The Soiled Dove
by
Victoria P
Disclaimer: The characters herein belong to Marvel and/or Fox. This piece of fan written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Sure, just let me know. I like to see where my stuff lives.
Feedback: Please? I'll give you a shiny nickel. . . Well, not really, but it helps me write, so let me know what you think.
Notes: There is actually a bar called the Soiled Dove in Denver. It is not a strip joint and bears no resemblance to the bar in this story.
I owe more than I could ever repay to my betas, Dot, Jen, Meg and Pete, and a huge debt to James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Andrew Vachss.
<< >> indicates thoughts
New York City, 1953
She was trouble. He knew it the minute she walked into his office. A tall redhead with the face of an angel and a body built for sin -- oh yeah, she was trouble. He could smell it.
No wonder his secretary had smiled at him, eyes dancing, as she pulled the door shut behind her. He had a weakness for redheads. To put it mildly.
"Mr. Logan, I need your help," she began in a soft southern accent. "My daughter Marie is missing."
Redheaded and direct. Definitely trouble.
"Well, Mrs.--"
"Darkholme. Raven Darkholme."
"Mrs. Darkholme," he said as she seated herself in the client's chair, "do you mind if I smoke?" She shook her head and he lit the cigar. Taking a moment to savor the taste, he considered the woman sitting across from him. Older than she looked, he guessed, and probably not as helpless as she appeared.
A redhead had led to the ignominious end of his career on the NYPD; he was still gun-shy from the incident, though it had been two years.
"Have you gone to the police, Mrs. Darkholme?" It was a standard question and he was sure she'd have the standard bullshit answer.
"We come from a very prominent family back home, Mr. Logan," she said. "We'd prefer that our name be kept out of the papers. We've told everyone that Marie is visiting Europe with friends." He nodded. There was definitely something hinky going on.
"Do you have a picture of the girl?"
Raven opened her purse and silently handed over a picture of a beautiful young girl.
"Interesting hair," he commented, tracing the white streaks with a finger.
"It's a family trait," the woman replied coolly, "on her father's side."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He put the picture aside for further study later. Time to get down to cases.
"When was she last seen?"
"Here in New York, three nights ago. She left her boyfriend's apartment -- he's an 'actor,'" she made no attempt to hide her contempt, "a bartender, really, at one of those low-class bars in Times Square."
"At what time?"
"Around six pm. He left to go to work and she got in her car and hasn't been seen since." Raven sniffed.
<< Very touching, >> Logan thought but nothing showed on his face. "His name?"
She sniffed again, this time disdainfully. "Remy LeBeau. He was a no-good swindler from New Orleans, Mr. Logan. Not the type of man you'd want your daughter involved with."
Trouble between the family and the boyfriend. He filed that away.
"What kind of car does she drive, ma'am?"
"Do I look like a 'ma'am' to you?" the woman asked in a husky tone. "Call me Raven."
"Mrs. Darkholme, what kind of car does your daughter drive?" The tone of his voice indicated that he wouldn't be asking the question a third time.
"A '49 Packard. My husband's old car." She crossed her legs and made a show of straightening seams that didn't need it. "She's really my step-daughter, Mr. Logan. I'm sure you can see I'm not old enough to have a nineteen-year-old child."
"Of course you're not," he replied easily. Flirting with a beautiful liar had never been a problem for him. "License plate number?"
"Oh, dear. I have no head for such things. I'll have to ask my husband when he arrives. He's flying up from Mississippi tonight."
He accepted that for now. "Why is your daughter in New York, Mrs. Darkholme?"
Her eyes darted around the room and she waited just a little too long to answer. "She wants to be on Broadway, Mr. Logan."
He nodded. It was as good an answer as any. "I get fifty dollars a day, plus expenses." It was almost twice his usual fee, but she didn't flinch.
"Thank you so much," she said, eyes glistening with tears as she rose, hand extended.
He took it and led her out of the office.
Once she was gone, he turned to his assistant. "What do you think, 'Ro?" he asked, sitting down across from her and putting his feet up on her desk. She smacked his shoes and he grinned. Teasing Ororo was usually the highlight of his day. "Remind me again why you and I never got together," he said.
"Because I am not crazy enough to take on a reprobate like you, Logan," she replied in her lightly accented voice. He'd found her in the building when he'd moved in. She'd been cleaning toilets. He'd been struck by her exotic beauty -- you didn't meet many women in the prime of life who had snow-white hair -- and her lilting voice. He'd immediately offered her a job. He knew a kindred soul when he met one, and he hadn't met many. Jean. . . He refused to let his thoughts stray down that path yet again.
"But you could be the making of me, 'Ro," he said in a voice that he knew drove most women wild.
She simply laughed. "I do not want to be the making of you, Logan. I prefer my men fully formed before I get them."
"It'd be fun," he countered.
"I am certain it would," she replied, a blush staining her café-au-lait skin at what he implied. "But there is more to life than fun."
He shrugged. "Not much more," he said, rising and returning to his office.
He picked up the photograph of the young woman and studied it closely. She had fair skin and haunted eyes -- eyes that saw through a man to his soul. He put it down. He didn't want anyone looking into his soul. During the war he'd done things even he didn't like to think about, and --
The buzz of the intercom broke into his thoughts. "Mr. Logan, there's a Mr. Xavier here to see you."
"Send him in, Miss Munroe," he replied.
The door opened and a tall bald man with piercing blue eyes entered. He walked with a black cane topped with a silver "X."
"To what do I owe the honor, Mr. Xavier?" Logan asked, rising and extending a hand.
"I need help, Mr. Logan, and I've been assured that you are the best at what you do," the other man replied, shaking his hand and then sitting down.
Logan examined his visitor. Xavier was well-known for his philanthropy and his belief in community harmony. A long time ago, he'd been one of the best District Attorneys in the city. He was now running for mayor. He had close ties to the NYPD; Logan had known and respected him when he was on the force. "Good enough for defense work," he said.
"I'll cut right to the chase. I need to find a girl. She's the daughter of an old friend, and I'm the only family she has left. She went on a date three nights ago, and no one has seen her since." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a photograph identical to the one already lying on the desk. "Her name is Marie Chalmers, and I'm desperate to find her."
"Surely the NYPD--"
"It must be kept quiet, Mr. Logan. I'm sure you understand. A man in my position, a beautiful young girl -- the papers would have a field day and I cannot afford that at this juncture."
"In an election year, you mean."
Xavier looked annoyed. "Yes."
"My fee is fifty dollars a day plus expenses."
"Your fee is thirty dollars a day, Mr. Logan, but I'll pay you fifty," Xavier responded, rising and handing the photograph of Marie to the detective. "I expect results, Mr. Logan. And soon." Logan rose as the older man said, "I can see myself out." When he reached the door he looked back. "I'm glad to see you've turned your life around, Logan. That was an ugly business with Summers." Then he left.
Logan shrugged and picked up the other picture. He was going to have quite a collection if this kept up.
He sat there, staring at her. "Marie, Marie, Marie. A lot of people want to find you. What did you do?"
There was something mesmerizing about the girl's eyes. He ran his thumb over the curve of her cheek and the stripes in her hair.
* * *
Logan didn't know how long he'd been staring at Marie's picture, but he was startled when Ororo poked her head into his office.
"So where do we start?"
He blinked. "You tell me, darlin'. You're the brains of the operation."
She smiled. "I am glad you finally realized that, Logan. It makes things easier."
He arched an eyebrow. "We need to check out this LeBeau character. The Darkholme broad said he worked at one of the clubs in Times Square. I'll head over there and see if I can find him. You see if you can't sweet-talk someone from the Mississippi DMV into giving you the girl's license plate number."
"Marie Darkholme?"
"Or Marie Chalmers. Either. Both maybe."
* * *
He spent his afternoon tracking down the thief. His sources had been talkative. LeBeau was a mid-level player in the Lehnsherr organization, moving H and swindling widows out of their pensions. He'd been seen with a lot of different women, but no one fitting Marie's description.
He headed to the Peek-A-Boo Lounge, where he was meeting with Johnny Allerdyce, his most consistent snitch. Johnny was a pyro, but a professional. He always had the best information on the street, for a reasonable price. He and Logan had been in the service together, they'd worked on an Allied Task Force -- members of Special Services from the Allied armies had been brought together to assassinate Hitler. It hadn't been a success, but he and Summers and Allerdyce had kept in touch -- until Logan slept with Summers' wife. . .
He closed his eyes and tried to recall the scent of her red hair but found himself wondering instead what Marie's hair would smell like.
He sat down at a booth in the back of the lounge, nodding at the bartender. It would soon be happy hour for all the suits who worked in the area.
Then he smelled the distinctive odor of sulfur and wood smoke. "Allerdyce," he said, opening his eyes.
"Am I interrupting something?" the cocky blonde man asked as he slid into the booth.
Logan looked at him and wondered how the promising young man he'd known had fallen back into his old criminal habits once he'd left the service. << We do what we can to survive, >> he thought, realizing he hadn't exactly lived up to his potential, either.
He decided to take a different tack this time. Pulling out Marie's picture, he asked, "Do you know her?"
Johnny played with his lighter and said, "Rogue. That's what she calls herself. She works over at the Soiled Dove on 44th and Broadway. My girl Jubilee knows her."
Logan blinked. This was too easy. "She know Remy LeBeau?"
"The Gambit? Knew him is more accurate. He used to be after her all the time, but she wasn't having any of his Cajun bullshit." He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
"Knew?"
"Didn't you hear? LeBeau took three in the head. Even he couldn't escape that. They pulled him out of a ditch this morning."
"Lehnsherr's people?"
Allerdyce nodded. "That's the word on the street."
"And the girl?"
He shrugged. "Don't know. One of those southern belles, thinks she's too good for the likes of you and me."
Logan snorted. "Turned you down?"
Allerdyce grinned. "Flat. Not that she's my type. And I got Jubilee to keep me warm. But something about the way she looks at you--" he tapped his chest, "like she can see into your heart, you know? And she hurts and you just want to protect her? She's got wounded eyes." He shook his head. "Listen to me, getting all poetic. Rogue."
Logan was startled by the way the other man's words echoed his own thoughts about the girl. He handed over a twenty. "Thanks, Johnny. Take care."
"You, too, man," the arsonist said as he slid out of the booth, leaving Logan to contemplate Marie's picture once again.
He walked over to the Soiled Dove. It had been a while since he'd been in the joint. It was a slightly higher class "gentlemen's club" than the ones he usually frequented, over on Eighth. He recalled Raven's words about Marie's dreams and thought, << She's on Broadway, all right, but I bet it ain't the way she expected. >>
He sat down at the bar. "Scotch, neat." The bartender, a hard-looking man of about sixty, slapped a glass down and poured two fingers of scotch into it. Logan knocked back the drink. "I'm looking for a girl."
"Ya come to the right place, then," the bartender said. "We got lots of 'em here." He nodded toward the stage, where a young woman in a pink corset and black stockings was dancing
"A specific girl," Logan replied. He drew the picture out, along with a twenty. "Andrew Jackson here would be awfully happy to meet her."
The old man glanced at the photograph and then stared at him. "Rogue ain't been in the past three days. Didn't call, neither."
"You know where she lives?"
"No. Why you want to know? She in trouble?" The old man looked suspicious. "You ain't a cop, are ya?"
<< Fucking hilarious >> he thought. << All those years on the force, no one ever makes me. Now I'm a private dick and all anyone ever does is ask if I'm a cop. >> "No. Found someone who owes her money. Thought she might like to collect."
"Kitty might know," the old man said, still skeptical, but willing to go along. When the girl on stage was done, he waved her over. "Kitty, this here gentleman is looking for your friend Rogue."
"Is she in trouble?" the girl asked breathlessly. She tried to appear cool by leaning seductively against the bar, but kept slipping off.
She couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen, Logan thought. A kid. A pretty kid in a dirty business. "No," he said, though he thought she surely was. "I got some money to pass on to her."
"So you're not working for her daddy? Because Rogue told me she's never going back to Mississippi."
"No, I don't work for her daddy," he lied. "I'm just trying to do her a favor." But he was starting to wonder if finding her wouldn't cause her more trouble than not.
"She lives in a boarding house down in Chelsea," Kitty replied, satisfied that he was on the level. She gave him the address and he actually felt bad about lying to her. She was a sweet kid, obviously new to the game, and with her trusting nature, she wouldn't last long.
He handed her a twenty, too. "Why don't you go back to wherever you came from, kid?" he asked gently. "This ain't no kinda life for a girl like you."
"I'm going to be a star," she huffed, and flounced away, stumbling only once in her high heeled shoes.
Logan sighed. He couldn't save her. He couldn't even save himself. "Another scotch," he said. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Detective Scott Summers stared out the window. Instead of the New York City skyline spread out before him, he saw images of the body they'd pulled from a ditch that afternoon, near the reservoir in Central Park. White male, aged twenty to thirty, three bullets to the head at close range, execution style. One Remy "The Gambit" LeBeau, a small-time hustler and drug dealer in the Lehnsherr organization. He sighed and tried to think of one good reason to care about this smokehound.
"Scott?" He turned to see his wife regarding him with concern in her wide green eyes. "Is everything okay?"
"Give me one good reason I should give a damn about why these drug dealers are killing each other," he said.
Her eyes got wider. "Because everybody deserves a chance, Scott. LeBeau never had one. He never saw it coming."
Scott laughed bitterly. "LeBeau was a thief and a junkie. He knew he'd end up like this some day."
"You sound just like --" she stopped and the unspoken name hung heavily between them. They never said Logan's name. Scott tried to forget that he'd ever known the man, ever called him a friend. It was the only way he could forgive Jean for cheating on him.
He blinked and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry, Jean."
She put her arms around him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to --"
He stopped her with a kiss. His anger sometimes found expression in their intimate moments; afterwards, she'd have bruises, finger marks on her hips and arms, and he'd know they were *his*, and not . . . someone else's. That's how he'd discovered the affair in the first place -- she'd come home with another man's hands imprinted on her alabaster skin. He'd let it go, lied to himself about it, growing colder and colder, until she couldn't take it and confessed.
He trusted that she'd been faithful since, but knew she'd picked up a taste for rough play and he gave it to her, believing that it would keep her from straying again.
He walked her back to the desk and lifted her onto it, never breaking the kiss. Pushing her skirt up, he expertly removed her panties and played his fingers across her sensitive flesh.
"Scott," she moaned. "Please." She unbuttoned his pants and guided him into her.
He took her hard and fast, the motion of their hips banging the desk into the wall. He was sometimes surprised at how quickly she came when they made love this way. He still occasionally wondered if she was thinking of Logan, but was too afraid to ask.
When they were done, he kissed her one last time, grinding his mouth against hers, and then walked to the bathroom and shut the door.
Jean lowered herself off the desk onto trembling legs. She loved him more than life itself, and once again cursed her foolishness for casting a pall over their happiness. She had news for him, news she hoped he'd be overjoyed to hear. Sinking down onto the bed, she put a hand over her abdomen. The doctor had confirmed her suspicions that afternoon, and she'd wanted to tell him tonight, but he'd been in a strange mood when he came home. She sighed and began changing into her eveningwear. Her news would keep for a little while.
They had an engagement to prepare for -- they were having dinner with Charles Xavier that night. He had big plans for Scott, and she wanted everything to look perfect, even if it wasn't just yet.
* * *
Logan left the Soiled Dove around midnight, not quite three sheets to the wind. He had a large capacity for alcohol, so he wasn't as drunk as anyone watching him might think. He sauntered toward his car, thinking he might catch a snooze before attempting to drive home, when he realized someone was following him.
He stumbled deliberately, giving his pursuer a chance to make a move. A hand with long, unkempt -- almost clawlike -- nails reached for him. Moving with unexpected quickness, he ducked under it and swung hard, an uppercut to the man's jaw. The man staggered, but righted himself and came up swinging.
As they exchanged blows, Logan tried to get a good look at his attacker -- tall, dark eyes, long, stringy blond hair, bad teeth and bad breath. He wore a tan suede coat with a fur collar. << What the hell kind of freak wears fur? >> he wondered.
They were more evenly matched than the blond man had expected. He snarled and Logan bared his teeth and growled in response, driving the heel of his hand into the other's nose. His head snapped back and Logan pressed his advantage, following up with a jab to the solar plexus and a right to the jaw. The man went down. << I still got it, >> he thought, cracking the joints in his neck.
He'd been a boxer -- undisputed heavyweight champion of the Allied Armies. Nobody took Logan in a fight, not the Germans, not the Japs, and not some pansy with long hair and a fur coat.
He pressed his foot to the man's throat and asked, "What do you want, Blondie?" Then he smelled something fetid, like the sewer was overflowing, and someone leapt onto his back.
He grappled with the second man -- dark-haired, green-eyed, bad skin, he noted mechanically -- while the first recovered. Throwing the dark man onto the hood of a car, he demanded, "Who are you? What do you want?" He heard Blondie getting up behind him and swept a leg out, felling the man again.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and he decided that sometimes, discretion is the better part of valor. Giving Swamp-boy's head one last thump against the car hood, he took off for his own car and peeled out before the cops arrived. He had no desire to get arrested on a drunk and disorderly. Ororo would never let him live it down.
* * *
Scott was in a better mood the next morning. Their dinner with Xavier had gone exceedingly well. If -- when -- Xavier was elected, there were going to be changes on the NYPD, and Scott was going to be a big part of it. Xavier was targeting corruption on the force, always a rampant problem. He wanted Scott to head up an anti-corruption task force. That was a mission Scott could believe in. And he needed something to believe in. When everything else in his life had gone to hell, he'd still had the job, and he did it with an integrity and uprightness that had made him few friends downtown. << Except for what you did to Logan, >> a nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered. He tried to ignore it. Logan had written his own ticket; he'd just made sure it got punched.
Shaking off the bad memories, he noticed Bobby Drake, his new -- and very wet-behind-the-ears -- partner waiting at his desk. "You've got good news for me, I hope?" he said. Xavier had been insistent that the LeBeau case get top priority. Scott thought that was odd, but he was willing to go along for the moment.
"I think we got a break," Bobby said as Scott approached. "One of LeBeau's neighbors saw a young woman in a '49 Packard fleeing the block four nights ago. Said she tore out of there like a bat outta hell." Scott didn't look impressed. Before he could say anything, the younger man continued, "License plate number 455-BAV. Mississippi tags. And that's not all." He paused dramatically. "She has two white streaks in her hair. She's a brunette with two white streaks. How hard can she be to find?" He looked smug as he finished his recitation.
"There are eight million people in this city, Drake. How do you propose we do that?" Scott asked, though he was proud of the kid. He had the makings of a first-rate detective. Bobby grinned. His nickname in the squadroom was Iceman -- he never batted an eye, no matter what horror confronted him on the street. He was cool under pressure and always had a joke at the ready. The other detectives liked him, even though he was one of the youngest homicide detectives in the history of the NYPD. Scott had great plans for him. "We're cops, Summers. We pound the pavement 'til we find her."
He grinned at the younger man. "Good work." Bobby smiled back, relieved. As Scott walked to the coffee machine he called back over his shoulder, "Oh, and Drake, buy a new suit. I'm tired of looking at that one." Taking a sip of his coffee, he said, "So, let's see if we can find Miss Mississippi."
"There's only eight million people, Summers," Bobby replied. "At least one of 'em knows her.'
* * *
Logan was not a morning person. Most of his business was done at night; there were some things best left to the cover of darkness, even if you were a white hat. He strolled into the office around noon, none the worse for wear after his encounter with Hairy and Stinky. Ororo would get the goods on them, though he suspected they were part of Lehnsherr's gang. His hackles were raised; this whole case was starting to smell like a set-up and he hadn't survived as long as he had by ignoring his instincts.
"Glad you could join us," Ororo said sardonically as he hung up his coat and hat. He looked at the two chairs Ororo referred to as the "reception area." Two girls sat, chattering and cracking their gum. Taking a closer look, he realized the fair-skinned one was the girl from the Soiled Dove -- Kitty, the bartender had called her. The other girl was Asian, with short, glossy black hair and olive skin. She wore gaudy earrings and an armful of bangles. "The young ladies -- Miss Lee and Miss Pryde -- have been waiting since eleven."
He raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, girls, what can I do for you?" He opened the door to his office with a flourish and slid behind the desk. Ororo was right behind him with a cup of coffee -- black, no sugar, just how he liked it. She was a real treasure. The girls followed, exchanging worried glances. They stood in the doorway, poised to flee. Then Lee nudged Pryde in the ribs and jerked her chin in his direction.
Kitty took a deep breath and said, "We think you were lying. We think Rogue is in trouble and we want you to find her and help her." Her words tumbled over each other as she managed to get the whole thing out in one breath.
"My man Johnny says you're on the level. He was in the war with you," the other girl added.
Understanding dawned. She must be Jubilee. "Sit," he said. They sat. Ororo looked at him and he nodded -- he wanted her in the room for this. "You're right. I think Marie -- Rogue -- is in a lot of trouble. I'm just not sure what it is yet." He paused, wondering how trustworthy these girls were, and how much he should reveal of what he suspected. He took a sip of coffee to buy some time.
"We don't have a lot of money," Jubilee said, mistaking his silence for reluctance to take the case, "but we're willing to pay in trade."
Ororo made a sound that was quickly muffled. Logan scalded his lungs when he choked on his coffee, sending it down his windpipe.
"Goddammit!" he finally managed to get out. He didn't know whether to laugh, be flattered or be saddened that these girls were reduced to offering themselves to him to help their friend. It was loyalty of a kind he hadn't expected from strippers. << They'd make good soldiers, >> he thought, << scared, but willing to do what needs doing to get the job done. >> He wasn't even tempted to take them up on it. He'd never been one to take advantage of a woman in distress.
"I gotta meet this girl," he muttered, interested in knowing what kind of person inspired their loyalty and Xavier's protective instincts. He still hadn't figured out Darkholme's motives, but he was willing to bet she wasn't the girl's stepmother. He had a vague recollection of hearing the name before, and he had planned on sitting in his office with the door closed until he tracked the memory down. He hadn't expected to have two teenage girls sitting in there with him, offering him sex for his services.
"That won't be necessary, ladies," he said gruffly. "I've already been hired to find her and I'm starting to think I'm bein' played for a sap. So tell me what you know, and we'll see if we can't help each other." Ororo put a hand on his shoulder and a fleeting smile crossed her face.
The girls exchanged another glance, and then Kitty, eyes shining with gratitude, said, "We went to her rooms last night after work. The place had been ransacked. I know Rogue. Even if she was running away, she wouldn't have left her place like that. Clothes were thrown all over the place. . . She's in big trouble. The cops came by this morning, asking about her and Remy."
<< Shit. >> His mind raced. He needed to get rid of the girls so he could get to work. "You two go to work like nothing's wrong," he said. "Miss Munroe and I will take care of Marie -- Rogue. Don't you worry." He tried to sound comforting, and must have succeeded, because they rose and came around the desk to hug him. He was smothered in girlflesh and cheap perfume for a moment. "Go on, get out of here," he grumbled.
They left with much talk of thanks and owing him, to which he paid no attention.
Once they were gone, Ororo said, "There are no Marie Darkholmes licensed to drive in Mississippi. In fact, there are no Darkholmes at all registered with the Mississippi DMV. There are a number of Marie Chalmers', but none matching her description. I did get some interesting information, though. Apparently Marie Kelly, the daughter of Senator Robert Kelly, has two white streaks in her hair. But according to the Senator's office, she has been in Europe for the past three months."
Logan took a few minutes to digest that. Kelly was a powerful force in Washington, concerned with cleaning up the streets and putting away sophisticated, organized criminals like Erik Lehnsherr. He told her he would need time to mull over this new information, let his mind make the connections while he concentrated on other things.
"I have some interesting news myself, 'Ro" he said. "Last night I was attacked by two mokes." He gave her the descriptions and finished with, "I think they're part of Lehnsherr's gang. They didn't tell me what they wanted, other than to use me as a punching bag, but I wasn't real quiet yesterday askin' around about LeBeau."
"And the police are looking for the girl as well," Ororo mused. "I will go to the library and do some research, Logan. You go to the girl's apartment and look around. Call me at," she checked her watch, "three o'clock. I will be back by then, with some answers, I hope."
He tapped her cheek with a finger. "I love it when you take charge, Ororo." She smiled and he once again thanked the luck that had brought them together. He hadn't many friends -- any friends, really, since the Jean debacle -- and it was nice to have someone watching your back, someone who didn't get jealous when you looked at another woman or stayed out late every night. He never would have thought he could be friends with a beautiful woman, and at the beginning of their acquaintance he'd tried to get Ororo into bed, but now her friendship was too important to him to ruin. They were family. He rose abruptly, disturbed a little at the maudlin turn his thoughts were taking. << You're getting soft, old man. >>
When he was at the door she said, "Oh, and Logan, take an umbrella with you."
"There's not a cloud in the sky, 'Ro."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But do not blame me when you are soaked and shivering."
He laughed and went on his way, sans umbrella.
* * *
A fiver and some sweet talk got him past Mrs. McCleary, the landlady. He found nothing in Marie's rooms that explained what was going on. Kitty and Jubilee were correct. It had been thoroughly rifled and it looked like whoever had done it was in a big hurry. He was careful not to touch anything. He eyed the clothing tossed helter-skelter around the dingy room. A pair of gloves caught his eye -- they hung over the back of a chair. They were long, black and satiny. Opera gloves, his mind provided, though he'd never been to the opera that he could recall. He inhaled the girl's scent, still strong even though she'd been gone a couple of days. It was strong and fresh and slightly pungent -- ginger. She used a sachet of ginger in her closet. "Marie, what am I going to do about you?" he murmured, unconsciously stuffing a glove into his pocket.
He went back to his car, deciding to stake the place out for a while. He didn't have to call Ororo for another two hours. He fiddled with the police scanner that wasn't supposed to be in the car, and started to doze, dreaming of a girl with two white streaks and long black gloves.
The scanner crackled, intruding on his fantasy. "I got a witness placing the suspect at the Hot Box, right on Sixth, near West Fourth."
And then, a voice he knew. "I'll meet you there, Drake. We'll bring the girl in for questioning. Let Lieutenant McAllan know."
<< Summers. The Hot Box. Marie. Dammit. >> He snapped out of his daze with a growl, turning the key in the ignition so hard he almost broke it. While he'd been sleeping, the weather had changed. The sky was threatening, and as he drove, fat drops of water splattered on the windshield. He cursed. He should have listened to Ororo. She had an uncanny knack for predicting the weather.
He wasn't far from the West Village, and mid-day traffic was light. Even in the rain, he made it to the Hot Box in record time. It was another strip joint, lower class than the Soiled Dove or the Peek-A-Boo. He sighed. Marie must be desperate to work in a place like this, he thought, not taking the time to wonder how he'd gotten so attached to a woman he hadn't even met.
He walked in, eyes adjusting to the dark, smoky interior of the club. The cops hadn't arrived yet, but he was sure they'd be here soon. He walked up to the bar and prepared to talk the bartender into telling him where the girl was, using his fists if necessary. But it wasn't. Marie was standing at the bar -- he could see the platinum streaks, in stark contrast with her dark hair and black clothes. He inhaled the scent of ginger and scared young woman and promised himself that whatever was going on, they'd have to go through him to hurt her.
"Marie?" he asked, his voice rough.
She turned, startled, before she remembered her name was not Marie anymore. Her face was like a cameo carved from ivory, her eyes dark and haunted, her lips full and coral. "There's no one here by that name," she drawled softly. "My name's Rogue."
"Marie, cut the crap," he said, surprised at the effect her voice was having on him, "My name's Logan. I'm here to help you."
"Really, sugar? How you gonna do that?"
"The police are on their way here. They wanna talk to you."
"I told you, I'm not Marie." But her eyes betrayed her, straying towards the door.
"Is there a back way outta this place? Because the cops ain't the only ones interested in you."
She and the bartender exchanged a look, and then the barkeep jerked his head toward the stage. "Behind the dressing rooms is the service entrance. Opens out onto Minetta Lane."
He heard Summers' voice before he saw him. "This is the place, Drake. I hope your source is good."
An unfamiliar voice -- Drake, he guessed -- said, "He's the best, Summers. Don't worry."
Logan propelled the girl toward the back door. There were a number of women in various states of undress in the back rooms, and one or two gasped or fled as they entered. Marie grabbed a duffel bag from a chair as he dragged her along.
They came out onto the street and into the pouring rain. He tried to protect her with his raincoat, but she kept pulling away. He decided against going to his car. He didn't live far from here, so if they could just avoid Summers, they'd be safe.
There was a dancehall across the street. "In there," he said in a low voice. They entered the place -- it was dark and dingy, filled with tired-looking women dancing for small change with broken men. Logan shucked his wet coat and slung it over a chair, pulling her into his arms as he did so.
"What are you doing?" she asked furiously as he tried to push her head against his chest.
"Hiding your distinguishing characteristics," he responded. "They see that hair of yours, your goose is cooked. You understand me, Marie? Summers is relentless. He'll be Javert to your Jean Valjean."
"You're an educated man, Mr. Logan?" She sounded surprised, but leaned her head against him without protesting. He inhaled her scent again. Ginger, rain and Marie. It was a little bit of heaven, he thought, still unwilling to examine his reaction to this slip of a girl that he'd just met.
Their time out of time ended quickly -- too quickly for Logan -- with the entrance of Detectives Summers and Drake. Strangely, Summers wore sunglasses, even though it was raining, and he didn't remove them, even though the club was dark.
The detectives gave the place the once-over, but didn't see what they were looking for.
"This seems a little low, even for you, Logan," Scott said by way of greeting. Logan could feel the girl tense in his arms, poised for flight, but he kept his hands at her waist, seemingly at ease with the situation.
"You always said I'd come to a bad end, Shades."
"What do you know about Remy LeBeau?"
"What, no 'How ya doin'?', Scottie? And people complain about my manners." He swung around in time to the music, facing Marie away from them. "How's Jeannie?"
Scott's glare -- even through his sunglasses -- could have burned a hole through the wall. "Stay away from this case, Logan. You'll only end up getting killed."
Logan turned back toward the younger man. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, partner?" He spat the last word viciously and only the tightening of Marie's hands on his neck stopped him from saying more. "I got a girl here, and a bottle of scotch. I'm not interested in some stupid murder."
They stared at one another for a few seconds; then Scott said, "Drake, let's go. I don't know where the girl went, but she's not in here."
Logan kept Marie on the dance floor for a while after the police left, just to be safe, he told himself. It had nothing to do with how right she felt in his arms.
Again, he asked if there was a back entrance. The bartender, only too willing to have the large, hairy man and his odd dame -- who were attracting cops like a picnic attracts ants -- leave, pointed them at it. They exited onto MacDougal. The rain had let up slightly, but Logan decided not to take any chances.
"I live over on Barrow -- it's only four blocks away," he said. "Come on."
They walked quickly in the rain. Marie pulled the scarf around her neck up over her hair. She looked like a Madonna, he thought, like something you'd see in a museum. Arriving at his building, he led her up the stairs to the fourth floor.
She pulled her jacket off and then her shirt. She stood facing him in a lacy black bra and her black gloves. "Here or in the bedroom, sugar?"
"What?"
"Do you want me here or in the bedroom? That's what this is all about, right? You 'save' me from the police and then I 'pay' you back." She leaned into him and said, "I've been a naughty girl. Don't you want to spank me? I'll call you 'Daddy' while you hurt me, if you want. That's what *he* always did."
He pushed her away. Someone had obviously used her, twisted her until she thought that's what all men wanted, that's what men were like.
"Who, Marie?"
"Who what, Mr. Logan?"
"Who did this to you?" his voice was low and harsh. "That's not why I'm helping you."
"Then why are you helping me?"
"That's a damn good question, Marie. Do you always answer a question with a question?" he asked angrily.
"No. Do you? And my name is Rogue," she insisted. "Why do you keep calling me 'Marie'?"
"Because a number of people have hired me to find you, kid." He pulled out a picture of her -- Ororo had the other -- and tossed it onto the kitchen table.
She blinked. "Oh," she said. And then again, louder this time, "Oh!" And she bolted for the door. But he was faster. He blocked the way. "Let me out. I'm not goin' back to daddy. I don't care what you do to me," she cried, pounding his chest with her fists. "I'll kill him if you send me back. I'll kill myself."
The insight struck him like a bolt out of the blue. He knew why she'd left home and he swore her sicko father wouldn't be getting his hands on her again.
"What did he do to you, Marie?" he asked gently. She turned away, arms crossed over her chest, hair covering her face. "I don't work for your father, Miss Kelly," he continued. He emphasized the name. "The cops want to pin LeBeau's murder on you. A lady named Raven Darkholme -- do you know her?" she shook her head, "claimed to be your mother and hired me to find you. I have another client looking for you as well." He was keeping Xavier's name out of it for now -- the man could make a lot of trouble for him if he wanted to, though he was generally a stand-up guy.
She started crying in earnest then, her body shaking from the sobs. He attempted to take her in his arms and she snapped, "Don't touch me!" He closed his eyes briefly, but didn't reach for her again.
She shivered in the cold and he said, "I'll put some coffee on, and then you can tell me what's going on, Marie."
Finally, the tears stopped and she said, "So why *are* you helping me?"
<< Good question. >> "Your friends Kitty and Jubilee hired me too," he said, skirting the real reason. She smiled and he felt the world shift beneath him. << You got it bad, man, >> he told himself. "I'll give you something to change into," he continued, "and make some coffee, and you can tell me all about it."
The phone rang then and they both jumped. She laughed nervously. "Yeah," he barked into the receiver.
"Logan, it's Ororo. I have some information for you. Raven Darkholme is Erik Lehnsherr's fiancée. The police believe she's also his second-in-command. The two men who jumped you are Victor Creed and Mortimer Toynbee. They are also known associates of Lehnsherr's. They are dangerous men, Logan. Thugs and assassins."
"I'm dangerous, too, 'Ro, and now I'm angry."
"Be careful, Logan. Mrs. Darkholme called looking for a progress report. Check in if you hear anything."
He quickly decided not to tell her he had the girl yet. Safer for her not to know. "I will, 'Ro. You, too. And, you were right about the weather."
"Of course I was," she responded. "I do not know why you persist in doubting me."
He laughed. "Because I enjoy hearing you scold me when I don't listen," he said. "I'll talk to you soon." He hung up.
"Your wife?" Marie asked.
"My secretary."
"Same thing."
"Not exactly. It's more important to keep your secretary happy, kid. She knows all your secrets."
The joke earned only a weak smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And do you have secrets, Mr. Logan?"
"We've all got secrets, Marie." << Especially you. >> He went into the bedroom and pulled out a pair of pajamas he never bothered with and an old cardigan he never wore. They'd both been gifts from some woman whose name he'd long since forgotten. "Put these on," he said gruffly. "Bathroom's the second door on the right."
He busied himself with the coffee pot while she changed. He tried not to imagine her body as she dressed, but it was hard, having gotten a glimpse of her. He was sick at the thought of what her rat bastard father had done, and he chided himself for not being much better, having the kinds of thoughts he was having about her.
She came out of the bathroom looking ridiculously young in his pajamas and the sweater. His heart ached at the sight of her. He noticed she hadn't taken her gloves off, and made a mental note to ask about that. Putting a hot mug of coffee down on the table, he indicated she should sit. He opened the refrigerator. "Do you take cream or sugar?"
"Yes, please."
"Because I seem to have run out those things," he continued, flushing.
"Black is fine," she said, trying to hide a grin.
They sat in silence, sipping their coffee for a few minutes. He felt comfortable just being in her company. It was a new feeling for him -- nothing like the tension he'd always felt around Jean or other women he'd been with. It was more like the feeling he had with Ororo, with a frisson of something extra, something he couldn't explain. Sympathy for her situation, yes, but also a deep, almost animalistic desire to protect her and make her his.
"So tell me what's going on, Marie."
She sighed and he could see her tense. "I ran away from home, Mr. Logan, because ever since my mother died, my father has expected me to fulfill her responsibilities. At first it was easy, just playing hostess at dinner parties and wearing fancy clothes. I was a kid, I thought it was fun, meeting all these famous people. But then, he started coming to my room at night. He called me 'baby' and made me call him 'daddy' and he would -- " her voice broke and she angrily dashed at the tears starting to spill from her eyes.
"It's okay, Marie," he said, scooting his chair over next to hers. "I get the picture."
"When I learned to drive, I swore I'd get out of there. He told me it was my fault. If I was a better hostess, if I was more like my mother, he said, he wouldn't have to hurt me. But I, I --"
He put an arm around her, and this time she let him. Cradling her head to his chest, he stroked her hair. "He's not gonna hurt you again, kid. I'll take care of you."
She turned slightly, looking him in the eye. "You promise?"
The words were out before he could consider the implications. "Yeah, I promise."
They remained in that position for a few minutes. Then she said, "I suppose you wanna know what happened to Remy."
<< Shit. >> He'd almost completely forgotten about that angle. He was definitely losing his edge. "Yeah, that'd be good, kid."
She swallowed. "Remy was always asking me out. I know the Dove doesn't look like a good place, but compared to the others, it was like Sunday school. Bishop -- that's the guy who owns it -- he always made sure nobody would hurt us girls, and I made friends with Jubilee and Kitty and, well, it was safe. But Remy was always coming around, sweet-talking me.
"Finally, I got tired of it, and I was hungry, so I said yes to dinner with him. I missed the fancy parties and the rich food." She laughed bitterly. "I was so stupid. We went to Delmonico's for dinner and then we went back to his apartment. You know, not all strippers are prostitutes, Mr. Logan. But Remy didn't understand that. We were arguing, and I was getting ready to walk out, because I didn't want to do -- that. There was a knock on the door, and he said he had to answer it. So he answered the door, and I heard him arguing with someone. He called him 'Morty' I think. Then he told me he'd be right back.
"He went outside and I ran to the window to watch. There were two men -- a tall blond man with a tan coat, and a shorter, dark man -- I think that was Morty."
"Blondie and Swamp-boy," Logan murmured.
She ignored him and went on, "Anyway. They were yelling at each other and Remy kept saying he didn't have it. They never said what 'it' was, just that he better give it back or somebody was gonna get hurt. Finally, he turned to come back into the building, and the big one grabbed him and knocked him down. Morty pulled out a gun and, and there were these three bangs. Then Morty and the blond started arguing about how they were supposed to wait to kill him and now they didn't know where the stuff was. Finally, they put the body in the trunk of their car and drove away.
"I panicked. I didn't know what to do. I didn't call the cops because I didn't want them to find me. I didn't want to give my name. I was afraid they'd send me home. And I'm not going back, Mr. Logan. I'm not.
"So I drove home and packed a bag. I lived in the back room at the Dove until yesterday morning. I saw the blond man come into the bar, and I knew he was looking for me. I don't know how he knew I was there, but he did. So I lit out. I worked at the Hot Box last night to pay for some food and I slept at the Bowery Mission. And now I'm here."
She stopped, exhausted, and gulped down some coffee. She made a face and he laughed, defusing the tension of the past few minutes. "Too strong, eh?"
She returned his smile. "Kinda, yeah." She kept up a steady stream of inconsequential chatter as he remade the bed for her and considered her story. He was trying to decide how to tell her she should go talk to the police when there was a knock on his door.
"We know you're in there, Logan, and we've got a warrant."
"Shit."
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Logan and Marie were at the Midtown South Precinct house on West 35th Street. They hadn't even given her time to get dressed. At least he'd made sure they didn't put cuffs on her.
Now she sat in the interrogation room, fiddling with a cup of coffee as Drake questioned her. Logan paced outside the room like an angry lion. He was waiting for the lawyer to arrive. He'd cashed in a few favors and had Ororo call Warren Worthington III, Esq., the best defense lawyer money could buy. Another old Army buddy. Worthington would take Marie's case, if it came to that. Which Logan hoped it wouldn't.
He grudgingly admitted that Summers was a good detective, and a good cop. He'd know immediately he was barking up the wrong tree. If they'd done any work at all on the case, they'd know who the real killers were.
He walked over to the window of the Box and smiled encouragingly at Marie. Drake noticed her glance and drew the blinds with a snap. << The kid's good, too, >> he thought. << Smart. Cut her off from any support and maybe she'll break. >> What Drake didn't know was that she was close to broken already, and if anything happened to her, he'd be facing a very ticked off Logan. They hadn't called him the Wolverine for nothing in his army days. He was hell on wheels in a fight, and Drake would find that out firsthand if he hurt Marie.
Logan went to the john, still considering the implications of the case. It was starting to come together in his mind, and he didn't like it one bit. LeBeau had obviously stolen something of value from Lehnsherr -- probably a shipment of drugs, he mused -- and that piece of stupidity had gotten him capped. People who crossed Erik Lehnsherr had a nasty habit of dying young. It was how the man kept competitive with the other crime families in town.
He returned to pacing in front of the Box, cup of bad stationhouse coffee in hand, when he heard Marie's exclamation. "I'm not going back to Mississippi! I'd rather go to jail!" And then the sounds of muffled crying.
He burst into the observation room. Summers stood calmly watching the crying girl through the two-way mirror. Xavier was with him. Marie had jumped up and Drake was trying to calm her down.
"Stop it now, Summers," he growled, grabbing the other man and shoving him against the wall. "She's not your killer, so leave her alone."
Scott attempted to push Logan's hands away. "Get off me, Logan. Your little chickie is in a world of hurt and you're not helping her."
"Gentlemen," Xavier barked, undeniable authority in his tone. "Stop this." Logan released Scott, who straightened his shirt and tie. "The girl is not the killer, Scott. She's telling the truth. She is, however, a very important witness against the two men --"
"Creed and Toynbee," Logan interrupted.
"Creed and Toynbee," Xavier repeated, "who killed LeBeau. You will take her statement and I will notify her father that we've found her."
"You tell her father where she is and there'll be hell to pay, old man," Logan snarled.
Scott was lost. Things had rapidly spun out of his control and he did *not* like that.
Xavier said, "This is a delicate situation, Logan. You have no idea--"
"Yeah, I do, Chuck. And while I'm sure you wanna curry favor with Senator Kelly, you ain't tellin' him where the girl is."
He'd finally managed to surprise the seemingly unflappable philanthropist. "How--"
"No thanks to you. Marie Chalmers, you told me. I also got hired to find Marie Darkholme. I don't appreciate being used as a stalking horse, either by Lehnsherr or you, Xavier. You're not sending her back to her father and I don't give a damn what the political ramifications are. Do you have any idea what that son of a bitch did to her?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Scott snapped, finally able to get a word in.
"Marie's father," Logan spat the words derisively, "the illustrious Senator Kelly from Mississippi, is a fucking baby raper."
Emotions flashed across Scott's usually inscrutable face. Logan couldn't read him anymore -- it had been years since they'd been close enough for that. Finally, with an almost imperceptible nod, as if he'd come to a decision, he said, "Not everything is about politics, Charles. If what Logan says is true--"
"You callin' me a liar?" Logan growled.
Scott shot him a hard look. "*If* it's true, then we can't send the girl back. And," he jerked his chin toward her crying form, "it looks to me like it is. She's scared, and not of Lehnsherr, or us. I can tell you that. She didn't bat an eye until Drake asked her about going home." The interrogation had ground to a halt, with Marie sobbing into Drake's handkerchief as he awkwardly tried to console her. He looked at Logan again. "I'm not your enemy on this one, so don't try your bullshit intimidation tactics on me, Logan."
"Scott, the Senator is a very powerful man --" Xavier began.
"Who raped his daughter," Logan ground out. "I don't give a damn if he's the fucking president of the United States. He's not getting her back. And you'll have to go through me to get her."
"Logan, you'll keep her with you?" Scott asked, trying to regain some measure of control over the volatile situation. Logan nodded grimly. "Take her home, then. We'll send a black-and-white over to protect you from Lehnsherr while Charles and I figure out what to do."
"Scott," Xavier tried again, but Summers shot him a look that was icy, even from behind the sunglasses, and he subsided.
Logan walked out and sat down in the bullpen, the area where witnesses waited to give their statements and families waited for whatever news, usually bad, the police had for them.
Scott entered the interrogation room. "Marie, you're free to go. We just need you to go over your descriptions of the two men again, and maybe look at some mug shots. We need to ensure that Creed and Toynbee are indeed the men you saw shoot LeBeau. Detective Drake will be right back with the photographs." He turned the Bobby's chair around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. "Logan's waiting for you. He'll protect you from anyone who wants to hurt you."
"You know him?" she asked, surprised.
"We were in the war together."
"Oh." Then, "He's a good man."
Scott hesitated, wondering how to answer that, even though it wasn't really a question. "Yes," he said finally. "He's had his troubles, but yes, at heart, he's a good man. And he's the best man to have on your side in a fight." He stood. He didn't want to discuss Logan anymore. "Do you need more coffee or anything?"
"I'm fine, Detective Summers," she responded politely.
Drake came back into the room then, and Scott went to placate Xavier.
Meanwhile, Logan sat glaring at some punks who were waiting to have their statements taken. He remembered all the things he'd hated about being a cop, and having to deal with lying witnesses was one of them. If there's one thing every cop is sure of, it's that everybody lies. Some people lie because they have to, some lie because they're scared, and some lie for the sheer damn joy of it, but no doubt about it, they're all liars.
And yet he'd believed Marie, had known instinctively she was telling the truth, both about her father and about LeBeau. He shook his head. He didn't know why, he just knew he did, and his instincts were usually correct. He'd known the Darkholme woman was trouble, and by god, she was. He was always happy to have his first impressions confirmed. Made him more confident in them when he wavered.
He was still mulling over what to do about Marie, and his feelings for her, when he caught a scent he hadn't smelled in a long time. Two years, eight months and five days, to be exact. Not that he'd been counting.
He looked up to see Jean Summers standing alone by her husband's desk, looking as out of place in the squadroom as Logan would have looked at high tea at Buckingham Palace. He got up and walked over, attempting to look casual.
"Jean."
She turned, startled, and blushed, the delicate color suffusing her face. "Logan. What are you doing here?"
He shoved his hands in his pockets and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Working on a case."
He was examining his reactions to her minutely, but all he felt was regret that he'd caused her pain. And he knew he had. He'd known from the moment she agreed to meet with him, sleep with him, that he'd always come in second to Scott in her eyes, even though she was willing to throw away her marriage for a few wild rolls in the hay with him. Their affair had been the start of the end of his career as a cop, and the end of his friendship with Scott, yet he couldn't even summon up the passion to hate her, or want her. All his desire was focused on the young woman with the southern accent and the white stripes in her hair.
"I'm sorry, Jean, for everything." And he truly was.
He'd surprised her again. "That's, that's okay, Logan. I, you, we were both at fault. I'm sorry, too."
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments, and then he said, "You look great. You're glowing." She smiled a secret smile, and he knew without her telling him. "Congratulations. Scott must be proud."
Her smile faltered. "Do you think so? I haven't told him yet. He's so wrapped up in this LeBeau case. His career means everything -- he's hitching his star to Xavier's wagon. . . " she trailed off as the men in question approached. Scott looked like he was ready to kill.
"Jean. Why are you here?" His voice was sharp.
She smoothed back hair that wasn't out of place and said, "We're having dinner with the Ryans, remember? You asked me to pick you up at seven."
"I don't think I'll be able to make dinner," he began, but Xavier cut him off.
"Go, Scott. The Ryans can do much to help our cause. I will talk to Detective Drake, and if we need you, we'll give you a call." He turned to Logan. "Marie should be out shortly, Logan. She identified Creed and Toynbee from their mug shots, so we'll at least be able to put them away. I hope that with their testimony, we can bring Lehnsherr down as well." He looked to Scott. "Detective Drake and I are paying a call on Judge McCoy, Scott, in order to get the arrest warrants, and a search warrant for Lehnsherr's mansion. Wagner will be meeting us in McCoy's chambers.
"Wagner?" Logan muttered to Scott.
"Assistant DA."
"Oh."
Xavier continued speaking as if they hadn't interrupted. "Be back here at eleven, Scott, and we'll see if we can't wrap this whole thing up tonight." Then he walked away, leaning heavily on his cane.
"Old man sure seems to take charge, even though he's not a prosecutor anymore," Logan observed.
Scott ignored the remark and said, "You look after the girl, Logan. If anything happens to her, our case against the two thugs is shot, and so is my," he caught himself, "our chance to put Lehnsherr away once and for all." Then he put a hand on his wife's elbow and led her away, leaving Logan standing in the middle of the squadroom, alone.
* * *
Once they were in the car, Scott tried to conceal his anger, but it was useless. Jean always seemed to know what he was thinking, even when no one else did.
"He apologized, Scott, that's all," she said, her tone conciliating.
His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. "The bastard shouldn't have even spoken to you. And you certainly shouldn't have responded."
"What was I supposed to do, Scott? Walk away? You know he'd follow. That would look really great, to have him stalking me across the squadroom, in front of everyone. They all know what happened. It's no secret."
He'd thought it could get any worse, but it just had. No one -- except himself and Logan -- knew what had actually happened, and it wasn't his proudest moment. When Logan had fallen down on the job after Jean broke off their affair, Scott could have covered for him, but he didn't. He could have saved Logan's job, but he didn't. And that still haunted him.
"I suppose you're right," he said tightly.
"I apologized to him as well," she continued softly. He jerked his head around to look at her. "Watch the road, Scott!"
"Sorry," he muttered. "Why the hell did you apologize to him?"
"Because I could have said no, and I didn't." Her voice was small in the spaciousness of the car. It was the first time they'd ever discussed it so openly. "I'm sorry, Scott. I truly am. I had everything I ever wanted and was too stupid to realize it. I thought I wanted something dangerous, something wild, but I didn't. I only ever wanted you, Scott, and I didn't know how to stop it once it started. It was --"
"I don't want to hear what it was like, Jean." It was a growl worthy of Logan himself.
"It was a mistake, a terrible mistake," she was crying now, openly crying instead of hiding in the bathroom, or burying her face in her pillow, as she'd done two years ago. "I'm so, so sorry."
He pulled the car to the curb and took her in his arms. "I'm sorry, too. Sorry that I couldn't be what you needed me to be. Sorry I ignored you and made you turn to Logan. But that's over now. It's done," he was vehement, "it's done and we got through it. It's only made us stronger."
"Do you really believe that?" she whispered.
"I have to," he said. "Please tell me you do, too." He was pleading now, begging the way he hadn't when he'd found out. When he'd finally confronted her, he'd been as cold as ice, but the fire was there now -- the fire she'd always known was in him, but that had somehow been banked over the years -- and she responded to it eagerly.
"I do, Scott. I love you so." She kissed him passionately. "And, I have some news for you." She looked down at her abdomen almost shyly, took his hand and put it there, though there were no outward signs yet. His eyes followed her movements.
"Jean?" he breathed, voice full of wonder. "Are you--"
"We're going to have a baby, Scott." Her tone was as awed as his. He turned the car off and kissed her again, this time reverently. She turned toward him and they slid down on the seat, wrapped around each other. He was slow and careful and she responded in a way he hadn't seen in a long time, with soft gasps and sweet moans. They celebrated their good news on the front seat of the car, parked on Sixth Avenue at 56th Street
They were late to the dinner, but neither of them cared very much.
* * *
After Drake was finished questioning Marie, Logan bundled her into a cab and they went back to his apartment.
"Do you want to go out to eat?" he asked, when they arrived. She looked down at herself, still in his pajamas, and shook her head. "No, I guess not. I have some steaks in the icebox. Will that do?" She nodded.
While he cooked, she showered. He gave Ororo a call at home, told her to watch out for strangers and stay away from the office tomorrow. He had a feeling things were going to get ugly quick, especially if Summers went after Lehnsherr tonight.
They ate in almost complete silence. He'd never been much of a talker, and she was exhausted. It wasn't uncomfortable, though. At least, for Logan it wasn't. He was busy trying to imprint her on his memory -- her scent, the way she looked, the way she moved, and her voice on the rare occasions when she spoke. He was also trying to control his reaction to her. It couldn't be right -- a man his age lusting after a nineteen-year-old girl. He was old enough to be her father, and God knows, that freak had done enough damage.
After they ate, he washed the dishes and she dried. Still, they didn't talk much, but every accidental brush of her hand against his was fraught with tension. He found himself trembling from her slightest touch.
Finally, she said, "I'm tired, Logan."
He'd asked her to drop the "mister." It didn't sound right to him. He didn't remember much of his life before the war -- it was as if he'd been born the day he woke up somewhere in the Canadian Rockies. He'd lived like an animal for a while, before being found by Mac Hudson. Then he'd gone to work for the Canadian government, as if he'd been born to the job. He was a killer. He'd been an assassin, which is how he'd wound up working with Summers -- the man was a crack shot and cool as ice under pressure. They were the perfect team to carry out covert operations during the war. They'd complemented each other, and that had carried over into their policework. Until Jean came between them. He'd been unwilling to stay away from her, and unable to handle losing her, and it had cost him his best friend and his career.
But he had apologized to Jean, and with that he had let go of his past. He had the strangest feeling that Marie was his future.
"Okay, darlin'," he said, "you can have the bed. I'll be out on the couch if you need me."
She smiled tiredly and shuffled off to his room. For a long time he just sat in the living room, his beer growing warm on the coffee table, thinking through what to do about Marie, LeBeau, Xavier and Lehnsherr. Finally he turned out the lights and fell asleep.
* * *
She woke rapidly, ready to run, and then she realized where she was. Strangely, she felt safe with Logan, though he looked like a ruffian and was obviously a little shady. When she'd asked him about his business, he'd said, "I'm the best at what I do, Marie, but what I do isn't very nice." And she hadn't pushed him for details.
She could hear him groaning in the living room and wondered if he was being attacked. Grabbing the baseball bat standing in the corner, she tiptoed out to the living room.
He wasn't under attack. At least, not by anything she could see. He was asleep, obviously in the throes of a nightmare. He thrashed and moaned on the couch, and he'd thrown off the sheet, so that his chest was bared. She put down the bat and moved toward him, softly calling his name. She reached out a gloved hand and stroked his cheek. He came awake in a flash and had a hand around her throat before she could react.
He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes, and released her immediately. "I'm sorry, Marie. I'm so sorry," he said, sinking back down on the couch, rubbing his forehead.
She sat next to him, one hand rubbing her neck where he'd grabbed her, the other tentatively on his shoulder.
"It's okay, Logan," she said, patting him awkwardly, her voice a little hoarse.
"It's not okay, Marie. Dammit--" he closed his eyes, "sorry. I could have hurt you badly, killed you even."
"But you didn't." Her hand moved to his back, more assured now, gently rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades. The silk of her gloves felt good, but he wanted to feel her skin. He took her other hand and pulled lightly at the glove.
"Why do you wear these?"
It was her turn to close her eyes. She stopped touching him, pulling her hands into her lap and twisting them together. She licked her lips and he said, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's all right." He didn't need to be a genius to figure out it had something to do with her father.
"No," she said. "I, I want to tell you. You're the only one who knows any of this." He put one hand on her shoulder, pulling her against him. The other hand, so much larger and rougher than hers, he laid over both of hers, stilling their agitated motion. She smiled faintly up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears. "After my father -- after he started coming to my room -- I was only twelve -- he, he told me I was bad, that I was dirty and that I couldn't touch anyone, least of all him. He always made me keep my clothes on while he, while he. . . I had to stay covered up so I wouldn't soil him, or, or Claire. Claire's only fifteen." She blinked rapidly and Logan sucked in a breath. This was the first he'd heard of a younger sister. "I pray every night he's not doing to her what he did to me. He probably isn't. Claire's good -- she's clean. She wouldn't come with me when I ran away. And I couldn't tell her why. . . I'm the bad one, the dirty one."
She jerked away from him now, upset. "You probably shouldn't touch me, either. Bad things happen to people who do, Logan, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you."
"Hey," he said softly, "none of that is true, Marie. It's all bullshit." He stopped. "Sorry."
She gave a watery giggle. "You don't have to apologize every time you cuss, Logan. I'm a big girl, I can handle it."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, *he's* the freak, kid. He's the one who's sick, not you. Fathers don't do that shit to their daughters. Not good fathers, anyway." He rubbed her back the way she'd just done for him, and he could feel her relax under his hand.
She curled up against him, pulling her legs onto the couch and putting her head on his shoulder. Soon she was asleep. He sighed and wondered what he was going to do about his growing feelings for her.
* * *
He was mostly asleep himself when he heard it. Gunfire. He thought he was dreaming, that his nightmares had returned, and he tried to ignore it. Then there were footsteps on the stairs and muffled voices and he was too slow, too slow.
There were three of them and as the two men -- Blondie and Swamp-boy, he noted somewhere in the back of his mind -- knocked him out with a billy club, the third person grabbed Marie. The girl struggled but her attacker was strong, and forced the chloroformed rag over her mouth. The last thing he saw before he passed out was Marie collapsing and the third kidnapper -- it was Raven Darkholme -- wrapping her in a blanket.
Then the darkness took him.
* * *
He heard them before he saw them. "He's breathing, Charles. He should be coming around soon." << Summers. Damn, what'd I do to deserve this? >> he wondered, and then the memories flooded back and he shot up, eyes open and wild, unaware or uncaring that he wore only his boxer shorts.
"Marie!" he exclaimed. "Those bastards took Marie."
Scott's glasses flashed in the morning light. "We know. Lehnsherr contacted her father."
"Who in turn contacted me," Xavier's deep voice said. "They are arranging a meet tonight at the fountain in Central Park. We will be there, as well, to make sure the girl is safe.
"Fuck." Logan rubbed the back of his head, which felt like someone had used it for batting practice. "She won't be safe if that freak gets hold of her," he growled.
"Logan," Scott said warningly. "We're working on a plan."
"I'll bet," he muttered, stalking into the bedroom and randomly pulling on some clothes. It was then he noticed the duffel bag Marie had grabbed when they'd left the Hot Box. She'd stuffed it in the bottom of his armoire.
Opening it, he saw a pair of gloves, some lacy underwear and a small package wrapped in brown paper. He was willing to bet it was whatever LeBeau had stolen from Lehnsherr. He tore open a corner of the paper and saw white powder. He sniffed -- definitely heroin.
Was she lying to him, playing him for a sap after all? he wondered. Had she been in on it all along? He shook his head. No, she was innocent. LeBeau had used her, the way her father had used her, the way Lehnsherr was using her now, and Xavier, as well.
He thought about the way she'd fallen asleep so trustingly, and decided that, even if she wasn't, it didn't matter. He'd promised to take care of her and he hadn't. He hadn't been able to protect her. But he'd be damned if he'd let her go back to her father. He would go along with whatever Xavier and Summers had planned, but he'd keep an eye out for a chance to grab Marie and make a break. And maybe kill her bastard father while he was at it.
* * *
He was silent as Scott outlined the rudiments of their plan while they drove to Xavier's office on the Upper East Side.
When they arrived, Senator Kelly was there, waiting. He was a tall, distinguished looking man with two wings of white framing his face. << So Darkholme wasn't lying about that, >> he thought. He willed himself to remain calm and didn't do more than glare at the man who had abused Marie for so many years.
There was a young girl there as well, blonde, no streaks. Claire, he figured. She looked happy and healthy, and he wondered if the freak had left her alone, and why.
"Claire, go with Mrs. Braddock," Xavier instructed her gently. "Betsy, please take Claire wherever she'd like to go. I know this is her first time in New York. My car and driver are at your disposal, my dear." He sounded for all the world like a kindly uncle, not the man who would be handing Marie over to her baby raper of a father, Logan thought, clenching his fists. He wanted to rip Kelly's intestines out and wrap them around his neck.
Scott noticed Logan tense, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down," he said softly. "We'll take care of the girl."
"You better, or I'll take care of her father," he muttered in response.
Xavier wasn't one to beat around the bush, Logan knew. He looked at Kelly and said, "Your daughter has made a life for herself here, Robert. She may not want to return to Washington with you. Will you let her remain here? Scott's wife, Jean, is in a delicate condition and could use some help."
Kelly's eyes narrowed. "I'll be taking Marie home with me," he said. "I miss her and Claire needs her."
"I'll bet you do, you fucking pig," Logan growled.
"And who are you?"
"I'm the man who'll be taking Marie home, pal. I know what you did to her and you ain't gonna be doin' it anymore."
"Logan!" Xavier barked.
"What, Chuck? You gonna fire me? Already happened. I'm my own boss now."
"Charles, perhaps you could call your dog off?" Kelly suggested, steel in his voice. "I wouldn't like to have to reveal to the papers what I know about your past relationship," he gave the word a strange emphasis, "with Lehnsherr, but should this," his eyes raked Logan scornfully, "thug keep shooting his mouth off, I may have no choice. And you know what that would do to your chances of winning the election." The threat hung in the air, the tension in the room so thick it was almost tangible. It prickled against Logan's skin, and he felt constrained by his inability to act until he heard what the others had to say.
Scott exhaled first. "Of course, we'll do whatever we can to help, Senator," he said easily, slipping into the schmoozing mode that made him so popular with the brass. He shot Logan a warning look and continued, "Our first priority is to make sure Marie is safe and get her back. What did Lehnsherr want from you in return?"
"Immunity from prosecution on the LeBeau shooting," the Senator replied. "I, of course, agreed."
Scott bit his lip and his hands fisted unconsciously, but he'd always had more control than Logan. "Immunity for Lehnsherr himself, perhaps," he said, "but Creed and Toynbee will certainly be arrested and tried. And found guilty, with Marie's testimony."
"Ah, there's the crux of the matter," Kelly replied suavely. "I've promised that Marie will return home with me and not testify. Without her, you have no case."
"Son of a bitch," Scott whispered before he could stop himself. Kelly smiled tightly. "And you agreed to this, Charles?" he asked, turning to his mentor.
Xavier inclined his head. "For the moment, it seems prudent to do as Senator Kelly wishes, Scott."
Logan couldn't contain himself anymore. "You motherfucking assholes," he roared. "You're gonna let that murdering cocksucker go free so this freak can have his daughter back, so he can rape her again. Over my dead body." He launched himself at the senator.
"If you insist," Kelly replied, a gun suddenly appearing in his hand.
Logan had the reflexes of a cat; he was able to grab the weapon and wrench it out of the senator's hand. "Don't *ever* point a fucking gun at me again, unless you're sure you got a kill shot." Kelly was stunned by the other man's quickness and ferocity.
"I might be able to find work for a man of your talents, Mr.--" he said, his political instincts overcoming his surprise and fear.
"Fuck you. And the horse you rode in on," Logan growled. "I'll be there tonight, Summers. And I'll be taking Marie home with me."
He glared at them all one more time and then left.
Scott caught him at the bottom of the stairs. "We'll get the girl back, Logan," he said. "And Creed and Toynbee too. I lost two uniforms to those bastards last night, and I'm not going to take that lying down. I trust Xavier, and I know whatever he's doing, it's not what it appears. He wouldn't place his own quest for power above the welfare of an innocent girl." But he didn't sound as sure as he'd like.
Logan ran a hand through his already wild hair and said, "I got a plan of my own, Scout." And he told Scott about the package he'd found in Marie's bag. They discussed ways of using it to their advantage, and parted on wary but not unpleasant terms.
Scott made some phone calls and set some plans in motion.
* * *
Logan arrived at the fountain early. Timing was key if they wanted the plan to work. He scoped the area -- it was mostly flat and open, with a wide balustrade and stairs leading down to it from the south side. In the dark, it would be hard to tell who was who, but he had excellent night vision, and confidence in his .45.
Summers and Drake would be hiding in the trees off to one side, and he would be on the other. Kelly and Xavier, with Kelly's bodyguard serving as the driver, would appear to be alone.
Lehnsherr would show up with the girl and go down in a haze of bullets after Marie was safe. That was Kelly's plan. What he didn't know was that he'd be getting caught in the crossfire, and joining the drug lord in his grave. That was Logan's plan.
Lehnsherr arrived early, as Scott had known he would. He was a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a grey wool bespoke suit. His piercing blue eyes missed little as he surveyed the scene. Raven Darkholme, wearing blue, her red hair perfectly coiffed, stood beside him. And there, not struggling but with a mulish expression on her face, was Marie. Raven was holding her by the arm and Logan could see her hands were still gloved -- and bound in front of her. She chafed visibly at the restraints.
Creed and Toynbee did a recon similar to the one Logan had done earlier, Creed seeming to sniff the air like a big cat hunting its prey.
"Someone's here, boss," he called out, "but I don't think he'll be any trouble." He pulled Drake from his hiding place and shoved him toward Lehnsherr.
On opposite sides of the clearing, Logan and Scott both thought, << Shit. >> Logan thought, << We'll improvise. >> Scott, << Oh, no, Logan's going to improvise. >> He was much more comfortable with everything planned out, though he knew some things were out of his control.
Xavier's Bentley drew up, discharging the mayoral candidate and the senator, along with the driver, who was very clearly armed, a bulge distending his jacket under each arm.
"Charles," Lehnsherr said, as if greeting an old friend over cocktails, "so glad you could join us. It's been ages, hasn't it?" He had a slight accent, betraying his Eastern European origins.
"Erik," Xavier said coldly. "Just let us have the girl. She's of no value to you."
"She saw us cack LeBeau," Toynbee said.
The two older men turned and glared as one. "Be quiet, Mortimer," Lehnsherr hissed. "I didn't bring you along for your negotiating skills." He turned back and said, "Ah, yes, Senator Kelly. As you can see, no harm has come to your lovely daughter. She's quite a handful, though. Whyever do you want her back?"
"Mr. Lehnsherr, please," Marie said desperately, "Don't let him have me. You don't understand how evil he is. I swear I won't testify against you. I'll disappear and you'll never see me again. I promise."
Logan could smell the fear wafting off her even from his hiding place and he growled softly. Lehnsherr would pay. Kelly would pay. If Xavier stood in his way, he's also find himself facing the business end of the .45 in Logan's hand.
Lehnsherr looked in amazement from Marie to her father. He leaned in confidentially toward Xavier. "You see what I've had to deal with all day, Charles?" Then he turned to Senator Kelly. "You must be a very bad man indeed for your daughter to prefer *my* company to yours."
"I'll be taking the girl, Erik," Xavier said. "Robert is just here to see that she's unharmed."
Kelly turned an astonished gaze on Xavier. "That's *not* what I agreed to, Xavier."
"I have an abhorrence of men who rape children, Robert," Xavier replied icily, "as does every right thinking person."
Erik's eyes widened, but he gave no other outward sign of being shocked. "Is this true, child?" he asked Marie gently. She nodded and Logan could a see a tear slowly roll down her pale cheek, glinting in the moonlight.
"Talk, talk, talk," Creed grumbled. "When do we get to the action?"
Lehnsherr rolled his eyes and looked at Xavier again. "This is what I've been reduced to, old friend."
Xavier's face didn't soften. "That was your choice, Erik. It didn't have to be that way."
Kelly was still spluttering with rage. "Now my morality is being criticized by a crook and a queer? Oh yes, I know all about you, Lehnsherr. Don't forget, Xavier, I'll ruin you if you cross me."
"Some things are more important than power," Xavier said mildly, not even looking at the other man.
Unnoticed by the group in the clearing, Scott and Logan were inching their way forward. Creed had lost interest in Drake after disarming him, so he drifted slowly toward Marie.
Things began moving very fast. Drake shoved Darkholme and grabbed Marie. He cut through the rope that bound her hands and moved her toward the Bentley. Creed and Toynbee opened fire, one bullet catching Drake in the shoulder, the other in the calf. He went down. Marie screamed. The senator's bodyguard began shooting wildly. He was hit in the head, the back of his skull spattering over the polished hood of the car.
Logan roared and came out his crouch, gun blazing. Toynbee went down. Lehnsherr and Darkholme scrambled for cover as Kelly and Xavier each tried to capture Marie. Lehnsherr fell backwards, a bullet in his chest. Scott smiled, grimly satisfied.
Creed launched himself at Logan, and the two grappled, rolling along the ground. Creed had the upper hand in a moment, straddling Logan and banging his head into the brickwork. Logan looked stunned, but was able to shove the heel of his hand upward into the other man's nose, forcing the cartilage back into his cranium. Creed screamed and Logan bucked him off, rolling away and quickly leaping to his feet. Creed followed, blood streaming down his face. Scott tossed Logan's gun to him and he shot the blond man in the chest twice, at point blank range. Creed staggered back and fell over, dead.
Kelly yanked his daughter away from Xavier and shoved her behind him. She stumbled and fell. He pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed it at Xavier. "The old man gets it if you don't let me go," he shouted. Scott and Logan stopped, staring at him.
"He means nothing to me," Logan growled, but Scott's hand on his arm held him back for a moment. They heard the gun being cocked and a shot rang out. Time slowed to a crawl as the Senator fell forward. Standing over him, Marie pumped three more bullets into her father, and continued pulling the trigger, even though the clip was empty. She had picked up the bodyguard's gun, and freed herself from her father's tyranny forever.
They stood motionless in the moonlight for a few moments, corpses and blood strewn about the fountain, which sparkled silver and burbled merrily in the sudden silence.
Marie stood trembling, the gun dangling from her benumbed fingers. She looked at Scott defiantly. "I did it," she said, her accent thickening, "and I'd do it again if I had the chance." There was nothing Logan could do or say to protect her now.
Scott looked from Kelly's body to the equally lifeless form of Erik Lehnsherr. He reached out and took the gun from the girl, handling it carefully. He wiped it off and, bending down, slid it into Lehnsherr's already stiffening fingers.
Standing, he looked at them. "Get out of here before I change my mind."
Logan didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed Marie's arm and led her away. Both men knew all debts between them had been paid.
* * *
When they got back to Logan's apartment, Marie broke down. "I killed him. He was right. I'm evil, I'm bad. I'm no good, Logan. I'll only hurt you, too," she cried hysterically, arms wrapped around herself, backing away from him.
He grabbed her shoulders. "Marie, you did what you had to do. You said it yourself. He was the evil one. Now you're safe and Claire's safe. I'll take care of you, Marie. I promised I would, and I always keep my promises."
She looked up at him, her brown eyes still haunted. "I knew you'd be there tonight. It was all that kept me from killing myself when I found out Lehnsherr was giving me back to -- him."
He walked her over to the couch and then went into the kitchen to make coffee. When it was ready, he put the mug into her hands. She gripped it like it was the only thing keeping her from flying apart. He began kneading her shoulders, the way he'd done the night before. He could feel the tension begin to leave her body. She put the coffee mug down and drew her legs up beneath her.
He continued rubbing her back gently. He didn't mean for things to change, to get out of hand, but after a few minutes, she turned and pressed her lips to his neck. He drew in a sharp breath at the feel of her lips on his skin. Rising up onto her knees, she took his face between her hands and kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft against his. She opened her mouth slightly, and he could feel her breathing into him as she traced his lips slowly with her tongue, her eyes open and holding his.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled back. "Marie, we shouldn't. I'm too old and you're too--" he searched for the word, his brain scrambled by the kiss, "vulnerable. Too much has happened tonight."
She shrugged under the light pressure of his hands, her hair brushing against them. "We should," she replied, "you're not and I want to. For the first time ever," she whispered, "I actually want someone -- and not just any someone, but *you*, Mr. I-only-have-one-name Logan -- to touch me." And she deliberately moved so that she straddled him, her knees cradling his thighs and her warmth pressing against his groin. She kissed him again. He tried to gather the willpower to resist her, but he had thought about it too much during the past two days, and having the object of his fantasy -- white streaks and black gloves -- warm and willing in his lap did not bode well for his self-control. She slid her tongue along the roof of his mouth and her fingers played in his hair and he was lost.
His hands came up and cupped her breasts and she gasped into his mouth. He moved his thumbs over her sensitive flesh and then quickly unbuttoned her shirt. His tongue stroked against her right nipple and she gasped again. Then he licked and sucked and smiled at her response. He moved to her left breast, wanting to lavish attention on every beautiful part of her. Her hands ran through his hair, memorizing the shape of his skull, and then ran down his chest to tease at his nipples through his shirt. He looked up and it was her turn to grin.
He moved his hands to her hips and applied the slightest pressure; she stood up and got rid of the rest of her clothing. His followed. He wanted to be gentle, to show her it didn't have to be painful, but she was moving against him and he didn't know how long he could hold on. He could smell her arousal and it was like an aphrodisiac.
He slid a finger into her wet warmth and knew she was ready for him, so he once again pressed lightly on her hips and she eased down onto him, taking him fully into her. He paused, looking her in the eye as she adjusted to the stretch.
"I'm sorry I'm not --" she whispered, her brown eyes sorrowful when they should be full of desire.
He covered her mouth with a kiss. "I'm sorry he hurt you," he murmured against her lips, "but that -- it's okay. I never want to cause you pain when we make love." And he touched her hips and she knew without him telling her what he wanted. She raised up until he was almost all the way out, and then she pressed down again. She did it twice before he took control and rolled them over so he was on top. She hooked her legs around his back and met his hips with her own. Soon, too soon for him -- he wanted it to last forever -- he could feel her convulse around him, and she cried out his name as she came. That drove him over the edge and he lost control, spilling himself into her as if he poured his whole heart, his whole soul, his very being into this one fragile girl.
They lay together after, slick with sweat. She dropped light kisses along his neck and shoulders before murmuring, "Thank you, Logan." Then she was asleep, curled up against him on the couch, naked except for those damn silk gloves.
He carried her into the bedroom and put her in bed, slipping in beside her. They slept soundly.
* * *
Logan wasn't sure how long they'd been asleep when the phone rang, startling him awake.
It was Ororo. "Have you seen today's paper?" she asked.
"No. Just woke up," he grunted.
"Yes. You had a busy night, it appears." He filled her in on everything that happened, and she said, "You were lucky this time, Logan, that you did not get hurt. Next time, I wish you would tell me what is going on *before* the action. That way, I might be able to save you some trouble."
"Yes, 'Ro. It won't happen again, 'Ro," he mumbled, suitably chastened, as he always was when she lectured him.
Her laugh lilted across the phone line. "Not until the next time. I will see you tomorrow, yes?"
"Yes." And with that, he broke the connection and padded to his front door to pick up the newspaper.
In screaming bold headlines, the Daily News said, "Senator Kelly Shot in Quintuple Murder" and then, in slightly smaller print, "Law and Order Kelly caught in Drug Bust."
The article was by Alex Summers -- Shades's younger brother had come in awful handy. It read as follows:
Senator Robert P. Kelly, R-MS, was gunned down in an apparent drug deal gone wrong last night in Central Park.
The Senator, well-known for advocating stringent crackdowns on drug dealers and users, was shot four times in the back. It is believed that Erik Lehnsherr, head of the Lehnsherr crime family, is responsible for his death. The Senator's chauffeur, Fred Boggs, was also shot and killed.
Lehnsherr was shot once in the chest, as were his henchmen, Victor Creed and Mortimer Toynbee. The whereabouts of Raven Darkholme, Lehnsherr's fiancée and second-in-command, are currently unknown.
Police believe there was a falling out amongst thieves, stemming from the murder of Remy LeBeau, a dealer working for Lehnsherr, three days ago. When Kelly tried to walk away with almost a pound of pure heroin, Lehnsherr shot him, and then his own men turned on him. The police arrived and shot Creed and Toynbee before any civilians could get hurt.
Detective Robert Drake was injured in the gunfight. He's at St. Luke's Hospital, listed in stable condition.
Logan let out a howl of triumph. They'd done it. They'd actually done it. The bastards were all dead and Marie's name had been kept out of it. So the facts weren't actually factual -- it didn't matter. They were free.
Marie stumbled into the kitchen, wrapped in one of his shirts. "What's goin' on, Logan?" she asked sleepily.
He showed her the article. "You don't have to worry about him ever again, baby," he said, swinging her around and kissing her soundly. She kissed him back and it was a few minutes before either was interested in the newspaper again.
Finally she said, "He's dead. He's really dead. Oh, Logan, I feel so much better. Cleaner."
"You were always clean, baby. Clean and pure. He was the filthy one. He'll never hurt you or Claire again."
And with that, Marie stripped off her gloves and burned them in the sink. She didn't need them anymore.
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