Man, who would have thought Richie would react like that? I mean, he never showed any signs before that he might be anything other than a live-and-let-live kinda guy. Then, all of a sudden, he sees Mac and Methos and suddenly he’s a totally different person. I just don’t get it. Richie, the quiet kid who never really had a problem with anything. Suddenly, he’s a stranger.
I watch Mac leave, his heart buoyed with hope that the Old Man will have a solution. It would be so easy, too. Just ask Methos.
But it won’t happen like that. I know it won’t. Don’t ask me how, because I sure as hell couldn’t tell you, but I know that things are going to get a lot more complicated from here on out. I can’t explain this sense, but it’s something I picked up in ‘Nam. A sort of sixth sense that told me when things were about to go to hell. And I think things are heading that direction fast.
What can anyone do about Richie? It’s killing Mac, this conflict. He loves Richie like a son, cares about him deeply. The kid’s an integral part of the makeshift Clan Mac’s built for himself, and that kind of rejection… well, it’s gotta be a nasty reminder of the last time his Clan kicked him out. But Methos… Mac loves him. I’ve known that for even longer than Mac has. He can’t help it. I’ve watched them together, both before and after Methos all but moved onto the barge. Mac’s been happier, more cheerful, more upbeat ever since he and Methos got together.
How’s Methos taking it, I wonder? Not that he and the kid have ever been exactly best buddies, and this ain’t gonna help matters any. I wish I could help, but I can’t. There’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do to make this whole thing go away, much as we’d all like it to.
I watch a pretty, slightly confused-looking woman come into the bar. “M’seur Dawson?” she asks in pretty, slightly accented French. “A man asked me to give this to you. He said you’d know who it’s from.” She holds out a plain white envelope, and on it I see the symbol of the Watchers, turned upside down. It’s Methos’ private joke, all part of the researching himself shtick.
I open the envelope.
We knew this would happen
someday, ever since you found out that Adam Pierson was really Methos. We knew I’d have to cut and run at some
point. After all, running is what I do
best. It looks like that time has
come. What’s the saying, “Time to fish
or cut bait”? Well, I’m cutting
bait.
Richie’s too important to
Mac. I can’t get between them, and I’m
sure you noticed, it was me the kid was mad at. If I leave, they’ll be okay.
I don’t think things will really work out otherwise.
I’ve put enough money in with
this letter to pay off my tab, plus a little extra. Maybe you can have a little plaque put on my barstool that says, “Methos
was here.” That way you can tell all
the skeptics back at headquarters that Methos really does exist, you have his
personal barstool.
One other thing I ought to tell
you. Dunc MacLeod hasn’t; I
don’t think he’s old enough to tell yet, but I am. You’re a pre-Immortal.
It’s hard to tell—I wasn’t sure until just a few weeks ago, and then I
couldn’t really decide how to go about telling you, but now that I’m leaving, I
figured I should. Just so you’re
prepared and all.
You’ve been a good friend,
Joseph Dawson. Maybe I’ll come see you
in a century or two… who knows, maybe sooner?
You’ll be an Immortal someday; you’ll need a good teacher.
Until then, your friend
Methos.
I stare at the letter, unable to grasp the many surprises it holds. I’m pre-Immortal? Methos is leaving? My head whirls at the implications of the latter idea per se, let alone the former.
I’m gonna call Mac. He needs to see this.