An Evening at Joe's Read online

  Oh yeah, speaking of Cath here's a funny story. Remember when I was just a freshman but I was playing defensive safety in that junior varsity championship game against Assumption? That guy on their team keeled over and dropped the ball and instead of just picking up the fumble and running I called time and helped him off the field. And then it turns out he'd had an appendicitis attack and all, so Cath and all these senior girls, Maureen Kelleher and the Cusamano twins and everybody started calling me "Boyscout" which of course I hated and it took me two years to get another nickname? Well get a load of this. Since my last letter we had a new top kick rotate in, Sgt. Cord, a heavy duty guy like I've never seen in my life. This guy takes chances you really can't believe, I swear it's like he thinks he can't die or something. Well, anyway, second day with us he wants to check out our perimeter, so he walks up to me and says: "Hey, boy scout, you're my man, let's take a hike." Boyscout! I couldn't believe it, it's like some kind of weird curse. Please don't tell Cath or I will never hear the end of it. Please.

  Well, it's just about lights out for me so I'll say so long. If you talk to Mrs. Fields tell her I said hi to Betsy and I'll try to write soon, but we're heading for the boonies again tomorrow so I might not get a chance right away. Say a prayer for me, Mom, and keep a light in the window. You never know when I'll becoming home.

  Your loving son,

  Lance/Cpl. Joseph P. Dawson

  Train from Bordeaux

  by Gillian Horvath

  ASSOCIATE CREATIVE CONSULTANT: Gillian Horvath

  "Creative Consultant" is a title that's used in television for any member of the writing staff who, for whatever reason, isn't billed as a Writer, Story Editor, or Producer. I joined the Highlander team at the beginning of the second season as the Assistant to Creative Consultant David Abramowitz (the Head Writer); for the next four seasons, under various "Consultant" titles, I worked with David Abramowitz, Dave Tynan, and Bill Panzer to plan and oversee the character arcs and freelance writers.

  This story, written in December of 1996 when the "Horseman" episodes had been filmed but not yet aired, arose out of a piece of business Richard Ridings, the actor playing Silas, added to the work. During the scene in the asylum director's office, while Kronos and Methos threatened the doctor, Silas stood in the background whittling on a piece of wood, which was finally revealed to be a simple flute. Although this unscripted bit of action is barely noticeable in the final cut of the episode, it caught my eye while watching the dailies and started me thinking about Silas and his relationship with his three "brothers," particularly Methos.

  I thought I'd be able to sleep. I thought I'd have to. For two weeks I've had one eye open every night, watching, planning. Caspian would kill me in my bed with half an excuse, always would. Kronos doesn't sleep, he doesn't need to, so I couldn't sleep either, not if I wanted to keep up.

  We think alike, we always have.

  I've had to, these last weeks. I've had to put myself in Kronos's head, to somehow try and imitate that great, twisted imagination of his, to see where he's going before he gets there. No wonder I haven't slept.

  And now they're gone. Dead. Kronos, and Caspian.

  And Silas.

  I lay my head against the chilly pane of the train window, slouching down into my woolen overcoat. I'm safe now, at least my head is safe, and I should be able to sleep.

  But I can't.

  I like to have my axe in my hands.

  You always had a blade in your hands, didn't you, Brother? When you weren't hacking men limb from limb you were whittling away with that knife of yours, turning discarded bits of wood into square-haunched horses and humpbacked camels, children's playthings.

  Did you have toys as a child, Silas? Did a doting foster parent put hand-carved dolls in your cradle? Or were you abandoned and unloved, like so many of us? Is your little wooden menagerie your way of rewriting history? Of taking what you were never given?

  I never asked. A thousand years we rode together, fought together, bled together, but I never asked. It's not a thing men talk about—not men like us.

  I look out the window at the green and brown French countryside. A farmhouse here, a road there. Otherwise it looks the same as it has every time I've passed this way, every time in five thousand years.

  I'm the one that changes. I've been a different man every time I've crossed these fields. Two thousand years ago, or two hundred. Or two weeks. Two weeks ago when Kronos brought me down here, I was a Horseman. I had to be, to survive. It doesn't matter what I was thinking inside, it doesn't matter if I wanted to kill Kronos with my bare hands and run, because I didn't. I looked out this window and saw these hills with Horseman's eyes.

  That's the part MacLeod will never understand. He wants an explanation. He wants to hear me say I never meant to do it.

  He hasn't lived long enough to know it doesn't matter what you meant to do. All that matters is what you did.

  You don't know anything about me.

  I said it to Silas. It's the last thing I said to him before I killed him.

  But I could have said it to any of them. To Kronos, who thought he owned me. To MacLeod, who thought he changed me. To Cassandra, who thought she loved me.

  None of them have any idea who I am.

  How could they? In five thousand years I've been five thousand men. To while away the time I start listing them to myself, the lives, the identities. Farmers and scholars. Butchers and executioners. Husbands and lovers.

  It's like counting sheep. I sleep.

  It's a cold night in the desert and we've got the fire burning high. Travellers are told to keep their fires low for fear of being spotted by raiders, but we have no such worries. We are the Raiders. We are the Horsemen. We are four men who have chosen to be the Bringers of Fear.

  The sky is clear and the stars are out. I'm lying back on my bed of skins, finding the animals in the sky. I've just learned the legends of the stars from an old scholar we had prisoner The maiden, the lion, the twins. The old man told me the stories to save his life, a gap-toothed, shriveled old Scheherezade. He lived twelve nights.

  Now I'm telling Kronos about the hunter and the bull. Not because he's interested, but because he likes to hear me talk. He's lying so near to me I can sense every inch of him, though we're not touching. My skin prickles with the awareness, knowing every muscle and sinew of him as I do, I know how easily he could reach over and kill me, but I know he won't, not tonight.

  I can smell Caspian, lying on the far side of the fire, sleeping, snoring. None of it means anything to him—not the star stories, not the warmth of the fire, not the exquisite awareness that binds us four together, body and soul. To him, only the killing matters. The killing, and the women.

  Silas and I are back to back, as we so often are, in battle and in company, leaning against each other, with no thought of fear or mistrust. Like a dog and his master, we travel together, serve one another, keep one another whole.

  He's pretending to listen to my story but I know he's not. I glance over at his moving hands, the small knife working the wooden block. I can't see what he's making. It doesn't matter, he'll pitch it in the fire before we move on anyway. It's just something he does, this carving. Who he is.

  I wake with a start, the feel of Silas's broad back leaning against mine still fresh in my mind, and for a moment I feel him in me, my brother now in life and death, before I remember where I am, who I am...

  Who I've killed.

  In an age of warlords, he was a king. In an industrial age, he was nothing, a man living in the woods, awaiting the day when his master would call him into service again.

  Waiting for Kronos.

  Waiting for me.

  It doesn't do any good to think about that. This is a new day. I'm a new man.

  The Horsemen are no more.

  I reach in my pocket and take out the flute Silas carved last week, put it to my mouth, and start to play.

  The Star of Athena

  by Laura Brennan


  SCRIPT COORDINATOR: Laura Brennan

  Laura Brennan joined the Highlander writing staff as Script Coordinator at the beginning of season 6. Raised in Monaco by American parents, Laura has the distinction of being the first staffer at the Los Angeles office to be fluent in French as well as English, a fact much appreciated by the crew in Paris. Laura later went on to be Associate Creative Consultant on Highlander: The Raven.

  The character of the Immortal Amanda, later featured as the lead of Highlander: The Raven, began with a single appearance in Highlander's first season. From there, this charming cat burglar, played by the beautiful Elizabeth Gracen, grew in importance as a continuing character; appearing more and more frequently as the series progressed. Though she was initially seen as only a rogue and a "bad habit of Duncan's," layers of characterization were added to Amanda over the years, revealing her staunch loyalty to her teachers and friends. In the fifth season's "Forgive Us Our Trespasses," she even demonstrated a deep understanding of the moral issues facing Duncan MacLeod, and all Immortals—even as she was framing him for jewel theft.

  In "The Star of Athena," reminiscent of a classic caper film of the '30s, Laura Brennan gives us an affectionate look at the jetsetting adventuress Amanda, who could win and lose a million dollars in jewels in one night, just for the rush.

  Nowhere on earth was quite so magical as Monte Carlo in the springtime. The scent of azaleas floated through the clear, balmy night. The moon had risen, and a million glistening fragments of reflected silver danced over the Mediterranean.

  Yes, Amanda thought, dangling from a rope forty feet above the waves, this was by far the worst vacation she'd ever had.

  She paused to catch her breath, and to curse the moonlight. Not that there was much risk of someone noticing her from below. The Monte Carlo Loews Hotel jutted out directly over the ocean, and by now any straggling ships were safely in the harbor, and out of sight. She'd be fine, as long as no doe-eyed newlyweds came out for a snuggle on their balcony. She edged up another foot. Maybe they'd all make a night of it at the Casino. Preferably, losing. The thought cheered her.

  It was, after all, gambling that had gotten her into this mess. The unexpected loss at blackjack. That unfortunate hour at the roulette wheel. Then, to top it off, the disastrous high-stakes poker game, illegally held in the private home of an exiled Romanian prince. Prince, my eye, she thought spitefully, inching her way up the side of the hotel. He was probably run out of the country for fleecing innocent young women with a shot at an inside straight. She reached up, her fingers searching for a solid handhold.

  And then she got the Buzz.

  Startled, Amanda lost her grip. She dropped a yard and scrambled to stabilize. A forty-foot tumble into the sea wouldn't be fatal, but it would attract attention. Besides, she hadn't known another Immortal was in town; she didn't want to be "out," and vulnerable, if the Immortal in question turned out not to be a friend.

  One thing she did know: whoever it was was getting closer. Time for a change of plans. She pulled a grappling gun from her waistband and aimed at an upper balcony. The hook caught on the wrought-iron railing. She tugged at it experimentally. The rope held.

  The Buzz grew stronger. She pulled out a hunting knife and in one quick motion severed her line to the roof and kicked herself off from the wall. She swung across the side of the hotel, her momentum carrying her away from the unknown Immortal. She felt their connection grow weaker, then disappear, as she let go of the line and landed softly on the balcony of a darkened room.

  Amanda jimmied open the sliding door and crept into the room. It was empty—her first bit of luck all night. Sixty seconds later she was on the street. Not the cleanest of getaways, she reflected, but at least she had what she came for. Amanda checked her watch-10:30. Half an hour till her rendezvous with the buyer. Time enough to get a good look at the merchandise.

  She slipped into a nightclub, already crowded with tourists, and locked herself in the restroom. Now that she was safely away, Amanda allowed herself a moment to gloat over her success. The Star of Athena, one of the most famous sapphire necklaces in the world. And for the next twenty-five minutes, it belonged to her. Gently, she shook the necklace free from its black velvet pouch and held it up to the indifferent fluorescent light.

  Everyone in Europe knew the legendary Star of Athena. The center stone was an enormous star sapphire, spectacular because of a tiny flaw in the smoky blue-grey that reflected light into a brilliant, perfect star. The sapphire itself was set in white gold, and it hung on a necklace literally dripping with diamonds. Fashioned centuries ago, it had been presented to Jeannette du Vaulier by King Louis XV, as a tribute to her divine beauty and, possibly, in gratitude for her other, more earthly, gifts.

  Amanda looked at the necklace for a long, long time. Then, with an impatient shake of her head, she returned it to the velvet pouch. Time to meet the buyer.

  Entering the small, relentlessly modern and outrageously expensive bar at the Hotel de Paris, Amanda spotted him immediately. She frowned. He was early, already restless, clearly not on his first drink of the night. Not the kind of man she would normally do business with. But then, the Baron du Vaulier was surprising in a number of ways. She had seen him watching her at the blackjack table, and she wasn't surprised when he followed her out of the Casino. He'd caught up with her there, grabbing hold of her arm and asking her if she'd come to Monaco to steal his wife's necklace, the Star of Athena.

  "Don't be ridiculous," she'd replied, trying to move past him. But that's just what he was, standing there blocking her way: a ridiculous little man with sweaty palms and sudden boldness.

  "But you must," he'd said simply. "I'll give you one hundred thou- sand francs if you'll do it."

  Now the Baron was waiting for her in a booth at the hotel bar, as instructed. He saw her approach and jumped to his feet.

  "Do you have it?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  "You know," Amanda told him, motioning him to sit down, "most mistresses are happy to receive earrings, maybe a diamond tennis bracelet." She hoped Isabelle Jauverne, from whose room she'd retrieved the necklace, had gotten at least that much from the Baron before demanding to wear the famous Star. At least the affair wouldn't have been a total loss.

  "You really mustn't give away your wife's jewelry," she continued. "It's disloyal. It's dangerous. And you won't always find someone with my expertise to retrieve it for you."

  He didn't seem to hear her. Even in the dim light, Amanda could see that his hands were shaking. "Do you have the Star?" he repeated.

  "There is a package at the front desk," she answered carefully. "In it is the necklace I found in Madame Jauverne's safe."

  The Baron made a quick movement, as if to rise, but Amanda's voice stopped him. "Haven't you forgotten something, Marco?"

  "Of course, of course." He clutched her hand to his chest and bobbed his head enthusiastically. "A million thanks!"

  "A hundred thousand would do," Amanda replied drily, extracting her hand with some difficulty from the Baron's grip.

  "Of course," he repeated, floundering. "But, Mademoiselle, you must understand, it is difficult to raise such a sum...."

  Amanda sighed inwardly. "You lost twice that much at roulette last night," she said flatly. "Besides," she added, "I haven't told you under what name the package is being held. Of course, Madame Jauverne might also be interested in recovering the item...."

  At the mention of his mistress's name, the Baron crumbled. "Women!" he grumbled, reaching into his portefeuille. "I am plagued."

  Amanda slid the wad of bills into her purse. "Find the hotel concierge," she told him. "Tell him you need the package left for your aunt, Mary Poppins."

  "Marr-ee Poe-pins," he repeated the unfamiliar name slowly.

  "Close enough." Amanda shook her head as he tottered away. The French could be so exasperating. Before he was out of sight, the Baron was already forgotten, replaced by a more pressing question: who could the mysterious
Immortal have been?

  The next day passed without a whisper of the break-in at Loews—not that Amanda expected any. Isabelle Jauverne could hardly report as stolen a necklace that so famously belonged to another woman—a woman who, by all reports, had just returned to Monaco, in time for the premiere of a new play at the Theatre Princesse Grace. The Baroness du Vaulier wouldn't miss the opportunity to vaunt her family's fortune to Monaco's elite. No wonder her husband had been in such a panic to retrieve the Star.

  Readying herself for the theater, Amanda chose her gown and ornaments with more care than usual. The entire upper crust of Monaco would be there, but it wasn't for them that Amanda dressed. Above the stairs in the theater lobby, shining over the assembly, hung an exquisite portrait of Monaco's First Lady, radiant, full of the delight of life. Amanda had only met Princess Grace once, when the international circus competition, and a small fortune in rubies, had brought Amanda to town. Grace had been both regal and refreshingly real, down-to-earth, joyous, and vibrantly alive. Amanda paused at the top of the stairs to pay silent tribute to the portrait of the Princess, alive now only in memory. For an instant, she was overwhelmed by how fragile, how fleeting, mortal life could be.

  The moment passed. The crowd engulfed her. She was swept up the stairs with them, and emerged into the light of the upper landing. Amanda saw the Star of Athena before she noticed the woman wearing it. She didn't need the dawning Buzz to recognize the tall, handsome man at the Baroness' side. He turned, sensing her. Their eyes met across the landing, and Amanda remembered....