A Picnic at Bordeaux
Have you ever really wanted to kill someone? I mean, really kill someone-you could look at that person and imagine yourself literally reaching for a sword-okay, you don't carry a sword-a gun, then, or some kind of blunt instrument, and then kill him. You see yourself doing it, and know it is completely possible. You would feel justified. Have you ever felt that?
Sure, you have. It's the most natural feeling in the world. And I didn't feel even a tinge of it after meeting MacLeod. What a guy he is. He killed Kronos, and it's my job to hate him, and I can't do it.
I tried to. I hoped he would be an asshole, that he was a creep, that he was inhuman, that there would be something about him that would make me so pissed off that I would just do it. But he wasn't anything but a man-a good-looking man, strong and intelligent, and had eyes that seemed warm and almost understanding. God, I hated that-but you can't kill a guy over it.
But you can imagine it wasn't easy for me to get over. And I could tell that Methos explained my relationship with Kronos to him, because he kept giving me these looks, like he didn't know what to think about me. Like I was nuts. Maybe he halfway thought I was going to make a run at his head. Like a person could take me seriously. The only way I was challenging him would be after sinking a few shells in him. And maybe a few shots of liquid courage in myself.
He didn't come across like a pushover, anymore than he came across as a rotten person who should die like a dog, but part of me was still looking, wondering if there was something I could kill him for. Something besides killing Kronos, that is.
We talked, briefing him on the details of what had taken place-the death of the Watcher, and the little attack in the alleyway. To his credit, it was MacLeod who came up with the next step. There was one place we should go-the place where this business was supposed to have ended.
We would go to Bordeaux.
Somehow, I knew this would be a painful trip.
****
Imagine it being early in the morning and seeing for the first time the place when the one person who had the biggest impact on your life died feeling alone and miserable. Imagine doing it in the presence of the man who killed him, and the man who should have been at his side. Imagine doing it on little sleep, no coffee, even…and feeling insanity crowding at your thoughts. Imagine the stillness of a place left as a museum, a silent testimony to our ability to impact mortal lives. Imagine me. Forgive the way I'm brooding over here-it's just that I'm still emotional about it. I'll try not to-you know-obsess.
Methos called it "Kronos' idea of Camelot." It was actually some kind of abandoned sub-base, tailored into-what can I say? He had designed a makeshift lab, and I realized he put in time here-working on it and making sure it would do the job. I saw the cages, and among them was one that was larger-it made me pause. Did he try it on people? I tried to put that thought out of my mind. The place seemed so dank and dreary-appropriate, for what it was. But there was something about the air that just reminded me of him. Maybe it reminded me of the smell of the tomb. All I knew was that Kronos died there. To me, that made the place hell.
I couldn't listen to the two of them talking about it-I just heard bits and tried to follow while forming my own ideas. What they were explaining was a tragedy unfolding-like the fifth act in a Shakespeare play. Methos pointed to the spot where the one called Silas died, and the place, above, where Kronos lost his head. He told me what the last words were. I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood filling my mouth, but I didn't want my face giving me away. Methos could have lost his head, too-there had been a woman, a friend of MacLeod's. Then, there would have been no more Horsemen.
It was all so bloody, and so damn pointless, so suicidal-Kronos' end would be nothing less. He'd have to take people with him. World domination-at least he thought big. The words were going past me-I couldn't hear anymore-I couldn't see it from their side, at least, not entirely. Who were they to me?
One word cut through like a sword thrust. "Evil." MacLeod thought the man had been evil. It cut my heart-evil? Sick, demented, vicious, violent, all these things-but evil?
It set me off.
"We all have our moments, MacLeod," I said, suddenly snapped from my reverie. "He just had more of them. We're all a little crazy. And he was…very crazy."
"He wanted to destroy…everything," MacLeod answered, and the way he said it, so full of belief that Kronos was about nothing but hate. Did he hate the world? I once lay beside him and listened as he spoke of the feeling of taking the reins in hand and feeling that those reins guided the world. It was simply power that he loved and he yearned for a time when he felt free. Do we look at this gray world and imagine it better for being less openly barbaric? Or would it be less barbaric if we just admitted to ourselves that people kill other people, and that the world is an unfair place, and that the strong survive, and the weak get stomped? Kronos was a monster, but he was honest about it. And in his own messed-up way, he might have even been right about a thing or two.
"He wanted," I spat, as if my mouth was filled with something nasty. "As if you could know what he wanted. He wanted a return to what was, he wanted Methos at his side, he wanted the old ways…he wanted a thousand things, but the end of the world? The deaths of millions? Do you believe he could have seen that, let alone wanted it?" I asked, and heard my voice go shrill.
"Are you defending him?" His eyes were so surprised. It was as if defending him had been past thought-absurd.
Before I knew it, I had reached for the .45, and held it in front of his face. Methos stepped back, and MacLeod would have done something foolish, I'm certain, but then I cocked it, and I'm sure my face showed no sign of wanting to do anything more than taking half of his head from his neck in one blast.
"Defend him?" I asked, and my own voice shocked me. "I would have done more than defend him. You have no idea. Defend him. Avenge him, even."
I still remembered. The feeling was that of blood crying out for blood. He killed someone I cared for deeply and he didn't believe I would defend him? One time, I made a promise I could never keep. The very least I could do was say something. Decency gave me no choice.
"What in hell?" MacLeod began.
"I made a promise to Kronos that if the shit ever hit the fan, I would waste the bastard that took his head. And I did want to waste you. I did."
"If everyone who promised Kronos that they would kill MacLeod went out and did it," Methos began. I ignored him. I lowered the gun for a minute. I had their complete attention, but then I caught what Methos had said.
"The world is full of people who don't keep promises." I raised the gun again. "What do you people make of me? He meant something to me. I gave something to him-that no one else could ever have taken from me. And what he did for me…" A lump was forming in my throat. "Within hours of my meeting him he completely and irrevocably changed my life-that means something to me."
"Joe told me that he killed you…your first death," Methos said. "It must have been…"
"I'd have died that night anyway."
What did you think you would hear? I had run up a huge bar-tab that night, and when Kronos rolled up behind me offering sex and scotch, and I looked into those eyes, that fascinating face that still looked like he had gotten the worst of a knife-fight-do you suppose I'm stupid? No. I realized the danger and I didn't care. You heard one version, but the simple fact is that I looked into his face and realized that this was as good a way to die as any. Up to his hotel room I went.
Lucky me, after all. Otherwise, I'd have drunk myself to death, and who knows if that would have done the trick.
"I didn't want to live, but afterwards I couldn't die-you know the drill."
"He put a knife in you, the hotel room had blood stains, and signs of a struggle," Methos intoned. Did he really have time to get the Watchers' abridged version of this tale? Did he think this was news to me, or that what Kronos did was the worst thing that ever happened to me? I never thought of myself as his victim-I escaped with my life, and better! And besides, I was a call girl-I'd seen rough treatment before. No, I'm not saying I had it coming. I'm saying what he did was not the worst thing that ever happened to me-that's all.
"He said we were the same, and he was right," I said, and I lowered the gun for good. I set it on the table between MacLeod and myself. "The same. And maybe I didn't know what it meant then, but I do now." And the funny thing was, I only just now did understand it. I understood why he had done it, why he had done everything.
Complete and total emptiness. Need. Desperation. A hole inside of him that nothing would fill.
These were the things that made him live, and these were the things keeping me alive right now.
Need.
It was hitting me in waves, those memories. It was coming into focus for me the way it never had before-I was thinking about it instead of simply feeling. Why did I keep the notes for the virus? Why did I go to meet Kronos? Why did I leave my home to find out why he had died, knowing I might not be able to return?
Need. I needed to.
We all have our reasons.
And we all have our emotions, and right then, mine were tearing me apart. I looked up to where Kronos had died, and I tried to imagine that moment-it was a thing I couldn't imagine. I tried to fix for a minute on how it must have been to see Methos turn, to know it was the end-or, knowing him, did he reject that with his last breath?
But I couldn't be in that moment, no matter how I tried, and instead my memory handed back to me the picture of him standing in my kitchen at the moment the decision was mine. I could go with him, let him use the virus, be there with him to the end. I could have been there. I should have been there. But instead, he had them. He had the Horsemen, his brothers in battle. That was what he had wanted, and what did it do for him?
But I hadn't gone, had I? I was here, now, instead, with the two men I credited with pulling off his death, trying to save the world, as if that made any goddamn sense.
I guess I had to unload a little.
"Christ," I remarked, pulling myself together. "Enough about me. Just keep in mind…"
MacLeod nodded. He didn't seem to need to be told; he simply understood that I would hear no more about this. But I hoped that I made it clear to him-he had killed a man, not some evil creature, but a man. Methos looked away, and I couldn't figure out what his thoughts might be. You really can't wonder too much at anything Methos does-he's too freaking old to make sense.
With simple practicality, MacLeod changed the subject. "The virus, you gave him the plan?" He was right, we came here for a reason-to find out what the hell was going on with at least one case of the virus being used, and the non-Game-related attack on my life. Silly me to think I'd use the moment to work out my personal issues and reconcile truly urgent emotional conflicts regarding some major life decisions. My bad, what was I thinking?
"The means to an end," I answered with a short laugh.
"It had no name, it had no cure-that we know of," Methos added, looking at me, expectantly. "Only the name Kronos wrote in his notes-your code name for it. 'Mysterium.'"
And then, in the back of my mind, I could hear the words of one of my professors.
"You know, the trouble with dealing with you idiot savants is I never know when I'm dealing with the savant, or the idiot."
Did they honestly think that I knew of any way to stop this thing?
I looked around, a little mystified. Why the heck would I know how to stop it? If I knew what I was doing, this shit wouldn't even exist!
"'Mysterium?'" MacLeod echoed.
I began to explain.
****
Mysterium. It was an apt name, albeit a bit more ominous in the hands of the Horsemen, I'll give you that one. But I didn't know about them then-I called it that because I didn't understand how it worked. I only knew that it was very dangerous, could bring about Armageddon, and that I could make a boatload of money off of it if I wanted to peddle it as a germ-warfare weapon. (That would be the Beast I'd ride the back of, if I were more hard-up for cash. I'm a whore at heart, folks.)
I knew it was immoral to maintain my notes-it didn't matter. The greed was there, and also a touch of pride at having created something so destructive. Even if it wasn't what I had intended. Even with the piles of lab animals I had burned and discarded, and the loss of my future as a scientist. I could have helped people. Instead-this. It never occurred to me that if it existed, it might be used.
But after its creation, it hardly mattered. I never wanted to work on a cure because I realized it was beyond me to undo what I had done. I wiped my files except for one diskette-the one I let Kronos have. And, except for scanning the papers for stories about disease outbreaks, I had washed my hands of it. Some part of me always suspected he'd be killed before it was used. Now, he was dead, and someone was using it.
"What I do know," I finished, "is that it is nearly indestructible. No known cure."
"None?" MacLeod asked, his face grim. He didn't want to believe that, I could tell. He was the type who believed in solutions to things. I didn't have any.
"It's Immortal. It was created from my own tissue. Get it, now? Our cells are different-mutated. Not that it matters, but we are human-mostly, but there's certain changes that have taken place. They're called single nucleotide polymorphisms-they usually result in retardation, sexual deformities. But ours occur in the twelfth chromosome pair. It's the genetic clock-programs the telomeres. Our telomeres never break down, so the cells themselves don't decay. And since it was introduced to the rhinovirus-see?"
"But why?"
"Gene therapy. I hoped it would add to the gene pool. You know, since we can't."
"But you never counted on immune response," Methos said, as if anyone would have simply picked up on it. Old bugger surprised me with that.
I winced. "No, I never did. Anymore than I counted on its being used. I never thought…"
I could remember him assuring me that it would never come down to this, that it was just a test of Methos' loyalty, and that I shouldn't worry. How did I believe him? How did I trust him? Simple. I cared for him, and I thought I understood him. Pride again.
But the thought was in my head now-to try to understand. I needed to put myself in the moment. Methos had said it when he related the story-his contribution-Start small and build. Which told me there would be another device, and another potential payload of the disease.
"The fountain," I said, hoping I could focus on this insight before it vanished. "You said one was put in the fountain-yours-the one MacLeod defused?"
"Yes, but…" Methos was startled, as if the same thought was just crossing his mind.
"And the next one? The water system, you said?"
"Oh, shit."
Which I took to mean there was another one.
****
We were finally leaving the scene, and for me, it wasn't a moment too soon. I could picture staying there and letting the walls talk to me some more, and going mad. This I could not do. I trailed behind though, so they could not see me tuck the gun back into the waistband of my jeans.
You see, a girl really can't be too careful.
****
"So, he casually mentions he means to explode a vial in the reservoir, and you FORGET?" MacLeod asked, in the chiding voice we can only forgive when our friends use it.
"You know, when that sort of thing happens to my Gran, we call it a 'senior moment,'" I added, unhelpfully.
They both turned to look at me. I shrugged. "Joke?"
Methos made a terrible face, and said, "I had things on my mind," and I suddenly realized what he meant-nothing to joke about. He had just helped waste his old crew-Silas…Caspian…Kronos, were all gone, and he was going to think about something stupid like a bomb in the reservoir? I hated myself for the joke. I did. Maybe I wouldn't ever know what he felt about that.
We were climbing stairs up into a maintenance shaft in the reservoir, searching for what we were sure was there-a device, probably smaller than your average bread box, which nonetheless would contain a vial of still-active virus. ("Level-four hazard capacity," I warned them. "Contaminate the water? Hell, it will cause devastation for miles." And it would.)
We slipped through a portal and out onto a landing protected by a rail. Below us the water sparkled; above, the sky looked perfectly blue. We scanned the walls-where would it have been placed so that no one had come across it in three years? And then, Methos spotted it.
Such an ordinary-looking device, no different from the simple incendiaries placed in the cars of foreign diplomats in odd corners of the earth-or any place you wanted a-oh dear-
Nice, big, fiery, yet controlled explosion. It dawned on me. It was too ordinary looking!
It was wrong! I could feel it in my guts. He would have known that this was not the way to poison a water supply.
Methos was looking the device over, but he hadn't figured it out. There was a panel with buttons. "He had it rigged to a remote control device. There should be a way to disable it if we knew the code."
"If his sense of humor hung from the same gallows as mine, he'd have picked '666,'" I said numbly, not sure what we were about to do. I couldn't shake the feeling I had.
Methos moved towards the device, and then, some reflex took over on me. "Don't!" I yelled, and when he ignored me, out came the gun.
"This isn't right. You should see that. Something about this does not seem right."
I could see MacLeod out the corner of my eye, darting for me. I turned, and pumped two shells into his chest. Instinct, the little voice I always listened to-right or wrong-had taken over, and for a moment I looked on what I had done in horror, my hand on needles and pins from the force of the recoil.
I wasn't expecting the recoil. I guess I should have. The Berretta was a compact weapon with a scant 3 lb.-trigger pressure-the reason for my choice, but it was, after all, a .45. And I did all my range practice with a .22.
Like the one Methos then nailed me with.
"What is this?" Methos said, but he wasn't looking for answers, he was still headed for the device.
"Look," I tried to explain, fading out and wishing to God I could be taken seriously. "Just don't touch the device-it's a mistake. I'm …not…kidding." Things were getting strange around me. I was dying one of those near-deaths, and it hurt badly. It wasn't pleasant.
"He would have died that night anyway," Methos said. I knew what he meant, but that wasn't why I was doing this. He had me all wrong, so I did what I had to do. I leveled the gun at him as best I could and took dead-aim for the center of his chest. He staggered backwards, and I was propelled against the railing by the recoil, my legs terribly unsteady. I gripped it for support. I had another shot to take.
I braced myself and took aim at the device. Once it was hit, there was a moment when I could almost feel kinetic energy in the air, and I threw myself over the railing with the last bit of strength I had in me. The sky shook as the blast went off above me. Falling, I could see a jet of flame, black smoke. The sound…deafening.
The water seemed as hard as concrete as I hit it, finding it icy cold and painful. I was going into blackness, fading. I let the water envelop me and went down into nothingness.
****
When I awoke, I was cold, wasted, wet. But I still had my head and a grocery-list of things to do before I rested. I looked back at the crowd that had gathered and the wreckage. I hoped I had left them clear enough. But then, I hoped for a lot of things.
I hoped I'd be able to go home again, but let's face it, I couldn't. I hoped I could leave this behind me, but how? I hoped that they would understand what I was doing, but some people just don't take to being shot very well.
You can imagine how long that lasted. I don't let anything go.
****
"Genevieve, what the hell are you doing here?" Dawson asked me, with a surprised look. He didn't seem unhappy to see me, simply surprised.
I held up my scotch and soda. "Drinking," I answered, cheerfully.
"I can see that. You know what I mean."
"I guess I do."
Of course I knew what he meant. I had done a fast fade after the explosion. And I suppose anyone might guess what I needed to do-I had to get my act together. I'm sure he didn't need me to explain that-he was a Watcher, for crying out loud. He knew the things I'd have to do.
I had to get myself set up, and this is expensive, people. I better hold onto this identity for awhile, because good paper does not come cheap. And the only people I knew to get it from are from the neighborhood. It wasn't until getting back to Philadelphia that I realized that things had gotten a little hot.
For one thing, a headless body was found up in the 'burbs. For another, some asshole blew up half a city block in Mayfair. And since I was gone without a trace for a few weeks and was looking for ID-again, conclusions were drawn-not by the cops. Like I said, some of the ways I made money were legal, and some were not. Not too big a stretch for some people to believe that I was getting out of hand-maybe it was the stress from the divorce I found out I was getting. But I, apparently, was not welcome. I made my apologies, straightened out my finances, and, like the man said, got my ass out of Dodge.
And you can guess where I headed. Seacouver. What can I say-I couldn't leave it like that, right?
I sighed. "I had to come back. I can't go home again, or I did, but couldn't stay. I'm dead over there. And I still have unfinished business here."
Then I felt the presence, and looked over. Methos. Exactly who I hoped to see. Dawson knew that we needed words, and so he gave us both a nod, and made his way back to the bar. Methos dropped into the seat across from me.
"Hey, Pierson, how's things?" I asked, a little uncertain. He looked different to me-as if he hadn't slept well, or as if he had been doing some hard thinking. It's kind of hard to tell with us when we're a little used up, but he looked it. His eyes seemed darker-they change color, depending on his mood. I thought, not for the first time, how strangely attractive I found him. Was it because he was the Oldest? Was it the Horsemen thing? Or was it simply because he just is?
"There was no virus in it. Just explosive…"
"I know. I saw."
"It blew chunks out of the cement. If…someone…had been standing in front of it…"
"That person would be blown apart. In pieces," I finished. But I had done it. They had both been out of the way when it went off. They probably only got a little singed-and we can deal with that.
"How did you know?"
"More than a passing familiarity with explosives…" I was about to say. But then I thought I might tell him the truth. I don't know if he needed to hear it.
"Because of Kronos. The way he thought. It wasn't about the world. Or power. It was about you. It was about the Horsemen. It was about what was."
His eyes widened, but he didn't say anything, so I went on.
"Besides, you swore an oath to him that you would kill MacLeod. You told me as much. But at the end, you were on MacLeod's side, and that meant you were betraying him. Again. I can't imagine what he felt-I don't think he'd have done you like that-but if that were me, I'd want you dead."
He nodded, but then looked at me. His face was a picture of conflict, because, I guess, he realized I was right. That was Kronos, his brother. He'd have gotten back at him, even after death.
But he had a question for me-
"You cared for him, didn't you? You loved him?"
Strangely, I didn't know how to answer that. Once, I'd have said "yes," and that would have been the end of it. Maybe there wasn't a word for what I felt for Kronos. I cared for him, wanted him, almost understood him, but if I loved him, wouldn't I have been by his side when he asked me? Or wouldn't I have been able to take out MacLeod and Methos-or at the least, let them get blown up? Or wouldn't I have been able to answer the damn question?
But I found doing all of these things impossible.
Forget world destruction. The Apocalypse-whatever. The virus-nuts.
Maybe Love is the real Beast.
But there was still one thing I had to do. Just a little chat with MacLeod.