Five minutes later they were settled at the table, and fresh coffee was brewing. That was for Connor and Brenda. Despite the early hour, Adams had expressed a preference for beer.

"As to why I'm here," he said regretfully, "I hated to burst your bubble. But I didn't want you to learn the truth the hard way--when someone came for your head, and you'd stashed your sword in the attic."

Brenda, who was in some ways handling the shock better than Connor, murmured a heartfelt "Thank you."

"I still can't understand it," Connor fretted. "I know you're telling the truth. But I hadn't sensed any Immortals--beyond the ones I thought were the final few--in a long, long time. And I was living in New York, for God's sake."

Adams rolled his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the flight to the suburbs?" Warming to his topic, he continued, "Let me guess. Your antique shop was in an old section of town, so old the street was still cobbled. Am I right? And you lived over the shop, in classic European style. Hardly ever went anywhere. Right?"

"Y-yes," Connor admitted sheepishly.

"That explains it. If you'd been riding the subways, or driving on the Long Island Expressway, another Immortal would have given you the finger--if not a challenge--just about every day."

While Brenda was pouring coffee, Adams went on to say more seriously, "You do have quite a reputation as a swordsman. Some of them may have given you a wide berth because they didn�t want to tangle with you."

"I suppose you're right," Connor conceded. "But I felt different after I killed the Kurgan! I was mortal, I was sure of it..."

That was something I wanted.

And I never did make the simple test of cutting myself, to see how rapidly I'd heal.

He shook his head in bemusement. But then he persisted, "I had gained the power to read minds..."

When he saw Adams' face, he realized how stupid that sounded. He hadn't been able to read Adams' mind-- and still couldn't.

Instead of pointing that out, his new acquaintance said kindly, "We all have empathic abilities, to some degree. Didn't your teacher explain that?"

"Y-yes." He recalled the thrill of learning to feel, to be, that stag. Why had he never tried to develop the ability in later years? He'd let himself be distracted by too many mundane things.

Adams continued gently, "When you thought the Game was over, and you were finally free, you were able to relax and let yourself feel things you normally couldn't. You'd always had the power--but you had pressure as well. We all do. I envy you having been able to imagine, even briefly, that it was gone.

"There was another factor at work, too. The Kurgan must have taken thousands of Quickenings over the years, and they'd all been passed on to you at once. A heady experience."

Even as Connor and Brenda smiled at the pun, Adams frowned. "But here's what I can't understand. When you thought you'd become the last Immortal, did you simply forget your kinsman Duncan? Your first student?"

"Forget Duncan?" Connor was appalled. "Never! We were planning to name our first son for him--" He broke off as a wild hope formed in his mind. "B-but Duncan's dead. Isn't he?" "Of course not. Where did you hear that?"

Now Connor was shaking like a leaf. If Duncan's alive, it's all worth it. Worth not having children, not growing old with Brenda. Worth having the Game go on forever.

But could he trust this Benjamin Adams? An Enemy had stalked him through the centuries, murdering people he cared for--beginning, fortunately, *after* Heather had died of old age. He'd believed for years that his foe was the Kurgan. But the man had never admitted it, and Connor had never been able to come up with a motive. If Immortals still existed, that Enemy might still live...might be Adams. Building up his hopes, just to let him down hard.

Adams was waiting for an answer. So he said, "H-he disappeared from Montreal a year ago. I thought the Kurgan had killed him."

"Duncan MacLeod didn't disappear. He and the woman he's living with just relocated. Moved out west--to Seacouver."

Could that be true? Connor hadn't kept in close touch with Duncan after learning he'd set up housekeeping with a mortal. None of Duncan's Immortal friends had; their kind always backed off in those circumstances. It was one thing for a woman to know the truth about her lover, quite another to adjust to a stream of centuries- old friends with whom she had nothing in common.

But if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit more was involved. I've always tried to keep Duncan at arm's length, so that mystery Enemy wouldn't realize how much he meant to me.

And it wasn't hard to do. Duncan wanted to keep his distance from me, too, because I reminded him of the shameful secret in his past. What he did to Kate Devaney.

"We weren't as close as we could have been," he said slowly. "But even so, I'm sure he wouldn't have moved to Seacouver without letting me know."

"Without trying to let you know," Adams corrected. "Suppose he phoned a couple times, and couldn't catch you in. He would have written, right? He is an antique shop operator, same as you. Maybe a clerk in your shop saw a note from him, and thought it was just one antique dealer routinely notifying another of a relocation. Filed it with business correspondence--and you never saw it."

"Of course," Connor breathed. "Rachel!"

***

Not just a clerk, Rachel Ellenstein had been his assistant manager--and in every sense that mattered, his daughter.

At least, that was how he'd perceived their relationship. He was keen enough to know that as an adult, Rachel had fallen in love with him. But that could never be: for him, if not for her, it would have been incest.

It was partly--but only partly--because of that painful situation that he'd decided the time had come for "Russell Nash" to drop out of sight. Now the New York antique shop was Rachel's.

Rachel had always known his original name was Connor MacLeod. But he'd never used it during their years together; she thought of him as Russell Nash. On top of that, she knew the origin of Immortals was shrouded in mystery, and no two could be sure they were related by blood. He'd deliberately kept her and Duncan unaware of each other's existence, to shield both of them from the Enemy.

So the name "Duncan MacLeod" in a communication from another antique dealer wouldn't have rung any bells. A wave of relief washed over him as, all at once, he knew Adams' suggestion was the truth.

But an instant later, he remembered that the Enemy might also be alive. "My God. I know you're right, and I'll get in touch with Duncan. But I'll also have to let Rachel know I'm still Immortal, and there are others out there."

Brenda said, "Do you have any reason to think she'll be in danger?" At the same time, Adams was asking, "Who's Rachel?"

Connor�s gut instinct--or another surge of empathic knowledge--told him Adams was not the Enemy. But a long habit of secretiveness impelled him to keep that particular problem to himself.

So he explained to Adams, "Rachel Ellenstein was a World War II war orphan, a mortal. I rescued her over in the Netherlands, and raised her as my own." Looking deep into his heart, he said softly, "I love her, in a different way, as much as I do Brenda and Duncan. The three of them make my life worth living.

"Rachel was assistant manager of the antique shop--it's hers now--and yes, she could have misfiled a message from Duncan."

Before Adams could question that, he rushed on. "I don't think it's likely she'll be in any danger. Not after my running into so few Immortals in recent years. But if there's a chance some loony with a sword will come looking for me, she should be aware of it."

He knew even Brenda would think it strange that Rachel hadn't known about Duncan. So he tried to change the subject by offering Adams another beer and inviting him to stay for lunch, if not longer. The other Immortal's spending that much time with them could lead to more awkward questions. But considering what he owed the man, he had no choice.

Adams surprised him. He stretched his lanky frame and said, "Actually, I should get back to the village. I'm not comfortable away from my better half." Then, with a smile for Brenda, he explained. "No, not a woman. My sword."

Connor made a quick decision. "I can't let you walk all the way back there, unarmed. We'll drive you--as soon as I've made a quick call to Rachel."

***

Fifteen minutes later the two men were in Connor's small car, bumping along a hilly country road whose best feature was its quaintness. Brenda had opted not to come. She'd whispered to Connor that she wanted their guest to feel free to sit in front with him. But he wondered, sadly, if she'd really imagined they had some kind of "Immortal business" to discuss--or if she'd craved privacy to have a good cry.

Conversation was spotty. Connor pretended he had to give full attention to his driving; to his relief, Adams seemed to accept that. In reality, he still feared being quizzed about his failure to mention Duncan to a grown woman he viewed as a daughter.

But when they reached the village, and he was about to drop his passenger off at its dumpy little inn, he was struck by a realization. "Wait a minute! You never told me how you knew about me. Knew that I thought I'd won the Prize, or even that I existed."

The expression on Adams' face told him that had been no oversight.

Damn. The whole time I was hoping he'd forget to pursue something, he was hoping I would.

Adams recovered quickly. "It was easy to see you thought you'd won the Prize," he said with a faint smile. "Your whole life changed. It wasn't just that you dropped the Russell Nash identity and eloped with Brenda Wyatt. You began dressing differently, wearing clothes that couldn't conceal a sword. You altered your daily routine--stopped setting aside time to work out. And you seemed more *relaxed* than any of us can ever be. No one observing you could have missed it."

"But why was anyone 'observing' me?" Connor exploded.

Unlikely as it seemed, he was sure Adams glanced down for a moment at the inside of his left wrist. Where, as Connor had already noticed, his sleeve only partly concealed an odd-looking tattoo.

Then he seemed to reach a decision. He looked up and said smoothly, "I've been keeping an eye on you for some time--for Duncan's sake. I have a special interest in him."

Connor felt a faint stirring of alarm. Was I wrong about Adams? Is the sword in his car Duncan's katana, taken from his dead body?

Aloud, he said uneasily, "That's right, you never told me how you met Duncan. Does he know you as Benjamin Adams, or by some other alias?"

"Actually, he doesn't know me at all." The enigmatic smile was in place again. "I'm sure he doesn't remember our meeting."

"Our kind have very good memories," Connor said stiffly.

"Not that good," Adams replied with a chuckle. "I happened to be in the Highlands toward the close of the sixteenth century. And I saw that student of yours when he was an infant. Actually held him."

Connor gasped in shock. "An infant? And you knew he was a pre-Immortal?"

"Oh, yes. By far the youngest I've ever seen or sensed." Adams turned his head away, but for a moment, Connor could have sworn his eyes were misty.

"A beautiful baby," he continued. "I could never put that memory out of my mind. Hated to think of any harm befalling him. I've never interfered in his life, but I have snooped from time to time. Just to make sure he was still thriving."

"And he is?"

"Yes. I think he's the happiest he's ever been, with this Tessa Noel. And he'll be still happier when he hears from you."

Adams was already out of the car when Connor thought of another stunning possibility. "Wait! You said he was an infant. D-do you know anything about his origin? His true parentage?"

The older Immortal looked back. He was serious now, and Connor fancied he saw a wistful, almost haunted look in his hazel eyes. "Sorry," he said. "When I saw him, he was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Then he turned and strode away.

Leaving Connor to wonder, for the rest of his days, if he'd really heard a slight emphasis on the word saw-- and if so, what it meant.

(The End)