Lost

Chapter 8

“My sweet Sarah,” the deep voice brought shivers up and down her back as a hand slowly stroked her side. “I know you’re awake.” She swallowed thickly but then opened her eyes at the wiggle of the finger buried in her ass and turned slightly to look at the owner of that voice. Dark hair and goatee, darkly tanned skin and steel blue eyes. Sarah knew that the skin around the eyes crinkled when Andre laughed and when his eyes narrowed in anger. His crinkles were so much like those around another pair of eyes she often dreamt of...hazel gold and green but those crinkles appeared for vastly different reasons. But with this man, either reason for the crinkles appearing around steel blue eyes usually resulted in pain. Gold/green eyes forgotten, she waited to see what came next having finally learned a lesson that all slaves throughout time eventually learned...acceptance of the inevitable...a deep, bone-depth knowledge of her own helplessness to affect anything about her existence.

“You will stay in bed and rest today. I want you feeling better...our big day is coming soon and I want you to be ready.” With a broad smile and a quick possessive kiss Andre slipped his finger from inside of her and slid out of bed to walk to the bathroom to shower. Sarah watched as he moved gracefully around the room and felt only relief that he was done with her for now because she ached so much inside. Huge and muscular, Sarah thought about how small and weak she felt compared to him and then wondered why those thoughts seemed so alien, at war with something else in her head. Her thoughts were still so confusing. Yes, it’s best she stay in bed. Andre (not Daddy) wanted her to. ‘You may call me Daddy when we’re alone, but otherwise you are to address me as Andre or as husband after we’re married.’ Yes, I am Sarah MacLeod, soon to be Sarah Lacasse... ‘Duncan’ floated briefly through her mind but she pushed it away. She wasn’t ready to think about that yet, so she closed her eyes and tried not to dream about a boat on the Seine or looking over the rim of a glass at a pair of amazing hazel eyes. She began one of her meditations...one that emptied her mind and calmed her and let her get through another day...

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Weeks had turned into months as Methos had run down every single bit of information on what might have happened to Mac only to come up empty. Disheartened from his next to last interview he’d returned to the barge. He still had one appointment left. In the meantime, he decided to log what he’d heard from the obscure broker and minor council member who had attended the dinner but who’d left before the auction. Walking into the barge, mind on the broker he’d nearly tripped on the stack of old newspapers he’d allowed to accumulate in his distraction. Looking around the barge in disgust he saw what state he’d allowed it to slip into. Mac would gut him. The bed hadn’t been made in weeks. And then there was the detritus of half-eaten meals in take-out containers across the table and kitchen...that thought alone sickened him. Loose papers seemed to cover every available surface. The only clean room in the barge was the bathroom. It was now just as clean as the bathroom at his flat. He closed his eyes at the memory of why he’d so carefully scrubbed it clean the night before. Enough was enough. He stepped into the kitchen and opened a cupboard to find the trash bags. Starting at one end of the barge he began to pick up.

Two full trash bags later he finally reached the door near the now-spilled stack of newspapers. He gathered and straightened them into stacks to carry out, still thinking about the broker. The little man was trying to work his way into the upper echelon of Parisian society, desperate to rub elbows with the social elite. He’d spent the entire interview recounting who’d he’d spoken with and his estimation of the impression he’d made. It was really very pathetic. Of Duncan he’d only stated how very handsome he’d been and how the heads had turned at his entrance. His envy was painfully obvious when Duncan had spoken with Andre Lacasse for a short while before dinner. Unfortunately, though, he’d had to leave early since his mother was feeling unwell and wanted him home before it became late. His greatest regret seemed to be the fact that he was not available for the picture of the council members that was published in the newspaper. Methos began to look through the stack in search of it.

Finally he found it. The charity auction had been covered in the social pages and had a small accompanying article, so Methos cut out the article and the picture. In the photo, a group of social bigwigs were arrayed around Celine Serault, toasting her with champagne. Duncan had been on the right and next to him was Andre Lacasse. Andre Lacasse...that name seemed to keep popping up and was, coincidentally, the last interview Methos needed to have. But something about the photo sent a tingling awareness up his back...he couldn’t put his finger on why, though. He needed a second opinion.

Joe looked at the photo and had seen nothing in it to raise his suspicions. But still, there had been something about it that had bothered Methos, though he couldn’t name what it was.

“You talk to everyone in this picture yet?” Joe had a magnifying glass to see if any details stood out of the photo. The grainy quality made it difficult, but he didn’t see whatever it was that was bothering Methos.

“Yeah, all but one.” Methos looked at all the faces and focused on one. “Andre Lacasse is the only one I’m having a problem making an appointment to see. I know that Duncan spent some time speaking with him that night after being introduced by this lady, Celine Serault, the head of the council.” He pointed to the woman at the center of the photo but his eyes traveled back to the large man next to Duncan. He took the magnifying glass from Joe and leaned in a bit, trying to see any detail he might have missed.

“You know I like you and all, but do you mind backing off a bit?” Joe groused as he pushed himself back from the looming figure next to him. Methos looked over, smirking a bit but his eyes narrowed as he stared at Joe. “What?” Joe asked at the intense look Methos gave him.

Methos didn’t say anything as he turned back to the photo, putting aside the magnifying glass to look at the photo from a distance. He noticed how closely Lacasse was standing next to Duncan, so close that he was practically rubbing up against him. A surge of jealousy arced through him. “Look at how closely Lacasse is standing next to Mac. He’s much closer than anyone else.”

“Yeah. So?” Joe looked back at the photo. Yeah, the man was standing close but that can happen...folks shifting around a bit and all. He looked at the lean man next to him. “I don’t know, Methos. It doesn’t seem like much.” He secretly wondered if Methos wasn’t grasping at straws. Jealousy, maybe? Definitely jealousy. “Where ya goin’?” Methos had turned and walked to the door.

Methos looked back, a new determined look in his eye. “I’m going to talk to the photographer.”

There had been more than one proof taken that night and Methos had looked at them all. Cemented in his mind was the one photo taken just before the one eventually sent to print. In it Lacasse had been looking down at Duncan just as the picture had been taken. And it was the smile on Lacasse’s face that sent a chill down Methos’ spine.

It was late that night when Methos started back, debating on stopping by his flat or going straight to the barge. He opted for his place so he could work on his own computer. He walked along familiar streets, his mind working furiously on the possibilities the photo represented, reviewing the information he had on the other driver involved in the accident as well as how good a cold beer would taste just about now when he felt it. Five thousand years of survival is an extremely long time and not something that is just granted to lucky individuals. Methos had worked long and hard to develop his survival skills, honing his senses and abilities so that they operated on subconscious levels at all times. So at the first tiny niggling at the back of his head Methos knew that he was being watched. He automatically changed direction. Noting a familiar cafe he suddenly decided he needed some coffee. Okay, I lied about the coffee, he joked to himself as he ducked in the doorway and slipped just as easily out the back door. He began a circuitous trip through several back alleys...all well known from previous scouting trips.

Doubling back around a couple of newsstands he saw at least two men following him. They were generally unremarkable in appearance but became obviously agitated when they lost sight of him. Interesting. They continued their search as he began to follow them. He fought down the anger he felt rising at the thought that Joe had set Watchers on him. But the more he watched, the more he became convinced they weren’t part of that organization...although they were mortal. Well then, just who the hell were these guys? Watching as they eventually came to the bright idea to split up, he played a quick game of mental coin flip and chose the guy on the...right. Okay, time to talk.

He followed his chosen quarry as he again went into one of the alleys Methos had introduced him to a few moments before. It was child’s play to come up behind him and put a gun to his back. He expected the usual “I don’t know what you’re talking about” routine and wasn’t disappointed. However at this point in his life, he simply had no patience for it. He pulled the poor man into the back of a warehouse he broke into so that they could talk, and where, now that they had some privacy and a bit of time, he found that his powers of persuasion hadn’t exactly rusted in the hundreds of years since he’d last practiced them. Unfortunately, the person he chose couldn’t tell him much. All the poor dumbfounded fellow knew was that he was to follow, report actions and await notification of whether or not he was to kill. Well, that didn’t sit very well with the ancient man. “So you kill me if ordered and then what?”

Panting through bloodied lips the poor lackey wished desperately for his friend to find them and kill this fucker, but since that had yet to happen he wisely chose to answer the questions posed to him. “We kill you and leave. That’s it.”

“Just kill me? Well, that’s not very enlightening. Especially since you don’t know who wants me dead.” Methos contemplated killing the man just to ease the burden of his ignorance, but decided a message would probably be more appropriate. “Tell your contact that I want Duncan MacLeod...and that I’ll kill the next man, or men for that matter, who follow me. I’m sure you know how to contact me.” And with that, and the simple expedient of bashing the stupid fellow once over the head…okay, twice, Methos hauled him back into the alley and walked away.

Methos was sure the man following him that night was connected somehow to Lacasse...he could feel it, but he had no proof. He needed to talk to Lacasse. He hadn’t seen anyone else following him, although he knew they had to be out there. No one had contacted him, so in a way he was back to square one. He had told Joe to keep an eye out in case he was followed, too, but Methos had gotten the feeling that Joe was humoring him. Again he felt that seed of disappointment and pain burn in his belly. Once again he’d let someone get close enough to hurt him with those things that matter…like trust. When was he ever going to learn?

Doubt suddenly niggled at him and he sternly pushed it away and sought that thin connection, the faint essence that was Duncan MacLeod. That was the only thing he could count on right now...it was all that mattered. And soon he’d know if his hunch about Lacasse was right. But that short time in the warehouse had whetted his appetite. It was becoming harder and harder to maintain control over the strong desire to just tear into Lacasse’s estate and rip it apart until he found what he so desperately wanted.

There was a time in his past when he would have stopped at nothing to get what he wanted…what he needed. It had been a very simple time in his life, when he and his brothers simply took whatever they desired. The four of them had cut a swath of death and destruction across an entire continent once. But he had fought hard and long to bury that part of him. And he feared letting even a portion of that old life come out now in case he wasn’t able to retrieve Duncan. He didn’t know who would survive the horror of Death in the throes of His grief.

He wasn’t aware of walking into the bathroom or of the moment when the dagger came into his hand. All he knew was the sweet, sharp sensation of pain as he sliced into his arm. He watched in fascination as the blood welled along the thin slice and began to drip into the sink, bright red against the stark white porcelain. A second slice brought even more blood, the pain a clear shot into his brain as endorphins flooded through him momentarily making him forget the pain he felt in his heart. Lacasse would contact him again…he had to. Methos had no control over him. But this…this he had control of so he cut another long slice into his arm and watched as the tiny blue sparks healed the cuts, one after another. Still he made more, the sharp intensity of the new pain overriding the deep throbbing ache in his soul. It was like a symphony in his head and he was the conductor…he had the control.