. He dropped the hand back to the desktop, re-placed the cruelty with a restless glare of annoyance and expressive domination. "We'll get it set up for to-morrow night. About one o'clock tomorrow at your place. We'll brief you on everything then. Got a prob-lem with that?"

"That will be fine." Duncan met his eyes and once again found himself the object of bitter scrutiny. The eyes locked on, both men stubbornly refusing to look away, a contest of mulishness that did not end until Baxter interfered.

"Ellison, let's go." he said, then stepped between them again. "Duncan, don't provoke him, okay? I have to put up with this man the rest of the day."

Lowering his eyes, MacLeod gave him a solemn nod, and accepted his handshake, noting that he reached to also shake Richie's hand. "I'll see you tomorrow." He did not watch their departure.

Richie stood looking out the window as the cops left, rubbing the chill bumps on the back of his neck. "What are they, Mac? You felt it, too, didn't you? It's not just me, is it?"

"No, I felt it. They're not immortals, but they're extraordinary beings of a similar type. They're not mor-tals. I have only felt that kind of presence a few times in four hundred years, and I still have no idea what they are."

"Well...I don't think they know what they are, either. They don't have a clue. Just like me before I died and woke up immortal. Whatever they are, they're completely oblivious to it." Richie sighed, suddenly disinterested in nature's many variations of
humanoids. "Why are you getting involved in this?"

"I told you, Richie." He took another sip of his coffee. "He has to be stopped."

Richie poured the last of the coffee from the pot for himself and flipped off the warmer. "If I asked you nicely not to do this, would you listen to me?"

"He's psychotic. He's murdering people, murders them in a horrid manner, does terrible things to them while they're still living, and then chokes them to death. Richie, I'm curious what makes him tick. Doesn't it make you wonder?"

"Not at all, Mac. I don't even want to know what makes this man tick. He's messed up, that's all there is to it. I've already heard all the details of this thing on the news, and he's gotta be a hundred percent wacko. He kills drag queen. Maybe he's killing them because they remind him of a lover who dumped him or be-cause they remind them of his mother, who mistreated him when he was a little kid. Or maybe he just hates gays. Or maybe..."

"Richie, are you qualified to make up these psychological evaluations?"

Richie sat down on the corner of the desk to look at him pointedly. "Are you qualified to do undercover work for the police?"

"I think I'm closer than you are." Duncan smiled at him. "I'll be okay, Richie. You know I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, okay. Here's the situation." Richie said. "Maybe you will be the one to put the guy behind bars for good. Maybe you'll even kill him. But how much damage will he do to you first? You're immortal, Mac, but you're not invincible. You know what he did to his victims."

Duncan took a deep breath. "Yeah. I know. I have survived many things, Richie. A man can suffer untold tragedies in four hundred years. But I cannot stop being who I am to save myself a bit of pain or heartache. I can only hope I am worthy to survive and redeem myself for the shortcomings of my past."

"I hope you don't have to survive things like this jerk is doing to his victims!" Richie was emphatic as he took MacLeod's chair by the wooden arms and rolled it sideways to face him directly. "If you're going to go through with this, promise me something. Promise me you won't give him a chance to touch you. Don't give him any chances. Just kill him. Kill him any way you can, stab him, shoot him, drown him, hang him, cut off his head. Whatever it takes. Just so you kill him. Don't let him hurt you, Mac. Promise me."

Duncan's hand came to rest on Richie's, squeezing it lightly. "I'll be all right," he said softly. "Stop wor-rying."

Richie sighed. "I don't want anything to happen to you, Mac."

Duncan stood to embrace him. "You mean you don't want me taking chances with my virtue? As if it mat-tered?"

"It matters, Mac." Richie was adamant. "You know it matters! I don't want you to do this. I don't like the whole situation."

"Richie..." Duncan faced him with frustration. "You know I have to. When men are being murdered, I have to try to avenge them. You know it."

Richie nodded sarcastically. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. It's like...your job, right? Your duty to the public, super-hero, protector of the world, the avenger of all victims. You could not possibly let this go without stepping your foot in the ring."

Looking down, Duncan blew out a hard breath. "As long as there's a madman loose, killing innocent peo-ple, there is a danger to everyone. I have a chance to stop him. The only way he can kill me is if he takes my head, and he hasn't taken a head yet, so I'm relatively safe."

"Safe?" Richie shook his head, went back to the window and hit the bottom shelf with the side of his fist. "Damn it, Mac, you know what I'm saying! Only your life is safe."

+++++

Saturday, October 15, 1994

As promised, Ellison and Baxter were at MacLeod's apartment by one P.M. to brief him for the coming night's events. They explained in detail what they expected of him; to attend the club dressed in the brightly colored pantsuit they had brought to lure the suspect, to succumb to the attentions of any suspi-cious male who seemed overly interested in him, and play out the game.

A cosmetologist had come and gone, had applied hair-removing wax to Duncan's face and chest. He was now smooth and flawless, and to give him the appearance of an elaborate transvestite, he was wearing foundation, brushed on face powder, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow and lipstick. The cosmetologist's work had actually rendered him into a state of beauty
MacLeod had never, in all his many years attained. Staring into the mirror, he felt a stab of dread at the thought of being seen like this in public, but Baxter's deep, persuasive voice encouraged him from his worry.

Richie came in the elevator entrance without knocking at five thirty P.M., just as they were unpacking the clothes. A camera case was slung over his right shoulder, an athletic carry bag over the left. He was dressed in black sneakers of a popular name brand and a zircon blue shirt that was neatly buttoned, the tail tucked into the washed-out blue Levi's. He was an extremely handsome young man, well shaped, fresh-faced. His teeth were very white and straight, his lips had that conspicuous youthful, rosy fullness, and his eyes were clear blue and attentive. As he paused at the front door to view MacLeod, Ellison's observant detective eyes scanned him critically; all the features and characteristics, reading the way he presented himself, doubtlessly perceiving the thoughts in his restless mind. Richie was mildly annoyed at the cop's observa-tions, but his disapproving young eyes tarried on MacLeod.

The older immortal's long, mahogany-colored hair was free from its usual ponytail, had been feathered back from his exquisite face. He wore dangling pearl earrings, sparkling rings on his fingers and a garish mother of pearl and gold necklace that was at least ten strands overlapped, the loops resting in neat rows on his now-hairless chest. A matching bracelet covered four inches of his left wrist. He held his chin high, his back straight, aristocratic stature, not shamed by his gender-smashing makeover. If there were ever royalty among drag queens, MacLeod could have mastered it.

Richie's undying admiration of the man he saw as regal was swiftly masked from the cops as he gave him a second, quicker once-over. He took a camera out of the case and flipped off the lens cap. "You look good." he commented. "Real good. Too good for the likes of the scum you're going after."

Duncan took up the sandals set aside for him to wear, matched them to the outfit, the stockings, other small distractions which served as smoky diversions as he attempted to magically snap into his role. The trick failed miserably. Finally, he sighed in surrender and looked at Richie. "Thank you." he said. "Where did you park your motorcycle?"

"Around back. Don't worry. I didn't block their car in." He studied his teacher closer. "Are you blushing?" It was understandable to MacLeod that he teased because he did not know how else to deal with the touchy situation. "Or is that your rouge?"

Ellison glanced impatiently at him. "Can you find something to do besides hinder us here, kid? We need to have him ready by seven."

Richie spread his hands and moved to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a well-stocked bar. He occupied himself at the refrigerator as Duncan disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed.

The young man gave the cops an impish grin as he bit into a drumstick he had found in the refrigerator. "So..." he began. The chicken was underdone, pink in the middle. He put it back in the refrigerator along with the detached bite and wiped his hands on a dishtowel from beneath the bar. He came up with a half-jigger of warm peach brandy. "You guys into anything kinky? Can I be sure MacLeod is safe with you to-night?"

Ellison gave him a cold stare. Baxter spoke tolerantly. "We'll take care of him, Richie."

Richie sat grudgingly unconvinced, idly spinning himself on the rotating seat of the tall stool at the bar until Duncan emerged from the bathroom in full-drag vogue. The first accessory that drew his notice was the pastel yellow silk scarf around MacLeod's neck, knotted loosely at the side. The scarf would be likely to attract the killer's attention more than anything else he was wearing. It seemed to be the killer's sick fan-tasy that he acted out each time he killed, pulling the silk material tight around his victim's neck, tighter and tighter until the life was squeezed from the abused body. Richie could not bear to think about the dan-ger in which his best friend and mentor was placing himself.

He was dressed in radical bursts of red, yellow, burnt orange and brown print, a two piece outfit that was eye-catching, but was tame compared to some of the unpredictable drag queen fashions Richie had seen. He wore the fringed sandals that buckled above the ankle over red fishnet stockings. The material of the knickers was so thin that the crimson garter belt that
held up the stockings could be seen through it. The belt around his waist was a wide, lightweight gold chain that dangled slightly to the left of center. The knickers were tied just below the knees with neon strings. The top was scant and the bottom too tight.
Richie did not like it. He took a deep breath of burning malcontent and steadied his shaking hands before putting the camera to his eye. His lips smiled, but not his eyes. He waved to gain Duncan's attention and snapped his picture.

MacLeod turned at the flash and gave him another pose, assuming a seductive Marilyn Monroe satire, then pivoted for a hind shot looking back over the shoulder. Richie busily clicked away as his model continued to change from one sexy pose to another. The farce was intended to ease the tension, but it wasn't working. His model-worthy face was as unsettled as Richie's and his poses were too sensuous. His concentration was gone.

But never his grace. Even facing the death of his masculinity, MacLeod had grace.

"That's enough!" Ellison shouted angrily, stepping in the camera's eye. "Go look at yourself in the mirror, Sugardoll. See what you think. As far as I'm concerned, you're ready."

As Duncan went to the mirror, Ellison pointed a threatening finger at Richie. "Lose the camera, kid. Now. Become invisible. Got it?"

Duncan fixed his lipstick, meeting the cop's blue eyes in the mirror. "It's what he does. His hobby. Leave him alone."

"He's being a pain in the ass. We don't have time for the shit." Ellison said wearily. He reached to stuff the tag in on the back of the colorful collar. "Does that fit right?"

"Yes, it's fine." Duncan answered. "What if the killer doesn't go for me?"

"He will. You're pretty. You're high class. You're wearing the right clothes. He'll head straight for you as soon as you walk in the door. Guaranteed."

Duncan's eyes were vindictive. "Okay. If you say so."

"You guys are gonna be there, right?" Richie asked again.

"Of course we'll be there." Baxter reassured him.

"Are you ready?" Ellison asked impatiently.

"Yeah." MacLeod answered, looking to Richie for a final opinion. "How do I look?"

"You're beautiful." Richie told him with a wink and a thumb-up. "You'll knock 'em dead."

"Okay, then I'm ready."

"Then let's go." Baxter took his arm, escorting him to the elevator.

It was only then that Richie noticed that Baxter was dressed up, too, in a maroon suit with black trim and a pink shirt. Instead of a tie, he wore a bolo around his collar with a ballerina ensemble on the brass. He looked very spiffy. "Where are you going, Baxter?" he asked.

"I'm his date." Baxter said. "I'm cutting out early. You know... to leave him there by himself so he can at-tract the killer. It may not look good if he arrived by himself, but to arrive with a date then get left there alone, that should be an acceptable front
to make him look vulnerable."

"Yeah," Ellison added smugly, "Probably only have to kiss him four or five times, maybe feel him up a lit-tle bit, then you're outta there."

The rebuttal he expected went unspoken.

"You'd better stick close to him." Richie warned. "I mean...he's taking a big risk here. You'd better not let him get hurt."

"We'll be there." Ellison said stonily. "And you, kid...you stay here! Do you hear me? He'll be home at a little past one. I don't know what the hell your place is here, what your relationship is, and I don't really care, but whatever it is, just stay out of our
way and you'll get him back later tonight. Got me?"

Richie caught MacLeod's eyes and detained them for a moment. The concern was received with fond re-gard. Duncan knew he had his best interests at heart. Richie cared deeply what happened to him, just as he cared what happened to Richie. He seldom admitted, even to himself, the extent of his unconditional at-tachment to the boy who had come into his life two short years ago. Even before his initiation into immor-tality, Richie had become his prodigy, student, best friend, and confidant. Theirs was the strongest bond either man had ever formed and their relationship was vital to both of them.

Ellison gave him a light shove from the back, forcing him into the elevator. "Let's get this show on the road, Sugar." he muttered, and as he pulled the door down behind them, he gave Richie one last warning look. "Stay." he said.

Richie gritted his teeth and wound the film in the camera, slid it back into its case. "Yeah. Right. Sure thing, Asshole." he said. He went out the back door to follow them on his motorcycle.

+++++

He sat in the luxury car, momentarily engrossed in the electric windows. With one touch of the little switches on the driver's door, all four windows went down. With another touch, they were back up again. Smooth, simple power without effort. Such incredible energy, such untroubled force was willingly at his disposal.

He wrote philosophy and practiced pseudo-psychology. He had discovered years ago that the greatest power on earth one person could have over another had nothing to do with physics. Philosophy and psy-chology; these two sciences went hand-in-hand to establish and explore emotional and mental conditions. The deep-seated reasons that explained human interactions, why people mistreated each other, why they loved, why they hated, why they needed the things they needed.

Words that expressed meaning.

Sometimes he didn't want to know the reasons. Sometimes, when he had eliminated them, he put on their clothes and smiled at himself in the mirror until he felt better about himself. "Sense of self." He had re-peated the words to himself again and again.
Words that expressed meaning.

He understood why she sometimes pretended she didn't need him. It was her game. And when he re-sponded to her with rage, with contempt, she became frightened, and then she stopped pretending. Then, she wanted him again. It was simple psychology.

The rage turned him on, made him hot, gave his hormones a boost into ecstasy. It was the key, the key that unlocked her heart. She was the kind of woman who wanted to scold and punish and to be scolded and punished in return. It was his power over her and hers over him.

She had abused him, had beaten him, had given him baths in scalding water as a child, and still, she had been there for him each night to hold him and soothe the pain. Gently wafting the yellow silk scarf along his burning flesh, she smiled down at him with those sweet, red lips, those demented brown eyes gleaming with pleasure at his emotional conflicts and insecurities.

His eyes were multi-highlighted blues, small and alert. Looking down the hill, he could see the flat roof of The Rose Club. The lighted letters were held in place on that roof by a welded metal structure that was bolted to the front edge. One good, hard gust of wind would blow it over. It was a wonder it hadn't already happened, back in March or April, during the storm season. It was October now. October. Her birthday was in October. He had nearly forgotten her birthday! He tried to remember the exact day, thinking it was later in the month, close to Halloween.

From here, with the setting sun glowing from the rear, the building looked to be rose-colored, although he knew it was actually tan stone. It was small for a nightclub, a single-story configuration, no basement, no attic. There were two barred windows in front, none at the sides and back. The wide, capable bouncer and the lady who collected the cover charge from the club's patrons as they entered would soon man the heavy front door.

In the center of the parking lot was a phone booth and four appropriately placed pole lights. Approximately sixty cars could park in the lot that was surrounded by trees. There was only one entrance/exit from the main road.

It was still early. The club didn't open until eight, still an hour left. She would be there tonight. He was sure of it. She would come, wearing those sexy clothes and she would want him. He could feel her presence al-though she was miles away. She was coming. She was on her way. When she arrived, they would be drawn to one another by the strong magnetism that he knew
existed between them, although she would play those same games again, pretending she was shocked at being taken away, pretending she did not know him.

He had learned he had absolute power over her, like he had over the windows, like he had over practically everything. With this power, he could take what he wanted, and he wanted her. She was the love of his life. He was obsessed with her. He would have her again tonight, and then he would become her.

He had thought of another verse for the poem. Poetry was like philosophy, perhaps another aspect of it, an-other language in which it was spoken. He voiced it in a melodramatic, Shakespearean style as his eyes met their own reflection in the rearview mirror. "She walks in grace, she looks my way, She smiles and comes unto me as a lamb...The silk is soft, her feet are clay, She loves me because of who I am. She belongs to me, she's mine till death, She heeds my words, she wants me, too. I hear her heart, I feel her breath, Her tears are like the falling dew...her tears are like.the falling dew..."

Very pleased with the witty rhyme, he jotted it down in the notebook that lay in the seat beside him. Poetry was also another form of power. Benjamin Franklin had been the first to make this discovery when he had written that 'the pen was mightier than
the sword', but many others had also learned the truth of this quote. Of all written word, poetry was the most memorable, very often committed to memory, sometimes given musical notes.

This particular poem was powerful because of its content. It was about the woman he loved and hated. He would read it to her when he took her to the park again. He imagined the romance, her soft lips as he kissed her, her whispers begging him to make love to her as he caressed her skin with the silken scarf.

He was erect. Stretching an arm over the back seat, he lifted a sparkling green gown and rubbed it against his cheek. He sniffed the lingering perfume in its folds. She had been wearing it when he had taken her to the park the last time, when he had made mad, passionate love to her. After the games. After he overpow-ered her and she stopped playing, when she admitted she loved him after all.

He could picture her in his mind, those big, brown eyes, the full, luxurious lips, the high cheekbones. Those lips were to die for. He lusted for them, dreamed about them, masturbated as he visualized them. He loved her lips.

He sat up straighter, forced to shift to accommodate the stiffness that strained against his fly. A car was pulling up in front of the club. He raised binoculars to his eyes to see who it was. The bartender and the head waitress got out of the car on opposite sides. They always rode to work together and always arrived early to open the club.

He followed the waitress's steps with the glasses. Not her. Not the right woman.

The bartender unlocked the door and let the woman in first, looking around ominously before he went into the building.

"Chad, you dirty dog, you can feel me here, can't you?" He grinned to himself that many people possessed the instinct that told them when they were being watched. "Go on inside, Chad. It's just your mind playing tricks on you. Just a little bird with its beady little bird eyes on you, a little bird that will fly, fly, fly away as soon as you've closed the door. You're safe, Chad."

The bartender closed the door. With a little chuckle, he started the car, pushing the switch to lower his win-dow again. He should get started. It was going to be a beautiful night, a half-moon, a cloudless sky. A per-fect night for romance.

A quick glimpse to the tall oak tree to his right made him smile in appreciation. Buried beneath the oak was the original owner of this wonderful car, the man he had replaced in society. He had cut and dyed his hair to duplicate the dead man's look, wore his clothing, had even changed his pattern of speech. It was a rush being someone else, living another life, especially if it served his own purposes. And it served them well.

+++++

The jukebox had boomed for more than an hour with a mixing of techno-beat and pop rock music, but now, as the clock approached nine thirty, a soft love song played. Duncan had drunk very little, fearing to dull his senses, still felt the awkwardness even though he had participated in a few slow dances. He recoiled from Baxter's hand as it reached across the table for his. "Haven't we danced too much already?"

"You can never dance too much, Duncan. Come on." Baxter took his wrist, led him to the floor and they began to dance. "Loosen up a little." He wrapped an arm around his waist, which pulled him close. "You're going to give us away."

Duncan took a deep breath and danced close to him, letting Baxter lead. "How long are you staying?"

"Just a few more minutes. I wanted to dance with you once more before I cut out. I love slow dancing." Baxter nuzzled at his ear with a familiarity that made him very uncomfortable.

Duncan turned his head away. "Somehow, I think I'll feel safer when you're gone."

"Now that's a nice thing to say to me."

"You've managed to be a bit overly friendly. You've had your hands on me more than was necessary."

"I had to make this look good. We have to act the parts, remember? You're my date here. If I didn't touch you at all, it would look strange."

Duncan reluctantly conceded that he was right. "I suppose. Oh, well, at least you didn't kiss me. Maybe my self respect will survive if I can escape without that humiliation."

"Now, what's wrong with a little kiss?" Baxter was grinning as he took Duncan's face in his hand. "Come on, baby, gimme a little smooch."

Duncan laughed at the comical expression on the cop's face. "Stop before I send you to the moon." he quipped, misquoting an old sitcom actor.

Baxter was glad the tension was broken. "That's better," he said. "Much better. Keep laughing. It becomes you."

Duncan's laugh was reduced to a low chuckle as he saw the glint of warmth in the cop's eyes as the face drew near. "I think you'd best be keeping your lips over there where they belong." he warned through his teeth.

"Now was I threatening you in any way?"

"No, but you were working on it. I was just beating you to the punch."

"Duncan, you're going to keep on till you hurt my feelings."

"You'll get over it."

Baxter glanced around the room as observantly as he dared, then whispered in Duncan's ear again, "There's a big dude over there by himself. Hasn't taken his eyes off you for a while now. Let's play a little more and I'll leave so he can approach you."

Duncan glanced in the direction Baxter indicated as he was danced around, seeing the man in the shadows. He was so obscure that Duncan did not know how Baxter could see those eyes that had not left him. He had doubts, but said nothing. He accepted the cop's embrace as the song ended, felt his breath across his cheek, and slid a hand up to touch his face in pretended intimacy.

"Now, this is more like it." Baxter caught his fingers and interlaced them in his own. "There's something I have to tell you before I go, about Ellison. He's not really as bad as he tries to act. To tell you the truth, I think I'm the only friend he's got. I know he
comes off acting like an ass, but you just have to get to know him. You understand?"

"He tries very hard to maintain that image of an ass, doesn't he? He implies that you are a lecherous man, made that allegation several times in my presence, but we both know better. If he's kidding, he needs to train his face to smile pleasantly while doing so. I am not a person who makes fast judgments. Over the years, I've learned better, but there are only so many things that can come from a man's mouth before you want to bash in his fool head. Ellison has about had his quota. Richie would like to run him over with a freight train and I hardly blame him."

"I know he got on Richie's bad side, and I knew he pissed you off, too, but try to give him the benefit of the doubt. There's something about him I can't describe, but since the instant we met, it was as if the two of us were long-lost brothers. There was this tingly, weird feeling, sort of like a 'sameness' we share. I know that makes no sense, but that's the way it is between us."

"I understand exactly what you mean." Duncan's immortality was not what the two cops shared, but there was a very distinctive kinship there.

"If you really try, you can get to him, you can see for yourself that he's not the bigot he pretends to be. He's a sucker for a soft voice. He gets stressed out easily, but it's usually himself he's really upset with, nobody else. Yeah, he yells and says hateful
things to people who don't deserve it. Sometimes I'd like to kick his ass myself. All I'm saying is, get to know him before you hate him. He's really not that bad. And as far as the accusations about me being homosexual, that's not altogether true. I'm not going to molest you, Duncan, so you can relax that tight ass of yours. I like women and men both, and Ellison knows it. I think he said that in your presence to make you worry, and it apparently worked."

MacLeod smiled. "I'm not homophobic or I wouldn't be here."

"Then what's your problem? You're very tense to be so carefree."

"Remember the killer? He's reason enough, don't you think?" Now he was lying, he knew it and he knew Baxter knew it. "Well, I may have a slight... little... tiny... speck of a problem with... you understand... with the concept."

"What concept? You're talking about homosexuality?"

Duncan nodded, a bit undone by the entire discussion.

"You'll do fine." Baxter said, patting his cheek. He glanced at his watch. "Listen, it's getting late, and your heart's beating way too fast, so I'm cutting out now. Go back to your seat. I'll act like I'm going for drinks and skip out. You gonna be okay?"

Duncan let a ragged breath escape him as he nodded, let his eyes stray to the shadowy man in the corner. "Yeah."

"Be right outside." Baxter rubbed up and down his back for assurance. "Still no kiss?"

"No. No kiss."

"Didn't think so." Baxter waited for him to break free before he left.

Duncan hesitated for a few seconds, summoning up the courage to separate from his only acquaintance in the vast den of iniquity, then abruptly released him and walked to their table without looking back.

+++++

"Hey, there, Sweet Thang." The deep voice belonged to a very tall, very broad man with maladjusted blue eyes and short blonde hair. There were deep scars on his face, but MacLeod's distraught dark eyes were drawn to his hands. They were severely disfigured. Battle scars, he had seen many. He was about the right age to have been in Vietnam and had the unmistakable look of a Green Beret soldier. The man laid one of those ruined hands with the contorted fingers on his back and it made his skin crawl. "I couldn't help but notice that your date ran out on you. So... can I buy you a drink?"

The man's great height made him feel very small, but he was determined not to be intimidated. MacLeod was almost six feet tall, stronger than most men, and more capable. He had no need to feel inferior, but he did. The man's presence was overwhelming. "Sure, if you like." he answered with practiced poise.

"What are you drinking?"

"Scotch and soda."

The tremendous stranger snapped his deformed fingers at the waitress and led him to an empty table, pull-ing out a chair for him. "I'm Abel. What's your name?"

He knew better than to give his name to a stranger. "Just call me Sugar." He seated himself, watching the man closely. The blue eyes looked him up and down, then raised suggestively to his face. Duncan tried to ignore the implication.

The waitress brought a tray of drinks to their table. Abel chose two glasses, handing Duncan the Scotch and soda and taking straight bourbon for himself. Duncan accepted his drink, sipping it through the stirring straw. He would play his feminine role as befitting as possible.

"I haven't seen you here before." Abel said. He leaned across the table and fiddled with the wide bracelet, beginning the routine of getting familiar. "Your first time?"

"Yes. I'm from out of town."

"I can tell. Are you English?"

"Scottish." He tried to pull back his hand as Abel's closed around it. It was the first time in months that anyone had made mention of his accent.

"Hey, I don't bite." Abel reached across the table to catch the retreating hand.

"Maybe you don't." Duncan said. "But I do."

"Really?" Abel raised his eyebrows with interest. "Ooh, baby. Bite me, Sugar."

He looked down and swallowed hard, trembling uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, Abel. You must understand that I'm feeling a little... a little put out by my date leaving me the way he did. Would you excuse me a moment?"

"Sure, Sugar. No problem." The blonde sighed, watching his escape into the short hallway that led to the bathroom.

Duncan went to the mirror and turned on the faucet but refrained from splashing his face to save the makeup. He settled for washing his hands. They were shaking like fragile leaves in a hailstorm.

He would never have accepted the drink from Abel had circumstances been otherwise. He was the kind of man Duncan tried to avoid, one he suspected who used fear tactics to get what he wanted from others.

He dabbed at his eyes with a paper towel, soaking up the maddening tears. He had not felt this helpless in over two hundred years. Remembering what Richie had warned him of, he tried to convince himself that he was super-capable. He was not stupid enough to believe that immortality made him invulnerable. He was well aware that he could be injured or killed just as easily as any man. The big blonde made that awareness all too real, but what made him so readily take the risk was that for MacLeod, as for any immortal, death or injury was only very temporary unless his head was taken from his body.

He had to gain emotional control. Facing the mirror, he looked into the round, dark eyes that looked back. They were swimming in misery. "Get yourself together, Sugar." he murmured, taking a deep, essential breath. "You cannot run and hide no matter what sort of man he is. He's out there. It's probably him. He's probably the killer. He will kill again. They're counting on
you to nail him before he does."

He drew in another deep breath, dabbed delicately at his eyes once more, getting into his role, and left the bathroom.

"Are you okay, Angel?" This new voice came from a man who was standing in the dimly lit hallway. He leaned against the tan paneling, his right hand in the pocket of his white, finely tailored suit jacket.

MacLeod was startled. "Y-yes, I'm fine," he answered awkwardly, taking a step backward to be farther re-moved from him. "Thank you."

"I'm Jack Tier, the manager here at the Rose Club." The man introduced himself, reaching to offer a hand-shake.

Hesitantly, he took the hand, studying him. His appearance was normal, five ten or eleven, a hundred sev-enty pounds, short, dark hair, turquoise eyes, a square face. Not exactly handsome, but his easy smile and direct gaze were attractive features. He exhibited a sense of duty, a business-type concern that was meant to win his confidence.

"I saw the big ugly blonde you sat down with out there. He's bad news, Doll. If he harasses you, just say the word. I'll have him taken out."

"He just wanted to be friendly." Duncan defended. "He wasn't pushy."

"Good. We don't need jerks like him messing with our good customers. He comes here every night and bothers nice girls like you. Most of them tell him to go to hell. I'm beginning to think he might be our kil-ler. You have heard about the murders, haven't you?"

"Murders?" Duncan knew it had been widely publicized by the media. People on other planets had, no doubt, heard about it by now. "What murders?"

"You haven't heard?" Jack was incredulous. His eyes were disturbingly traveling up and down the length of him, taking in every curve, every seam of his clothing. Duncan's was immediately conscious of his mo-tives. Then, he met his eyes again, and that
no-nonsense, business-like expression was back, the profes-sional voice faultless. "We've had a serial killer on the loose here for the past couple of months. He's killed a bunch of pretty, high-class gals who looked a lot like you. He picked them up in the
parking lot after we closed and took them off and killed them. I've considered closing the place because of him." Jack ran his hand up Duncan's arm to his shoulder, lifting his index finger to wind it in a tress of his long hair.

Duncan smiled. "It might not be a bad idea."

"Do you realize how much money I'd stand to lose?"

"If people are being murdered, do you realize how much they're losing?" he countered. "Do you really think Abel is the killer?"

"Yes, to be honest. I think it's him."

"Then why haven't you told this to the police?"

"It wouldn't do any good for me to tell them what I think. They need hard evidence, and I don't have any."

"What makes you think it's him?"

"For one thing, the fact that he's taken out three cops. Abel was with the Special Forces in the Army. He knows his stuff. Like I said, he's bad news. He could probably snap the neck of a grizzly with his bare hands. Strong as an ox. None of his victims had a chance once he got hold of them. I didn't know for sure until the cops were killed. But you know cops have lots of training. It had to be Abel."

Duncan was uncertain. He could not make unfair assumptions. This man did not know that Abel was the killer, he was only guessing. MacLeod was no cop, but he had to think like one. There was no evidence to back up the manager's suspicion.

"What's your name?" asked the man whose gaze remained fixed on his face.

He was suddenly intensely aware of his closeness. He drew back uncomfortably, trying to shed his touch. "Sugar."

"Don't run away from me, Sugar. Come here. I'll protect you from bad guys like Abel if you will let me." Jack caught him by the waist, backing him against the tan wall, then pressed himself against him. "You look like a lady who knows her own mind. What is it you're really looking for, Sugar?"

Duncan looked down at the hand that came up to touch his lips. "For a door out of this place." he answered, struggling. "Let me go."

"Let you go? For real? You don't really want me to let you go, now do you?" Jack leaned close, trying to trap him in a kiss. "You're very pretty. Come on, Sweetheart. Be nice."

Duncan turned his face to the side, resisting the pressure of force Jack applied to his chin as he became in-sistent. "Stop it! I warn you to let me go before I kick you where it hurts."

It made Jack angry. Snorting, he gave him a hard shove that slid him along the wall toward the bathroom door. "Go on, then! Just go! I didn't want you, anyway, you tramp! You're not really all that pretty! You don't even really look like a woman!"

MacLeod was shaking again from a mixture of anger and anxiety, but he held his head high and strode out of the hallway, returning to the table where Abel was waiting. Primly, he sat, crossed his ankles as he took up his drink again. He gave Abel a bitter smile. "Sorry it took me so long." he said.

+++++

Richie had found the perfect hiding place behind the densest row of tall bushes surrounding the club's parking lot. The front door was in perfect view. He had been standing there peering through a gap in the untrimmed bushes at the sole exit for four hours, waiting for midnight when MacLeod would come out. He had seen Baxter's clever egress at nine thirty. Knowing that Duncan was alone was unsettling.

Ellison's red Jeep convertible was on stakeout in the shadows of the trees across the parking lot, but the club's door was in their clear view. He hoped they were paying attention. In case of an emergency, Richie had a little extra insurance in hand, a short metal pole he had unearthed from the hedgerow while he waited. He had practiced a few choice blows with his primitive weapon, battering a defenseless bush until he was certain he had the swing correctly angled.

At twelve o'clock, it was time for the club to close for the night. Richie stretched his arms and legs to be ready in case trouble came out the door with MacLeod. He gripped his weapon and leaned forward, his head poking out through the needle-like leaves. He was forty feet from the door. He wished he could have crept closer without being seen. He held his breath as the door swung open and laughing, resplendent cus-tomers took their leave.

Duncan emerged tenth in a line. He was safe so far. The scarf around his neck was a neon sign that beck-oned. He feared the killer's eyes also followed his cross-dressing friend, and that the sick mind was graphic in his fantasy about tying that damned silk scarf tighter. Richie did not want to think about the other fanta-sies playing in the homicidal maniac's head. The man had made a habit of abducting his victims after hours, so this was the crucial minute. These were the seconds that seemed like hours when every heartbeat sounded like a drum roll in his ears. Richie's eyes were alert, scanning the parking lot for any source of danger. At least thirty people were soon getting in their cars to leave. It could be any one of them.

He hated that infernal yellow scarf!

Duncan headed straight for the pay phone in the parking lot and picked up the receiver to make a call, fum-bling through a small, beaded purse for a quarter. His search required both hands, so he put the phone back to dig deeper. Richie's wary gaze picked out a new-model Lincoln Townecar a few feet from him. A man was at the wheel, the engine was running, but he had
not moved.

The headlights beamed a sharp path ahead as the Lincoln coasted toward the phone booth. The driver's window lowered smoothly and the man called out to him. Duncan gave up the search for the quarter and stepped closer to the car, speaking quietly in response. A moment later, he was walking around the car and opening the passenger door to get in. Richie advanced
with his weapon in hand, knew he could not possibly get there before the car whisked him away.

Then, another man arrived, a very large man with blonde hair who grabbed Duncan by the arms and yanked him clear of the Lincoln. His feet left the ground as the big man spun him against another vehicle parked nearby. The driver of the Lincoln shouted obscenities at them and drove away, squealing tires. The whole scene was very confusing.

Duncan struggled against his abductor, who was touching him everywhere. He was pinned against a green Mustang that was parked directly in the light of the phone booth. The immortal cried out, slapping at the scarred face, scolding him in loud sobs. To Richie, the situation looked desperate.

His rush was completely unexpected. He was fast and brutal as he impelled the metal pole through the air, swinging it like a baseball bat. It connected with the back of the blonde's head, made a sickening, crunch-ing sound and the big man collapsed to the pavement, his gnarled hands falling away from MacLeod.

Duncan stared at Richie, then at the man on the ground with disbelieving eyes. "Richie, what have you done?"

"What does it look like I 'done'? I busted his damned head! He shouldn't have put his hands on you like that." Richie was shaking with anger and exertion. "Who is he, anyway?"

"Abel. His name is Abel. And I'm not sure he's the right one."

Richie was confused. "Then...the Lincoln...that was the killer?"

"I don't know." Duncan stooped beside Abel to check the lump on his head. "The man in the Lincoln...his name is Jack Tier. He claimed to be the manager of the Rose Club. He was nasty to me tonight, but he apologized, said he was drinking. His apology was very convincing. He offered me a ride to make amends. I was going to take it. Abel ran up, warning me not to
go with him."

"And I hit him." Richie finished with a sigh.

"Yeah. You hit him. You hit him hard. And he's mortal. He could die, Richie."

The red Jeep came to a stop two feet from them. Ellison and Baxter hopped out, weapons drawn and lev-eled at the man on the ground. "You hurt, Duncan?" Baxter asked as Ellison rolled Abel on his face and began to cuff his wrists.

"No, I'm fine. Just a little shaken up. Of course, I owe the fact that I'm unhurt, in part, to the man you're putting the cuffs on. Richie's already clubbed the poor man over the head with a lead pipe, no less. I'm willing to bet he'll be sorry he picked me out of the crowd."

Richie pointed after the Lincoln. "Try the man going there. You might want to question him about the mur-ders. Mac says he was offering him a ride home."

"Shit." Ellison swore as he leaped back behind the wheel. When the security guard/bouncer arrived to han-dle Abel, the two cops began the pursuit that took them halfway across the county before other policemen finally apprehended their suspect.

Richie's breathing was labored as he listened to the bouncer call for an ambulance for Abel. "Are you all right?" he asked, offering his friend a shoulder.

"I'm fine." Duncan leaned on him. "What would I do without you, Richie?"

"I don't know, Mac." Richie answered, closing his arms tightly around him. "I'm hoping you never find out."

+++++

They were taken to the precinct where Baxter and Ellison were temporarily assigned for questioning after Jack Tier was caught. MacLeod had not had a chance to change clothes, was still in drag. Richie had been severely admonished by Ellison for his
interference but had not been inclined to apologize. He had come just short of having an argument with the grumpy detective, pulled away by Duncan while Baxter kept his partner at bay.

Richie stood looking through the window into the room where Baxter and Ellison interrogated Duncan, who was seated at a square table. Ellison's use of vulgarities increased with his growing rage and frustra-tion. He was obviously angry at the nonchalant answers he was getting from MacLeod.

Richie admired Duncan's ability to sit calmly, unflustered by others' violent emotions. He wished he could be that aloof, that controlled in harsh situations. He remembered an old proverb Duncan had once quoted to him; "Anger instigates violence,
patience delivers understanding, silence can be revenge." With his silence, Duncan was making the annoying cop look very foolish for having lost his temper. It was almost humor-ous. Richie wanted to give his friend a thumb-up for his accomplishment.

Abel was brought in and left sitting in the room where Richie waited. He had been treated and released at the emergency room. He was the next in line for questioning by the police.

"Hi." Richie greeted regretfully, checking out the bandage on the back of the big man's head. "How are you doing?"

"I've got a king-sized lump and some stitches where I got knocked in the head by a falling star, I guess. What happened, anyway? What the hell hit me?"

"I did." Richie confessed. "And I'm sorry. I thought you were trying to hurt him. I saw you had him up against the car and I thought you were the killer."

Abel looked through the glass into the interrogation room. "Yeah, it's pretty touchy around that club right now. S'okay."

Richie looked him up and down, taking note of his enormous size.at least six feet five with the build of a weight lifter.

"The reason I grabbed him like that was because I saw him getting in the car with Jack Tier. I took him by surprise. He didn't know who had a hold of him, and he gave me a little resistance. I guess that's where you came in, thinking I was kidnapping him, right? Anyway, I have my suspicions that Jack is the one who's killing people. If he's not the one, why did he run from the cops like he did?"

"You got a point."

"Yeah. He's got the know-how, the access and the psychotic tendencies."

Richie frowned. "What do you mean he's got the 'know-how'?"

"He's got a black belt in Karate or something. At least that's what he told me the other night."

"Do you have any Karate training?"

"I was in the Special Forces. Green Beret. Do they think I'm the bad guy here?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask them."

"Does Sugar think it's me?"

Richie smiled, wondering why Duncan had given him that particular name. "Sugar doesn't know. But I think he believes it was Jack Tier."

"You think Sugar likes me?"

Richie took a deep, contemplating breath. "Yeah, I guess he does."

"You think he'll see me again after all this shit tonight?"

"No. I kinda doubt it. He's...not really into guys like you."

"How would you know?"

"I don't know for sure, but I don't think so. You did ask me."

"Yeah. I did, didn't I?"

Richie's blue eyes went back to Duncan, who was getting up from the table. "I hope he's ready to go home. I'm so tired of being here."

"Are you... like... kin to him?" Abel asked.

"Sort of, in a way. He's a friend."

"Friend. That covers a lot of territory."

"Yes, it does." Richie was determined not to explain his relationship with Duncan to him. He hurried to meet his friend as he emerged from the interrogation room.

Ellison was behind him, motioning to Abel. "You next, sir."

Abel took a step toward him, but paused to take Duncan by the shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Abel. Just tired."

"You never gave me your number." Abel said.

"Sorry." Duncan looked to Richie. "Let's go home."

"Wait!" Abel detained him. "I'd really like to have your phone number, Sugar."

Duncan gently pushed his hand away and went to Richie, putting an arm around him. "Good-bye, Abel."

"Oh, I see." Abel said, nodding obstinately. "I see why you're not into guys like me. It's all perfectly clear to me now. You like the little boys, right, Sugar? The younger ones turn you on. Is this boy your lover? That's why he hit me, wasn't it? It wasn't
because he thought I was the killer. It was because he was jeal-ous of me. Now I gotcha. I've got it all figured out."

Duncan gazed at him with pity, then turned and left with Richie.

+++++

Sunday, October 16, 1994

Duncan hung up the phone and went to sit on the couch beside Richie without a direct response to the loud voice from the call.

"Ellison?" Richie already knew.

"Yeah. He says they had to let Jack Tier go. I couldn't give them anything solid. Ellison wants hard evi-dence."

"Ellison's a dick." Richie said.

Duncan smiled. "They think I should try again."

"No." Richie said flatly. "Whichever one of them is the killer, Abel or Jack, they both know you were there with the cops watching you. That makes it even more dangerous."

"You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, if you got some made."

Duncan got up and went to the kitchen area, pouring water into the pot. "You shouldn't have followed me to the club."

"Now don't you start in on me."

"Like you said, it's dangerous. Both those guys have the ability to kill."

"Yeah, and they're both nuts. I didn't meet Jack Tier, but Abel acted like a real wacko. He sure got struck on you in a hurry. You really turned him on. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about what he wants from you, Mac."

"He's a lonely man. That doesn't make him a killer."

"What about Jack?"

"He's more abusive. He's bolder. Abel didn't get quite as physical. He was more... gentlemanly. It still doesn't prove anything. People are different."

"Yeah. They're real different."

"They're both looking for the same thing."

"And what's that?"

"Love. Isn't that what everybody's really looking for?"

Richie nodded. "Well, they can look somewhere else. Don't go back to that club, Mac. Please. I don't like you messing into mortal matters."

"Richie, somebody is killing innocent people."

"How do you know that? They might not be innocent. You've killed a lot of people, right? What's the real difference? It's a game we play here on earth, right? Kill or be killed. The only requirement is that we not get caught at it. That's his game just like it's ours."

Duncan stared at him. "Oh, Richie."

"Am I wrong?"

"No." Duncan answered reflectively as he poured the water into the coffee maker. He fit a paper filter into the holder, added a scoop of ground coffee, then flipped it on. "No. You're right. And that's the sad truth."

Richie studied him thoughtfully. "Do you have nightmares?"

MacLeod sat on a stool at the bar. "Every night."

"If I live to be as old as you are, do you think my conscience will haunt me the way yours does you?"

"Unless you grow a heart of stone."

"What if we stop killing? Why do we have to stay in the Game? Why can't we just... just stop?"

"I tried that before. It doesn't last."

"It lasted a while."

"Yeah, a while. I don't know, Richie. There is no right answer. There is nothing we can do about what we are. Others like us will come and try to take our heads. All we can do is defend ourselves and try to survive. I wish we could stop. I wish we could live in peace."

"Really?" Richie looked skeptical. "Then why can't we? We're intelligent men. We can surely think of a place where other immortals won't force our hands. Why can't we just move to Holy Ground and live there?"

"If we moved to Holy Ground, we could never leave, not for anything. There would be ambitious immor-tals waiting at the gates, watching our every move. We would have to hide from them to avoid confronta-tion. We would have to live a craven existence. I was born a warrior. I would find shame in living like that."

"You'd get used to it. You're only four hundred years old, not four thousand. You're still versatile. You can change."

"No, I can't, and neither can you, Richie. You're very young, but you're already set in your ways. You have a warrior's heart, too, and you know it. Don't try to deny it."

Richie looked down. "I won't deny it. But that's not the point I'm making. Warrior or not, killing is wrong. Killing is wrong, Mac. If we could live in peace for a while, wouldn't you be happier? The hell with our warrior tendencies. We're just like mortal men in every way except that we don't age and we don't die as easily. Mortal men have a soul, and they have rules that pertain to right and wrong. What law puts us above those rules? What makes us so special?"

"The fact that we're immortal."

"That gives us the right to be killers?"

"We have a few rules of our own, remember?"

"Who made those rules up? Where's our bible? Couldn't our rules be nothing but bullshit? I mean... I'm not being sacrilegious, am I? It's not blasphemy because we don't have a God like mortal men, right?"

Duncan swallowed hard. "Richie, you're too smart for your own good."

"What good does it do for me to be smart when my head's up for grabs? There's a slim chance I'll live as long as you have. I'll keep practicing my swordsmanship, no problem. I'll work out every day and I'll try to get as good as you are. But what good will it do when somebody comes along who's just a little bit bet-ter?"

Duncan felt obliged to divert the subject as quickly as possible. "What do you really want out of life, Richie? Have you ever thought about that?"

"Yeah. I've thought about it. I want a lot of things out of life. I want what everybody wants. I wish I had the same chances to get them."

"Name something you want. Name the most important thing."

Richie pondered a moment. "The most important thing...is...damn it, Mac, there are a lot of important things! I can't single out one thing! Peace. Love. Survival. Accomplishment. Friendship. You're important to me, Mac."

"You're important to me, too, Richie."

"I know. But not as important as the Game, right?"

"Richie, don't say things like that. You're wrong. The Game is not important to me at all. I agree with you that we should have the option to live in peace, but unless we do move to Holy Ground, we can't escape the Game. You know that as well as I do."

"So, when do we start packing?"

"Richie..." Duncan closed his eyes in utter frustration. "You know I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Life is not that simple."

"Why isn't it? You're the one who makes it complicated. It could be simple." Richie got up and took two mugs from the cupboard, setting them on the counter. Taking up the pot prematurely, he poured fresh cof-fee for them both. "You're still going to do this drag queen thing again, aren't you?"

"I've already promised them I would."

"You promised Ellison. He's a total shit, Mac."

"He's an angry man."

"What's he so damn angry about?"

"He's a cop; a cop who doesn't know his own spirit or his own abilities. He's seen a lot of terrible things."

"I know there's something weird about him, but that doesn't give him the right to be an asshole."

"Men aren't all the same."

"You know, Mac, sometimes you come off as an asshole, too."

MacLeod met his eyes and grinned.

"But you're a lot easier to like than Ellison."

"Why?"

Richie shrugged dramatically. "I don't know. Maybe because I know you better. Maybe because you look really hot in women's clothes. Maybe because you regret your sins and he doesn't."

"You assume a lot, Richie."

"I assume that you're going to go back to that club and let psychotic queers put their paws on you again." Richie was annoyed.

"That's the real issue here, isn't it?"

"Maybe."

"You know I'm capable of defending myself, Richie. Why are you so worried?"

"It's not a normal situation. We're talking Pervert City here."

"Are you worried about my reputation or my pride?"

"I'm worried about you, Mac. Stop treating this with such indifference. What if I was the one doing it? Think about it."

MacLeod's dark eyes softened and he nodded. Uncharacteristically, he was clumsy as his hand went to Richie's cheek and patted it.

Richie seized the hand emotionally. "It's not fair for people to do things like that to other people. I don't understand it."

"Richie..." His voice was low and kind. "Nothing in life..."

"I know. I know. Nothing in life is fair. I heard that one plenty of times."

MacLeod's lower lip protruded and his eyes were forlorn. With the heartbroken expression, he was begging Richie to understand his cause and to trust his judgment. "When it's over, we can go somewhere together. Would you like that?"

"Just the two of us?"

"Yeah, just you and me. Where would you like to go?"

"To Rio de Janeiro. I'd love to go there."

"All right." Duncan pulled out his wallet and handed him a credit card. "I have to meet Baxter at the police station at six, so while I'm gone, why don't you make flight reservations for next week to Rio de Janeiro?"

Richie sighed reluctantly. "Okay. Cool. Why not?"

Duncan squeezed his hand. "Would you rather walk?"

"I would rather leave tomorrow."

"I'm going to the club again tomorrow night. And Richie... please don't follow me this time."

"Okay." Richie's face was dark and miserable. "Fine. No problem." He found he was still holding his friend's hand. He pressed the knuckles affectionately beneath his chin. "Are you in a hurry to leave right now?" he asked, glancing at the wall clock. It was four thirty.

"No, I have an hour or so."

"Good. I have something I really want to discuss with you."

"All right."

"Let's take our coffee and sit on the couch."

They refilled their cups and went to the couch. Richie seated himself close beside him and set both cups of coffee on the square coffee table in front of them.

"What do you want to talk about?" Duncan asked.

Laying an arm across his shoulders, Richie faced him and took his hand again. "I would like to know your true feelings here. You've allowed Ellison and Baxter to make you into a drag queen and you let these two men, Jack and Abel put their hands on you."

"What's your point, Richie?"

"It doesn't bother you for men to have their hands on you?"

"Not the way you're thinking, no. Your hands are on me now, Richie."

"Does it bother you?"

"No, of course not."

Richie's hand went to his face. "So I can touch you."

"Of course you can, Richie. You're my friend."

"Anywhere?"

MacLeod grinned at him again. "Where do you want to touch me, Richie?"

Richie's face, at last, broke into a smile. "I wanta touch you all over." he sang, a little off-key. "I'm simply trying to find out..."

"You're being nosy, Richie. You're asking if I would go through with it if a homosexual encounter came up. And the words to the song are 'I wanta kiss you all over'."

"Oh, yeah." Richie lost his train of thought for a moment. "So, I'm being nosy and I don't know that song. I can be nosy. We're friends. I care about you. Why can't I be nosy? If that homosexual encounter did come up, what would you do?"

Duncan studied his face. "I think it would depend entirely on the person and the situation."

"Meaning you would go through with it if you were attracted to the man?"

Now, Duncan was uncomfortable. "Richie..." he said with a sigh.

"Would you?"

"All right. I might."

Richie was surprised. "You might?"

"Yes. Does that make you think less of me?"

There was a pause as Richie thought about it. Finally, he shook his head. "No, just curious."

"Curious about what?"

"About the kind of man who is attractive to you."

"There are no 'kinds'. Just men."

"You've done it before, haven't you?"

Looking down, Duncan nodded.

"Will you tell me about him?"

"Some time when we have time."

"Did I ever meet him?"

"Yes, you did."

"Tell me his name."

"There was more than one, Richie. Does that make me sound like a slut?"

Richie chuckled. "Yeah. You're a slut," he said, teasingly. "Tell me the name of the one I met."

"You met more than one."

"Damn, Mac."

"Darius."

Richie's blue eyes grew wide. "Damn, Mac. A priest?"

+++++

"He was a good man."

"I know, but...a priest?"

"Let it go for now, all right? He wasn't always a priest."

"Damn." Richie was still stunned.

Duncan sat patiently waiting for him to overcome the shock he had just received.

It took several minutes. When he spoke again, Richie asked, "So, you would be with one of those guys from the club if he looked good to you?"

"I don't look at looks."

Richie's eyes were on his face, first his eyes, then his lips, then back to his eyes. "Do you like me, Mac?"

"Of course I like you, Richie."

"I mean... if I... you know... kissed you... would you push me away?"

Duncan looked at his lips. "Do you want to kiss me, Richie?"

"Yeah, kind of."

There was a brief hesitation before Duncan sighed and said, "I wouldn't push you away."

The air was suddenly too thick to breathe. With difficulty, as if the oxygen had been rendered to a liquid state, Richie drew in a long, deep breath and stretched toward him. When their lips touched, tentatively, the first reaction was tension. Then, a warm sensation settled over them and the kiss became the easiest thing they had ever shared. Wrapping their arms around one another, they went into a deep, oxygen-deprived kiss and let it linger until they were on the brink of passing out.

Dragging in another breath, Richie pushed him back onto the couch and leaned over him for more kisses. "Oh, man." he whispered, gazing down into gentle brown eyes. "To think I might have gone through life without ever doing that... that's a scary thought, Mac."

"I love you, Richie. You know that already."

"I love you, too. I love you so much it hurts." Richie began kissing him again feverishly, his fingers busy tearing away buttons, yanking cloth to caress his bare chest. The kisses were too hard, too desperate, but Duncan did not protest, remained quietly in his arms and accepted the kisses, returned them gracefully, one arm around Richie's waist, the other around his neck. When Richie raised up to look down at him, Duncan gave him a sweet but disheveled smile.

Richie stopped his romantic assault and simply gazed into those affectionate eyes. "So you really love me?"

"You know I love you. I've always loved you, Richie."

"But I didn't know I could do this."

MacLeod was playing with his curly hair. "I didn't know you wanted to."

"Of course you realize this means you won't be going back to that club."

"I have to, Richie."

"No, you don't have to. These kisses that just happened between us sanctified something that you and I both understand and you know it. You know I don't want you to go. I can't forbid it, but I can express my feelings."

"Richie, I wouldn't hurt your feelings for anything in the world, you know I wouldn't, but I agreed to go already. Please don't make this an argument between us. When it's over, you and I can be together as long as you like."

"Is this a bargain?"

"Yeah. A bargain."

"I want to love you forever, Mac. Don't get hurt, okay?"

"I don't intend to, Richie."

Bitterly, Richie rubbed noses with him and reached for his coffee.

+++++

Monday, October 17, 1994

Baxter had not arrived and time was pressing. It was unusual for him to be late. Ellison was a bulldog ready to snap at anything. His disposition had worsened. Richie was not present this time, and for that, the cop was grateful, but MacLeod seemed
strangely morose and scatter-brained. "What the hell is eating you, MacLeod?" he asked.

Duncan gave him a fleeting glance. "Nothing that involves you, Jim."

"Then pay attention! I want you to concentrate on finding our killer. Flirt with Jack Tier and with Abel and see which one follows you out the door this time. Hopefully, it'll just be one of them."

"What if neither one of them is the killer?"

Ellison's jaw sagged with the new concept, then he sneered. "One of them is! Just find out which one."

"I'll do the best I can." This time, Duncan was dressed in dark pink, form fitting spandex pants and a short hemmed top with long, puffy sleeves and wide lace around the collarless neck. He wore a pearl choker and matching earrings. His fingers only bore one ring and the bracelet had been omitted. A pink ribbon held back the top layer of his dark hair. The cosmetologist had made up his face again and had done an even better job this time. After viewing himself in the mirror, he gave Ellison a pleasant smile. "How do I look?"

"You look like a fag. Don't forget why you're going to the Rose Club tonight."

"How could I forget?"

"I want the killer, MacLeod. And I want him tonight."

"I told you I'll do the best I can. What do you expect me to do?"

Looking at his wristwatch, Ellison paced back and forth across the floor. "Where the hell is Baxter?"

"That's what I was wondering."

"You stay here. I'm gonna go see if I can get him on the phone. He knows what time it is. The son of a bitch better have a good excuse."

When he had gone, Duncan viewed himself in the full mirror, turning to the right, then to the left to give himself the critical once-over. Then he met the wide, brown eyes that looked back at him with ominous sadness. The eyes could not reveal the intensity he felt tugging at the bottom of his heart. Either something bad was about to happen or it already had. He did not think Richie's fears were being belied upon him at this late hour. This feeling was genuine and it was morbidly disturbing.

Closing his eyes, he leaned into the mirror until his forehead touched itself on the glass. The omen was un-shakable. He suspected now that Richie had felt it early and that had been his reason for the persistent warnings. Richie wasn't normally such a worrier, but he occasionally tended to be a bit of a mother hen, and it was wholly possible that he was also jealous. But then, Duncan was inclined to be even more shel-tering when it came to Richie's safety.

The genetics were not in the stars for Duncan to be a father, as it was for all immortals. Though this race could survive for centuries without human aging, they could not reproduce. And as he lived longer, he had begun to notice that neither could any immortal find a true birth parent. They came from nowhere; they did not produce offspring. They were a small minority completely alone in a world that did not recognize them and had no laws that specified them.

Duncan thought he had, two years ago, without vocal or legal confirmation, adopted Richie as his son. He had attempted to love him as a father loves a son because of their clandestine alliance, but the feelings had evolved into something much larger than most father-sons relationships.

Yesterday, their relationship had progressed into something extra, not exactly opposite from the father-son connection, but an addendum that enhanced their loyalties to one another. He shivered at the memory of what he had allowed to happen, but with the memory came an incredible, sweet warmth. In a world of death and cruelty, he could do much worse than making love with Richie.

He sat down on the metal chair to fix the strap on a flat sandal, wishing he could call off his trip to the Rose Club tonight. Something was terribly disturbing to his psyche. The sixth sense. It was an unexplained gift predominantly given to human females, but Duncan had discovered he was also a recipient, as was Richie. In fact, Richie was blessed with stronger intuition
than any young person, mortal or immortal, Duncan had ever known. And Richie had been adamant about his warning. Duncan wished he had listened and taken the boy's advice.

Ellison returned, grumbling that Baxter was nowhere to be found.

"Who's going to escort me, then?" Duncan asked. "You?"

"Hell, no. I don't look the part of a gay escort. You'll just have to go by yourself. I'll get you a taxi."

Duncan nodded, wondering about Baxter as Ellison went out to use the phone again.

+++++

The interior of the nightclub was smoky and dim. He didn't see Abel or Jack. Ordering a drink, Duncan seated himself at a table and waited. He watched two pairs of dancers gliding around to the beat of a slow song on the section of the floor reserved for dancing. One couple, in particular, drew his attention. Both were males, senior citizens, gray hair, wrinkled,
slightly arthritic. He could not remember ever seeing two gay old men before. They were delightful and inspirational.

The other couple was young. Both were fresh-faced, bright-eyed, firm-bodied young men who talked as they danced and laughed at a private joke.

He glanced around the room, seeing other couples and realizing that the age range varied, but most of the customers were under thirty-five.

As he was making his observations, Abel walked into the room and spotted him. Duncan took a deep breath to ready himself and put on a smile as he approached. "Hi." he greeted as Abel sat down. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." The tone of the big man's voice was not friendly. "Where's your little lover boy tonight?"

"Home watching the kids." Duncan answered off-handedly.

"How old is he, anyway? How could you be with a kid that young?"

"He's a very precocious boy. He's not old enough to get in to the Rose Club, but he's good on roller skates. That stuff really turns me on."

Abel sneered. "Does it really?"

"I'm being sarcastic, you moron. Can't you guess the boy's my son?"

Abel's eyes were suddenly softer. "Your son? Really?"

"Yeah. Really." It was a believable enough statement. He would get no information at all from Abel if he were immersed in jealousy. Now the air was clear and they could talk.

"I'm sorry, Sugar. I thought..."

Duncan set his empty glass down, caught the hands that reached for his face and held them on the table, observing two skinned knuckles. "I know what you thought. Why don't you ask me to dance?" he sug-gested.

"Okay." Abel became an instant gentleman, standing and bowing to kiss the knuckles of his right hand. "Dance with me." he said.

With a smile of amusement, Duncan got up to join him on the dance floor. He was amazed to find that this huge, scar-ridden man was graceful and light on his feet, a very good dancer. They danced through three songs before Duncan became giddy. Abel whirled him around, saw his dizziness and held him tightly to support him. "What's wrong?"

With blurry eyes, Duncan tried to remember how many times he had ordered drinks and could only recall one glass. "I don't know why, but I'm finding myself extremely dizzy, Abel." he said.

"Did you drink too much?" Abel asked, smiling at him.

"No, I didn't. I think someone may have... put something in my drink."

Abel frowned and returned him to the table, taking the empty glass and sniffing it. "I don't smell anything," he said, lifting Duncan's eyelid to examine his pupil. "Have you seen Jack Tier? Maybe that's how he gets his victims to be so willing to get in the car with him...by drugging their drinks. Want me to take you to the emergency room?"

"No! No, I'll be fine in a minute. And, no, I haven't seen him, but that doesn't mean he isn't here. He is the manager." Sitting down, he did not feel the dizziness. "I'm feeling better already."

"Sure you are." Abel was watching his face closely. "We'll see."

Then, suddenly, Duncan was struck by the presence of another immortal. It was the sense they all pos-sessed that told them when another of their kind was close by. Duncan's wide, glazed eyes searched the room for the immortal and settled on the back of a strangely dressed man at the bar. His dark hair was shaggy and stuck out in places around his neck. He wore a dark blue suit and boots with four-inch platform soles. Although he did not know who the man was, there was something familiar about the way the stranger bobbed his head offbeat to the rhythm of the music.

"Abel, would you excuse me for a minute?" he said, walking away before he could be refused the courtesy. He went to the strange immortal, knowing he could feel the same presence and wondering at the way he was ignoring it. Placing a hand on the man's arm was the only direct way of demanding his attention. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Who are you?"

The stranger turned with reluctance and faced him. A crooked, bushy mustache and dark glasses hid part of his face, but Duncan recognized him almost instantly. "Richie! What the hell do you think you're doing? I asked you not to come here!"

"You know what's funny?" Richie asked, scratching the back of his head through the ill-fitting wig. "I for-got you could feel me here. I was just gonna sit here and watch you. I didn't mean for you to know I was here."

"You forgot?" Duncan was angry. "How could you forget? Richie, what's on your mind? Or have you lost it?"

"You know very well what's on my mind, Mac. That big dude you were dancing with over there, for one."

MacLeod felt the dizziness again and lowered his head to alleviate it. "I think someone put something in my drink." he confided.

"You're sick? Come on. We're leaving right now." Richie pulled him toward the door, but Duncan balked.

"I cannot leave until I have learned something. I'll be all right. Since you're here, you can watch my back while I get over the dizziness."

Richie was grudging. "I think your date is starting to get pissed at me. He's giving me real mean looks. Come on. Let's dance."

"Dance?" Duncan stared at him, but allowed him to lead him to the dance floor. As Richie took him into a waltz position and began stepping a little slower than the three-quarter-time tune, Duncan murmured, "What are you trying to do? He'll get mad and want a fight with you. I told him you were my son, but he doesn't know you dressed up like this. You look awful, by the way. Where did you get this outfit... in the Halloween costume section at Wal-Mart?"

"Yeah. Where else? Wal-Mart rocks!"

"Richie, you're going to ruin everything."

"Speaking of outfits, why did you have to wear this one? You're showing an inch of flesh between your shirt and your pants. Are you trying to get raped? And those pants are skin tight. You have a serious wedgie, by the way. Where did you get this shit?"

"Ellison. I don't like it, either." Self-consciously, Duncan tugged at the seat of the tight, pink pants until they were nearly misshapen.

"I think we should leave now. You know there's something wrong as well as I do." Richie said. "I don't know what it is, but it's deadly."

"Yeah, I felt it, too."

"And somebody's even trying to poison you. Was it Abel?"

"I don't think so. He wasn't even here until I had my drink in hand. I'm feeling better. The dizziness is al-most gone now. Whoever did it didn't count on me being immortal."

"We should go. Come with me. Let's go home."

"No, Richie." Duncan was getting edgier by the moment. "I want you to go home now before anything happens to you. Will you do this for me please? Listen to me, Richie."

"I will if you will."

"What is this... a Mexican standoff?" Duncan asked grimly.

"If that's what you want to make it. I'm not leaving you here alone."

A scarred hand came to rest on Duncan's bicep, taking his attention from Richie. He looked up into angry eyes. "Abel..." he began.

Abel shook his head. "I think you owe me this dance, Sugar, since you're not having that dizzy spell any more."

Duncan nodded and switched partners, giving Richie a silent command with his eyes that directed him to-ward the door. Richie stubbornly took a seat at the bar instead.

Abel was a better dancer than Richie, but he was rough with rage, irate and spiteful. "Who's that guy?" he asked. "Another son?"

Duncan sighed. "Abel, stop with the jealousy. It's the least attractive thing in a person. I hate jealousy."

"I hate infidelity."

"But I don't belong to you. How could I be disloyal to you?"

Abel crushed him punishingly against himself and spoke through his teeth with seething. "I want you to belong to me, Sugar. I don't want you to dance with other men. You do that again and you'll be sorry."

"Don't threaten me, Abel." Duncan winced at the pressure of his rock-hard arms.

"It's not a threat, Sugar. It's a promise."

"Abel, let me go. I'm not your property. Let me go now. I'm leaving." Struggling to free himself, Duncan became frantic when he realized the man's strength was immovable. He was ready to resort to wild kicks and punches.

Abel shook his head, held him fast. "You haven't given me a fair chance yet."

Then, Richie was to the rescue, pulling the big man away and pounding him several times in the face with a hard right. None of the blows phased him. Abel looked at him for a split second with annoyance, then hit him once in the jaw, which sent him spinning across the room. Richie crumpled in a heap at the jukebox and did not get up.

"Come on." Abel grabbed Duncan's arm and led him toward the door. "We're leaving. We need to talk."

Duncan gave him difficulty that he overcame. Yanking him along until they were in his green Mustang in the parking lot, Abel started the engine and sped away from the club, glaring occasionally at his passenger and snorting out his rage.

As he drove, his temper seemed to calm. He had driven two miles and was now heading east on the Inter-state, toward the Hubberson Park exit before he spoke in apologetic tones. "Sugar, I don't mean to say the things I say and do the things I do. I can't help myself. Sometimes I get like that. I get hostile. I can't ex-pect you to understand. I don't know what to say to you now to make you understand."

Duncan did not respond. He was looking straight ahead at the road.

"Is it okay if we go to the park? I'd like to spend some time with you."

"If I said no, would you take me back to the club?" Duncan asked. "Would you actually give me a choice?"

Abel pulled to the shoulder and cut the engine, reaching for him. "I want you willing. I don't want to force you."

"But I'm not willing, Abel. I don't want you. Take me back to the club."

"Stop playing games, Sugar."

"I'm not playing. Take me back."

Abel pulled him into another crushing embrace and moved to kiss him, but his lips were met with an elbow that snapped his head up. Duncan clouted him several times in the tender parts of his anatomy, kept him on the defensive long enough to open the door and get out of the car. The big man was quickly after him, but Duncan whirled with Martial Arts kicks, holding him off. He stayed out of his reach, knowing that those contorted fists were murderous, and kept whirling, kicking and striking until a red Jeep screeched to a stop beside them and Ellison sprang from the wheel, leveling his handgun at Abel.

"Hold it right there, Asshole!" Ellison commanded. "You're under arrest!"

Abel looked at him as a nuisance. "What am I under arrest for?"

"For murder! Over here right now! Hands on the car!"

Duncan closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, was startled when Abel abruptly grabbed him, intending to use him as a shield. The intent went nowhere. Ellison's gun fired twice. Both bullets hit their mark, right in the center of Abel's chest. Duncan watched in mortal terror as the big man crashed to the pavement and died.

"Are you all right?" Ellison's face was strained as he took Duncan's arm and led him away from the body.

"Yes. He..." Duncan was still trembling, his heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. "I believe it was his intention to... to kill me."

"Yeah. I think he would've done it, too. He would've got the best of you there in a minute and you would've been at his mercy. I checked into his history a little and I found out that he took out over a thou-sand men while he was in the Army, plus another thousand or so as a mercenary. He's a killer and I just stopped him the only way anybody could stop him. You might be the best at the Martial Arts, but I think he would have beaten you unless you killed him first. You should see the list of the Masters he killed."

"All this and it still doesn't prove he's the one who killed these men from the Rose Club."

"No, but he killed Baxter."

"What?"

"Baxter was found out behind Abel's trailer, beaten up. An ambulance took him to the hospital, but he died a while ago. Before he died, though, he told an officer that Abel was the one who beat him up like that."

Duncan could not find him voice. He could not believe the tragedy. As Ellison opened the Jeep's passenger door, he sat down hard in the seat and leaned into his arm on the dash.

Ellison reached into the car, laying an awkward hand on his shoulder. "I know Baxter was your friend. He was mine, too."

Duncan thought of Richie and the blow that Abel had delivered to his young face. If Richie had not been immortal, the blow would probably have killed him. Baxter was not an ordinary mortal, but was mortal enough to die. He had been a decent man and a righteous cop.

"Hand me the mike. I gotta call this in." Ellison's voice lacked its usual gruff tone, sounded almost la-menting. The hand on MacLeod's shoulder remained, comforting, massaging, extended to the back of his neck and upper back.

Duncan handed the microphone to him and listened as he gave the dispatcher his location and the code number for their situation. Glancing at the body, he felt a sense of revenge had been served for Baxter's untimely death, then the retribution that came with the sin of vengeance. Although he had avenged many, Duncan still felt horrible guilt for every one.

He remembered Richie's words about the laws of the immortals and realized that he had only echoed the exact discernments Duncan had felt over the years. The boy was smart. What was true for mortals should also be true for immortals. Why should they be privileged?

The female voice from the radio spoke very professionally throughout the police-business
conversation un-til the last few sentences. "Ellison, is that the one who killed Baxter?"

"Yeah. It's him."

"Good. I'm glad you got the bastard," she said.

Duncan sighed, musing to himself that mortals were very often vengeful beings, too.

+++++

"Mac," Richie rushed to hug him at the police precinct as he arrived. "I heard Ellison shot him. He didn't..."

"No. He didn't." MacLeod answered his question. "I'm fine, Richie, but I'm exhausted. As soon as I sign a statement, we can go home."

"Good." Richie was relieved. "Where are your clothes?"

"In the locker room. I'll go change."

"Good idea."

"It's the last time you'll ever see me like this, Richie."

"I'm glad to hear that." Richie accompanied him to the locker room and read the wall graffiti while Duncan changed into his own clothes and scrubbed his face over the basin.

"Do I look better?" MacLeod's presentation was a bit more masculine, but the mascara was still in place, as were the earrings.

Richie gave him a grin and nodded. "You look great." He flicked the right earring. "You might wanta take these off."

Duncan turned back to the mirror and removed the jewelry. His fingers trembled so badly he dropped one earring into the sink and could not catch it before it disappeared down the drain. His shoulders sagged loose as he surrendered to the nervousness and let a broken sob escape him. "Sometimes..." Uncontrolled tears flooded his cheeks. "Sometimes the deaths of others get to be more than we can deal with."

Richie was troubled at his sadness. "This is one reason I didn't want you to get involved in this,
Duncan. You take every death so hard. You've been around a long, long time. You shouldn't be so softhearted. But I'm really glad you are." He stood behind Duncan, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Stop it. I can't stand it."

Duncan turned into his embrace and cried on his shoulder. "You have no choice but to stand it," he said. "Don't take my suffering away. It's all I have left, Richie."

"No way, Mac. You know better than that." Richie looked past him in the mirror and thoughtfully rubbed his back. "You have everything."

Duncan laughed through his tears. "Yes, I do. I have you and we have plans to go to Rio de Janeiro, don't we? Did you make the reservations?"

"Well, no. I sorta got sidetracked. But I'll call first thing in the morning."

"Why did you choose Rio?" Duncan asked, wiping tears.

"I've heard it's a fun town. Have you been there?" Richie rolled his eyes knowingly. "Like there's a place on earth you haven't been."

"I haven't been to Rio de Janeiro." Duncan said.

"Really? Cool! So it'll be new to both of us!"

"Yeah, it will." MacLeod pulled himself back and straightened his face. "I know nothing at all about Rio de Janeiro except that it's in South America somewhere. So we'll have strange, maybe even wild adventures finding our way around when we get there."

"That's not where they have those dudes that do Voodoo, is it?" Richie asked.

"No, I think that's in Haiti."

"Is that close by?"

"I don't think so. I'm not sure, but I think we'll be in the safe range. No Voodoo."

"Good, because I'd hate to have people making dolls that look like me and poking them with pins. A per-son could be lying in bed having a nice, peaceful, wet dream and all of a sudden some Voodoo witch crams a straight pin through your gonads and you end up hanging from the light fixture howling your lungs out. That would not be good."

Duncan laughed again. "No, it would not." Richie's silly humor was a good distraction from his misery. "But I don't think it will happen in Rio."

"Good." Richie gave him a bright smile. "Now, are you ready to get that statement signed so we can go? I think you need some serious sleep so we can enjoy ourselves tomorrow when we're on our way to Rio."

"Tomorrow?"

"Or the day after. Why put it off?"

"No reason. We can leave tomorrow if seats are available on the plane."

"Cool." Richie pulled him close and kissed him passionately.

+++++

Wednesday, October 19, 1994

The night was quiet. Duncan slept fitfully in his bed, occasionally waking to listen to Richie's soft snoring. Every time he dozed off, he woke again in heart-pounding fright, again hearing the gunshots that had taken Abel's life. Slides passed through his mind's eye of Abel's last few acts of life and the horror of it all was relived over and over. Cuddling against Richie's back, he busied his mind with details of their lovemaking.

Richie was an uncommon lover, very tender, very thoughtful. His sexual control and endurance were be-yond imagination. Duncan had never been so fulfilled, had never felt so loved and so thoroughly consumed. Visions of forever were soon playing in his hopeful mind.

A muffled grunt from Richie woke him again just as the first ribbons of dawn were trickling into the black sky. The lack of sound was as loud as cannons in his ears. Duncan sat up, reached out to touch him. Richie's breathing had stopped and the sense of presence shared by immortals was strangely gone. "Richie?" He was deathly still.

Abruptly, a bright light was shined in his eyes and a familiar voice spoke from behind it. "Hi, Sugar. Your little friend here... he had an accident. Seems he bumped his little head and now he's dead... dead... dead." The unmistakable click of the hammer being pulled back on a revolver echoed throughout the room. "I had a devil of a time finding you this time. You're getting better at this game."

"Does this mean you're the one who killed all those men from your club?" Duncan asked. "Is that right, Jack?"

"Let's just put it this way. I punished you for your whoring ways, mother. Don't forget that you belong to me." Jack kept the light trained into his eyes, but motioned with the gun barrel. "Get up. We're going for a ride."

Duncan moved slowly as he got out of bed, stumbled over a corner of the sheet that had wrapped itself around his foot. "Jack, we don't have to do this."

"Yes, we do, Sugar. Abel stuck to you like glue the first night you came and he grabbed you and ran off with you the second night. But now it's time for you and me to reestablish our corrupt little relationship. Out the door, mommy, dear."

Duncan ignored the obvious insanity. "Do you mind if I get my clothes on?" He was wearing only scant underpants.

"I don't think you'll be needing them. I've already put this off too long. Let's just dispense with the fore-play this time, okay, mother? Out the door. Now."

Duncan's wide eyes went to the bed. "Why did you have to kill the boy? He did not deserve to die."

"He was one of those people who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Right, Sugar? Poor kid. Poor, dead kid. Hmm. What a shame. Now get out the damn door before I blow your fucking head off!" Jack's temper was rising along with his voice. "Now, Sugar!"

Duncan turned to walk out the door, clambered into the Lincoln Townecar, which waited for them at the curb. He slid under the wheel as instructed and drove once Jack was secure in the passenger's seat.

"Now, we're going to Hubberson Park. I love that place, just like when I was a little boy when you and I used to go there. It has such a romantic atmosphere especially this time of morning. It's my favorite time of day. Remember those mornings when you and I left everyone else sleeping and went there alone?"

"Do you think we could stop for a cup of coffee on the way?" Duncan asked with a yawn. "I can't think straight until I've had my morning coffee. I'm very addicted."

"No coffee today, mother." Jack was smiling to himself. "It's been too long since our last rendezvous. The last time I took you to Hubberson, you weren't very affectionate, until you saw I meant business, then you were ready to do anything for me. When I hold your head under the water for a minute or two, you'll come around. You know I'm going to hurt you, don't you, Sugar? Yes, you know. I'm going to hurt you, and kiss you, and make mad, passionate love to you. You will beg me to go on and on. Am I scaring you?"

Duncan shivered, watched him closely. He had no weapon other than his knowledge of the Martial Arts. The cold temperature was making his muscles tight and inflexible. Nearly naked, he was susceptible to the elements and to Jack Tier's perversions. It was, indeed, very frightening.

He knew the ancient trick to warming oneself in cold temperatures, had learned it from his first immortal teacher, Connor MacLeod. Cold and fear made him shudder, but his self-induced violent emotional state gave him an unrestrained rush of warming adrenaline.

By the time he pulled the car into the park, he was so high on the natural hormone that he was literally bouncing in the seat. He only needed a split second and it happened almost immediately. Jack opened the passenger door and stepped out, giving Duncan the opportunity to lunge and perform a snap kick, which knocked the gun out of his hand. Then, he pounced like a tiger and began beating him with hard fists. Jack Tier was unconscious before he had a chance to defend
himself.

"MacLeod!" Ellison's rough voice got his attention before he had killed the man beneath him. "Stop. You won. Get off him."

It had happened so quickly it felt like a dream. Duncan stared at him. "Where did you come from? You were watching my building?"

"Yeah. I kinda thought he might come after you so I staked it out." Ellison pulled him to his feet. "You did good. Baxter was right about you. You're damn good at this Martial Arts stuff. I almost wish we had you on the force."

Duncan stood aside while he handcuffed the unconscious killer. "He admitted to being the killer. He was going to kill me the way he did the others. He kept calling me 'mother'."

"I know. I heard."

"How did you hear? You were yards away!"

"I'm not sure, really. But I heard everything he said."

"Did you hear what went on in the apartment, too?"

"Well, no, not everything. I hope you'll put it all in a statement so we can nail this lunatic."

Duncan was subdued. If Ellison had heard the conversation about Richie, then he would question how he came to be alive again after having been killed. Immortality was something Ellison most certainly would not understand. "I'll be glad to answer all your questions as soon as I get some clothes on." He shivered again, this time from the cold.

"Get in the car, MacLeod. You're turning blue." Ellison pitched the unconscious killer into the back seat of the Jeep and pushed the seat back into place for Duncan. "I'm taking you home. You can wait until later today to make the statement."

"Thanks, Jim."

Ellison got in beneath the wheel and reached over to lay a hand on his bare thigh. "You okay?" he asked, turning the heater on full blast.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Good. Then I can just drop you off and I'll take this son of a bitch on to jail where he belongs. He'll probably end up in the loony bin." Ellison pulled out of the park, picking up his mike to call in the arrest. "How bad did he hurt the kid?"

Duncan took a quick breath. "He knocked him out."

"He'll be okay. He's a tough kid. He didn't even have a mark on him from that punch in the club. Put an icepack on his head when you get home."

"Yeah, an icepack." Duncan was still a bit too high to make conversation.

"He's a good kid. He cares about you. Most kids don't give a shit about other folks. They got their own things going, that's all they care about. You're lucky." He broke off and looked away, keeping his own thoughts private. "Just appreciate what you got, MacLeod."

Duncan gazed at him thoughtfully. "Do you have a kid, Ellison?"

The cop shook his head. "No, just an ex-wife. No kids."

Studying him a moment, Duncan asked, "How long have you been divorced?"

"A few months. She says I'm an asshole."

The smile on the immortal's face was brilliant. "She's right. But maybe she didn't understand what you were going through. And maybe you don't understand it, yourself. If you ever expect others to understand you, you first must understand yourself. You have a special gift, Jim. I cannot tell you what it is. I only know you are something exceptional."

"In what way?"

"I don't know exactly. I only know it's there. I feel it. Whatever it is, Baxter had it, too."

"Sometimes, I overhear people talking when I'm across the room from them, just like I heard what you and Tier were saying. I shouldn't be able to hear that far away, should I?"

"It's your gift, Jim. Accept it. Baxter could see Abel's eyes when he was sitting in a dark corner. He could hear my heartbeat, even though there was loud music and people all around us. It has something to do with the senses."

Ellison sighed. "I couldn't have been born with musical talent. It had to be something bizarre like
my senses. You think I should call her?"

Duncan recognized and affirmed the quick closing of the discussion, but wished they could have gone on with more details about Ellison's talents. "Yeah, I think you should. It wouldn't hurt to try, anyway. Life is too short to live without love."

"Yeah. She'll probably hang up on me, but I guess it won't hurt to try." Ellison glanced into the back seat and shook his head. "I wonder who he really is? Crazy son of a bitch. We'll probably never know."

"I just hope they keep him locked away for a long, long time."

"Oh, nutty as he is, they'll keep him in a rubber room till he's old and gray."

+++++

Saturday, October 22, 1994

"This is the most beautiful place on earth." Richie was wearing sunglasses, a straw hat banded with plaid material, print shorts and an unbuttoned shirt that was four sizes too large for him. On his feet were flip-flops. "I knew we'd love it here."

MacLeod paused to watch a young father and son pitching a beachball back and forth. He nodded. "Yeah, it's a beautiful place."

"Look at the church up there on that hill, Mac. All that land behind it goes with it. Nuns and monks live on that land, but they don't use it all. There are thousands of acres totally uninhabited and it's all Holy Ground, Mac. Do you get my meaning?"

"Yes, Richie. I understand. Are you planning to stay here in Rio?"

"Not by myself! We could both stay. We could have peace for a while. Maybe not forever, but for a while. You could use a break. You should consider what I'm saying."

Duncan took him by the elbows. "Richie..."

Richie's eyes were already set for a refusal. The hopelessness he felt showed plainly.

"It will be complicated. It won't be easy. You know that."

Richie gazed at him in confusion.

"We'll have to pick a place far away from the church buildings and build our own place. We will have no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no modern conveniences at all. It would be just like on the Island. Just like camping out. To buy food, we will still have to leave Holy Ground and tread into Game Territory. Is this the way you want us to live our lives?"

Richie frowned. "It would be that awful? Why couldn't we get electric and water?"

"There will also be no cable TV." Duncan added.

"No way." Richie said. "How would we survive without cable?"

"We can talk to each other."

Richie took a deep breath and leaned against the handrail beside him. "Somehow it doesn't sound as attrac-tive any more."

"I thought not."

"I mean... you know I love you, and I do want to talk to you, I want to spend time with you, but living without electric and running water and cable TV..."

"I know what you mean, Richie. I know."

"So we just forget Holy Ground? We go back home and live the same life with all the danger, all the same chances of losing our heads?"

"Richie, we are what we are."

Richie smiled at him. "How many do you think we got left to go?"

"How many immortals?" Duncan asked. "How many left besides us?"

"Yeah. How many?"

"I have no idea. A hundred, maybe. Maybe a thousand. Maybe a million. I don't know. I couldn't even guess."

"We have to just take the chance that the ones who want our heads are not waiting around the next corner?"

"We have to be ready. Always be ready."

"I'll try."

"Don't just try, Richie. Be ready. I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you, either, Mac." Richie put an arm around him and sneaked a quick kiss. "Come on, let's go play in the water."

As they stepped off the sidewalk and onto the beach, the warning presence of another immortal struck them. Their eyes quickly scanned the area, settling on an immortal, dark-skinned monk who smiled pleas-antly at them as he passed them, hurrying his pace until he was safely on Holy Ground.

...end part one...