See "An Introduction to Detective Monica" for Full Disclaimers.

Part Five

Meanwhile, back at the barge (or almost there, in a black 4X4) . . . .

Something's giving me a nasty feeling.  Methos and Richie are squabbling amiably about our extremely late lunch, which actually surprises the hell out of me; they seem to agree on French cuisine.  Philistines.  Of course, the old guy is so damned pragmatic all the time.  I'm sure his main interest in cooking is making sure it goes on at regular times of the day, no matter what.  And that the beer never runs out.  Another point of agreement between him and Richie.  Amazing.

I stay out of it; what, get between those two?  Two men involved with the same woman, at the same time?  Not on your life.  I've learned  some things in my 400-odd years.  You don't get involved in family fights, not if you want to keep your head.  Of course, I've been guilty on occasion myself. . .

Fortunately, they don't seem to notice that I'm pretty quiet until we pull up at the barge.  Then Methos turns around and frowns at me.  "What's wrong with you, MacLeod?  You bored or something?"

I frown back at him.  "No, just -- nothing."

Richie grins.  "A little pre-Immortal nothing around 5 foot who drives you nuts?"

Him I glare at.  "She does  not drive me nuts!"

Richie starts giggling; Methos seems to have a problem stifling a laugh too.  "Oh, no," he drawls in that irritatingly superior 'been there, done that' voice.  "You always keep miniature horses on the barge.  Inside, too."

They seem to think this sally is exquisitely humorous and they both crack up.  I glare again and slide out of the car.  "Fine," is my reply, "but at least I'm not  two people getting a goofy expression talking about the same woman." I slam the car door, turn and stalk off to the barge, before they can gather themselves for a comeback.

Both catch up to me as I'm crossing the gangplank, wearing almost identical apologetic expressions.  "Aww, Mac, c'mon," Richie wheedles.  "We know, she's a  wonderful girlfriend.  You get the same goofy look whenever you talk about her.  And just 'cause she's pre-Immortal -- I mean, c'mon, there's nothing wrong with you being involved with her."

"As long as you can train her without easing up on her," interjects Methos, the perpetual whinge.  "And of course you know you'll have to--"

"At least she's not a Watcher," I interrupt, a little smugly.  "Monica hasn't the faintest idea about Immortals  or Watchers, and I plan to keep it that way as long as I can.  Plus I took a few days to get involved!  I mean, Richie I can see falling this fast, but you, Methos?"

Methos sighs.  "Oh, come on, MacLeod!  Rose is an unusual young woman." His turn to glare, as I choke back a laugh.  "And Rose knows I'm a Watcher like she is.  We already told her about Richie.  She's a field agent, after all; she'd find out eventually.  And don't you think Monica will figure out something's odd about you after awhile?  She is a detective, after all, even if it is from that silly correspondence course she took.  She's got a sharp brain."

"Although it does bounce, kinda," interjects Richie.  He blushes when I shoot a glance at him.  "Well, she  is a little nuts, you know.  I mean. . .a miniature horse?"

My reply to that is forestalled by an indignant snort from said horse, who's leaning precariously over the low fence shutting off his 'space.' I close my mouth and grin at Richie.  "Does that answer your question?"

Even in the twilight I can see Richie blush, and I'm still grinning as I open the door.  The grin disappears fast, though, when I see a cabin that's dark and empty.  I finally realize I can't feel the muted buzz of a pre-Immortal.  The nasty feeling comes back full force.  I snap the lights on and enter in a rush, sword out, to find. . .absolutely nothing.  The place is dead quiet.  No signs of intruders, just emptiness.

"Dammit!" I sheathe my sword and head to the desk, leaving Methos and Richie looking puzzled as they follow me inside.

"What's the problem, MacLeod?"

By now I'm reading Monica's note; I answer Methos absently.  "She's gone somewhere with Rose.  Something about -- oh, bloody hell!"

"What?" Apprehensive; that's Richie.

"There's a problem," I answer grimly.  "Unspecified.  Monica just says Rose came over and practically dragged her out somewhere, without giving her any details, except that they're heading south."

I stare accusingly at Methos.  He looks as bewildered as I feel and shrugs.  "Don't look at me.  I haven't any idea why Rose would be taking Monica anywhere, except out shopping or something.  Let me see that."

I hand the note over to Methos.  Not that he'll find out anything more from it than I have.  My nasty feeling is getting a lot nastier.  A sudden thought strikes, and I check the bottom drawer in the bureau Monica uses.  It's remarkably empty.  So is the weapons rack.  With a groan, I collapse on the bed and drop my head into my hands.

This time, it's a chorus from both of them.  "What?"

"Her Uzi's gone," I inform them glumly.  "Along with her sword."

"Oh  shit."

That's Richie; Methos is a little more imaginative, in Arabic, but it boils down to much the same thing.  I just groan again and put my head back in my hands.  Honestly, that woman can get into more trouble--!  I love her, but in the two months I've known her, we've barely had more than a week or so of peace.  I thought Amanda ran me ragged!  Monica doesn't even steal anything, and we  still keep getting into scrapes!

Then a really horrid thought hits me.  "Methos," I say hoarsely.  "I think we've got a real problem."

"What?" he snaps.  Not that rare, for the old guy; but this isn't due to my usual needling of him to get back for all the needling he gives me.  He's worried; he really loves Rose.

"Rose is a Watcher," I say slowly.  "What the hell does she need Monica for at 7 p.m., with weapons?  Hm?  Without dragging you into it, or even telling you, much less waiting for you?"

Interesting.  I didn't know the old guy could get much paler than he is naturally.  Richie, of course, goes white enough I can see the freckles on his face.

"Oh God," he whispers.  "Jesus, it's something to do with Immortals!"

"Not necessarily," Methos says unsteadily.  "But I -- I have been wondering. . .Rose was awful insistent on meeting Monica, and we're supposed to be on vacation, but she's got some papers and other stuff with her.  I found them when we were unpacking and didn't think anything of them at first, but she wouldn't tell me what they were about when I teased her.  Just said something she was supposed to be studying. . ."

His voice trails off as I glare at him steadily.  "What, Watcher mistakes through the centuries?" I ask sarcastically.  "Methos, she's a field agent!  She knows you're a researcher, would she tell you anything that would have you worrying about her?" I barely wait for his headshake.  "No, of course not!  Even if she loves you.  You guys are so bloody close-mouthed it's friggin' insane at times!  So now she's dragged Monica into whatever this is, and they've both hared off on some bloody fool mission, and if Monica gets hurt I'm going to take your fucking head!" By the time I finish yelling this, I've got Methos by the collar and I'm snarling right into his face.  Oops.  Getting a bit out of control, aren't I?

I carefully let go of him.  "I don't know where she got herself to this time, but if it's anything like the past times, she --  we -- are in trouble!"

Fortunately Methos is so worried about what could happen to Rose that he barely reacts to me losing it.  "God, Rose could get killed!  And she's  not going to be Immortal.  Oh damn, damn, how the hell can we---"  At this interesting point the phone rings.

Dead silence falls as I pounce on it.  "MacLeod!"

The rumble of a voice on the other end is one I know.  "M'sieur, I think  la p'tite needs you."

****

Jean-Pierre explained further when he got to the barge.  Monica, bless her devious little heart, had somehow known Rose was going to get her into a sticky situation.  (No, don't ask me how.  400 years and I  still haven't figured women out.  Looking at Methos and his current and past dealings with them, I don't think any man ever will, no matter how long he lives.)

Earlier she'd stopped by that biker bar she'd wandered into when we first got here, and arranged with Jean-Pierre for his people to keep an eye on us.  On  all of us, although she was more worried about me than herself.  Fortunately, they'd stuck someone on both her and Rose immediately.  The two men following them had called and said they seemed to be on a stakeout right now, and it was a good time to catch up with them.

Jean-Pierre just got here; he and about ten of his gang are going to follow us down.  Now we're only waiting for Richie and Methos to get back, so we can leave.  We'll take Methos' vehicle, it's bigger than mine.  Four-wheel drive, too.  I've been using the time to snoop through Monica's stuff, to see if I can find anything to give me a clue as what this might be about.  She'll probably be pissed, but I don't care.  She can be as mad as she wants, as long as she's here to be mad at me.  There are a few items that look interesting; I'll check 'em out on the way down.

At least we know where we're heading; several miles south of Paris.  Jean-Pierre wasn't sure they'd been prepared to go quite that far.  I was sure, but didn't say anything.  If Monica had known they were going that far, she would have left more than a brief note for me.  Or forced Rose to hang around until we got back, even it wasn't until late evening.

Bloody hell, I wish we hadn't gone to that last club!  Even knowing she's going to be Immortal. . .She's still too young, not even 25 yet, and there's so much more life ahead of her.  Life she should have a chance to live out normally. . .

****

I'm sliding into the 4x4 when all hell breaks loose back on the barge.  Methos says, "What the hell?" I don't bother to answer; I know what it is, and start cursing as I jump out and run back up onto the barge.  Of all the times to throw a temper tantrum!  I swear, if I didn't know Monica would kill me, I'd toss the spoiled little brat into the Seine.

"Shut up, Jeremy!" I order, lifting him and dropping him back inside his fence, ignoring his squeal and attempt to bite.  He'd managed to get his forelegs over the rail, then got stuck at that point.  Not much of a jumper, obviously.  But still, he could get out and hurt himself, not to mention go wandering all over Paris.  I snag his halter and lead; I'll have to tie him up.

The problem is that he doesn't  want to be tied up.  Horses are sensitive to danger, even a ridiculous little thing like him.  He likes Monica; and being a stallion, has a certain proprietary attitude toward her, even if she isn't a horse.  She's still a member of his herd, and a female.  He backs up as I step over the fence, his eyes glittering through his forelock.  He's obviously not going to cooperate by letting me catch him easily.  At the first step I take towards him, he squeals, pins his ears flat and lunges at me with his head snaking out to bite.

Wonderful.  A mini-horse is treating me like a challenger for his mares!  I hop back over the fence, a lot faster than I stepped in.  Horse bites are nothing to sneeze at, even from miniatures.  I remember one mare I saw savaged by a stud; her shoulder literally looked like a couple pounds of raw hamburger.  And Jeremy has a patented move of his own, which he demonstrates now.  Seeing me on the other side of the fence, he bugles, pivots and delivers a hefty kick with both hind legs.  His small hooves impact the fence with a noise all out of proportion to the size of him.

The little bastard; if he keeps that up, he'll have it knocked down in no time.  "Okay," I mutter, "take it easy, okay, all right, you've convinced me.  Will you calm down?  You can come!"

It's eerie; as soon as I say that he stops bouncing around and stares at me, ears pricked forward.  I cautiously step back into his pen.  Jeremy stands still.  I ease up to him and put on his halter.  He waits, quivering, until he's buckled up, then immediately snorts and starts tugging towards the gate.

Methos is gonna love this.

****

"Well I wasn't going to stay behind with him!"

I glare at the old man; he's driving like a maniac and verbally ripping strips off me at the same time.  Richie and Jeremy have reached an armed truce in the back seat.

"MacLeod, you have totally lost your mind.  Are you insane?  Bringing along a miniature  horse?!  What the hell were you thinking!!!"

"I couldn't very well let him kick the fence down and go wandering all over Paris, for chrissake."

"You could have left him with -- with Maurice, or someone!"

Richie pipes up from the rear.  "Oh no; nuh-uh.  Do the words 'filet mignon' mean anything to you?"

I can't help grinning.  Methos catches it; he glares at Richie in the rearview mirror.  "That'll be enough out of you!"

Richie scowls back.  "Look, you old geezer, will you get it outta your head I'm your disciple or something?  We're co-boyfriends, and that's all!"

I desperately try to hide my grin, without much success; so I bite the inside of my cheek and turn to look out the window.  This is promising to be an interesting ride, despite the worry gnawing at me.

Behind me, Jeremy snorts.  Richie and Methos are in full cry.  I continue to listen, while hiding my face in the odds and ends of Monica's papers I've brought along.

****

Well, we've made it to their first stop, but they're already on their way towards the coast and the Bay of Biscay.  We're about an hour or so behind, but with Methos driving the way he is, hopefully we'll cut down on that.  I'm trying to remain calm, but it's hard.  They're both so inexperienced; even if smart and somewhat trained, it's pretty much all theory. . .even with weapons, it's all too easy to get killed. . .and they're both so small. . .

I finally struck paydirt on Monica's papers.  A letter from what has to be a Watcher, describing another headhunter like Horton, asking her to help Rose track this guy down.  Plus, just to sweeten the pot, a list of his proposed victims; at the top of the list, my name.  I had to stop and close my eyes a bit when I read that.  It wasn't fear for myself; it was fear for Monica, for what she would be inclined to do.  I've already found out how stubborn and self-reliant she is, and how willing she is to do anything to protect someone she loves.  And God help her, she loves me.

When I read snatches of it, both Methos and Richie looked sick.  They've finally stopped arguing.  Now they just look as worried as I feel.  Even Jeremy looks worried.

****

Mysterious bunker structure -- or something -- on the coast of France . . . .

Rose doesn't say a word.  Green Robe -- wups, Draxen -- just stands there with that goofy grin.  Great.  I get to be spokesman, too.  I repeat; I wanna get paid.  And whatever I'm getting now ain't enough!

So, cliche though it sounds, I come out with, "Draxen, I presume?"

The grin widens.  Wonderful.

Rose is still mum.  I can't come up with any witty sayings, and Draxen doesn't seem to want to do more than stand there and grin, so I stay quiet too and give him the survey.

Nice looking guy, but nothing too out of the ordinary besides that.  Dressed rather dapper-casual, like a bigshot, except for those totally freaky fuzzy slippers.  (Are they supposed to be  dogs?!  At least they don't bark when he walks. . .get hold of yourself, Monica!  Stop that!) Dark hair, dark eyes, kinda reminds me of some actor that I'm not too concerned with figuring out right this minute.  The only really weird-looking things about him are the slippers. . .and the sword.  The very  sharp sword.  Very sharp, and held in a very firm, confident grip.

Well, a few minutes go by, and I decide this is going nowhere fast.  Even if it's gonna be unpleasant, I'd prefer to have  something happen.  I clear my throat and say brightly, "So, you've got a thing for chopping heads?"

This doesn't bring much of a reaction either.  The grin just turns really goofy.  I'm getting fed up by now, so I try a little classic bluffing.  "You should know, we've got several big guys not far behind us, including my boyfriend who's a really nasty fighter, and they'll be awfully pissed if you hurt us."

Draxen heaves a patently false sigh.  "Ahhhh. . .of couwse!  Wuv,  twue wuv. . .wiw be his undoing!"

I look at Rose and go wopjaw.  Huh?

She gives me a somewhat apologetic smile and asks, "Would you say that again for my friend, please?"

I close my eyes in pain, but Draxen doesn't seem to mind Rose's question.  He says, "Duncan MacWeod is in wuv with the wady heah, and that wiw be the death of him." He smiles benignly.  "It was aw paht of the pwan!"

I involuntarily let out a somewhat hysterical snicker.  "Oh, wonderful," I mutter.  "We've been cornered by Elmer Fudd.  This you didn't tell me, Rose?" Wouldn't you know it?  We can't get involved with an  ordinary crazed psycho killer.  No, we get one with a speech impediment!!

"I'm sorry, Monica," Rose interjects hastily.  "I mean, I just totally forgot it, there  are more important things about him and his group than how he speaks!"

"Oh, you didn't think this was important enough to mention?  That I might laugh myself to death facing this deadly enemy??  It doesn't help in negotiations if you start laughing whenever the terrorist speaks!!"

Rose glares at me.  "Then don't laugh!  It's not  my fault;  you're the big expert here!"

"Me?!"

I'm about to blast her again when a throat-clearing noise reminds us there's a nutso renegade still in the room with us.  "I  said," repeats a rather impatient voice, "it's aw paht of the pwan."

"The plan?" I repeat, somewhat hastily.

"The pwan to kiww those wike MacWeod," Draxen went on calmly.  "We knew you wouwd fowwow us, and he, of couwse, wouwd fowwow you.  Aww paht of the pwan."

"Oh," I said.  Then, unable to help myself, I asked, "What the heck  is the pwa-- the plan, anyway, huh?  Or the purpose of it, that is?  And who the hell are you guys!"

"I am the weadah of a spwintah-Huntah gwoup."

Oh, this makes sense.  "Huh?"

"A spwintah-Huntah gwoup.  And you ah the spwintah-Huntah huntahs."

"What?"

That's from both of us.  I stare at Rose; she's staring back with total puzzlement, but puts in her two cents.  "I think he said splinter. . .?"

I shake my head, hard, and look back at Draxen, leaning forward intently to see if I can get the answer this time.  I vaguely notice that Rose is leaning, too.  "What are we?"  Another chorus.

Draxen sighs.  Patiently.  "You ah the  spwintah-Huntah huntahs!  It's vewwy simpow."

Rose and I exchange another glance, still totally befuddled.  Splinter-Hunter hunters???

We're still staring at each other when the door behind us slams open.

Continued

(Want to see the previous stories again before going further?
Here are the first and second stories in the series.)

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