Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  I ain’t no dog.

  She sank in a heap to the ground. No one paid her any mind. The shadows melted into night. She couldn’t call her mama. They had no phone in the trailer. She could call the bars her mama went to, but she would use up her dollar.

  And her mama would probably tell her not to come home, anyway. She would tell Sammi Jo she was a burden and no amount of extra welfare money was worth the hassle it was to take care of some other woman’s kid.

  It was true: Sammi Jo wasn’t no dog.

  She was dog shit.

  She felt awful. She was dying; it was starting to happen. It was just like Dale said it would be. Dying, with a horrible dizziness that made her innards spin.

  Then a man’s hand extended in front of her face, and a deep, wonderful voice inquired gently, “Signorina? May I be of assistance?”

  The restaurant Machiavelli had selected in the Shibuya district was very traditional. It was so exclusive that there was no sign on the street or on its door to announce it. The waitresses wore kimonos dyed with natural indigo, a revered folk art in Japan, and moved with silent grace. So many young Japanese women were coarse and unappealing, Machiavelli often said. However, Samantha now knew he liked to sleep with women like that. He slept with other women all the time.

  When she’d been in love with him, she had never noticed his infidelities.

  The restaurant floor was straw tatami, the walls of their private room shoji, rice paper. As they sat on their knees on silk cushions around a low wooden table, a koto played discreetly in the background.

  Samantha knew men in suits dined on their knees in other rooms, guns beneath their suit jackets, fingers missing. From shoulders to thighs they were covered in ornate and vivid tattoos. They were members of the yakuza, the Japanese Mafia, and they were very dangerous men.

  Machiavelli was with the Italian mob, and allied with the yakuza. He had told Samantha once that if she ever left him, she would have to deal not only with his loyal Immortals, but the Immortals in the yakuza, the Italians, and the American Mafia as well.

  He had told her only once. He had needed to tell her only once.

  Then he had begun to notice the muscles she’d developed working with Umeko.

  “I’ve been going to a health club,” she’d told him, and joined the Roppongi Fun Health Spa that afternoon to cover her tracks. He had complimented her, seeming unconcerned.

  Shortly after that, Umeko had died.

  “Fugu,” Machiavelli announced, as the waitress brought them a woven tray of warm towels to refresh them. “What do you all think?”

  If possible, Satoshi looked more frightened and stared at his chopsticks. Mari made a face of distaste, and said airily, “Not for me, Nick-san. I’ve never understood the concept of culinary Russian roulette.”

  “But you like to live dangerously.” Machiavelli winked at her. “Do you not?”

  Mari shrugged. “On my terms. Dying from food is not one of them.”

  “Relax. The chef is one of the great masters of fugu.” He waved his hand to indicate the rooms beyond the borders of the rice walls. “Do you think these samurai would eat here if they didn’t trust him implicitly?”

  Mari laughed. “That depends on how many of them are eating fugu tonight.”

  Samantha marveled at her performance. Mari was mortal, and if the blowfish was incorrectly prepared, one bite could kill her. People died in Japan every year from eating fugu.

  The waitress appeared with several bottles of sake and glasses of Scotch, and a single Pepsi topped with a cherry and a purple paper umbrella perched on the rim of the glass. It was for Samantha. She bristled but said nothing.

  Ken spoke to the waitress in rapid Japanese. Samantha didn’t catch much but the words for fish, sakana, and fugu. He was ordering their dinner. Machiavelli could have done it—he spoke at least a dozen languages—but he was letting Ken act the big man. Or maybe Machiavelli was covering his tracks in some way. The chess king, sitting in his square while his pawns did the work.

  Mari said, “Get me some sushi, Kenny. I want some maguro.”

  “No. We’re all having fugu,” Machiavelli cut in, smiling. “No exceptions. I insist.” He spoke to the waitress, who nodded.

  “I don’t want any.” Mari raised her chin. “I won’t eat any.”

  “What’s the matter, Mari?” Machiavelli raised his brows. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I’ve never eaten fugu, and I never will.” There was a quaver in her voice.

  “What about you, Satoshi?” Machiavelli asked, shifting his attention to the silent man. “Do you trust me?”

  “Whatever you want me to eat, I shall eat,” Satoshi said shakily. He swallowed and looked up through his lashes at Samantha.

  Like Mari, he was mortal. One morsel of badly prepared fugu and he would die. He had cause to fear death; it was he who had brought Samantha into the group that wanted to kill Machiavelli. It had taken a long time to win her trust; for all Samantha had known, Sato was Machiavelli’s plant. But he’d proved himself again and again.

  “My good and loyal servant.” Machiavelli patted him on the back.

  Mari rose. “I’m going home.”

  “Sit down,” Ken ordered.

  A shadow moved along their rice-paper wall. Mari and Samantha both stared. The figure grew; it was a man. A large and forbidding man.

  I could take him, Samantha thought, and realized that here and now, she could not because she must not.

  It stopped moving, and loomed over Mari.

  “Kenny?” she murmured to him. “Kenny, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” He poured some sake into one of the thimble-sized cups on the table, handed it to her. “Nothing’s going on, little sister.”

  “That man…” She exhaled and took the sake, shaking so badly she spilled the clear liquid on the table.

  Machiavelli said, “What man?”

  Samantha glanced at the rice wall.

  There was no one there.

  En route to Washington, D.C.

  Joe sipped his bourbon and branch and stretched out his legs. The first-class cabin was nearly empty. Joe was glad. He hadn’t sat down with Mac for a good conversation in a while.

  “Mac, there’s something I’ve been wondering about. There’s a reference to you in Peter Hale’s Chronicle for 1658. Right before he died.”

  The Immortal smiled faintly. There was something troubling him, and Joe wanted to know what it was. Sometimes it helped if he drew MacLeod out on another subject entirely. With enough patience, Mac might open up about his current situation. But Mac was distracted and preoccupied tonight.

  “Filling in the blanks, Joe?” MacLeod said gently.

  “Won’t live long enough to do that,” Joe replied. To his surprise, Mac actually laughed.

  “All right. Peter Hale,” he said, and launched into a great story.

  The fugu was presented with elaborate display, the chef standing proudly by the large plate set in the middle of the table.

  Everyone stared at it.

  “Well,” Ken said, clearly nervous. He reached forward with his chopsticks.

  Machiavelli held up his hand. “It’s my pleasure, as host,” he announced, and selected a shiny, perfect square of the potentially lethal fish. He popped it into his mouth. The others watched him.

  He spread out his hands. “Perfect.” He bowed to the chef and thanked him in Japanese.

  Satoshi and Mari visibly relaxed. Mari reached forward with her chopsticks. Satoshi took a gulp of Scotch and picked his up.

  Samantha reached impolitely past Mari, grabbed a chunk, and began to chew. Satoshi, watching her, put a bite in his mouth as well.

  A strange, hot tingling flashed through her.

  Intensified.

  Her body went numb.

  “No, stop!” she shouted. “It’s a trap!”

  With a strangled cry, Satoshi fell backward, his head punching through the rice paper wall.

&
nbsp; “No,” she keened.

  Then she died.

  “Oh, my poor bella Sammi,” Machiavelli murmured to his little American Immortal. “Poor sweet darling.”

  Samantha lay fully clothed across their bed in his palatial penthouse apartment in the Ginza district. He loved the busy boulevards and espresso houses of the district, the stores that rivaled Knightsbridge and Paris, Rodeo Drive and New York’s Fifth Avenue.

  The girl’s hair was disheveled, very sexy. Her chest rose and fell. Those breasts would be firm and round until the day she died.

  The tea the maid had brought her was untouched. He picked up the girl’s hand and kissed it. After all this time, he still thought of her as “the girl,” sometimes almost forgetting her name.

  “I don’t know why the fugu took so long to affect me. I was sure it was all right. You know I would never have let them eat it if I’d thought it would hurt them.” And that was true. He had not ordered bad fugu. He had had the chef killed for his ineptitude.

  But he had also managed to use the situation to his advantage.

  Of course.

  “If you’d thought it would kill them,” she croaked. “Kill Satoshi.” Mari and Ken had survived, although Mari was in the hospital. Ken had not had any fugu.

  “Si. Kill them.” He cradled her head against his chest. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  He closed his eyes and laughed silently. Poor Sammi Jo. Always so innocent, so transparent.

  So pliable.

  “Good, my darling. Bellissima donna. It’s a good thing Dr. Sunamoto was in the restaurant, yes? To announce that you were not dead, but only in a coma?” To hear you shout that it was a trap?

  “You should get away for a while,” he said, stroking her beautiful hair. “A change of scene will do you good.” She’d been waiting for a chance to escape, hadn’t she? “I know. It’s been a while since we visited Alan Woodrich. You’ll see him for me, won’t you, cara? In Washington?”

  The pulse in her neck pumped like a jackhammer. “Nicky, don’t make me. Let me go to the compound instead.” The compound was located miles out of Tokyo in the lovely, green countryside of this busy little island. Among cherry and plum trees and old caves filled with the bones of many of his enemies, sat his traditional-style villa. It was fully staffed at all times, and he went there whenever he could. Thanks to modems, faxes, and e-mail, he could run his empire as easily from there as here. But he spent most of his time in Tokyo, exploiting the fact that his physical presence intimidated those who worked for him.

  His American Beauty was practically in tears. It was pathetic, the ease with which he manipulated these naive conspirators. Did they truly believe he didn’t know they were sending chess moves to Duncan MacLeod, trying to pass them off as overtures to MacLeod by him?

  Duncan MacLeod. Little did the girl know that the man she sought—MacLeod—was on his way to Washington as well. Time for them to meet, time for him to come to Japan and lose his damn Scots head. Time to rid himself of all of them, faithless Beauties and old nemesis. Thanks to this brave new world, he was amassing power he could heretofore only dream of. Better to shed nettlesome distractions and potential obstacles as efficiently—and as soon—as possible.

  Meanwhile, there she lay, stiff and trembling, trying to decipher his expression. He stifled the urge to burst out laughing and instead ran his tongue along her neck. She stiffened; for that alone, he would one day kill her.

  “I’ve explained it all to you, my darling. Woodrich’s government is doing things that could harm us and all other Immortals. We need to know what they’re doing. We need the same technology. Since he no longer shares with us freely, we have to persuade him.”

  She lay still in his arms.

  “All right,” she said finally. As if she had actually decided to obey him; as if she had a choice.

  “Good girl.” He began to unzip her dress. That she didn’t want him but would yield excited him. It had always excited him.

  He wondered idly if the stiletto she had stolen from him two years before and hidden under her pillow was within her grasp. If she knew it had belonged to the Prince himself, Lorenzo de’ Medici. And if she would ever have the nerve to use it. That would be diverting indeed. Useless on her part, but amusing nonetheless.

  Far more interesting than simply beheading her while she slept, which was his current plan.

  “What have I been thinking?” he whispered to her. What a horse’s ass I am! I should take her head while we’re coupling. The Marquis de Sade wrote about such a death. It would be far more interesting. An orgasmic Quickening!

  “What, Nicky?”

  Ah, the hesitation, the tremor in her voice!

  “We should get married. We would be married for all time.”

  “Oh, Nicky,” she managed. “How… wonderful.”

  He slid his hand under the pillow. Si, the knife was there. Excellent. He wrapped his hand around it. Sharp darts pierced his fingertips. Blood trickled; the wounds began to heal at once. He reveled in his power. He had never stopped enjoying it, and he never would.

  Never.

  He knew he was the one, the last one. Who else had the cunning and intelligence? Expert swordsmanship was such a minor component of the Game. Only Immortals who didn’t have his cunning need concern themselves with primitive notions of physical prowess.

  Immortals like Duncan MacLeod.

  “Si, si,” he said jubilantly. “Very wonderful. Very, very wonderful.”

  * * *

  The next day, Samantha brought Mari flowers when she visited her in the hospital. The somber nurse bowed when she took them and whisked them away, presumably to find a vase.

  Mari’s face was slack and her eye ticked as she smiled at Samantha and held out one limp hand. She said, “Welcome back.”

  Samantha sank into the chair beside her bed. A monitor beeped continually, making her edgy. “You know I died.”

  “I figured as much. I don’t know why I didn’t.” She leaned back against the pillows. “Maybe this is a stupid plan after all. I’m not sure we can successfully lure MacLeod here with our fake messages from the great Machiavelli, no matter how much they despise each other. Maybe only Machiavelli himself can do things like that.” She smiled languidly at Samantha. “We should have sent him photos of you. It’s difficult for him to say no to beautiful women.”

  Mari knew Samantha had become infatuated with MacLeod after reading his Watchers’ Chronicles and seeing pictures of him. Before, he had been a simple legend to Samantha, as he was to most Immortals. Now he was a handsome man with an unforgettable face and a name that conjured romantic images. A hero of flesh and blood, and a desirable one at that.

  “Maybe we should be more direct,” Mari went on. “Just call him up and ask him for his help. He might do it.”

  “If he doesn’t, whoever calls will have broken cover for nothing,” Samantha countered. “We don’t know that Machiavelli meant for the fugu to be bad. He did give you CPR, you know. He could have let you die.”

  “Oh, he knew. Of course he knew. This way, with me alive, it’s grayer. He can confuse us. It’s working, isn’t it?”

  Samantha touched the petals of Mari’s flowers. They were already dying. Mortals died a little every day. How did they stand it?

  “Let me think tonight about contacting the Highlander,” Mari said. “Meanwhile, try to find out if the second letter went out today. I gave it to Taro before dinner.”

  “Taro?” He was one of their secret band, the newest Immortal in Machiavelli’s camp.

  “You’re not the only one who gets turned on by men who’re good with weapons.” Mari’s chuckle was deep and guttural.

  “Ladies,” Machiavelli said from the door. “Buon giorno. Cara, how sweet of you to visit our patient.” Machiavelli swept into the room and gave Samantha a kiss on her cheek. “How are you feeling, Mari-chan?”

  “Tired,” she admitted. “I understand I
have you to thank for my life.”

  He preened. “Your heart stopped. I started it again. I would do the same for anyone. Would I not, Sammi?” He looked at Samantha and grinned.

  Samantha gave him a sad half-smile and remembered:

  Too many drugs, way too many, the scourge of the sixties, as the room whirled and she sank into the piles of cushions. The moving black lights played over the posters: Ship of Peace, Jim Morrison, War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things.

  Her nose was bleeding. Her heartbeat was irregular.

  “I’m dyin’,” she said, as he came into the master bedroom of his mansion. He had given her the drugs and promised her they would make her feel like she was in heaven. “I ain’t worth nothin’, and now I’m gonna die like a sick dog.”

  “You are going to die,” he said, “but don’t be afraid. I will make you live forever. Have no fear. Trust me. Look into my eyes, and you will live forever.”

  “Oh, Nicky, I don’t wanna die.”

  “Hold on to me. I promise you, you will rise again.”

  Mari’s eye ticked. Samantha’s heart was in her throat. She didn’t know what to say, what to do.

  “You look exhausted. We should go, Sammi.” Machiavelli took her hand and gave it a shake. “We can visit again tomorrow.”

  “All right.” Samantha pushed back her chair and stood. “Mari, I’m sorry.” For doubting her, for disliking her.

  Mari smiled bravely at her. “I’m going to be fine. See you tomorrow.”

  Samantha looked again at the flowers. “Yes.” They clasped hands. Mari’s flesh was icy. Samantha was alarmed, but it would do no good to ask how Mari was doing. Japanese physicians did not share the condition of their patients with anyone, even the patients themselves.

  Machiavelli led Samantha away.

  Outside in the hallway, her knees buckled and she pressed her forehead against the wall. Sato, her friend, dead forever. Mari, on the threshold, perhaps. Machiavelli had killed before, and she had known about it and done nothing to stop him. She had cowered and wept and twisted her hands. He would kill again, and she knew that, too.

  And if she failed, each death would be her fault. Umeko had taught her that she had an obligation to stop him. Each head taken, each soul dispatched, lay on her head.