San Francisco, 1854

        Mikey waited nervously, sitting perched on Mrs. Sackett’s elegant yellow brocade chaise lounge,  his short legs dangling off the floor.  The evening wore on.  For awhile he entertained himself by wandering around the room, inspecting its oversized four poster feather bed, the large desk full of papers, but his eyes grew heavy in the closeness of the airless room where the smell of her heavy perfume lingered unpleasantly.  Finally, he returned to the chaise pulling a lacy afghan over himself to ward off the cold and eventually drifted off to sleep.

        He awoke to strange noises and peeked out from under the afghan, fear making his heart pound. Mrs. Sackett and a man were on the bed, rolling around, grunting and groaning.  Her legs were spread and the man was moving rhythmically on top of her.  Something about it excited him.  He couldn’t keep himself from watching as he slowly moved the afghan away and sat up, eyes riveted to the bizarre scene.  Finally the man moved faster and faster then grunted heavily, straining against Mrs. Sackett.  Then he sighed and lay his head between the two mounds of flesh on her chest.

        "Now wasn’t that as good as Alice, lovey?" Mrs. Sackett murmured in a girlish voice.

        "Yeah, well, you’re alright Maisey," the man said, extracting himself from the woman and reaching for the trousers he had dropped on the floor.  As he pulled on his pants he caught sight of the towheaded boy with the wide, staring eyes sitting on the couch.

        "What the . . ." he stammered, flushing bright red.

        "Mikey!" Mrs. Sackett screeched.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

        "I . . . I . . . you said . . ." Mickey stammered, unable to make a complete sentence.

        "This is sick!" the man snarled.  "What’re you tryin’ to do, blackmail me?  I’m a respectable citizen.  I don’t do boys!"  The man shook in anger as he rushed to tuck in his shirt and straighten the rest of his clothes.  "I don’t need this shit.  Next time, I’ll go to the San Francisco Gentlemen’s Club.  They may be more expensive, but at least I’ll get what I want and nobody will try to run a scam on me."  The man attempted to recapture his lost dignity by tugging pompously on his lapels, and then slammed out of the room.

        "You little shit!" Mrs. Sackett said, slowly rising and covering her folded, protruding pink flesh with a frilly robe.  "Look what you’ve done!"  She advanced on him ponderously, pulled her arm back and hit him, sending him rolling off the couch and onto the floor.  "You cost me good money with MacLeod, then you chase away my customers!"  She pulled him to his feet, then slapped him again the momentum of the blow crashing him into her desk.

        Mikey could taste blood as it trickled from his nose and down his face and his head rang with sharp, intense pain.  He made himself as small as he possibly could, crouching back against the desk as she stalked after him again.  Running out of retreating room, he pulled himself up onto the desk, scrambling away, sending knick knacks and papers tumbling.  She loomed over him, her body seeming to block out all air, all light, all sound.  He felt like he was going to suffocate, his heart hammered so hard he was sure he was going to die of fright.  His small hand closed around something cold and hard, and as her hand came slashing down once again, he brought up his arms and flailed at her defensively, his eyes closed in terror.

        Suddenly the attack stopped and Mikey opened his eyes in fear that she was reaching for something to hit him with.  Mrs. Sackett’s eyes had grown round and wide with surprise, staring down in amazement at the letter opener sunk deeply into her chest.  She looked at Mikey, then staggered back with a small, silent "Oh", her hands fluttering around the handle protruding from her flesh.  One step back, then another, then another, until she backed up against the bed and sat abruptly.  The red stain around the handle grew and grew as she watched, her effort to breathe coming faster and faster.  Slowly she sank back onto the bed.

        Mickey carefully lowered himself from the desk and crept up to the bed.  He stood and watched as her face went from white to grey.  Her eyes met his and her mouth moved, but no sound came out and, after what seemed like an eternity, her breath stopped, her face frozen in an expression of stunned surprise.

        The room was silent except for the sound of his own wildly thumping heartbeat drumming in his ears.  Some part of him knew that what he had done was bad, was terribly wrong, but there was another voice that rejoiced, that wanted to shout with transforming joy.  Mikey suddenly felt free, felt powerful.  Then he was startled out of his trance with a heavy knock on the door.

        "Mrs. S?  Mrs. S?" a female voice called.  "Three gentlemen just arrived.  Did you want to greet them?"  Mikey froze in panic.  "Mrs. S, are you in there?"  The door began to open and Mikey darted to the window in a panic.  As he threw up the sash and clamored out onto the roof he heard a woman’s frightened shriek that went on and on and on.  He hardly remembered the next few hours, except that he jumped, fell, ran, scraped his knees, his elbows, hurt his ankle, heard voices and footsteps behind him, and ran down twisted streets and up steep alleys until he could run no more, finally heading to the only refuge he could think of.

Mikey hid in the alley across from the Double Eagle Saloon.  He had sat there for hours, terrified that every step he heard was someone coming to get him, to take him away, to punish him for the terrible thing he had done.  He forced himself to stay awake, to ignore the cold, to disregard the throbbing pain of his battered, exhausted body.  Finally, as dawn began to lighten the sky, Duncan MacLeod stepped out of the front door of the saloon onto the street, stretching his arms behind his neck and rolling his head around.  A flare of light outlined MacLeod’s features as he stood in the pre-dawn air and lit a small cigar.  Mikey tentatively crept to the edge of the alley and MacLeod suddenly stiffened.  He stepped further into the street looking carefully up and down the deserted sidewalks, ultimately spotting Mikey’s huddled form at the entrance to the alley.  He threw the cigar away and walked towards him slowly and carefully as though approaching a wild animal. He knelt down and looked into the boy’s bloodied, pale face.  He had no idea what had happened, but he knew this child was frightened, abused and alone.  He folded his arms around him and carried him away.  As Mikey relaxed into MacLeod’s strong arms, for the first time in his short, miserable life he felt truly safe.

        Michael Daley, President of Software Solutions, member of the Phoenix Chamber of Commerce, millionaire, accounting guru, and Immortal, sat trembling, perched on the hard couch of an anonymous hotel room, wrestling with his sanity.  MacLeod sat across from him, lounging gracefully in a chair that looked too small, too delicate to hold him.  Mac had always been Michael’s touchstone, his safe haven.  He had taken him to an orphanage in Northern California where after a time Michael began to understand the meaning of human love and compassion.  He had never forgotten that horrible night, never been completely whole.  There were times when a dark depression lasting for months would descend on him like a heavy cloak, weighing him down physically and emotionally.  But when Michael really tried, when he lost himself in learning and reading, he could put his demons away for awhile.  He found particular joy in numbers.  They were clean, precise, immutable, controllable.

        Mac had stayed in touch, writing periodically, sending him money for his education.  But he was gone for long periods, sometimes years, and Michael ultimately had to forge his identity on his own. Over the years Duncan MacLeod eventually became only a distant, heroic figure, an icon of perfection Michael knew he could never attain.

        Michael grew up, moved south to Los Angeles, using his talent in mathematics to become a bookkeeper, eventually starting his own small accounting firm.  He was reclusive, and shy, fearful of relationships and especially fearful of women.  Around them he felt impotent, helpless but that did not stop him from daydreaming about them, wanting them, fantasizing about them.  Then one day he met Adelle Milhouse, a secretary in one of his client’s offices.  She was quiet, unthreatening, grateful and responsive to the tentative and halting nature of the attention he paid her.  She made him feel strong, in control.  After many months of hesitant courtship Michael finally gathered the courage to ask Adelle to marry him.  To his astonishment and joy, she assented, becoming his partner in business and in life.  The next six months were the happiest Michael had ever known.  He was loved and needed, depended upon, admired.  He would sometimes secretly watch Adelle, her long dark hair wound in braids in a halo that framed her thin, intense face, or hanging loose all the way down her back.  The simple domestic hores of cooking and cleaning, of helping keep the books, were all imbued with magic when she did them.  She adored him and he worshiped her, and for awhile he had known true contentment.  Then Adelle’s mother moved from Chicago to live with them.

                                                                    Los Angeles, 1894

        Vera Milhouse stood on the street, examining the three story clabbord building housing her daughter and her new, unknown son-in law.  Vera triumphantly reviewed all the sacrifices she had made to finally get here.  She had worked hard all her life, taking in laundry, cleaning other people’s houses, caring for other people’s kids, watching her wealthy employers prosper, watching their attractive, well-dressed children grow up to marry into equally wealthy families, while she lived in her tiny house, altering her benefactor’s children’s hand-me-downs to fit her only daughter.  Her husband (may he rot in hell, she thought), was a drunkard and, as it turned out, a thief.  She had chased him out of the house one day when Adelle was only three, beating him bloody with a rug beater on the front lawn until he managed to roll away and scurry down the street, never to be seen again.

        Her shy, unattractive daughter’s only saving grace was that she was passably smart, and Vera had insisted that Adelle learn enough so that she would never have to do the kind of backbreaking work hat Vera had done all her life.  She was a big woman, strong of back and broad of shoulder, and over the years had developed a certainty about what was right and what was wrong in the world, and didn’t hesitate to let her opinions be known.  Among her strongly held opinions was that opportunity and wealth could be found in the West, even for an unattractive girl with no money.  At her mother’s nsistence, as soon as Adelle turned 18, she began writing to find work in California, eventually finding a position as a secretary in a law firm.  She had dutifully sent her mother money from time to time, receiving letters back importuning Adelle to better herself, find a wealthy husband, and to send more money when she could.  The years went by, and Vera had despaired that her only child would ever amount to anything when she received notice that her plain, mousey daughter had finally found a husband.  He was an accountant, modestly successful, quiet and hardworking.  Vera immediately put up her little house for sale and, six months later, showed up at the small Los Angeles flat rented by Mr. and Mrs. Michael Daley.

        "Mother!" Adelle gasped when she opened the door.  "I . . . we weren’t expecting you until next week."

        "Well are you just going to stand there with your mouth open?" Vera snapped, pushing Adelle aside and dragging her two large valises into the front hallway.  She dropped her bags with a thud and surveyed her surroundings -- small living room with Victorian couch, one wing chair and a couple of small tables cluttered with knick knacks, two bookshelves filled with ledgers, papers and books, a tiny kitchen with one table off in the corner with two small chairs.  Vera wandered through the apartment opening doors and cabinets, revealing a bedroom with a cast iron double bed and dresser drawer, a water closet and a pantry in the hallway.

        "Well, Adelle," Vera finally said, her lips pursed.  "I would have thought a man who owned his own business would provide for you a little better."

        "Uh, well, we, that is, Michael believes its important to save our money up for purchasing our own home and to invest for the future."  Adelle wiped her suddenly perspiring hands on her long apron.  "It’s wonderful to see you, Mother," she said softly.

        "Of course it is, dear," Vera finally said, offering her cheek to kiss.  "Where is this husband of yours.  I want to meet him."

        "He’s out buying a paper and getting the mail," Adelle said nervously, patting the long brown braids wound around her head like a coronet.  "We really weren’t expecting you this soon, Mother. We don’t have a place for you to stay, yet.  We were trying to arrange a place in a rooming house a couple of blocks away."

        "Nonsense, I can stay right here," Vera pronounced.  "We’ll just move a bed in there," she gestured in the living room, "until we find a larger place."

        Adelle paled and her mouth worked soundlessly open and closed.  The one thing Michael had insisted on when Adelle had told him her mother was coming was that she NOT move in with them. Just then the front door swung open and Michael walked in.

        "I got a letter from Duncan!" Michael said gleefully, slamming the door with his elbow since his hands were full of groceries, newspaper and mail.  "It’s been months since he wrote me.  It’s postmarked in the Northern Territories, so he may be close enough to visit soon."  He had lowered the groceries to the floor, oblivious to everything except the letter he held in his hand.

        "Michael," Adelle said, trying to get his attention.  "Michael!" she finally snapped, drawing his eyes to hers.  "Mother is here."

        Michael Daley’s expression went from boyish excitement to stark, white fear in one heartbeat as he turned to meet his mother-in-law, a large, domineering woman with iron grey hair pulled into a tight not at the back of her head, and a broad bosom accentuated by the tight waistcoat buttoned severely all the way to her double chin.

        Nothing was the same after Vera came to live with them.  Michael became withdrawn and surly, Adelle was submissive and fearful, and Vera ruled the household.  The crisis finally came in 1898.  No one knew what happened, and during the entire course of the double murder trial Michael would never say.  All anyone ever knew was that one day Michael Daley snapped, stabbing his mother-in-law to death and, in the struggle, Adelle fell, breaking her neck.  When they pronounced him guilty and entenced him to death by hanging, Michael was relieved.  He deserved to die. Duncan came and stayed with him throughout the trial, paying for the best defense lawyers, but the case against him was clear and convincing.  Even Michael insisted he was guilty and nothing Duncan could ask about mitigating circumstances made any difference.  What would Duncan know about killing anyway, Michael thought.  He was a good, kind man who had never done an evil deed in his life.

          The night before Michael’s scheduled execution, Duncan sat with him in his small cell.  They talked about old times, about Duncan’s many travels but the Scot knew he was running out of time. Swallowing his nervousness, he broached the topic he had been dreading since the day he first saw the small towheaded boy on the streets of San Francisco.

        "Michael, there’s something you need to know, about tomorrow, about who and what you are," MacLeod had said softly.

        "I know what I am, Duncan.  I am a murderer.  It began when I was only a child and blood has been on my hands ever since.  God is punishing me.  He punished Adelle and I when we didn’t have any children, and he’s punishing me now.  You don’t need to worry about me," Michael sighed.  "It will be a relief when it’s over."

        MacLeod stood and paced the stone floor of the tiny cell for a moment, formulating his words carefully.  A guard stood close outside and Mac  knelt in front of his tormented friend, whispering softly.  "Michael, what you did was done out of fear, out of trauma for what happened to you when you were a child.  It wasn’t your fault!  You can overcome this and I will help you every way I know how."

        Michael laughed aloud, causing the guard to turn, wondering what the condemned man would find funny.  "It’s a little late for that, Duncan!  They’re hanging me tomorrow."

        Duncan put his broad, callused hand on Michael’s thin wrist.  "Michael, I can’t tell you any more than this, but you have to trust me.  Do you trust me?"

        "Always.  You’ve always been there for me, although I’ve never understood why.  What did I ever do to deserve your friendship, Duncan MacLeod?"

        "You were a sweet, lost soul, Michael.  You deserve happiness just like anyone else.  All I did was try to give you a chance for it."

        "And look what I did," Michael sighed, putting his face in his hands.  "I didn’t mean for either of them to die, Mac.  She just kept at me and at me about a bigger house, more money, having children, all the things I couldn’t seem to do.  She made me feel small, helpless, just like Mrs. Sackett. When I put that knife into her I . . . I don’t know.  Just for a moment I finally felt good, felt in control, just like back at the Green Lady.  Then Adelle screamed, was trying to stop me and I pushed her away . . .  She fell so hard, and there was this terrible sound, like a twig breaking, and then she wouldn’t wake up."  Tears slipped unheeded down Michael’s face, where light brown freckles stood out starkly on his pale cheeks.

        Duncan sat beside Michael and put his arms around him while the man wept against his shoulder.  "Michael," he whispered.  "Michael, it’s not over.  You’ve got to trust me in this.  I can’t explain any more, but whatever happens tomorrow, you will have a chance to overcome this."

        Daley wiped his face and looked up at his lifelong friend in confusion.  "What are you talking about?" he asked.

        "Michael, I’m not who you think I am or what you think I am.  Look at me.  You’ve known me for over thirty years.  Have I changed in all that time?" Duncan asked him intently.

        Michael looked into the handsome, sculpted face of Duncan MacLeod and suddenly realized something so obvious and so startling that it shocked him to his core.  Duncan MacLeod did not look a day older than he had when little Mikey Daley had stumbled into him on that street corner in San Francisco.  "I . . . I don’t understand," Michael whispered fearfully after a long silence, pushing himself away.

        "You will find out soon enough, my friend.  In the meantime, have courage.  Know that you have a future, that you are more like me than not, despite what you may think," Duncan said mysteriously.

        "Time’s up!" the guard said, rattling his stick against the iron bars.

        Duncan rose, hugged Michael as he had so many times before, and left, leaving the man to sit in confused torment, awaiting his death.

.....................................
        Duncan sat, looking across the semi-darkened room at Michael, remembering pulling him out of the canvas body bag they had used after they had hung him.  Mac had filled the coffin with rocks, working feverishly in the pre-dawn darkness before the cemetery work crew came back, hoping to finish before Michael awoke.  As he was nailing the coffin shut, he had heard Michael gasp and choke and cry out as he made the painful, frightening transition to his immortality.  The boy, and Duncan would always think of him as a boy, immediately went into deep emotional shock.  He stayed in a semi-responsive state all the way across country and on the long sea voyage to Europe and was only beginning to acknowledge his surroundings when Duncan delivered him gently into the hands of Sean Burns, an Immortal who studied the mind and who Duncan trusted to do the best he could to help his deeply troubled friend.

        It took almost five years, but eventually Michael, under Sean’s patient care, seemed to conquer his demons, moving back to his beloved west, making a life for himself, continuing his education.  But he was always a loner, always emotionally fragile.  On Sean’s advice, Duncan had never tried to teach him to fight and instead counseled him to avoid the Game.  It bothered greatly him that Michael felt so isolated in his guilt and grief, especially now.  Duncan had his own demons haunting him, his own burden of guilt to carry.  His crimes were just as heinous as Michael’s.  The hero worship Michael bestowed on him made him feel unclean, unworthy.

        "Michael," he said softly.  "I have a cabin on holy ground only a few hours from here.  You remember we went there once back in ‘67?"  Michael nodded wordlessly.  "You could go there, stay as long as you want.  The police won’t find you there.  You’ll be safe.  You can’t stay with me, Michael.  The Gathering is too close to me, too intense."

        "No, Duncan.  I need you.  You’re the only one who knows, who understands!"  Michael wrung his hands compulsively.  "Being immortal is such a curse.  It’s like the torment will never, ever end. It just cycles over and over.  I will kill again, Duncan.  I can feel it.  You have to stop me!"

        "You can stop yourself, Michael.  You have to learn from your past, to grow, to change," Duncan whispered.

        Michael stood in agitation.  "Don’t you get it, MacLeod?  I can’t change.  This is who I am.  A murderer!  This is who I have always been!" he shouted.

        "No, Michael!" Duncan rose, looking up at the slightly taller man.  "That is who you were.  We are Immortals, Michael!  For all the torment that causes, it gives us the opportunity to learn the lessons of life, of history and use them.  Use your lessons, Michael.  I know it’s hard.  We all have terrible demons to live with.  I have my own, more terrible than you can even imagine.  The only way I can live with them is to learn from them, to not repeat my mistakes."

        "Maybe that’s what makes you so different from anyone else I know, MacLeod," Michael said softly.  "Every time we met you knew more things, you had experienced more of life, had a slightly different perspective.  How can someone like you understand someone like me?  You are a person of honor, of integrity.  I’m not any of those things!" Michael cried.

        "Oh, God, Michael, don’t do this!  Don’t deify me!  You have no idea what I’ve done!" MacLeod said in anger and desperation.  "See me as I really am!"

        Michael turned away to the window and crossed his arms.  "Yeah, right.  What did you do? Kill innocent children?  Rape a few nuns?  Gimme a break, Duncan.  You would never do anything like that.  Well, I’ve never been anyone’s hero, never developed or lived by a code of honor.  I never developed anything but a compulsion to kill innocent women."

        Duncan couldn’t stand it anymore.  "I killed Sean Burns," he declared harshly, almost instantly regretting his words.

        There was a long silence from Michael.  Duncan’s blood ran cold, suddenly fearing that what he had impulsively revealed would destroy any chance he had to reach his tormented friend.

        Michael slowly turned, arms crossed, fists bunched tightly.  "What did you say?"

        "I . . . I killed him, Michael.  I was overcome by evil.  Insane from a Dark Quickening.  I went to him for help, but instead. . . I . . . killed him," Duncan couldn’t think of any way of putting it that didn’t make it sound just as horrifying as it really was.

        Michael’s throat worked convulsively and his face flushed red then went stark white as he gazed with disbelief at the man he had viewed as his protector, his hero for almost 150 years, the man who provided the only stability or continuity in his life.  That man had murdered Sean Burns, who had saved his sanity twice, who had managed against all odds to make him feel worthy, valuable.  That man had murdered Sean Burns, the kindest, gentlest soul Michael had ever known.

        "Get out," Michael choked.

        "Michael, please.  I told you so you would understand that we’ve all done things . . ."

        "Get out!" Michael screamed, advancing on Duncan threateningly.

        "What is it, Mac?" Joe finally prodded, parking his butt on a bar stool next to the dark Scotsman.

        "Michael Daley."

        "Arrived in town yesterday.  Understand the Phoenix police are looking for him.  Something about assaulting his girlfriend," Joe summarized what he knew.

        "Do you know his history?" Duncan asked.

        "Yeah.  Killed his mother-in-law and wife in the late 19th Century before he became immortal. Hung. Treated by Sean Burns.  You were the one who took him there, weren’t you?  Almost lost it again a few decades ago in Oklahoma, then went back to Burns for a couple of years.  He’s seemed okay until recently.  The guy has always had a few mental problems."

        Duncan nodded slowly.  "Yeah.  He’s always had problems."

        "So?"

        "So, he’s right on the edge.  Close to insane."  Duncan downed the rest of the scotch.  "He’s not a bad man, Joe.  He had some terrible things happen to him when he was a child.  It scarred him for life, I’m afraid, and for us that’s a long, long time."

        "You gonna have to take him down?" Joe asked quietly.

        "No!" Duncan said, putting his glass down hard.  "I found him when he was only eight years old.  I tried to see that he was taken care of, but . . .  I was traveling a lot and . . . Dammit, I just didn’t take the time."  MacLeod scrubbed his unshaven face with his hand.

        "You’re not permanently responsible for every pre-immortal you run across, Mac.  I’m sure you did everything you could.  After all, you took him to Sean Burns, and Daley hasn’t killed a mortal for almost a century now," Joe offered.  "I don’t think he even hunts Immortals for that matter.  Didn’t you teach him?"  He hadn’t realized Michael Daley was so close to MacLeod.  Duncan’s earlier Watchers evidently hadn’t picked it up.  Sometimes Joe felt the Watchers missed more than they caught in the long, complex lives of the Immortals they were supposed to track.  It was a scary thought.

        Duncan shook his head.  "Michael was too unstable to try to teach.  He didn’t want to learn, either.  He was afraid of knowing how to kill, since he had already killed when he didn’t mean to.  I taught him how to hide, to change his identity.  I never thought he would last this long, frankly."

         "Well, he seemed fine for a long time."

        Duncan smiled a small, unhappy smile, staring into his empty glass.  "Yeah.  Just fine.  Only now, when he needs Sean most, Sean is dead.  And I killed him."

        "Mac, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself for that," Joe said firmly.  Not again, Joe was thinking.  This was one guilt trip MacLeod couldn’t seem to get past.  Ever since the Dark Quickening the Highlander had been moody and distant, unable to let go of the remorse and shame of his actions during a period when he had been possessed by the hatred of uncountable evil Immortals.  He had dredged up a strength from somewhere deep inside, fighting a monumental internal battle that successfully purged the evil, but his soul had been seared by the experience.

        "It doesn’t matter whether I blame myself or not," Duncan said softly.  "Michael blames me."

"You told him?" Joe asked in shock.  "Why on earth would you do that?"

        "He has always thought I was some sort of hero, Joe.  I pulled him out of a whorehouse in San Francisco and put him in a catholic orphanage.  Then I would appear in his life from time to time, full of stories of world travels.  I made sure he got his education, gave him money when he needed it. He had a completely warped view of who I was and measured himself against that standard!  I couldn’t let him go on believing a lie.  It . . . it just sort of slipped out," Duncan sighed.

        "It just sort of slipped out," Joe repeated incredulously.  "You are over 400 years old, and that’s the best you can come up with?  It just sort of slipped out?"

        Duncan leaned his head against his hand, slowly twirling the shot glass around and around, not responding.

        "What are you going to do now?" Joe asked.

        Duncan leaned back, took a deep breath and stood up.  "I haven’t a clue, Joseph."  He turned to look his Watcher hard in the face.  "But you tell your people to keep a close eye on him.  I need to know if he starts to act really erratic.  He’s capable of hurting people, Joe.  Hurting mortals."

        "Okay, Mac.  Thanks for warning me," Joe said.  Duncan turned to head toward the exit.  "Oh, and Mac, by the way,"Joe called, "Welcome back to town."  Without turning Mac raised his hand in acknowledgment and then he was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE

......
        Tom Henderson went through Shayla’s notes about Michael Daley.  They still hadn’t heard anything more from the Phoenix Branch, and the only historical reference in the computer to anyone resembling Michael Daley was 30 years old.  In 1965, a Michael Dalton, an artist’s rending of whom was uncannily similar to the picture sent of Michael Daley by the Phoenix bureau, had been sought for assaulting and almost killing some waitress in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Dalton had never been found, but the man would be over 70 years old by now, so that lead petered out.

        Shayla had been kept hopping, spending long hours on the job between trying to keep an eye on Daley and working at Joe’s.  Tom helped her out, keeping watch at the hotel while Shayla was working at the bar, but Daley had spent the last 24 hours keeping to the hotel, visiting the bar, drinking alone.  He seemed agitated and depressed.  The man was their only real lead in these bizarre beheading cases, and might be in imminent danger since he fit the demographic profile of other beheading victims.  Finally, Henderson decided he had to take a gamble, and asked Shayla to approach Daley.

        "You want me to talk to him?" she asked, her voice rising to a nervous, high pitch.

        "Yeah.  He sits in the bar for hours.  You could approach him, talk to him.  See if you can get him to talk.  Why he’s here, what his plans are.  That sort of thing," Henderson described.  "We don’t really have any leads here, Winters.  We’re gonna have to take some chances."

        "But . . . but this requires experience and training I don’t have.  I could scare him away.  Blow the whole investigation!" Shayla protested.

        "You don’t give yourself enough credit.  You’ve got good instincts.  So what if you’re not smooth and easy with people?  That probably works better with this guy, who is shy anyway.  It’ll seem natural.  Come on," Tom urged.  "You might be saving his life."

        Shayla swallowed.  Her heart was beating too rapidly for comfort and she could feel sweat dampen her armpits.  If she blew this, she knew, it would go on her record and she could seriously damage her career.  But . . . if it worked, Shayla Winters, a trainee, would jump to the top of the class as far as advancement was concerned.  Shayla gave Henderson a jerky nod.

        Shayla sauntered (or attempted to, it wasn’t something at which she was very experienced) into the bar at the Ritz Carlton, taking up a bar stool one seat away from Michael Daley, who was morosely staring into what appeared to be a double martini.  She had dressed carefully in the only party dress she owned, a simple black number with cap sleeves and a modest scoop neckline.  A string of fake pearls and black high heels completed the costume.  She had thought about heightening her sophisticated look with makeup and earrings, but it felt so unnatural and she was so inexperienced in applying makeup that after a few tries she gave up and scrubbed her face clean.  As it was, she felt pretty silly.

        She examined the man out of the corner of her eye.  He was dressed in grey trousers and a subdued sweater in a pattern of abstract blues and greys.  He was tall and thin, with sandy colored hair and light eyes, giving an impression of being colorless and washed out.  He just sat, chin propped in one hand, staring into his martini glass, turning a book of matches over and over.  Shayla ordered a whiskey sour, the only kind of drink she could swallow, besides it usually came with fruit she could play with.  Carefully arranging her thoughts and trying to empathize with her subject, she pushed away her doubts and tried to think of Michael Daley as an individual with problems, a potential friend, a man she wanted to get to know.

        "You’re gonna wear out those matches if you’re not careful," she finally said quietly.

        "Huh?" Daley looked up at her, his attention obviously focused inward.

        Shayla pointed to the matchbook Daley kept twirling.  "The friction you are generating might just set those off," she smiled shyly.

        Daley looked at the matches, then dropped them on the bar.  "Just restless, I guess," he said.

        "I know how you feel," Shayla responded.

        "Waiting for someone?" Daley asked.

        "Yeah.  Blind date.  I’m really nervous.  I haven’t done this before.  I figure the guy will come in here, see me and disappear before we’ve even met.  Maybe I’m even hoping for that.  I’m not cut out for this dating stuff," Shayla said, furious at her involuntary flush as she elaborated on the lie.

        "Oh, I doubt that," Daley said.

        They sat in silence for awhile.  Shayla didn’t want to push it, figuring she would only scare him away if she came on too strong.  But after about 15 minutes, she sighed deeply, looking at her watch.

        "Well, I guess he isn’t going to show.  I should’ve known better," she said in a bitter tone. "What the hell, guess I’ll just drink on my own."  Shayla waived to get the bartender’s attention.

"Hey, I’ll get it," Daley said sympathetically.  "Get the lady another drink," he instructed the man behind the bar.

        "Thanks," Shayla said, holding out her hand.  "My name is Shayla."

        "Michael," he said, giving her hand a very brief shake.  Their eyes met and, for a moment, a look of hunger passed over Daley’s face, but it was quickly gone, replaced by a benign blandness.

        They spoke of mundane things, the weather, national politics, current events.  Long silences would pass while each of them pondered their drinks, and Shayla thought carefully about how to draw Daley out without frightening him away.  He wasn’t that different from many of the dates she had had in her life.  He was kind of boring, shy, middling-attractive.  But there was something slightly alien about the man, as though there was a hidden identity underneath several layers of camouflage.  Finally, after he had consumed several drinks, she tried being a little more aggressive.

        "So, Michael, what brought you to town?  Business?" she tried tentatively.

        There was a long pause while Daley sipped carefully from his glass.  "No," he whispered.  "Well, . . . personal business.  I wanted to see someone.  An old friend."

        "And did you get to see him?" Shayla tried again.

        "Yeah.  I saw him," Daley said softly.  "Sometimes, . . . people aren’t what you expect."

        "What do you mean?"

        "Oh, I don’t know.  You think you know people, but I guess you never really do," Daley paused for a moment.  "I thought he was my friend."

        "And you don’t think so anymore?" Shayla asked.

        Daley just shook his head, unwilling to reveal more.  "I don’t have any friends."

        "Oh, Michael," Shayla said, leaning closer, "you can’t really believe that.  Look at us.  We’ve barely met, but I think of you as a friend."

        He looked at her, inspected her closely.  Michael Daley saw a young woman, shy, a little socially awkward, fairly modestly dressed, trying to act more sophisticated than she was.  The very kind of woman he had always been drawn towards.  The older, wiser presence inside -- the other Michael Daley, the one that abhorred the fact that he had killed -- knew he had drunk too much, that he was vulnerable, that his demons were just beneath the surface, driving him on.  But Daley ignored that small voice of sanity, and listened to the louder, more insistent voice.  That voice wanted desperately to believe in innocence, in beauty, wanted to believe that this woman wanted him just for himself, like Adelle had so long ago.  He reached out and touched her cheek gently.

        "You are very pretty," he said.  She blushed furiously, just like Adelle used to.

        Daley’s Watcher was a middle aged man by the name of Jerry Sweeney.  Ordinarily based in Phoenix, he was temporarily using Dawson as his conduit to check in with headquarters.  Besides, hanging out at Joe’s was far more entertaining than spending his evenings alone in a hotel room. The bar was about to close when Sweeney entered.

        "Hey, Jerry.  What’s up?" Joe called, as he put chairs on tables in preparation for closing, secretly wondering why there always seemed to be someone wanting to talk about their problems at the end of the day.

        "Joe, I think we’ve got a problem," Sweeney said grimly, taking a seat on one of the bar stools. In a few concise descriptive phrases, he related that he had seen Joe’s new waitress meet Daley at a bar as though for a date.  "Either that’s one hell of a coincidence, or your new waitress is not what she seems," he finished.

        Joe pondered the situation for a moment.  He was troubled and disappointed.  He really liked Shayla.  She seemed like a nice, sweet young lady.   "Well, we have a few possibilities."  Dawson ticked them off on his fingers.  "She’s some kind of official investigator, she’s working for an Immortal who knows about us and is trying to get information from us, or she’s just what she seems and happened to run into Daley by coincidence.  I agree, the coincidence angle is a little far fetched, but if that’s the case, she could be in real danger.  MacLeod believes Daley is on the verge of another breakdown and could become violent.  I’ll try to find some things out about her.  In the meantime, we need to let everyone know that it’s possible that we’re being watched.  I’ll put the word out that everyone is to use the secondary drop for reports, and not to use the phones here for any Watcher business."  Joe paused, pursed his lips and shook his head.  "It’s this damn Gathering.  I guess it was inevitable that eventually someone would notice."

        "You know," Sweeney said sadly, "I’ve been a Watcher for about nine years now, and for the first few years it was fascinating, knowing these beings existed long before I was born, would continue to exist long after I was gone.  It made me feel a part of a great mystery, a part of history. Then the Gathering began and they started to hunt each other in earnest.  At first it was exciting, but then you realize how much is lost each time one of them dies.  I’ve never actually witnessed a Quickening, but it must be a hell of a thing.  Knowing all that power, that knowledge, is being consolidated and compressed into fewer and fewer immortals.  It’s become frightening."  Sweeney gave Dawson a long look.  "It must be particularly weird for you, with MacLeod at the center of all this, and you actually knowing the man, talking to him.  I wish . . ." his voice trailed off.

        "You wish you could get to know your Immortal?" Dawson finished for him.  Sweeney nodded. Dawson sighed.  "I wouldn’t trade knowing MacLeod for anything, but all the same it can get very, very tough for both of us.  I know a lot of us fantasize about being one of them, but take my word for it.  It’s not a life any sane person would wish on himself."

        Out of necessity, Dawson and Sweeney kept in touch by using public phones and coded language.  Sweeney reported that Shayla had met with Daley twice more over the next few days, each time in a more relaxed setting, and that there was another man, not a Watcher, tailing Daley.  In the meantime, Shayla continued to work at the bar and Joe diligently tried to keep their relationship as it had always been -- open and friendly.  He was waiting for something to happen to indicate where all this was headed.  Just in case, he had also warned MacLeod to stay away.

        As Henderson sat, contemplating the complexities of the investigation, the phone rang. "Henderson," he answered.

        "Tom Henderson?" asked a young male voice.

        "Yeah.  Who’s this?" Henderson asked gruffly.

        "Uh, my name is Lyle Kokich.  I understand you’ve been assigned an investigation about a group headquartered in France, the ones with the tattoos?"

        "Yeah?  What about it?"

        "Well, there’s been a development I thought you should know about," the young voice sounded hesitant, concerned.

        "Well?" Henderson prompted impatiently.

        "It seems . . . well, we’ve been monitoring the phone traffic coming out of the Paris headquarters and, well . . ."

        "Spit it out, boy!  I don’t have all day."

        "It’s stopped."

        "What do you mean?"

        "I mean that as of yesterday, all long distance telephone traffic just stopped."  The voice paused hesitantly.  "I think they know we’re onto them."

        "Damn!" whispered Tom, hanging up the phone, grabbing his coat and heading to the door.

        Joe Dawson looked up as the door opened and the late morning sun pointed its sharp finger into the room.  "Hey, Tom!" he said warmly, welcoming the sight of a kindred spirit.  "Haven’t seen you in a week or so.  Where ya been keeping yourself?"

        Henderson took a seat at the bar.  His return smile was a little strained.  "Good to see you, Joe. How’s business?"

        "Couldn’t be better.  Got a new group coming in on Saturday.  You’ll really like them.  They do old style Dixieland jazz.  What can I get you?" Joe asked.

        Henderson looked carefully around the large room.  "Where’s your waitress, Joe?  The new one," Henderson asked.

        "Shayla?  She called in a little while ago, said she had an appointment or something and asked if someone else could cover for her.  Why?  Looking for a date?"

        Henderson paused for a long moment, pondering who Shayla was in danger from the most, Dawson or Daley.  He still had no idea who was really responsible for the beheading deaths.  He was certain, though, that Joe Dawson knew, and if Winters was in danger he couldn’t afford to play any more games with this investigation.  Finally, Henderson reached into his pocket and pulled out identification folder and carefully put it on the bar.  Dawson looked at it for a long moment, then looked up at Henderson, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

        "So?  That supposed to mean something to me, other than that you’ve been spinning me a story for the past month?" Joe asked quietly.

        "Where’s Shayla, Joe?" Henderson asked grimly.

        Joe’s flesh rose in chill bumps as he realized that the FBI agent was genuinely concerned about the welfare of his colleague, but that there was no way Joe could reveal to him what he knew about Michael Daley.  "I couldn’t say, Tom," Joe replied.