STREETS
by Henry Wyckoff
A Highlander/Sentinel Crossover
September 1998



Chapter 15

Hues woke up strapped to a chair in a dark room.

"I think he's awake." It was your typical Philadelphia accent.

A floodlight shot into Hues' eyes, and he tried to close them, but unfortunately they were wired open. He screamed as he tried to look away, but couldn't.

The light turned off. "You pissed off the wrong man, pal." A New Jerseyman this time.

"What do you want?" The perfect question when one was in an uncertain position.

"That's the right attitude if you want to live, pal. You'd better hope it stays that way, because if you start to piss us off, you won't want to know what happens next!"

They let him sweat for a few moments, but fortunately for Hues, he'd remembered to wear his antiperspirant. He just wished that his interrogators had. Their own body odors might be enough to make him sing, or vomit.

"You seem to show a lot of interest in Mr. Pierson. So much so that you tried to kill him in public. What does he mean to you?"

Hues was silent.

The man sighed, "I guess this is going to take quite a while. Don't want you dying on us. Care for something to eat?"

"No thanks."

"Are you sure?"

It did smell good.

"All right. No sense letting that wonderful steak sandwich go to waste."

It really did smell like beef.

"Mario. I can't eat without my friends eating something."

There was a snicker as something was shoved into Hues' mouth. He spit it out, but it had already done its damage.

"Ach! What is this horrid meat?"

"It's called mutton. The Navajos swear by it. How do you like that aftertaste?"

Hues wished to all in Heaven and Earth that he could get rid of that horrible taste.

"How about some Bud Light to wash it down?"

"Ach! No!"

"How about fake-imported Heineken?"

That was marginally better than Bud Light, but still, Hues shook his head.

* * *

Pierson, both as a Watcher and as an immortal, knew the man who had stepped into the room. "Detective, do you know who this is?"

"He's been telling me something about himself, slowly getting to the point." Jim was reading the Pierson's face, trying to determine what lay behind the poker mask. "Who do you think he is?"

"Rujevicyn Tutyr."

"You got the name right, at least. It's been such a long time, but I still remember him"

"Oh?"

Pierson glared at Tutyr. "He's the international cleanup man."

"I prefer the term 'janitor'. It's much more honest, don't you think? The guy who cleans up everyone else's shit? You seem to have an attitude problem, Thanatos. You should be hating the men who dump the shit, not the poor man who must clean it up."

* * *

Latro's eyes rolled up in thought. "Thanatos? I could see Methos as many things, but not Death. Could he be?"

* * *

Jim tilted his head for a moment. For a moment, he'd thought he heard some whispering in Italian. He shook his head. It was probably nothing.

Pierson spat back, "That depends on what you call shit and what you call janitorial work."

Blair stepped between them, "Whoa there! Is this going to get ugly? Now let's have a seat and work this out the civilized way!"

"That would be new for you!"

Jim put a stop to whatever Pierson was going to do. "For once, Blair has a really good idea. We're all going to sit down and work this out!"

It had been a long day, and Jim excused himself to take care of some personal business while they arranged their most neutral seating arrangements. That's when he discovered something. "Blair?" He was about to ask him to come over to where he stood, but thought that would be bad as he was currently occupied with crowd control. "Can I ask you something?"

Blair looked up at Jim, who stood outside the bathroom door. "What?"

"Why is there a woman passed out in the bathroom, reeking of scotch?"

Blair and Pierson looked one another as if they had just remembered something very, very important. "Angela!"

* * *

Joe sat in thought. "You know, I was thinking."

"What?" asked Paulo.

"I've been re-searching through all our databases, and we've got a few pictures of some John Does. Think you can look through these and see for yourself if you know any of them?"

"'John Does?'"

"You know, the guys without a name? They're people we suspect of being immortal, but we really don't have any hard evidence but some really damning circumstantial evidence. You know, no documented return from the grave, proximity to lightning flashes, and so on?"

"Sure."

Paulo looked at the photos scrolling across the computer screen that Joe showed him. "I can't say I've seen any of them . . . STOP!"

The unexpected shout startled Joe. "What is it?"

"That man. He's Latro."

The excitement was contagious. "Let's see. That would be . . . Guenther Schlagle. Seen in proximity to . . . " Joe whistled.

"What is it?"

"He was responsible for sending Evan Casspari to the funny farm for the criminally insane."

"Who is he? If he was Italian, I would have known."

"He wasn't Italian. His 'real' name is Caspian, and he was one of the Four Horsemen." Joe sighed. This was one of those moments he wished Methos was here.

"What happened?"

"Here. Read for yourself."

* * *

Jim really wanted to get trashed on scotch after hearing Blair's rapid-fire and often convoluted account of how Angela had come here, and why she was here.

"Blair," Jim shook his head. "Can't I leave you alone for just a second?"

"If I hadn't done it, she would have been in danger!" Blair shot back. "I had to get her over here, so at least we wouldn't hang separately!"

That sank in. "All right, I like your reasoning, but couldn't you have cut her off the booze?"

The same question he asked himself. "Well . . . yes . . . but--"

Jim cut him off, "No 'buts.' That was a your lapse in judgment."

"Look -- it seemed like the best thing at the time! Plus, she . . . well . . . "

"Later, Chief. Let's just take this one at a time. It looks like she nearly drowned herself cleaning up, so let's just stick her up in the loft and sort out her part of the problem once she wakes up. Then we can deal with the problem we have over there." He glanced at Pierson and Tutyr, who were arguing in some other language he couldn't recognize.

* * * *


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