Chapter Text
The next few days followed much the same routine as the previous few - when Vecchio wasn't working, he hung out with Pierson. The guy had a quick, slightly caustic sense of humour that fit well with his own. And now that the question marks over Pierson's attacker were settled, he found it easy to enjoy the relaxed sense of friendship that had troubled him before.
Ma decided that Adam needed feeding up, of course, and was keen to invite him round again.
Frannie had been besotted, as expected, but she behaved herself better than she used to and didn’t cause their guest too much embarrassment.
Mostly, though, they alternated between sightseeing and just eating in Vecchio's favourite restaurants, arguing their way amicably through meals. Vecchio, like many city residents, had never really done many of the tourist things, not since he was a kid, so he wasn't overly bored by the likes of the river boat trips and the Sears tower. He only refused the Shakespeare theatre, telling Pierson that if he wanted to go he'd have to pay a visit while Vecchio was at work.
Something was still niggling at Vecchio, though; he could feel it itching at the back of his mind, something tied in with what the Stamford woman had said to him. It would go away for hours while he was out haring round the city with Pierson, then return to haunt him at night in bed, and in quieter moments at the Two-Seven. He reread his own report on the arrest, but whatever it was wasn't there.
By the fifth day, he was being driven crazy by it.
He picked a shift when he was supposed to be catching up on paperwork for the DA and pulled the transcript of Stamford's interview with the shrink. There it was - ranting about how she'd seen Pierson stabbed with a sword; that was what had been bugging him. He just had to put it together with something else, another piece that was buried somewhere in his head –
Last week. In the canteen. He'd overheard two uniforms giggling over a crank call, something about swords.
That report took a little longer to find, since he didn't really know what he was after or exactly when. He did a lot of asking around among the uniforms, leaving them all believing he'd gone nuts, chasing around after hoaxes. It was nothing new to find himself at the butt end of others' jokes, and he ignored the not-too-subtle whispers that it'd be UFOs next. He didn't give a damn; he just wanted answers.
When he tracked it down, it was a logged 911 call reporting two men fighting with swords off Michigan. When uniform got there, there was some blood but nothing else. No complaint had been made from a victim, and it had been left open as a probable assault. It was generally assumed that the bit about the swords was an exaggeration, more likely a thug with a knife.
He checked with his earlier notes from the Sheraton. That was the same night the doorman said that Pierson had come in looking like something that crawled out of the sewers.
Then he started to get pissed at himself. What the fuck was he doing, anyway? Sure, Stamford had said she saw Pierson get stabbed with a sword. She'd also said she saw him rise from the dead, and that sure as hell hadn't happened. Why should he give any weight to anything she said?
He felt like a real dirtbag, investigating his friend after the case was closed. But in the end he was a cop, and he couldn't let it go without knowing for sure.
He collected Pierson from the hotel as usual that evening, working to maintain his usual chatty, prickly front as they drove.
It was the last Bulls game of the season and he really wasn't enjoying it. Pierson wasn't a fanatical basketball follower, something Vecchio considered close to sacrilege, but he was happy enough to go and was able to talk knowledgably about the game and the teams. Vecchio kept up his end of the conversation, leaping to his feet at all the right moments. He knew he was good enough at undercover not to let his new misgivings show, at least for a while, and he used this opportunity to watch Pierson, only maybe twenty percent of his concentration on the match.
Pierson behaved just like any normal person at a basketball game. He ate hot dogs. He got more and more involved in the match as it went along, laughing and cheering, commenting on the players' tactics. He had a good time.
Vecchio felt like a complete shit. But he couldn't help thinking about the way Pierson arranged his coat so carefully before he sat down, when he didn't give a damn about clothes. And how Pierson didn't take his coat off in the heat.
If he hadn't been watching so closely, he probably would’ve missed Pierson change. It was only there for a second, that expression of tension and dread, before it was quickly masked. Pierson turned to him with a wide smile. "I'm going for another hot dog, do you want one?"
"It's only half an hour to the end of the match," Vecchio pointed out.
"And then everybody will want one and I'll have to fight the queue. You stay here, enjoy the game."
Vecchio made a face. "Fine. But it's a sin against basketball."
"Do you want one or not?" Adam's grin was definitely convincing. Vecchio wouldn't have suspected a thing under normal circumstances.
"Yeah, go on. They're my tickets, I gotta get as much as I can out of you in food." He turned back to the match as Pierson made his way out of the stand. As soon as he was clear, he started out after him. The crowd rose to their feet with a roar, blocking his progress along the row. By the time he reached the door, he had no idea which way Adam had gone.
*****
Methos wandered out of the main arena, doing his best to look casual rather than like a man in a hurry. It was a big stadium - with over twenty thousand people, there was a good chance that whoever it was was simply there to watch the game. But it was safer to be out of range. The relief was almost tangible as he left the buzz behind.
He made his way out to the vast parking lots, intending to meet Vecchio back at the Buick. He could explain away why he didn't return to the match easily enough. He kept a careful watch as he passed through row after row of cars, but saw no sign he was being followed. The lots were floodlit, but there were darker areas of shadow where the lighting didn't quite overlap that he avoided. He cursed the system of parking attendants that had directed them to this distant section of the grounds. There was the green Riviera, shining darkly in the artificial glow. He sat on the hood, looking back the way he had come, scanning for any movement between the cars. Even so, the buzz hit him unexpectedly, tingling through every nerve ending in his body like ice. "Oh, shit," he muttered, sliding off the hood and ducking away along the row.
"Too late, I'm afraid."
The other Immortal was watching him go, mild amusement in his voice. Methos stood fully upright, trying to drag his dignity back together. "Do I know you?" The only good thing about this was the lack of a sword on show - so far.
"No, I don't think you do. Louis Anglade, if it makes any difference."
"Not much, no," Methos answered truthfully. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"So I gathered," Anglade replied dryly.
"Fine." Methos smiled, hoping it came off as genuine. "So I can be on my way and you can head off in the other direction."
"James Forell was my friend."
There didn't seem to be a lot he could say to that. 'I'm sorry' wasn’t really appropriate, since he was no such thing.
"I did try to talk him out of it, by the way," Anglade continued.
"You should have tried harder." Methos kept his voice low, but a slight sarcastic edge crept in.
Anglade shook his head. "He wouldn't be persuaded."
"I noticed that." Methos couldn't decide where this encounter was heading. "I take it you have some reason for telling me all this?"
"A long time ago," Anglade said slowly, "I made Forell a promise - if he died first, I would try to avenge him."
"You don't agree with what he did. All I did was defend myself." Hopefully, this man would be a little more open to reason than James had been.
"I know." Anglade seemed somehow a little sad. "But I made a promise."
"Oh, wonderful." Methos let his anger and frustration show through fully. "Another idiot keeping promises to the dead. I really don't think the dead care one way or the other."
"Perhaps not," Anglade admitted. "I care, though." He slowly withdrew his sword from his coat as he spoke.
Methos unsheathed his own sword in wary response, but kept it pointed at the floor for now. "I really don't want to kill you." How often had he trotted out that line? And how often had it actually made a difference?
"Nor I you," the other man replied. "Ironic, isn't it? But it is what we do." And with that, he launched his attack.
That first charge was reckless, undisciplined, betraying his opponent's lack of skill. Methos parried effortlessly, backing away along the row of cars as Anglade pushed on brashly. Could this be some kind of act? He was wary of taking one of those many tempting openings, wondering if he would find a trap slamming shut across his neck.
His Ivanhoe glinted in the spotlights from the fence, flashing back and forth with simple grace. Anglade continued to attack with speed and bravery, completely untempered by any real skill or forethought.
Methos dodged around the side of a Plymouth, keeping the car between them as Anglade tried to follow. "How old are you?" he demanded.
Anglade gave him a cold smile. "Old enough to know how to kill."
"Only if you're very lucky," Methos remarked, continuing to circle around his metal shield. "Were you his student?"
Anglade came at him, leaping over the hood of the Plymouth and leaving his legs totally exposed in the process. Methos didn't take the strike, retreating again instead as he thought. What were the possibilities here? There was no cover to run to, nowhere to disappear, and he wasn't in the mood for a lengthy chase across Chicago. But he could hold this kid off indefinitely until they were disturbed. "I could have killed you half a dozen times already. Don't be such a bloody fool."
Anglade was panting with the tension and the effort it took to maintain those erratic swings. He drew back, golden sweat glowing in droplets on his forehead. "How long are you going to keep running away?"
"As long as it takes," Methos replied mildly. He casually defended against Anglade's sudden rush. If this idiot thought he'd be distracted, he was very wrong. He sliced his blade deeply across the man's forearm for good measure. Maybe he'd have second thoughts.
Anglade dropped his sword with a cry, wrist hanging limp without tendons. He clutched at his arm with his other hand. "Like you did with Forell? You're the coward he always said you were." Genuine anger was coming from the young Immortal now - response to the fight or to being patronised? Methos honestly didn't care.
"You can think what you like. You're entitled to your opinion."
Anglade reached for his fallen weapon and straightened up again as the crackling energy inside him did its work. "I'll keep coming, always, like Forell did. I’ll make you fight."
A point worth considering, Methos thought as he blocked the latest frenzy of blows Anglade launched at him. He couldn't help recalling his own words to Mac on the subject.
The sound of running footsteps echoed across the lot. He didn't dare risk a glance sideways while Anglade was attacking with such ferocity. The kid had to notice it soon, and then he'd pull back.
"Police! Freeze!"
Oh, shit. Vecchio.
Anglade, hesitated, distracted, looking away to the source of the voice. Methos looked too - Vecchio was staring fixedly at Anglade, the gun pointing that way as well. "Drop the sword!" There was no surprise on Vecchio's face, none of the shock you'd expect at finding a friend sword-fighting outside the United Center. Damn - Vecchio already knew then; he knew far too much.
Anglade made a move with his sword - to resume the attack or to sheathe it? Methos was never entirely sure and in the end it didn't matter.
"Freeze, or I'll shoot!"
He ignored Vecchio's voice. He wasn't prepared to be hunted again. He clashed blades with Anglade once, then ended it simply and cleanly.
He looked down at the fallen body by his feet. He felt regret, but not really for Anglade; Immortality wasted on a fool when so many far more deserving withered away at the end of a short life.
He looked over to where Vecchio stood frozen, eyes huge.
And then the force of the Quickening racked him, lancing his body with arrows of pure, molten heat that poured along his stretched nerves. It overrode all his own signals to his muscles, leaving him in a ball of convulsions on the floor and greying his vision with the whirling mists of energy. Dimly he heard the crack of exploding glass through the roar of the wind as the nearby cars submitted to the unbearable strain of the Quickening.
He staggered to his feet as the last of the fire finally ebbed into calm in his body. Damn, two in little more than a week was too much. He looked again towards Vecchio, nearer now, staring at him with a very odd expression. Holding that .45 semi in both hands. Pointing it at him.
And Vecchio pulled the trigger.
*****
He woke up gradually, dizzily, lying on the cold concrete floor. No sudden adrenaline-driven start, so he'd been unconscious, not dead. He shifted his hand to push himself up and felt the glass fragments dig sharply into his palm. His chest and his head hurt like hell. He sat up slowly, looking around.
Vecchio stood watching about ten feet away, looking openly relieved. He still held the gun.
"You shot me, you bastard!" He was more shocked than really angry - he'd been shot many times before, even by friends, but he hadn't expected the betrayal from this man.
Vecchio wasn't showing any signs of guilt, cold voice carrying across the lot. "You lied to me. If you'd told me the truth, I wouldn't've had to do it."
Methos tried to bring his legs round beneath him and moaned. "Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"
"Yeah, I do." Vecchio spoke the words softly now. "Hurts like a bitch. But I'm guessing yours won't hurt as long as mine did, right?"
He nodded, then wished he hadn't as the pain pulsed through his head. He must have given it quite a whack when he went down. He indicated the gun still tight in Vecchio's hand. "Are you planning on shooting me again?" he asked wryly.
"No."
"Then do you mind putting that away?"
Vecchio's expression was almost wary and he hesitated before he answered. "If someone with a sword cut your head off while you were lying there, I wouldn't be talking to you now, right?"
"No," Methos admitted.
Vecchio nodded. "So until you're back on your feet, I keep hold of the gun."
Methos tried his legs again and managed to get himself upright this time, breathing already a lot less painful. "Thanks." It came out only half-sarcasm. Vecchio was still looking at him like he was some kind of bug. "Anything else you haven't worked out yet?" he asked pointedly, more genuine anger leaking through as the surprise and the pain faded.
"Plenty. I'm just not sure I wanna know." Vecchio reached down to the floor and then handed him his sword. "I'll bet you're not even Adam Pierson, are you?"
Methos sheathed his sword in his coat lining with the easy grace of long practice. "Not really. But it's as good a name as any other. And a lot less trouble than the original one."
Vecchio holstered his gun in silence.
Methos had had enough of the cold treatment; yet another one rushing to pass judgement on his life. Well Vecchio would just have to join the bloody queue. "What? You've seen how I live now and you don't like it?" he asked viciously. "Well you can't blame me for that! I told you to keep the hell away from my business, but you just couldn't let it go, could you?" He shook his head. "And you wonder why I didn't tell you the truth," he added in disgust.
Amazingly, Vecchio didn't respond in kind, speaking slowly, eyes closed. "That woman. She was telling the truth."
"Not my problem. I'm not responsible for what happened to her." He heard the defensiveness in his own voice and detested it.
This time Vecchio did let go. "She was right about the whole damn lot of it and you let me lock her away with the loons! That's a fucking lousy thing to happen to somebody!"
"She deserved it! She bloody well shot me!" What the hell was Vecchio thinking, defending her? In just a few short moments Methos had become the demon of the piece, the automatic mortal reaction to stick together against the unknown on display once again.
"So did I, just now," Vecchio pointed out, voice sharp, accusing. "So what are you gonna do to me, huh?"
The question froze Methos for a moment, bitterness subduing the fury. "She shot me in a street full of people," he said, closer to his normal tone. "It was malicious, calculated; she wanted to expose me. You do have some idea of what would happen to me if people knew?"
Vecchio didn't reply, watching him intently, studying. The certainty drained from his face, leaving only confusion and doubt.
"I think I've had enough accusations for one day." Methos spoke the words carefully, glacial tones disguising the turmoil that seethed beneath. Why the bloody hell had he expected anything different? The reaction was all too predictable, no matter who the friend. "I'm going to the hotel to get cleaned up." He strode away towards the gates, fully healed now and able to make a dignified exit.
"Hey, Adam." Vecchio's voice stopped him after a few steps. He turned to face the cop. "What are you gonna do if I tell people about you?"
Methos stared at him for long seconds, but his face was blank, unrevealing. "Are you planning to?" he asked finally.
Vecchio seemed to consider that, tilting his head to one side. "I guess not," he admitted. "I don't think I'd be believed, any more than Jenny Stamford was."
Methos smiled sadly at him. "Then it doesn't come up, does it?" He headed for the gate before turning back a second time. "Would you have believed me? If I'd told you the truth, that everything she said was real?"
Vecchio shook his head slowly. "I doubt it."
"Then it didn't change anything."
"Yeah, I know."
Now Vecchio just looked defeated. Methos studied the cop with some sympathy. Been there, done the guilt thing. "Why don't you come back to the hotel? We can have a couple of beers, watch a really bad movie. Maybe we can come up with a way to persuade her to keep quiet, get her out of the hospital."
Vecchio visibly snapped himself out of the melancholia, that deceptively intelligent mind making a typically fast decision. "No - I'll figure something out. You were right. I'm not getting any deeper into whatever the hell goes on in your life. I don't wanna deal with any more days like this." He waved a hand vaguely at the devastated vehicles, the headless corpse on the floor.
"Okay." Methos saw no reason to argue with his decision. "I suggest you don't hang around here too much longer, people will have seen the light show."
He gave the cop a last, genuine smile and jogged away.
It was a long taxi ride back to the Sheraton.
*****
Vecchio fell straight back into the usual work routine - the occasional bouts of action and one hell of a lot of paperwork. Welsh dumped yet another new partner on him. This one might even work out, he thought grudgingly after a few days. She knew when to keep her damn mouth shut and didn't spend half her life lecturing him on procedure.
Frannie pissed him off, kept bugging him about when he was going to bring Adam round again. He told her that he'd left town and wouldn't be back. She wanted to know where he'd gone and whether he'd stay in touch. He swore at her and then felt bad about it, bought her some flowers.
He really wanted to talk to Fraser; he missed him like hell. But it might take days for a message to reach him, wherever he was in that frozen desert, and a phone call wasn't going to cut it.
Not that he'd talk to him anyway, not about this, he admitted ruefully. He'd always been good at not saying what was on his mind around Benny. But sometimes it sure helped to have a friend around to not talk about that kind of stuff with.
He called round at Huey's club later that week - he'd promised he would and it kept Frannie out of his hair for an evening. So to speak. He wasn't the world's best conversationalist, though, and it didn't take Huey long to pick up on it.
"Let's have it, Vecchio. What went on with the Pierson guy?"
"Whaddaya mean?" Vecchio didn't feel up to this conversation.
"I mean the last time you were here you couldn't shut up about him, and now you won't say more than two words about anything." Huey gave him a piercing look. "You had to arrest him, didn't you?"
"Nah, nothing like that." Vecchio pulled at his beer.
"Ray, you're not getting out of here till you tell me, so just give in gracefully," Huey grinned.
Vecchio smirked. "Since when did I ever do that?"
"Never," Huey acknowledged brightly. "So I'm ready to sit here all night."
"Hell, you would too," he accused.
"Damn straight."
He sighed. "Nothing much to tell," he said, putting all the conviction he could muster into the lie. "I was right, there was something a bit weird about him."
"Weird like what? You're not gonna get away with half an answer." Huey seemed genuinely intrigued - Vecchio guessed a cop's brain never stopped being nosey, even after you got out of the force.
"Aw, he was just too paranoid, you know? All that shit about the phones and the government conspiracies got a bit much after a while." Vecchio elaborated on the tale grudgingly - he hated lying to Huey, but the truth wasn’t going to happen.
"He creeped you out, huh?"
"No, not creeped, exactly. More confused." Vecchio somehow felt the need to defend Pierson, not wanting to leave Huey thinking he was a complete freak. Which, of course, he was, he thought wryly, just not in that way.
"But you liked him anyway?" Huey prompted.
"Yeah, I guess I did," he admitted.
"And he isn't a criminal?"
"No more than you and me." That was close to the truth so far as he knew - what he'd seen sure as hell looked like self-defence. There was the small matter of not reporting the body to the authorities, but since the police were already there in the form of himself, that was a technicality. And he hadn't exactly been truthful about the night's events in his own report.
"So what's your problem?" Huey interrupted his reverie.
"Huh?"
"You got friends I don't know about?"
Vecchio shook his head and swallowed another mouthful of cheap beer.
"Vecchio, not many people at the Two-Seven could've spent two years with Fraser without strangling him," Huey smiled. "I would've figured you could deal with any amount of weird."
"Not this time, Huey. You're just gonna have to trust me on that." Vecchio couldn't stop thinking about what he'd seen. And what he'd done.
Faced with the impossible, he'd been totally unable to deal - he'd pulled the cloak of the Bookman tight around him and he'd shot Adam Pierson. Shot to wound rather than kill, but he'd shot him because he needed to know the truth, because Adam would never tell him.
And then he'd stood in horror as another friend lay on the ground, pooling blood on the concrete. He'd been about to call 911 when he'd seen it change, blood flow stopping as the flesh closed over. He'd been damn sure it was going to happen, else he wouldn't have shot him - but that didn't change the way it felt to have done it.
He'd lashed out at Pierson then, hating him for putting him in that situation in the first place. But not half so much as he terrified himself for letting it happen.
*****
Vecchio pulled back fast from the window, suddenly feeling very exposed.
The tip off had been anonymous, vague, low priority. He was rarely grateful for his paranoia hangover, but it made him treat every situation as highly suspect, and right now he was convinced that was the only reason he hadn't died yet today.
"Laura?" he hissed. Back to the wall, he scanned the empty dockside - no sign of movement, just a hundred places to snipe from. "Laura?" Just a little louder. "Where the hell are you, kid?"
"Here." His partner crept round the corner of the warehouse, keeping her voice as low as his.
Vecchio's tension lessened just marginally. "C'mon, we've gotta get the hell outta here." Where to was another question, he thought as he considered the expanses of concrete and square warehouses. Back to the car might prove unhealthy.
"What's going on?" Laura demanded, keeping her own body pressed against the building.
"That's Alex Carpenter in there." She turned to look at him then, eyes widening. He shook his head at his own stupidity. "Christ, I can't believe we got this far without getting shot."
"Cover round the corner," Laura suggested. "Old fishing net. Smells a bit fishy, but – “
"Good idea." He managed to dredge up a smile.
They crept round the side of the warehouse at a sort of crouching jog. Too fast and they'd make loud, echoing footsteps, but every second exposed was another chance of being spotted by one of the lookouts. They had to be around somewhere. They always were.
He reached the abandoned netting with profound relief and wriggled under one edge, drawing it over them as Laura joined him. Only then did he swap his gun for his cell and call for back-up. They sat in terse silence, breathing.
Laura looked at him. "I thought you'd want to go in," she whispered.
Vecchio gave her a baleful glare. "You don't wanna believe everything you hear about me."
"Like what?"
And damn it if that innocent look wasn't just like Pierson's. He glared harder, but she wouldn't be intimidated.
He sighed. "Hell, kid, I know I got a reputation. Half of 'em think I'm crazy, the ones that don't just hate me for doing things my own way."
"You forgot the bit about hating partners and always going it alone," she suggested helpfully.
"Yeah, that too," he conceded. "But I'd have to be nuts to go in there."
"Glad you think so," she muttered to him. "I was wondering what the hell Welsh had landed me with."
"Don't get too confident," he groused. "Now shut the fuck up."
It was only a few very long minutes before he heard the sound of chopper blades. The cars would be on their way too, no sirens, sealing everything off before the drug deal was disturbed.
The sound of automatic weapon fire exploded from somewhere over to the left. Someone found one of the lookouts then, he thought wryly. He peered out from under the nets as the cars rolled up nearby.
"Time to go."
Laura crawled out after him, following him towards the nearest blue-and-white. Vecchio waved his badge at the cops and stayed to watch the mopping up, but didn't get involved in the actual arrests. That was best left to the cops who were wearing vests. When he first came back to the job after getting shot, it had been tempting to wear one full time, but he resisted - that way was a long slide down.
The mood back at the station was jubilant - they had Carpenter, over half the names on his 'known associates' list and seven kilos of H. No amount of follow-up paperwork could dampen that. When the shift got off, many of them headed for a bar just down the street from the Two-Seven.
It was a typical cop celebration - noisy, becoming downright silly, helped along by large quantities of booze. Less than two hours before the singing started - getting close to the record there, Vecchio noted. He was a long way from drunk, but a few beers had loosened up the knots in his guts for the first time in a week. Enough so that Laura noticed, said laughingly that she liked him better this way.
As the impromptu party began to break up, Laura went home to her husband.
Vecchio could only go back home to his mother and sisters; forty years old and that's all he had to show for his life. There seemed to be a hell of a lot missing.
Huey, of course, was a godsend - strange given how they'd started out hating each other. That changed relationship was another of Fraser's footprints on his life. But Huey had the club, and in the end was far closer to Dewey, who drove Vecchio nuts.
And Huey was right. He'd clicked with Pierson in that same fast, simple way he had with Fraser. The way that had made him discharge himself from hospital and follow Fraser to Canada into an ambush of homicidal thugs when he'd only known him three days. Despite the fact that Fraser was the weirdest cop on the planet, or so he'd thought until he met Turnbull.
He contacted the Sheraton from his desk at the Two-Seven, but wasn't surprised to find that Pierson had checked out. He hadn't left an address. Vecchio replaced the phone with a resigned clunk. He could always double check that Washington state driver's license - but everything else on it was a lie, why believe the address? Hell, he didn't even know if the license was genuine; if he started asking questions about a license that didn't officially exist, Adam would find himself in some deep shit the next time he met a traffic cop.
He ought to be relieved. He'd decided Pierson was bad news.
Anyway, if the guy had left Chicago, what was the point? It didn't matter how much you connected with someone if they moved to the other end of the continent, he reflected bitterly.
He ought to be relieved.
So how come he just felt like he'd thrown away another friend?