Finally it became too much for Chance to bear, "Stop worrying Richie. It'll be okay."
Richie said nothing and just stared out the window at the moving cityscape. Duncan was Immortal, Richie didn't worry to much about him. After all, the Scotsman hadn't lasted 400 odd years to be killed off now. But a dreadful knot was twisting up in Richie's stomach about Joe.
When he had first met the middle aged Watcher, Richie had distrusted him even more than he had distrusted Mulder. Over the course of the last few years, however, Richie had developed a deep bond with the older man. He could talk about anything he wanted with the Watcher, Immortals or otherwise, and Joe offered a sympathetic ear. Sometimes it was even easier to talk to Joe about Immortals than Duncan, after all, Joe was closer to Richie's age than Mac.
The sudden possibility of loosing his best mortal friend hammered on Richie like a ton of bricks. He knew that he was probably over reacting, but he had never really thought of loosing Joe before, and now that there was the possibility that it might happen the emotion was assailing him for all it was worth.
"Richie, are you okay?" Mulder asked.
Richie realized that he couldn't let the agent see him like this. The macho, street punk part of him wouldn't allow it.
"Yea, I'm fine."
"So, what do you think this "Carlson" person did with them?" Mulder asked, trying to get the kid to talk instead of just brooding silently.
"I dunno..." Richie trailed off, and looked outside. A sudden urge to talk came over him suddenly, for no particular reason..."Joe told me something about Carlson a few days ago after I had an, um, unpleasant "encounter" with the guy. Joe said that he and Carlson used to be friends, but they'd had some kind of falling out..."
Richie paused, his words choking in his throat.
"Anyway, Joe said that he was actually getting kinda scared of the guy -- in a purely professional way, that is. Apparently Carlson's been distancing himself from the Watchers lately, and his behavior's, well, just weird. He's been working for the government, and is really absorbed in his work. Joe says he's been getting worse lately... and the guy's like some kind of impenetrable wall with his own agenda who uses whatever he can to get what he wants."
"Sounds like some people I know," Mulder said.
The armed men trooped down the barren hallway, Duncan and Joe walking before them. The heels of the four pairs of boots beat almost in unison on the polished floor, which reflected the glare of the lights back up at them.
The men acted like a well-trained military unit. As Joe thunked down the hall he allowed his mind to wander, hopefully away from his situation. However, his thoughts kept returning to the military like attitude of their captors. They didn't act like any Watchers he had ever encountered, not even the Hunters. Watchers were trained to be independent and to think on their feet -- following Immortals and staying hidden required such an individual and loosely organized set up. These men functioned too much like a well oiled machine.
Joe was beginning to have his doubts. He pretended to stumble, his cane slipping on the floor. The nearest man reached out to steady him, albeit rather roughly, and Dawson managed a quick glimpse at the man's wrist.
There was no tattoo.
There wasn't even a distortion of skin to indicate that a tattoo had been there and then removed. If it was anyone else, Joe would have concluded that they were simply new recruits, or were in a sensitive position and couldn't have the risk of being tattooed. But their manners indicated otherwise. The only conclusion was that these men weren't Watchers... they probably weren't even Hunters. And they might not know about Immortals. There were just hired help. Joe stored that bit of information away in the back of his mind; it might come in handy.
At the end of the hallway, there was a metal double door, and a smaller wooden door in the adjacent side of the corridor. Duncan was lead through the large double door at the end of the hallway, while Joe was escorted through the smaller door.
Inside Dawson found himself in a fairly large and comfortable room, except for the fact that it was shrouded in cigarette smoke. Bookcases lined the walls, and a comfortably worn leather couch graced one side of the room. At the far end sat a large wooden desk, with a computer perched atop it, and a large picture window and door behind it. Sitting behind the desk was a person Dawson knew all too well.
"Carlson."
"Yes, hello to you, too, Dawson. Please, have a seat."
He was being nice... Joe had learned that people were often nice to you when they wanted something. Nevertheless, he gained nothing by standing like a fool. So, pulling up a brown upholstered chair, Joe sat down and propped his cane up next to him.
The two men sat quietly for a few minutes, a question hanging in the air.
"Are you going to explain why I'm here, Carlson, or are we just going to sit here and look at each other?"
The slightly wrinkled, but powerful looking man behind the desk allowed himself a small smile as he slowly and deliberately opened a pack of cigarettes and flicked a lighter. Taking the slim cigarette between his thumb and forefinger he inhaled deeply and breathed out a ring of smoke before answering.
"It's nothing personal, Joe. Let me assure you of that."
"Oh, thank you. I feel so much better now," Joe snapped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Now, there's no need to get snippish, Dawson. I just want you to know that I like you, both as a Watcher and a friend."
"Carlson, you just kidnapped me, MacLeod and an FBI agent. You're holding us God knows where, for God only knows how long. I hope you don't take it too personally if I say that right now you're not very high on my Christmas list," Joe said in a uncharacteristic but controlled show of anger. Normally Dawson was rather laid back, but for once he was letting his temper surface.
Carlson chuckled, and took another drag on his cancer stick. "Whatever happened to the studious librarian at the old bookstore, Joe? You know, you've changed a great deal since you met that Immortal MacLeod, Dawson... and I've watched it happen.
"I remember the time when you defended the Watcher principals to the letter. You did a hell of a job defending that paper..."The Ramifications of Noninterference in Reference to and Directly Regarding Immortals, the Prize, Gathering, and Other Q-Wave Theories."
Joe set his jaw, and looked Carlson in the eye, "I'm not the only one who's changed, Carlson. At least I didn't allow "other elements" to distract me from my responsibilities at the Watchers."
Carlson took another breath of the cigarette between his thumb and finger, his face remaining and mask-like and emotionless as ever, "Joe... is that what you think? Well, hopefully your little visit to my "facilities" will help to prove otherwise. And may I remind you that I'm not the one who's broken the code of Watcher ethics on numerous occasions as of late?"
Joe decided that he'd had enough of the other man's subtle taunting. "Look, all this small talk is wonderful, Carlson, but I want to know what the hell is going on."
"There's one thing that hasn't changed, Dawson," Carlson said with a small grin, breathing in from his cigarette momentarily and then blowing smoke out from his mouth. "Okay Dawson... *you* are here for a very simple reason."
There was a pause.
"Which is?"
"I want you to recruit Mulder into the Watchers."
"So you have no idea why you're so lucky, Chance?" Mulder asked. After breaking the initial silence, the trio had been talking almost nonstop. Richie discovered that once Mulder's curiosity was sparked there was no stopping it.
"Not really," Chance said, his eyes still on the road, "all I know is that my father was lucky, just the way I am, and so's my brother, Eric... well, wait, maybe I should start at the beginning. You remember how I said that I was in a plane crash thirty years ago? Well, one of the firemen at the crash found me and adopted me. He was the one who gave me my name, "Chance".
"Anyway, a lot of stuff has been coming to light lately, and I discovered that I have brother, Eric who wasn't on the plane went it crashed. I also found out that my real name is Alex... but I kinda like Chance better," Chance said with a small grin.
He took a deep breath before continuing, "Anyway, a few weeks ago I met my real father... I had always thought that he was dead. Apparently he was involved in some kind of government conspiracy or something and some people that thought they could exploit his luck."
"Story of my life," Mulder said.
"How so?"
"The majority of my work on the X-Files involves a government conspiracy of some kind --"
"You know," Richie said, cutting off Mulder from his place in the back seat, "maybe your extra Quickening has something to do with your luck."
Chance's brow furrowed, "Maybe. I never thought of that, Rich..."
"I don't follow," Mulder said, "You -- you aren't Immortal, too, are you Chance?"
Chance laughed, "No, no I'm not. But I do have more Quickening than a normal "mortal". Enough to let me sense the Immortals, but not enough to actually make me Immortal and all that stuff."
"Richie, I think you've read _The Celestine Prophcey_ once to often," Mulder said.
"Huh?"
Mulder grinned, "Nevermind. You, um, you don't think that Joe is interested in any new recruits for his "Watchers", do you?" Mulder asked Richie, only half-joking.
"If you don't mind tattoos," Richie said sharply. He was gradually beginning to like Mulder, but that didn't mean that he had to trust him. And, in Richie's opinion, Mulder as a Watcher was not a good idea.
Their conversation was cut short as Chance finally pulled into the parking lot of Joe's. The neon pink sign on the side of the building that sported the name "Joe's" in script was still lit, casting what would be a glossy pink glaze over the hood of the car, is not of it's many pits and rust spots.
"Um, Mulder... I think you should stay in the car."
"Forget it, Richie, I'm going in with you."
"Mike probably knows who you are -- and it might make him more hesitant to tell us where Carlson is."
Mulder decided that it wasn't worth arguing about, so Richie and Chance got out of the car and walked toward the blues club, the gravel crunching underfoot. Richie pulled open the door and walked into the warehouse turned bar. The place was closed, but the lights were on, illuminating the entire club. Chairs had been placed feet up on the tables for the night and the floor had just been swept.
"Hey, Mike!" Richie called.
The balding Watcher sat behind the bar, hunched over what appeared to be an accounting book, a scowl across his face. Apparently Mike didn't like doing the books anymore than Joe did. Mike looked up, annoyed at being interrupted. As soon as he saw Richie, however, his expression changed to one of welcome.
"Hey, Rich, Chance. What brings you here this time of the night? It must be close to three in the morning," Mike said, setting down his pencil, hopping off the barstool and moving to greet the two guys. "Richie what's wrong?" he asked, noting the Immortal's expression as he got closer.
"It's a long story, Mike. Where did Carlson tell you that Joe and Duncan were supposed to meet him?"
"I dunno... some K-Mart down across the railroad tracks, um, Second Street I think. Look, Rich -- what's this all about?"
"Damn," Richie swore softly to himself, "Joe hasn't called back or anything, has he Mike?"
"Not since I talked to him at MacLeod's place... Richie, what's going on?"
"Mike, I think that Joe and Duncan have been kidnapped. I'll fill you in later, but right now I need your help."
Mike's eye's widened in concern for his mentor's safety, "Just tell me what you need, Rich."
"We think that Carlson's responsible," Richie said, Mike looked like he was about to protest, but Richie cut him off and kept talking. "We need to know where we can find him."
Mike hesitated for a moment, his eyes glittering with indecision. On one hand, he could get seriously reprimanded for giving an Immortal information like that. On the other hand, it was Joe, his friend and supervisor, who's life that was on the line.
"Okay, Richie," he said.
The three waited anxiously as Mike went to the back room and brought out a leather bound book bearing the Watcher trefoil on the cover. Mike set the address book down on the bar and hurriedly flipped through it.
"Here... Carlson works for the government and he has some kind of installation just north of here," Mike said, handing Richie a paper with an address scribbled on it.
"Thanks, Mike." Richie said as he turned to go.
"Richie," Mike said, reaching out for Richie's arm. "Good luck."
Richie took a quick glance over at Chance, "Don't worry, Mike, I think we have enough."
Dawson took a long look at Carlson. "Why?"
"You've encountered the agent, Joe. He has an uncanny ability to discover things which he has no business knowing. I'd prefer to have him somewhere that I can keep tabs on him, so that he won't interfere with my "other" work anymore. Recruiting him into the Watchers would satisfy his thirst for the paranormal and give me the control I need over him."
Joe regarded Carlson silently for a moment, "You brought us all the way up here to ask me *that*?"
Carlson smiled again, and it sent shivers up Joe's spine. Carlson had changed drastically since their early days together in the Watchers. He had been so involved with the Watchers and upholding their principals until he became part of that government agency he worked for...
"No, Joe. Not just that."
"What else then? And what about MacLeod and the agent?"
"Agent Scully is none of your business, Joe," Carlson said, his tone momentarily taking an icy turn. "MacLeod, however, is another matter..."
Joe sat and looked intently at Carlson, waiting for him to continue.
"MacLeod will not be harmed, Joe. Let me assure you of that. I know how fond you are of him. However, I will be using him in a series of... experiments, if you will."
"Experiments Carlson?" Joe said in a dangerously quiet tone, "What *kind* of experiments?"
"Quickenings, Dawson," Carlson puffed on his cigarette again, his face was still a mask, but his voice lightened momentarily with the dreamlike quality of a visionary before returning to its normal deep barrenness.
"Quickening is what makes Immortals what they are, it's what makes them *immortal*, Joe... and it's present in every living thing. So why are They the only ones who have enough of it to actually make them Immortal?"
"Watchers and Immortals have been wondering that for centuries, Carlson, and no one's any closer to an answer."
Carlson continued as if Joe's hadn't spoken. "People regard Quickening as such a stable force, Joe... but it's not as static as they'd like to imagine. What if -- during an Immortal's Quickening transfer, you could capture enough of that energy and then bind it to another person -- another mortal? Think about it, Joe. Think about it." Carlson's voice had hardly raised above it's normal dead panned expression, but his words weighted heavily on the room. The smoke around Joe seemed to thicken with the ramifications of what Carlson was saying.
"You've done it, haven't you?" Joe asked quietly, a tingle creeping up his spine.
Carlson took another slow puff on his cigarette, causing the end to glow a bright orange in contrast to the swirling gray smoke. "Somewhat. In past experiments, we've successfully transferred Quickening to several mortals, and the extra threshold for Quickening seems to be hereditary. In fact, it's had some... intriguing... side effects, but not the results we're looking for."
"Which are?" Dawson asked, knowing the answer before Carlson spoke.
"Immortality, Dawson. Immortality."