Methos stared down at the headless corpse of Richie Ryan with one thought repeating itself over and over in his mind, a resounding litany of shock.

*This is my fault.*

Duncan's katana had delivered the cut but Methos hadn't made enough of an attempt to deflect the arc before it even started. He'd known Duncan was behaving erratically, raving to Richie about unseen evil forces. He'd seen the Highlander faltering under mental and emotional fatigue before, buckling under four-hundred- year-old weights of guilt and regret. He'd seen Richie's loyalty in the past, and how it blinded the young man to dangers all around him. All of those factors combined had brought them terribly and irrevocably to this scorched and shadowed concourse, to Richie Ryan's body.

*My fault.*

He'd chosen inaction over action. He'd shied away from Duncan's needs instead of committing himself to the cause of rescuing the Highlander from himself. At the very first word of nonsense he should have dragged Duncan off to some exotic island of lush foliage, colorful alcoholic drinks dotted by tiny umbrellas, and gleaming, oiled women clad only in thong bikinis. At the very least he should have packed Richie off to somewhere safer than Paris - the battlefields of Bosnia, perhaps, or even the Los Angeles freeways. Instead he'd done nothing, and the price of his indifference lay on the floor now in a puddle of dark, cooling blood.

Joe had turned away from Richie's corpse to sob into the comfort of Methos' chest. The slow, steady sound of the Watcher's weeping filled the concourse of the empty racetrack. The only other sound Methos heard was the mournful cry of the wind outside. Duncan's stumbling, faltering footsteps had long since faded. Richie himself would never make another sound - no laughs, no wisecracks, no pestering questions. Methos steered his thoughts away from that part of his brain. He'd lost friends before - dear, beloved friends he'd known for millennia - and although he'd liked Richie well enough, he'd never formed a bond with Duncan's protege. The young ones came and went too quickly, and Richie's yearning for a life away from the Game coupled with his immaturity and reckless nature had virtually guaranteed him a short life.

Still, Methos fervently wished events had never come to this. He tightened his hold around Joe's shoulder, offering as much silent comfort as possible. He knew Joe held a special affection for Richie. Their relationship hadn't started out smoothly, but they'd settled their differences by degrees until both men respected and liked each other. Richie had taken three bullets in Luxembourg Gardens meant to assassinate Joe; two years later, Joe had returned the favor by shooting Duncan in the dojo before the influence of the insidious Dark Quickening could make the Highlander cut off Richie's head.

The thought of *that* man returning - the cruel, ruthless, merciless Immortal that Duncan had temporarily become - made Methos shudder in revulsion. The dark and cold of the concourse deepened, filling him with the irrational, ridiculous dread that something worse than Richie's death might occur if he and Joe didn't leave right away.

Methos took a deep breath. "Joe. We should go now."

Joe's sobs choked off as he pulled away. He wiped at the tears streaming from his eyes and fought to regain some semblance of control. Methos didn't shy from the raw moment, but instead sympathetically watched him struggle. Joe wasn't even fifty years old, an infant by most Immortal standards, and didn't deserve the anguish of Richie's slaughter.

Methos touched Joe's shoulder and said, firmly, "We're leaving."

Joe grimaced. "We can't just leave him - "

"We won't," Methos promised. They would not leave Richie's body out to rot in the dark and cold night. They would not abandon the young Immortal's remains to be found by some vagrant and carted away by indifferent morgue attendants. They would not leave him to a pauper's burial. Richie deserved a peaceful grave and fitting headstone in a place where Duncan could never hurt him again. "I'll take care of it, Joe."

Joe made the mistake of looking down on Richie's crumpled form. On his neatly severed head, and the blue eyes still open wide with surprise. The twin high spots of color in Joe's cheek that had come from the exertion of crying drained away to pasty white, and his breath caught on a ragged gasp.

"Joe - " Methos warned, taking him by the arm, but the Watcher shook free.

"No!"

"It doesn't help - "

"You just wait!" Joe ordered sharply. "Maybe you're used to your friends dying, but I'm not!"

Methos winced and took a tiny step backward. He told himself the harsh words came from Joe's grief, not Joe himself. He watched as the mortal went to his knees awkwardly, hindered by not only his prostheses but by the sorrow that made him visibly shake. For a long moment Joe did nothing more than gaze at Richie's body, as devastated as any man Methos had ever seen. The hurt and pain hung in the air so thickly it stung Methos' chest as he strived to keep his breathing even. Joe, a long-lapsed Catholic, palmed his eyes and began mumbling.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . " Joe's voice faltered, but he pushed on doggedly. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. . . on earth as it is on heaven. . . "

Was there a heaven for mortals and Immortals alike? Methos didn't know. Had Richie already taken up a place there, beside Alexa? He hoped so.

". . . daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who . . . as we . . ." The Watcher's shoulders hitched up as the words choked away. Methos couldn't bear to keep his distance any longer. He dropped to the concrete beside Joe and gripped his hands tightly. He knew the next words to the prayer, but refused to utter them. Instead he voiced his own simple and sincere litany.

"Lord, we deliver unto you the soul of our friend Richie Ryan. May he rest in peace."

"Amen," Joe managed.

Methos climbed back to his feet. He tried to help Joe up, but the Watcher had one last duty to perform.

Reverently, carefully, Joe swept his hand over Richie's sightless eyes and closed the lids.

Methos took Joe outside to his car, which had been parked hastily beneath the starless sky. He settled him in the front seat. The Watcher gazed sightlessly out the windshield, his hand gripping his cane so tightly that Methos could almost hear the bones cracking. Methos pulled a blanket from the back seat and steeled himself for the grisly task to come. He wondered, fleetingly, if enough beer existed in the world to blot out this night's horror.

"I'll be right back," he promised Joe. "Stay here."

Joe's voice was unexpectedly calm. "You're not putting him into the trunk."

Goosebumps rose across Methos' neck. The logical place for Richie's corpse was in the trunk, not the back seat. All they needed was to be pulled over by some overzealous police officer with a headless body and blood-soaked blanket in plain view. At the same time, however, Methos understood that Joe wasn't exactly in a rational state of mind. The three of them had been friends. They'd walked together just that morning, breathing and talking and arguing over Duncan. Methos could not stow Richie in the trunk as if he were garbage, some grisly burden to be dumped and forgotten.

"I won't," he promised, squeezing Joe's arm. "I promise."

Joe nodded tightly, his gaze still fixed on nothing Methos could see.

But the point was moot anyway, because when Methos returned to the concourse Richie's body had completely disappeared.

*****************************************************

Coming soon . . .

Is Richie really dead? How do Methos and Joe deal with the killing of their friend, and what should they do about Duncan? Is it possible Duncan's claims about demons are true? Where is the Highlander, and what new horrors await him in his struggle to defeat evil? These questions (and answers) (and more) will be found in "Michaelmas," by me, coming this summer to a fiction list near you . . .

Sandra