Written by Maya, Sun Aug 9 9:55:38 US/Pacific 1998
Part 3
There was a time when Grace had believed in coincidences and chance meetings. But it had been a long time ago, long before she had become involved in the Schattenjager's destiny, before her life had taken enough strange turns to be worthy of several fantasy novels. So now, she sat down conspicuously at the counter, and waited for Connor McLeod to explain his presence at St.George's Rare Books.
The focus of her attention casually replaced the beautifully leather bound first edition he held on the bookshelf, and just as casually turned toward her, smiling.
"Ms.Nakimura," he acknowledged her stare with a slight inclination of the head. "I thought I might find you here."
"You were looking for me?" Grace enquired, with a careful assumption of mild interest.
"Not exactly. My real interest is the bookstore, though of course, I expected you to be here."
"You collect books, too?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. The Ritter Collection is famous, and I wondered if you had any of their property on display."
"Afraid not. Gabriel wouldn't want to sell any of the family's heirlooms! Certainly not his grand-uncle's beloved books!"
"I see. Well, if he ever decides to put any of the collection on the market, I would appreciate his calling me," McLeod said, holding out a card.
Grace accepted, reading 'Connor McLeod, Antique Dealer', with a New York address. "I'll tell him," she agreed. Then she leaned forward. "Mr.McLeod, I was hoping to have a few words with you."
He looked inquiring.
"You said that you also collect swords?"
"Yes, many of my clients specialise in antique weaponry. Also ancient armour, especially from the medieval European period."
"Then perhaps you could help me. Would you happen to know what kind of sword would have a jagged or a serrated edge, like a saw?" Grace looked closely at him to catch his reaction.
He was silent for a long moment. "Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, it's just something I'm researching, for a book."
He looked very sceptical. "A book?"
"Yes, I'm looking into a series of killings in the early part of this century." She tried to look guileless and earnest.
Connor McLeod leaned close to her, supporting himself with his hands on the counter, and gazed unnervingly at her out of those strange, sad eyes. Grace felt her throat go dry with nervousness; she had the uncanny sensation that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
His voice, when it came, was a low rumble of warning. "There are some things that it is better you don't understand, Grace Nakimura. Don't get involved in the investigation of Ian's death."
She cleared her throat. "I wasn't talking about your friend's death. What I'm looking into happened almost a hundred years earlier."
"Do not", he growled, "play the fool with me." He spun on his heel and walked out.
Grace let out the breath she had been holding. Disconcerting, to say the least, she thought. On a sudden impulse, she went to the door, just in time to see McLeod drive away in a gray BMW. Almost reflexively, she noted the registration number, and turned back into the store. Wandering over to the First Editions shelf, she pulled out the volume that she had seen McLeod examining.
'The Road to Liberty: an Account of the Battles of the American war of Independence', by Colonel Benjamin Joseph Stirling. Grace flipped the pages idly. It was a chronicle of George Washington's campaigns, by an officer who had served under the General. She almost dropped the book when she finally noticed the dedication on the fly leaf: 'To Connor McLeod: A true friend in adversity, who showed me this lesson Audentes fortuna iuvat.'
Grace's cellular phone beeped, startling her out of her reverie. She answered it absently, still preoccupied.
"Grace? It's me. Man, have I got stuff to tell you!" Mosely sounded disturbed.
"Frank? What's up?"
"The autopsy report came in just now; you know, on the two victims? Sh.t, Grace, this is weird!"
"What, Mosely? What's weird?"
The detective's voice was a tense whisper. "Well, Doc Berman says that these are the most unnaturally healthy corpses he's ever seen. He also says, and I quote, they are remarkably alike, unquote. No illnesses, no physical imperfections, no scars, sh.t, not even any dental cavities! It's like they were never sick, never hurt, not even once, in their whole lives. It's impossible. And their spleens are both abnormally large. Also, they're both, er, sterile."
Grace digested this in silence.
"Mosely, did you check on Connor McLeod?"
"What? Oh yeah, Grace, I ran a background check on him. He's clean. Just a couple of parking violations. NYPD says he's legit."
"Oh."
"Why do you ask? You got something in mind?"
"No, it's nothing. Do you know where he's staying? I want to talk to him."
She quickly scribbled down the name of the hotel. "Listen, Frank, I'll get back to you, OK? I've got to go."
"Grace? Be careful."
**************************
Grace sat in her car, a discreet distance behind McLeod's BMW which stood in front of a flashy looking bar in one of New Orleans' seedier neighbourhoods. Her quarry had driven straight here from the hotel, and walked into the disreputable looking place about a half hour ago.
"What the h.ll is he doing?" she fumed, drumming her fingers on the wheel. This was a tough neighbourhood. She was just debating whether to call Mosely when McLeod emerged from the front door. He paused to look up and down the street. Then he casually crossed the street to the convenience store, and sauntered out just as casually five minutes later. Grace noticed uneasily that there were now three unsavoury looking leather-jacketed men loitering near his car. Mcleod seemed not to observe them, but walked unconcernedly back to his car, whistling.
One of the three men said something, just as the antique dealer reached the BMW. McLeod turned to face them, and Grace saw that he was smiling. One of the leather jackets said something, to which the only response was the same amused grin.
One of the three toughs threw a punch, which McLeod deflected easily. There was asudden flurry of action, at the end of which, two of the three leather jackets were lying on the pavement groaning, half conscious, and the third was backing off warily. There was a sudden gleam of light on metal as he pulled something from his jacket.
"Oh, sh.t!" Grace exclaimed. "It's a gun!" She scrabbled at her handbag for a weapon, with no clear idea of what she was going to do. She was halfway out of the car, a can of Mace in her hand, when there were two shots, and she saw McLeod stagger slightly. Then leather jacket took deliberate aim and shot him point blank in the heart.
Then the incredible happened. Connor McLeod took a step forward, grabbed the gun hand of the man who had just shot him and twisted it. There was a metallic chunk! as the gun hit the pavement. To Grace, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. In one smooth move, Mcleod picked up his attacker and slammed him up against the lamppost behind them. There was a rapid exchange of words, and then the tough was released, to slide limply to the ground. He picked himself up and ran off into the darkness as if the devil himself were after him, just as Grace reached McLeod, still out of breath from her desperate sprint down the street.
He turned to face her with a look of resigned exasperation, which quickly settled into impassivity.
"Are you all right?" she panted. Eyes widening, she reached out involuntarily to touch the bloodstained holes in his clothing: two in the middle of his chest, and one directly over his heart. She pulled back the lapel of the trenchcoat to see that there was only a thin cotton shirt underneath, with a corresponding rents where the bullets had gone; but the flesh below showed no sign of damage.
"Who are you?" she whispered, with awe and fear mingled.
His eyes were sad and knowing and full of secrets. "I am Connor Mcleod, of the Clan Mcleod; and I cannot die."
If you have any comments, you can email Maya at maya_ar@hotmail.com.
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