I.

Seattle, 1992 - September

Logan mused over his beer, twisting the chilled glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid coat the sides. He finished off the pint with a large swallow, and barely before he'd set the glass down, John had set another down in its place.

"You doin' good, Logan?"

He grunted in reply, a curt nod. John was friendly enough, at least enough to warrant knowing his name, but Logan felt oddly ill at ease today. This was his third day in Seattle, his second at this pub near Pike, and something like his fifteenth beer today. John, "owner and operator of the establishment" read his business card, had stopped asking if Logan was good to go yesterday around the twentieth pint. Instead, he kept up the steady supply of ale and was happy to see Logan in again on a Monday, since those were the slow days.

Logan started in on the beer, draining a quarter of it with his first drink. It just wasn't satisfying the urge, today. Or yesterday. He had no idea why he had stayed, here in this neighborhood. He'd been through Seattle before, sure. Back when it was first coming up, too, and shit was spewing backwards out of toilets. By now they'd figured out the plumbing problem, and even had some decent roads down around the water. The pub Logan had set up residency at was far enough off the touristy streets to suit his mood, but still close enough to get a good flow of new people coming by along with the regulars. It was mostly small businesses and apartment buildings in this neighborhood. The motel Logan had found was next door, his newer motorcycle, courtesy of Cyke, parked out front.

Logan had been subtly tracking Victor Creed. So subtly, that he sometimes forgot what it was he was doing. On one of his many leaves from Westchester, he'd stumbled across Creed in Georgia. Following the bloody path through Louisiana and Texas, he'd taken a side detour to Vegas, then picked it up again in San Francisco, and finally made his way up to Seattle via a pretty old, pretty cold trail. He felt ready to give up. Sure, Creed was offing someone, sometimes multiple someones, in every town he went through, but as far as Logan could figure, they were sanctioned hits. Not to say that they were any less "murder"-like, but … well, at least Creed wasn't rampaging through the lower fifty killing indiscriminately.

The last of Creeds trail had led him here, to this neighborhood, before he lost it. He'd likely gone to the roof tops, and Logan just felt … tired. He didn't feel like rollin' around on the roofs, trying to track down someone, mostly just to satisfy his curiosity, 'cuz it wasn't like he was out to avenge the earlier hits. Or anything. Anyways. Shit. I gotta find something to do. I'm half awake as it is.

"You see that?" John was back with another beer. Had he been lost in his thoughts that long? Logan looked up, then across the street at where John was pointing. An apartment building a few buildings down had yellow caution tape strung across its entry way. A couple cops stood nearby, a couple passerby's, but it was mostly empty of the usual mob of onlookers. The cops were in the process of bundling up the tape, the investigation done. From the alley way came an older gentleman, using a hose to wash down the cement of blood. The water ran over the curb and between a couple cars and a motorcycle, an older cruiser, that was park near the entrance. He could smell the blood from here.

Logan hadn't seen any of the hub bub earlier, of what he supposed had been a busy crime scene. Too much into my beer, he supposed, too much into my mind. "Eh? What happened?" he asked, looking up at Tom.

John chuckled, tucking the serving tray under a flabby arm as he wiped off his hands on the dish rag hanging from his belt. "You focusing too much on my ale there, Logan. Been cops in and out all day. David …. ah," he paused, scratched at his thinning hair, " … I don't remember his last name. David, regular here, he committed suicide last night. Jumped off the roof, side of the building into the alley way."

Logan eyed the four story walk up. "That's not a long drop. Not enough to kill someone."

"You're right," John said, with a quizzical look down at his patron. "Cops said it took him a while, mostly bled out. If anybody had found him earlier, he might've made it. As it was, being dark and all, nobody did. His roommate Terry found him this morning."

"Mmm."

"Yeah, too bad for Terry."

"Guy got a weak stomach?" Logan mused, draining the rest of his glass. Just a body. A jumper. Not a victim, not somethin' worse, at least. Get over it.

"Nah, Terry's a girl. She had a real fondness for Dave. Though you wouldn't know it from Dave. This is gonna be real hard on her." John gave a perfunctory wipe down of Logans table, scooped up the empty glass, and headed off for a refill.

Logan leaned forward on the table, resting his forearms on the formica, and scratched at his stubble. He watched the opposite street with a mild curiosity as he waited for the next beer. Just as John was coming back, a woman came stumbling out of the apartment doors. She pushed past the policemen, and despite his distance, Logan could hear the cops yelling her.

"Hey! Miss, you okay? Where you goin'?"

She barely paused. "Fuck off."

"Look, you shouldn't leave till the detectives are done questioning you -"

The woman whirled about, leveling her finger and dangling keys at the young cop. "Look, asshole, your fuckin' detectives and their shit-for-brains questions can't do shit, and I'm done. Fuck. Off!" She slung a leg over the cruiser in the road, kicked it to life and peeled off away from the cops, away from the pub, her shoulder length, shaggy brown hair flipping in the wind. She went amber and liquid-like for a moment, as John sit another beer down in front of Logan. The cops watched the quickly fading motorcycle helplessly. Thumbs up their asses, Logan grunted to himself.

"Ah, there goes Terry. Didn't think she'd be taking it well."

"Mmm."

Logan watched the second cop stomp down to the gutter, and pull up a beat up cruiser helmet. He dusted it off, and headed back up to his partner, muttering about the "crazy bitch being reckless."

"Guess she's headed somewhere to blow off some steam." This, from John again.

"Mmm."

John moved away with a shrug. Logan sat silent for a couple minutes, watching the cops on the stoop. The first cop had the helmet now, eyeing it and twisting it in his hands as if he could give it the talking-down he wanted to give to Terry. "Maybe if she didn't go on and on about that guy, what's she say his name was?"

"Creed?"

"Yeah, Creed. Maybe if she coulda shut up 'bout him, the detective woulda taken her seriously. As it is …. "

Logan was halfway across the street before he realized it. He'd vaulted the patio railing and taken off at a quick jog, ignoring John's cry of surprise from behind him. He skidded to a halt in front of the cops, who paused in their conversation to look down at him.

He opened his mouth to question them about Creed, and then paused. Instead, he pointed at the helmet. "Terry's helmet, she left it behind."

The cop lifted it, staring at it stupidly. "Yeah."

"I know her. I know where she's goin', I can go take it to her. I'm a friend." It all came out in a rush, like he wasn't used to lying. Just not used to bein' so damn excited for new information.

The cop squinted uncertainly, peering past Logan at the bar where he'd emerged from. "You sure? You haven't been drinkin' too, have you?"

Shaking his head, Logan gave a salute. "Scouts honor. One beer, that's it. Just figure I'd help Terry out, ya know?"

"Yeah, okay." The cop tossed down the helmet. "Tell her to take it easy on the sauce."

Logan nodded and took off, throwing a thanks over his shoulder as he crossed the street. He vaulted the railing again. John was standing at his table. "Logan, what the hell?"

"Here, John." Logan dug into his pocket to pull out cash. "Terry left this behind. Any idea where I can find 'er? Get it back to 'er?"

John took the proffered cash, nodding. And then shaking his head. "Sorry, man. I don't know Terry that well. She wasn't in here that much - had a problem with starting fights."

Logan stilled. "Fights? Really? Her? I mean, she had a mouth, but …she didn't look like that kinda chick."

"What? Dykeish?" John laughed. "I told you, she had a thing for David. You ask me, I think they kept it on the sly. Who knows why. She had a Napoleon complex, ya know? Short, average lookin' … she'd start anything up, just 'cuz."

Sounds familiar. "Well, ya' see her 'fore I do, let her know I got her helmet."

Logan made his way to his bike and jumped on. Taking a tight u-turn, he paused at the apartment building and Terry's parking spot. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed what he could of a scent of her and the bike, and then headed off in her direction. It'd be mostly instincts.

But those had worked just fine, so far.