|
|
Hours later, Duncan’s attention was brought out of a book by a Buzz. Unfolding himself from the couch, he strode to the apartment door to wait for his hostess. The rattle of keys was quickly followed by a crash as the door slammed open and a battle cry roar of frustration kept too long suppressed. The warrior dodged gracefully, but it wasn’t enough; something slammed into his shoulder with a wet thud. With a grimace, he pulled out the long-bladed dagger, calmly handing it back to its owner; "Bad day?"
Deb’s emotions ranged from fury to shock to acute embarrassment in seconds. "Worse than I thought if I couldn’t even recognise you." She dropped the stained blade into the kitchen sink as casually as if it were a steak knife. "Do you need something for—" she gestured vaguely, "—that? Towel, bandage?"
"Don’t bother, I’ve had worse." He eyed her warily and wisely stayed out of her way. "But you do owe me a new shirt."
A burst of that same aggravation flashed briefly in her eyes. "Fine," she growled, "I’ll buy you one." Stripping off coat and boots—and sword—with careless haste, she all but threw herself into the nearest chair; which slid a couple of inches under the assault. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to carry a sword on a city bus?" With great effort, Duncan managed not to smile. Her rant continued unabated, "Don’t get me wrong; I’m a veteran transit user—I can stake out my territory and hold it. But there’s always some idiot who decides that he has to have a seat, and then I have about 10 seconds to prevent an accidental castration." Immortal or not, MacLeod cringed at that one word. "Sometimes," she concluded with a nasty glint in her eye, "it’s very tempting."
Her outburst was a much-needed release, but she still felt like hell. She sank ever farther into the chair, sighing; she reached up to rub fatigue out of her eyes. "Oh God," she groaned helplessly, "I think I dropped all my parcels in the hall when I went berserk." Wordlessly, Mac proceeded to recover the bags, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
By the time he returned, she looked calm but determined. "I’m sick of this," she growled, half to herself, "I’m going to earn my license and get a car, even if it kills me."
Mac had wisely stayed silent, providing a sympathetic ear, until the rant had subsided. Here, at least, was something he could do to help; nobody drove the T-bird, but surely he could rent something. "When do you want to start?"
Deb looked up at him, mild surprise blending into a frown; "Oh no, not you. No way, no chance, no how."
It was Mac’s turn to be surprised, "And why not?"
"Hey Da, I want to go out with friends today; can I borrow the horse?" She imitated the pleading, hopeful tone of a teenage male perfectly. Mac scowled; that sharp tongue of hers would surely get her into trouble someday.
"It doesn’t matter when you learned something; what matters is how well you’ve learned it."
Deb was adamant, shaking her head. "I’ve already been through one situation where we wanted to kill each other; I’m not looking forward to repeating the experience."
MacLeod remembered the cabin as clearly
as she did; but driving lessons couldn’t be that bad, could they?
§ § §
The Bonded Blade was Old Strathcona’s newest pub. They never advertised; there hadn’t been a grand opening; it wasn’t even a good location. Nonetheless it already had a core following of regular customers—very special customers. Casual visitors thought that the Please Check All Weapons sign was part of the atmosphere, and that the sword rack hanging on the wall just completed the joke. Of course, casual visitors never noticed that the swords on the wall changed every day. Tonight rapiers were popular: there were at least two, one with a matching dagger; the most impressive blade of the day, though, was an antique dragonhead katana. The owners of these three weapons were gathered together at a table, engaged in conversation some people would find quite surprising.
"Do you have to stare like that?" asked a blonde-haired young man who still had a bit of that teen-aged whine in his tone. While physically the youngest person at the table, he actually had years of experience on the woman he was accusing.
"Sorry, it’s just hard for me to handle." She blushed slightly, "I had kind of gotten used to the fact that Richie, err that you were gone."
The other man’s face reddened for a completely different reason, "That stupid TV show again: bad enough I was portrayed so badly, they had to kill me off too. You don’t really believe in demons though, do you?"
"I woke up in a hospital morgue and first thing I saw was Duncan MacLeod; I was apprenticed to a witch for over a year, and I’m ghost-writing for the world’s oldest man. I attended a Halloween party where the dead outnumbered the living, and where I was adopted by the spirit of a rather annoying Englishman." The more she spoke, the wider Richie’s eyes grew. "My ex-boyfriend is my Watcher, and my best friend was killed by a rogue cappuccino machine…and came back. Frankly," she concluded with a shrug, "Ahriman isn’t that much of a stretch for me."
Deb smiled, he wasn’t such a bad kid; in fact, he wasn’t much of a kid at all, unlike the series character she disliked so much. She wondered, idly, how she could contact Clan Denial without causing a riot. "How about this: a new start; I’ll put aside everything that I think I know about you, no assumptions, no preconceptions. Deal?"
His boyish grin really did grow on you; "Deal." He reached across the table; "Richard Ryan." She took the offered hand without hesitation; "Felicia DuChamp."
"Felicia? Mac here keeps talking about you as Deb."
"Well, Mr. Hasn’t Changed His Name in 400 Years still has a few bad habits. The only time I use Debra now is as part of my pen name: Debra Campbell." Richie shot a startled glance at the Highlander, who merely shrugged; "She asked politely enough."
Silence descended upon the table, no one wanting to discuss the business at hand. Finally Deb made an effort; "Look, Richard, you seem to have a good head on your shoulders—so to speak, but I’m just not sure. I want to learn how to drive on four wheels, on roads; not go screaming around a track."
Richie wasn’t sure what to say to this, but Duncan just gave a graceful shrug. "If you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening." He leaned back to direct his next comment over his shoulder, deceptively casual, "How about you, Savage?"
A startled voice drifted over from the next table, "No way, I’m not getting in the middle of this!"
"All right then, good to know you’re still paying attention."
Deb tried to hide a smile, pretending annoyance. "Mac, you stop teasing him." A pause; "That’s my job." She played with her drink, nervously peeling the label; lost in thought. She pictured herself taking instructions from this fresh-faced young man, visibly, at least, still a boy. She weighed that against the thought of months, perhaps years as a slave to bus schedules. There was no contest. "I’ll do it; that’s if you’ll take me."
His smile was infectious; "Anything
I can do for a friend of Mac’s. Besides, who am I to deprive someone of
the freedom of the road?"
§ § §
It was almost a week before MacLeod saw his former student again; the smile was long gone, and the boy looked visibly tired. Deb did take some getting used to; maybe she was more than he could handle. "How go the lessons?"
Richie raked nervous fingers through his sandy blonde hair; "Not so good. I just dropped her off at home. She told me she’d rather meet Kronos in a dark alley than spend ten more minutes alone with me." He frowned accusingly, "You know Mac, you could have mentioned that whole Sensitivity thing to me."
Duncan's shrug was a gesture that only seemed casual. "It must have slipped my mind" was all he said, but his eyes clearly asked Would you have done it if I told you? They both let the subject slide. MacLeod continued in a more serious tone, "You have to take it easy with the girl; after all, she died in a motor vehicle accident."
Richie didn’t bother to hide his scowl; "Yeah, but does she have to try and kill me too? You’d think that someone who knows the difference between thrust and parry could figure out the difference between gas and brake."
"Maybe now you’ll appreciate what I had to go through with a certain enthusiastic boy. It takes more than just knowledge to teach. It takes patience, dedication, persuasion, discipline and a true love of the subject you’re trying to get across. You have to know when to tell them what to do, when to show them, and when to let them figure it out on their own. Teaching is one of the most difficult, and the most rewarding, things you’ll ever do. Who knows, maybe the next time you’ll be passing on something much more important than just how to drive a car."
Richie smiled in spite of himself; the fact that MacLeod thought he could mentor another Immortal, even just in some ambiguous future gave him a real sense of accomplishment. He could look at the older man and see, not a mentor, not a father figure, but an equal. That revelation still didn’t completely improve his sour mood though; "At least with those lessons, I’d be able to defend myself!"
Duncan chuckled warmly, giving the boy—no, definitely not a boy—a friendly pat on the back. "You’re giving her a break, go take one yourself. Remember, patience is a virtue."
Richie tossed one last comment over
his shoulder as he walked away, "Tell her that!"
§ § §
Having already run into one of his protégées, MacLeod felt it was his duty to check on the other. Deb’s small apartment was buried in so much paper that it looked like a small blizzard had blown through. Every available horizontal surface was covered with newspaper ads, Consumer Reports, Auto Traders, magazines and full-colour pamphlets. If this was normal procedure when she was doing research, it was a wonder she got anything done under deadline. Duncan couldn’t imagine how anyone could survive in such barely controlled chaos.
"Hey Mac, what’s the difference between a sunroof and a moonroof?" Her voice was much calmer than he expected from Richie’s comments, which probably meant he had been exaggerating again. Her tone set the mood for their conversation.
He shrugged, smiling in spite of himself; "Probably a couple of hundred dollars." She seemed vaguely distracted, and so she didn’t mind that his answer wasn’t very useful. He found her amid her references, stretched out in a chair in a way its designers never intended. She had to be spending time with Methos to be able to sprawl like that.
From his angle, Duncan couldn’t tell what she was reading; all he could see was a name—Toyota, and a photograph. He blinked in surprise; "I thought you had decided that Sport Utility Vehicles were the bane of all mankind and your personal worst enemy?"
Deb finally looked up. She closed up the pamphlet quickly, resting her hands on top of it in her lap. "Well," she smiled, "like the self-help books say, Feel the fear and do it anyway. If I’m going to have to worry about uprooting myself at any time, I might as well have something that could do it in one trip." She picked up a notebook in which she had been scribbling, and began to read; "…a variety of passenger/cargo options are possible. The seats recline, and with the one-touch fold-down mechanism, can easily be folded all the way forward, either independently or together, creating a wide, flat cargo area." She paused, looking up with a wide grin, "You can even fold the front passenger seat flat, for carrying large items you want to keep close at hand." She couldn’t keep herself from laughing as she tapped the page with a pen, "Now were these people thinking of Our Kind or what?"
"Don’t you take anything seriously?" Duncan growled. Deb harrumphed at the implied insult.
"Just because I find something amusing doesn’t mean I’m not taking the situation seriously. Does this—" she made a sweeping gesture with both hands, "look like the result of not taking things seriously?"
"I think that this is the result of a small explosion, but that’s beside the point." He desperately tried to regain control of the conversation. "You do realise that all of this will be meaningless if you don’t get your license."
Deb swept aside the papers, half burying them in one of many piles around her; she slid into a more normal position in the chair. "I think that the lessons are going quite well. It’s just that the first few sessions were, by necessity, a bit short. I wasn’t ready to be in a small, enclosed space with Mr. Ryan. I’m developing a tolerance."
"Unfortunately, he’s developing a paranoia. He thinks you’re trying to kill him." One look into his dark eyes and she knew he wasn’t kidding.
She jumped to her feet in indignation; "I am not that bad of a driver!" She paused, a pause Duncan didn’t like at all. "There was only the one crash," (Duncan groaned; he shook his head slowly.) "It was really more of a bump," (One hand swept over his face as he massaged his temples.) "And there weren’t any other people involved." (His fingers slid down to pinch the bridge of his nose. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had never been prone to this kind of tension headache until he first met Miss DuChamp.)
Maybe the others were right; maybe
he was a compulsive Boy Scout, getting more deeply involved in situations
than necessary. "All right, as long as nobody gets hurt—even temporarily,"
he added with a stern look, "this isn’t my problem. You’re the one who
wants your license so badly. You two deal with this amongst yourselves.
Just don’t do anything you’ll end up regretting."
§ § §
Deb was caught in the middle of a seemingly endless telephone debate. More accurately, she was starting the same conversation for the third time, since everyone she spoke to handed her over to someone else. "May I help you, Ma’am?" asked yet another irritatingly pleasant voice.
"I certainly hope you can. All I’m looking for is some information, nothing difficult. I just want to know if you can provide me with extra insurance if I get one of your vehicle policies."
"We have a lot of different ‘extras’, depending on your needs. Could you be a bit more specific?" The voice remained unfailingly polite, though somewhat bored.
"What I’m looking for is insurance against non-collision damage. After all, this is Canada; weather alone is a serious factor. I could find my vehicle buried in snow, or frozen, or flooded, or struck by lightning… " A new voice interrupted, "Several—dozen—times." Quickly covering up the mouthpiece, Deb turned to glare at the offender. Richie looked completely unrepentant. Over the last few weeks they had come to an understanding, about the lessons anyway. But that didn’t mean they were best friends yet.
Muttering the only insults she knew in Ukrainian, appropriately involving "little devils," she turned her attention back to phone. She was losing patience; "Look, can you just send me some information about your policy options? Thank you very much." This last was added through gritted teeth.
Richie’s impish smile was not helping. "It’s never going to happen, you know. There isn’t an insurance company on the planet that will protect against Quickening damage."
"Why not?" Deb pouted; she could be as childish as he. "You can insure your house against Acts of God, why not your car?"
"Because, when it’s an Act of God, they can’t blame you for it and then up your premiums." Richie turned serious, as sudden as the flipping of a switch. "You want to go back on the road?"
Deb shook her head; "Nah, I’m too tired. Help me pick out options." She pulled out a dog-eared pamphlet, the same one she’d been hiding from MacLeod. Richie took one look at the photo, then at the model name, and frowned. "Mac’s not going to like that…"
The author gave a dismissive snort; "Well, it’s not going to be his car is it? And besides, that is not the reason I’m buying it." She grinned, "Okay, not the only reason."
"He’s still not gonna like it."
§ § §
As they made the final turn into the DMV parking lot, Richie looked more anxious about the situation than Debra did. On the other hand, it was his car that was being used as the road test vehicle. Exchanging smiles of encouragement, the pair walked into the building. Immediately they were faced with the unavoidable line-up; Deb sighed, taking her spot as she nervously fingered her examination request and forged learner’s permit. After all, the one she’d earned herself was in the name of a dead woman.
The sense of a Buzz startled the young Immortal; she quickly checked for Richie, but he was still in the magazines, looking equally wary. This was someone else and— Bloody Hell —It wasn’t coming from this side of the counter. Not here, she thought to herself, and not now. She forced herself to stay calm. This person was working; they wouldn’t dare do anything here. On the other hand, she’d heard nightmare stories about the DMV. Richie nodded quickly toward the door; she frowned, but shook her head. She was stubborn, possibly too much so for her own good, and dammit she was going to get her license.
It felt like a century before she got to the front of the line, and her confidence was nearly shredded. Her outward appearance of calm was merely a shell. The man behind the counter, looking for all the world like any other clerk, gave everyone a bored glance and a grunt. But when it came to her turn, she felt like she was being sized up for battle already. And this person would have access to all her personal information—for one of her identities anyway. "I’m not looking for any trouble here," she whispered as she handed over the papers.
The man gave a sadistic grin as he noticed the forms, "Oh don’t worry, I don’t Take anyone on their Road Test Day. You’ll be going through enough punishment without me." In a normal voice he added, "have a nice day, Ma’am" but she didn’t like the look in his eyes at all. Well, it could have been worse. It could have been the examiner.
She couldn’t help but glance back at the building while the examiner inspected the car. Don’t do anything stupid, Richie. The man cleared his throat loudly, bringing her attention back to the here and now, he had found her "map case" in the back seat. "Would you like to leave that with your friend?" he asked, without a trace of curiosity. "It looks important. We have a locked office where we could store it for you."
Deb appraised the man warily. Was this the clerk’s partner, trying to separate her from her weapon? He didn’t look threatening; or rather, no more threatening than anyone else who held her freedom and independence in his hands. She shook her head firmly; "I’d rather keep it with me." The man shrugged indifference, gesturing for her to begin.
She made a quick but efficient circuit of the vehicle, checking for hazards, thinking as she did so that most people never did this again after successfully passing their road test. Proceeding to the driver’s seat, she adjusted the seat, mirrors and steering wheel, before finally fastening her seat belt. All this had a comforting sense of ritual, calming her and allowing her to focus her attention. She was now glad for all her experience driving with Richie; the Buzz jangling on the edge of her awareness was much less of a distraction than it could have been. The engine, thankfully, started on her first attempt and she waited patiently for instruction.
"Exit the lot and drive east; at the end of the block, turn right. Then we’ll begin, Ms.—" he paused to consult his clipboard—"Campbell." As soon as they got out of range of the building, the Buzz stopped rasping on Deb’s nerves and she sighed audibly. "Just relax Ms. Campbell, this isn’t as bad as everyone thinks." Out of the corner of her eye, Deb thought she could almost see a smile. "You must have been talking with Mr. Clark. I almost think he enjoys putting people on edge. That was an excellent turn by the way. Proceed to the next main thoroughfare and merge with the flow of traffic."
Debra kept most of her attention on the road, while one small corner of her mind digested this unexpected new bit of information. A clerk named Clark, eh? She wondered how many generations he’d had that career, since the days of the quill pen perhaps. No sinister intent here, or at least a much smaller likelihood of one. Considerably relieved, she turned all of her efforts to the task at hand. The examiner put her through all her paces: turns, traffic signals, lane changes, change in speed. Everything went smoothly until suddenly, in the middle of a busy street, she felt it. Another Immortal: where? —Behind her, and close, anxiety put lead into her foot. The examiner coughed a warning; she quickly brought her speed back under control. She continued to match the flow of traffic, but she couldn’t keep herself from glancing into the rear-view mirror more often than necessary. Relief flooded through her when the other car finally made a turn and the sensation faded away. Road rage was becoming more common, but Deb doubted there was even a spot on the examiner’s forms for stopping to have armed combat with another driver. The penalty would be quite severe, she was sure of that.
The remainder of the test went quite
smoothly; she even managed all of the parking exercises and the dreaded
three-point turn without scratching Richie’s car. She wondered, idly, whether
she’d be able to perform these manoeuvres as easily in her new vehicle.
There was one last nervous moment when, while making a turn at freeway
speeds, her supposed map-case rolled off the back seat with a suspicious
*clunk*. The examiner looked confused for just a moment, but he made no
comment. Deb wished she were confident enough to free one hand from the
wheel long enough to clear the sweat off her brow; she had to settle for
a quiet, but heartfelt, sigh of relief. Her sigh echoed again when the
examiner announced that the road test was complete—but not, she noted,
whether it was successful. Deb wondered if he and Mr. Clark had something
in common after all.
§ § §
Contrary to popular belief, Richie could play it cool when necessary. In a way he admired the way Deb had contained herself. Sure she was older, but at the same time less experienced; he wasn’t sure how he would have handled the same situation when he was that new to the Game. Over the last month or so of lessons, they had developed a kind of cautious friendship; once they came to the startled conclusion that, chronologically speaking, they were about the same age, the two soon discovered that they had a lot in common. Maybe that was why Richie didn’t want all her hard work to come to nothing, just because of some weasel of an Immortal hiding behind a civil servant role.
Pretending to read the outdated magazines, Richie kept a quiet surveillance on the supposed "Mr. Clark." He took a certain malicious pleasure in staying just inside the other man’s Buzz range, watching him trying to perform routine tasks burdened by the equivalent of a migraine headache. Richie could think of a dozen cons and scams that could be perpetrated in a place like this, but the most dangerous for Deb would be simple information gathering. It would be so easy to put a flag on any "special" customers that passed through, copying all their vital statistics—including home address—for later use. But Richie was watching him like a hawk, with the wary eye of someone who’d done a bit of trickery in his own day, just to survive. Except for enjoying his work way too much, deriving a cruel satisfaction from bringing people discomfort, Richie couldn’t find a single fault in the stranger. Maybe this time that famous Immortal paranoia was completely unfounded; it would be nice change of pace not to have someone out to get them.
Deb wasn’t sure what relieved her the most: finally being able to get out of the car, or seeing the DMV still in one piece. It would just be her luck to earn her license and then have to go into hiding; but it looked like her luck was changing. After a long silence in the lot, punctuated by Clark and Richie’s buzzes humming in her skull, the examiner suddenly burst out into a wide grin. Dropping his professional formality, he offered an enthusiastic handshake as he handed over his assessment. "Well, you better get in there and pick up your Class 5, you’ve earned it. Oh, and you might want to clean up a bit in the washroom before they take your picture; you look a fright. Congratulations."
Debra’s triumphant howl could be heard halfway to the river valley. She didn’t even care that she had panicked young Mr. Ryan; she waved her papers overhead like a war trophy and his flat-out sprint turned into a joyful hug. They entered the building side by side and hand in hand, sharing the achievement as much as they had shared the effort. At the sight of them, Mr. Clark got a look on his face like he’d just bit into a lemon. Deb didn’t care; she had realised that he was no real danger. Nonetheless, there was a touch of smugness about her as she handed over the documentation.
"I’m back," she said with a quiet little smile, "I hope you’re not too disappointed. " She ignored his scowl, noticing that he didn’t let his feelings interfere with the performance of his duties. When he gave her the plastic card, still warm from the printer, she felt a thrill of almost child-like excitement. In her state, she decided to take a chance, act on impulse. "Nothing personal, you understand. But before I go on my way, there’s one more service I need from you…."
The two spoke quietly for several minutes
and, despite his best efforts, Richie had no idea what it was all about.
All he knew was that Deb now had her license, and a couple of leads on
a new vehicle. He couldn’t help but notice, as they left the building,
that the young author had a spring in her step and a mischievous grin.
§ § §
Richie and Duncan waited patiently in Deb’s apartment for her to return from the most significant shopping expedition in her life—so far, anyway. At least, one of them was being patient. "Tell me again," Duncan muttered moodily, "why you had to drive her to… What was the name of that place?"
"Wetaskiwin. It’s a little tiny town on the highway, just outside the city. They didn’t really have any industry of their own, so they allowed a bunch of car dealerships to move in, to lure out all the Big City folks. I guess it worked, because the place now calls itself the Car Capital of Alberta. ‘Cars cost less in Wetaskiwin.’ That kind of stuff."
Duncan nodded to himself as he digested that little bit of info. It wasn’t much, but he remembered a time when he would have gotten a shrug and a mumbled "Dunno" from the boy. Things change. "I just wish you would have stayed with her for a while longer."
"Why, Mac? This is her moment, she wanted to bring it back herself. I still remember my first bike; it’s always something special. Stop worrying so much."
Before Duncan could build up a good sulk, the phone rang. Richie was closer, and marginally faster, reaching the handset first. "Hello? … You did? … That’s great! … The one we were talking about? Uhhh," he glanced nervously at MacLeod, hoping he didn’t notice. "Congratulations, you deserve it girl. See you soon."
As soon as Richie was off the phone, MacLeod was up and looming over him with that patented Stern Mentor look. "There’s something going on here."
"What, umm, what makes you think that?"
"I saw that look on your face; what is she planning this time?"
Richie backed away, holding up his hands defensively. "Look Mac, I can’t. It’s supposed to be a surprise; she was very specific about that."
"Tell me, now."
"Mac, please! She said she’d start at my ankles and work her way up." He tried for a change of subject; "Look, she called to say that she got the car. She said she has to run a few errands and then she’ll be right over. You can see for yourself."
MacLeod tried and failed to restart the conversation several times before the tension was interrupted by a brazen car horn. Deb might be able to sense a Buzz ten stories straight up, but Duncan still couldn’t; he ran to the balcony to look. A dark green vehicle looked very similar to the SUV she’d been contemplating, and the woman who stepped out of the driver’s seat was unmistakably Deb. She waved cheerfully and made a beckoning gesture toward the balcony. It was an almost regal invitation. Richie slipped in beside his former mentor with a grin. "The Lady’s chariot awaits. Shall we?" With an answering smile, Duncan gestured the younger man ahead of him and they both went downstairs.
The first thing that MacLeod noticed as he approached the vehicle was that it was a Toyota—a quality reliable company. The dark colour was a good sign, it wouldn’t attract too much attention; he could easily picture her in a bright silver model. Deb leaned on the hood possessively; "Well, what do you think?" He made a full inspection before he made any comments, his brows furrowed in concentration as he walked around the vehicle. It all looked good, until he crossed to the back and saw his worst fears had come true. It was right there, in full view, bright chrome lettering just above the license plate. He couldn’t keep his voice from rising; "You bought a Toyota Highlander?"
Deb moved gracefully and confidently to his side, not even flinching at his tone. "And why not? I’ve heard some great things about the Highlander: reliable, dependable, versatile…"
"Flattery will get you no where."
"That’s not what I heard from Amanda."
A slow smile crept across Duncan’s face and he was almost ready to concede the point, until his gaze slid past the chrome lettering to the license plate itself. It was a valid Alberta plate, but it was also a vanity plate. This time his voice rose almost to a shout: "4 EVR?!? Are you suicidal? This is just inviting trouble; you might as well have bolted ONLY 1 to the back of this thing, with a bright red bull’s eye for good measure."
"ONLY 1 was already taken, and before you say anything, yes I am concerned. As for the car and the plate, I’m just trying to stay in character. You wouldn’t believe what some SF fans will do to their cars; and remember I’m an SF author. We’re all supposed to be eccentric." She took a deep breath and gestured to the front of the Toyota. "Let’s continue this conversation elsewhere. I promised Richard that I’d buy him dinner if I got the car and the license, and I always keep my promises." With a touch of a frown still creasing his brows, Duncan opened the front passenger door. Deb shook her head no; "Mr. Ryan gets shotgun; without his efforts none of this would have been possible. You can sit in the back."
As the Toyota finally pulled away from the curb, a quiet man in a long coat stepped out of the shadow of the building. With a loud sigh he clicked off a portable recorder, pulling a cellular phone out of his pocket. He quickly dialled a number; "Hello Joe? Savage here. Contact the motor pool; I’m going to need a vehicle. That’s right, she’s mobile. What am I doing now? Don’t ask."
Before the Highlander got completely out of range, Watcher Savage waved frantically at a passing taxi. The startled cabby skidded to a halt; hardly anyone ever flagged down a cab in this town, but Savage had no time to call a dispatcher. He ground his teeth around words he wished he didn’t have to say; "Follow that car!"
Now, if I could only get my license in Real Life....
| home | menu |