Conner, through the red mist before his eyes, saw Angus running towards him. In his eagerness to get there, Angus bowled over a Fraser who had stepped in his way, but he did not pause or falter. Instead, he shouted, ‘No.. .’
Dugal, too, on hearing Angus, looked up and on seeing his younger cousin wounded, with another blow about to fall, joined Angus in the race to reach Conner. The warrior looked down at Conner. His voice was harsh and uncompromising as he said, ‘There can be only one.’
Conner saw the sword go up and knew that he was about to be beheaded. He wanted to move but a lethargy brought on by his wound kept him slumped in the same position. The blade began to descend. At that moment, Dugal, the fleeter of the two cousins, crashed into the warrior, sending him sprawling on the marshland. There was a third flash of lightning as the big man leapt back onto his feet, but by this time the MacLeods were carrying Conner away, across the battlefield and out of danger.
‘Another time MacLeod,’ shouted the warrior, after them.
That evening the sun sank below the mountains overlooking Loch Shiel with the bodies of many dead, still uncollected by their kinsmen, decorating the marshes with their gory remains. It was a dark red sunset, befitting the colour of the turf. A wildcat was stepping daintily between the corpses, pausing now and then to sniff at a congealed wound. As darkness fell, the creature reached the place where the Kurgan had stood, sniffed, stiffened, and then hurried on, into the night.
Chapter 5
CONNER MACLEOD REACHED his Porsche. The lights were still blazing and engine running. He jumped inside and put the car into gear, before tearing towards the exit to the garage.
Broken glass from shattered windscreens crunched under the tyres as he sped past the L junction. He hit the exit ramp at about forty miles per hour and the lights of the city were before him. Just as he reached the head of the ramp a police car arrived and swung its hood in his path. He was blocked. He sat in the car and waited as other police vehicles began to screech to a halt behind the first one, their sirens still wailing. Out on the street, the New York traffic flowed past as if nothing were happening.
A lean-looking cop climbed out of the vehicle that barred MacLeod’s exit. One arm was hanging loosely by his side, while the other had a thumb hooked in his belt by his pistol. He stood by his own vehicle.
‘Get out of the car,’ he shouted.
MacLeod stared at him. He wondered whether to try ramming the police vehicle out of the way and making a run for it, but decided against it. There were too many of them. He would have to bluff it out.
‘Get out of the goddamn car,’ shouted the officer again. This time his hand was on his gun butt and he had taken up an open-legged stance. MacLeod climbed slowly out of the Porsche and stood by it, his hand resting lightly on the roof.
‘Put your hands on the hood!’ The gun was out now and aimed at MacLeod’s chest. The officer was clearly nervous and his partner was half-in, half-out of the police car. He was talking into a mike, but his eyes never left MacLeod’s face.
‘Move. . .’, screamed the lean-faced one.
Several other policemen were beginning to walk towards him now, but cautiously, the way one approaches a dog that has been known to bite. The officer in front of him flicked the gun barrel and licked his lips as if the tension were becoming intolerable to him. Another twitch of the gun barrel.
One of his fellow policemen called out softly, ‘Go carefully. . .’
MacLeod leaned passively against the car, his hands well in view. He made a slight gesture, showing the officer his empty palms. The policeman stopped advancing and took up the classic two-handed stance of someone about to open fire.
‘Watch it freak,’ he said to MacLeod. His voice was taut. ‘Just cool it.’
His partner dropped the mike he was holding, stepped fully out of his vehicle and drew his own weapon.
‘Watch it!’ he cried. ‘Watch him! Watch him!’
MacLeod allowed himself an inner wave of amusement. Surely they wouldn’t gun him down, here on the street? They didn’t know what, if anything, he had done? Maybe that was the trouble. Policemen hated dealing with the unknown. They preferred, like anyone else, situations which had a familiar feel to them. He, MacLeod, was a freak who wouldn’t do what he was told. They wanted him to jump around to commands and he wasn’t prepared to do that. Not yet, anyway.
Frustration was evident on the cop’s face as he cried out. ‘Move - come on. Come on. Come on.’
Repetition. What you can’t obtain by volume of voice, repeat. What if he were a foreigner? Or deaf? Stone deaf? Would they think of that, or simply shoot when he failed to understand what they wanted of him? The situation might have been comic if there weren’t so many bystanders watching, who might get hit.
Another policeman took up a position on the far side of the Porsche, aiming across the roof. MacLeod glanced at him, casually.
The lean-faced one was becoming incensed. ‘Move - come on. Come on.’
He was close enough to MacLeod to touch him now. He reached out a hand and grabbed the Scot by the collar, slamming him against the car. MacLeod let out a grunt. The other took each wrist, one at a time, and smashed his hands down on the roof of the Porsche. He felt his ankles being kicked, viciously.
‘Spread ‘em.’ Once again he ignored the command.
‘Spread them, freak.’ Another kick, this time higher up.
‘Whaddya, deaf?’
So, he’d thought of it at last, but it wasn’t a question. It was meant to be an insult, deaf and stupid being synonymous terms in their language.
‘No, I’m not deaf.’
There were hands going over him now, searching for weapons. The cop was muttering, ‘Come on. Come on,’ as though he were desperately hoping to find something concealed under the raincoat. MacLeod felt glad that he had not brought the Samurai sword with him. He might have had to use it, to protect his ownership of the blade. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt someone outside the group. The policeman leaned heavily against him.
‘Let’s see some ID., pal,’ he said, reaching into MacLeod’s inside pocket. He extracted a wallet and began to rifle through the contents, still keeping a wary eye on MacLeod. The cop’s partner called to him.
‘You okay, Haggerty?’
‘Yeah, just looking at the bozo’s ID.’
Finally he found a piece of paper which told him what he wanted to know.
‘Well, Mr Nash. Where were you going in such a hurry?’
MacLeod ignored him and Haggerty gave him a jolt with his shoulder.
‘Eh?’
The policeman from the far side of the Porsche had moved around now and stood by Officer Haggerty. Haggerty grabbed MacLeod’s arm and snapped a cuff on his wrist. Then spun him round to do the other wrist. MacLeod had had enough of this man, pushing him around as if he were some kind of recalcitrant dog in a school for obedience. He gripped Haggerty by the shirt collar with his free hand and thrust him away.
‘Take it easy,’ he said, softly to the cop.
‘Give me it. Give me it,’ shouted Haggerty, again reaching for the wrist. ‘Give me it.’
MacLeod gripped the man by his lapels and hurled him away. Another policeman stepped forward, his gun pointing. ‘Hey, hey.’
‘Just keep him off my back,’ said MacLeod.
Haggerty came rushing back and pressed his pistol against MacLeod’s temple. The second cuff was clicked on.
‘Don’t move pal- don’t even breathe.’ His partner came up then.
‘Get in the car - no, our car, dummy.’
They bustled him into the black-and-white. Haggerty sat in the back of the vehicle, his gun pressed against MacLeod’s ribs, while his partner drove. The New York lights drifted past them. MacLeod stared at the people loitering outside night clubs and bars, or hurrying homewards, eyes turning neither right nor left. So many people. He had known a time when there were far fewer. Yet even then, it seemed, that there was not enough space
in the world to contain them, since they had been forever fighting over this patch of ground, or that. Maybe it would all stop one day. But not if the Kurgan were the one survivor of the gathering. Not then. . .’
Chapter 6
A LONE PIPER was standing on the ramparts of Glammis castle, filling the evening with the sounds of a lament. Figures were hurrying back and forth along the road past the loch, where the fishing nets, unused that day, were still spread across the rocks. One of these figures was Father Rainey. His face was creased with the worry of a priest who has many problems with his parish. His hands were employed, almost subconsciously, in moving the prayer beads as he walked. His lips were moving, whispering prayers which were carried away by the breeze, into the low hills beyond.
A dog came by, turned and trotted at the priest’s heels, looking up at him as if he were the one to whom the prayers were addressed. When the priest did not look down, the dog stopped, watched for a while, and then continued the journey it had been making before it was interrupted.
The priest continued along the road, heading towards a hut at the far end of the village. A glow from a lamp came from the open door of the hut and as the priest approached a man stepped outside. It was Dugal. He went out to meet the priest.
‘Father Rainey . . .’
‘Is the boy still alive?’ Dugal kicked at the rocky ground.
‘He’s going down fast, Father.’
‘Then I’m in time.’
‘To save him?’ There was surprise in the clansman’s voice. Then he shook his head. ‘No. I see what you mean, Father.’
‘I’m sorry, my son.’
‘I ken. He’s. . . he’s my cousin. I promised Kate I would look after him. And I failed.’
The priest put his arm around the clansman.
‘You did your best. I saw it. That man. . .’
‘Aye. If he was a man. Did you see him? He looked like somethin’ from Hell. He was no a Fraser, that’s certain sure.’
‘Whatever he was, I hope we do not see his like again, Dugal MacLeod,’ said Father Rainey, stepping into the hut. The scene that met his eyes, brought a lump to his throat, though he was used to such sights. Kate was bent over the prostrate form on the reed bed, stroking his brow. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she was clearly fighting back the emotion that welled-up within her, for the sake of the dying man. She looked at Father Rainey’s features, hoping, he supposed, that there would be some sign of strength from him. Kate was not one to rely on miracles. She knew that Conner was slipping away from her and that it was only a matter of time. What she wanted from Father Rainey was not an assurance that her man would live, but something to help her bear that loss.
Father Rainey gently lifted her to her feet and then bent over the bed himself. Conner’s face was the colour of cold wood ash and his breath was coming out in laboured gasps. There was dried sweat on his eyelids and in the corners of his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly, fixed them for a moment on the priest’s face, then closed them again.
‘Rest, my son,’ said the Father.
He began to cross Conner, saying at the same time: ‘In nomine patri, et fili et spiritus sancti.’ He paused, then finished with, ‘Amen.’
Kate made a soft sound behind him and the priest turned to look up at her.
‘It is over. . .’
Kate clutched her skirt, breaking down at last. ‘No. . .’, she wailed, and then began sobbing.
‘I must leave you,’ said the priest. ‘Other men are dying this day.’
Dugal nodded. ‘We understand, Father.’
Angus now stood in the doorway. His great head hung on his breast and he looked like a defeated warrior. The priest put his hand on the man’s shoulder as he passed through the doorway and Angus gripped it for a moment. Father Rainey said, ‘I must attend the others.’ Then he was gone, out into the night.
Angus moved over to the bedside of the fading MacLeod. He listened to the shallow breathing for a moment and then said to Kate, ‘Be quiet.’
She looked at him in astonishment. Angus glared at her.
‘He’s a highlander, by God.’
Seeing that this was not enough, he added, ‘The last sound he hears shall not be that of a wailing woman.’
She stifled her sobs then and fell to weeping quietly. The two men stood, equally as quiet, by the bedside of their cousin. Now that there was silence in the hut, the sound of the pipes from the distant castle could be heard and Conner’s eyes flickered and opened. They held those of Angus for a moment and the clansman nodded. The eyes closed.
Angus moved towards the door, took one last look back and then went outside. He walked down to the loch and sat on one of the boulders to look out over the waters with their starlit ripples. The sound of the pipes found its way into his blood as he sat there, wondering whether it had been worth it - to lose those of his clan, including Conner, for the deaths of a few Frasers. Could they not just have agreed to kill a few of their own men, on both sides? The result was just the same. An exchange of lives. It seemed so foolish now. But he knew it would happen again. It always did. The grievances would build in the hearts of the clan and it would begin again. There seemed to be no way of stopping it. Not without losing pride, and a highlander’s pride was as valuable to him as his. . . aye, as his cousin’s life. Dugal had appeared by his side.
‘Well man?’ he said to Dugal.
‘Hanging on by a faint breath,’ said Dugal, ‘but he’ll no last long. now. He’ll not see the morror, our cousin Conner.’
Angus rose, scratching his beard.’ Shall we away and see the rest of laddies that were wounded? We canna do anything for him now and I doubt he’ll be conscious again.’
‘Aye, as the father said, there are others in the same plight. We’ll need to speak to the widows.’
‘And then, I think, a dram would not be out of order.’
Dugal nodded, briskly. Men were dying but the living needed strength too, to carry on the fight. The two men went back into the village. Their cousin Conner was beyond the aid of priest or physician.
Chapter 7
FORENSIC EXPERT BRENDA Wyatt was a New Yorker, born and bred. Until quite recently, she had lived with her father, the owner of a watch repair business who had viewed the arrival of quartz movements with the same consternation that cavalry generals had felt on the coming of the machine gun. The old man had now retired to Florida to spend his time following up his interest in antique weapons and attempting to trace his ancestry back to the 16th-century English poet whose name he shared.
Brenda’s apartment had only just reached a state of order and when the call came through to her, late, that there had been a murder at Madison Square Garden, she had trouble in finding what she called her ‘working clothes.’ Once she was suitably dressed she took a cab across town, but her mood was one of irritation. While the guys at the precinct appreciated her looks, they tended to be a little off-hand about her position as their forensic expert and she found her attractiveness more of a hindrance than a benefit. She was determined to educate them into a more professional regard for her services.
She paid the cabbie and went down the ramp to the underground garage below the Gardens. At the bottom, she stopped and peered around her with some astonishment. The place looked as though it had been hit by a bomb, with wrecked cars all around. Strangely, they were still neatly parked.
There were people in uniform and civilian clothes milling around like bees in a hive. A young cop she hadn’t seen before, stepped forward, as if to prevent her from going further but her glare told him more than any ID. would have done, and he paused and pretended interest in a wayward hubcap at his feet.
Lieutenant Frank Moran was standing near a pillar rubbing his stomach. His ulcer is bothering him again, thought Brenda. Once an ulcer caught hold of a cop, it was difficult to tear it loose. The life was one of irregular meals and fast foods. She knew he tried to stick to a diet, but the job was against him.
Although she
felt sorry for him, she knew she had to bawl him out, or the same thing would happen next time. She crossed the floor to him.
‘Damn it, Frank. Forensics is supposed to be notified the same time as homicide. . .’
As she spoke, she looked down at the corpse and despite her training and subsequent experience, her stomach did a flip-flop. A man without a head doesn’t look like a man at all - he looks like something ready for the butcher’s cleaver.
Brenda said, ‘Holy shit,’ and then could have bitten off her tongue. She hated reacting like a layperson in front of her colleagues. She need not have worried. Frank had the same sort of expression that she knew she was weanng.
He rammed his hands into his pockets. ‘Yeah. This one came unassembled.’
‘Did you make an arrest?’
‘No - we’re questioning some guy named Nash.’ Brenda nodded and then gestured at the wreckage around them.
‘What happened? The Street Warriors decide to have a party?’
Frank looked up and stared at the debris.
‘That? God knows. Looks like a hurricane’s hit it, doesn’t it. Maybe some street gang, I don’t know. This guy Nash isn’t some young punk with a switchblade. He’s an antique dealer down on Hudson Street
.’
Brenda nodded at the corpse again. It was becoming less obscene by the minute. Familiarity breeds contempt.
‘That was no switchblade. The neck’s been sliced clean through. ‘
Frank turned away to talk to an officer nearby and Brenda felt the presence of someone else at her elbow. It was Bedsoe. They had almost had a thing going a short while back, but WaIter was a clinger and she just got out from under in time. A casual relationship would have been fine, but she realized, early enough, that WaIter took everything too seriously. Once he had got his foot in the door she would have had to chop it off to get some privacy. She didn’t need that kind of problem at this point in her life.
Highlander Page 4
