Is There Something You Want to Tell Me?

by CJ Carter

Why did she accept his offer? This was crazy. Tessa Noel couldn't believe that she agreed to go over to that strange man's apartment for dinner. Even while she was standing at his door, she was ambivalent about being here, but there was something about this Duncan MacLeod that intrigued her. The apartment house he’d chosen to live in was unexceptional, and in a middle-class neighborhood that was situated on the fringe of the more Bohemian section of Paris. Although the unadorned hallway outside the apartment had been recently painted an awful shade of canary yellow, the unmistakable smell of mildew penetrated the paint fumes and spoke of the building’s age. The apartment door opened. There he was. His smile was intoxicating. While it held a confidence that bordered on the arrogant, it also had the childlike innocence of wanting to please. "Hi," he said in an accent that sounded not-quite British and not-quite American. His informality made him seem more like a boy than a man. "Please, come in." “Thank you,” Tessa said in her melded Belgian/French accent before she crossed the threshold. Duncan closed the door behind her. They both hesitated for a minute, evaluating each other. Duncan was a little nervous, and tried not to stare. From the moment he had seen her earlier that day, he had known that she was the one he wanted to spend the next four or five decades with. She had an exuberance not unlike that of a filly running free on the plains. Her blonde hair actually added to, instead of detracting from, her obvious intelligence. He would say that she had an old soul, that is, if he believed in that sort of thing. This was one woman it was going to be difficult to keep secrets from. Tessa's impression of Duncan was improving. This afternoon, when he jumped into her tour boat, looking a lot like a prison escapee—unshaved, out of breath, eyes darting around—her immediate thought was a hope that he wouldn't hurt her or any of the tourists. Then he flashed a cocky smile at her and his eyes danced. It hardly seemed possible that the man in the blazer and turtle-neck now standing in front of her was the same person. He certainly did scrub up well! Duncan realized that the first impression he'd made by jumping into her boat was less than stellar. Having had many relationships in his life, he knew that although it might be difficult, he could still win the heart of the beautiful tour guide. This one would definitely be worth the effort. She had courage. She was here, after all. It had been quite some time since Duncan found it necessary to woo. Women usually tried to get his attention. His taut body and chiseled face topped with a mane of dark hair that he usually tied in a pony-tail often served as the perfect lure to catch the gaze of any woman, and some men, within sight of him. His easy confidence, dashing smile, broad intellect, and a 2 mysterious touch of danger made him seem like the perfect hero more at home in a swashbuckling movie or a romance novel than walking the streets of a city. He wasn't impressed by the people who were magnetically attracted to him, however. Something more was required to make him interested. Tessa was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. There was something about Duncan that gave her a sense of foreboding. But what could it hurt to have dinner with the man? She was already here. She started to take off her dark blue mackintosh, which prompted Duncan to stop staring. "Here, let me," he said before helping her off with her coat. He gestured toward the living space, "Please, make yourself comfortable." "Thank you," she replied, and wandered into the apartment while Duncan was busy hanging her coat in the entry closet. Now that he wasn't being watched himself, he took this moment to actually appraise his dinner companion's looks. She wore an interesting dress. It was dark blue and black, and seemed both provocative and conservative. It accentuated her form without drawing attention to it. Everything about her body seemed like it had been designed to fit his. Everything about her manner gave the impression that she could be any kind of woman that she wanted to be, or needed to be, and still be true to herself. Every woman he had ever desired was right there in front of him, all wrapped up in a package named Tessa Noel. Tessa could feel his eyes on her. She almost expected it. Men will be boys, sometimes. Her shoes clacked on the hardwood floor. She noticed that except for a few area rugs, the floors were just plain, well-polished, wood. She was thankful for that, for although the heels on her shoes weren't too high, they were high enough to make walking on thick carpet a little uncomfortable. The apartment was basically a great room. To her right was a dining table in front of a kitchen; a bathroom and what was probably a bedroom were at the far right end of the long expanse that was faced with windows on one side, and by what looked like prints on the opposite wall sections. To the left, a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table, all antiques, made up the appointments for what would pass as the living area. They were nice pieces; the kind she might buy once she became successful and had a little money to pamper herself with. The walls on this end of the apartment were dominated by a densely packed bookcase, while the few open spaces remaining were adorned with various blade weapons and coats of arms. While it was obscenely masculine, it was also well balanced. It suited him. Whoever he was, Duncan MacLeod obviously had some money, aesthetics, and taste. "Have you been here long?" she asked. "I'm sorry, what?" "Have you been in Paris long?" "Can I get you something to drink?" Duncan asked as he walked toward the free-standing bar. "No. Just some ice water, please." "Right away." Duncan walked to a portable bar that was between the door and the kitchen opening. As Duncan was preparing Tessa's water and a scotch for himself, Duncan continued, "I don't visit Paris as often as I used to. I do like the city a lot." As he hands Tessa her water, "Thank you. Then you don't live here?" "No. Right now I'm thinking about moving to America and starting an antique store." "Antiques?" "That's why I'm in Paris. I'm looking for worthwhile pieces." "Any luck?" 3

"Some. Listen, do you mind if we go into the kitchen? I still have to put some things together." Tessa nodded agreement, and followed Duncan into the kitchen, her heels still announcing every step she made. It was curious that Duncan was able to walk so quietly even though the heels of his shoes looked to be at least as hard as hers. Despite this tiny distraction, she couldn't help the thought that this man might be inclined to help her with her career if... She forced herself to stop it. She'd made a promise to herself years ago that she was going to make it as an artist solely by being better. As tempting as he was, she wasn't looking for a benefactor. "What are you making?" "Haggis," he said, in his truest Scottish accent. "What?" Tessa asked incredulously. She had tried haggis once, and never again wanted to repeat the experience. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't do something like that to you. I don't much care for it, myself." "So, what are we having?" "I wasn't sure what you'd like. I have some veal scaloppini finishing up in the oven. On the stove we have some penne in the pot and paella in the pan there. I still have to put the salad together." "It sounds wonderful. It smells wonderful, too. Can I help with something?" One of the three sinks in the cooking island was filled with ice, and on it was a bowl of garden vegetables from which Duncan removed a head of romaine lettuce and started tearing off leaves to line a wood salad bowl. "Thank you, I think I've got it covered." Tessa wished he'd let her help with something. At least it would offer a distraction from the usual life-story, resume-laden conversation that generally filled the time during a first date. Since she was on his home turf, she might as well stay on the offensive, "Tell me, how did a dashing Scotsman get interested in antiques?" Duncan liked that she didn't ask him where he was originally from, like so many other women did when they couldn’t immediately place his accent. She had put together the clues. "It's a habit I picked up when I started traveling a lot. I like the history of the pieces. They make me feel connected to their time." "What did you do before you started collecting?" "A little bit of everything." Duncan pulled a whisk out of a drawer and gave the vinaigrette sitting a small bowl on the counter a quick stir before pouring it on the completed salad. "Ok, my turn. What are you passionate about?" "Art." She said it like she had expected him to have already known that. After having spoken her native French for most of the day, sometimes she would put the wrong inflection into her English words. Unfortunately, the slip was already out there, and she could only hope he'd be gracious enough to overlook it. "You mean in general?" Good, he was going to be gracious. "Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes, I like art in general, but I'm a artist—at least I'm trying to be. I can't think of anything that will stop me from pursuing it, and being successful" "So what are you doing giving tours?" "A woman's got to make money. But I only give tours in the morning. In the afternoons, I work in a gallery owned by a friend of my father's, Michel Toussaint." 4

Duncan was at the oven, pulling out the pan containing the veal. "That name sounds familiar. Is this the gallery near the Café Rouge? Aargh!" Duncan yelped as the pan caught the edge of the counter, and some of the hot grease and oil jumped out of the pan and onto his left hand. Duncan plunged his hand into the crushed ice in the sink while he also stretched to place the hot pan on the range top. Tessa moved quickly towards Duncan, "Oh my God, are you alright?" "I'll be fine. I'm more embarrassed than anything." "Let me look at it." Duncan reluctantly pulled his hand out from the ice. Tessa was certain that a blister would be forming, but Duncan's hand only betrayed a slight redness—almost as if nothing significant had happened. "This doesn't look like you've hurt it at all," Tessa remarked. "I guess it was lucky I had the ice nearby," Duncan replied as he grabbed a towel to dry his hand. "I guess so." Duncan picked up an open bottle of red wine and handed it to Tessa. "Why don't you seat yourself at the table and pour the wine while I serve?" Tessa took the bottle, "Ok." As Tessa left the kitchen, Duncan flexed his left hand. Now, even the redness was gone. Getting himself injured was the one thing he tried to avoid when he was dating a mortal woman. He healed so quickly. She seemed to accept his explanation; he’d just have to be a little more careful as the evening went on. He refocused his attention to the food around him, and with the skill of a master chef, he quickly assembled the scaloppini and penne on two plates. At the table, Tessa poured some wine into each of their fine crystal goblets. The table was set well. Not too formal, yet not too casual. There weren’t any candles, but instead, between the place settings and off to one side was a large and elegant centerpiece of intricately carved edibles, in the Chinese style. The silverware bordering the simply banded bone china dinnerware was well polished. Even from the place settings it was clear that the man in the kitchen knew how to select and display quality. Duncan came in carrying a large silver tray upon which were the two plates of scaloppini and pasta, two plates of salad, and the pan of paella. He put the tray on a small stand that was next to the table. First he set before Tessa her veal and salad, and then he set his place. Before sitting, he placed the paella between them and to the side so that they could each serve themselves. His obvious culinary effort made Tessa relax her defenses a little. "This really does look wonderful," she said. "Please," Duncan prompted before Tessa took a bite of her veal. Her eyes widened in surprise. "This is marvelous." Duncan smiled with heartfelt appreciation before starting on his own course. "Back to what we were talking about before I was so clumsy—the gallery?" "Hmm? Oh, yes, it is near the café. You've been there?" "No, not yet. Yves Cotin at the Modern suggested that your boss might know whether certain items I'd like to carry were currently available." "Why don't you come by some afternoon, and I'll introduce you?" "I'll do that," Duncan said and quickly followed with a sip of wine before serving himself some of the seafood and rice from the paella pan. 5

* * *

Tessa felt mixed emotions about having Duncan walk her home. He was only one evening away from being a total stranger. Still, with him by her side, she felt protected. Even an independent woman in 1980's Paris liked the relaxed freedom of feeling safe on the streets, from time-to-time. It was close to midnight. The street-lamp-poor corridor they were walking down was lit only by the infrequent glow of lights from the few apartments over the closed shops and eateries whose tenants were still awake, as well as from the faint light coming from the scattered window displays. They turned a final corner and walked past a gallery, and stopped at an ally which had a staircase clinging to the side of the three-story building. “Here we are," Tessa said. "You live over the gallery?" "In a studio on the third floor." "That's convenient." She couldn't believe she was asking him, "Would you like to come up?" Duncan stared deeply into her eyes. His eyes betrayed his longing for her. "Very much," he said, "but I don't think I'd better." He could see disappointment slowly melt her attentive stare, "But, I would like to spend more time with you, if you wouldn't mind?" "I wouldn't mind at all." "I'll call you." Duncan took her hand, and kissed it. Somehow, from him, it didn't seem like the trite maneuver used by so many men. It was so unselfconscious and genuine. So much like a gentleman. Duncan watched as Tessa walked up the narrow wooden and paint-peeled staircase that led up to her studio apartment. When she entered safely, Duncan headed back to his place. From across the street, a nondescript mustachioed man about thirty-five years old, who had apparently been window shopping, casually shifted his attention from merchandise to Duncan, and expertly started to follow him.

* * *

"Michel!" Tessa beckoned in impatient frustration as she was struggling to lift a life-sized red marble bust of an eighteenth century warrior onto its black, wooden, rectangular pedestal. The gallery was in the middle of being reorganized to best show off the (mostly) salable collection of a generous patron. While almost all of the stock had been uncrated, most of it was sitting on the floor next to some sort of stand, or leaning against a newly refinished white wall near where it would be finally mounted. Tessa was situated several meters from the entrance, toward the right side of the room. Next to her was the reception desk. Leading straight back from that was a hallway that serviced the offices and storerooms. The rest of the space, all of it to the left of anyone entering, was filled with the usual maze of walls for display. "Michel!?" Still no answer. "Merde ." With disgust serving as the fuel for her strength, Tessa succeeded in lifting the sculpture near to the height necessary to seat it onto the pedestal. With just one more centimeter remaining, she felt her strength flagging. But she didn't want to stop now, not when she was so close. 6

Her face was beginning to show the signs of her stress and fatigue. She wasn't certain if she'd heard the door to the gallery open, or if the strain she was under had made her think she was hearing the bell ring. She decided to make one last try. She took a deep breath and— Suddenly the bust seemed to fly out of her hands and land effortlessly on its stand. Tessa opened her eyes in surprise, and saw a man in a stylish leather jacket standing in front of her, his hands only just removing themselves from the base of the bust. It took a moment for everything to coalesce in her mind. "Duncan!" "I hope you don't mind, but your face was turning an unusual shade of red, and I thought you might want some help." "Thank you," was all Tessa could manage as she leaned against a nearby building support to rest. "Are you alright?" "Yes. I'm just a little tired." "You should have asked for some help with lifting something so heavy." "I did. It's just that—" "Tessa," interrupted Michel's voice, " voulez vous ..." Michel entered from the hallway, and interrupted himself at the sight of Duncan. The two men could have been brothers. Both stood about two meters tall, both were well-tanned, had handsome faces and builds, and both sported a ponytail of dark hair. The only difference was that Michel looked to be perhaps ten years older. "Michel, this is Duncan MacLeod. Duncan, this is Michel Toussaint," Tessa volunteered. "Bonjour ," Michel said as he extended his hand, which Duncan accepted. "Bonjour ." "Ah, yes—you're the man who jumped into Tessa's bateau the other day." "That's right," Duncan replied. "How can I help you?" "Duncan is buying antiques for his store," Tessa said now that she'd recovered sufficiently to contribute to the conversation. "That's true. And I'd like to talk to you about that, sometime. However, I really came by to ask Tessa if she wanted to...get some coffee or something." A smile grew on Michel's lips, "Of course." He turned to Tessa, "If you want to go, then go and enjoy yourself." "But it's not time to—" Michel interrupted her again, "The sun is going down which means that it's time for you two to enjoy the evening." As Tessa was about to protest again, he added, "Shhh. I'll close early; it will be a lovely excuse for me to spend some time with Jeanne." Tessa approached Michel, and reached up to give him an appreciative peck on the cheek. "Merci ." She then turned to Duncan, "I don't think we can go anywhere too fancy with the way I look." "You look great," Duncan said. "I guess we can go to the café." "That will be fine. But first," Duncan focused his attention on Michel, "I'd like to use a phone? Something private, if possible? I need to attend to a couple of business matters." Michel replied, "There's one in the office. Down that hall, first door on your left." "Thanks," Duncan offered, then turned to Tessa, "I won't be but a few minutes." "Take your time. In fact, I can meet you there. Maybe have something hot waiting for you?" 7

"That sounds good." "What would you like?" Duncan let there be a lingering pause while he had a slight smirk on his face before saying, "Surprise me." Duncan then smiled and winked at her before turning and exiting down the hall. Turning to Michel, Tessa asked, "Well? What do you think?" "It's kind of hard to get to know someone in only a few minutes." Tessa glared at him, knowing all too well that Michel was playing a game with her. Michel continues, "I think your papa will approve." "We're just going out for coffee." "That's not what his eyes say. Nor yours." Tessa gave Michel a warm smile before she opened the door to go. As she closed the door behind her, Michel walked to the bank of switches, and proceeded to turn out the lights in the gallery.

While he was on the phone, on hold, Duncan made a quick examination of the office. There was a desk covered with books and letters; the token bookcase filled with art books; and all around, piled floor to ceiling, were numerous portfolio cases and boxes of slide carousel trays. This gallery apparently was much sought after. Michel poked his head in the door, "I see you found the phone ok." "Yeah, thanks." "I'm going to be locking up. So, when you're done, you can just leave out the back. Down this hall, turn right, and out the door. Turn right and the café is just a half block away." "Got it. Thanks." "No problem," Michel said before exiting. Duncan finally got taken off hold, "Yes, this is Duncan MacLeod for Monsieur —," Duncan froze. A not unfamiliar feeling struck him, an ancient sense of threat shared by his kind. There was definitely an Immortal nearby. But where? Duncan had left his sword, the Immortal’s weapon of choice, at his apartment. He quickly looked around the office again, this time for something he might be able to use to defend himself. But, unless he was willing to sever his opponent's head via thousands of paper cuts, this room wasn't going to provide anything useful. He hung up the phone.

When Michel heard the bell on the front door ring, he rushed out to inform the patron that the gallery was closed. He could see the silhouette of a man holding something long in his left hand. The figure yelled in a continental accent, "MacLeod! I know you're here. I saw you enter!" Michel cautiously approached the man and said, "Excuse me. But—" With the eerie silence of an owl's wing beat, the razor sharp rapier of the mysterious man swung around and Michel was rendered permanently speechless. The mystery man was pleased with himself as he looked down at the severed head. "I got you, MacLeod. I got you. There can be only one." "Not this time," MacLeod remarked. The mystery man looked up, and saw what appeared to be Duncan MacLeod standing in a doorway. He then looked down at the severed head, and back up again at MacLeod. "You killed the owner of this gallery. A mortal." "Damn. I ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes, too. These mortals bleed a lot." 8

"Who are you?" Duncan asked as he carefully stepped into the reception area. Now he could see the opposing Immortal's face. It was almost delicate looking. The deep pox scars being the only distraction from the otherwise feminine lines. "Pardon me for being so rude. Traynor Kent, at your service. And you are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I've heard so much about you." "Should I be flattered?" "I'd rather you be dead," Traynor spat as he moved quickly toward the Scotsman. Duncan was ready for him. As they were talking, he had maneuvered himself near the bust that Tessa had so much trouble with earlier. Duncan grabbed it and threw the statue at Traynor, catching him squarely in the chest. The weight of the piece not only knocked Traynor to the floor, it also momentarily pinned him down. Duncan used this opportunity to retreat. He ran down the hallway, and proceeding as Michel had instructed him earlier, he found his way outside. Traynor rolled the bust off of himself. He was ready to chase down Duncan, but the sharp pain in his side kept him down. He knew the feeling of broken ribs, and was suddenly keenly aware that at least two of his had fractured. "Another time, MacLeod!" Traynor yelled before giving in to a fit of painful coughs. Slowly, he got up and walked to the front door. Noticing that he was leaving blood-colored footprints, he wiped the soles of his shoes clean on the carpet before leaving the shop. Duncan was poised to climb up the scaffolding that a crew had left beside a building being repainted, but was relieved that he didn't have to. The sense of an Immortal being nearby left him. For the time being, he was safe. Besides, he still had a date with Tessa. At the café, Tessa was just getting up from her seat to leave when Duncan arrived. "I was beginning to wonder if—," she started. "I know," Duncan interrupted, "I had something come up that I hadn't anticipated." "So, are you finished?" "No, but it will wait for another time." "Good. Now I've got you all to myself." "For as long as you want."

* * *

Tessa hadn't felt so rested in months. Duncan exercised her brain as well as invigorated her body the previous night. To her, he felt like the one she had been waiting for: the man with whom she'd spend the rest of her life. She quietly got up from her bed, her nightshirt providing warmth against the morning Parisian chill. As was her usual morning practice, she walked barefooted in her apartment. This morning was a little different than normal, though, and she tried to avoid the creaky floorboard stationed just outside her bedroom. No luck. It announced her entrance into the room with a proud and joyous fanfare. Duncan stirred from his sleep. "Tessa?" "Good morning." "Good morning," a barechested Duncan replied as he forgot where he was and rolled off her sofa, narrowly missing an easel near his feet. A giggle rose in Tessa's throat aimed at the handsome, cock-sure man showing some frailty. "Can I make you some coffee?" she asked. 9

"Please." Tessa went to the kitchen, or rather the nook that served as a kitchen, and quickly loaded the automatic coffee maker. "It'll be a few minutes." "That's fine," Duncan replied. She sat back on the couch and began to rebutton his shirt. In the light of day, a quick survey of the studio apartment revealed that Tessa was quite a talented young artist. On scattered easels were sketches and paintings in progress. On the more numerous tables were sculptures of various materials, and of contemporary and classical styles, in different stages of completion. Still, despite the artists’ materials covering most of the available space, the apartment seemed roomy and uncluttered. The only concession to privacy was a partition that served as a wall to form a sleeping/dressing area near the tiny bathroom. "Thanks again for letting me spend the night." "I let you stay in my apartment, not in my bed." "Now, would that have been so bad?" Duncan asked boyishly. Tessa had to admit to herself that it wouldn't have been bad at all. It's what she wanted, but from past experience knew it to be the wrong thing to do—at least with this kind of man. "I hope the sofa wasn't too uncomfortable." "I've slept on worse in my day." Duncan couldn't help smiling to himself about her evasiveness. "After our coffee, I'll get out of your hair so you can get ready for work." "You don't have to rush off on my account." "Yes I do,” or else I’ll take you right here, he thought. “Besides, I have some business to attend to. I should probably get to my apartment and freshen up," Duncan replied. In truth, with another Immortal after his head, he felt very vulnerable without his sword. "As long as it's something important." "It is." The coffee maker beeped to indicate that it had completed its task. Tessa pulled down two sturdy mugs from the cabinet over the machine, and into each of them she poured a hearty serving of black coffee. Tessa handed Duncan one of the mugs. She lifted hers in a toast, "Carpe diem ." "Que sera, sera ," Duncan replied. "I love that movie," Tessa gushed, " The Man Who Knew Too Much ." "You like Hitchcock?" "Um-hmm," she affirmed while taking a sip of her drink.

* * *

Duncan arrived at his apartment and immediately went to the rack hanging near the large bookcase and grabbed his sword. A katana made in the Masamune style. An old Japanese sword of the finest caliber. Just holding it in his hand gave him a sense of great relief.

Tessa couldn't stop humming the old Doris Day tune Duncan had reminded her of as she reached the entrance to the gallery. The door was unlocked. Apparently Michel had managed to make it in before her, for once. When she opened the door, she was greeted by an unfamiliar smell. It made her stomach want to turn. Looking down, she could see dark footprints leading from the display area to the 10 doorway. Why were they there? And there was the marble bust lying on the floor. "Michel?" she queried. It only took a couple of steps into the store for Tessa to see Michel's fate. A little less than a meter away from his body was Michel's head. It was lying face up, and the eyes were open in a grotesque look of surprise. Tessa felt her head swimming. Someone had come in and killed Michel. Not just killed, but decapitated. Who? Why? If only she hadn’t left early... maybe Michel would still be alive. Somehow, through her fog of shock, she managed to shuffle over to the phone on the desk to place a call to the police.

Duncan had changed into silk pants. His torso was starting to acquire a sheen of perspiration from the tai chi exercises he did to help clear his head and which served as a warm-up for the more strenuous skills practice he was about to start. When Traynor appeared again, Duncan was going to be ready.

"I don't know, sometime around five," Tessa replied in French to the blue-clad police officer, whose jacket buttons were straining under the force of too many long lunches. "Excuse me," the officer said and stepped over to the trench coat-clad detective presiding over the investigation. Tessa thought she was going to be sick as the stretcher holding Michel's body was wheeled past where she was standing. The detective approached her. "You said the deceased was here with another man when you left?" "Yes. Duncan MacLeod." "Can you get ahold of him?"

Although he could have used a shower, Duncan felt very refreshed as he sat on his couch. He took his sword in one hand and examined it closely, almost reverently. Although it bore the scars of battle, the blade had an edge that any razor company would envy. His free hand took up a cloth, and he began polishing the steel. This time of relaxation and contemplation was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. "Hello?" "Duncan?" said a woman's voice. It took a moment before he realized that it was Tessa. She didn't sound right. Of course ...! She found Michel's body. He'd forgotten that Tessa was probably going to be the one to find it. Damn! "Tessa? What's wrong?" "Michel is dead. Um—the police are here, and they want to you come down and answer some questions." "I'll be right there," Duncan said, and hung up the phone. First things first, though. A quick shower and then he'd go to the murder site.

Duncan parked his car, quite illegally, about a block from the gallery. He would have liked to have parked closer, but the crowd around the store's entrance prevented it. He left his trench coat and sword in the car—with the number of people around, he was certain that he wouldn't be attacked. The short walk to the gallery helped Duncan's hair dry a bit. It was hanging loose in stringy tendrils wanting a stroke or two from a comb. The crowd in front of the gallery was difficult to 11 push through. It wasn't until he pushed aside a rather nondescript man whose face sported a mustache, as well as a surprised expression, that Duncan was able to see the police inside with the beautiful blonde woman who'd caught his attention just a few days earlier. "Duncan!" she called. It had been a hard morning for Tessa. Even though she didn't know Duncan well, he was familiar, and more importantly, he was here. She found some small comfort feeling the warmth of his muscled body against hers. "What's going on? Are you ok?" he asked? "Someone cut off Michel’s head. It was just lying—," Tessa gestured at the pool of dried blood on the gallery carpet. "Why?" Duncan held her closer to him as the detective walked up to him and said in thickly accented English, "You are Duncan MacLeod?" "Yes." "I am Inspector Darçeau. I have some questions for you." "Certainly." "At what time did you leave here last night?" "I don't know. It was getting dark, I suppose a little after sundown." "And did you see Monsieur Toussaint before you left?" "Not really. I was on the phone in his office. He came in and told me he was going to lock up, and that I should leave out the back. I didn't see him after that." "You just left?" "That's right. I met Tessa at the café down the block." "Oui . May I borrow your shoe?" "Excuse me?" Duncan said with a very surprised look on his face. "I will only need it for a moment." Duncan assumed that they were going to compare his shoe with the footprints that were very apparent on the carpet. All things considered, he preferred to avoid the police, and didn't much care for helping them out. Unfortunately, this was one time when it seemed that the best way of getting the constabulary out of his life was to cooperate. He handed detective Darçeau his right shoe. "Here," Duncan said. Darçeau took it and replied, "Excuse me for a moment." The inspector went over to his forensic team and they started comparing the size of Duncan's shoe to the daintier footprints on the carpet. Tessa looked up at Duncan, "Who could have done something like this?" Duncan's attention was more focused on what the police were doing, and could only manage an impassive, "It's a crazy world." Inspector Darçeau, looking rather disappointed, returned with Duncan's shoe. "Thank you. I would like to have your phone number and address in case we need to contact you again, but you and Miss Noel are free to go." Duncan retrieved his shoe, and then fished a business card from his shirt pocket. "Thank you, inspector. I can be reached at these numbers." Darçeau took the offered card, and with only a nod of his head he went back to his minions. "I'm so tired," Tessa sighed. "Maybe I should take you home," Duncan offered as he slipped his shoe back on. "No. I have to stay to lock up after the police are finished." "I could do that," Duncan offered. 12

The caring in his eyes made Tessa want to accept his offer. She felt so drained. Duncan at least felt like a safe port. But no matter how much she wanted to trust him, she couldn't in good conscience accept his offer. "No. The gallery is my responsibility." "I understand," Duncan replied. "Would you mind if I waited around until you're ready to go home? I'd feel better." "Thank you." Tessa was feeling uncomfortable being the target of so much attention. She just wanted some time to think. "I should call my father. He'll want to know. Michel was like a son to him." "Sure," Duncan said. He stayed where he was while Tessa numbly walked back to the office. Over the years, Duncan had gotten somewhat indifferent at the sight of violent death. Tessa made him see it with new eyes, and he could remember a time when he was sickened by a death like this as much as the blonde woman was who had just disappeared down the hallway. He remembered back to the year 1611. He was only nineteen, and was off to join the rest of the men of the Clan MacLeod to fight another clan for control of a lush pasture that neither group was willing to share. Though the morning fog still clung to the ground, the battle began as soon as both clans had assembled. Duncan killed his first man that day. After he saw the look of anguish, fear, and disappointment on his victim’s face, he wandered away from the fighting and regurgitated the cold left-over stew from the previous night that had served as breakfast. The Clan MacLeod was victorious that day, and Duncan emerged with only a small cut on his left arm. As the next few years rolled by he fought in more battles. Soon, the sight of death meant little to him. He was a highland warrior, and he expected that he would be until the day he died.

* * *

Tessa tried relaxing on her sofa, but no amount of contortion allowed her a position of comfort. She couldn't prevent the image of Michel's head from invading her mind's eye. Her body felt calmer than it did at the gallery. It remembered the hug, and the quick and gentle kiss, that Duncan had left her with after he'd escorted her home. He seemed to know when she needed company, and when she needed to be alone. He didn't even ask to stay, as if he knew that she needed time to reflect. She felt so restless. It seemed like the only way she was ever going to relax was if she could just go away and pretend this was all just a bad movie. Maybe just getting out would help. A walk in the cool night air. If nothing else, maybe it would make her body as tired as her mind felt. Then she might be able to go to sleep.

Duncan knew there was an Immortal nearby. He felt the same autonomic signal that he had at the gallery last night. This time he was prepared. He had his sword, although it wasn't yet drawn. All day long he had the intuition that he was being followed. If that was indeed the case, then he figured that he might as well meet his opponent in an area suitable enough for the battle to come. Duncan scanned the immediate area. He found himself standing in a small park not far from Tessa's apartment. 13

This city oasis was well suited to the duel. It wasn't well populated at this time of night, which was important because the matters of Immortals weren't the concern of mortal eyes. Thus, it was better if "ordinary people" didn't know what was likely to occur here. The park wasn't well lit, but it wasn't dreadfully dark, either. There were also enough tables, benches, and trees to serve as useful obstacles, but not so many that they hindered. All-in-all, it was a good place to fight. "So, MacLeod, are you going to run away this time, or are you going to stay and fight?" Duncan turned. Traynor Kent was leaning on a tree, cleaning his finger nails with the point of his rapier. "Which would you prefer?" Duncan asked? "I'd prefer that you just let me take your head, but we both know that's not going to happen." "No." "Then I guess we fight." "Guess so," Duncan said as he brought out his sword with a flourish. The carved-dragon- head hilt fit perfectly in his hand. At times, in the past, this sword had been his only friend. Traynor moved away from the tree he'd been leaning on. With much less style than Duncan had exhibited, he gripped his sword and saluted his opponent. Duncan shifted his position from a one-handed grip of the sword held high and pointed at Traynor, to a two-handed grip of the sword in front, angled up and to the left. Traynor adopted a more classic European stance with his arm relaxed, elbow bent, and the sword held nearly horizontal and pointed at Duncan. The two men slowly circled each other. Each was careful to keep his weight evenly distributed between both feet so that it was as easy to defend as to attack. Duncan swung his sword into a new position. Traynor almost went for the movement, but he'd fought a couple of Immortals previously who had been schooled in the Eastern styles of sword fighting. The deceptions were both more blatant and more subtle. Duncan's execution of the move was superior to any he'd seen first-hand. Maybe it wasn't going to be quite as easy as he thought when he first considered going after this MacLeod's head. Duncan feinted again, this time Traynor made a move in return. Duncan immediately countered to achieve the advantage. Instead, Traynor whipped around and managed to trim off a lock of MacLeod's hair and nick the top of the Scots' left ear. Duncan couldn't have been more surprised. He felt the warm trickle of blood behind his ear. Traynor didn't look to have that kind of skill. It might have been luck, Duncan had to admit to himself, but he couldn't take the chance. While his opponent's style seemed inexperienced, his eyes looked certain. "Nice move," Duncan offered. "Just a little something I learned a couple of centuries ago." "I'd like to know more. I hate to have to kill you." Traynor lowered his sword and relaxed his guard. "There's no reason why...," and as Duncan was distracted by the casual tone, "I can't just kill you now!" Traynor said as he immediately attacked with control and ferocity. Duncan was completely defensive. Not so much because he was having trouble warding off Kent's attack, but because it was taking a few moments to overcome the shock of having been tricked again. If he wasn't more alert, he'd be dead soon.

Tessa was taking a familiar walk down the sidewalk that saw quite a bit of traffic during the daylight hours. She heard what sounded like swordplay. It was coming from the park. This was 14 so unusual and unanticipated that fear wasn't able to find a purchase within her. Instead, curiosity imposed its great pull and she started toward the sound of clashing metal.

Traynor felt very confident. Although the Scotsman was very good, and a worthy opponent, there wasn't any way that this man from the Clan MacLeod was going to win. Still, he had heard that his kinsman, Connor MacLeod fought in a similar style, but was more skilled. So, although he much preferred ambushing his victims, Traynor was almost thankful for the practice he was getting. But the fight was starting to grow stale. They’d already be at it for nearly five minutes —an eternity when compared to most fights which rarely lasted more than two. It was time to relieve Duncan of his head. Duncan knew that the fight wasn't going well for him. He was getting tired, and Kent's eyes looked more confident than they had at the beginning of the battle. "Time to die, MacLeod," Traynor said without a hint of malice or boastfulness; and Duncan knew he was about to lose his head. Traynor stumbled slightly on the neck of a soft-drink bottle half buried in the dirt. Dueling in the dark wasn't always the best choice. Even the greatest sword master could be humbled by a twist of fate. The balance of power shifted from one side to the other by the smallest of missteps. Duncan was able to finally find the opening he had been waiting for, and was able to kick the rapier out of Traynor's hand while he'd been distracted into trying to maintain his balance. Traynor looked a little stunned, and couldn't help an ironic smile as he looked in Duncan's eyes.

Tessa was slightly out breath as she came to see the two men standing in the park. One of the men slowly dropped to his knees. The other man lifted a sword, hesitated for a moment, and then decapitated the kneeling man. With the follow-through of the fatal stroke, the killer moved into a beam of light that had cut through the trees, and Tessa was able to see the murderer. It was Duncan MacLeod. Duncan thought he saw some movement near the trees. When he started scanning the area, he noticed Tessa's face. It was wide-eyed with shock and surprise. Seeing that she'd been discovered, Tessa turned and ran. Duncan wanted to go after her, but the sensation of the Quickening, the merging of past lives and experience from one Immortal to another, could be felt starting. He couldn't go after her. Not yet. Not until the process of the transference had run its course.

Tessa couldn't believe it. The man she thought she was falling in love with was the killer. He'd killed Michel. It was obvious. She had to stop for a moment to let her stomach relieve itself of some unsettling contents. This was the second decapitation Tessa had seen in less than twenty-four hours. Although most of her life had been spent in France, and much of French history was littered with the heads of miscreants and nobility, nothing had prepared her for the events she'd been made a part of. What was she going to do? She couldn't go home—he knew where she lived. The police. She'd go to the police first. There had just been a murder after all. "Tessa?" A cold chill ran down her spine. She turned and there was Duncan, with sympathetic eyes that made him look more like a contrite puppy than the swarthy man she'd been with during the 15 last few days—or the cold-hearted killer she had seen just moments before. "Stay away from me," Tessa said as she backed away—right into a tree. "Let me explain," Duncan pleaded. Tessa felt like a trapped animal. The tree behind prevented her escape. The anger she was feeling quelled her fear, so the notion of yelling for help didn't find its way onto her internal list of options. "I didn't kill Michel," Duncan said so matter-of-factly that Tessa had to fight hard to remember that this man that she so wanted to believe had just murdered another man. "I don't believe you. I just saw you murder someone." "I know. It's not like how it seems." "Oh, really," Tessa said with venomous irony. "Really. Give me a chance to explain things to you. Then, if you still don't believe me, call the police." Tessa didn't like it. Duncan continued, "We'll need to go someplace private." The hairs on the back of Tessa's neck quickly rose to attention. Even though there was no one to be seen in the vicinity, at least they were out in the open. Duncan could see her unease, and added, "Don't you think that if I had wanted to kill you, that you'd already be dead?" His statement didn't exactly settle her nerves, and her body was still shaking, but he was right. How much worse could her situation be? "Ok," she said, "we'll go to my apartment." "Good."

* * *

Back in her own apartment, even with MacLeod a few meters away, Tessa felt more secure. "Well?" Duncan looked up. Tessa's voice was tinged with anger, “Is there something you want to tell me?” "You aren't going to believe me at first." "I don't doubt that." Duncan took off his long coat and placed it on a table. He rubbed his face with his hands as if to prepare himself. He turned to Tessa and began in his natural Scottish brogue, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. I was born in the Highlands of Scotland in the year 1592. There are others like me, some good and honorable, and some who are less particular. Tonight I killed the Immortal who killed Michel last night." Tessa was looking at him with her mouth agape. She was so confused. What he told her was said with such conviction and surety that it felt like the truth. But it couldn't be. Surely he must be mad. Duncan knew that she was going to need more than just his word. "Get a knife," he said as he began to roll up his sleeves. "A knife." "From your kitchen. The sharpest one you have." "But—" "Do it." Tessa didn't like this, but what else could she do? She went to the sink and picked up her chef's knife. "Bring it here," Duncan asked. 16

Cautiously, Tessa moved toward Duncan. He extended his right hand, but kept his arm bent. When she was close enough and handing the knife to Duncan, he quickly straightened his arm and surrounded her hand with his. Her hands were very strong and sinewy—he could feel every joint in them clearly. He slowly raised his left arm. For a moment, his mind flashed to a time when his Immortal trainer, Connor MacLeod, told him of this method of convincing mortals. "I am Immortal," Duncan said as he plunged the knife quickly into his exposed forearm; the blade passing though and extending several centimeters past the exit wound. Tessa was shocked and felt a wave of nausea building again. She was finally able to wrest her hand out from under Duncan’s loosening grip. He pulled the knife out of his arm and fighting through the pain said, "Watch my arm." Tessa stood transfixed. She looked at the arm that should be gushing blood. It wasn't. Tiny tendrils of what looked like electricity danced over the wound. Within a minute, the wound was healed. Only a few random spots of blood betrayed that any damage had been done at all. Tessa felt exhausted. Duncan picked up his coat and walked to the door. "I'll understand if you don't want me in your life, but I want to have you in mine." He paused. There was so much more he wanted to say. "Leave a message on my machine if you want to talk more." Duncan draped the coat onto his arm as he opened the door. He took a step out and hesitated. "I've fallen in love with you, Tessa Noel," he said before closing the door behind him.

Duncan walked quickly down the stairs from Tessa's apartment. He didn't think that she'd come after him, and it served no purpose for him to loiter. Traynor hadn’t been the only Immortal in Paris that wanted Duncan's head. Besides, Tessa might still call the police. He needed to find a place to spend the night. He certainly couldn't go back to his apartment. Putting on his coat and flipping up the collar to protect against the damp chill of the night, Duncan chose to take a walk towards the Seine. Like a ghost, the mustached man emerged from the dark recess of a doorway across the street from Tessa's apartment and quietly walked a course paralleling Duncan's.

Had she seen what she had seen? Was Duncan really an Immortal like he said? Did he really love her? As night gave way to daybreak, Tessa was still sitting on her sofa trying to sort through the events of the past day. It was so hard to believe that at this same time yesterday, Duncan was sleeping where she was now sitting. Although she had only known him for less than a week, her heart told her that Duncan wouldn't have murdered Michel. But her heart also told her that Duncan wouldn't have murdered that other man. Yet he did. She'd seen him do it. It came down to one question: did she trust him? The spark of love that was trying to grow into a flame within her wanted to believe him, desperately. Her head warned her to be cautious. He didn't seem too disturbed by the death he'd caused. That probably meant that he'd killed before. She'd seen enough violence at her home as a child that she knew that she didn't want to be in a relationship with a violent or cruel man. But Duncan didn't seem that way at all. Even when he caught up to her last night after he'd killed that man, he just seemed to want to explain, and he didn't try to prevent her from doing anything. 17

Tessa couldn't remember having ever been so frustrated. If only she could talk to someone who knew him. Unfortunately, Duncan didn't talk about himself much. Think. He must have mentioned somebody that he knew. Yves Cotin! That was it. She was sure of it. He mentioned the name the first night they had dinner together. There wasn't a more respected man of the fine arts in the city.

* * *

The room Tessa was in felt imposing. It wasn’t extraordinarily large, but the wooden walls had the sheen of having been oiled regularly for centuries. The dark coloring of the large desk and the fine wooden chairs added to the feeling of weight in the room. She was sitting on a leather upholstered sofa. Sitting in a chair to her left was Yves Cotin. The ninety-six-year-old man sitting across from her was difficult to read. His gray-green eyes had the animation of youth as well as the slight cloudiness of mild cataracts. His face was so lined and folded that it looked like it might be better placed on outer walls of Notre Dame than on the failing body of an old man. The unkempt shock of white hair that sprang from his scalp added a sense of eccentricity and whimsy to the package. "Thank you for seeing me," Tessa said in French in a louder-than-normal, yet not patronizing, volume. "Nonsense," the old man replied. "I grieve with you. I knew Michel. I liked the boy." "Thank you." "What can I do for you? I'm sure a pretty girl like you has better things to do than waste an afternoon with an old man." Tessa was slightly taken aback by the man's directness. His tone of voice clearly said that he wasn't going to sit here and engage in small talk while she figured out a way to ask what she wanted to ask. "I was wondering if you might be able to tell me about a man I met recently. Duncan MacLeod?" "MacLeod?" "Yes sir." "You two—?" Yves finished the sentence with a gesture that was slightly rude, but easily understood. "No!" an astonished Tessa replied. "Heh, heh, heh. Mac must be losing his touch—or else he's fallen for you? That's it, isn't it?" "I don't know. I—" "Of course you do. Don't bother denying it. So what about him?" "I—uh, I was wondering if you could tell me something about... I'd like to get to know him better, but he doesn't talk about himself much." Cotin eyed Tessa. From his long experience, he knew that she wasn't being completely honest with him. On the other hand, she wasn't lying, either. "Duncan MacLeod. What exactly do you want to know? Is he rich?" "I don't care about that. I want to know something about the man ." The old man sat back in his chair and thought about his answer. In a relatively gentle tone of voice that magnified the man's sincerity, "I don't think you'll find a more trustworthy man anywhere in the world. If you are his friend, he will never lie to you. If you ever need any help, he'll be there for you—you only have to ask." 18

Tessa visibly relaxed as if a heavy yoke had been lifted from her shoulders. Even through his aged vision, Monsieur Cotin could see the change, "It appears that was something you wanted to hear." "I think so." "Just remember—all he wants is the truth in return. I don't think that's too much to ask. Do you?" "No. Not at all." "Then go." "If it's all the same to you, Monsieur Cotin, I'd really like to spend some more time here talking to you." "Heh, heh, heh. You make me feel like a young man of eighty." Tessa joined in with the old man's chuckling. He pressed a button on the intercom that was next to him. "Françoise, bring in some food and wine for two." He released the button and again turned his attention to Tessa. "I understand that you're something of an artist yourself." "I finished at the Sorbonne last year." "Tell me, how far do you want to go? What do you want do accomplish?" "I'm not sure anymore. Now that Michel's dead, the plans I made are going to have to change." "Maybe I could help some? Michel did speak well of you." Leaning closer to Tessa, and in a quieter, impish voice, "I'm not without a little influence. Ah! The wine!" perked Cotin as he saw his assistant enter with the tray.

* * *

Standing in the elevator, waiting for it to reach the main concourse of the museum, Tessa was feeling much less stress than she had when she first arrived. She wasn't quite ready to forget everything that had happened over the last couple of days, though she wanted to. She would at least hear what Duncan had to say. If he was really an Immortal like he said he was, then she knew that she probably would never meet a more interesting person in her life. The elevator doors opened to the marble colonnade of the museum's main lobby, and she stepped out. She headed for the nearby bank of phones. Before she reached them, she felt something substantial under her shoe that almost made her fall. It was a man's brown leather wallet. She bent down and picked it up. At the information carrousel, the same mustachioed man who had followed Duncan the previous night saw the sinewy blonde woman pick up a wallet; alarmed, he checked his inside coat pocket. Tessa Noel now had his wallet and his identity. Tessa looked inside the tri-fold billfold and saw an American driver's license with the owner's photo. She scanned the hall trying to find a face to match the picture. There! That man standing at information. Tessa walked over to him. "Excuse me, but did you lose your wallet?" she asked in English. The man gave the pretense of checking before he said, "I think I have. Thank you," he said as he extended his hand. Tessa took a small step back. "Not yet. Your name is—?" "James Horton." "That's what it says," Tessa replied as she handed the wallet back to its owner. 19

"Thanks. And thank you for being careful," Horton said with a smile. Tessa smiled in return and again headed for the phone bank. Once there, she dialed the number to Duncan's apartment. She got his machine. "This is Tessa. I think... I'd like to talk to you again. I'll be at my apartment all evening." She hung up, and joined the rest of the normal afternoon crowd that was heading for the exit. Watching Tessa until she was outside, Horton then walked over to the phone that the woman had just used. He picked it up and dialed. "Andre? This is Horton. I've just been made." Even before he dialed, he knew he was going to be reassigned. A Watcher had to be anonymous to be effective. "Right. I'll leave in the morning," he said, and hung up the phone.

* * *

Duncan was already sitting at the bottom of the stairs when Tessa arrived at her apartment. He rose contritely as she approached. “Hi,” he offered. “Hi,” Tessa replied. “I—,” she started, but stopped, thinking of what she wanted to say. “Do you kill these other Immortals of yours often?” Still direct, Duncan thought. He had to admire her mettle. “I try not to make a habit out of it, and I don’t go looking for trouble. I’m not going to lie to you—it does happen from time-to- time.” Tessa paused. She didn’t want him to leave, but was she willing to accept the consequences of being with a man like this? She could sense that he wasn’t quite telling her the whole truth— but then again he’d told her more than she really wanted to know. On the way over here, she’d convinced herself that she would see him again. But now, with him standing so close, the memory of him lopping off that other man’s head kept replaying itself in her mind, and it started to weaken her resolve. She could still back out. For Duncan, the wait was agony. He could see the turmoil subtly dancing across Tessa’s brow. This wasn’t an easy decision for her, and he knew that it could go either way. But when she looked directly at him, like she just started doing, he didn’t care; he was happy that she was near. It amazed him that he’d fallen so completely in love in so short a time. Tessa briefly lowered her eyes as she committed herself to her choice. There would be no regrets. She looked back up at Duncan. With one corner of her mouth rising slightly, she extended her right hand and said, “Hi, I’m Tessa Noel.” Duncan was a little confused, but a long life prepared you for life’s little confusions. He gently took her hand, “Duncan MacLeod. I’m very happy to know you.” “I—,” Tessa needed a second after noticing that she’d blushed. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out? There’s a café just down the street.” Duncan broke out in a huge grin. The weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. He grabbed Tessa in a tight hug, lifted her off the ground and spun her around a couple of times before settling down and kissing her. “Are you sure?” he asked. Tessa smiled, all of her reservations having melted away, and strongly kissed him in reply.

* * * 20

This won't be the last time I'll be in Paris , Horton thought, as he exited the museum into the waning light of another day. He’d had to abandon assignments before, but this time it felt different. Something had changed in him. Once outside, he stood motionless for several minutes in the midst of the crush of Parisians and tourists who were trying to reach their destinations unfettered. His destiny was tied to this city. Horton was trying to understand why. He was rudely bumped aside by a grumbling, hunched-over, old woman, and that distracted him enough to look around him. In this mass of people, he thought, any one of them (or several of them) could be Immortals—head hunting murderers— and he wouldn’t know it. An ember started to burn in his soul fueling a resentment towards these beings he had been watching for so long. While these people around him barely concerned him, he knew that if he were Immortal then his feelings for them would be even less. Why should an Immortal care about mortals? For that matter, why should a mortal care about Immortals? Why should that Noel woman? Why should he? A chill rose up his spine. For the first time in his life, he felt the fear and anxiety of panic. The solution was so obvious, but darkly terrifying nonetheless. He was shivering from the shock of his destiny being revealed to him on this crowded city sidewalk. Slowly, and with a little effort, he sidled into the column of people moving in the general direction of his hotel. He now knew the purpose for his life: in the battle for dominion, the mortals must win.

THE END

© 1994 CJ Carter