Easier Said Than Done
Sue Kelley


Title: Easier Said Than Done
Author/pseudonym: Sue Kelley
Email address: sknkodiak@aol.com
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
Date: 28/07/00
Archive: Yes to 7th Dimension
Archive author: Yes
Archive email address: Yes
Series/Sequel:
Category: Drama,
Crossovers: The Sentinel
Author's website: http://members.aol.com/sentnlgde/sue/sue.htm

Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize in this story are in all
liklihood not owned by me. I am making no money from this story and no
harm or insult to the characters or their original creators is
intended.

Notes: A slightly different version of this story was orignally printed
in Highland Blades 4. This fanzine is still available through the
publisher, Linda Hutchinson. Contact LHGraphics@aol.com. Thanks to
Wendy Myers, Dawn Cunningham and Melanie Riley for the beta read. Also
thanks to Sandra MacDonald and Judy Schultz for their help and
encouragement.

Summary: On the run from an assassin, an injured Richie is taken in by
Blair Sandburg.

Warnings: none



Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 1/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Easier Said Than Done -- A Highlander/The Sentinel Crossover
By Sue Kelley sknkodiak@aol.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Are you trying to tell me that we can't file a Missing Persons
Report?"

Detective Leonard Powell of the Seacouver Police Department tried not
to glower at the well-dressed couple sitting opposite him.  The man,
tall, well-built, with longish dark hair tied back, had asked the
question. His face was completely expressionless, but something about
the cold set of his dark eyes and the way his accent had deepened
indicated he was angry.

No such subtle clues were needed to detect the emotional state of the
willowy blonde woman with him.  Anger and something else: fear?  guilt?
darkened her beautiful face as she snapped, "This is unbelievable! You
are the police, are you not?  You are supposed to look for missing
people--"

"I didn't say we wouldn't look for him," Powell broke in.  "Look,
MacLeod, Ms. Noel, you can file a Missing Persons Report on Richie Ryan
if you want to.  All I'm saying is maybe it would be better to wait for
a few days--"

"He has been gone for *five* days!" snapped the woman.  "That is what
you told us four days ago.  Just how much longer do you suggest we
wait, Detective?  Until you retire so you won't have to be bothered
looking for him?"

"Tessa," the man remonstrated quietly.  His eyes never left Powell's
face.

Powell took a deep breath and tried once more to reason with the
couple. "Look.  You've said nothing is missing from your house or your
shop. Ryan is eighteen now.  You told me last time you were in, you had
some kind of disagreement with him."  He didn't miss the quick glance
the couple exchanged.  "Maybe Richie is just lying low for a few days. 
Or maybe he decided to move on."

"Without his clothes?  His paycheck?"  the woman demanded.

"His CD player?" the man added, smiling briefly.  His face became
severe again.  "I might have believed that the first few days,
Detective, but not this long.  Tessa is right.  He would have come back
for his things, at least."

"You've known him for what?  A couple of months?  I've known him for
five years--"

"You've been arresting him for five years.  We've lived with him.
There's a difference," the man said flatly.

'Yeah, and I'd sure give a lot to know just why he was living with you.
Why you'd take in the kid who tried to rob your store...  You and Ryan
come from completely different worlds,' the police detective thought.

Opening a drawer, Powell pulled out a blank form and filled in the
date. "Okay, we'll file the report.  But it's only fair to warn you,
every cop in this city is out looking for whoever assassinated Senator
Bolt. There's not going to be a lot of concern over one missing
eighteen year old who in all likelihood left of his own free will."

** ** **

Tessa didn't say anything until after they had pulled up in the alley
behind the building that housed both the antique shop and their living
quarters.  "The report won't do any good, will it?"

"It might," Duncan MacLeod answered, coming around to open her door.
"If nothing else, if we hire a private detective that's the first thing
they'll tell us to do.  This way it's already done."  He inserted his
key into the lock and opened the door to reveal a small brick
passageway. Tessa preceded him in the door and immediately turned to
the left, then went up a short flight of stairs to the kitchen.  Going
directly to the refrigerator, she opened it with a look of desperate
hope on her face.

MacLeod, seeing her face crumple, cursed under his breath.  "It's still
there?"  he asked, knowing the answer.  Tessa nodded and pulled out the
plate holding the triple-layer chocolate-chocolate cake.  Richie's
favorite. If he'd come home, even if he'd just rushed in to gather his
belongings, he would have grabbed a piece of the cake.

MacLeod went to the woman and wrapped his arms around her tightly.
"Tessa," he said quietly, "this wasn't your fault, you know."

"I know, but-- Duncan, do you think Felicia found him?  Do you think
she--"

"No," MacLeod cut her off firmly.  "That's not her way.  She got Richie
on that beach to serve as bait."  He forced out the next words, "I'm
not saying she *wouldn't* have killed him, but she would make damn sure
I knew he was dead.  Otherwise there would be no point."

Tessa nodded and buried her head in his shoulder.  Duncan was glad she
couldn't see his face.  He couldn't tell her the whole truth.  If
Immortal Felicia Martins had sensed Richie was a pre-immortal--

'She didn't,' he tried to reassure himself.  'Not all of us can.  And
she never showed the slightest sign of noticing anything different
about him-'

A noise startled both of them.  It was the bell on the front door of
the antique shop, but the "Closed" sign was in the window and any
deliveries would have gone around to the back.

The bell jingled again.  Tessa pulled away, her face lighting up.
"Maybe it's Richie!" she said, leaving the room before MacLeod could
remind her Richie had a key.  Still he followed, in time to see her
open the door to a rather portly man in a cheap suit.

 MacLeod almost groaned aloud.  "Commissioner Comanski.  To what do we
owe the pleasure?"  he inquired sarcastically.

"Have you found Richie?"  Tessa broke in.

"Richie Ryan?  What do you mean, have I found him?  Where is he?"

MacLeod sighed.  "Richie has been missing for several days," he
answered coldly.  "We filed a Missing Persons Report on him this
morning."

"Oh."  Irv Comanski loosened his tie; he was sweating in spite of the
fact the day was cool.  "I hadn't heard.  I'm sorry," he added
belatedly at Tessa's glare.  "No, I haven't seen Ryan since you brought
him down to the morgue last week to identify--" he broke off and
flushed uncomfortably.

"The missing corpse," Tessa finished for him.  "By the way, did you
ever find it?"

She knew they hadn't.  The "corpse" had been Felicia Martins. Not two
hours after Richie had returned from his fruitless trip to the morgue
she had staggered into this shop covered in blood, setting in motion a
chain of events that had led to Richie's disappearance.

Comanski ignored the question.  "I'm investigating the murder of
Senator Markham Bolt.  You've heard about it?"

It would have been impossible *not* to have heard about it.  The news
had been full of little else for two days, since the popular politician
had been discovered in an abandoned warehouse near Seacouver's
Waterfront district with two bullets in his brain.  Nearing the end of
his first term in office, Bolt had recently received quite a bit of
coverage for his anti-organized crime stance and it was widely assumed
his death was the result of a gangland "hit".  The Bolt family was
wealthy and prominent in the state of Washington: having founded the
city of Seattle in the early 1800s, and Markham Bolt himself had been
very well-respected. His murder in Seacouver, 180 miles south of his
home in Seattle, had served to focus unwanted attention on the town and
its police force.

"You knew the gentleman, MacLeod?"  Comanski asked.

Duncan shook his head.  "I've done business with members of his family,
his grandmother mostly but, as far as I know, I've never met him."

With the air of a conjurer Comanski whisked a plastic evidence bag out
of his pocket and presented it to MacLeod.  Inside was a receipt from
the antique shop, dated three weeks previously, for a set of Venetian
goblets.  The handwriting was Tessa's.  She spoke up, "I remember the
sale, but I didn't pay much attention to the customer.  I didn't
recognize him."

"What's your point, Commissioner?"  Duncan asked.

"Just that it seemed a little coincidental: this receipt in his pocket;
his car found in a parking garage not a block from here and his body,"
Comanski said this last as triumphantly as if he'd proved something
significant, "found in a warehouse less than fifty yards from one owned
by a Duncan MacLeod."

Duncan raised his eyebrows.  "That wasn't on the news.  But
coincidences do happen, Comanski."

"And they seem to happen a lot where you're concerned, Mr. MacLeod,"
Comanski said, pointedly stressing the "Mister".  He looked back and
forth between the two of them.  "Are you sure neither one of you saw
him Monday?  He left his home in Seattle at ten that morning and the
body was found around three a.m. Tuesday."

Tessa shook her head.  "We didn't open the shop Monday at all." Duncan
had driven around town trying to find Richie and Tessa had gone to the
police station in the morning and spent the afternoon calling
hospitals, shelters and what few of Richie's friends she knew about.

Comanski waited, but neither of them had anything else to say.  He
shrugged and turned to leave.  "If anything does occur to you, you know
how to contact me.  Oh, and good luck finding the kid."

As soon as the door slammed behind the corpulent policeman, Duncan
gently grabbed Tessa's hand.  "Tess, when you've been looking for
Richie, did you ever drive by the warehouse?"

She shook her head, eyes wide.  "No, Duncan, I'm not even sure just
where it is."  Tessa had never been there.  Although for tax purposes
the old three-story building was used for storage of merchandise for
the shop, in actuality MacLeod used it as a sparring ground, and more
than once it had been an actual battleground.

"I never looked there either," MacLeod said, turning to run for the
back door.  "Damn!  How could I have overlooked something so obvious?"

** ** **

Richie shivered in the cold wind.  He pulled his jacket tighter about
him as he crossed the street and entered the dingy diner.

The inside was bright with lights in contrast to the gloomy outdoors,
where an approaching storm had darkened the late October sky. Richie
glanced around the place.  Cleaner than he would have expected from the
outside.  A long counter separated the dining area from the kitchen. It
was quiet and almost empty; Richie had timed it well.  Too late for
lunch, but still a couple of hours from the dinner rush.  Only one
booth was occupied, a couple of guys sitting on the cracked green
leather upholstery and talking to each other.  The one facing the door
looked up and Richie felt himself speared by pale blue eyes.

'Cop,' his instincts hissed.

Richie swallowed and thought about leaving, but the clawing in his
stomach and the appetizing smell of food conspired to make him stay.
He slid into a seat at the counter just as the swinging door opened and
a middle-aged blond waitress wearing too much blue eye shadow came out
carrying a tray of food.  She caught sight of Richie.  "Just make
yourself comfortable," she greeted him, her smile a flash of white
teeth surrounded by bright-pink lipstick.  "I'll be right with you."

Richie nodded and pulled a menu from the metal clip that held it.  His
hands shook, both from the cold and from hunger.  He'd had nothing
since a package of Twinkies the day before. Mentally tabulating the
money he had left he decided on beef stew,  hot rolls and milk.  He
longed for a Coke or even better, a Dr. Pepper, but the milk would be
more nutritious. Tessa would be proud of him.

'Don't think about Tessa.  Don't think about Mac.  Just another screw
up in the long line of Richie Ryan disasters.'

The waitress stepped in front of him and plunked down a full coffee
cup. The dark fluid smelled heavenly, but Richie protested, "I was
going to get milk."

"Coffee's on the house," the waitress said easily.  Up close she was
older than she first appeared--closer to sixty than forty--but her face
and voice were friendly.  "You look like you could use something to
warm you up."  She looked pointedly at the jacket Richie still wore.
"I can turn up the heat."

Richie stared at her, then felt himself flushing.  "No...no, that's
okay." He ordered quickly, then shrugged out of his jacket.  Glancing
around, he noticed the cop-type in the corner was looking right at him
and he forced himself not to turn away hastily.  For once in his life,
the police had no reason to be after him.  He caught sight of the other
guy now and frowned at the long dark hair, the bright green shirt and
paisley vest. 'Guy must be an informant or an undercover narcotics cop
or something; those two are about as opposite as they can be!'

"Here you go, Hon." The waitress deposited a basket of hot rolls and
containers of butter and honey in front of him.  "Your beef stew will
be up in a minute."

** ** **

"Jim, what are you staring at?"

"That kid that just came in," Detective Jim Ellison answered.  Before
he could stop him, the man sitting opposite had twisted around for a
look.

"What about him?"

"I don't know... something about him seems... wrong."

Blair Sandburg looked at Jim's expression, an interested light flaring
in his own deep blue eyes.  "Wrong?  What?  Something that your senses
tell you?  Which one?  Sight?  Smell?  Sound?--"

Jim held up a hand to stem the excited flow of words.  "Easy, Sandburg.
I'm not sure--" He shook his head.  "I don't know."

"Concentrate, man," Blair Sandburg's voice changed, becoming deeper,
soothing.  "Think back, the door opens, the kid comes in--"

Jim closed his eyes, visualizing the scene as Blair spoke.  "Not sight,
not smell,   sound!"  He opened his eyes again, his expression
triumphant. "His heartbeat.  It jumped. "  He frowned suddenly.  "Just
as he saw us."  Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he looked over at the
counter again.

Blair sipped his coffee, trying to hide the smile on his face.  "Well,
you can look a little menacing, you know.  How's his heartbeat now?"
Then, as Jim frowned even more and stared across the room, Blair
reached across the table and lightly touched his arm.  "Don't try so
hard. Focus on him, but only focus your hearing."

Jim relaxed, letting the sounds around him in and then gradually
eliminating them one by one until only one was left.  After several
seconds he shrugged. "Seems okay now," he commented, digging into his
bowl of steaming chili smothered with cheddar cheese.

"Good," Blair answered automatically, his mind on his own thoughts.
'That's too slow, too cumbersome... he's got to be able to just focus
without opening his senses to all stimuli...'  He pulled his ever-
present notebook out of his backpack and started scribbling notes.
Ellison shook his head as he reached for the Tabasco sauce and added a
careful three drops to his bowl.  He tasted again, cautiously, then
grinned widely and took another spoonful.

"Next time I'll get onions too," he muttered, mostly to himself.  "Sure
you aren't hungry, Sandburg?  I'll even buy."

Blair shuddered, closing his notebook.  "No thanks."  He glanced around
for the waitress and pointed at his coffee cup.  "I'm glad food is
starting to taste good to you again, but how can you eat *that* stuff? 
I hate to think of what your serum cholesterol must be."

"One-twenty-nine," Jim answered frankly, scraping the last of the chili
from the bowl.  He looked up as the waitress arrived with a fresh pot
of coffee.  "Miss?  Another bowl, please?"  He grinned at the startled
expression on the younger man's face.  "Exercise, Sandburg.  You
oughtta try it sometime, instead of chasing after all those coeds--"

The door banged open again, letting in another burst of cold air.  Two
young toughs entered, swaggering in ripped jeans and tight tee shirts.
"Hey, chica," one of them bellowed at the waitress.  "A little service
here?"

"Just have a seat anywhere," she returned, disappearing into the
kitchen. Instead of sitting down, the new customers stepped close to
the cash register.  The red-headed kid looked up from his stew, then
looked away again, shifting in his seat.  Something fell from his
jacket pocket to the floor.  Jim, focusing his sight automatically,
noticed it was half of a used bus ticket.

Richie jumped when the door opened, looking around nervously.  He
relaxed. Tough guy wanna-be's.  He knew the type.  They'd try to buy
cigarettes, hassle the waitress when she demanded ID, and generally
make asses of themselves.  They must not have noticed the big guy in
the corner or they would have gone somewhere else to play their games.

The waitress flung the swinging door open, looked mildly surprised to
see the two guys still standing there.  "I said to have a seat."

"We don't want to eat here, Mamacita," the older and taller of the two
drawled.  "Just want a package of smokes."  He tossed a crumpled five-
dollar bill on the glass display case.

The woman stepped behind the cash register and looked at the two
sharply. "Let me see some ID."

The kid staggered back in mock-chagrin.  His friend sniggered, digging
his hands deep into the pockets of his threadbare denim jacket.
"Whatsamatter, mama, can't you see I'm of age?  Just gimme the smokes."

The waitress rolled her eyes.  "I am not your mama, Kid, and I'll be
glad to sell you cigarettes once you show me you're over eighteen."

So far the scene was playing out the way Richie had imagined it, but
now it took a horrific twist.  The younger kid yanked his hands out of
his pocket, the right one grasping a small black handgun.  "Okay,
bitch, keep the smokes, just give us all the cash in the drawer there."

"Jesse, whatcha doin' man?!" his partner half screamed, stepping back
toward the door.

Richie heard a deep voice snap, "Police!  Drop the gun!"  The guy from
the booth no doubt. 'I knew you were a cop,' he thought dizzily as he
saw the kid's gun stop shaking and aim at the terrified waitress.

Richie exploded into action.  He grabbed the heavy chromium napkin
dispenser from the counter and hurled it directly at the kid's face, at
the same time jumping from his seat and grabbing the hand that held the
gun. The gun discharged harmlessly in the air, the waitress screamed,
then Richie tightened his grip, forcing the gun down.

Out of the corner of his eye Richie saw the big guy approaching, his
gun covering all of them.  His long-haired friend was behind him,
looking shocked and a little nervous.  Richie changed his mind; the
younger guy couldn't be a cop; maybe not an informant either; he sure
looked as if this kind of thing didn't happen to him every day.

"Okay," Cop said, advancing very slowly.  "It's over, guys.  Hands up
in the air, everybody!"

The older thug and the waitress both immediately raised their hands.
Richie thought, 'Now this is typical.  I'm trying to be a good guy and
I'll probably get arrested for it!'  He still had hold of the younger
guy, but as he felt him relax, he started to let go.

"No way, pig!" the kid screamed, bringing his knee up.  He missed
Richie's groin, but still connected painfully with his thigh.  Richie
grunted in pain, but managed to grab the guy's arm again.  They did a
weird kind of two-step and then the kid pulled loose and shoved Richie
as hard as he could.  Richie staggered back, tried to regain his
balance, then felt himself fall.  His head connected hard with
something and the last thing he remembered was a burst of white light
behind his eyes and an explosion of pain.  Then everything went very
dark.

**  **  **

"What is it about you, man?"  Blair asked Jim as he knelt next to the
red-head.  "Do you just like, *attract* violence?"

Jim Ellison grinned cheerfully, securing the short kid's arms behind
his back with his handcuffs.  He only had the one pair but that was not
a problem; the bigger kid was crouched by the door crying and repeating
the Hail Mary in Spanish.  He wasn't going anywhere.  The waitress was
still screaming, but now at the cook who had come running out to see
what all the noise was about.  Jim stuffed his prisoner into one of the
booths and then stepped over to Sandburg.  "How's the kid?"

(Continued in part 2)




**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 2/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

"He's lucky that display case didn't shatter when he hit it, but he's
still out cold.  I don't know whether he fainted or what."

Jim frowned, his keen olfactory sense picking up a faint, familiar
smell. Blood.  He noticed a red smear on the sharp corner of the
counter and dropped to one knee beside the kid and Blair, turning the
kid's head very gently.  "Damn.  Looks like he hit his head."  He bent
over, one hand on the kid's throat, then straightened, pulling his cell
phone from one pocket.  "He's breathing okay, but his pulse is a little
shocky. See if you can find some ID; I'll call an ambulance."  One long
arm snaked over and grabbed the kid's jacket.  As Ellison tucked it
closely around the boy's shoulders, he felt something hard and metallic
in the pocket. It proved to be a key on a brown plastic ring with the
words "Madison Motel" and a number 17 on it in scratched white paint.
He frowned. "Madison Motel.  That's a block or so from here, near the
bus station." Remembering the piece of paper he'd seen fall to the
floor earlier, Jim stepped over and picked it up.  As he'd surmised it
was a bus ticket, one way to Cascade from Seacouver.

Blair had managed to get the kid's wallet out of his pocket and was
holding it as if he weren't sure what to do next.  Jim took it from
him, noticing almost absently that it looked new and fairly expensive. 
Inside was a driver's license in the name of Richard Ryan with a
Seacouver address. The picture and description matched the kid on the
floor.  A little more exploration revealed a voter's registration card,
sparkling white and new, a dog-eared Social Security card and a Blue
Cross card, all belonging to Richard Ryan; thirty six dollars and
change, a receipt from the Madison Motel made out to "Richie Smith" and
some snapshots.  Jim raised his eyebrows.  The bus ticket and a false
name on the hotel receipt could mean the young man was a runaway.  He
said as much out loud and Blair looked at him.

"How old is he?"

Jim had looked at the license, but hadn't paid much attention to the
birthdate.  He opened the wallet again.  "Hmm.  Well, he's eighteen,
but just barely.  His birthday was in September."  He frowned,
realizing that what at first looked like decorative stitching was in
actually a hidden pocket with something stiff inside.  "This is
interesting," he commented, pulling out a gold MasterCard.  "Issued
from State Bank of Seacouver."  He glanced up to see the look on
Blair's face.  "What is it?"

"It's just, I don't know, looking through his wallet seems a little
nosy."

Jim stared at the younger man.  "I'm a cop, Sandburg.  He's an
unconscious victim of a crime.  What if he were a diabetic or
something, or if he was allergic to some medication--?"

Blair held up a hand.  "Okay, okay, I'm sorry, man.  I just feel kind
of-- funny about it."

"Well, don't.  You didn't look through the wallet anyway, I did."  Jim
cocked his head, listening.  "I think that's the ambulance now."

A faint moan caused both of them to look down.  The kid's -- Richard
Ryan's --eyelids were fluttering and he moaned again.  After several
seconds the eyes opened and he looked up at Blair.  "Oh, my head."

Blair smiled.  "Hurts, does it?"  he asked.

"Don't try to move," Jim cautioned as the kid showed signs of wanting
to get up.  "There'll be an ambulance here in a minute to check you
out."

Blue eyes, a little darker than Blair's, widened suddenly.  "Ambulance?
No, no way.  I'm okay--"  He started to sit up, only to fall back with
a moan.

"Look, kid, Richard, I said don't move!"  Jim put his hand on the kid's
chest.  "You just need to relax.  Everything's going to be fine."

Ryan had his eyes closed tightly against the pain.  Blair patted his
shoulder reassuringly.  "Listen to him.  He used to be a medic.
Besides, if you don't listen he'll just yell louder until you do."

"Funny, Sandburg."  Without looking the Sentinel could tell the
screeching tires outside belonged to a patrol car.  "I'm going to take
our would-be gunman over there outside.  You stay here and don't let
Richard move around."  Blair nodded.

**  **  **

Duncan had been gone for over an hour and Tessa was pacing back and
forth, smoking one of her rare cigarettes and willing the cordless
phone to ring.

She'd taken the "Closed" sign out of the window, hoping that business
could provide a distraction; plus they'd been closed so much lately.
Finally the jangling of the bell announced a customer and she turned in
relief.

A man entered the shop.  Tall, slender, early forties, with hair of an
unusual silver blond color.  He moved easily in a dark suit and a long
overcoat that proclaimed Savile Row just by the cut and quality of the
material.  As he stepped near Tessa she caught the scent of expensive
cologne.

 "Can I help you?"

The man smiled, showing perfect white teeth.  He was close enough now
that she could see his eyes.  Green eyes, with no warmth in them.  Like
polished agate.

"Dear lady.  The pleasure would be mine, but I was looking for someone
else."  The voice was cultured, flavored with a faint accent that Tessa
couldn't place.  "I was in here a few days ago and a young man waited
on me."  He pulled a card out of his pocket and presented it to her
with a faint inclination of the head.

Tessa's breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the card.
"Richard H. Ryan".  Richie had had the cards made up and he had been so
proud of them that both Tessa and Duncan had refrained from teasing
him.

Tears stung her eyes and she turned away quickly, blinking them away.
"I'm sorry, Richie isn't here right now--" she stopped as something
occurred to her.  Turning, she looked at the man again.  "When did you
say you were here?"

The man shrugged.  "A few days ago.  The young man was showing me a
certain item; I decided to purchase it and I want to make sure he gets
the commission. When do you expect him back?"

Tessa felt her heart start to pound heavily.  The man was staring at
her as if he could see right through her.  Then his head came up and he
looked around with a wary expression on his face.  The expectant look
changed to something else and before she could react he had turned to
the door.  "Another time, dear lady," he said, flinging the door open
and running across the street, mindless of traffic.  She just caught a
glimpse of the car he got in--- it was a new-looking Mercedes--before
the door to the living quarters slammed open and Duncan stalked into
the room, sword drawn.  He surveyed the shop in a glance, then, seeing
she was alone, laid his sword down on one of the display cases and
rushed to her side.  "Who was it?  Did he try to hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine. I've never seen him before," Tessa replied, burying
herself gratefully in his arms.  "Duncan, he was looking for Richie.
He had this card and said that Richie had waited on him a couple of
days ago."

MacLeod stared at the scrap of paper in a kind of dawning horror.
"Damn."

"What?"  Tessa pushed away from him and stared into his face.  "Duncan,
what's wrong?"  Belatedly she remembered that he'd gone to the
warehouse. "Did you find something?"

"Yes.  Someone's been living there.  They built a fire, and there were
a couple of Dr. Pepper cans and some junk food wrappers about."

Tessa drew in a deep breath at the name of Richie's favorite drink.
"You think it was Richie?"

MacLeod hesitated, then reluctantly pulled something out of his pocket.
With horror Tessa saw it was identical to the business card the
stranger had brought in.  "Richie had some of those in his wallet," she
breathed.

"I know."

"So if Richie was there when Senator Bolt was killed--"

"He may have seen something, heard something."

"And you think that this man, this Immortal that was here, was the
killer?"

"It's possible.  Tessa, what did he look like?"

Tessa described the Immortal as best she could, including the cold
green eyes and the unusual hair, but Duncan shook his head.  "He
doesn't sound like anyone I've ever met," he said.

The anguished look on his face almost broke Tessa's heart.  "But Richie
must be all right!  I mean, this man was here looking for him, so he
must not know where he is either.  Duncan, shouldn't we call the
police?"

 "I don't know. Tessa, he's an Immortal!"

"But if the police think that Richie may have seen something, they'll
at least look for him!  And if we give them a description of the man
who came here--"

MacLeod frowned.  Finally he said, "You're right.  You call Comanski
and tell him we might have some information for him."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see if I can track down Connor.  Maybe he'll recognize an
Immortal by that description."

*** *** Richie was terrified.

He did *not* want to go to a hospital.  He wanted to get up and get out
of here, to go back to the bus station and get as far away as thirty-
six dollars would take him.  But every time he tried to move, either
the big cop guy or his long-haired friend would gently push him back
down, or his own whirling head would do the job for them.

When the paramedics came in they didn't listen to him either.  The big
guy, whose name, it appeared, was Ellison, flashed his badge and from
then on Richie might as well have been invisible.  Well, not invisible
exactly because all the activity centered around him, but *he* didn't
have any say about it.

The dizziness and the roaring in his ears got so bad that he closed his
eyes, just for a few seconds he thought, but when he opened them again
they had started an IV with some clear liquid in a bag.  The sight of
that huge needle stabbed into the crook of his arm made him even more
dizzy and he laid back again, vaguely surprised to discover he was
lying on a stretcher.

The young guy with the long hair stayed beside him, talking to him, and
when the paramedics picked up the stretcher to put it in the back of
the ambulance, he climbed in and sat by Richie's head.  One of the
paramedics climbed in too, and then the ambulance started moving with a
jolt.  The movement and the wailing siren merged with the pounding in
his head and he closed his eyes with a moan.

"Do you feel sick?" someone asked.  He couldn't tell if it was the
paramedic or the other man; he didn't know what he answered or even
*if* he answered, but hands rolled him over on his side.  Just in time,
too, as his stomach picked that moment to expel everything in it.

When it was over Richie fell back against the flat pillow under his
throbbing head.  "Damn," he muttered weakly, feeling cold tears
streaming down his face. "That cost me six bucks."

Somebody chuckled and he forced his eyes open to focus on a pair of
very blue ones looking down at him.  The guy from the diner.  He was
holding Richie's hand and Richie, oddly enough, felt grateful for it.

"Who are you?"  he croaked out.

"My name is Blair.  Blair Sandburg."  He smiled.  He had a very warm
smile.  Richie squinted at him, trying to figure something out.  "How
old are you?"

"Twenty-six," Blair answered promptly.  "How old are you, Richard?"

"Richie," the teen-ager corrected, then froze, feeling terror shoot
through him.  "How'd you know my name?"

"It was in your wallet."  Funny thing, the guy almost looked
embarrassed. "Is there anybody you want me to call when we get to the
hospital?"

"Mac..." Richie started, then he remembered and shut his eyes, trying
to force back the tears.  Not Mac, not Tessa.  They wouldn't want to
hear from him now, and it wasn't safe... 'It's not safe?  Why not?'

"Mac who?"  Blair asked insistently.  "What's the phone number?"

Richie tried to shake his head, which was a mistake.  He whimpered at
the pain spiraling through his skull, closing his eyes tightly again.
He heard voices, heard the word "hospital", and knew he had to get
away. He had to run!  But he was tied down and Blair was holding on to
his hand and he couldn't get free.  His stomach heaved again, and he
knew he was going to be sick but then the blackness came and with a sob
of relief he surrendered to it.

** ** **

Comanski wasn't at his desk.  The young man Tessa spoke with on the
phone said he would have the detective call her as soon as he returned.
He asked what the call was in reference to and she hesitated, then
simply stated she had found some information the Commissioner wanted.

Tessa made omelets, remembering that neither she nor Duncan had eaten
lunch.  MacLeod came out of his office and announced that his kinsman
Connor didn't recognize her description of the Immortal either.  Duncan
poured two glasses of wine as Tessa served the omelets.  They were just
sitting down to the table when the phone rang. Tessa jumped.

"It might be Comanski," Duncan commented.  Tessa nodded and reached for
the receiver.

It wasn't Comanski.  It was Powell, and his first words made her heart
leap into her throat.

"There's been a response on the Missing Persons Report you filed."

**  **  **

Blair Sandburg sat in the waiting area off the Emergency Room of
Cascade General, clutching the coat and a plastic bag containing the
effects of Richie Ryan.  The ER nurse had come out with the stuff
shortly after the gurney carrying the young man had disappeared around
the corner. Blair was politely, but firmly, detoured to the waiting
area and presented with a clipboard of paperwork to complete.  He
managed to fill out the top section using the information from Richie's
driver's license, then handed the papers and the Blue Cross card to the
ward clerk.

With bureaucracy satisfied for the moment, he went through Richie's
wallet, taking out everything, looking for a phone number or anything
that might indicate who "Mac" was.  He had no success with the first
quest, but hit paydirt on the second.  One of the snapshots, that
looked like it had been cut down from a larger picture, was of Richie
sitting on what looked like a fallen log.  A beautiful blonde woman was
seated next to him and a tall man with dark hair stood behind them, a
hand resting lightly on both of their shoulders.  The man and woman
were older than Richie, but they didn't look quite old enough to be his
parents. Blair flipped the picture over. "Me.  Mac and Tessa.  On the
Island," was written in surprisingly neat print, with very black ink.
Blair sighed, then stuffed the picture back into the wallet.  Pulling
out the driver's license, he walked over to the nearest pay phone.
Dialing long distance Information, he asked if there was a Seacouver
listing for a Richie, Richard or R. Ryan, giving the street address on
the license.  He wasn't too surprised that there wasn't.  Well, no real
problem there; Jim could access the police department computer to find
out the phone number that went with the license.

The nurse called his name and he looked up, then stood, gathering his
coat and Richie's along with the bag containing the wallet, the motel
key and another ring of keys.  The nurse didn't say anything, but
gestured for Blair to follow her.   He did and found himself outside a
curtained-off cubicle.  A harried-looking doctor greeted him and said
they were waiting on Radiology to come take some X-rays; that the young
man was in and out of consciousness, in considerable pain and highly
agitated.  The doctor obviously assumed Blair was a relative, or at
least a friend, and Blair didn't tell him any differently. He nodded
agreement when the doctor asked him if he would be willing to try to
calm the younger man down.

Richie's eyes were closed tightly when Blair slipped around the curtain
into his cubicle.  Dropping the coats in the corner, Blair came close
to the bed, smiling at the nurse who was recording Richie's vitals. The
IV was still going, there was an oxygen tube in his nose and a bank of
monitors chirping, humming and beeping.

The nurse finished writing in the chart and patted Richie's hand.  "Mr.
Ryan, your friend is here."  She said to Blair, "My name is Marcy.  If
you need me, just hit that red button there.  Or yell, I'll hear you."
Flashing a reassuring smile, she left, yanking the curtain closed
behind her.

"Mac?"  Richie asked hopefully.  He cracked his eyes open and looked at
Blair in confusion.  "You're not Mac."

"No.  I'm Blair.  Remember me from the ambulance?"

Richie moved his head slightly, closing his eyes.  "My head hurts," he
moaned.

The doctor had told Blair they were reluctant to give the boy anything
for the pain until they had an idea of what kind of injuries he had.
Blair said, "I know it hurts.  They're going to X-ray you soon and then
they'll be able to figure out what to do." 'I hope,' he added to
himself. Blair was not all that trusting of modern medical practices,
preferring a more natural, holistic approach. He decided to see if he
could get some information.  "Richie?  I tried to call your friend Mac,
but I don't know his number.  Can you tell me what it is?"

"Five three--" the boy started, then stopped.  "Mac doesn't want to
hear from me."  Even groggy and filled with pain, there was no
disguising the desolation in his voice.

"You sure about that?  What about," Blair remembered the woman in the
picture, "What about Tessa?"

Richie's eyes opened at that.  "I hurt her."

"You did?  How?"

The curtain jerked back and an orderly entered, pushing a portable X-
ray machine, the doctor Blair had spoken to right behind.  "Okay,
Richie," the doctor said, faking a cheerful voice, "We're going to take
some pictures and then we'll be able to dim the lights in here a little
bit.  That should ease your headache."

Blair started to step away from the bed and was surprised when Richie
grabbed at his wrist.  "Are you going to leave?"  There was no
mistaking the fear on his face.

"No, not if you don't want me to," Blair soothed.  "I'm just going to
step right outside and get out of the way, okay?  But I'll be right
there."

Richie held his eyes for a second and then nodded, laying back.  Giving
him a reassuring grin, Blair slipped out.

Jim Ellison was waiting for him.  He had gone onto the station while
Blair had accompanied Richie to the hospital, in order to do the arrest
report.  Glancing at his watch, Blair was surprised to note it was
almost six p.m.  He'd lost track of time sitting in the waiting room.

Ellison's normal poker face was creased with a cat-ate-the-cream look
that Blair recognized as meaning the detective was immensely pleased
about something.  "Hi, Chief," Ellison smiled.  "How's the kid?"

"Scared and in pain.  I'm not sure how much he's aware of what's going
on. What are you doing here?"

"Well, you need a ride home, don't you?  Or were you planning to walk
back to that demolition zone you live in?"

Blair hesitated.  "Thanks, but I think I'll stay around for awhile." He
rushed on, "Do you think maybe you could go back to the station and
track down the phone number for Richie's address?  I don't know if he
lives with this 'Mac' person he asked for--"

"It's 'MacLeod' and yes, he does."

"What?"  Blair stared at Jim, whose smug look deepened.

"After I got the juvenile delinquents booked, I called Len Powell. He's
a detective down in Seacouver; an old friend of Simon's."  Blair nodded
at the mention of  Simon Banks, the Captain of Major Crimes and Jim's
boss.

(Continued in part 3)




**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 3/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

"And?" he prompted.

"And before I even got the kid's name out of my mouth, Powell was
telling me there was a Missing Persons Report filed on him.
Apparently, the kid's an orphan, been in and out of foster homes and
shelters all his life.  Powell didn't go into a lot of details, but
somehow the kid ended up with a couple named Duncan MacLeod and Tessa
Noel.  Seems he disappeared several days ago after some kind of
argument and they've been frantic ever since.  Powell was going to call
them and I gave him my cell--"

A ringing sound from underneath his coat stopped him.  Ellison made a
face as he finished "--phone number."  He flipped the phone open.
"Ellison... Yes, Mr. MacLeod?"

** ** **

While Duncan was still on the phone with the Cascade policeman, Tessa
ran to their room and started throwing night things and toiletries into
a weekender bag.  She packed a change of clothes for both herself and
Duncan, then went down the hall to Richie's room and found some jeans,
a clean T-shirt, and a sweater, and put them into the bag together with
a couple of pairs of underwear and socks.  She carried the bag out to
the living room.  Duncan was still on the phone, with Powell this time,
canceling the Missing Persons Report.  He ended the conversation
hastily and hung up.  "I called the airport.  There's a small commuter
flight between Seacouver and Cascade, but it's already booked for
tonight. And it would probably take almost as long to fly into Sea-Tac
and rent a car, then drive to Cascade, as it would to just drive the
whole way. We should be able to make it in four hours, maybe less if
traffic isn't too bad around Seattle."

"Where is Richie?"

"Well, right now he's in the hospital."  Duncan reached for her hand to
reassure her.  "He was involved in an attempted robbery and he got
knocked in the head; apparently he's awake and talking so maybe it
isn't very bad."

"He tried to rob someone?"  Tessa was sad but not terribly surprised.
After all, they had met Richie when he tried to rob the antique store.
But Duncan shook his head.

"No, apparently he was something of a hero.  He kept a waitress from
getting shot."  He took the suitcase from her hand.  "I asked Detective
Ellison not to tell Richie we were on our way."

Tessa, who had been following him through the apartment, stopped dead.
"Why?"

"Because I don't think Richie is thinking right now, he's just
reacting. He's been reacting ever since Felicia staggered in here.
Plus, if he *did* see something the night Markham Bolt was killed, he's
likely to be in a panic."

Tessa had forgotten about the Immortal visitor.  "Oh, Duncan.  Do you
think Richie's in danger?"

"He should be safe enough.  No one but you and I, and now Powell, knows
where he is."

**  **  **

Jim Ellison closed his cell phone thoughtfully.  Blair had gone down
the hall for coffee and he accepted a styrofoam cup from the younger
man's hand.  "That's funny," he said aloud, taking a deep breath.  He
made a face as his taste buds were assaulted by a fluid that tasted
strangely like lineament.

"What's funny?  Is that MacLeod guy going to come here?"

"Yeah, he said he would be leaving right away.  But he doesn't want the
kid to know he's coming."

Blair frowned.  "Why not?"

"I don't know, he said something about Richie tending to run first and
ask questions later.  Seems real odd to me... I don't think that kid's
going *anywhere* for awhile--" He broke off as the sounds of yelling
pierced his ears.  One didn't need to be a Sentinel to hear it; Blair
turned too.  A nurse popped out of Richie's cubicle and looked around,
then spotted Blair and beckoned frenziedly for him.  Blair tossed his
coffee cup toward a trashcan and took off down the hall, Jim close on
his heels.

Richie Ryan had managed to pull himself to a sitting position and was
struggling to get off the bed.  The doctor was trying to gently shove
him back down with one hand while the other waved an X-ray film in the
air.  "Look, Richard, if you would just calm down--"

"I am *not* spending the night in this place.  You can't keep me here
against my will."

The doctor caught sight of Blair with Jim looming behind him and said,
"Mr. Sandburg, a little help here?  Richard... Mr. Ryan seems to think
he can leave."

"Mr. Ryan" was having great difficulty even maintaining his balance.
Blair hastened to other side of the bed and grasped his shoulder.
"Look, Richie, you need to relax."

"I won't stay here.  I can't stay here!"  Panic colored the kid's tone.
"Look, I'm eighteen, okay, I'm an adult.  I'll sign whatever papers you
put in front of me, but I won't stay here--"

"Why not?"  Jim interjected in his most reasonable tone.  Blair was on
one side of the kid and the doctor on the other; the detective stood at
the foot of the bed and stared the kid down.

Richie blinked, then winced, one hand flying to his head.  "I don't
have any health insurance."

"Yes, you do," Jim returned evenly.  "We found the card in your
wallet."

"It's been canceled," Ryan muttered hastily.

"No it hasn't," Jim said.  Actually, he had no idea whether it had or
not, but he could tell the kid was making up excuses.

The doctor waved the X-ray in front of Blair, who hadn't said anything.
"He has a concussion.  He could have a subdural hematoma or any number
of other things.  He needs to at least spend the night here, where we
can wake him up every few hours and make sure he doesn't slip into a
coma."

"That makes sense," Jim pointed out.  "Head injuries are nothing to
mess around with, kid."

The teenager had calmed a little, but he started struggling again at
Jim's matter-of-fact tones.  "I need to get out of here.  I'm not going
to go into a coma and I don't have a subdural tomato thing."  He glared
viciously at the doctor who was trying to inject something into his IV.
"Don't you dare!  I'm fine!  Just let me out of here!"

"You are *not* 'fine'," the doctor fired back.

Ellison thought this whole argument was academic; he could tell from
the pallor of Richie's face, as well as his erratic breathing and wild
heartbeat, that the kid was probably going to pass out soon.  He
doubted if he'd even make it to the door.  And once the kid was
unconscious the hospital staff could do whatever they wanted.  Before
he could point that out, though, another voice spoke up. "He can go
home with me," Blair volunteered.

"What?" Ellison, the doctor and Richie all said, in varying tones of
shock, fury and relief.

Blair shrugged and ignored Richie and the fuming detective, speaking
directly to the physician.  "Look, you said he needed to stay calm and
quiet, he obviously can't do that if he's fighting every minute about
being here.  I have the room and I know what to look for, I'll wake him
up every two hours and make sure he's responsive and if anything goes
wrong I only live about ten minutes from here."

"Sandburg, are you nuts?"  Jim bellowed.  No one paid any attention to
him.

"Man, that's nice of you, but--" Richie said weakly, finally relaxing
back on the bed.

Blair raised his eyebrows.  "It's either me or the hospital, Richie.
You try to dismiss yourself against medical advice and we'll just have
to follow you until you keel over, which should be somewhere around the
parking lot."  He jerked his head at Jim.  "You know he's a cop.  He
can arrest you for vagrancy and handcuff you to the hospital bed."

In spite of his fury, Jim had to suppress a smile. Give Sandburg his
due, he was a master at BS. Vagrancy.  Now that was a good one,
although since Richie Ryan apparently had taken a room at the Madison
Motel, he technically wasn't a vagrant.  But either the kid didn't know
that or Blair's self-assured tone convinced him otherwise, because he
gave Jim a wary look through sunken blue eyes and relaxed a little,
nodding his head.

"Okay," he said faintly.

"Okay?"  Blair repeated, although Jim couldn't tell if he was talking
to Richie or the doctor or both.

The doctor hesitated, glancing from Richie to Blair and back again. "It
would be for the best if he stayed here," he started, but he must have
seen the stubborn expression on the kid's face as well as Jim could.
"Okay," he surrendered.  "But you follow my instructions to the letter,
and *you,*" he continued, turning on Blair, "keep a close eye on him
and bring him back in if  he won't wake up, if he starts talking
strangely, *anything.*"

"Now wait a second," Jim broke in.  Blair and the doctor both glanced
at him like they'd forgotten he was even there.  "Can I have a word
with you, Chief?  Out in the hall, maybe?"

Blair nodded and looked back at the doctor.  "Is Richie ready to go?"

The man sighed in defeat.  "Let me put together some things you may
need, and then I'll start getting the paperwork in order."

Blair looked down at the kid in the bed.  "You just relax and
cooperate, okay?  I'll be right back."

***   ***

"Sandburg, are you nuts?"  Jim repeated as soon as they were away from
the green curtain.  "Hate to tell you this, Chief, but this isn't a
stray cat we're talking about here, it's a human being with what could
be a severe injury; a human being, by the way, whom you know *nothing*
about. He could be a axe-murderer or a con man or a --" words failed
the detective as all sorts of possibilities flooded his brain.

 Blair leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.
"And in all probability he's just a hurt kid who is all alone and
scared," he pointed out.  "You saw him, Jim, he can barely sit up, much
less heft an axe."

"And why exactly is he *your* responsibility, anyway?"  Jim demanded.

"Oh, that's priceless coming from you, Mr. Sentinel."  Jim jumped and
looked around, even though Blair's voice had deliberately been pitched
too low for anyone else to hear.  "We are all responsible for our
fellow denizens of Mother Earth."

Jim rolled his eyes.  "Oh, please!  In what free-love, new-age commune
did you learn *that* piece of crap?  Or is that what they teach in
Ph.D. school these days?"

Blair's eyes lit up, even though only a trace of a grin crossed his
face. "Actually, my mom taught me that a long time ago.  And she *is*
pretty new-age.  Look, Jim, he did keep that waitress from getting
shot; you said yourself that you couldn't have stopped that guy without
shooting him, so Richie in a way saved all three of you.  Besides, I
know what it's like to be all alone and sick in a hospital with no one
around."

"Oh?"  Jim raised his eyebrows and waited, but Blair clammed up.  With
a deep, heartfelt sigh, Jim shrugged.  "Fine.  Have it your way.  But
if he's spending the night with you, I am, too.  Besides, I was a medic
in the Army, I'm fairly sure I know more about head injuries than you
do."

"Hey, man, you're always welcome at my place."  Battle won, Blair
regarded him with a sunny smile.  "I've got an extra blanket, and
there's plenty of floor."

Jim groaned.  "I'll go by my place and get my sleeping bag.  Maybe stop
by the grocery, too, since I've seen what you try to pass off as food.
You just get yourself and our young hero home and I'll meet you there."
Jim turned on his heel and stalked for the exit, wondering for roughly
the zillionth time in the last month just what saint he'd pissed off in
order to have Blair Sandburg in his life.

** ** **

The rain, which had been little more than drizzle when they left,
turned into a horrendous deluge before they'd gone fifty miles.
MacLeod peered through the T-Bird's windshield, muttering ancient oaths
from his childhood. Tessa huddled in the passenger seat, shivering
despite the car's laboring heater.

MacLeod had chosen to take the Coast Highway; it was the shortest route
and it missed most of Seattle.  Unfortunately it was two-lane much of
the way and signs warned of the hazards of mudslides and falling rock.
At Duncan's direction, Tessa pulled out a road map and flipped on the
overhead light to study it.  "We can detour over to the Interstate just
after we pass Alton Beach. That's about ten miles up the road--Duncan!
Look out!"

MacLeod swerved the wheel wildly to avoid a large rock that plummeted
to the road.  Smaller rocks and gravel caught in the wake pelted the
classic car as its driver fought to maintain control.  Finally the T-
Bird skidded to a halt on the opposite edge of the road, facing the
oncoming traffic, had there been any.  MacLeod flipped on the hazard
lights and reached over for Tessa.  "You all right, sweetheart?"

She nodded, and melted into his welcoming arms with a little sob.  They
clung to each other tightly until her shivering was less and then she
pulled away, grabbing some tissues for her face.  "I swear, after we
see Richie and I know he's all right, I think I'll strangle him!  What
was he thinking?"

 MacLeod laughed a little at her opposing urges.  "I said before,
Tessa, I don't think he *is* thinking.  He's just running."

"From what?" she demanded.  "Felicia is gone.  Why didn't he come home
that night?  Why did he go to the warehouse?  The murder just happened
Monday; he's been gone since Friday night."

MacLeod didn't answer.  He was remembering the fight on the beach.
Richie's face when he begged for Felicia's life.  And then the look on
his face when he'd said, "Mac, I'm sorry," and Duncan, exhausted, angry
at Felicia, at Richie, but most of all at himself for ever letting the
woman into their lives, hadn't answered.  He'd turned away from the
teenager, walking along the beach until he'd felt calmer.  When he
returned to the spot more than an hour later, Felicia was just
stirring, and Richie was nowhere to be seen.  MacLeod had assumed the
boy had gone home.  Maybe if he'd said something to the kid, or looked
for him before he went back to the apartment, none of this would have
happened.

Silently, Duncan started the car and turned back onto the highway.

**  **  **

They were just south of Alton Beach when they saw flashing lights
ahead. The rain was so heavy MacLeod could barely make out a figure
waving at him to halt.  The man jogged closer and leaned into the open
driver's side window.  Water dripped from his hat and soaked his yellow
slicker. "You folks heading into Alton Beach?  'Cause the road is
closed just past there."

"We're trying to get to the cut-off to the Interstate," MacLeod
answered.

The policeman shook his head.  "You can't get through.  Mudslide early
this morning.  Where you heading?"

"Cascade.  It's urgent that we get there as quickly as possible."

The man shook his head again.  "No way.  Not before morning.  Coast
Highway is closed from here to Seattle, rockslides, mudslides, you name
it. The road crews think they'll have the slide cleared by midmorning
at the latest, and then you could get through to the Interstate.  But
tonight, no way.  Your best bet is to get a room in Alton Beach and
wait it out, get a fresh start in the morning.  Rain's supposed to
slacken off about sunrise."

Tessa and Duncan stared at each other in dismay.

** ** **

"You live here?"  Richie asked fuzzily as the taxi drew to a halt in
front of a dark warehouse.  Blair hopped out and came around to help
the younger man.

"Yeah."  Blair supported Richie's weight; the kid was none too steady
on his feet.  "Just me and about a thousand rats."

Richie stopped dead.  "Rats?"

"Hey, I'm just kidding," Blair assured him.  Actually, the warehouse
did have rats, but they usually stayed out of sight.  Richie was
dragging and he wouldn't be awake long enough to see them anyway.

"Oh," the kid said, starting forward again.  Blair got the door opened
and got them inside and Richie looked around blearily.  "Nice."

Blair laughed.  "You don't have to be so polite.  I know what it looks
like.  But I just can't stand campus life--living in a dorm you know--
and the rent on this place is within my price range, plus I don't have
any close neighbors to annoy."

"No, I mean it," Richie insisted.  "I've seen worse.  Hell, I've lived
in worse."

Blair looked at him closely, seeing the sincerity in his face.  He
helped the kid take off his jacket and guided him to sit down on the
lumpy couch he'd scavenged from the Salvation Army.  "You sit there for
a minute. I'll get the heaters going and find you a sweater or
something to put on."  Richie's T-shirt was stained with blood and
Betadine from the hospital. "How's your head?"

Richie closed his eyes against the ceaseless pounding in his skull.
"Ummm, well, terrible."

Blair chuckled as he rummaged through his clothes for a clean pair of
sweatpants and a dark blue sweatshirt.  "Here.  These should fit okay
and they'll be warmer and more comfortable to sleep in than jeans."
Richie accepted the clothes and looked around.  Blair said, "The
bathroom's up there, but why don't you wait a bit. I'm going to make
some herb tea. It'll warm you up."

Richie closed his eyes again.  'Herb tea.  Mac would love this guy.'
There was a heavy blanket of some kind behind him and he wrapped it
around his shoulders, snuggling into the warmth.  There was something
at the back of his mind, something he knew he should be worrying about,
but the head injury and exhaustion combined to send him into a
somnolent daze.  He was vaguely aware of sounds, a teakettle whistling,
the ringing of the phone, Blair's low voice; but he didn't pay
attention as his body slowly relaxed for the first time in what seemed
like forever.  The couch dipped beside him and he felt a warm mug being
pressed against his hand. "Richie?"

"Hmmm?"

"Look, man, I know you're sleepy, but try to drink a little of this,
okay?  The doctor gave me some pills he insisted you take, then you can
crash for awhile."

Richie pried his eyelids open and accepted the heavy white mug Blair
was pressing into his hand.  He sniffed the tea suspiciously.  "What's
in it?"

"Chamomile, comfrey, vivian, some other things.  It'll ease your head."

'Yep, definitely Mac's kind of guy.' He sipped the liquid cautiously.
It wasn't too bad; hot chocolate would have been better, but this was
light and almost fruity.  He took another sip and looked around him.
"Wow.  Some place."

"Have you ever lived in a warehouse before?"

Richie jumped, cursed as the hot liquid sloshed over his hands.  Blair
leaned forward and snatched the mug before more could be spilled. "Hey,
man, easy!  It was just a question.  I guess that was a 'yes', huh?"

Richie didn't answer.  Blair leaned back and studied him carefully,
then nodded to himself.  "So how long have you been on the streets?"

(Continued in part 4)




**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 4/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

"I'm not!"  Richie protested.  "I mean, I was, but I'm not, well, I
wasn't."

Blair snorted.  "That makes sense."  He handed the mug back to Richie.
"That was Jim on the phone earlier."

"Jim?  Oh.  The cop."

"Yeah, I guess the two of you never introduced yourselves.  Jim
Ellison. He went by his place and then he was going to go by the
Madison Motel and pick up your stuff."

It was Richie's turn to snort.  "He doesn't need to.  My 'stuff'
consists of a toothbrush, a razor and a comb."  He didn't mention all
three were new, bought within the last few days.

There was a long silence, but it was not an uncomfortable silence.  For
some reason Richie felt safe with Blair.  Maybe because Blair had
seemed to understand how he felt at the hospital, perhaps because the
student wasn't that much older than Richie.  In the last few months,
since moving in with Mac and Tessa, Richie hadn't been around many
people his own age.  Tessa was thirty-five, but she was so
sophisticated and elegant and so French that Richie often felt as
gauche as a child around her. Mac of course was an Immortal, four
hundred years old even though to all appearances he was only in his
thirties also.  Richie had met several of their friends, but they were
all like Tessa, rich and cultured and educated about things he didn't
even have a hope of knowing.  Maybe that was why he had fallen so hard
for Felicia-- he gave a little gasp at the thought of her swinging that
sword at Mac.  His eyes popped open and he looked around wildly.  Blair
was gone and both mugs were sitting on the packing crate in front of
the couch.  Richie realized he'd fallen asleep.

"Richie?  Did you say something?"  Blair appeared from somewhere
carrying a plastic tumbler and two bottles of pills.  He looked sharply
at Richie's face.  "Hey, man, what is it?  Your head worse?"

"It can't get any worse, I hope.  I'm okay.  I was just, remembering
something."

Blair looked at him with those understanding blue eyes, seeming to hear
more than Richie was saying.  "Well, here.  Take these miracles of
modern medicine and then I'll help you to the bathroom."

** ** **

Blair pulled the thickest, warmest blanket he owned over Richie's
sleeping body and turned off the lights closest to the bed, leaving
that area deep in shadow.  He set the alarm for two hours hence and
then wearily plodded to the couch.  It was growing colder in the
warehouse so he wrapped himself in the Serape blanket before lifting
his laptop into his lap. Jim should arrive shortly.

Blair closed his eyes for a minute, suddenly aware of just how
exhausted he was.  It was tempting to just give in and take a nap, but
he had way too much to do.

It never failed.  No sooner had he pulled up his notes and gotten well
and truly engrossed in the lecture he was preparing on Death Rituals
among Native American Tribes, than the phone rang again.  Blair jumped,
cursed, and looked around to see where he had left it this time.  He
set the laptop aside and disentangled himself from the blanket, lunging
across the room to silence the shrill ringing.

"Oh.  Mr. Sandburg?  Dr.  Kyle Green here.  From Cascade General, I
treated Richard Ryan tonight?"

It was a good thing he added the last bit because Blair wouldn't have
known his name.  "Oh.  Yes, Doctor?"

"Well.  This may not be important, but I felt you should know.  A man
came here oh, fairly soon after you and Mr. Ryan left. He said he was
Richard Ryan's father and demanded to see him.  The Admissions clerk
told him that Richard had been discharged and he became most upset,
yelling and making quite a scene.  Security had to escort him out of
the building."

"Richie's father?"  Blair repeated.  "I hardly think that's possible."

"Well, I saw the man.  I would think he was too young to have an
eighteen year-old son, but appearances can be deceiving."

"I'll talk to Richie when I wake him up next time, but I'm sure there
must be some mistake.  Thank you for letting me know."  There was a
faint tone of dismissal in his voice.

A  short, unhappy silence on the other end of the line.  Finally the
voice said, "I'm afraid there's something else."

Blair felt cold chills up his back.  He clutched the phone tightly as
he said, "Oh?"

"You see, the Night Shift clerk is very new and very young and well,
somewhat stupid.  So when someone called about an hour ago saying he
was Richard's father and asking with whom he had left --"

"--She gave him my name," Blair finished.

"No, actually it's worse than that.  She gave him your address."

** ** **

"She did *what?*"  Jim exploded.

"Shh!  Not so loudly."  Blair cast an anxious look over toward the bed,
but Richie hadn't moved since he'd settled him there.  A quick glance
at the clock confirmed that he still had over half an hour before he
needed to wake the younger man.  Ellison was checking the doors to make
sure they were locked.

"Damn, Sandburg!  This lock doesn't even catch!"

"I know," Blair responded.  He grabbed a straight-backed chair and
propped it against the door.  "I secure it this way."  He felt himself
flushing at Jim's incredulous stare.  "Well, I do when I remember," he
muttered. "It's not like I have anything that valuable to steal
anyway."

"What about your life?"  Jim asked pointedly.  Satisfied that the
warehouse was as secure as he could make it, he collapsed on the couch
and surveyed his surroundings.  "It's freezing in here."

Blair silently handed him a blanket and fiddled with the control of the
small space heater he'd bought at a garage sale.  "I'll make some hot
tea," he volunteered.

"Why don't you just turn up the heat?"

"Well, I don't ah, exactly have heat.  The building isn't heated."  He
rushed on at Jim's incredulous stare, "Well, it's so big and drafty I
wouldn't be able to afford to heat it anyway.  So, did you get Richie's
stuff from the motel?"

Jim pulled out a small paper bag and tossed it on the coffee table.
"That is the extent of Mr. Ryan's worldly possessions."  He rubbed his
jaw.  "I don't like this mystery 'father' turning up so suddenly.  What
did Ryan have to say about it?"

"He doesn't know.  He was already asleep when the call came."  Blair
put two earthenware mugs on a matching tray and carried it to the
couch. "So whoever called probably *wasn't* Richie's father--"

"I got the distinct impression from talking to MacLeod and Len Powell
that Richie doesn't have a father.  At least not one he knows about."
Jim picked up the mug and stared into it doubtfully.  "This isn't some
dried weeds or something, is it, Sandburg?"

"It came from a box, man.  So who *was* it?  MacLeod, maybe?  Did he
fly instead of drive?"

Jim took a cautious sip of the brew and made a face.  "No way it could
be him," he said, standing and heading for the kitchen area.  "He
called, when I was on my way here.  He and his girlfriend hit a
roadblock on the Coast Highway.  There's been some bad mudslides down
there and they can't get here until tomorrow.  They're holed up in a
motel.  He gave me the number, in case Richie took a turn for the
worse.  I didn't tell him where Richie was, just told him to call me
when they got to town." He opened a cupboard and poked around in it.
"Okay, Chief, where do you keep the sugar?"

"Refined sugar is a poison."  Blair relented at Jim's glare.  "There's
some honey on top of the refrigerator."  He slumped down on the couch.
"Richie and I talked a bit, before he fell asleep.  He didn't say much,
but I think you're right.  He's on the run from something, or
somebody."

"And I have an idea who," Jim grunted, sitting back down.  He pulled
his small spiral notebook out of his pocket.  "There's something about
this Duncan MacLeod guy that doesn't add up."

Blair glanced at the sheets closely covered with Jim's handwriting.
"What did you do, run a check on him?"

"On both of them."  Jim held up a hand to forestall the protest Blair
started to make.  "Look Chief, you've spent the last month telling me
I'm some kind of protector of the tribe, right? *You're* a member of
that tribe; plus, at the moment you are the only thing keeping me
functional. So I'm *going* to check out some waif you drag home."

Blair controlled his annoyance with an effort.  "So?  What did you
learn?"

"Duncan  MacLeod has no actual criminal record; but he *does* seem to
turn up a lot when the Seacouver PD investigates mysterious happenings.
He's an antique dealer, owns a shop in Seacouver and also agents for
several people, including our esteemed governor, *and* the Bolt family.
Seems rather well off. Became Richie Ryan's court-appointed guardian in
August.  Ryan apparently had a juvenile record, but it was sealed when
he turned eighteen. Don't know what he'd done."

"Theft, mostly," a voice said from the bed.  Richie sat up, blinking in
the dim light.  "Look, Detective, Mac didn't take me in for anything
illegal or immoral or whatever you're thinking.  He's a good guy."

"How are you feeling?"  Blair asked.

Richie rubbed his temples and winced.  "Like they're playing the
Superbowl in my skull, complete with half time activities," he admitted
sourly.

"You can have another pain pill," Blair offered.

"In a minute.  It hurts, but I can think clearly for a change.  Look,
Detective Ellison, I heard part of what you said.  Mac and Tessa are
good people.  They've done more for me in the last couple of months
than anybody else has my whole life.  I'm the one that screwed it up."

Jim frowned, but not because of what Richie had said.  "Do you hear
something?" he asked Blair.

"Just the wind rattling the overhead doors," Blair said.

"No, it's something else, like a scratching..." Jim concentrated. "It's
gone now." He directed his attention back to Richie.  "So this MacLeod
is a great guy, been great to you, and you run away?"

Even Blair could hear the sharply inhaled breath.  "No-- it wasn't--"

The power went out, plunging the building into cold darkness.

***   ***

Mac focused on the small alarm clock next to the bed.  The red digital
readout showed 2:43 a.m.  From the sound of rain drumming on the motel
balcony, the storm was still going strong.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the soundly sleeping Tessa, he slid out
of the bed and walked over to the window, pulling the drapes back and
staring unseeingly into the sheets of rain.

The Alton Beach Best Western wasn't the Ritz, but the room was clean,
the water ran hot in the shower and the bed was deliciously
comfortable. Worn out from six restless, worrying nights, Tessa had
fallen into a deep sleep immediately.  As far as she was concerned, the
worst was over. They'd get to Cascade, Richie would be fine; whatever
misunderstandings or hurt feelings that had caused him to run away in
the first place would be resolved and by this time tomorrow the three
of them would be back home.  Even the suspicion that Richie might have
seen Markham Bolt's murder didn't disturb her terribly; Richie would
tell the police, the murderer would be apprehended and that would be
that.

Duncan wasn't so sure.  He couldn't ignore the nagging feeling in the
back of his mind that was yelling at him to get to Richie *now.* Richie
was in some kind of trouble, he just knew it.

Maybe they should have left a message for Comanski, or maybe Duncan
should have told that Detective Ellison that Richie might know
something about the murder.  Why hadn't he?

MacLeod knew why.  He took care of his own.  Tessa, Richie, they were
his family; his to protect and Duncan simply didn't trust anyone else
to do it.

The phone rang.  Duncan crossed the room in two swift strides and
grabbed it, silencing it before it could ring again and wake Tessa.
"Yes?"

"Front desk, Mr. MacLeod.  You wanted to be informed about the state of
the roads?  We just got word they've cleared the slide north of town
and the highway is clear to the Interstate cut-off."

Duncan thanked the clerk and hung up the phone.  He glanced at the
clock again, then at Tessa.  Making up his mind, he gently shook her
awake. "Come on, sweetheart, it's time to go."

** ** **

"Well, it's not the breaker," Jim announced, shaking the flashlight in
a vain effort to keep the batteries alive.  He cocked his head. "Sure
you paid the electric bill this month, Chief?"

"Ha ha, yes I paid the bill.  It's probably the storm."  Blair picked
up the phone, started to punch in a number, than stopped with a muffled
curse.  "Phone's out too.  Jim, can I use your cellular?  I'll call
Cascade Utility, see if they know--"

"The electricity and the phone are *both* out?"  Jim interrupted, alarm
bells going off in his head.  "That's it.  We're getting out of here."

"What?"  Blair exclaimed.  "Jim, it's pouring!  Where will we go?"

"My place."

Blair stared at him.  "Does this have anything to do with the phone
call from the hospital?"

"What phone call?"  Richie asked, his voice fuzzy.

"Somebody showed up at the hospital claiming to be your father and the
hospital gave them Sandburg's address," Ellison told him.

"My father?"  Richie repeated, confused.  "I don't have one-- oh, my
God!"  Panic drenched his words as he scrabbled out of the bed, only to
pitch forward on his hands and knees.

Jim and Blair reached him at the same time.  Jim bodily hauled him back
to the bed.  "What are you so afraid of, Ryan?  Or who?"

Richie looked like he was trying to answer, but the sudden movements
had been too much for him.  His eyes rolled back in their sockets as he
collapsed bonelessly on the bed.

"Great," Jim groused.  He wrapped the blanket around the young man and
lifted him easily over his shoulder.  "Get your coat and shoes back on,
Chief, we're getting out of here."

Even in the short time he'd known Jim Ellison, Blair had learned the
futility of arguing when the older man used *that* tone.  He shoved his
feet into shoes, threw his damp coat around his shoulders, and led the
way to the door.  Jim looked out first.  The rain, if anything, had
intensified and he could barely see the hulk of Blair's Corvair.  His
truck was across the street.  "We'll take your car, it's the closest.
Got your keys?"

Blair pulled them out of his pocket in answer and started out the door.
"Can you manage Richie?"

"We're fine.   Just go on and unlock the doors."

Standing water was well over ankle-deep.  Jim shambled through it,
following the slighter figure of the anthropologist.  Blair got the car
doors opened, turning on the ignition and automatically turning the
radio down and the heat up, before twisting to help Jim settle Richie
in the back seat. The teenager was still unconscious and Jim supported
his head as he laid him across the seat.  Then he ran around to the
passenger side.

"Fasten your seat belt," Blair said hurriedly as he put the car into
gear.  Jim's hand came down on top of his.

"Stop the car!"

Blair had barely touched the gas pedal, now he yanked his foot away as
if it were burning hot.  "What's wrong?"

"The car--when you put it in gear it made a funny sound, like a click."

"Jim, if this is another crack about my car--"

"No.  We're not going to risk it.  We'll take the truck."  He opened
the door, only to jerk back as the window shattered from the impact of
a high-caliber bullet.

"Sandburg!  Get down!"

Blair was already doubled over in the seat.  Jim covered him with his
body as another bullet punched through the back windshield, spewing
shattered glass over Richie's still form.  "That's a military issue
rifle," Ellison muttered.  Two more bullets blasted the car.  Blair
gasped and tightened his arms around his head.

Jim pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in the speed code
for Police Dispatch.  "This is Ellison, Major Crimes!  Officer and two
civilians pinned down, shots fired, officer needs assistance!  Repeat,
we are under fire!"  He gave the address and waited for the operator to
repeat it before he closed the phone.  "You okay, Sandburg?"

"I don't have any holes in me, if that's what you mean.  Is it over?"

"Stay down!"  Jim snapped.  He raised his head cautiously, focusing on
the roof of the building across the street.  Sentinel-enhanced vision
spotted a figure climbing down the fire escape ladder, a rifle swung
over one shoulder.  Ordering Sandburg to stay still, Ellison kicked the
passenger door open and slithered out onto the pavement, gun at the
ready. He heard sirens coming closer.  'Must have been a unit already
in the vicinity,' he thought, rising to his knees and scanning the
area.  The gunman he'd seen was gone.  Jim heard a car motor start up. 
"Damn!" he swore, jumping to his feet and racing across the street.
Taillights vanished into the rain; seconds later a squad car screeched
around the corner on two wheels.

Jim holstered his gun and jogged back to the car.  Blair was rather
shakily leaning into the back seat, carefully picking glass shards off
of Richie with his left hand.  His right hung awkwardly at his side.
Jim smelled blood.

"Chief," he said sharply, reaching for Blair's arm, "You're hurt!"

"Just a piece of glass in my shoulder," Blair gasped.

"Let me see."  Gently, Jim turned Blair around and ran his fingers over
the other man's back and shoulders.  Sandburg stiffened and gave a
little gasp of pain.  "Damn," Jim swore.

"What?"  Blair's voice was trembling.

"That's not a piece of glass, Chief.  That's a bullet."

** ** **

The waiting area was twelve paces deep, twenty paces long.  Jim knew
this because he had paced both ways repeatedly since arriving at the
hospital with Blair and Richie. The younger men were being cared for
now and no one had come to give the detective any information yet.

His boss, Simon Banks, had been and gone already, promising to get
units out looking for the gunman.  Both he and Jim knew it would
probably be a wasted effort; the heavy rain had prohibited Jim from
seeing the man very clearly or catching the license plate of his car.
The only things that Jim was sure about was that the assailant had been
male, approximately five-ten, and that his hair had been blond, almost
silver blond.

"Detective Ellison?"

Jim looked up to see a tired-looking, middle-aged woman wearing a white
lab coat over green surgical scrubs.  She approached him with her hand
outstretched.  "Dr. Patsy Kinser.  You're with Blair Sandburg?"

"How is he?"  Jim demanded.

(Continued in part 5)




**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 5/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

"He's going to be just fine.  The bullet barely lodged in his shoulder,
we got it out with only a local anesthetic.  He's a little shocky, but
that may be more from the circumstances than the injury.  I'd like to
keep him here for a couple of hours, just to be on the safe side, but
we probably don't need to admit him."

Jim drew in a deep breath and let it out in relief.  "That's good news,
Doctor.  Thank you so much.  How about the other one?  Richie Ryan?"

"I don't know, I didn't work on him.  I believe he's going to be
admitted, but his doctor should be with you shortly."

"Can I see Blair?"

"Sure.  He's in Treatment Room 7."

** ** **

Blair had been given a mild sedative and was groggy, but still worried
about Richie.  Jim soothed him as well as he was able, then when
Sandburg drifted off to sleep the detective went looking for someone
who could tell him about the teenager.  Surprisingly, that someone
turned out to be the same doctor that had seen the youth the first
time.  "Well, Detective, I get my way this time," Dr. Green said with
grim humor.  "I'm going to admit Richie to the hospital."

"How is he?"

"He has several cuts from the glass, a couple required stitches.  One
cut near his jugular could have been very bad indeed.  But I think it
will heal without even scarring.  He's drifting in and out of
consciousness. Would you mind speaking with him?  He's very worried
about you and Mr. Sandburg and he doesn't seem to believe me when I
tell him you're both fine."

Jim felt vaguely ashamed of himself.  Part of him had been blaming
Richie for Blair getting hurt.  He followed Dr. Green into another
cubicle, this one with blue walls instead of green.

Richie was again hooked up to an IV and monitors. His eyes were bleary
and unfocused and there were dressings on his neck and both hands. When
he caught sight of Jim he started to struggle upwards.  Jim gently
pushed him back.  "Easy, kid, don't try to move around."

"You're okay?"  Richie asked faintly.  "Blair?"

Jim patted his shoulder.  "He's okay. Down the hall, but he'll be out
of here in a couple of hours.  They're going to have to admit you this
time, Richie."

The blue eyes were filled with fear.  "No--"

"They have to, kid.  No argument."  He paused.  "Richie, I need to know
what's going on.  Somebody tried to kill us.  But I don't think they
were after 'us'; I think they were after you.  Is that right?"

After a long moment, Richie nodded, then his eyes drifted shut.
"Richie? Do you know who it is?"

There was no response.

"Detective?"

Jim turned around.  Dr. Green was standing just inside the doorway.
"These people say they are Richie's family."

Jim tensed and reached automatically for his gun.  A woman came in
first, tall, beautiful, with long blonde hair and warm eyes which
widened with anguish when they saw Richie.  She would have raced to the
bed if Jim hadn't moved to stop her.  "Ma'am, just one second--"

"Detective Ellison?  I am Duncan MacLeod."  It was the same faintly
accented voice he'd heard twice before over the phone.

Jim let go of the woman, who promptly slipped to Richie's side, picking
up his hand and speaking softly in French to the unconscious teen. Jim
studied the man who'd entered the room behind her.  Long, dark hair,
pulled back.  Tall, his own height or maybe taller, but a little
thinner. Jim correctly concluded that the body under those expensive
but casual clothes was in excellent condition.

MacLeod's focus, like the woman's, was on Richie Ryan.  He swiftly
moved past Ellison to the other side of the bed, where he laid his hand
lightly on the boy's forehead.  Jim moved so he could see his face.  In
that second he revised his opinion of Mr. Duncan MacLeod somewhat.  No
matter what else might be going on, the man obviously cared deeply
about the boy.

"Hey, Tough Guy," Jim heard him whisper.  The woman, a brilliant smile
lighting her face, reached over and grasped his free hand.

The monitor gave a slight "blip" and Jim noticed that Richie's pulse
and respiration had elevated slightly.  After several seconds his eyes
opened.  The detective watched with interest as the boy first focused
on MacLeod, then the woman, then back at MacLeod.

It was an amazing thing.  The fear that had been in Richie's eyes ever
since the first time Jim had noticed him slid away.  "Mac?"  the boy
whispered.  "I'm not dreaming?  You're really here?"

"We're really here," MacLeod confirmed gently.  "And we'll stay right
here until you're ready to go home."

"Home?"  The boy's eyes filled with tears.  "You mean, back to
Seacouver, back to the shop?"

"Home, Richie.  Back home with us."

"Where you belong," the woman added, leaning closer to the bed.  Richie
moved his head slightly to look at her and his face shadowed.  "Don't
cry, Tess," he protested, apparently not realizing there were tears
brimming in his own eyes.

Behind them Dr. Green cleared his throat.  "We'll be moving him up to
his room in a few minutes.  I'm going to step out to the desk; just
ring the bell if you need anything."

MacLeod looked up and nodded his head.  Then he saw Ellison, apparently
realizing for the first time the detective was still in the room.  He
frowned, puzzled.

Jim briskly stepped to the foot of the bed, ignoring the voice inside
that urged him to step out and let this family reunite in peace.  "I'm
glad you're here, Mr. MacLeod.  I was just asking Richie... who is
trying to kill him?  And why?"

MacLeod stiffened. For a brief flash Jim wondered if he was going to
protest.  The expression on Jim's face must have deterred him because
he turned back to the teenager in the bed. MacLeod patted Richie's
shoulder. "It's going to be all right, Rich.  Just tell Detective
Ellison what you saw."

Richie sighed.  "You know, Mac?"

"I know you were hiding out at the warehouse."

Richie squinted a little in the harsh fluorescent light.  His eyes were
fixed on MacLeod's face as he whispered, "I saw him shoot the guy. Mac,
it was like a movie, the guy was tied up in a chair and, he... he just
picked up the gun and shot him in the head.... I don't know how many
times."  The kid's words were slurred and hard to understand, as if he
had a mouth full of Novocain.

Jim's senses picked up something and he frowned.  Glancing up at the
monitors, he saw that the readings looked quite different from before.
His glance fled back to Richie.  The teenager was even more pale and
his eyes were tightly slammed shut.  "Man, my head is pounding.... I'm-
-quick, I'm gonna--"

Ellison and MacLeod both reacted swiftly.  MacLeod snatched a basin
from the counter and the detective gently moved the woman out of the
way, then rolled Richie onto his side.  MacLeod supported the kid's
head as he vomited green liquid into the bowl.  "Richie?"  the Scot
asked, his voice concerned.  "Richie!"  There was no response.

Jim shot another look at the monitors just as a red light started
flashing and an alarm sounded.  "Damn," he swore, stabbing the call
button. When no one appeared immediately, he barked at the woman, "Go
out there and get somebody.  Tell them we've got a problem."

The woman looked from him to Richie.  MacLeod was close to the kid's
face, patting his cheeks and calling his name urgently.  "What's
wrong?" the woman said, her voice rising in anxiety.

"GO!"  Jim roared.

Tessa Noel blinked, then before she could move, the curtain was jerked
back and medical personnel spilled into the room.  Dr. Green took one
look at the monitor board before yanking MacLeod away so he could take
his place.  "Richie!  Come on, Richie, answer me!"   Pulling a penlight
from his pocket, he pried open an eyelid and flashed the light into it,
swore softly, then repeated the action with the other eye.  "Donna!" he
snapped at the nurse who had relieved MacLeod of the basin and was
pouring the contents down the sink.  "Page Neurology and get someone
down here STAT!"  He directed another nurse to start Richie on oxygen
before looking at the three petrified adults.  "Step outside, please."

"What's happening!"  MacLeod demanded, his faced suddenly drained of
all color.

"I'll be with you as soon as I can, but right now you need to give us
some room to work."

Ellison put a hand on MacLeod's elbow.  The other man jerked free.
"Look, MacLeod, they need to take care of Richie."  He all but dragged
the other man from the room.  Tessa had already exited and was standing
in the middle of the hallway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself
and terror plain on her face.  Not knowing what else to do, Jim guided
both of them down to the little alcove where there were a few chairs
and a machine that dispensed coffee, water, hot chocolate and ice.

**  **  **

Although he didn't know it, Duncan MacLeod was perfectly mirroring Jim
Ellison's actions of earlier as he paced back and forth across the
small waiting area.  Tessa sat quietly in a chair, styrofoam cup of
coffee clutched in her hands, staring at the abstract painting on the
wall with the intent gaze she usually reserved for Great Masters.
Ellison had vanished somewhere.  They'd heard nothing in the hour since
they had been evicted from Richie's room.

In his four hundred years of life, Duncan had never mastered the art of
waiting patiently while someone he cared for was in danger.  And he did
care for Richie.  He wasn't sure when or how that had happened; he'd
originally only taken an interest in the kid because he and Connor had
both sensed Richie would be Immortal someday.  Duncan had promised his
kinsman he would keep an eye on the kid, be there for him when the time
came.  He didn't plan on making Richie a part of his family, his life,
until he'd tracked the kid down and realized fully just how alone he
was.

A would-be thief Richie might be, but he had pride and he refused
MacLeod's offer of money to find himself a decent room.  Not knowing
what else to do, Duncan offered him a job, overriding Richie's derisive
protests by pointing out Richie knew the truth about Immortals,
therefore it was in his own best interest to keep him out of trouble.
There was, he'd gone on, making his tone as menacing as possible, only
one other option. >From the way the kid's eyes widened, MacLeod knew
he'd assumed what the Immortal wanted him to assume.

So Richie came to work in the shop, and two days later when Social
Services showed up, belatedly worried about a minor living on his own,
MacLeod forestalled a mess by moving Richie and his few possessions
into the spare room and petitioning the court for temporary custody
until Richie reached eighteen.

Tessa had been reluctant at first and the first few days had been
uncomfortable, with Tessa alternating between suspicion and resentment,
and Richie exhausting himself and everyone around him with his nervous
hyperactivity and chatter. Then Duncan had to go to Spokane overnight
on business. Something happened during that time, neither Tessa or
Richie would tell him what, but when he arrived home late Sunday
afternoon it was to the shocking sight of the two of them cheerfully
playing Monopoly in the kitchen with a giant bowl of popcorn on the
table between them.

>From then on Tessa was Richie's staunchest defender; he, in turn,
regarded her with an affection that was palpable.  Sometimes Duncan
almost felt left out.

And then the Immortal who called herself Felicia Martins had invaded
their lives.

Footsteps in the hall had MacLeod turning to the doorway, but it was
only Ellison with another man in tow, a young man with long, curly
hair; rather pale and with his arm in a sling.  Mac realized he must be
Blair Sandburg, who had been injured in the shooting outside his home.
Ellison made the introductions and Sandburg shook MacLeod's hand. Then
he sat down next to Tessa and started speaking to her in a low,
concerned voice.

"Have you heard anything?"  Ellison asked.  The cop looked tired and
MacLeod realized he couldn't have had much, if any, sleep the night
before.

"No," he answered.

Ellison rubbed a hand along his short dark hair.  "Look, MacLeod, I
need to ask you some questions."

"Not now!"

"Yes, *now!* Richie was describing a murder in there, from what I
heard. Somebody tried to kill him, and could have killed Sandburg and I
in the process.  I think I deserve to know what the hell is going on!"

"Detective Ellison--"

"Call him Jim," a voice offered from the other side of the room.  Both
men turned to see Blair Sandburg sitting beside Tessa, watching them
quietly.

Ellison glared at the young man for a second, then his lip quirked in
something like a smile and he glanced back at MacLeod.  "Jim," he said.

MacLeod relaxed the stiff set of his shoulders.  "Jim," he agreed.

"Do you prefer Duncan or Mac?"  Blair prodded.

"Either one.  Richie calls me Mac."  The Immortal hesitated, feeling he
should say something more to this young man with the intense blue gaze.
"I-- thank you for helping Richie.  I'm grateful.  And I'm sorry about
your injury."

Blair grinned.  "I have a feeling that I'd better get used to bullets
flying around," he quipped. "But you're welcome.  I like Richie."

"So do we," Tessa chimed in softly.  Blair patted her hand.

MacLeod looked back at the police detective and sighed, trying to put
his thoughts in some kind of order.  These two men had been sucked into
this snafu because they'd tried to help Richie.  It was only right that
he tell Ellison the truth, or at least an edited version of it.  "I'll
tell you what I know.  But a lot of it is guesswork.

"You've gathered that Richie lives with us?  A young woman with, umm,
connections to my business was visiting.  She wanted something of mine
and she tried to use Richie to get it.  When he found out, he was
pretty upset, and also, I think *he* thought I was angry. Well, no, he
was right about that, I *was* angry.  So instead of coming home he took
off.  I own a warehouse near the waterfront.  I think that's where
Richie was hiding out. I found some things that suggested he'd been
there."

What Felicia Martins had *really* wanted was MacLeod's head.  She had
passed herself off as a new Immortal when in actuality she was hundreds
of years old, an active player in the Game.  She'd seduced Richie,
convinced him to run away with her, and used him as bait.  Duncan's
katana had been thirsty for her blood, its owner disgusted and enraged
both at Richie's gullibility and his own culpability for putting the
boy at risk in the first place.  Only Richie's pleas had kept MacLeod
from killing Felicia, and the Highlander was still wondering if he
might someday regret that decision.

Ellison had been quiet, apparently reviewing MacLeod's story.  Now his
pale blue eyes narrowed.  "Near the waterfront?  And Richie said
somebody was tied to a chair and shot in the head."  He paused.  "He
saw who killed Senator Markham Bolt?"

Duncan nodded.  "I think so."

"And now the killer is after him.  But how would the killer know who
Richie is?"  Ellison demanded.

MacLeod quickly told him about the man who had come into the shop with
Richie's card, of course leaving out that the man was an Immortal.
"Richie had just picked up those cards a few days before, and he'd
already run away by the time the man said he'd waited on him.  I know
Richie had some of the cards with him and I found one at the
warehouse."

"And the assassin found one too," Ellison finished.  He glanced at
Tessa. "Can you give a description to a police artist?"

Her eyes widened.  "Why didn't I think of that?  I can draw him for you
myself!"

"Are you an artist?"

Blair snorted.  "Forgive him, Miss Noel, Jim isn't exactly up on the
art world.  Jim, this is Tessa Noel! She's the sculptress the
University has just commissioned to do the centennial exhibit."

"Oh," Ellison answered.  He looked at MacLeod, lost.  "Can she draw?"
he whispered.

Duncan felt his lips twitch.  "She can draw," he assured the detective.

Dr. Green entered the room followed by another man, this one older and
with a shock of white hair.  "Mr. MacLeod, Ms. Noel.  Can we sit down?
I'm afraid the news is not very good."

***   ***

"Surgery!"  Tessa gasped, gripping Duncan's hand tightly.  "Isn't that
dangerous?"

"We have no choice, Ms. Noel."  The older doctor, who'd introduced
himself as Dr. Jones, a neurosurgeon, pointed again to the X-ray of
Richie's skull.  "The blood clot is dangerously close to the brain
stem.  It could shift at any time, without warning, and in all
probability the boy would be dead within seconds."

Duncan shook his head, trying to clear it.  The doctor's words were
ringing in his head, ominous words like "fenestration", "aerate" and
"cerebral vascular accident".  He stared at the X-ray film, at the tiny
spot that was the object of so much concern.  "It looks so little," he
murmured, not even aware he was speaking out loud.

The neurosurgeon shot him a quick glance.  "It is little, but it's in
absolutely the worst possible place.  All autonomic functions, life-
sustaining functions, are controlled from the brain stem.  Think of it
as a sophisticated computer, millions of dollars worth of technology
and something as simple and as innocent as dust on the wrong chip can
cause the whole thing to malfunction."

"Why didn't this show up before?"  Blair Sandburg asked.  Duncan had
almost forgotten that he was still in the room.  Ellison was too, but
he had retreated to a corner and was speaking urgently into a cell
phone.

"The clot didn't form immediately," Green answered.  Duncan thought he
saw a flash of something cross Blair's face.  The doctor apparently saw
it too, because he said firmly, "It wasn't anybody's fault. That clot
would have formed even if he'd spent the night in the hospital.  It was
just a fluke, we wouldn't have seen it because we wouldn't have been
looking for it, not there."

That didn't make sense and MacLeod frowned.  "What do you mean?"

Jones answered, "It's called a displacement injury.  It's rare.  See,
the actual impact to Richie's head in the original incident was here,"
he pointed to an area on the X-ray.  "That resulted in a concussion and
some mild edema -- swelling-- both of which were noticed by Kyle, Dr.
Green here, and his team."

Duncan nodded to show that he was following the explanation.  Jones
went on, "But incidents to the brain don't occur in isolation; there
was an increase in, well, in pressure, for lack of a better word.  So
the brain tried to find ways of routing around the injured area; in
affect, the brain itself caused the clot."

MacLeod opened his mouth to speak, closed it again and swallowed hard,
trying to coax some moisture into the tissues.  "The risks?"  he
finally managed.  "This surgery, digging around in his brain... If
something goes wrong--" he couldn't complete the thought.  Visions of
Richie, paralyzed, brain damaged, eventually doomed to become
Immortal... how long would he last like that in the Game?

(Continued in part 6)




**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 6/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

The two doctors exchanged glances.  "Mr. MacLeod," Dr. Jones finally
said, very softly, "Because of where the clot is, and Richie's overall
condition right now, if something goes wrong -- he'll die on the
operating table."

"Oh, God," Tessa whispered, her voice stricken.  She buried her face in
Duncan's shirt and he could feel her trembling. His own mind was filled
with horrifying images.  Richie was too young, damn it!  Too young to
become Immortal  At barely eighteen his body wasn't even fully
developed yet; not to mention his emotional state, battered and scarred
after a lifetime spent in the clutches of an uncaring system.

Automatically, as if he was watching from outside his body, Duncan saw
himself scrawling his signature on papers attached to a clipboard.
Following Tessa and the doctor into the room where Richie was being
prepped for the surgery that would either save his mortal life or end
it.

Tessa had managed to pull herself together.  Ignoring the preparations
going on around him, she went directly to Richie's bedside and knelt
beside it, talking very softly in his ear.  Duncan stood behind her,
holding Richie's slack hand, trying to infuse the boy with strength.

Tessa was speaking in French.  Duncan listened and smiled.  She was
exhorting the boy to fight, to get better, telling him of all the
things they had planned to do: the opera, the ballet, the wonders of
the holiday season.

It was doubtful if Richie would exert much effort for the opera or the
ballet, but it would take a far more blas heart than his to turn away
from what Tessa had planned for Christmas.

"Does he speak French?"  someone asked.  MacLeod turned to see a young
woman had entered the room carrying a covered tray.  Her English was
perfect, but there was just the faintest touch of something there that
told Duncan it was not her native tongue.

"No," he answered quietly, looking at Tessa with love and his eyes.
"But he'll know what she's saying."

The woman smiled and nodded, waiting until Tessa had stopped speaking.
Then she stepped to the side of the bed.  "It's almost time, the
orderlies will he here to take him to the O.R."

Tessa looked at her, nodded and bent back to Richie's still face.  "It
will be all right, Richie," she murmured to him, kissing his forehead.
"We'll be right here waiting for you when you get back.  And when you
feel better we will have a little talk about young men who run away
from home and don't even bother to clean up their rooms first."  She
kissed him again.

MacLeod looked down at the still figure of the boy and knew he had to
say something.  He squeezed the lax hand tightly.  "You heard her,
Richie. We'll be right here waiting for you."  He paused, feeling the
tightness in his throat.  "Hang in there, Tough Guy," he said finally,
his voice husky.

He stepped away from the bed, pulling Tessa with him.  The other girl
gave him a reassuring smile as she reached under the cover on the tray
and pulled out a razor.

Tessa stiffened.  "What are you going to do with *that?*"  she choked
out.

Confused, the girl looked from Tessa to the razor.  "I have to shave
where the incision will be."

"Tessa, sweetheart, they have to do it.  You know that," MacLeod
whispered in her ear.

"I know... I just --" she stopped and took a deep, unsteady breath,
ignoring the tears that were once again spilling down her cheeks.  "You
be careful," she warned the girl, trying to force a smile.  "Our Richie
is very particular about his hair."

The girl gave her an understanding smile.  "I will."

There was a light knock on the door and Dr. Green stepped in followed
by a couple of orderlies pushing a gurney.  He looked at them both.
Tessa took a deep breath, then let go of Duncan's hand and walked out
of the room.  As MacLeod was following her, Green caught him by the
arm. "Mr. MacLeod, if it's any help, Dr. Jones is the best.  If Richie
was my son, Jones is the one I'd have doing the operation.  If anybody
can do this, he can."

** ** **

Richie had been in surgery over two hours when Jim Ellison found
MacLeod in the Surgical floor waiting room.  The Highlander was sitting
in a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, staring unseeingly at the
television set.  "Good movie?"  Ellison asked lightly, sitting down in
the next chair.

MacLeod blinked.  "I suppose," he answered flatly.

"Where's Ms. Noel?"

"Your friend Blair went down to the cafeteria with her for awhile.  You
should talk him into going home, Detective -- he doesn't look well."

Jim noted the "Detective" rather than his first name.  He stretched out
his legs.  "Sandburg is a bit stubborn.  He won't go anywhere until he
knows how the surgery went.  Besides, I don't think his place is all
that safe at the moment."

"I guess it wouldn't be."  MacLeod took his eyes of the TV to look at
Ellison.  "Did you report what Richie saw?  I'm surprised the hospital
isn't full of FBI agents."

"My captain called the Seacouver PD and spoke with the detective in
charge of the investigation.  Oddly enough the FBI isn't involved, yet.
We have some plainclothes in the hospital and a pair of uniforms
outside the Operating Room.  I'd like to assign an officer to Ms. Noel,
too."

MacLeod sat us straight, alarmed.  "Tessa?  Why?"

"Well, she did see the suspect," Jim pointed out.  "That was an
excellent picture she drew, it reproduced very well.  We're running it
though the computer now.  I'm betting this guy is a pro, a hired
killer."

MacLeod frowned.  "What makes you say that?"

 "The weapons, for one thing.  Last night he was shooting at us with an
extremely high powered rifle; the bullet that hit Sandburg was fired
from the roof of a seven-floor building several hundred feet away; the
bullet traveled through the roof of the car, through the seat and still
had enough velocity to wound Sandburg.  That's military issue or maybe
Russian manufacture, not what you can buy at the local gun shop."

"I've been wondering about something you said earlier," MacLeod said
suddenly.

"What?"

"How *did* the killer know Richie was in Cascade?  How'd Richie get
here, anyway?"

"Bus," Ellison answered promptly.  "I found the ticket.  He took the
11:15 bus from Seacouver, arrived in Cascade about four a.m.  Checked
into the Madison Motel between six and seven in the morning, then as
best I can tell, he laid low until he walked two blocks to that diner
to eat.  I met Sandburg there about two-thirty and we'd been there
maybe fifteen, twenty minutes when Richie came in."

MacLeod frowned.  "The news said Bolt was killed sometime late Tuesday
night or very early Wednesday morning?"

"Yeah.  The body was found at three ten. M.E. report estimates time of
death between ten p.m. and two a.m.; something about weather conditions
that night made it difficult to pin down.  But since Richie saw the
murder it had to be before eleven-fifteen."  Ellison frowned in turn.
"How far is the warehouse from the bus station?"

"About a half mile.  But," MacLeod added slowly, "that area is really
deserted.  Especially at that time of night.  The bus station would
have been the closest place for help, or to find a phone."

"Does Richie have a car?"

MacLeod shook his head.  "He has a motorcycle, but it's parked in the
alley behind our shop and it has been all week.  He was on foot that
night."

"So what do you think happened?"  Ellison prodded.

 MacLeod was silent for a few moments, busy with his own thoughts.
"We've been having a big problem with vagrants breaking into the
building," he said finally.  "I turned off the water and put a lock on
the main. Richie doesn't have a key to that lock; the only time he
would go there normally would be with me.  So he would have had to get
water from somewhere else."

"I see.  So Richie was at Bolt's warehouse for water and he saw the
killing? Then ran?"

"Well, running would have been Richie's first impulse in that
situation," MacLeod said dryly.  "And not that bad of an idea.  He
knows the area well enough, he would have realized the closest
reasonably safe place would be the bus station."  Rocketing through
Duncan's head was the thought, 'If the Immortal who came to the shop
was the killer, he might have been able to sense Richie as a pre-
Immortal.'

"But that doesn't make sense, MacLeod," the detective argued.  "What
you're saying is that Richie sees a prominent public figure being
murdered. He runs away, headed to the nearest place he could get help,
which is the bus station.  The bus station where there is *always* a
police officer on duty.  But instead of telling the officer what he's
seen, Richie jumps on a bus to Cascade?  Why Cascade?"

"Offhand, I'd say because that happened to be the next bus leaving,"
Duncan said with a humorless grin.  "You don't know Richie; he doesn't
trust the police.  If he thought the killer was right behind him, and
the bus was there, getting ready to leave, he'd jump on it.  And one
other thing, he wouldn't have known it was Senator Bolt that was
killed. Even if he was close enough to see the shooting, Richie
wouldn't know his elected officials if they came up and shook his
hand." MacLeod clenched his fist.  "Damn!  If he had just called me,
maybe this all could have been avoided."

There wasn't anything Jim Ellison could say to that.

** ** **

The neurosurgeon had said Richie's surgery would take a minimum of
three hours.  For those three hours Tessa and MacLeod both seemed very
calm. Tessa leafed through magazines she had bought downstairs in the
gift shop and MacLeod borrowed her sketch pad and worked on what
appeared to be a floor plan.  From remarks he made Blair gathered the
floor plan was their antique shop and he was planning how to rearrange
the stock. A trained observer -- and Blair was one -- could tell that
Tessa read each page two or three times before turning it.  MacLeod
seemed fascinated with moving around a suit of armor.

At three hours, ten minutes into the surgery, MacLeod put down the
sketch pad, consulted an old-fashioned gold pocket watch, checked it
against the diamond encrusted watch around Tessa' wrist, and started to
pace.

Three hours, twenty two minutes.  Tessa spread her magazine wide open
and began folding each page inward.

Three hours, fifty minutes. Tessa reached into her bag, brought out a
bottle of Cutex nail polish remover and some cotton balls, and began
stripping the rose lacquer off her nails.

Four hours, five minutes: footsteps in the hall.  Both Tessa and
MacLeod froze in place as Dr. Jones strode into the room, still wearing
surgical greens.  He glanced around the room searchingly, spotted the
two of them, and gave a large smile.  "Everything went fine.  Richie
came through the surgery with flying colors."

Tessa emitted a choked little sob and turned to bury her face in
MacLeod's chest.  The Scot, face lit up in relief, wrapped one arm
around her shoulders while firmly shaking the doctor's hand.  "Thank
you, doctor, thank you so much.  When can we see him?"

"He'll be in Recovery for several hours.  As I said, everything went
well, but we'll want to monitor him very closely in ICU until he
regains consciousness."  The doctor sat down.  "I'd like to speak with
you about what you can expect in the next few days."

Forgotten for the moment, Blair let out his pent-up breath in a deep
sigh.  A wave of exhaustion swept over him, so profound that he
actually felt his limbs tremble.  His wounded shoulder suddenly
throbbed as if it would remind him of its presence.  He realized just
how little sleep he'd had lately.

'Or food,' he silently added as his stomach sent up a violent
clamoring.

He looked back over at MacLeod and Tessa.  They were listening to the
doctor intently.  Smiling, Blair slipped out of the waiting room.

He was heading for the main entrance of the hospital when a familiar
voice called his name.  Surprised, Blair looked up to see Jim Ellison
striding down the hall, a large manila envelope in his hand.  "How's
Richie?"  the detective asked.

"The surgery is over; looks like he'll be just fine," Blair assured him
in relief.  "I'm gonna head home, man, hit the sack.  I'll catch up
with you later."

Jim grabbed his good arm.  "Not so fast, Chief.  You aren't going to
your place until we catch our gunman."  His face became grim.  "They
still up there?"

"You mean MacLeod and Tessa?  Yeah, man, why?"

"Come with me," Jim answered shortly, setting off down the hallway
toward the elevators.

He said nothing else until they arrived at the surgical waiting area.
Dr. Jones was gone, but Tessa and MacLeod were in the same seats Blair
had left them in, wrapped in each others arms.  Jim gave a quick nod of
his head to a dark-haired man that Blair had vaguely noticed earlier,
assuming he was relative of another patient.  Now he belatedly realized
the man must be a plainclothes police officer.

"Detective -- Jim," MacLeod greeted him,  "did Blair tell you that
Richie is going to be all right?"

"He did.  That is great news," Jim responded.  He paused, then went on,
"Ms. Noel, do you think you could look at some pictures for me?"

The blond lifted her head from the Highlander's chest to regard Jim
through eyes that were bright with happiness even if tears were still
spilling down her face.  "Of course... pictures of what?"

For answer, Jim opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of flimsy
fax paper.  Blair could see enough to realize it was a black and white
reproduction of a mug shot.  "Is this the man that came to your shop?"

Tessa studied the picture, a tiny frown between her eyebrows.  "It
could be, but the quality of the picture is so poor.  I can't say for
sure."

"How about this one?"

This picture was color and much clearer than the previous one.  Tessa
gasped, "That's him!"

"Are you sure?"  Jim asked intently.

"Yes, of course.  The hair is even the same, that silver blond color."

Jim took a deep breath.  Oddly enough, he didn't look happy about this
positive identification.  "Then we have a problem," he said.

"What's wrong, Jim?"  Blair asked.

"The man in those photos was named Erik Lindstrom.  South African
national of Swedish parents, made his living as a high-dollar enforcer
for the Gariboldi crime family out of Chicago."

"'Was'?"   MacLeod asked, his tone flat.

"'Was'.  Lindstrom was found shot to death, rumor has someone high up
in the Gariboldi family started to suspect his loyalty."  Jim sighed
again.  "So, Ms. Noel, you can see my problem with this -- you're
identifying somebody who is dead, and who has been dead for the last
eighteen months!" ***   ***

MacLeod walked quietly into the Intensive Care Unit, giving a brief
smile to the nurse exiting Richie's cubicle.  "How is he?"  he asked,
his voice hushed.  Something about the ICU made him feel he should
whisper.

The nurse -- when he and Tessa had come in the first time, at midnight,
she'd introduced herself as Carol Jenkins -- smiled back, her eyes
tired. Long night, he supposed.  Every cubicle in the ICU was full.

"Richie's doing just fine," she assured him.  "I'll be going off shift
soon.  His day nurse will be Marlene Morrison; I'm sure that, once
things calm down a little, say about nine or so, she won't have a
problem with you visiting a little longer than ten minutes."

That had been the procedure all night: ten minute visits on the hour
and half hour.  MacLeod had come on the half-hour and Tessa on the
hour. In between they'd catnapped fitfully on one of the long couches
in the waiting room, surrounded by other family members who couldn't or
didn't want to leave the hospital.  A patient had died around three
a.m.; MacLeod had jerked awake from a restless doze at the sobs of the
man's wife, the muffled shriek from his oldest daughter.

Duncan stepped close to the bed.  Richie lay as still as he had every
other visit, eyes closed, bandages on his head only a little more white
than his complexion.  Green oxygen tubing curled on his face, feeding
into his nose.  IVs in his left arm, a blood pressure cuff continuously
attached to his right.

"Hi, Richie," MacLeod said self-consciously.  He had to clear his
throat. "It's six-thirty in the morning; if we were home I'd be waking
you up for a run.  Of course, you'd probably throw your pillow at me!"

He waited, praying for some movement, anything: a flicker of an eyelid,
twitch of the mouth, anything.  For all the staff's assurances that
Richie was doing fine, a part of MacLeod wasn't going to relax until
those blue eyes opened and, even more, that mouth opened and started
spilling out words at its usual break-neck speed.

"You know," he told the silent figure, "I didn't realize how much I'd
gotten use to the sound of your voice.  I'll bet you never thought
you'd hear me admit that!"  His hand slid down to grip Richie's cool,
slack one and he squeezed gently.  "Come on, Tough Guy, you can do it. 
Wake up now, please?"

He waited, studying Richie's face desperately.  A flicker of something
drew his attention upward and he studied the bank of monitors behind
the bed.  Richie's pulse and respiration had increased slightly.
"Richie? Can you hear me?"

The readings jumped again.  Before MacLeod could move he felt the
slightest, tiniest pressure on his hand.  He looked down in disbelief
to see Richie's fingers curl around his own.

** ** **

Jim Ellison didn't get much sleep.  He tossed and turned most of the
night.  Had he been alone he would have given up and gone downstairs,
turned on the TV and lost himself in some mindless infomercial, but
since Sandburg was crashed on the couch that wasn't an option.

Jim didn't like houseguests.  He hadn't liked them before his senses
went crazy and he sure didn't like them when even soft breathing
sounded like a cement mixer.  But Sandburg was wounded and exhausted,
and Jim wasn't going to have him going back to his unheated, unsafe
warehouse in his condition, especially since there were police officers
staked out there, hoping against hope their gunman/killer might show up
again. And Sandburg hadn't been any trouble: since Jim's sleeping bag
was still at Blair's, the student had just curled up on the couch in a
nest of blankets and been sound asleep even before Ellison had brushed
his teeth.

His cell phone shrilled.  Jim reached for it before it could ring
again.

"Ellison!  What's this about a *dead* assassin running around in *my*
city?"  The booming voice of his superior, Captain Simon Banks,
assaulted his ears.

"Good morning to you, too, sir," he sniped.  "I know it doesn't make
any sense, but the Noel woman identified Erik Lindstrom as the one that
came into her shop looking for Richie Ryan; as far as whether or not he
killed Senator Bolt, I guess we'll just have to wait until Ryan wakes
up."

Simon snorted.  "If he remembers anything after brain surgery.  In the
meantime, I've had the governor, half the Seacouver PD, the FBI and the
Treasury Department on the phone half the night.  Nobody is happy, Jim.
Erik Lindstrom is dead."

(Continued in part 7)





**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 7/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

Jim rubbed his eyes. "Sandburg had kind of an idea, sir."

"Oh, God.  Do I want to hear it?"

"Witness Protection Program," Jim answered succinctly.

There was a long pause, then Simon snorted again.  "Now I *am* worried:
I had the same thought!  The FBI denies it, but then you know those
guys. They'd deny anything if it suited their purposes.  Only thing is,
why would they put Lindstrom in the W.P.P.?  If Michael LaFiamma and
the whole wonderful Gariboldi family are still alive and well in
Chicago -- hey, did you know his nephew is a cop?"

"Who?  Lindstrom's nephew?"

"No, LaFiamma's nephew.  John, no Joseph, I think.  He's down in
Houston; according to the Chicago PD the nephew made things a little
uncomfortable for some of the mob guys and his uncle worked out some
kind of deal. Blood's thicker than water, I guess."

Jim didn't care.  "What did you really call about, Simon?"

"Oh, just wanted to give you a piece of information.  The forensics
team doing the sweep at Sandburg's found a partial print on those cut
power lines; apparently our boy didn't wear his gloves.  Seems rather
strange, given the weather that night, but maybe ghosts can't get
frostbite. But apparently they *can* leave fingerprints!"

"Ghosts?"  Jim repeated.

"Yeah.  The fingerprints belong to Erik Lindstrom."

** ** **

They moved Richie out of ICU and to a private room on the eighth floor
late in the afternoon.  The teen hadn't regained consciousness, but he
was showing signs of responsiveness when they spoke to him: body
movements, twitching of the eyelids, increased pulse and respiration.
All were positive signs, the hospital staff assured MacLeod and Tessa. 
Dr. Jones, when he visited just before dinnertime, seemed pleased at
Richie's progress. He glanced at the cot that Duncan had requested,
then at Tessa, looking tired and uncomfortable in her rumpled clothes,
and said, "You know, there's a very good hotel just a few blocks away;
the two of you could use some rest, maybe have a good meal."

MacLeod shook his head, although he was dying for a hot shower.  "We'd
rather be here when he wakes up," he answered.  Besides, he had no
intention of leaving Richie alone and unprotected while an Immortal
assassin roamed the streets of Cascade, even if the hospital was full
of policemen.

Ellison had been by three times, growing more agitated each time that
Richie couldn't be questioned.  Blair had visited too, but that was
different: he honestly seemed concerned about Richie.  Since he hadn't
been allowed in ICU he'd gone out and brought a picnic lunch back for
MacLeod and Tessa to eat in the waiting room.

"He may not wake up," Jones said absently, busily making notes in the
chart.

"What!"  Tessa gasped, blood draining from her face.  Duncan leapt up
from his seat.

"What do you mean?"  he demanded harshly.  "You said he was doing fine,
there were no complications!"

"He *is* doing fine," Jones said, puzzled, looking up at them.  He
closed his eyes in something like dismay.  "Oh, brother... I'm sorry.
I didn't mean that the way it must have sounded.  What I meant is that
you're picturing he's going to wake up like waking up in the morning,
all faculties intact, open his eyes and immediately engage you in
conversation."

"Well, actually conversation isn't Richie's strong suit in the
mornings," Duncan commented, calming at the expression on the doctor's
face. "So that isn't how it will happen?"

Jones shrugged.  "Well, it might.  But on the other hand he may
continue this way, showing increased responsiveness when you talk to
him, maybe gradually opening his eyes for a few minutes at a time;
could take several days, a week even, for him to be fully awake."

MacLeod frowned.  "And when he is awake?  How will he be?  I mean, will
he remember us, will he be able to talk and..." 'Will he *be* Richie?

"No reason to think he won't. There may be some memory loss, I
seriously doubt he'll remember the time between the original incident
and being readmitted to the hospital, although he *might*.  The human
brain is such a miraculous thing, we can't predict how it's going to
react. However, I *can* predict," he finished briskly, closing the
chart, "that you two are going to collapse if you don't get some rest!"

** ** **

"Look, I can stay here for awhile if you want to go check into a hotel,
grab a shower, eat something," Blair offered.  He grinned.  "I'm car-
less at the moment anyway and Jim is like insisting I stay at his place
until they catch this guy.  He's going to come by here and pick me up
about nine or so."

Tessa and Duncan exchanged looks.  "I *would* like to shower and change
clothes," Tessa said tentatively.

Duncan clenched his jaw; he'd been doing that a lot lately; maybe
Ellison was contagious.  "What if the killer comes here?"

"Uh, Duncan, that's why there are police all over the place," Blair
pointed out.  "Uniforms and plainclothes-- Jim hand-picked the guys
guarding the door."

'Yes, but they aren't Immortals!'  Duncan thought.  On the other hand,
surely even an Immortal assassin would want to avoid the police, and if
Blair was right in the room with Richie, what could happen?

He glanced up at the clock. "All right," he said.  "Just for an hour or
so."

** ** **

Blair yawned, rubbed at his eyes, then put the textbook face down on
the floor.  Standing, he stretched and stepped into the bathroom to
splash cold water on his face.  His reflection, pale, strained, with
dark shadows under the eyes, stared back at him.  Blair made a face at
the mirror and grinned.  He switched off the bathroom light and
returned to his chair.

His arm had bothered him most of the night before and he'd been almost
afraid to go to sleep, concerned he'd make a noise and disturb Jim. He
knew it must be hard for the Sentinel; trying to block out all the
stimulation so that he could sleep.

There was a soft knock and the door opened, letting in the uniformed
police officer that had been on guard duty outside the door.  Blair had
seen him around the station; Alan Palmer was his name.

Palmer clutched a large styrofoam cup in each hand.  Both cups bore the
logo of The Coffee Hut, which was across the street from the hospital.
Blair's nose twitched; he could smell something delectable.  "Don't
tell me that's amaretto cappuccino?"  he asked hopefully.

"Yeah.  Want some?  One of the guys downstairs brought it up; he took a
break and said he started feeling bad about me up here.  He got an
extra for himself, but when I told him you were here he said you're
welcome to it."

"Great!"  Blair accepted the cup and pulled off the lid, sniffing
greedily at the aroma.  "Man, I hope this isn't decaf.  I am dragging
tonight."

"A cop drinking decaf?"  Palmer laughed.  "Dream on."  He raised his
cup in a toast as he backed out of the room, closing the door behind
him.  Blair gulped a large mouthful, then settled back in the chair
with his textbook.

** ** **

A giant yawn almost dislocated his jaw.  "Must have been decaf after
all," Blair muttered to himself.  He tried to see the time but he
couldn't focus on his watch.  "Man, this is ridiculous, must be the
lighting or something in here."  He frowned; his tongue felt thick.

Maybe he could lie down on the cot; take a short power nap.  Suiting
action to deed, he sprawled face down. He just needed to close his eyes
for a few minutes--

He heard the door open and softly close again.  Footsteps.  Blair
forced open eyelids that were determined to stay glued down.  A blurry
figure in surgical greens, wearing a cap and mask, was leaning over
Richie. Something white was in the figure's hands, something white and
fluffy and it leaned over Richie, gently descending on to his face.

'NO!'  shrieked a voice in Blair's woolly mind.  He tried to sit up,
but his muscles weren't taking orders from his brain.  In spite of his
struggles his eyelids were closing again and blackness swam up to meet
him...

** ** **

Jim Ellison and Duncan MacLeod bumped into each other at the elevators.
Scowling, Jim allowed the Highlander to board first then followed,
pressing the elevator button for the eighth floor.  The lights in the
lift seemed abnormally bright and he closed his eyes for a minute.

"Bad day?"  MacLeod inquired.

"You could say that."  Jim had spent most of the day fielding phone
calls: a resolute FBI agent in Chicago who steadfastly insisted Erik
Lindstrom was dead; the Governor's office, the Seacouver PD and the
Justice Department, all wanting to know what was happening in the
investigation.  Not to mention the hounding from the press.

"Where's Ms. Noel?"  he asked.

"I left her at the hotel to get a few hours rest."  One corner of
MacLeod's lip turned upward.  "She wasn't very happy about it."

The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open onto the eight
floor.  MacLeod stepped out, then stopped so quickly that Ellison
plowed into his back.  "MacLeod, what the hell--"  then the detective
looked down the hall, to see a huge commotion at the end of the
corridor.

"That's Richie's room," MacLeod murmured, blood draining from his face.
He bolted down the hall, Ellison hard on his heels.  They reached the
door and peered into chaos.

A middle-aged man wearing a white lab coat was pounding on Richie's
chest and barking orders at two nurses. Sandburg lay in a boneless
huddle on the cot, another nurse leaning over him, patting his cheeks.
Jim quickly focused his senses on Sandburg.  Pulse slow, too slow
really, but steady.

"What the hell happened!"  MacLeod roared.

"He stopped breathing," one of the nurses volunteered.

"He didn't just stop," the doctor--at least Jim assumed he was a
doctor--had ceased CPR and was leaning over Richie's head.  He sighed
in relief and his shoulders relaxed.  "OK, he's breathing now.  Nurse,
increase the oh-two to three point five liters."  The other nurse, an
older one, nodded and reached behind the bed to adjust a knob.  She
settled the pale green tubing back in Richie's nose.  The doctor was
watching all the monitors closely and after two or three minutes he
nodded again and stepped away from the bed.

MacLeod was still frozen in the doorway.  Jim had knelt on the floor
next to Blair's still form.  "Chief," he said softly, then louder,
"Sandburg!" There was still no response and he looked around.  A half-
full styrofoam cup was underneath the cot.  Jim sniffed the liquid.
Coffee, amaretto, milk, and something else. "This coffee's been
drugged.

"That makes sense," the doctor growled.  He took the cup from Jim's
hand. "We'll have this analyzed.  I'd bet it's some kind of narcotic,
sleeping pills of some sort, maybe."

Ellison's eyes narrowed.  "Who are you?"

"He's Dr. Rucker,"  MacLeod answered, "I met him before I left for the
hotel."  The dark-haired man stepped closer to the bed, staring
anxiously at Richie.  "Is he going to be all right?  What happened?
Why did he stop breathing?"

Dr. Rucker stooped and picked up a pillow that had been thrown on the
floor in all the confusion.  He handled it carefully, using only the
index finger and thumb to lift it.  "Somebody tried to smother him,
with this.  But the alarms on the monitors went off and whoever it was
got away."

"*What?*"  Jim snapped.  "Where the hell was the guard?"

No one knew.  Jim strode out into the corridor.  The chair was there, a
paperback book and another styrofoam cup on the floor beside it. This
cup was empty, but Jim could still catch a whiff of the same odor he'd
smelled in Sandburg's cup.  Looking around, the detective focused on a
closed door across the hall marked "Clean Linen Room". Jim pulled his
gun as he cautiously opened the door.  Racks of linens: sheets, towels,
pillowcases, blue and green and yellow blankets, were shoved into the
room.  The odor of starch and disinfectant assaulted his nose.

And at his feet lay the still form of Sgt. Alan Palmer.  Dead.

** ** **

Duncan squeezed Richie's slack hand once, then tucked the hand beneath
the blankets and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back.  He
walked to the window and looked out into the cold night.

Almost two a.m.  Six hours since someone had tried to smother Richie
with a pillow from the linen room.  Since Blair Sandburg had been
drugged and another man murdered. Guilt roiled through the Highlander's
gut. 'I should have been here. If I'd been here--'

Richie had apparently suffered no additional injury from the attempt on
his life.  Sandburg was in a room down the hall, under observation for
what the hospital lab had confirmed was a sub-lethal dose of chloral
hydrate.  Had he drank the whole cup of coffee he would probably have
died too, like Palmer, a twenty-year veteran of the police force,
father of three kids.

There was a faint rap on the door and it opened to allow Jim Ellison
entrance.  He didn't seem surprised to see Duncan still awake.  "I
wanted to tell you, we have three men on duty outside your hotel room. 
I just checked in with them; everything's quiet."

Duncan nodded, fighting down anxiety.  There was no reason to believe
Erik Lindstrom, if that was indeed the killer, knew that Tessa was in
Cascade or realized she could be any danger to him.  Duncan didn't want
to leave Richie, and Tessa was probably safer where she was, with the
protection Ellison had assigned.

Studying the other man, he felt a rush of empathy.  Ellison looked
exhausted. The anger and grief that had clouded his eyes as he knelt in
the linen room beside the dead police sergeant were still plain.  His
jaw was clenched so tightly Duncan wondered how he kept from breaking a
tooth.  "How's Blair?"  Duncan asked carefully.

 The clenched jaw relaxed, if only a fraction.  "He's still asleep, but
his vital signs are normal.  He should wake up in the morning no worse
for wear."  A faint smile quirked Ellison's lip.  "This will probably
be the best night's sleep he's gotten in months."

"I'm sorry about Sgt. Palmer," Duncan said gently.

Blue eyes blazed.  Jaw muscles clenched even more tightly.  "He was a
good man.  But of all the stupid things to do--"

"Have you pieced together what happened yet?"

"Oh, yeah, I've pieced it together.  Asinine!  A hospital security
guard brought up the coffee.  It was given to him by a man wearing a
Cascade police uniform who asked the guard to bring it to Palmer and
whoever was sitting in the room with Richie.  The guard didn't suspect
anything was wrong so he brought it up and gave it to Palmer.
Apparently Palmer gave a cup to Sandburg.  Blair wouldn't have known
not to drink it. Palmer should have known better."  Ellison took a deep
breath.  "The guard positively identified a picture of Erik Lindstrom
as the 'officer'. For some insane reason, the hospital's Chief of
Security did *not* share the pictures of Lindstrom we gave him, with
his guards."

Duncan started to speak.  Suddenly, he felt the tingling awareness that
warned of another Immortal nearby.  Conscious of the comforting weight
of his sword in his coat, MacLeod stepped to the door and flung it
open.

Nothing. Two police officers in the hall looked up from their card
game.

"MacLeod?"  Ellison asked from behind him.  "What's wrong?"

Duncan ignored him to demand of the two officers, "Has anybody come by
here?"

They both shook their heads.  Duncan looked around again.  His eyes
spotted the emergency exit.  Something about the door looked wrong.  He
stepped closer, hearing Ellison's sharp inhalation of breath behind
him.  "The alarm's been disabled on that door!  I checked it myself not
thirty minutes ago!"

"Stay with Richie," MacLeod ordered, hand on the door to open it.
Ellison grabbed his elbow.

"Excuse me?  Where do you think you're going?"

Duncan looked at the detective.  "I can't explain it, but you don't
know what you're up against!"

"And you do?"

 "Yes.  I do.  This is my life.  It's not yours, Ellison.  Just stay
here."

Ellison stared at him incredulously.  Then he glanced at the two
officers. "Tyler, you go in that room and you stay with Ryan until
either Mr. MacLeod here or I tell you to leave.  Got it?  Martinez, you
guard that door. And call Sebring and tell him to stay with Sandburg."

Both officers nodded crisply, and one stepped inside the room; the
other pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number.
Jim turned back to MacLeod.  "After you," he said, gesturing at the
door.

**  **  **

The fire stairs ended at a door on the ground floor.  The lock on this
one had also been disabled.  No alarms shrieked as MacLeod pushed it
open and he and Ellison found themselves in a cul-de-sac formed by two
wings of the hospital.  The stairs and door probably dated to before
the newer west wing of the hospital had been added.

"Easy way to get out and pretty much guarantee no one would see you,"
Ellison admitted. "The parking lots and main entrance are on the other
side."

MacLeod pointed to the west, past more flower beds and lawns, gradually
merging into a heavily wooded area.  "What's that?  Those trees, I
mean. Part of the hospital grounds?"

"No.  That's Cascade River Park."

MacLeod looked at him.  "At this time of night, this time of year, a
park would be deserted, wouldn't it?"

Ellison nodded slowly.  "And we didn't know about this exit; all the
guards are at the parking lots and the main gates.  No one to see
somebody going into the park."

Wordlessly, MacLeod turned toward the trees.

**  **  **

Ellison and MacLeod moved cautiously through the woods.  Inky-black
darkness surrounded them.  One could hardly believe this was still the
middle of a bustling city; that ten minutes brisk walk in any direction
would bring one into people and lights and cars.

The wind was picking up as the latest storm moved in from the Pacific.
Leaves whipped past MacLeod's cheeks, bringing with them the odor of
damp sea air, and long decayed vegetation and wet earth.

The sense of an Immortal had faded, then grew strong again. Wordlessly,
Duncan yanked his katana from its hidden sleeve. Ellison jumped.  "What
the hell is that, MacLeod?"  he demanded, lowering his gun.

(Continued in part 8)


**********************************************************************
Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than Done 8/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************


There was the crack of a bullet and Duncan jerked back as the fiery
lead tore through his shoulder.  Staggered, he dropped his katana and
then fell to his knees to retrieve it.  Ellison didn't take cover,
moving in a circle, gun at the ready.

Silence.  Dark.  Stillness.

**  **  **

Jim stared into the darkness, opening his senses as far as he could,
focusing his sight, his hearing, hearing the rustle of the leaves, the
chittering sounds of night insects, the roar of the river....

"Detective?  Ellison!"  Something struck him across the face.

Jim gasped, sucking icy cold air into lungs that had been without too
long.  There was a face very close to his, concerned dark eyes staring
into his.  He recognized the face.  "MacLeod?"

"Are you all right?"  the Scotsman asked, his voice concerned.  "I
didn't think you were breathing."

The faint ache in his head and the pounding of his heart were proof to
Jim that he *hadn't* been breathing, but he didn't say anything on that
subject.  How could he explain it?  Sandburg called them "zone outs":
when Jim could be so carried away by one or more of his hyper-acute
senses that his brain and body literally forgot to function.

Jim smelled the blood.  With difficulty he remembered what had
happened. "Are you all right?"  he demanded, trying to reach for
MacLeod. "You're wounded."

MacLeod stepped backward hastily.  "No, I'm not.  The bullet must have
just startled me--"

"Bull!"  Ellison snapped, snatching MacLeod's arm, feeling the
stickiness of the blood on his sleeve.  "For God's sake let me see--"

The hand on MacLeod's arm felt a strange sensation, like a tingling
warmth. It was so strong that Jim forgot what he was saying and focused
on the shoulder of the man before him.  Flashes of cobalt blue
flickered about the wound.  A faint smell tickled his nose, but he
could not identify it.

"Ellison," MacLeod started again.

Jim ignored him, placing his hand directly on the ragged hole in
Duncan's jacket.  He felt that warmth again, but faintly this time.  No
fresh blood welled from the wound.

"Take it off," he demanded, pointing to MacLeod's jacket.

He heard the other man give a deep sigh then he complied.  Jagged hole
in the sweater, but unmarked skin below.

"My God," Jim whispered, "it's healed."  He stepped back, staring at
the other man.  "What are you?"

**  **  **

Duncan closed his eyes and muffled a groan.  How the hell had the
police detective seen that wound?  It was so pitch black out here--

Well, no matter.  He *had* seen it, and somehow the Immortal suspected
Ellison would be satisfied with nothing less than the truth.  He sighed
again.  "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  I was born 400 years
ago in the Highlands of Scotland."

He heard the sharp intake of breath from the other man as he added the
next bit:  "I am Immortal."

**  **  **

Later, when MacLeod had time to think about it, he was amazed at how
readily the police detective accepted his story.  Duncan didn't tell
all of it, of course; there wasn't enough time and this wasn't the
place. He covered the high points, including a little bit about the
Game, and beheadings, and the fact that their quarry, the real killer,
was also an Immortal.

At that Ellison finally reacted.  "How do you know?"  he demanded.

"We have a sort of early warning system, a feeling that tells an
Immortal when another is near by."

Ellison was putting the pieces together.  "So all those reports that
said Lindstrom was killed--"

"Were true.  He was.  Only not permanently.  It could have been his
first death, or it could have been the latest of many."

Ellison was silent for a moment, then "That explains the sword."

"Never leave home without it," MacLeod quipped.

"So, if you know he's an-- Immortal-- does that mean he knows you're
one, too?"

"I'm afraid so. Look, Ellison, while we're discussing this, Lindstrom
could be getting away, or doubling back to the hospital--"

"Lindstrom is on the riverbank, that way," Ellison interrupted,
pointing to the northwest.  MacLeod stared at him.

"How can you know that?"

Jim winced.  "Damn."  He paused.  "For now, let's just say that you
have an early warning system and I have a tracking system."  He started
to head for the riverbank, but MacLeod caught his arm.

"Detective, your gun will be of no use to you.  Are you going to try to
arrest him?"  Disbelief colored MacLeod's tone.

"Well, what would you suggest?  Beheading him?"  Jim suddenly realized
that was *exactly* what the Immortal had in mind.  "Forget it, MacLeod,
your -- 'Game' isn't part of this.  He's a suspect, I will arrest him
and if there's enough evidence he'll be tried by a jury of his peers--"

"*I'm* his peer," MacLeod said quietly.  "And judgment is up to me.
Ellison, he attacked and tried to kill Richie.  Twice.  And he'll keep
trying until he succeeds." 'Or until he makes him Immortal,' a little
voice in the back of Duncan's mind screamed.  He shook his head,
silencing the voice, and abruptly turned and moved off in the direction
Jim had indicated.

He wasn't surprised to hear the detective following.

***   ***

The Immortal was waiting for them on the grassy bank that gently sloped
down to the fast moving Cascade River, swollen from the recent rains
and rushing between mammoth boulders to its rendezvous with the ocean.

The full moon broke between ominous clouds as they emerged from the
forest, bathing the clearing in a silvery-light, catching and
reflecting on the sword Erik Lindstrom held in his hand.

Lindstrom looked much like the sketch Tessa had made of him.  From
somewhere he'd grabbed a jacket to throw over the surgical scrubs that
had allowed him entrance into Richie's room.  His eyes flicked to Jim,
still clutching his gun, to MacLeod, holding his katana.  He made a
little bow in the Immortal's direction.  "Erik Lindstrom," he
introduced himself proudly.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," MacLeod returned, his accent
deeper than Jim had noticed before.

Jim could see the expression change on Lindstrom's face.  His eyes
widened. "You're The Highlander?  What's your involvement in this?  I
have no quarrel with you."

"You know me?"  MacLeod asked.

"We have a mutual friend.  Alec Hill. He found me, you know, after--"
Lindstrom made a vague movement with his hand.  "He taught me."  There
was a pause, then he went on, "I don't want to fight you."

"You're after Richie Ryan; you've tried twice to kill him," MacLeod
snarled. "Maybe *I* want to fight *you.*"

"Richie Ryan," Lindstrom repeated blankly.  Comprehension dawned.  "The
kid? Well, so what's he to you?"

That cavalier comment seemed to stun even MacLeod.  "What's he to me?"
he repeated, his pitch elevating with each syllable.

"Well, yeah.  Look, MacLeod, I'm a businessman. It's what I do, what
I've always done.  I take a job, I don't leave any loose ends.  The
Ryan kid was a loose end.  He blundered into the warehouse in Seacouver
and he saw too much.  That's all."

"That loose end is my *friend,*" MacLeod spat out furiously.  "He is
under my protection.  You want him, you have to go through me."

Lindstrom bowed a little.  "If that's the way you want it, MacLeod." He
raised his sword.

Both Immortals had completely ignored Jim Ellison, but now Lindstrom's
eyes flickered over him.  Recognition sparked in his eyes.  "I know
you," he purred.  "You were there with Ryan and that long-haired kid,
in the Corvair.  You must be Ellison.  I've heard of you.  Big man,
Special Forces, Black Ops, that kind of thing."  His smile grew wider. 
"I'll enjoy killing you."

"He's not a part of this, Lindstrom!"  MacLeod's voice cracked like a
whip.

"That's where you're wrong, MacLeod. *You're* the one that's not a part
of this.  Ellison here got away.  His little hippie friend got away.
And the kid got away three times.  That's bad for my rep.  I have an
obligation to my client, you know."  He looked back at MacLeod.  "Last
chance, Highlander. You can walk away.  I owe Alex and you're his
friend." He secreted his sword at the same time pulling out a gun.
"Just leave me alone to take care of loose ends."

**  **  **

Rage swept the Highlander.  This man had tried to kill Richie.  Three
times.  For no more reason than because he was a "loose end".  Only
luck or more likely the Hand of God had spared Richie to this point.
He said a grateful prayer that apparently Lindstrom had not realized
the young man was a pre-Immortal.

No one was safe.  Not Richie, or Tessa or Sandburg or Ellison. He shot
an agonized glance at the detective who was just standing there holding
his gun, either stunned or off in one of those bizarre trances of his.
Then Duncan stepped between the other two.  "I said, you go through
me."

Lindstrom sighed.  "If that's the way you want it," he said. The wind
picked up, pushing clouds to cover the moon.

The sudden darkness distracted MacLeod just for an instant.  But it was
long enough for Lindstrom's finger to tighten on the trigger.  For the
second time a bullet tore through Duncan's shoulder.  His katana
dropped from his nerveless fingers and he fell to his knees in the
grass. Stunned, The Highlander waited for the killing blow.

Another shot rang out.  Lindstrom jerked, then crumpled forward.  Blood
blossomed from a hole in his back.

MacLeod struggled to his feet as Ellison stepped around him.  "I was
beginning to wonder about you," the Immortal gasped, clutching his arm.
Immortal or not, gunshots still hurt.

"You were blocking my shot too," Jim pointed out, kneeling beside the
temporary corpse.  "How long will he... stay dead?"

Duncan shrugged.  "It varies.  Not very long, probably."

The two men were silent.  Ellison spoke first.  "If I arrest him--"

"How?  Jail's not going to hold him, Ellison.  Richie, you, Blair, even
Tessa... none of you will be safe as long as he's alive."

Jim took a deep breath.  He didn't like it, but he knew what MacLeod
was saying was true.  Prison walls would be no protection against a man
who could not die.  Sooner or later Lindstrom would escape and no one
would be safe, not those victims he was hired to kill or any innocent
person like Richie or even Sandburg, who'd somehow gotten in the way.
"So what do we do now?"

"First, we give him a chance to wake up.  Then, I fight him."

 "Why don't you just behead him now, while he's still dead?"

MacLeod looked faintly horrified at the mere thought. "It's a Game,
Ellison. It has Rules."

The Immortal at their feet started to stir.  MacLeod stepped back,
assuming a fighting position.  "Get out of here, Ellison."

Lindstrom's eyes opened; he coughed, blinked.  Focused on MacLeod.  The
katana, ready.

The moon came out from behind the clouds, brightening the clearing with
that ethereal light.

Silence.

Lindstrom staggered to his feet.  His eyes met MacLeod's.  "I can't
talk you out of this?"

"Would you leave Richie alone?  All of them?  Would you stop killing
mortals?"

Lindstrom shook his head.  "No to all of the above. It's what I do,
MacLeod. I killed my first mark when I was thirteen."  His face
darkened.  "And after I'm done with all of you, I have some unfinished
business in Chicago. I need to go show them that the rumors of my death
were greatly exaggerated."  He pulled his sword.

"Get out of here, Ellison!" Mac ordered.

Jim's senses just barely shouted a warning.  A rush of displaced air,
light reflecting off a blade as it surged through the air where he had
stood just an instant before.  Off balance, the detective stumbled and
Lindstrom lunged for him again.  MacLeod was there, blocking the swing
with his own katana, then instinctively bringing his blade up.
Lindstrom heaved around, his sword tearing through the air, but he was
off target and the blade merely caught Duncan's arm.  Lindstrom was
defenseless for the blow that followed.  A killing blow.

MacLeod just stood there as Lindstrom's body collapsed before him.
Something--Jim knew what it was even though he didn't want to admit it
to himself--flew through the air to land heavily several feet away.
"Ellison," MacLeod said very calmly, "you'd better take cover."

Then all hell broke loose.

**  **  **

Morning.  Clean light spread over the city of Cascade.  A flawless blue
sky kissed the ocean.

Jim lightly tapped on the door of room 438, opened the door and peeked
in.  The blinds were still closed, but he could easily see the sleeping
form in the bed. Tentatively the Sentinel reached out with his senses:
heartbeat, respiration, both normal.  Blair sighed in his sleep.  Jim
smiled and softly closed the door as he left.

Down the hall he greeted the guard, then stepped inside Richie Ryan's
room, startling MacLeod and Tessa Noel out of a deep embrace.  "I'm
sorry," Jim said, feeling his face turn red.

"Don't worry," came a weak voice from the bed.  "They do that all the
time."

"Richie!"  Tessa leapt to the side of the bed, MacLeod right behind
her. "You're awake!  How do you feel?  Are you all right?  Do you have
any pain?  Do you need the doctor?  Duncan, go get the doctor or the
nurse or somebody!"

"Tess, I'm okay."  Richie struggled to sit up.  He winced, putting a
hand to his head.  "Wow, who turned on the merry-go-round?"

"You're dizzy?"  MacLeod asked, leaning over the boy.  "Is your vision
okay?  How many fingers am I holding up?"  he demanded, waving three
raised fingers in the air.

"Three.  Would you two please slow down?"  Richie pleaded, still
feeling around his bandage.  A horrified expression swept over his
face.  "Oh, jeez, you let them cut my hair?"

After an incredulous silence, laughter tore through the air.

**  **  **

Later, when the doctor had examined Richie and announced he was well on
the way to complete recovery, Duncan and Jim slipped out, leaving
Richie with an ecstatic Tessa.  The police detective handed MacLeod a
file folder.  "If I can get you to sign this report about last night?"

Duncan eyed him warily, then opened the folder and rapidly leafed
through the pages as Jim went on, "It was awfully fortunate that you
picked up that sword when Lindstrom dropped it and managed to kill him
before he shot me, since he had me dead to rights like that."

MacLeod's lip quirked.  "Too bad that I beheaded him rather than just
stabbing him in the back, though."

"Well, the heat of the moment." Ellison shrugged.  "You saved my life,
and I'm grateful."

Duncan signed his name.  As he handed the papers back he said, "That
goes both ways, Detective.  Thank you."

"Hey, we all have secrets to keep."

"Like how you knew where Lindstrom was?"  MacLeod asked.  He held up a
hand.  "No, I don't want to know.  So.  Now what?"

"Well, Lindstrom was strictly a killer-for-hire.  He may have kept
records or something on who his employers were, but we have no idea
where his base of operations was."

"So it's not over," MacLeod said quietly.

"It is for you," Ellison pointed out.  "The danger to Richie was
Lindstrom, and he's dead.  Richie's safe."

"Yeah." Duncan stepped back to the door

**  **  **

Richie slept most of the first few days, but by Thursday he was alert
and seemed more like his old self.  He was quiet though, and that
worried Tessa.  "Something's wrong, Duncan," she fretted.

"Well, the quiet is a nice change," Duncan tried to joke.

 "I'm serious!" Tessa flared.

"I know you are, sweetheart."  Duncan put his arm around her.  "Maybe
he's tired of the hospital.  You wait and see, when we get started for
home tomorrow he'll perk right up.  You'll probably be ready to gag him
by the time we hit the city limits."

**  **  **

Blair stuck his head around the door.  "Hey, Rich, can I come in?"

Richie looked away from the window he'd been staring through.  "Blair!
Yeah, hey, please, come on in."  He looked at the covered container
Blair held.  "What's that?"

"You were griping about the food, so I brought you something to eat."

"Oh?"  Richie asked cautiously.  He liked Blair a lot, but he'd already
figured out that the guy was a health food addict on a par with Mac.
The aroma from the styrofoam container was tempting, though, so he
opened it to find a cheeseburger and French fries.  "Great!  Real
food!"

Blair laughed.  "Compliments of Rita."

Richie looked up with his mouth full of cheeseburger.  "Who's Rita?"

"The waitress at that diner, the one you saved.  Jim and I went there
for lunch today and she insisted on sending you something, along with
her thanks."

"I didn't save her," Richie protested, "Jim got the guys, not me."

(Continued in part 9)





**********************************************************************
Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2000 14:27:34 EDT Subject: XOVER: Easier Said Than
Done 9/9 From: SKNKODIAK@AOL.COM
**********************************************************************

"Well, that's not the way she remembers it.  Or the way Jim or I
remember it, for that matter," Blair returned.  "Face it, man, you're a
genuine hero."

"Some hero."  Richie put the burger down; he'd suddenly lost his
appetite. "I ran off and let that Senator Bolt guy get killed."

Blair shook his head.  "You still don't remember what happened that
day, Richie.  From what I know, you couldn't have saved him, and the
killer would have just killed you too, if you'd tried."

"I guess," Richie muttered, turning back to the window.

"Hey, man, what is it?  You seem awfully low today."

Richie was silent for a long time, then he said, "Mac and Tessa are
going back to Seacouver tomorrow.  Tessa has a meeting with the Park
Commission about some statue she's doing for them."

"Oh," Blair said blankly.  Then his face lit up.  "Hey, I've got an
idea. They have VCRs out there at the main desk for patients to borrow;
we'll get one and I'll bring over some movies.  I've got a bunch I need
to screen anyway for this new research project I'm doing.  MacLeod and
Tessa coming back on Sunday?  or Monday?"

Another long silence.  "They won't come back."  Richie's voice was very
quiet.

"What?"  Blair shook his head.  "They told you that?  What's going on?"

Richie shook his head.  "No, they didn't say that, exactly, but they
didn't have to.  I mean, why would they come back?  What's up here for
them?"

"Well, you're here," Blair pointed out.  "For the moment, at least."

Richie shrugged.

There was another silence.

"Richie, tell me what's going on in your head," Blair finally said.

"Nothing.  I mean, why should they come back?  I'm nothing to them. I'm
just some punk kid who broke into their place one night and for some
reason Mac decided to give me a break and a job and a place to live,
and then I screwed *that* up, and then..."  abruptly Richie broke off
and turned to the window, trying to hide the tears in his blue eyes.

"Man, you are so wrong," the graduate student said.  "I don't know why
they took you in, and I don't know what you did that you think is so
terrible, but I do know that those two care about you.  They're your
family, Richie, and family doesn't just walk away because things don't
go smoothly."

Richie snorted.  "I wouldn't know," he said bitterly.  "I never had a
family."

Blair shrugged.  "Maybe not, but you have one now.  Richie, man, I'm
telling you, MacLeod and Tessa love you."

Richie turned startled eyes on Blair.  "Love?"

"Yeah, love."  Blair shook his head.  "Man, are you blind or what?  Why
do you think they came all the way up here?  When you were in surgery
and then before you woke up, they never left this place until the
doctor practically threw them out.  Jim had a guard on your door and
Mac *still* wouldn't leave.  And Tessa!  Man, every time you so much as
wince she's out there yelling at the doctor or the nurses to do
something.  When you were in surgery she and I went down for coffee and
all she talked about non-stop was you."

Richie stared at him.  "I don't--"

"Look, Richie, maybe I don't know what happened that caused you to run
away--"

"I didn't run away!"  Richie flared.  "I'm eighteen."

"So?  You ran, Richie, and face facts, you weren't running *from*
Lindstrom, you were running *away* from home."

"It's not my home.  It's Mac and Tessa's, and I'm just somebody in the
spare room."

"You don't believe that," Blair said.

Richie held his gaze for a minute and then looked away.  "Well, okay,
maybe I'd like it to be home, but it's not."

"Oh, I think it is."  Blair smiled.  "Richie, when I was growing up we
-- my mom and I-- we moved all the time.  I remember I asked her once
why we were going to leave 'home' again.  She said 'Sweetie, home isn't
a place.  Home is in your heart and with the people you love and who
love you.'"

"Your mother is a very smart woman," said a deep voice from the
doorway. Duncan stood there, intently looking at Richie.  Tessa was
standing next to him, her eyes suspiciously bright.  Mac came farther
into the room. "Blair, could you leave us alone for a few minutes?
Tessa and I would like to take you and Detective Ellison out to dinner
tonight, to say thanks -- maybe you could call him and relay the
invitation?"

Richie shot Blair an imploring look, but the grad student ignored him
as he scrambled out of the chair.  "Hey, no problem.  Be warned,
though, Jim's idea of a good dinner is like, Sizzlin Sirloin or
something. Richie, man, I'll come by after classes are over."

**   **  **

Tessa slipped into the chair and Duncan perched on the opposite side of
the bed, effectively cornering Richie.  He couldn't stare out the
window because Mac was in the way; if he turned in the other direction
he saw Tessa dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex.  So he looked at the
TV.  He'd muted the volume when Blair had come in, and the noon news
report played silently on the screen.

"Richie," MacLeod started. "There are some things we need to talk
about." He glanced at Tessa apologetically.  "We should have had this
discussion earlier, but I thought it would be best to wait until we got
you home. I was wrong about that."

Startled, Richie looked at the Highlander.  "Home?"  he repeated, as if
he'd never heard the word before.

"Yes, home!  Our home, where we live.  Our family."

Richie shook his head.  "You mean, you'd let me come back?"

"Let you!"  Tessa burst out.  "You have no choice, Richie, do you hear
me?  You are coming home with us."  She wiped the tears from her face
with an impatient hand.  "Do I need to buy some rope before tomorrow so
we can tie you up and put you in the back seat, or are you coming
willingly?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Well, of course.  We told you we were going home tomorrow, and the
doctor is going to discharge you so you can go too.  Did you really
think we'd leave without you?"  Tessa asked.

Richie stared at her, then made a sudden movement.  Before either of
them realized what was going on, Tessa and Richie were hugging each
other and their tears mixed together trickling down their faces.  "But
I've caused so much trouble," the teenager said, his words muffled in
Tessa's neck.

Duncan cleared his throat with difficulty.  "No, you *had* trouble. You
didn't *cause* it.  The only thing you did wrong was to run instead of
coming home and letting us help you."  He paused and grinned.  "And we
*will* talk about that, but don't worry, I'll wait until you're back on
your feet."

Richie pulled loose from Tessa, blinking his eyes rapidly to hide the
tears.  "You guys--- you guys are--" he paused, took a deep breath and
went on, "You two are the best people I've ever met.  I just don't
understand why... I mean, after everything with Felicia," he glanced at
Tessa, his heart in his eyes, "What I said to you--"

Tessa laid two fingers across his mouth. "Hush.  I was angry and so
were you.  We both said a few things we shouldn't have.  It's over."

Richie looked at the TV again, trying to regain his composure.  There
was a dark-haired woman being interviewed by the newscaster.  Richie
frowned, he had the funny feeling he'd seen her before, but where--he
remembered suddenly and his eyes widened.

"Richie?"  MacLeod half rose from his seat.  "What's wrong?"

Richie tried to speak, to tell him, but it was like there was no air in
his lungs. Duncan followed his gaze.  He frowned.  "The news show?"

"That lady--" Richie choked out.  "Mac, I -- remember!  At the
warehouse! When that guy got killed, she was there!  She was watching,
she watched him get killed and she-- she was laughing about it!"

Tessa threw a startled glance at the set.  "Duncan, isn't that--"

MacLeod nodded.  "That's Melinda Bolt."

Richie stared at him.

"Senator Markham Bolt's widow," the Highlander finished grimly.

***   ***

Epilogue

>From an article in the Seacouver Journal, December 2.

~~After fifty-six hours of deliberations the Grand Jury failed to
indict Melinda Bolt on charges of murder in the death of her husband,
Senator Markham J. Bolt. The body of Senator Bolt, 48, was discovered
October 30 in a Seacouver warehouse.  He had been shot three times in
what police later described as an "execution style" killing.

Prosecutors alleged that Melinda Bolt, 34, Senator Bolt's second wife,
hired a professional killer, Erik Lindstrom, to kill her husband.
Witnesses testified that Bolt had recently discovered Mrs. Bolt was
having an extramarital affair.  Family members testified before the
Grand Jury that Bolt was seeking a divorce.  Under the terms of a
prenuptial agreement signed in the 1988 Mrs. Bolt would receive a lump-
sum payment of $500,000 if the marriage dissolved before ten years had
passed, plus support for any children.

Senator and Mrs. Bolt have one child, a son, David, age 2.  Senator
Bolt had two older children from his first marriage.

Mrs. Bolt admitted under oath that she was having an affair with a
Seacouver businessman but denied having hired Lindstrom.  Lindstrom was
killed in Cascade after an attempt on the life of prosecution witness,
Richard Ryan.

Ryan, 18, testified that he witnessed  a man shoot Senator Bolt while a
woman watched.  Ryan identified the woman as Melinda Bolt.  Ryan left
Seacouver following the murder and it was several days before he told
his story.  Ryan said that he fled because he was in fear for his life.

Although Ryan maintained his story under relentless questioning by Mrs.
Bolt's attorneys,  much was made of the fact that he never mentioned
Mrs. Bolt's presence at the scene until after he was recovering from
brain surgery.

A visibly angry ADA Janet Gimlin was harshly critical of Judge William
May's refusal to allow the testimony of Cascade police Detective Jim
Ellison.  Gimlin stated that Ellison was witness to two attempts Erik
Lindstrom made on Ryan's life.  Judge May issued a statement saying in
part "Ellison's testimony would have been pertinent if the Grand Jury
was investigating Erik Lindstrom for the attempted murder of Richard
Ryan, but it has no relevance in the current situation."

Bolt's attorney released a statement saying, "Mrs. Bolt is
understandably relieved that she has been vindicated by the Grand
Jury's findings. Although there might have been problems in her
marriage, Mrs. Bolt loved her husband and only asks to be left alone to
grieve her loss."~~

**  **  **

"What's the deal?'  Richie asked, leaning back against the counter in
mock-exhaustion.  "Is business booming all of a sudden or what?"

"Get used to it," Duncan returned lightly.  "It will be this way until
Christmas."

The Highlander was glad for the rush of business, if for no other
reason than keeping busy had helped Richie's mood. The young man had
been depressed since the Grand Jury had failed to indict Melinda Bolt,
feeling that it was somehow a reflection on him.

They had been plagued by reporters in the week since the Grand Jury's
decision.  One in particular had been especially persistent, pouncing
on Richie every time he walked out of the shop.  But even Randi
MacFarland had to give up in the face of unwavering "No comment"
occasionally interspersed with "Get out of my face, lady!" and finally
appeared to have given up. Duncan just wanted to put the whole thing
behind them.

As if divining MacLeod's thoughts, Richie said suddenly, "Did you see
the paper this morning?  She's moving out of the house."

MacLeod didn't have to ask who he was talking about.  He sighed. 'Since
when does Richie read any part of the paper but the comics and the
sports section?'  Aloud he said, "Let it go, Richie."

"Let it go, Mac?  She killed her husband and thanks to me she got away
with it!"

"How was it your fault, Rich?  You heard what Janet Gimlin said,
without your statement the DA wouldn't have even charged her.  The
police suspected Melinda Bolt, but they didn't have any real evidence."

"Fat lot of good I did," Richie muttered.  He slid off the counter.
"Better get ready, Mac, looks like we've got a big-money customer
coming in.  Check out that car!"

MacLeod glanced up at the sleek limousine that had just glided to a
stop in front of the shop.  A uniformed chauffeur stepped out and
swiftly came around to the rear passenger door, opening it and
carefully helping an elderly woman to alight.  The Highlander inhaled
sharply as he recognized the dignified form.

"You know her?"  Richie asked.

"Corinna Bolt," MacLeod answered, hastily going to the door.

**  **  **

Richie stood back and watched as Mac greeted the petite elderly woman
warmly, ushering her inside the warm shop.  Mac was talking about a new
collection of Venetian glassware that had come in, but the woman waved
her hand.  "I'm not here to shop, Duncan, not today.  I'm afraid I've
been very delinquent in my Christmas gift-buying this year."

"That's quite understandable," MacLeod said gently.  "Then how can I
help you?"

"I wanted to talk with your young friend here," Corinna Bolt announced
abruptly, turning suddenly to look at Richie.  The young man felt
himself impaled by a pair of piercing blue eyes.

"Me?" he squeaked.

Richie was sure the woman wanted to rail at him for screwing up and
allowing her grandson's murderer to go free.  He felt his jaw drop open
when the woman approached him with her hand outstretched, saying "I
wanted to thank you, Mr. Ryan."

"Thank me?"  Richie breathed out after a startled silence.  "For what?
She got away with it."

Duncan winced, but Mrs. Bolt smiled.  "She won't go to prison," she
corrected him.  "But she didn't get what she wanted.  Melinda did not
know that my grandson had already changed his will.  Under his new will
she will receive even less that she would have under the prenuptial
agreement." She shrugged.  "Possibly you don't know that according the
laws of this state, an insurance company can refuse payment in event of
suspicion the beneficiary had something to do with the death of the
insured: they don't have to be able to prove it.  Melinda can fight,
but she's going to find herself very short of ready cash.  And I'm
afraid those high-dollar lawyers of hers may make themselves scarce
when her true financial picture is revealed."

MacLeod smiled.  "And that true picture--"

"Will be reported on the evening news," Mrs. Bolt finished.  She looked
back at Richie.  "I've just come from my attorneys.  Melinda signed an
agreement this morning that in return for the $500,000 promised her
under the prenuptial, she will relinquish all claims to Mark's estate,
to the Bolt family assets, and to her son."

"She's giving up the child?"  MacLeod asked.

Mrs. Bolt nodded.  "David will be raised by the Bolt family, where he
belongs.  Hopefully he'll never have to know that his mother had his
father murdered.  I owe this to you, Mr. Ryan.  The insurance company
was very impressed with your testimony; it gave me the leverage I
needed to force Melinda to give up David."

Richie's head was whirling.  "I'm glad... but it's still not right!"

The matriarch looked at him for several seconds.  "Possibly.  You're
very young, Mr. Ryan.  You still see the world in black and white.
Right and wrong.  When one gets to my, age one settles for what one can
get. Even if Melinda had been tried and found guilty, it wouldn't have
brought Mark back.  The best thing is to take care of Mark's son."  She
extended her hand to Richie.  "Please know you have my gratitude, Mr.
Ryan.  And if I can ever be of any help to you--"

Richie shook his head violently, his heart pounding.  "No.  I mean,
thank you, but no.  I... I.. " he looked at MacLeod.  The Highlander
was smiling at him, his dark eyes warm and reassuring.  A light step
behind him indicated that Tessa was there too, being silently
supportive.  Richie took a deep breath and managed to shake Mrs. Bolt's
hand.  "Thanks for the offer, but I have everything I need."

Mrs. Bolt looked from Richie to MacLeod and then back again.  "I can
see that." With a farewell smile, she started for the door.

Richie watched her, his thoughts confused.  He kept seeing a small
child, a small red-haired child, all alone in the world-- "Mrs. Bolt!"

"Yes?"  She turned to face him.

"There is one thing.  The little boy--"

"David?"

"Yeah."  Richie stopped, then struggled on, "Could you... just make
sure that somebody always loves him -- that he knows he has a family?" 
His voice trailed off and he shook his head in dismay about how corny
it sounded.

Mrs. Bolt studied him for a long time, then her eyes lit up in the
warmest smile he'd ever seen.  "Richard," she said, addressing him by
his first name, "*that* I can make sure of."

Richie let his breath out in a sigh.  "Good," he smiled.  He looked at
Mac and then at Tessa, then back at Mrs. Bolt.  His next words were
addressed to her, but he knew Mac and Tessa would know that he was
really speaking to them when he said, "'Cause everybody needs a
family."


### The End ###