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“I declare this emergency meeting of the ‘I Love Duncan MacLeod Club’ in session.” The speaker slapped her flat palm on the heavily scratched mahogany table, rattling everyone’s ceramic coffee mugs.
Joe felt his brow furrow without his permission. He leaned into Methos’ shoulder and whispered, “I thought it was the ‘I hate Duncan MacLeod Club.’”
Methos shrugged and whispered back, “Love, hate, it’s all the same. Same members, same purpose, same reasons.”
Friends don’t let friends make cryptic remarks. Joe shook his head. “I’m already here, you know. You’re being unnecessarily mysterious now.”
Methos just smiled, unrepentant and a bit smug.
“A-hem.” The woman standing at the head of the table glared at them, and they hung their heads in dramatic contrition. At least contrition smelled good, since Joe’s nose was even closer to his exorbitantly priced coffee.
She accepted their silent, apologetic cowering, then made eye contact with every one of the 14 Immortals sitting around the table. They’d taken over the backroom of a coffeeshop in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood. The door was closed against eavesdroppers. The blinds were pulled. Joe’s heart rate picked up in anticipation of the unveiling. “The subject is this.”
With a flourish, she aimed her phone at the wall, and it projected a video. A live Instagram stream, to be exact, with the number 2036 next to the little eye in the upper corner.
“Is that the Wallingford Farmer’s Market?” one man asked, aghast.
“Yes,” said the meeting’s leader.
Who are all these people? Because it was obvious they were Immortals, but Joe didn’t recognize any of them. They’d somehow been invisible to Watchers... until now.
Her voice was grave and her hands shook, but she persevered. “Jimmy apparently didn’t get the memo to avoid the area today, and he went live before seeing... well...” She gestured to the projection. At the edge of the image, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod sniffed fresh nectarines.
A collective “oh no” washed over the group, except for Joe... and for a woman in a bright red dress. The woman stood up. “Excuse me,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be excited? I thought this was the Duncan MacLeod Fanclub?”
Methos hummed and muttered, “There’s always one.”
Joe was tempted to make a There can be only one joke, but he didn’t think it would go over well with this crowd. Tough room.
The speaker turned her glare on the attractively attired woman. “We’re fans of his fame and, by extension, of staying out of his way. If you came to coo over his tanned skin and developed pecs, you’re in the wrong place.”
The would-be fan sniffed so hard that Joe briefly worried she might inhale her discarded teabag. Then she turned on her 4-inch heel and stalked out of the room.
The clacking receded, and one anonymous Immortal took his life into his hands when he said, “’Developed pecs,’ Maya? Really?”
The meeting runner, Maya, didn’t respond before the man sitting next to Anonymous Immortal #1 snorted. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
They are really getting off topic. Joe took a breath to jump in and get them back on track—old leadership instincts died hard—but cut himself off when Methos put a hand on his arm. Right, they weren’t going to draw too much attention to themselves until they knew the lay of the land. Just like entering a new operating theater. Just like Watching a new field assignment.
Joe wasn’t going to keep quiet forever, though. A whole roomful of unknown Immortals! It was Watcher Heaven. And Hell, since he wasn’t supposed to interfere with any of them.
On the projection wall, the camera view went from a long shot showing a corridor full of fruits and vegetables, to a close up of intricate tooling on a leather belt. Quality work, but a bit odd.
Joe picked up his overpriced black coffee and inhaled the richness. It wasn’t a leather belt, but it would do.
Hushing everyone in the room, Maya turned up the volume on her phone speakers. Through their echo, Jimmy (the hapless videographer) narrated about vegetables they could no longer see. He sounded increasingly panicked with every mention of summer squash and zucchini.
Maya turned the volume back down. “Obviously, we need to get MacLeod out of there.”
The Immortal who’d agreed about the pecs asked, “Wouldn’t it be just as good to get Jimmy out of there without MacLeod noticing him?”
With over two thousand live viewers? It was Joe’s turn to snort. He slouched in his chair immediately afterward, so as not to be seen. His chair around a table with thirteen people sitting at it in a small conference room in a café. Methos is overly optimistic about our ability to blend.
Maya rolled her eyes. “That can be the backup plan.”
A man raised his hand. “Does anyone here know someone at the market today? We could ask for a favor.”
This makes no sense. Everyone here at least has a bus pass. Joe leaned into Methos again, “Why can’t you just go yourself?”
His whisper must not have been quiet enough because Maya speared him with all her focus. And the focus of an Immortal woman of indeterminate age was nothing to court. “Who, exactly, are you?” She said it like a statement, unimpressed and not really desiring the answer.
“This is Joe Dawson, MacLeod’s Watcher.” Methos made the introduction and leaned forward in his seat as if he wanted to get closer to all the twitterpation his statement riled up.
Yet another unknown Immortal flicked a muffin crumb in Methos’ general direction. It landed in Joe’s black coffee. Well, he hadn’t wanted it anyway. “You’re already on shaky ground here, Zimmerman,” said the Immortal. “You’ve been seen with MacLeod more than once, and now you’re bringing a Watcher to our meetings?”
Methos scoffed and leaned back, the better to seem disinterested in a fight with a crumb-wielding challenger. “Joe is very discreet and extremely talented at hiding from Immortals. Plus, he might be able to manipulate MacLeod a bit. So long as we come up with something plausible.”
Maya cleared her throat. “Fine. Zimmerman is on probation. Again.” Methos nodded his head as if receiving accolades rather than demerits. “And we need a plan to keep Jimmy hidden while still filming his video at the market. He’d do it for us.”
General agreement rumbled around the table.
Methos is counting on me. Joe swallowed. He had absolutely zero good ideas, but plenty of terrible ones already. “What if I call him and—” he began, with no real planned ending.
Thankfully, an Immortal pulled her laptop out of a bag under the table. “I think I saw a booth from Carnation Farms before Jimmy had to hide. Their website says...” She trailed off as she scanned for information. “Yes! They’ve brought a prodigious amount of fresh rutabaga to the market, where it isn’t selling. And they have a ‘purchase online’ button.”
“Good sleuthing,” said Maya. “Will you do the honors?”
At least I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself. Joe was happy to hold his tongue and listen while the laptop-owning Immortal called the number on the farm’s website. On the projection screen, they all saw a person at the Carnation Farms booth pick up and nod along as the laptop Immortal offered to buy out the entire booth from the website if they’d only help out by giving a huge discount to the hottie with the tied back hair.
The Carnation Farms person nodded and hung up the phone, then made a broad arm movement to call over a customer just outside of Jimmy’s frame.
Oh no! Joe saw the problem before anyone else could, familiar as he was with Mac’s gait and shoulder shape. The particular hottie with tied back hair looked superficially like Mac. He was tall and broad, with dark hair and tanned skin. But he wasn’t MacLeod.
And they were still on the hook to buy all the rutabaga.
But wait! Methos gripped Joe’s forearm, and they both leaned forward. C’mon, c’mon. The booth runner was going above and beyond, calling over another “hottie with tied back hair.” And this time it was MacLeod. Mac politely nodded along with the sales pitch, but Joe could tell he wasn’t really interested. The video caught his mouth forming a word that might have been “asparagus.”
And then the worst happened.
Mac pulled back from the vendor and twisted his head in all directions. He’d obviously felt Jimmy’s buzz and was looking for its source. Getting Jimmy out of there anonymously was going to be even harder now that MacLeod knew a potential threat was in the area.
The laptop Immortal swore. “We’ve gotta move fast,” she said, summing up what all of them were thinking.
Phones all around the room came out of pockets. An Android owner suggested, “Could we make a flashmob request on Craigslist?”
A Samsung phablet user tapped away at her Twitter account, “Maybe I can make a fake account and send him a message to meet up. Risky if he backtracks it, but worth it for poor Jimmy.” She tapped harder at her phone screen, then turned to Joe. “What’s his handle?”
He doesn’t have one. Joe swallowed hard. He didn’t want to tell her that Mac had been stuck in the past so long he didn’t even have a smartphone until the iPhone 6 came out.
She made circling motions with her stabby—not a good description, Joe, let’s go with “her typing”—hand. “Handle. Username? Callsign?”
I may look older, but I’m not as ancient as all that. Joe’s head reared back on his neck, communicating how offended he was by her list. Then he quirked a rueful pair of white eyebrows. There were Watchers younger than he who still didn’t record their observations in their phone notes, preferring old-school mini tape recorders. Luddites. “He doesn’t have one.”
A hush fell over the room. Someone half shrieked, “He doesn’t have one?”
Was it really that surprising? Joe looked to Methos for guidance.
Methos’ eyes were gentle, no more smug playfulness in them. “Immortals who can’t adapt don’t live long enough to win the Game, Joe.”
Mac was a nice guy, and great with a sword. He could be flexible, sometimes, about things. But he wasn’t very adaptable, no. It was a sobering thought that these cautious types thought Joe might outlive his Immortal.
“Got it!” An Immortal in a replica Nirvana t-shirt waved his phone in the air with enough enthusiasm to create a coffee- and sporty-fresh- scented breeze. “There’s a Pokémon gym up there.”
Talk about not adapting. Joe’s eyebrows rose again. He couldn’t help himself. “People still play that?” he asked.
The Pokémon enthusiast ignored his commentary. “I’ve got my faction mobilized to go capture the gym. They’ll walk around without paying any attention to where they’re going. Hopefully, that’ll jostle MacLeod enough that he won’t be able to look for Jimmy.”
Yes! Just as the enthusiast finished explaining his plan, a market patron with her nose buried in her phone bumped right into MacLeod. She mumbled an apology, which he attempted to graciously accept and probably turn into an offer for dinner. Except that he stepped left in doing so, just as she went right—still focused on her Pokémon stats, or whatever it was—and she bumped into him again.
MacLeod stepped back, out of her way or out of surprise at the double-hitter, and he stumbled into another head-down player.
Maya sounded amazed as she breathed out, “It’s working!”
But after another two minutes, no more accidental collisions affected the Highlander. And the Pokémon enthusiast was both sad and happy to report that his faction had captured the gym without distracting MacLeod any further. Drat.
Methos elbowed Joe. No way, buddy. This isn’t my show. Joe elbowed him back.
Methos’ elbow was pointier the second time.
Guess I have to suggest something. Especially since a friend is in trouble for bringing me. It’s only right. Joe opened his mouth again, hoping he’d be struck by inspiration when his vocal chords vibrated.
“Oh my god,” laptop Immortal said. Joe followed her gaze to the projection where the Immortal in the red dress—Duncan’s fan who had stormed out in a huff—had spotted her quarry.
The fan threw herself at him, and MacLeod stumbled back a step but managed to catch her. He righted her on her feet and tried to move away, maybe to make polite conversation. Joe really wished Maya would turn the sound back up on the video, but it would probably end up being Jimmy’s voice on the importance of fresh produce anyway.
Maya hissed and crossed her fingers. “Please don’t let her tell him about us.”
Methos grinned, all right with his world again now that MacLeod looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think that’s quite what she has in mind.”
MacLeod in the corner of the picture looked hunted and desperate as he searched around for a reason to be anywhere else. He bowed a few times—distressingly archaic, now that Joe thought about it—and danced backwards, out of his fan’s grasp.
The Pokémon enthusiast blew out a sigh of relief. “And this successfully explains an Immortal presence as far as MacLeod is concerned. It’s been his creepy stalker chick the whole time.”
Then, in a shocking display of ‘discretion is the better part of valor,’ the Highlander fled. Without finding any asparagus either.
“We did it!” Maya crowed. A resounding cheer went up from the whole table. “Next round is on me!”
At fifteen coffees and $5 apiece on average, that’s.... still better than if they’d met in a bar. Joe couldn’t wait to ask MacLeod leading questions about the Devil in a Red Dress. Mac would squirm uncomfortably since he didn’t know that Joe knew the truth. No wonder Methos walked around with that smirk on his face all the time. Torturing everyone around you by knowing more than them was fun, especially when the people around you were your friends.
Joe would still be awake tonight, what with drinking two coffees this afternoon. He could go by Mac’s floating house on the lake, maybe interrupt a date while he was at it.
He caught Methos’ grin out of the corner of his eye. May as well have my best friend tag along. They could bring beer. And popcorn.