The usual disclaimers hold. I don't own any of the characters from Highlander that appear in this story. The concept, premise, names, etc... all belong to Gaumont, Panzer/Davis, and Rysher and whoever else works with the show. I was just having a little fun with the guys!

This story first appeared in Stroke of the Sword

Change of Direction

A glint of light bounced off the drawn sword. The flash blinded him momentarily but not before the scene etched itself indelibly into his mind.

Dark, unimaginably dark eyes. Long black hair pulled back from the grim determined face. Bare chest, muscles hard and taut, arms poised holding the shining blade high, preparing to strike.

"It's over when I cut off your head!"

Fog settled in his joints as the words echoed all around. He tried to move, speak, breathe. Nothing.

The dark man stepped forward, swung the sword silently as he proclaimed, "There can be only one!"

The sword flashed.

"Aauugghhh!" The boy tumbled to the floor in fright and confusion. He spun around - but the swordbearing figure was nowhere to be seen.

As he raised a hand to his forehead, he realized two things. He had contracted a wicked case of the shakes and his T-shirt was soaked with sweat.

"Get a grip, Richie," he muttered, the layers of nightmare peeling away as reality poked through.

He pondered once again the sanity -- or lack thereof -- behind his current address. He marveled somewhat at his own gall, taking up residence in the antique store, home of the dark man his mind so enjoyed dumping into his dreams lately. But the "Closed Until Further Notice" sign had been too tempting, and so far it still felt safe to stay.

His musings were interrupted by the not entirely unexpected rumbling of his stomach. The refrigerator wasn't exactly well-stocked and what was there was mostly rabbit food going bad.

He considered again hocking a few of the smaller pieces in the store to buy some food. The only drawback was not knowing which ones were likely to be traceable. After his last run-in with the cops the word was probably out at the local pawn shops and antique dealers to look out for stolen merchandise.

Groggily he got to his feet and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. It wasn't very filling but it might trick his stomach one more time, at least long enough to allow him to get back to sleep.

In the morning, he decided, he'd pick up a few things from the supermarket with the old five-fingered discount. He gulped down a glassful glancing ruefully around the room -- all these cabinets and drawers, the size of the refrigerator. It was the biggest kitchen he'd been acquainted with in memory and not a thing to eat in it.

Stop thinking about food! he ordered his brain.

To occupy his thoughts, he strolled around the windowless areas of the store examining the merchandise again. A shiver ran down his spine as he walked past one sword after another - all long, shining and very noticeably sharp. The echo of his latest nightmare pushed him farther into the store and away from the awestriking variety of blades.

As he wandered around, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the glittering mask in the center display case. He was sure it was solid gold. And though he could only guess at its intrinsic worth, he had no doubt its true value far exceeded any monetary figure. More than money, he was drawn to its timeless beauty. He was keenly aware that the mask must have been significant in the past to some sort of foreign culture but his own lacking education left him clueless as to what it might have been.

A sudden fiery pain from his stomach cut off the thought and told him the water trick wasn't going to work anymore. He clutched his middle uselessly as he waited for the feeling to pass. Morning was too far off, he decided, for a shopping trip. He went for his clothes.

*******

"Stop that kid!"

Richie was far enough away that the shout was little more than a scare tactic as he ran down one alley and zigged into another.

Damn! he thought. I must be slipping! How could I let that clerk sneak up on me?

He slowed down, leaned against a building and sank down on his haunches. From his jacket pocket he retrieved the one thing his brief shoplifting trip had brought him.

Tearing the wrapper from the candy bar, he bit into it ravenously, forcing himself to chew slowly. He probably shouldn't take the chance again tonight, he was shaking too badly and, if the cops had been called, they'd be looking for him.

He kicked himself again mentally. He'd been sloppy and he knew it. Now what was he going to do? He'd never been graceful enough to be a pickpocket. Besides, the easiest marks were the ones that needed the money almost as much as he did.

Getting up, he crumpled the empty wrapper, angrily hurling it down the alley. With no other destination available, he made his way back to the antique store.

Sleep came finally but fitfully so that when he awoke, sunlight from the small ceiling-high window beating his face, he felt less rested than when he had lain down. The long-haired man had visited him in every dream, sometimes catching him in the supermarket, sometimes stalking him through his old neighborhood, occasionally becoming one of his foster parents. But always with the same outcome -- a sword slicing toward his neck.

After a long shower and a breakfast of three glasses of water, he decided he had to risk hocking something in the shop. Some small thing, he decided. Maybe he could dirty it up, make it look less obvious. All he really needed for now was enough to get a couple of decent meals.

He moved through the shop eyeing each piece. It felt strange not to have ransacking on his mind. But he had to be careful. Too many arrests and, juvenile or not, he'd be keeping company with some prison goons who might find him as attractive as he found the girls in his neighborhood.

Something small and simple, he reminded himself, opening a curio cabinet filled with little pieces. He picked up an odd little box-like knickknack and opened it. He grinned lewdly at the picture on the inside of the lid, snapped it shut again and pocketed it. Then he noticed a drawer in the bottom of the cabinet for the first time.

Oh, man! he thought, I am slipping! He pulled it open. In plain sight was a metal cash box. His hands shook slightly as he tipped up the lid and saw a stack of bills that set his mouth watering. He scooped them up without bothering to count, jamming the whole pile into an empty pocket.

Locating his jacket, he headed for the door, a thick steak with all the trimmings on his mind. The car pulling into the alley barely registered until he heard a man's voice saying, "1'l1 put the bags in the kitchen," and footsteps approaching from the other side of the door.

He whirled around. No time to get out the other way! He raced for the closest available hiding place - the bathroom - and shut himself in just as he heard them enter the shop.

Unsuccessfully he tried to control his breathing, collapsing on the floor, his back against the door. He listened intently, desperate to pick up any fragment of conversation. The voices had dropped out almost as soon as whoever it was had entered the store. That wasn't a good sign, but it wasn't everything.

He strained to hear any sound.

The doorknob turned. He scrambled to get up, but the force behind him pushed faster. Nearly flying across the floor, his head connected with the wall ... and he heard nothing more for a long time.

"Should I call the police or a doctor?" a woman's heavily accented voice asked.

"Neither for now. Anything else missing?" The man had an accent too. but not so thick.

"Not that I noticed. Are you sure he's not hurt?"

"If his head were any harder, he would've gone through that wall. He'll be fine."

The boy's nerves finally cam e to and with them a splitting headache. He groaned involuntarily.

"See?"

Richie's eyes fluttered open and he was immediately sorry they had. The lights weren't bright, but they still stabbed at his brain. He squeezed his eyes with the fingers of one hand as the image of the long haired man floated before him again. A strong hand gripped his wrist and moved his arm firmly aside.

Open them again," the man ordered releasing his hold.

He did so squinting a little.

"All the way."

He obeyed. Squinting wasn't changing the pain in his head or the face bending over him.

"Look up."

It hurt like hell, but he did.

"To the left, the right. Now down. Look over here." He held up a finger at the very edge of the boy's left vision. "Follow it." The finger moved steadily to the right until it passed out of sight. Then he held up his hand. "How many fingers?"

There were three, but he held his answer.

"Come on. I'm not gonna hurt you. Now how many?"

Thinking it over, he finally rasped, "Three."

"How's your head?" The man sat back on his haunches.

Shifting carefully to a sitting position, Richie looked around for signs of anyone else. Just the man and that woman -- he remembered her from the night he broke in to rob the place. Both seemed pretty relaxed.

He bolted from the floor intent on escape, barely passing through the doorway before the man grabbed a leg and wrestled him to the ground.

He let out a cry of pain as the back of his head smacked the floor, but he didn't pass out this time.

"Now, look," the man said sternly, pinning the boy down. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is it gonna be?"

Breathlessly, the boy snapped out, "What's the hard way - chopping off my head?"

"If I wanted your head, it would already be gone."

"Duncan," the woman interjected, "why don't you just let him go?"

"You know why," the man told her. "Check the rest of the store while I tend to our 'guest' here." He smiled enigmatically down at the helpless boy.

Something in that smile chilled his captive. There were worse things than dying, he realized. Worse things than winding up as a reluctant love-mate in prison. He suddenly wanted very badly for the police to find him.

"Look, mister," he babbled. "I swear I didn't take anything. Just let me go and you'll never see me again. Okay?"

The smile remained as the man held up the wad of money.

*Oh, shit!* He'd forgotten all about that in the excitement. His mouth worked but nothing else did.

"Uh, huh. Get up!" Duncan stood, lifting the boy by the shirt and depositing him into a plush chair.

The dark man stood over him ominously. Even without the sword he was intimidating.

"You're name's Ryan, right?"

"What do I get if it is?" He didn't feel an ounce of the cockiness he was trying to exude.

The man leaned in. "We're going to have to teach you some manners."

"Duncan." The woman returned, concern on her face as she stood by the door.

"What's missing?" He didn't move as he asked the question.

"It's not that. Come here."

The man glanced backward, then gave the boy a stony look. "You don't move, right?"

A smart-ass reply was ready to be tossed out, but the attitude in front of him was a harsher warning than any beating he'd known in his life. He sat very still and tried to look vaguely cooperative.

Duncan kept one eye trained on the boy as he joined the woman by the door. A few barely audible sentences were exchanged. He didn't have to hear them to figure out his bedroom had been discovered.

Serves me right! he berated himself. The whole idea had been crazy from the start.

The man was moving back to him. Now what?

"Like the accommodations?"

Hiking himself up, he stared unblinking, tensing for another opportunity to make a run for it. He was less than subtle and he no longer cared.

"I wouldn't try it if I were you."

"What the hell do you want?! If you're gonna have me arrested, call the cops!"

"I think we had that conversation once before." He planted himself directly in front of the boy, blocking any escape attempt. "I want to know what you're doing here again. How long have you been living in that storeroom?"

"Who? Me? I'm the original owner, didn't you know? Been living in the walls for years."

Duncan hauled the boy to his feet grasping him by the shoulders. The power in those hands was terrifying.

"Why are-you-here?"

The fear took over as the grip lifted him to tiptoe. There was no thought of struggle anymore. "I got kicked out of my place! I was behind on the rent --"

"So you made yourself at home here?"

"I saw the sign in the window --"

"It said 'closed,' not 'welcome!"'

"I'm sorry! All right? Let me down!" Richie twisted a bit in the iron grip.

"Duncan! Let him go. He didn't take anything else." The woman sounded more impatient than frightened. Duncan responded by depositing his captive back in the chair.

The boy spoke wearily and breathlessly, rubbing his bruised shoulders. "Just let me go, okay? You'll never see me again, I swear."

At that his stomach erupted. He doubled over, biting a lip to stifle the groan.

"What's the matter?" the woman asked. He almost thought the question was more than curiosity.

"Nothing," he said tightly.

"Are you sick?" Duncan asked, his tone indecipherable.

"No - I just wanna leave, okay?"

The man got a faraway look in his eyes, as if pulling out some long-ago stored memory.

"How long has it been since you ate?"

Richie didn't answer. He was tom between sarcasm and truth. And his stomach, busily trying to digest itself, was sending out another noisy pain. He curled himself tighter into a ball and rode it out silently.

"Tessa --"

"I'll wait here," she answered. "Go on."

"I don't think he'd get far, but watch him." Duncan left.

Despite the warning, Tessa vanished for a minute and returned with a glass of water. She moved cautiously to the boy's side. "Here. Do you think you can drink this?"

He nearly laughed, but caught himself at the honest concern in her eyes. Taking the glass, he gulped the contents. At least it cooled down the fire a little.

"Thanks," he said after a minute. It didn't help much, but she had meant well.

"What's your name?" She stooped down next to

"Richie," he told her without a pause. "Richie Ryan."

"I'm Tessa Noel, Richie. I would say pleased to meet you, but under the circumstances..."

He did laugh then and so did she. She had a friendly laugh, he noticed. But experience told him something wasn't right with the situation and he grew suspicious again. His face went hard. "What is this? 'Good-guy, bad-guy?'"

"What?"

"Your boyfriend with the sword strikes out, so you take over like Mother Teresa. Well, forget it, lady! I'm not buying!" He gritted his teeth again as the water wore off.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tessa spoke firmly, but without anger.

Her calm only fueled his hostility. "Go to hell!" He was seized by another hot wave of pain.

"You're only making yourself worse!" Tessa insisted. "I'm trying to help you." She laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear. "Breathe deeply."

His breaths were short and shallow and he made no attempt to obey her.

"Listen to me," she said insistently. "Take a deep breath."

He turned to glare at her, full of anger and suspicion. But unexpectedly, in her eyes, he saw only concern. It confused him and contradicted everything he'd ever learned about the world. She shouldn't be trying to help him. There was no explanation for her concern in his experience. The pangs from his stomach wouldn't let him think and finally, pain and puzzlement took over.

"Again," she said as he released the first breath. He relaxed marginally.

"Again."

A smell nagged at him, but he was so intent on her voice by then that it was only another shadow in the background.

"Again." Tessa put a hand over his eyes. He flinched at her touch. "Shh, again."

Her other hand ran through his hair. He had the momentary ludicrous thought that he was glad he'd showered that morning.

"Again."

He lost track of time. Her touch was reminding him of something he couldn't completely grasp. It was soothing in a way he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember. He started to drift into sleep.

"Tessa." The deep voice should have startled him. It didn't, but it pulled him back from the brink. He turned his head, the movement disturbing the cool hand on his face.

Tessa's eyes met his for a few moments and he realized he was no longer in pain. He opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

"Feeling better?" she asked quietly, a smile on her lips.

He nodded. "Yeah, uh ..."

"It's all right. Come with me."

She stood and held out a hand.

Duncan was waiting in the doorway.

Richie had nearly forgotten the man had spoken, and the smell of cooking that had been so dampened before made him dizzy now. He took Tessa's hand feeling disconcertedly like a small child and stood beside her.

Duncan smiled at the woman and they exchanged a private glance as she led Richie to the kitchen.

His mouth started watering before he was halfway there. But he held back his excitement reminding himself that this could all be a trick. The moment reminded him of a story he'd read when he was younger about a rich man who offered to feed a beggar but only pretended to serve food. He began to relate to that beggar intentionally, just in case. For all he knew, these people were going to make him watch while they sat down to a ten-course meal. He couldn't imagine the willowy woman eating that much, but you never knew.

Richie's eyes widened at the sight of the table. It certainly wasn't a ten-course meal. It wasn't even a minor feast, but it was more food than he'd seen in a long time. More confusing than anything else were the three place settings. He still wasn't counting his chickens. He waited by the door where Tessa had let go of his hand.

She looked up at the boy, started to rise then seemed to change her mind. "Duncan."

The man turned to her, she nodded at Richie still standing - trembling actually - in the doorway, and smiled.

An unspoken dialogue passed between them. Richie became instantly aware of the strong bond these two shared. He suddenly felt lonelier than he ever had in his young life.

Duncan smiled at her and rose.

Richie stepped backward as the big man approached.

"Come on," he said. "Sit down. After all, you are the guest of honor."

The teasing tone furthered Richie's disorientation. "Why?" he asked, his voice husky.

"Because you're hungry." The voice softened. "Sit down and eat."

*******

The meal was so civilized it completely perplexed the boy. After some gut-twisting swallows while his stomach got used to the idea of having something besides water to play with, there was a long silence punctuated by spoons hitting bowls full of potato soup and some slurping -- from one chair only.

Out of the blue came a casual question from Tessa asking where he was from. He answered, then filled his mouth immediately in a futile attempt to discourage further inquiry.

More conversational questions followed -- more from Tessa than from Duncan. He answered most noncommittally and briefly. One or two hit close to home. He danced around those ("Where are your parents, Richie?") not very subtly, and the subjects would wander to safer territory again.

Where all this was leading, he had no idea, but for the time being, no one was calling the cops, looming over him, or waving swords. He began to feel uncomfortably comfortable.

He reached stuffed far too soon and tried unsuccessfully to look as though he was just giving his mouth a rest. Whatever was to follow dinner he still felt a cold dread of. Giving the condemned man a last meal slid through his thoughts.

"I'll do the dishes," Tessa said clearing the plates away.

As the table emptied, Richie tried to recapture some of his cocky front. "So now what? The cops or the door?"

Duncan raised his eyebrows, his mouth an unreadable smile. "Will you excuse us?" he said to Tessa, who nodded.

"Now," he said rising, and clapping his hand on Richie's shoulder to grip the fabric. "Now the talk." He pulled the boy to his feet and gave him a not ungentle shove through the door to the shop.

Richie skirted the sharp display he found himself standing near. He felt dangerously close to those swords. He backed away from the dark man, hands raised palms out. His voice took on a frustrating quiver. "Now, look --!"

"Will you calm down?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!" Annoyance and nerves gave him an odd sort of boldness. "I'm caught red-handed twice by the same guy. This same guy is real handy with a sword. I see this guy chop off an other guy's head! And now I'm standing in a room full of swords with this guy! Excuse me if I'm a little edgy!

"Did you enjoy your dinner?"

"What?"

"Sit down. I want to talk with you. I think I've earned that much."

Sullenly, Richie complied, choosing a chair as far away from the swords as possible to plop rebelliously into. "So talk."

"Tell me what you saw on the bridge."

"Oh, come on --"

"Describe it."

The boy sighed petulantly, but the truth was he had been dying to tell anyone this story. Anyone, that is, who wouldn't send him for a fitting in a straitjacket.

"I don't know" he began. "That guy with the mask was on the bridge -"

"How did you get there?"

"Huh? Oh, I stowed away in Sir Lancelot's trunk."

"Lancelot?"

"Yeah, your friend."

Duncan smiled. "Connor."

"If that's his name. Anyway, the guy in the mask seemed pretty pissed you weren't there..."

The language of the tale was both colorful and repetitive, but there was an underlying passion in the boy's words that reflected in his face. Duncan asked questions along the way but mostly permitted the boy to be a storyteller.

Being there as a participant, one would think, was nothing compared to observing.

"... and man, when you jumped in that river, I thought you were done! I couldn't believe it when you crawled out dragging that other guy -- what was it, Connor? -- along with you! I thought he was dead after that ugly dude shot him in the chest! " He shook his head in disbelief. "Are you gonna explain that to me?"

Duncan smiled. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

- The boy leaned back and rested his head on a curled hand. "I might sleep better," he said, almost to himself.

"You might sleep better if you were in your own home." The brooding face became unreadable again.

Richie didn't respond. His latest home was locked against him and he didn't feel up to either a flip or angry reply. The events of the day had left him drained and retelling the bridge story had used up all his reserves. He wished the guy would either call the cops or kick him out. All he really wanted - now that he'd finally eaten - was to sleep for a few days.

He snapped his eyes open, surprised to find they had closed and hiked himself up straight in the chair. He was more startled to find Duncan gone. He was alone in the store.

Clinking sounds came from the kitchen. He knew he should head for the door and split but the homeyness of the noises drew him there instead.

Tessa looked up from the sink at his steps. "Did you have a nice nap?" she said teasingly.

He smiled a bit. "How long was I out?"

"About a half an hour."

That explained the stiffness in his neck. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's still here. Have a seat."

He yawned widely as he did. What was going on in this place? His drastic change of status from captive to guest had his head spinning. His instincts told him to get out while he still could, but a deeper voice wouldn't let him leave. It was the same one that had led him to the antique store to begin with so long ago. His life, it seemed, was no longer in his control. Had it ever been?

"Don't you know it's rude to fall asleep on your host?"

Richie nearly tipped his chair over at the sound of Duncan's voice. He hadn't heard anything to warn him of the other's approach.

He watched warily as the man circled the table and sat down on the opposite side.

"What do you want with me?" he asked after a long silence.

Duncan smiled. "Why did you come here?"

"To steal! What do you think?!"

"Try again."

He was exhausted, his head ached where he'd hit it, his stomach still tender from the water diet and his mind numb. Richie gave in. "I don't know. I just started walking one day and ended up here. I saw all the stuff from the street. I needed cash before I got thrown out of my place and I figured anyone who could afford to buy all of this could afford to lose a little too."

"Why did you come back?"

"After what I saw? Like I had a choice?"

"What did you see?"

"Not again --"

"Again."

He laid his head on the table.

"Duncan," the woman said. "Isn't it enough for one day?"

"Tess --"

"No," Richie interrupted, lifting his head. "If it'll get me outa here ..." He inhaled deeply and rubbed his eyes as he began. It was actually a relief to talk about it. He said little about his first sight of the long-haired man It still chilled him as badly as the nightmares had and he was afraid his voice would betray him. The story was shorter this time as he hadn't stayed long enough to see much and he was less animated than before, his energy spent and his spirit weakened. He just wanted to finish this strange game and find a place to sleep undisturbed. He looked up after he told about finding the two men practicing in the abandoned warehouse and was silent.

Richie waited as Duncan sat pensively. He propped his chin up and fought with his eyelids to stay awake. The sound of the other chair scraping the floor jolted his eyes open.

"Come with me." The man stood.

He should have asked where or argued or just plain refused. Instead he followed the dark man obediently, not paying the slightest attention to destination or direction, keeping his eyes on Duncan's feet. He looked up only after they passed through a door, and the man stopped and turned around.

They were standing in the smaller bedroom, the one Richie had avoided only because of the large window that would have made his presence more easily detectable.

Duncan took the only chair. "Have a seat," he said indicating the bed.

Instinct fought with exhaustion and lost. Richie sat.

The mattress was unbelievably comfortable even without lying down. He forced himself to stay upright.

"Are you still curious?"

Richie puzzled for a few moments. "Huh?"

"Do you still want that explanation?" The man seemed oblivious to the boy's fatigue.

"Mister, all I want right now is this to be over. If you're not letting me go, then call the cops and have me arrested. Either way, I swear to God you'll never see me again!"

"I don't think so."

Something in that tone released a significant amount of adrenaline into Richie's system. "W-what do you mean?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

The boy started as he recognized the words.

"I was born four hundred years ago in the highlands of Scotland ..."

Richie sat perfectly still, afraid to move, unsure if he was in the middle of another nightmare or if this MacLeod was completely nuts. He spoke of immortality and beheadings; of mortal wounds that healed in minutes; of the Gathering.

... there can be only one."

The boy said nothing, only stared at the man who was burning a hole with his eyes in the opposite wall. The silence was finally broken when MacLeod turned to Richie.

"Get some sleep," he said flatly, then stood and left.

For some time, Richie continued to stare at the spot MacLeod had been occupying until his depleted body gained a will of its own. Richie barely noticed when he curled up and fell asleep.

*******

The enticing aroma of eggs, toast and coffee was the next thing he became aware of. He opened his eyes slowly, the morning light from the window just missing the bed and his face. Faraway voices registered and the realization that he was not sleeping in the storeroom.

So the events of the previous day hadn't been the product of his mischievous brain. He debated escaping out the window, but remembered the security bars and weighed his other options ... try to sneak out the front door, stay put, or see if any of those eggs had his name on them. He was more than a little startled at how easily the third choice came to mind. Even more surprising was that it seemed the natural thing to do. That alone made him stay where he was and consider the bedtime story MacLeod had entertained him with.

He lay motionless, still pondering. Was this guy for real? If he wasn't, what had happened on the bridge? And what question did that place on his own sanity? If MacLeod was telling the truth, then Richie was most certainly sane and the rest of the world was passing the days oblivious to the game being played around them by these headhunters posing as normal people.

Visions of psycho wards danced before his eyes. He decided to check out those eggs.

Disappointment was his initial reaction as he stood in the kitchen doorway. The table was nearly clear and Tessa was absent. He had felt a little more comfortable (or at least safer) around her, and seeing MacLeod alone first thing in the morning made him uneasy.

The man was standing at the sink, his back to the door. Richie started to leave, intent on returning to the bedroom.

"Sleep well?"

He stopped and stared. MacLeod hadn't moved.

"There are still some eggs, if you want them." He turned his head then, a bemused smile on his face.

Richie glanced towards the table and noticed a covered dish at his chair. He sat, keeping his eyes on MacLeod.

"Come to the office when you've finished. I'm sure you know where it is." He left without another word.

Richie watched as the man walked away, then stared out the doorway for a few more seconds before uncovering the dish and digging into its contents. He refrained from thinking about what had just happened or speculating on what might go on in the office. He only wondered why he was sitting in this pleasant room eating this homey meal, preparing to meet with a man who carried a sword and beheaded other people - no, not people, Immortals - in his spare time.

In the refrigerator he found some orange juice and poured himself a glass at the table feeling like he had dropped into "Leave it to Beaver in the Twilight Zone."

There was a door to the outside not ten feet from him. His head told him now was the time to split. He chugged the juice, refilled the glass, put the pitcher away and sat down again to finish his eggs.

There was a moment's hesitation as he neared the marble-walled office. His instincts had given up on him. Even a decent night's sleep devoid of nightmares hadn't helped him to see reason. He entered the room resignedly with a fleeting mind-picture of the man fulfilling his nightmare's prophecy. Instead, MacLeod was seated anticlimactically and businessman-like behind the desk, assorted papers spread out in front of him.

"It's about time," MacLeod said matter-of-factly. "I want to show you how to --"

"What the hell's goin' on here?!!" Richie's nerves finally gave out completely. All the frustrations from his confusion, fear, and anger were culminating into an emotional blast. "What are you doing to me?!!"

MacLeod answered passively. "Trying to teach you how to write up these invoices."

"Why? I broke into your store - twice! I'm a thief and a trespasser! I don't belong here!"

"Then why don't you leave?"

He hadn't been prepared for that. The boy stood helplessly, at a complete loss.

"Otherwise," MacLeod continued, "pull up a chair and maybe you'll learn something more useful than breaking into stores or picking locks."

Richie was closer to tears than he could ever remember.

"Why?" he finally rasped. He wasn't asking about the invoices, but couldn't manage anything mote.

MacLeod laid down the papers in his hand. He looked at the desk thoughtfully, then turned a steady gaze into Richie's eyes.

"I have entrusted you with an important secret. The reasons for telling you are my own. All you need to know I've already said. But do you think I would have told you if I didn't believe you could keep that secret, if you weren't worth trusting?"

The boy didn't move, barely breathed. He didn't trust himself most of the time. He couldn't understand why this stranger would do so or would even want to.

"Tessa and I talked it over," Duncan continued. "You can stay in the spare bedroom. But you'll earn your keep around here. After room and board you'll have a salary ..."

The rest of the speech was lost on the boy. He stared dully, not yet understanding, the new situation only slowly sinking in. A real job? A place to live? And what would that mean ... living and working fulltime with someone who could separate your head from your neck in a cold instant. Someone who cared if a thief was hungry and tired. There was not a single reason why Duncan should make such an offer to that thief.

There were a thousand reasons why the thief should turn around and walk out the door.

"Are you ready to leave or learn?" MacLeod asked in conclusion.

Richie glanced backward -- it felt like a farewell gesture, but not to MacLeod.

He picked up a chair, set it down next to the man facing out, and straddled it as he sat, arms folded across the back. A forgotten lump in his pocket pressed itself against the top of his leg.

"Hang on a minute," he said, interrupting Duncan's explanation of the invoicing system.

He sprang from the chair and ran to the curio cabinet. Opening the door, he pulled the little box from his pocket and carefully replaced it on the shelf.

"Okay." He pointedly ignored the satisfied expression on Duncan's face as he returned to his seat to begin the lesson.

The End
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