Highlander - Donna Lettow [104]
“Avram Mordecai,” MacLeod growled at them.
“Who?” The security man was purposely blank.
“Avram Mordecai,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully. “He’s one of your security guys. I want to see him,” he said in that tone that clearly meant that “no” would be the wrong answer, “now.“
Never heard of him.” The Israeli was unintimidated. “Now get lost before we take you out of here in a bag.” MacLeod opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it when he realized the eyes of the entire security team as well as the international press were upon him.
MacLeod backed off, started back to his car. He’d find some other way in. Avram wouldn’t elude him for long. The crowd parted for him to pass through. He had nearly cleared the mob when a French photographer recognized him. “He was with the Palestinians this morning!”
MacLeod took off at a nun. He dodged around two journalists trying to block him and slipped the grasp of a television soundman in the back of the crowd. In the clear, he raced for the Citroën and jumped in before the reporters dogging his heels caught up with him. He barely pulled away before the pack of newshounds smelling “lead story” could surround his car.
MacLeod returned to the barge feeling tired and defeated as the sun was setting over the Seine. In the three hours since he’d discovered what Avram had done to Constantine, he felt like he’d accomplished nothing. As he got out of his car at the Quai de la Tournelle, how he wished for Maral’s healing hands to soothe away his pain. He could almost feel her soft touch on the back of his neck, but then the feeling was blasted away by his sudden awareness of another Immortal.
Pulling his katana, he looked warily around, his eyes taking in the embankment, the road, the barge. There, cross-legged at the bow, a figure silhouetted in the sunset sat motionless, staring out at the water. MacLeod, striding rapidly toward the barge, mentally readied himself for combat and issued his challenge.
“Avram!”
The figure turned to him. “Afraid not,” Methos said, uncoiling his body and standing.
MacLeod sheathed his sword again and started grimly up the gangplank. “Constantine’s dead,” he said, and there was a mixture of sadness and anger in his voice.
“I know, Amy, his assistant curator, phoned me. She was his Watcher.” Methos looked thoughtful for a moment. “You wouldn’t happen to play poker, would you?”
“Methos …” MacLeod growled, not in the mood. He started belowdecks.
“It was just a thought.” Methos followed him into the barge. “How is Dr. Amina?” Helping himself to an apple from a bowl of fruit on the coffee table, he plopped himself down recumbent on the sofa, his head propped up on one arm.
MacLeod removed his black overcoat and tossed it on the back of the sofa near him. “Better than Avram would like, I’m sure. She’s got a nasty concussion. They were running a CAT scan and some other tests when I left the hospital, to see if there’s any permanent damage. Either way, she’ll be in for observation for at least a few more days.” He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of mineral water for himself. On second thought, he reached in and grabbed another bottle. “There’s some short-term memory loss. She can’t remember what happened,” he said, lobbing the second bottle at Methos, who, surprised, dropped the apple to catch it.
“That’s probably a blessing.” Methos twisted off the cap, but didn’t drink. “So what are you going to do?”
MacLeod rooted around some more in the fridge. Nothing looked appealing. He knew he wasn’t really hungry, just empty. “What do you mean, what am I going to do? I’m going to find him, that’s what I’m going to do.” He closed the fridge door with finality.
“And then?” Methos raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“And then …” MacLeod felt himself start to flounder, “and then … I don’t know what then.” Restless, he wandered over to the cold fireplace and began raking out the dead ash.
“It never gets any easier, does it?” Methos took a long, contemplative drink