The Sum Of Zero

by Dex

A killer stalks New York, his methods and patterns a mystery to John Caulder, the detective seeking to puzzle out his grim purpose before more deaths. However, his killings are not as random as they seem, as both Cyclops and the White Queen are forced to

"The Sum of Zero"

All recognizable characters and settings belong to Marvel; I am using them without permission but mean no harm and am making no profit. The plot and original characters, however belong to me. Any and all feedback is appreciated at dexfsympatico.ca. Redistribution of this tale for profit is illegal. Please do not archive this story without contacting me first to obtain my permission.

The Number twitched his fingers, as anticipation threatened to swamp him. So close, so very close to his prey. He could close his eyes and already feel the rhythm of her pulse under his fingertips; a steady progression, from ordered beats, through the acceleration of fear to the final purity of zero. Transition, action and progression were the words which dominated the Number's life and actions.

The Number hurried up the steps from the subway, carefully brushing aside a lone panhandler without actually touching him. New York shone around him, brilliant and fetid simultaneously. A drop of sweat slid down his face, his own weakness offended him. Flesh was weak, humanity was weak, mutants were weak. Only fire was pure, and only zero had value. The Number stroked the brushed steel surface of his watch before moving on. Purpose and commitment would find him a place in the Great Pattern, nothing else.

A soft chime announced his entrance into the small café. The Number reluctantly accepted a menu from the girl in the front, distastefully noting the unsymmetrical white streak in the front of her hair. People just refused to understand; that was his opinion. No balance or order existed save what he brought to them. Why didn't they welcome him then?

He checked his watch again, silence like a balloon in the café around him. The timepiece reassured him. He refused to fall out of sequence, to disrupt his work on the Pattern. The girl brought him his tea, which he ignored. His fingers matched the sequence of his pulse on the plastic table top. His change sat next to the cup, and his eyes narrowed at the fact that it was irregular. He added a quarter from his pocket to the pile, bringing it back into alignment.

Precision was the most important thing. The Number touched the slim cylinder inside his pocket, reassuring himself with it's weight. Precision, attention to detail; these things would deliver him from his penance. The image of a door floated across his mind, the casing warped and the paint grey and peeling. He shuddered, struggled to fight down the rising panic, the cries in his ears. Equations rose unbidden in his head, numbers like a litany, blocking out the images long past. Figures danced in pure abstraction around him, and the Number took a deep breath as the panic and fear left him.

Finally composed, he looked from the tabletop and back around the café. A vase of flowers sat off center in an alcove, the careless spray of daisies a sickening jumble to him. He took it in coldly as his gaze drifted across to finally rest on the sum for today.

The top of her head was just barely visible over the window leading into the kitchen. A soft bob of loose black curls, constantly in motion while she worked. The Number checked his watch again: 5pm. It was almost time. She always took an average of eight minutes to finish up and leave the café. The Number stood and left, pausing only to straighten an askew picture frame he passed on his way out.

He crossed the street to a newspaper stand and picked up a copy of the New York Times. The Number checked his watch again, four more minutes now. He transferred the cylinder into the paper tucked under his arm. At six minutes, he began to walk casually down the street, pausing to look at store window displays. Using the reflections, the Number caught sight of the girl leaving the café. With unhurried strides, he strolled down the block across from her and crossed at the traffic lights. She was waiting at the corner, rooting through her purse for something, as he fell in behind her. After a few minutes, the Number drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and appeared to consult it.

"Miss?" His dry, clipped tones immediately caught her attention.

"Yes?"

"Could you prehaps direct me to Mortan's Tailors, on 68th street?"

"Oh, it's just about two more blocks down the street." She said, smiling at him. "A big grey building, with brass railings leading to the door. I adore brass."

"Really? Well, I didn't quite expect to meet someone who knew the store intimately. Must be my lucky day." He smiled back at her. She dimpled and started walking again, the Number falling into step beside her.

"Well, I live a few doors down, and it's such a pretty building."

"I have yet to visit it. I'm just picking up some items for a friend was having altered there. Heart attack, you know." The woman gave him a sympathetic look."I'm trying to help him while he's recovering."

"He's lucky to have a friend like you."

"Indeed." The Number nodded as they walked. He began to hum softly, opening strains of 'Fingal's Cave'. She wouldn't understand, but that didn't matter. They never did. It was the ritual he gave them. They'd earned it. He paused for a moment at the mouth of an alley, and, as he'd planned, she paused with him, eyes questioning. He checked his watch and then looked to the sky.

Close by, a building went up in a fireball. Gouts of fire and debris rose into the air, an expanding globe of destruction hurtling skyward. The woman looked away and cried out as the blast of superheated air hit them. The Number moved, grabbing her and throwing them down into the alley. She thought he was trying to haul her to safety and allowed herself to be buffeted into the alley.

The Number watched her as they went down, the cylinder coming easily into his hand. Her head was turned away, the first three vertebrae of her spine jutting up, bone sheathed in velvet skin. One swift movement, a sound softer than a mother's kiss, and it was over. She lay in his arms, for all the world like she slept. But she wasn't sleeping.

That part of the ritual was complete, the hot dry mouth in the anticipation of pleasure and perfection awaiting him. His hands glided over her face, marking every inch of it, stealing it into his memory. Long fingers trembling, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small block of steel, like a printers lettercase. He drew off one of her shoes and fumbled for his lighter. Carefully heating the end of the block under the square Ronson, he applied it to the sole of her foot, wincing at the thin stream of smoke which came from the burn. Carefully dosing the heated block into a nearby puddle, he replaced her shoe and left. One more complete, one more closer to the balance.

And sometimes, X did mark the spot.

Jonathon Caulder had been told once that he resembled John Cusack. Because of that, he'd begun wearing his dark hair short and cultivated a perpetual look of near bewilderment.

Strangely enough, it actually helped. Few suspects ever really took him seriously. And not taking one of the top detectives of New York City Police Homicide seriously was a very foolish thing indeed. Caulder snubbed out his cigarette butt with the toes of his sandal and followed the beat cop into the alley. Already Forensics was on the scene, marking and labeling everything. John gave it a quick once over before kneeling beside the body. It was a Latino girl, young and pretty. She'd been found lying in the alley dead a few hours after the explosion that had leveled the Mutant Research Centre on 2nd Ave An explosion that nearly set the Cancer Centre ablaze at the same time. The FoH had already claimed responsibility, and Caulder was hoping they'd find a few of them soon. His aunt had been at the Cancer Centre at the time.

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Lina Drake. She worked at the Way Green Café down the street." Piper appeared at his elbow like magic, the little man passing over a notebook filled with his own tiny writing. "The Doc can't pin down a reason of death. No violence on the body."

"So how can we be sure it's a homicide?"

"Lina is a mutant. One of the Gamma class or whatever. Guess she can duplicate scents or something. It's all in her medical files."

"Mutants have heart attacks too, Piper."

"Yeah, but the Doc doubts it. He's willing to bet you lunch that when he cracks her open there's no scarring on her heart." Piper said. Caulder nodded. The Doc never bet unless he knew he'd win.

"So, again, why a homicide?"

"This." Piper pointed to the body. John squatted down to peer at her exposed left foot. There, in the middle of the light brown flesh was an 'X', burned neatly into her sole. John lit up another cigarette and stepped back from the alley.

"Fuck. Same as...?"

"Identical. Can't be absolutely positive until we get the lab results, but I think it's identical to the one found on Xavier Mitchell and that Martins girl." Piper handed him a file of photos, all to go with his notes on the crime scene. Caulder nodded and put them under his arm.

"Alright, let's get started." Caulder began to circle the body as Piper followed the morgue team with the body. "Call me when Doc is going to start cutting!"

"You got it, Boss!" Piper called back. All through the ride to the station, he sat looking at the queer brand on her foot. As they stopped, Piper hopped out and left for his office as they unloaded her. The halls seemed oppressive in the time between shifts, the only time the NYPD halls ever seemed to not be stuffed with criminals, police and everything in-between. Piper unlocked his office door and sat down heavily into his chair. He debated with himself for a long time before opening up his desk drawer and drawing out a slip of paper given to him months ago. It took him three ties before he finally dialed the number.

"Hello. Am I speaking to- oh? Detective William Piper, NYPD. Yes. No, it was given to me by the black woman. Is she there? Well, I don't know if I should- alright. There's been another of the 'X' murders, right at the same time as the Mutant Centre bombing. No, no suspects yet. Well, I can't keep calling you. I shouldn't be doing this in the first place. It's illegal. Well, I'm glad to understand my situation but I- sigh Fine. If I hear anything important. Thank you." Piper hung up the phone and wiped his forehead. His shirt was stuck to his shoulder blades, despite the air conditioning in the offices. He knew the sweating had nothing to do with the heat for once.

Cyclops hung up the phone, his face grim. Sitting in his office chair, he began to sift through the information given to him by the detective. Another one dead, another one who might match the disturbing pattern he was watching emerge. The rest of the X-Men could not be brought into this yet. If the killer knew what Cyclops feared he did, than they'd be easily spotted. Finally, Scott picked the phone back up and dialed. Four long rings went by before it was answered.

"Hello. Emma Frost please."

"Scott, you always call with the sweetest phrases to whisper in my ear."

"That wasn't funny."

"Perhaps more sarcastic tinged with the tiniest edge of contempt, actually. I've been practicing it on Adrienne for the last few weeks." Emma Frost crossed her perfect legs and leaned back in her desk chair. She was half monitoring the grounds with her telepathy, and half listening to Scott Summers on the phone.

"Emma, this is not an idle request. I need you in New York today!"

"You need me, Scott? That much? Dare I say, pantingly so? Naughty, naughty, Mister Summers. We must discuss this telepath kink you've developed."

"Emma..." Scott growled on the other end of the line. Emma laughed gaily, sensual lips curled into a wide smile.

"Of course I'll be there, Scott. I was just curious as to how to pack. Silk and latex wrinkle if just tossed into a suitcase."

"Emma, if you-"

"-think I'm doing this merely on your orders, you are sorely mistaken, Summers. I'm coming for my reasons. Only that."

"Ten o'clock, Emma. Albert's on 52nd."

"How very pedestrian but yes, I'll be there, Scott." Emma put down the phone, relishing the sound of Scott's teeth grinding in the background. Unfortunately for him, Mister Summers still believed himself the leader of the entire 'X' franchise, an illusion Emma was always quick to debase him off.

Sean.

Aye? Sean brogue came through even in telepathic speech, thick and rough.

I am going away for a few days. Business matters that must be attended to. Emma said, even while beginning to pack.

An' have you let Adrienne know about this?

Sean, I have faith that you'll create a suitably sphincter-looseningly terrifying reason for my sister to explain my absence.

Emma, you know that lass 'll just paw around yer drawer of unmentionables till she finds out where you've gone.

If she takes that route, Sean, I think she'll be too busy being astonished at where I've been to be worried about where I'm going. Emma zipped up her suitcase and stalked out into the hallway. At the end was Sean, looking highly speculative about her last comment. Emma flashed him a naughty smile and a kiss on the cheek as she hurried past, and out the door.

John Caulder tossed his keys down on the desk, along with a heavy file folder, several assorted plastic evidence bags and a cup of manky coffee. He heaved a sigh and eased into his new posture perfect desk chair, just ordered in response to the rare 'spinal misalignment' which plagued him. Occasionally, being a detective had it's perks.

"John!"

"Yeah, Cortez?"

"Chief wants to see you."

"About what?"

"Do you think that he tells me? Or that I have some secret insight into the nature of police and department chiefs around the world?" The Spanish-Scot detective ranted. "Incidentally, he looked especially throat-ripping, bowel-clenchingly mad when he summoned you."

"Did he have that big purple vein thing going on his forehead?"

"Two of them."

"Oh, that's not good."

"Kinda like that time he caught you making jokes about his mother during the Christmas party."

"Clearly I was in error. Due to my keen deductive abilities, I've discovered that the chief doesn't have a mother. All upper level police staff are assembled in a plant outside of Atlantic City, from a Nicola Tesla design." John grinned and stood up, brushing the bagel crumbs from his tie. Cortez shook his head and walked out of John's office. Caulder threaded through the homicide nerve centre with a few nods before reaching the Chief's office. The door to the Chief's office was shut, never a good sign in Caulder's mind. He knocked lightly on the door and eased it open.

"Chief?"

"Get the hell in here!" Oscar Adams growled furiously around the butt of his unlit cigar. Caulder slipped in and hurriedly closed the door behind him. The Chief started to light his cigar and stopped, snubbing the match out abruptly.

"Need a light, Chief?"

"Promised the wife I'd quit smoking for her birthday. Now, I'm hoping she doesn't live to it. See what you've done to me, Caulder? You've made me hate the woman I've been married to for fifteen years!"

"Sir, I'm sure that I'm not wholly responsible for the domestic trouble. I have tried her cooking..."

"Silence! I'm tired of this, Caulder. Those goddamn sandals! Everyone thinks I hired you out of Greenpeace. What kind of eco nonsense is it?" Adams stabbed the unlit cigar at Caulder like a finger.

"Sir, I assure you, it's completely comfort nonsense. I ate a baby harp seal dipped in sea turtle juice for breakfast just to please you."

"Caulder, you're a good detective. You've got a quick mind and you think things through to the end. That's why you're here in Homicide. So, using all of these abilities we've so carefully brought along in the last few years, can you tell me why you're following a case which is not a homicide?" Adams said, slamming his hand down on the desk.

"I-"

"I don't have the manpower for this, Caulder. Last night the beats tagged a woman's head found in a McDonald's garbage bin! A woman's head! That is a murder, Caulder. Why aren't you finding the culprit on that one!"

"As fun as the McMurder might be, I think that the death of that woman is not only a murder but connected to the bombing by the FoH."

"You think? I'm supposed to tell the commissioner that one of my men is nosing in other department's territory on the basis of a hunch!" Adams stabbed the cigar at Caulder again. "Dammit, John, we're Homicide. This girl wasn't a murder."

"I think it was."

"Murdered how? No signs of violence on the body, or the scene. No wounds, no blood, and no witnesses. For all we know, she just keeled over."

"But the mark on her foot, and the timing."

"Maybe all the victims are part of some cult, or maybe she's connected with the bombing some way and suicided. Either way, it still falls outside of our jurisdiction." Oscar stubbed out cold cigar furiously, and took to scowling at his papers. After a moment, he looked back up.

"You still here?"

"Chief, please! Give me two days to work, and I'll show you."

"John-"

"Sir, please!"

"Fuck... you've got 24 hours, John. I'm going to send you home according to the logbook. This is on your own time. Twenty-four hours from now, you either bring me a reason for us to be involved or back off. Got it?" Adams' hard brown eyes met John's intensely.

"Yes sir."

"I'm not kidding, John. 24 hours or I'll fucking bounce you back as a beat cop. Get out." Caulder slipped out of the room gratefully.

"Domestic beer, no less. Scott, you really should invest in a baseball jersey and one of those wallet chains." Emma said, slipping into the chair beside him. Her white suit looked as out of place as a Viking costume.

"You're late, Emma."

"Traffic was hell. Care to fill me in as to why I'm here instead of with the children? Adrienne will have them tracking down her lost luggage through a warzone if I'm not there to keep an eye on her."

"Hear about the FoH bombing yesterday?" Scott said, drawing a heavy envelope from his pocket.

"Very tiresome, that. I'm told a few of the best and brightest from the new 'X-Factor' program are now involved in the investigation." Emma ordered a coffee from the young waiter and waited patiently for Scott to come to the point.

"A woman was found dead a few blocks from the blast site, no visible cause of death apparent."

"And?"

"This was found burnt into the sole of her left foot." Scott separated a grainy printed image out of the pile in the envelope and placed it before her. The waiter brought back Emma's coffee and tried to casually glance at the picture, Emma's cold stare drove him away quickly.

"Digital photo?"

"Sent to me from the NYPD database a few hours ago."

"You have access to that?"

"The X-Men have surprising resources, Emma."

"I wonder why you were always so easily ambushed then? However, this is an X."

"A sign."

"From?"

"I don't know yet; that's the mystery of this whole thing. But, I'm telling you right now, something sinister is out there, and I intend to find the truth."

"How very Mulder of you, Scott. Will you wait for a few minutes while I run out and get a trenchcoat and some red hair dye?" Emma said, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth.

"A girl died badly, Emma. She was a mutant and marked with an X. Think it's just coincidence?"Scott said tightly, controlling his anger. Emma matched his glare coolly, noting the tension.

"Someone is killing mutants and branding them with 'X's. And this surprises you? It's not like you X-Men haven't made a career of announcing your presence with toppling buildings and great pillars of fire. You're honestly amazed that some self-loathing, anti-mutant psychopath has chosen to mark his victims with the same label you have stamped on every available surface? Get a clue, Mr. Summers." Said Emma, disdain ringing clear in her voice. Scott dropped the photo back on the table and regarded her flatly.

"It knows who we are, Emma."

"We?"

"The X-Men. That's why I called you. Someone outside of the normal X range who might be less recognizable."

"How do you know it knows you all?"

"This is the fourth murder branded with an X. The first was a young man named Xavier Mitchell. Then Jean Martins, a widowed homemaker. Albian Summers, a law student. Then this girl, a waitress from a little café. Her name was Lina Drake. Xavier, Jean, Summers, and Drake. The first four of us, Emma, and in the exact order we joined the team. This thing knows who we are and our history. That shouldn't be possible." Scott said. Emma looked ashen for a moment, covering the moment with a sip of coffee. Her icy composure slipped back in place in seconds, and her mind began to chew on the facts.

"All of these people were mutants?"

"Yes, although the strongest of them was barely Delta level."

"The strength wouldn't be important. Just the fact that they're mutants. Symbolic."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to profile... and all of these deaths correspond with the FoH bombings?"

"As far as I know. We're going to meet with a detective involved with the investigations in a few hours." Scott stated. "He'll have the full information."

"Excellent. I think I just may have to stay with you on this, Scott. I have no intention of seeing him get to my lists of students."

"I thought you might say that."

The Number frowned with concentration as he worked in the semi-darkness. The grinding wheel gave off no feathery gush of sparks when he pushed the tip of his instrument against it. The machine had originally been designed for jewelry fabrication, and the dull black Carborundum wheel had been coated with a thick layer of dark green rouge. Number 6, important to have numbers, this one meaning midway in terms of its abrasiveness. Each time he brought the gleaming edge of the tungsten steel against the wheel, it created a tiny wisp of smoke, filling his sensitive nostrils with the scent of burning oil. The smell made him think of his mother's bedroom, and he frowned, pushing the razor-sharp vanes harder into the rouge.

His mother's bedroom, in the oppressive heat of the South Carolina summer. Dust motes hung in the still air, gold flecks in the brighter sun through the window. Mother, seated on her bed, legs curled up under her like two dry sticks. The rhythmic creaking of the ancient ceiling fan in his ears as he approached the bed. The fan going round and round, while the desperate child watched the slowly spinning blades, too terrified to let his eyes touch Mother's eyes, but hypnotized by the fan blades. One hand would slip out from the pool of blankets like a pale spider, scuttling out and pulling him up to the bed, and under the waistband of his underwear; to stroke and squeeze and pull, and the unoiled mechanism of the fan creaking in the frozen afternoon. And nobody knew. Nobody ever knew.

The Number blinked, staring into space, then turned back to the grinder. He switched it on again and studied the wheel turning to a blur as it came up to speed. He went back to his work, watching the razor edge magically becoming mirror bright between his fingers, seeing the faded blankets under his body and hearing the creak of the fan past the blood rushing in his ears.

The words from the fairy tale his mother used to speak when they lay together, him a prisoner of circumstance and age, came unbidden to his lips.

"Toil and spin, toil and spin, my name is Rumplestiltskin. Toil and spin, toil and spin."

The faded blankets. The smell of Mother's breath and the feel of her hands. The creak of the fan on the ceiling. The spinning wheels, counting each traverse, counting each movement, counting each dust mote in the air. Toil and spin, like a prayer never answered. Until now.

Straw into gold, toil and spin.

Steel into death.

John Caulder trudged down the steps which led to the morgue, already dreading the coming meeting. He'd seen human bodies torn into every gruesome parody of flesh possible in his time with Homicide, but there was something about the damage being sterilized and confined to a white sheet and steel table that woke tiny tendrils of fear in the back of his mind. At a washed out green desk at the bottom of the stairs sat the duty guard, yawning his way through the paper.

"Hi Carl."

"Hey John. See the Yanks game last night?"

"Missed it. The Doc ready for me yet?"

"Oh, you're gonna love this. Doc is sick, so you get the Iron Maiden cutting today."

"You're kidding me?" John winced. The grin on Carl's face as he nodded was enough to confirm it. "Fuck... too late to sneak off, I guess."

"Sorry, Detective. Sign your permit into hell." Caulder scrawled his signature on the clipboard and walked into the room.

The layout of the autopsy chamber was stark and austere; four dish-edged rectangular tables on wheels and fitted with blood gutters and drainage holes. Brushed metal cabinets ranged along the one wall, steel counters fitted laid with an assortment of tools ranging from scalpels and electrical saws to brutal looking hammers and steel wedges, and more drains on the floor. One the centre table, draped with a white sheet was the body of the late Lina Drake, now only the blue stenciled numbers on the sheet for an identity. Standing beside the table with a clipboard held in one perfectly manicured hand was a woman in a lab coat.

"Obviously, the niceties of schedules are lost on you, detective." Lillian Sharpe's voice was ice cold, and left no doubt to her frame of mind.

"Doctor Sharpe. You're looking lovely today-"

"Stuff it, Caulder. I'm not interested in hearing it from you." Sharpe was widely held as one of the most beautiful women employed by the NYPD; long chestnut hair, clear brown eyes, and a body that would not have looked out of place in a fashion magazine. However, her coldness was equally legendary, rebuffing suitors and admirers with equal worn patience and cold refusal. The pool for the first man on the force to get to first base with her was nearly two thousand dollars at this point.

"Sharpe, did Doc-"

"Yes, Doc told me the situation and his analysis. He was very wrong."

"What?" The Doc was also referred to as 'The Pope' at times in the force since a conclusion by him was virtually infallible.

"Yes, he was wrong. Caulder, do you know to date I've done more than five thousand odd autopsies? For those autopsies, I receive just over sixty-two thousand dollars a year, less then a third of what I could make as a pathologist in a private research facility."

"Yes, ma'am." Caulder had no idea what she was getting at.

"What I'm saying, detective, is that I don't do this for the enormous financial benefit I derive from poking about in people's internal organs or mucking about in their brain pans with a scoop and a trowel."

"No, ma'am."

"Now, after those five thousand bodies, I assure you that I have seen virtually everything there is to see as regards the practice of homicide. I continue to do them, however, in the faint hope that there is still something which I have not seen. Something to pique my scientific curiosity." Sharpe's lovely brown eyes met his over the rims of her glasses. "I must admit, detective, this one has me confounded... quite happily so."

"I don't understand." John's nose twitched in the room, as blowers in the ceiling brought in gusts of freezing cold air. It wasn't enough to remove the dank, sour odor the room had been steeped in for the last fifty or sixty years.

"I'm not surprised. Let's get on with it, shall we?"

The body, Sharpe noted aloud, was that of a woman in her mid-twenties, positively identified as Lina Drake. Notes made by the investigating officer, regarding postmortem lividity, and corroborating photographs taken in situ led Sharpe to believe the body had been dead for some three hours before her discovery. There was no visible cause of death. The only wound was the letter X burned into the sole of the left foot, and due to the marking, would have appeared to have been done after death.

"Cause of death?" Caulder asked.

"Certainly not a heart attack or brain embolism. And not poison as the Doc believed." Sharpe pulled back the girl's lip with a hooked pick. "Nothing violent like strychnine or cyanide. There's no vomitus in the mouth, and no bluish tint to the lips. My guess is a massive dose of some narcotic."

"Drugs? Like an overdose?"

"Of a sort. This girl has none of the marks of a habitual user, and lacks the hemorrhaging in the nasal tissue for cocaine use. There is a possibility that it's a modified street drug like Chrome, but personally, I believe that's getting too complex. Morphine in a large dose leaves no exterior signs on the body. However, I'll have to gut her to make sure." John whitened as she finished.

"So, it is murder?"

"Perhaps. Suicide is just as likely at this point. It would be extremely difficult to administer the amount of morphine needed against an unwilling recipient, especially while trying to conceal the syringe marks. No signs of bruising or violence on the body that would be consistent with an assault or restraint." Lillian drew out a blood sample from the body and prepared it on a slide. "We'll run a full spectrum analysis later, but morphine at heavy doses causes a telltale rupturing of hemoglobin in the blood stream.

John sat quietly as she slid the slide under the microscope and began to cluck distractedly. After a few minutes, she straightened from the table, ticking her pen on the steel counter.

"No signs in the blood. Not only was the doctor wrong, but so was I."

"Amazing."

"Quiet. If it's not a narcotic overdose, what else could cause the death?" Lillian keyed the intercom on her desk. "Do we have those x-rays developed yet?" A voice signaled affirmative. "Bring them in.

A young man in a matching lab coat entered the room and handed a stack of flimsies to Lillian. "And now the x-rays."

"Great." Sharpe clipped them up against the light box and scrutinized them closely. From Caulder's limited view, he couldn't see any breaks or lesions.

"Interesting."

"What's that?"

"Well, the woman has a small chip in the bottom of the third cervical vertebrae. Why?" Lillian took a scalpel and bent over the body. With gentle hands, she turned the head to the right and peered down at the neck. She wordlessly took a pair of tweezers from the tray beside the table and poked about the back of the woman's neck. Caulder shuffled nervously in the silence as Sharpe was locked in concentration. She finally drew out an object in the tweezers.

"What is-"

"Quiet." Sharpe dropped the object under the microscope and peered at it. She adjusted a knob, then reached out blindly, picking up a small tool. After a moment, the pathologist straightened, and looked at Caulder.

"Come take a look at this." Caulder found himself staring through the eyepiece of the microscope, at what appeared to be an Indian arrowhead made out of dark, highly polished metal. Instead of two cutting edges, there were six, each one slightly flared, thicker at the base and narrowing to a prefect point. At that magnification, John would have expected to see some nicks or flaws on the cutting edges, but there were none.

The base of the arrowhead was circular and tapped for a screw. A few flecks of something were caught within the minuscule threads. Caulder blinked as Sharpe plucked the tiny weapon off the tray with a new pair of surgical tweezers. Under the bright light of a gooseneck lamp, the arrowhead was barely visible between the tweezer tongs. Base included, it was no more than a centimetre long.

"Astonishing," said Sharpe. "The craftsmanship is quite exquisite."

"What is it?"

"This, detective, is your murder weapon."

"Not drugged then?"

"Oh dear, no. My initial hypothesis is completely inaccurate with this beauty found."

"Hardly looks like it could kill someone."

"The puncture was almost invisible. Hidden by the hair on the nape of the neck. Sliced through the upper quadrant of the trapezius, entering between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, severing the spinal cord and the autonomous ganglia. Death was paralytic and virtually instantaneous. No time to react at all. If it hadn't nicked the upper vertebrae on it's nasty little route, we'd have never found it. The bone would have disguised it from the x-ray."

"Powerful."

"Extremely. There was no sign of powder burns. I suspect the projectile was delivered mechanically. Compressed air, or a very strong spring. The point itself is made from tungsten steel, I believe."

"Where would someone get a weapon like this?"

"The weapon would have to be hand-tooled and machined. Whoever created is has a near-genius mechanical aptitude and ability. Machinist, technician, engineer. Highly skilled, at any rate." Lillian carefully placed the point back down on the table.

"I don't see any nicks or scratches. I'd have thought there'd be something from it striking bone."

"Tungsten has an extremely high melting point. It looks like the edges made have been heat sealed at some point in it's construction, making it extremely resistant to marking. Your man is either very shrewd or very lucky, detective. The neck was bent when the weapon was used, opening a space between the vertebrae. When she was laid out in the shroud, her neck straightened, closing the space and hiding the arrow in the grey matter. Without an obvious wound, there would be no reason to look for a severing of the cord, and no evidence of spinal trauma. Even a gross dissection of the spine might not have revealed it."

Caulder nodded. Sharpe wasn't making excuses for herself, she was simply stating a fact.

"Would the killer need some special medical knowledge?"

"Not necessarily. Some basic anatomy perhaps. Nothing you couldn't get out of a copy of Gray's. It's the mechanical knowledge that sets him apart."

"Anything else you can tell me about this man?"

"Yes." Lillian Sharpe's voice was empathic, almost respectful. "He's a perfectionist. The edges of that device are as sharp as razors. You could drive it through your palm and never even notice." The doctor frowned. "And from the workmanship, I'd wager that he has small hands. Long fingered and very strong, like a pianist, or like a surgeon." She held up her own hand, pale and softly glowing in the light. "Like mine."

"I'm dealing with a lunatic, aren't I?"

"A very intelligent and dangerous one, yes detective. But you should be happy. You now officially have your murder."

"This killed someone?" Adams said, peering at the tiny blade in the petri dish. It was all but obscured in the tiny distortions of the plastic. John Caulder nodded, saying nothing. The Chief would ask him directly when it was needed. Adams set the dish down on his desk and looked back up at John.

"So, what do we have here, John?"

"Good question, Chief. With the telltale burns on the foot matching the others, we have a serial killer in New York. Doctor Sharpe is processing requests to exhume the other bodies, but based on the autopsy reports on them, she's willing to bet that the same projectiles were the cause of death." Caulder set down a thick file folder on his desk. Oscar Adams looked at it for a long moment and turned his deep brown eyes back up towards John.

"John, why is this so important to you?" Caulder recoiled back, taken off guard by the question.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't bullshit me, John. I've seen you work before. This is different, and I want to know why."

"I--"

"Is it the girl?"

"The girl?"

"Alright, that's it. I'm reassigning Struan to the case. You wanna fuck with me, I'll fuck you right back. It is the girl." John looked away. "I know. Looked a lot like Jenny. It's been what, about 2 years since she left?"

"26 months."

"Look, I don't want to tear up your scabs, John. But you can't get personal in this. You know this. I can get Struan on it without any of the bullshit lost face talk that goes with getting reassigned if you want. But I need you frosty if you're going to stay on."

"I can handle this." John said hotly, glaring back at Adams. Oscar met his glare, and held it. He finally broke the tableau with a wave of his hand.

"Alright, John. You get to stay on. But just watch yourself on this, okay? I've watched too many detectives burn themselves out by getting too close on these cases, and you're too good to lose. Now, get the hell out of here." Adams turned back to his paperwork, terminating the interview. Caulder watched him for a moment before leaving.

John sagged against the wall, outside the office. Was he getting too close to this, he thought. Lina Drake had resembled his ex-wife very much. Too much in some ways to see her dead in an alleyway. Maybe that was why he was so determined to bring her killer down. John drove the thoughts from his mind and left for his desk. Nothing good would come of that line of

thought.

Piper was at his desk when he arrived, munching a donut and flipping through some sheets of paper. Caulder nodded at him as he arrived, and sank back down in his chair.

"Rough time with the Chief?"

"You might say that. What's up, Piper?"

"Not a lot. Just came up to let you know that the Feds are now in on this."

"The Feds? FBI?"

"Yup. Sent two agents down to 'assist' in the investigation. Frost and Summers."

"The FBI, eh. Whoppie fucking do. That's all I needed today."

"Relax, John. They're supposed to be experts on 'mutant hate crimes' or something."

"I bet the closest that they've ever come to a mutant is the Kelly hearings on television."

"They're waiting downstairs." Piper said, sweat sliding down his face from the heat. John nodded, pulling his shoulder holster back on and picking up his coat.

"You hear anything new, you call me immediately, right?"

"You got it, John."

Scott and Emma said side by side in the dingy waiting room. A steady flow of police with handfcuffed suspects came and went, ignoring the pair in their dark suits and sunglasses. A side door opened and a young man in a beige suit and sandels stepped out of it. He saw the two, obviously government, sitting in the waiting room and approached them.

"You the FBI?"

"Indeed. I'm Agent Frost. This is Agent Summers."

"Frost? Like Frost Industries Frost?"

"She's my cousin. Shall we move this somewhere else?"

"Yeah, sure. This way."

John Caulder led the two of them out of the waiting room and into one of the empty briefing rooms. As they walked, he drew up his own impressions of the pair. The first of them being that neither seemed to like each other much. The one in the queer red sunglasses was a tall guy, slim but with muscles all over. He moved like some of those ex-Marine SWAT team members John knew; deadly and sure. The woman was like ice, that same terrifying sense of self assuredness he knew from people like Sharpe.

"So, Detective Caulder. We've been given a preliminary briefing, but if you could fill us in on any other details, we'd appreciate it." The tall one, Summers, said.

"Ah, well. Um. Well, it's definitely a serial killer. We've identified four victims so far with the same M/O. No connection between the victims that we can determine other then their mutant nature."

"No one has checked if there is a connection in the order or their ages?"

"Those came up blank from the government databases."

Emma and Scott barely held in audible sighs of relief. The identities of the X-Men were still secret to the general databases.

"Cause of death, in each case, has been a tiny projectile, delivered mechanically to the spinal cord. Very skilled and hard to diagnose."

"Interesting." Emma said. "So, where do we go from here?"

"Hit the witnesses from the Café. See if anyone saw her. It'll be difficult, since that FoH explosion wasn't all that far from were she was found."

"Explosion?" Scott said, arms crossed over his chest.

"Mutant Research Centre. They bombed it the same time that the forensic team estimates the girl was killed."

"It happened then?"

"Yup. Now, I think that--" John stopped as his celphone shrilled. "Hello, Caulder. Uh-huh...yeah, alright. I be right there." John snapped the phone closed and turned to his two charges. "They've got another body."

The house was two storied and narrow, the doorway flush against the crumbling, yellow bricks. Three cement steps, edges rotted and flanked by thick patches of weeds, led up to the dark green door. The colour of the door matched the window frames and was exactly the shade of the filing cabinets at the police station.

Charlie Jennings, a detective from the East side, was on his hands and knees in the dark, passage just outside the door. A single, low-watt bulb hung from the ceiling, operated by a length of beaded chain. The walls were green, over rough plaster. The floor was covered in a thin brown carpet, worn through in places to show the darkly varnished boards beneath.

"Find anything?" Caulder asked. Jennings grunted and climbed to his feet.

"Nothing but termites and cigarette butts." Jennings was in his mid-thirties, a big man with thinning hair and a long mustache.

"Cats." Emma noted with a sniff. The atmosphere reeked of ammonia.

"FBI." Caulder said by way of explanation to Jennings, who smiled.

"Yeah, take a Fed to figure that one out." He ignored Emma's flat glare and turned back to Caulder. "They belong to the old guy in 2B. The Doc and the Iron Maiden are up in 2A."

"Both of them? Why?"

"I dunno. Something that the Iron Maiden wanted to show him. Go right up." John nodded, and motioned Scott and Emma to follow him.

"Iron Maiden?" Emma asked as they were part way up the stairs.

"Docter Lillian Sharpe. Cold as all hell, but the best set of tits on the force." John looked back at Emma and suddenly flushed, his composure falling.

"I mean, uh, that--"

"Never mind, Detective. I'll do my best to try and justify your appraisal of her when I see her." Emma said, a mischievous smile on her face.

"Uh, right." John was silent the rest of the way to the apartment.

A doorway led down a short passage to a three-step landing. An open door was on the right. The mattress had been stripped of its covers. A small window set high on the wall looked out onto a bare patch of dull sky. The steps took them down into a kitchen area. Sharpe, hands stuffed into the pockets of her white coat, was standing with the Doc beside a white enamel

stove.

On top of the refrigerator there was an old alarm clock in a bright yellow plastic case. The only other furniture in the room was a pair of wooden, straight-backed chairs and a square table covered with a drooping sheet of dark blue oilcloth. On the oilcloth there was the naked body of a young man in his midtwenties.

In life, he'd been taller than the table is long. His head hung down over the near edge of the table while his legs hung over the far side. His mouth and eyes were open. Blood had settled into the face, turning it a mottled blue and bulging the eyes. The tongue, fallen back against the hard palate, was almost black. The bulging eyes were brown. He was fair skinned, and had light, corn-silk blond hair, cut long.

"Interesting, don't you think?" said Sharpe, speaking to Caulder. There was no introductions or greetings. Piper would have briefed both of the doctors on the identities of the two FBI agents prior to their arrival.

"No visible cause of death, but we haven't moved the body yet, so it's likely he's got another of those things wedged into his spine." said the Doc. "Never seen anything like it, John. Lillian showed me the little bastard. Just unreal." The Doc was almost on his fortieth year on the force, most of it in Pathology. It was said that anything that could be done to a human body had been seen by the Doc, and that he could identify a supervillian based on his victims. Something new was a rarity indeed.

"Only real question is why didn't he mark this one." Sharpe said. Caulder looked at her.

"What?"

"No brand. In fact, other then the blade, this body is totally unmarked."

Scott leaned down. The positioning of the limbs was strange. The left arm lay splayed out at a forty-five degree angle relative to the torso, while the right arm had been brought over the hairless chest to lay parallel to the shoulders. He felt something bothering him, tugging at his tactical sense. Ignoring the feeling for a moment, Scott slipped on a pair of gloves and gently lifted the hands, checking the palms.

"Detective, look at this."

"What is that, Agent Summers?"

"His arms. Odd to have fallen that way naturally, isn't it?"

"You're right." Caulder said, looking over the body again. He let his eyes drift around the room, taking in the sight again. Something here was not in place. His gaze stopped on the cheap alarm clock over the fridge. He walked over to it, and peered at it. It had been unplugged, the time stopped at 3:25. Caulder went back to the table, and looked at the body. The limbs matched the position of the clock.

"Our murderer was likely a Boy Scout." Caulder finally said. The shocked looks of the others met his pronouncement. John pointed to the body, and then up to the clock. "Semaphore signals. This one meaning 'X'."

"Good work, John. But why go to such outrageously complex means to display it? The body position could have been changed before someone noticed, and the symbol never discovered."

"No, it wouldn't have. Only someone looking for it would have found it. Meaning that he knows we're on to him." Emma said, arms in her pockets. "This is a message to us. A challenge."

"Who was this man?" Scott said quietly.

"Warren Penchov, the Third."

"Of course it is." Scott said, and his expression deepened into a scowl. "So, what else could have happened to link things?"

"Reminds me, Doc. What are you doing down here? The Ir-- I mean, Doctor Sharpe could have shown you the body in the morgue just as easily."

"Well, we were both in the area in any case."

"Why?"

"The FoH bombed another clinic nearby."

"Tell me something. Would you place his time of death around that of the explosion?" Emma asked. Sharpe looked at her, eyes narrowing.

"I'd say so." Emma nodded and turned back to Caulder.

"Detective, you just found your other link."

"Five bodies. All of them linked by time of death with acts of FoH terrorism. In fact, all but one body is tied directly in with a bombing of some type." Caulder picked up a few files and moved them out of the way of his food. McEasly's was one of a thousand little diners scattered around New York. It had the advantage of being close to the precinct and willing to put up with the round the clock habits of New York's Finest. Emma had muttered reservations under her breath about the establishment, and was glowering behind a cup of coffee and a stack of written reports while the other two men dug into their meals.

"What was the only unlinked one?" Scott asked around his reuben sandwich.

"Arson job." John took a big bite of his hamburger. "They torched a halfway house in the Bronx because it was taking in mutants from the shelters."

"Charming." Emma said quietly, shifting sheets of paper. "So, obviously this killer is working under two guidelines: mutant victims in conjunction with FoH bombings and acts of terrorism."

"Fire."

"Excuse me?"

"Fire is one of the common threads." Scott said, picking up a file and passing it over to her. "These are recorded acts of violence and terrorism in New York by the FoH in the last seven months. The only ones that he has struck on have been those which involve incendiary style bombs or attacks."

"True. So what we have is a killer who, if not brilliant, is at the very least highly skilled, precise, has access to the Friends of Humanity's terrorism schedule and has an affinity for things that burn. Sound about right?" Caulder summed up.

"Agreed. There is more to it though." Frost made a few notes, a distracted look on her face. "There is a lot more here. I'll need some time to work on this. Mister Caulder, I'm assuming that space can be made for us at the precinct?"

"I don't see why not. Lemme give the chief a call and see if they can't arrange an office or something for you."

"Excellent." Emma dropped a thick sheaf of files into her briefcase and stood from the table. "As much as I'd like to stay... actually, I would much rather do anything besides staying in this Public Health Incident waiting to happen. I will see you in the morning with my observations.

Detective Caulder, a pleasure. Scott, my door will be locked tonight. Don't try being a naughty boy again." Emma trailed her fingers over his shoulders as she left.

John grinned at the taller man, who was caught halfway between an embarrassed blush and an angry flush. Emma Frost stepped out of the tiny diner and hailed a cab, giving them a final gay wave as she departed.

"Some kind of woman, huh?" Caulder said admiringly.

"That's one way to put it." Scott said, turning back to his sandwich. "So, tell me why we can't just arrest a whole whack of FoH members and start grilling them until we find out who's involved."

"It's not that simple. See, the same FoH group claims responsibility for all the acts of terrorism done by them in the country. However, the other groups disavow any knowledge of such 'illegal' activities. So, until the government decides to declare the whole body of the Friends of Humanity a criminal organization, we can't just arrest them. So, it's down to standard police work. We need to find evidence to link these attacks and bombings with specific people, and hopefully use them to incriminate their higher ups." John ran a hand through his dark hair and settled wearily back into the booth. "It's frustrating, I know. To know that someone is a criminal,

and not to be able to take them down because you need the proof and you have to make it hold up in a court of law."

"Never considered working on a higher mandate? Like the Avengers or some such?"

"Vigilante tactics give rise to the contempt of law, and that leads to the breakdown of society. Look, it's like this. Without the law, all the police are is the biggest and best equipped gang on the street. When that happens, what's to stop us from becoming the worst?" John mused.

"True." Cyclops said, considering the detective's words against his own actions. The X-Men had functioned outside the law and often in direct opposition to it since their very beginning. True, they did so with the best of intentions, and against people and situations wholly outside the sphere of the law. But still, something about the detective's words struck the mutant. They worked with self-appointed jurisdiction, accountable to no one. Occasionally that led to things like Dark Phoenix and Death.

Cyclops quelled the momentary questioning. Until the law was prepared to recognize such situations and actions without prejudice and fear, then they couldn't operate in good faith within it. He sighed deeply and returned to his meal. They ate in companionable silence for a while, each mulling over the horrific details of the case in front of them and trying to find the tools with which to prevent the murderer from claiming another victim.

"Caulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Say the head of the local FoH was brought in. You'd be allowed to hold for, what, twenty-four hours before you charge him?"

"In theory. However, with the public image of the NYPD right now, he'll make a ranting claim for his lawyers and I'll have the superintendent breathing down my neck." John grimaced.

"What about if you caught him for something not related to the actual crime? Drug possession or something?"

"I could hold him for a good long time then. He'll be canny enough to demand a lawyer within that first twenty-four hours, though. So strong-arming him isn't going to be much of an option." Caulder looked over at the taller man, his eyes hidden behind the curious red sunglasses. "Just what are you thinking, Agent Summers?"

"The FBI has a few connections. If you can ensure a police presence at the Friends of Humanity building in the wee hours of the morning, I think I can arrange for at least one law-breaker."

"Framing?"

"Absolutely not. Just helping them showcase their own illegal activities. Interested?" Scott smiled tightly. John leaned back for a minute and shrugged.

"Why not? Say around 2am or so?"

"Agreed. You'll excuse me while I arrange a few favours then?"

"Yup. Come to the station around 8. Your boy will be processed by then."

"I'm looking forward to it."

The headquarters of the New York chapter of the Friends of Humanity was a squat four story red brick building near the Hudson. Built more then a hundred years ago, it had been a dock accounts centre, a small fabric factory, the home of the Eastern New York Port Authority and then, finally, as a printing shop. The location of the headquarters was not difficult to find. The New York police had pinpointed it with SHIELD's help at the tail end of Operation: Zero Tolerance, and they quietly kept tabs on those moving in and out. The trouble was that the mobile operatives for terrorism never came near the building, and the police had no just cause to harass

the dozens of workers and drivers who passed through it daily.

The X-Men had no such limitations.

Cyclops crouched down in the shadow of the alley, watching the guards at the basement entrances. The moved in a bored, sluggish manner, obviously men guarded a post that they never expected to see anyone appear at. Their pattern was simple to follow. Guards rotated on a two hour basis, likely to try to keep them fresh. They spent a few minutes at post, then ducked off

for a seat next to the door for a smoke and a game of cards. Three or four hands later, they'd make another circuit. They weren't far enough away to lose sight of the door, but enough that if distracted, they'd easily miss a person slipping in. Fortunately for Cyclops, Psylocke could be very

distracting.

"Dere is de soft point, Cyclops. Gambit count fifteen cameras on de roof and wall mounts. No easy access to de roof unless you fly, and den I bet dey got pressure switches and infra-red trips scattered all over. De camera down here isn't working, an' dese boys couldn't properly guard a cup of coffee, much less de door." Gambit whispered in his ear. The lanky Cajun had been doing sweeps of the security from the rooftops around the building, moving like a ghost over the darkened cityscape.

"Telepathic scans are clear as well, Cyclops. I've got sixteen or so scattered around the installation. Mostly guards, some higher-ups. They've got EM fields up around the more sensitive areas, so I'm not sure what they might have in those." Psylocke said equally softly in his other ear, her body emerging from the inky depths of the shadow itself.

"Alright. Psylocke, link us." Cyclops whispered. The female telepath touched his and Gambit's foreheads lightly, and a brief nimbus of energy flashed around her.

Good. Now, here's the plan. We need three things from this place: what files they have on the X-Men, what their connection is with the killer, and to get one of the chiefs out into the street preforming an illegal action. Gambit, you're in charge of the files. I'll back you up. Psylocke, you'll be our hare. Lead them on a chase and get them into the street when we need to. Clear. Both nodded and Cyclops pointed at the door. Fifteen seconds from now, I want through that door. Black-5 moves.

The three slipped into the street. They'd traded their normal uniforms for simple black fatigues. It had been Gambit's suggestion, to go along with their supposed cover as FBI. If they did have to interact with the police, the all black clothes gave them a somewhat military air. Cyclops had traded his normal gold visor for the covert one of brushed metal. Psylocke stepped

into the shadow of a parked car, and disappeared, slipping into the dark limbo realm between shadows that she traveled. Cyclops and Gambit sped soundlessly across the street, to pause at the side of the building. The darkness hid them from the guards, and the extreme angle keep them under the sweeps of the cameras.

"You hear something, Bill?" The first guard turned, picking up his flashlight.

"I think so.." They stood together, and moved towards the noise, their backs to the X-Men. Cyclops and Gambit moved forward, and the door was silently opened from the inside. Psylocke held the door as the two men slipped in, and closed it with a barely audible click.

The guards had been surprisingly well taught to build psychic shields by someone, perhaps former members of Bastion's team. Psylocke would have needed time to control both of them. Fortunately, everyone still thought of telepathy as a hammer, rather then a scalpel. They taught every tactic against mind control they could find, without bothering to consider influence. Psylocke had just brushed the tops of their sensory inputs, implanting the sounds of movement to their left, while fogging auditory information from the right. Her own entry via the shadow of the vending machine she'd glimpsed through a window was less spectacular.

We're clear, Cyclops. No spikes in urgency or alarm. Looks like a clean intrusion.

Good. Gambit, follow your nose. We'll meet up on the street. Call in if you run into trouble, Psylocke. She nodded and disappeared down the darkened hallway. Gambit took a few moments to listen to the pulse of the building, and then pointed down a hallway.

"Dat way." He said quietly.

"Go." They were down the hall to a small stairwell in seconds. The camera set in it was over the door, and Gambit took it offline with a few plucked wires. They dashed up the concrete steps and out the door at the top, passing closed doors and darkened windows in series. Gambit paused again, and then flattened himself against the wall, motioning for Cyclops to do the same. A roving guard walked across the end of the hall, missing the black shapes in his cursory sweep.

The pair stayed motionless as his footfalls slowly died away, and then moved wraith-like down the hall. Gambit paused outside a door and nodded. He pulled a set of picks from his jacket and quickly neutralized the door lock. They slipped inside and eased the door shut behind them. The corner office window let in enough light from the street to eliminate the need for a light, and they quickly tossed the office for information.

The third dented metal filing cabinets revealed little of interest; mostly administration sheets, ordering forms for supplies and a series of brief files on known mutants, mutant sympathetic politicians and public figures, and sightings of mutant activity. Most were cursory, stuffed with news clippings and opinion reports. There was nothing particularly secret in the

files, and certainly nothing damaging to the X-Men. Gambit slipped out a list of personnel and associates from the far right cabinet, and snapped a quick photo of it.

"Never know, rein?" He smirked. Cyclops nodded and quietly eased the drawers shut. They went over to the computer, and booted it up via a patch to their small laptop. Gambit made a hissing noise as the screens came up.

"Boss, dis is not what de normal supremacist uses for his security. Gambit has overlapping null fields, cascading protections and a whole lot of data burns if we go in wrong. Dis is black level protection." Gambit shook his head. "Make you wonder why dey have it, non?"

"And where they got it. Can you just pull the whole data package out, protections in place?"

"Oui."

"Do it. We'll get it cracked later." Cyclops did a quick rummage through the desk, carefully sifting through the piles of paper debris. "No notes to staff. No memos for these attacks. Likely doing all their transmissions over the computer, hidden behind that protection. Dammit."

"Cyclops, have a look at this." Gambit said, and Cyclops squatted down next to him. Gambit lifted up the bundle of power cords and pointed to a thinwire which was piggybacked on to the larger cord with an adhesive. The wire trailed into the computer, and back out and down a small hole in the floor by the desk leg. Gambit carefully unscrewed the back of the computer

and lifted off the shell. They located the wire inside the terminal, and its rigged connection to the CPU.

"Someone snuck a patch into this thing." Cyclops said quietly. "Which means we're not the only ones looking for information."

"Who den? SHIELD, Black Air, and de other agencies have dere own equipment for dis kind of patch. Dis is a homemade job."

"I don't know. Maybe..." Scott trailed off. "Let's see where this thing leads."

"You de bossman." Gambit quietly replaced the cover and stowed his computer

away. The two X-Men eliminated the last signs of their clandestine visit to the office, and slipped out into the darkened halls again. Without event, they snuck back down a floor and located the room over which the tap was set.

It fed into a concrete loading dock, at the rear of the building. Gambit snuck a quick peek inside, and motioned Cyclops that two guards were in place in the landing. Cyclops shook his head and nodded towards the side exit. Direct conflict was not what they wanted. Ideally the Friends of Humanity would never know about the additional visitors during the night.

Both men took up a position by the side door and waited. After a few minutes, Psylocke's telepathic voice echoed inside Cyclops' head, her upper class British accent even more resonant in the mental communications.

I am preparing to make myself known, Cyclops. I've dropped a number of suspicious hints for the security detail, so they should easily deduce that I'm a rogue mutant looking to sabotage the heating equipment.

Excellent. We'll move on your call.

Of course. Ta for now. The telepathic buzz winked out, and a minute later, lights and alarms started to wail. They could hear the yells of the guards, and shouted commands and curses. Cyclops finger counted to five at Gambit, and then hit the door in front of him with his shoulder. It flung open with tremendous force, knocking the guard in front of it sprawling. The other guard was only starting to turn when Gambit rabbit-punched him in the temple, sending him into unconsciousness as well. Both men ran crouched for the alley across from the building, slowing only when they had made the safety of the shadows.

Cyclops, I think I have your pigeon. Sidney Lyttle. He's giving all the orders, and a quick scan says that he's in charge of FoH operations here. Psylocke said in Cyclops' mind, popping in suddenly.

Sounds good. Do we have criminal acts?

Lots of weapons. I can't be sure, but I don't think the rounds they're using are conventional. Sounds like small explosives or something.

Good. Do you need back up?

No. I'll be on the street in two minutes. Just be there to get me out. The buzz cut off again, and Cyclops nodded to Gambit.

"Let's move. We've got two before Psylocke is on the street." Cyclops shed his visor for his glasses, and pulled on one of the trenchcoats they had stashed in the alley prior to the mission. Gambit donned the other one on the run, the military black of their outfits making them look like any number of New Yorkers out for the night.

As they rounded the corner, the staccato sounds of gunfire reached them. They caught a glance of Psylocke as she disappeared behind a row of parked cars. The man in front, beefy and sporting a short blond buzz cut, was barking orders to the rest of his men to get back in the building when the first cherry red siren flashed, and a dozen uniformed police flooded into

the street. The Friends of Humanity thugs were quick to drop their guns, looking around bewildered at the sudden appearance of the law. The blond man simply crossed his arms over his chest and began berating the officer in charge.

Cyclops and Gambit faded back from the street to another shadowed doorway, and Psylocke stepped out of it. She had also pulled a coat on over her fatigues, and joined them on the street.

"A successful operation, Scott?" She asked, her lilting accent incongruous in the Eastside surroundings. Scott nodded, pointing to Gambit.

"Gumbo got the computer files. Can you send it to Kitty Pryde on Muir Island first thing tomorrow? I need to know what he's hiding."

"Oui. Dis is beyond Gambit's level."

"Excellent. Excellent work, people."

"You're forgetting something, Scott."

"What's that, Betsy?"

"As the team commander, the first round's on you." Betsy smiled and Remy nodded sagely beside her. Scott chuckled a bit and shrugged.

"Sure, why not. But Remy?"

"Oui?"

"I get to choose the bar."

"Merde."

Sidney Lyttle sat in the holding cell, fuming. He'd been shoved unceremoniously through the booking process, and his single phone call had yielded only his lawyer's answering machine. The grim bars around him did little to raise his angry mood. Who ever that mutant bitch was that drew them out into the ambush was going to pay. A uniformed officer opened the cell and collected Lyttle, leading him handcuffed to a small room. It was filled by a long table, a few chairs and a battered ashtray in the centre. One wall was completely taken up by a mirror, and Lyttle snarled at it to the observers he assumed sat on the other side.

"Ooh, he's a tough guy." Cortez smirked at the glare and turned to Caulder. "How do you want to do this?"

"Good/Bad mix. The usual. I'll start him off and you bracket him. I want him pissing himself by the time I get back."

"Any specifics?"

"Nope. Get creative." John grinned wolfishly.

"Fuckin' A."

The two left the observation booth and entered the interrogation room. Cortez dropped into a chair at the end and snarled at Lyttle. John shot him a warning look and took a seat beside the handcuffed man. He dropped a file on the table and leaned back in his chair, staring. Lyttle glared back, and they held the position for a long moment. Finally, John leaned forward and

shook his head wearily.

"Micro-explosive tipped 45 caliber rounds in the weapon we grabbed off you, Sidney. That's ordinance that falls pretty far into the military use only. Care to comment?"

"Fuck you."

"Alright. We also have you with discharging a firearm in a public street, putting large holes in a couple of cars. Care to comment on that as well?"

"I'm not saying a goddamn thing without my lawyer here."

"You know, it'd make this a lot easier if you just told us a few things, Sidney."

"Fuck you."

"Fine. Christ!" John threw up his hands in disgust. "So we'll all sit in this goddamn room for the next eight hours. I'm going to get some coffee. Cortez, you want some?"

"Yeah. Hey, do me a favour and see if Cliffy's got the new shift rotations up?"

"That's all the way downstairs."

"Come on, John."

"Yeah, sure. Fine. Look, keep an eye on our mime friend here, eh?"

"Sure thing." Caulder left the room and closed the door. Cortez smiled like a shark and moved over to the chair next to Sidney. "He'll be gone for at least twenty minutes, you know."

"So?"

"So, that means I've got twenty minutes alone with you."

"So? You some fuckin' faggot?"

"I have a niece. She's eight. She's also missing an eye because a bunch of fuckwit losers like you kicked in the side of her head after finding out she was a mutant."

"They should have kicked harder." Sidney sneered. His hiss was cut short by Cortez's fist exploding on his mouth. The man wheeled back in his chair, dribbling teeth and blood.

"I already filled out the incident report about the attack in the holding cell. I can kick your balls into your neck and no one will say anything about it."

"Fuagh–"

"And then I'm going to send you into a low occupancy holding cell, with ol' Saul in it. Things happen to people in that cell. Big, long, black unlubricated things. See, you little fucking worm, I've got your nuts in a goddamn vise and I'm going to squeeze them until you talk. And I don't really want you to talk so I can make sure you leave us a cripple." Cortez grabbed Lyttle roughly and pulled him into a chair.

"Yuh fucking crazy..." Lyttle said through his ruined mouth. Cortez wrenched his head cruelly back.

"Yup." He pulled a pen from his pocket and held it under Lyttle's right eye. "And you're about to see justice. What's the saying, an eye for an eye? Well, if my niece had to lose one, then so should you."

"Cortez!" Caulder yelled from the doorway, and Cortez let go of Lyttle's head.

"Fuck."

"I figured you were pulling some shit when... aw, look at this guy." Caulder grabbed Cortez and pulled him roughly from the room. "You fill that report right fucking now!"

"Yeah, yeah... sorry, John."

"Whatever. Just get the paperwork done." John slammed the door shut and loomed over Lyttle. "And let me guess, you prick. Couldn't keep your mouth shut, huh? Had to goad him on?"

"He's fuckin'–"

"Shut the fuck up. I'm tempted to break my foot off in your ass too, so don't think I'm your friend. So, we're going to do this the easy way. You actually tell me what I want to know, and I don't drop you into general holding naked." Caulder leaned close to Lyttle.

"Fuh you. I want my fuhing lawyer."

"Fine. I'll leave you here with Cortez then. See you in the morning."

"What!"

"Later, asshole. Cortez will be along momentarily. I hope you're used to the idea of your testicles getting stomped until they pop."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Wha-what do you want to know?"

"Everything. Shall we start at the beginning?"

"Alright." Sidney's eyes were wide open, terrified at the sudden loss of power and the possibility of being left with the lunatic cop. He was used to using the law, manipulating it for his own ends and safety. Now, he was facing it using him, violently if need be.

"Where did you get the ammunition?"

"Leftovers from Operation: Zero Tolerance. Lots of guys grabbed equipment and weapons just before SHIELD shut us down. Most of it got funneled back to us after."

"You were part of Operation: Zero Tolerance?"

"Yes."

"In what capacity?"

"I was a division security commander."

"So, where did you recruit your bombers?"

"What bombers?"

"Are you saying you have no connection to the FoH bombings in New York?"

"That's right."

"Did you order the bombings?"

"No."

"Do you know who ordered the bombings?"

"No."

"Are you associated with the bombers?"

"No."

"Have you ever made a bomb?"

"No."

"Set a bomb?"

"No. I wanna see my lawyer."

"Well, this is pointless. I'll send Cortez in."

"Wait!"

"Look, you wanna jerk me around, fine. I know about the bombings. I know you ordered the bombings. You don't want to tell me, then I've got no use for you."

"Wait, we can make a deal!"

"Deal?"

"I know things. FoH hierarchy, systems, personnel, and their plans. I can give you the biggest edge of your life." Lyttle said, eyes wide with fear. "You get me out of the charges, and I'll spill as a witness."

"Tough guy. So eager to sell out your buddies?"

"Look, that maniac wants to kill me, and I know cops. They'll hush it right up. Or, if he doesn't kill me, you're going to trump up something to get me into jail, and the FoH will have me dead in under a week. I don't want to die. You need information. Let's make a deal."

"Alright. Here's what I'll do. We'll drop the terrorism charges and send up for the weapons charge. Say, 8 years or so on a conviction, and then switch you to the federal lock-up in Arizona under a different name."

"Arizona? That's one of the--"

"SPB prisons, yes. You'll be protected by a new name, and under guard at one of the most heavily fortified prisons in the world."

"But, eight years?"

"You're getting off fucking light, Lyttle. I know you didn't plant the bomb, but I'm sure the DA could go a long way towards establishing the given order from you. That means life, no chance of parole. We've got seventeen deaths from your bombings. The DA might not go for it and let you die anyway, but if you come through as a witness, it might be worth it."

"Well--"

"Make a fucking decision, Lyttle. Right now."

"Alright, alright. I want it on paper with my lawyer before I spill."

"Agreed, for the most part. However, I want something now."

"What?"

"Who set the bombs?"

"Teams of freelancers. Floating FoH support teams. Mostly ex-military types."

"Where did you get the explosives?"

"We speced them off-site. Guy named Eckert, a former technician in the Sentinel Prime project. He makes small specialized explosives, really reliable stuff."

"Who else knew the target dates and times?"

"Me. My assistant Chuck Gentry, and the teams themselves."

"No one else?"

"No."

"Did you use the same teams?"

"Nope. Always different guys, rotated out for security purposes."

"So, just you and Chuck?"

"Yes."

"Where's Chuck now?"

"Hospital. Our Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn. He had a heart attack two weeks ago."

"Fuck."

"What?"

"Nothing. Alright, dogshit. You stay here, and I'll send someone for you. The DA and your slimeball lawyer should be here in the morning. Oh, and just in case you feel like trying to eel out, I'm having the duty officer take you by the holding cell with your friends later. He's going to give you a big thank you, and send you of with Paul Datars, the chief of the Mayor's task force on hate crimes. You know what they'll think." John smiled cruelly, and Lyttle's mouth went dry.

"But–"

"Good night, Sid, you fuck. You better make yourself damn useful, or I'll be the first to take a piece off you."

Caulder slammed the door behind him, and left Sidney Lyttle to contemplate his very tenuous future in silence.

"That is a beautiful thing, Piper." John Caulder said, with a twinge of satisfaction in his voice. The dark-haired detective was leaning against the one way glass, watching the Mayor's chief aide and Detective Cortez bracket Lyttle for information about the Friends of Humanity activities in New York. Sidney Lyttle had been completely drained of his former bluster, and meekly responded to every question put to him. The fact that Cortez was grinning at him the entire time may have accounted for his acute discomfort.

"Agreed. So John, what's the play now?"

"Not sure, Will. I think that starting to check Lyttle's answers against our own info is first. If we're lucky, we'll turn up a connection with the bombers and the serial killer. Has the judge come through with that search warrant yet?" John said, rolling his head to try and ease the tension from his cramped neck muscles.

"Twenty minutes ago. The chief has a squad prepping now." Piper replied, adjusting his glasses.

"Right. Well, I guess we should go with them, man. Got a vest racked?"

"Yeah, yeah. That's what I love about my job. Playing target for a bunch of heavily armed zealots."

"Like the men said, Piper. If you can't take the joke, you shouldn't wear the badge." John clapped him on the shoulder and as they threaded through the labyrinthine depths of the station.

They stopped outside of the dispatch station while Piper went to clear a car for them. Caulder wandered over to the requisition screen, where a short, red-headed officer was collecting ammunition for her shift.

"Erin. Hi!"

"Hey John. Where's your little friend?" Erin said, slotting rounds into an empty clip.

"Piper's getting the car right now. How's Vice?"

"Same old, same old. Old whores rolling college students in bus station johns, sickos peddling kiddie porn in the park, and hauling old perverts out of the PussyCat theatre, and having to put up with them jacking off in the back of the growler."

"Wow, romantic."

"Yeah."

"So, are you free for dinner tomorrow night? Maybe Italian? I know a good place." Caulder said, smiling crookedly.

"Sorry John. I already work Vice and well–" Erin slapped the clip into her Glock and chambered a round. "-- I just don't like to take my work home. See you later."

"It must be my tie." John muttered as he found Piper and they headed for their car. Piper looked at Caulder with a smirk, and the detective scowled back.

"Definitely must be the tie." John said pointedly, and Piper chuckled.

"That's what I was thinking, you know."

"Thanks Will."

"I mean, I've seen some ugly ties in my time, usually on the chief, but that has to be the ugliest."

"That's great, Will. I really appreciate it."

"When you came in today, I said to myself, 'Will, that is one damn ugly tie.'"

"Yeah, I got it! Enough about the tie." Caulder said, and turned his attention back to driving out of the crowded parking garage, ignoring his partner's wry chuckles beside him.

The streets of New York were rain wet in the early morning gloom. The brief thunderstorm had cut the sooty haze of the city to ribbons, leaving it smelling clean and fresh for a short time. Caulder wove deftly through the traffic, following a series of side streets and alleys to the warren of wharves and warehouses on the East shores of Manhattan. A half dozen patrol cars waited in front of the Friends of Humanity building. It seemed far less imposing in the light of day, Caulder thought as he and Piper stepped out of the car. Their feet hit the street at the same time as two uniformed police officers burst through the front doors, dragging a man between them. John and Arch headed over to where the man lay, blood oozing from his nose and mouth.

"What happened with jagballs here?" Caulder jerked a thumb at the man on the street.

"Him? Oh, decided not to heed a search warrant and then tried to draw on a New York City police officer." The first cop said, crossing his beefy arms over his chest. "Another victim of poor decision making skills."

"So I see. But, Officer.. Reynolds?" John squinted at the man's nametag. "I don't want to see any officers taking a few kicks out on the people here. Got it?" Caulder said and Reynolds nodded sourly. "Good. As for this guy... seems to me like there's an awful lot of stairs in there. You say he fell down a flight of them?"

"That's right, detective."

"Right. Make sure it goes in your report. Take him to the hospital." Caulder motioned with a jerk of his head, and Reynolds and his partner started off to their cruiser, suspect dragged between them.

"Dealt with?" Piper said, appearing at Caulder's elbow. John shook his head and sighed.

"For now, anyway."

"The beats have got the building cleared, John. We should get to it."

"Yeah, you're right." John started towards the steps and then paused. "In a sec, Will."

"John, where are you-- John!" Piper threw up his hands disgustedly and jogged after his partner. "What are you doing?"

"Hot dog. Come on. I'll buy you a soda." Caulder jibbed as he walked towards the gunmetal silver cart with it's jaunty red and yellow striped umbrella.

"But, I thought you were a vegetarian?"

"Popular camouflage, Will. Hi, can I get a dog, extra mustard and kraut, no relish." The old man nodded and pulled a hot dog from his heater to his grill with a sizzle. Caulder nodded in obvious satisfaction, his mouth watering.

"Excuse me. Are you a cop?"

"What?"

"Are you a cop?" The man repeated in clipped tones. His Con-Ed uniform was streaked with dirt and oil.

"Yeah."

"What's going on in that building over there?" He asked between bites of his hotdog. The hotdog vendor gestured with one skinny arm.

"It's a drug bust, yes? Always drugs in this place!" He said.

"Just a normal investigation. There were some arrests here last night." John said, collecting his hotdog. The other man nodded and took another bite of his hotdog. John turned back towards the building with Piper even as the vendor waved expansively towards the building.

"See? What I am saying! Drugs!"

Piper jogged up the stairs and ducked between the two officers barring the door. John followed more slowly behind, finishing off his hotdog and staring at the face of the building. With a sigh, he tossed away the mustard stained napkin and entered the building after his partner.

The Number calmly watched the two detectives enter the building while he finished his hotdog. The vendor was still rambling on about drugs and Mafia, but the Number ignored him as he gathered up his tool kit and hard hat. He walked slowly down to the subway station and boarded a train to return home. He was retracing his morning route, which had taken him to the docks in the dawn hours.

He had left the station and made his way down into the first levels of the sewers, his Con-Ed uniform making him invisible for all intents and purposes. The filth coated him, to his intense disgust, but he fought down the urge to flee and pressed deeper into the system. After a number of twists and turns, the Number was through a rusting steel door and down a long abandoned access tunnel. It led him to one of the forgotten pneumatic subway tubes of the turn of the century. Surprisingly, this one had been broken into at some time, and a heavy series of power cable bundles snaked down it's length and back out the end. An old junction box dangled from the roof, rusted free of it's bolts and hanging at the end of it's still drawing cables. A series of smaller cables had been spliced to it, and fell to the ground under it, along with a thin wire wrapped in black rubber.

The Number unpacked his laptop from the carefully waterproofed toolkit and plugged it into the rubber-cased wire. It booted up and he pecked his way through the security features with two fingers. Above him, police would be just beginning to search the offices, giving him plenty of time to work the seemingly dormant computer. The screen of his laptop blossomed up to a series of remote windows, and the Number tapped a few keys. The drive hummed as it downloaded the information through the rigged thinwire cable connection.

The Number had been whistling softly, keenly aware of the haunting echo Bach's 'Toccata and Fugue in D Minor' was creating in the empty tube.

A soft ping from the laptop drew him from his trance, and he unhurriedly unhooked and repacked the computer into his toolkit. He had donned his hardhat again and disappeared back into his urban camouflage created by the Con-Ed suit. The Number had retraced his steps back to the street, and had paused when he saw the sudden appearance of the detectives at the police cordon around the building. He'd stopped to watch, buying a hotdog as cover as the detectives spoke with police at the scene. A few minutes with the dark haired one had confirmed that his association with this cell of the Friends of Humanity was finished.

The Number considered all of this as he waited for his stop. There were only two more bombings to take advantage of before it ended. He'd changed the targets from those Lyttle had chosen in the computer, so he was sure that the police would not interfere with the new teams. Shame, since it would likely see the last of Sidney Lyttle, with him 'lying' to the police. Still, now he had to push up his time table, and the Number did not like those sorts of disruptions.

The Number got off at the next stop and switched lines instead of going up to his home. He had the needed tools in his toolkit, and a schedule to keep. The roaring behind his eyes gave him a sick moment in the station, but a deep breath and the darkness behind his eyes slowly soothed his anxiety born from the new changes. It was just a matter of recomputing, he told himself as he boarded a new train.

The time had come to get his final plans in place and to prepare to bring his healing purity to a wicked and mad city; time to let it finally hear his symphony of fire..

"Hey Scott. You're up early." Kitty said, yawning into her cup of coffee. At nine in the morning, even her own rigidly established health and fitness regimen collapsed before the prospect of a cup of dark roast, six sugars, no cream. Yuchhh the cream.

"It's been that kind of night, Kitty." Scott said, sitting in front of his laptop and looking at her through the small cam on the top of it. Kitty noted with a bit of surprised that Cyclops looked mussed, tired, and if she was correct, the slightest bit drunk. "Remy send you our little package?"

"Yeah, I got it about twenty minutes ago. Want me to get started on it?" Kitty said automatically. She had been an X-Man first, and even through most of her time was spent under the leadership of Storm, there was something about Scott that just screamed 'command' and it was followed immediately.

"I'd appreciate it. It's pretty high level encryption; real cutting edge shadow stuff. Remy's eyes were crossing when he looking at it." Scott said and Kitty grinned.

"Remy's an amateur." She said. There was enough of the Logan/Wisdom inspired rogue in her to enjoy a delicious, almost sexual joy of hacking. "Lemme see what I can do. You mobile?"

"All day."

"I'll give you a call when I've got something."

"Great. Thanks, Kitty." Scott smiled crookedly into the cam. "And enjoy yourself." He said before he cut the connection. Kitty grinned as the uplink terminated. One thing Cyclops knew was his people. Kitty set the coffee on the console beside her and brought up the file.

When Pete dropped in a few hours later, her coffee was ice cold and the only sound was the muted clack of keys. Fantastic stacks of code rose and fell on the screen before her, far beyond anything Wisdom's fast and dirty hacking tricks could handle. He settled for leaving the tray of food on her console, a bottle of juice by her elbow and a kiss on the top of her head as he left. Even as he left, he wasn't sure she'd even realized he was there.

"Come in, Doctor Sharpe." Emma said off-handedly, stopping Sharpe a half second before she was about to knock. Lillian raised an eyebrow at the blonde haired woman who hadn't looked up from her stack of paperwork.

"Agent Frost, correct?" The doctor said crisply. Emma Frost nodded and pushed a pile of papers to one side.

"Indeed. We met at the last murder scene."

"I remember. Since your fellow agent and Detective Caulder are both not available, I thought I should bring this to you." Lillian dropped a file folder of paper and flimsy x-rays on her desk. Emma flipped open the file, rifled through it quickly and closed it again.

"I'm afraid I lack your medical training, Doctor. What am I looking at?"

"We did a chemical analysis on those arrow heads. The lab came back with a lot of things, including a trace of an abrasive paste. The lab identified it as a jewelers finishing paste, used for grinding and polishing gems." Lillian recrossed her legs. "According to the people I've spoken with, the sanding smear is a very specific material, used only by specialists and artisans."

"So, with it being a limited market item, we might be able to draw up a list of suspects based on those buying it in the region." Emma finished for her. Lillian nodded and picked up the folder.

"Doctor Sharpe, tell me something." Emma said as the doctor was turning to leave. "Why is it that you're here? I took the liberty of examining your files. You graduated at the top of your class from Stanford. As a pathologist in the private sector, you could be drawing a considerable salary."

Lillian Sharpe sat back down, checking that the door was closed first. Her face was very still; like carved from stone as she gazed levelly at Frost across the desk.

"Agent Frost, have you ever felt helpless before?" She asked emotionlessly.

"Not in some time."

"Neither have I. At least, not since joining the police force. However, this has not always been the case. You see, I reached medical school very young. My classmates were all at least two or three years older then I was. Obviously, it was a very hard time for me. I was friendless, alone, and very scared."

"Not uncommon for young students." Emma observed, and Lillian nodded.

"Indeed. During my second year, I had something of a growth spurt. I hit my final height, and began to fill in physically as well. Suddenly, the gawky girlchild in the back of the lecture hall was a woman. An attractive one at that." It was said in that same detached voice, without a trace of self-flattery in it. To Sharpe, it was a simple fact, and nothing bragging involved. "So, I suddenly was noticed. Invited on dates, to parties. For the first time, I was liked. You're an attractive woman, Agent Frost. Did you have a similar stage?"

"In a sense. I was much younger."

"Lucky for you. In any case, I reveled in the change. My grades slipped as I indulged in my new found popularity. I drank at the frat parties, snorted cocaine with my 'sisters' in the sorority and plunged from the top third of my class to the bottom of it."

"Again, a common occurrence."

"One evening, I was drinking at a party when I blacked out. One minute I was doing shots with a girlfriend, the next I was lying nude in a strange bed, aching from every orifice." Lillian's eyes lost focus, going distant as she recalled the morning. "There were three of them in the apartment. I knew them vaguely; three rich kids wasting their parents money playing at school. They laughed at me when I said I was going to the police. They laughed and laughed."

Emma felt the rage in the woman, burning but distant from her. It was like a wall existed between her mind and her emotions.

"After they finished laughing, they raped me a second time. All of them. I bit the smallest one when he tried to force his cock in my mouth. He knocked out three teeth and used my anus instead. For three hours they used me, taking turns and occasionally beating me so I would 'learn some respect', they said. In the end, one of them forced another drink laced with whatever rape drug they had used the previous night, and dumped me back in my dorm room."

"Did you go to the police?" Emma said, but she was sure she already know the end of they story.

"Yes. They arrested them, but it never went to court. One of the boys was the son of a district court judge. The other had an uncle who was a police commissioner. They never had to worry about prosecution. After that, I found that I had no trouble focusing on school. Nothing else had the power to touch me."

"I'm sorry?"

"The therapists call it a severe case of dislocation by intellectualization. I'm afraid to feel, so I don't. Not more than weak shadows of emotions, in any case. At least, in most things. I feel curiosity; a joy in solving problems and intellectual challenges. And I can feel hate." Lillian Sharpe's lovely eyes locked on Frost's with a hard glare. "I can hate very well, Agent Frost. All three of those men have had their reputations, careers, and in one case, their life destroyed by me."

"How?" Frost said.

"You are an FBI agent, Emma. Telling you would reopen closed cases and perhaps see me facing possible prosecution. That I will not tell you. However, all were repaid in kind. My family have some influence. However, to answer you initial question, I do this because it's the only place that I feel anything. The joy of the challenge and the anger and revenge when I help send the guilty to jail. I am trapped here, Agent Frost."

"You avoid your doctors, don't you?" Emma said.

"I'm not ready to face some demons yet, Agent. Now, I have to return to the lab. Good luck, Agent Frost. You're hunting a remarkable man. I'll feel satisfied when you bring him to justice."

"Will you? Truly?"

Lillian Sharpe opened the door and smiled briefly at her.

"Yes, that I would feel. Good day, Agent Frost." Sharpe closed the door and threaded out of sight through the crowded hallway. Emma sat considering her words for a long time before turning back to the file she'd left.

"John."

"Scott." Caulder grinned and handed over a cup of coffee. The tall man looked tired, and John was willing to bet his eyes were red-rimmed behind those curious red glasses he wore. "Long night?"

"Something like that."

"I figured. That Frost must be something else." John grinned as the other man winced.

"I did not–"

"Hey, I know, man. I know." John smiled wider. "I bet you didn't at least two or three times." Scott flushed and hid his face behind a long pull from his mug. John pulled a file out of a stack on his desk and passed it over.

"What's this?"

"The transcripts from our friend Lyttle's confession. Makes for some pretty interesting reading. Including the part were he talks about were most of the Friends of Humanity equipment came from." Caulder sat on the edge of his desk, across from Scott.

"Bastion."

"Yup. More than thirty thousand weapons, special devices and supply crates were smuggled out before SHIELD shut them down. Lyttle used to be a security chief in one of the main bases. They've got everything up to a small nuke hidden in garages all over the country." Caulder sipped his coffee. "This is getting uglier and uglier."

"We got a name on the bombers?"

"Nope, but we do have–" John rifled through his papers, hunting up a sheaf of printouts clipped together. "–the guy who makes them. Eckert. Thomas Allen Eckert. Former technician on the Sentinel Prime project. Master machinist and designer. Did a bunch of weapon stuff for the CIA before moving to the Zero Tolerance program."

"Have you picked him up yet?"

"Here's the thing... um, he was confined to the Eastpark Mental Hospital less than a week after the collapse of the Zero Tolerance program. Guy's been locked up for almost a year now, I guess. Rubber room type."

"So, Lyttle is lying to us, or someone else is using Eckert's name." Summers scowled as he flipped through the reports.

"Yeah, sounds like it. Still, I'm going to take a trip down to Eastpark later today or tomorrow, and see if this whackjob has any visitors he could be passing blueprints to or something." Caulder tossed the sheets back on his desk and motioned at the room. "We've gotten official permission to assemble a small task force on this, so we'll be moving everything into this area."

"Check ins and such?"

"On the grunt work, yeah. On the other hand, we get to be at large and carefree." Caulder said. "You have any leads?"

"Just a few things the Bureau is looking at. I'll let you know."

"I have this feeling, Scott."

"What's that?"

"I think we're getting close."

"I hope you're right, John." Scott looked grim. "Because if not, someone else is going to die."

They sat silently for a few moments, before leaving on their separate searches.

The mansion seemed too quiet and still in the mid-afternoon. Scott prowled through it, making his habitual check of the grounds. Bishop might have Cyclops beat hands down in paranoia, but Scott had lived in the house longer than anyone without the surname 'Xavier'. After satisfying himself that the house felt right, he disappeared into the bowels of the house. The

sub-basements of the X-mansion always felt cold compared to the warm colours and comfortable furnishings of the living quarters upstairs. The mansion was a good metaphor for the lives of the X-Men in general, Scott always thought. Upstairs was a school and a home, normal in every way. Down in the basement it had been stripped; the normalcy and humanity scoured away to raw steel and energy, all to preserve one single purpose. Steel and energy; always alert and untiring in their duty. Scott could remember how sinister he had found it in the very beginning. Now, it was as much a part of him as his uniform.

The operations centre was empty, but still hummed as the hundreds of systems alive in it processed, searched and recorded the constant streams of data. Details insignificant on their own could create a devastatingly accurate threat warning system when combined. The cross indexing system had been the idea of a student of Xavier's, Douglas Ramsey. The New Mutant was a genius with computers, even without his astonishing language powers. He and Kitty Pryde had spent hundreds of hours putting it together; melding advanced code with the remarkable deductive leaps that the idiot slaved Sh'iar AI interfaces were capable of.

When the X-Men had re-established themselves at the mansion, the system had fallen in the hands of Forge, Beast and Banshee. It was that team that had added the smaller deductive abilities, with the scientific and police knowledge of the two men creating a much wider and more subtle net. It had taken five weeks to overhaul and upgrade the system, using an Interpol style database web structure to tier the incoming data stream through innumerable cross checks and evaluations. In seconds, it could boil down a thousand tiny bits of data into indicators of SPB activity, political unrest, probable confrontation zones and even new mutant contacts. The

analysts at the CIA or the NSB would each gladly give their mothers to a Turkish brothel for a tenth of the system's capability.

Scott took a quick glance over the system to check for emergencies before he settled back into the main console chair. For once, no sudden disasters had cropped up; the X-Men equivalent of a vacation. The flight log showed X-Men Blue team on their way to Muir Island, something that had been planned before Scott had left. X-Men Gold team was on their way to Boston,

listed in the normal laconic manner of Wolverine as 'checking on something'. Scott shut down the log and turned his attention back to the console. After a brief connection wait, the large screen suddenly flared up with the image of Kitty at a computer console, eyes red and still clad in a

rumpled bathrobe and t-shirt.

"Kitty." Scott said, and the brown haired girl looked up.

"Oh, hey Scott. How are you doing?"

"Better than you, it seems. What's up?"

"Well–" Kitty stifled a yawn and clicked a few buttons. "I cracked it, and let me tell you, it was– well, a bastard." Scott chuckled and mentally agreed with Nightcrawler's statement that her boyfriend, Pete Wisdom, was having a major impact on the girl. "Scott, where did you get this?"

"Friends of Humanity hideout in Manhattan."

"Yeah, well, this is not over the counter stuff, Scott. It's a bastardized version of SHIELD's Guy Locklear encryptions. Maybe half a dozen people in the world can pack this much nastiness down into a computer that small. You need a super computer the size of a football field to even come to grips with breaking this."

"What did you use?"

"A super computer the size of a football field. Fortunately, I worked with Guy at SHIELD, and a couple of his little backdoors were still in place. Still, Scott, this security is intense stuff. Where did they get it?"

"Bastion, I'd guess."

"Figures. Anyhow, here's the real gem. I found the bombing schedules in here."

"Fantastic! Now–"

"Not so fantastic. They've been accessed remotely and altered. There's a half second delay in the files. Some one accessed them from a terminal off the main network and jimmied it."

"The thinwire." Scott muttered, and Kitty nodded.

"Yup. However, that's not the big deal here, Scott."

A thin wire of worry twisted in Scott's gut as he saw Kitty's expression change. "What?"

"How many mutants do we have on file with the Cerebro?"

"About twenty-one hundred and change. Why?"

"Because they have more than seventy-five thousand here." Kitty said, and Cyclops' jaw dropped. "Apparently more than half from official government records during mutant registration."

"Seventy-five thousand?"

"Yes. A healthy chunk out of Russian GKU files here. Now, most are Delta level or lower."

Scott chewed his lower lip while he considered. "That could explain it. Charles never used the Cerebro on alert for anything lower than beta-level, so it's only the ones we've run across over the years that have been added. But that many..."

"I know. There's even a Senator in here, Scott. It's unreal."

"Kitty, send me a list of those in New York, would you?"

"Sure, but why?"

"Because I'm hoping I can save someone named McCoy."

Sidney Lyttle sat in his booth and scowled at the police officer on duty at the side of the room. He switched from boiling anger to oppressive fear every few moments. Caulder and the mayor's aide had promised him a deal with the DA's office in confidence, and an FBI escourt out of the place. Every minute he stayed in the cell was one more minute closer to his promise of execution by the Friends of Humanity. Fortunately, the detective had honoured his promise to keep things quiet. However, Lyttle had other plans about how long he'd really be in jail.

The key to any real chance of his protection from charges of terrorism was Eckert. He was sure that neither the police nor anyone else was going to crack the computer encryption without getting the data inside fried first. That meant the only real link that they had between him and the bombings was Eckert himself. Otherwise, they had a bad weapons charge worth maybe a

year or two in jail. Datars was a hard bastard, but the District Attorney was a sensible man. Lyttle could get himself in a witness protection program with a decent paycheck and a new identity in exchange for information on the Friends of Humanity. The more he doled out, the more he could demand in exchange.

That meant they couldn't find Eckert. A note to Lyttle's lawyer had delivered the man to ensure that no one would ever find Lyttle again.

"Aaron." He said, and the man picked up the phone. Sidney shuddered slightly, staring at the man through the glass. A slim man faced him across the booth, his dark skin washed out under the fluorescent lights. Aaron had been a thousand things to Lyttle; first only heard of, and then recruited for Operation: Zero Tolerance. Aaron had been a legend in the field for years, the best kind of assassin. He never asked questions, rarely failed a job, and never said a word about his work to anyone.

The rumour was that he'd been a mercenary in Africa for years. He's been brought in and assigned to him with the warning of not to use him too much. Reliable, effective, and as dangerous as a jar of nitroglycerin in the hands of a spastic. Now, Lyttle needed him, and could meet the price.

"You called." Aaron said flatly. His skin was dark, like charcoal, but his facial features were curiously sharp. One of Sidney's fellow chief's had said he thought Aaron was Egyptian, but even he hadn't been sure. His eyes were medium brown, and bored like augers into the back of Sidney's skull.

"I need a man found."

"Who?"

"Thomas Allen Eckert. He will not be an easy man to get a hold of."

"I'll put you back in touch." Aaron nodded, and Lyttle knew that meant Eckert would be dead as soon as he was found. "I might need some money to find him."

"How much?"

"Maybe fifteen or twenty dollars." Lyttle sucked in air through his teeth. That meant thirty-five thousand dollars for the hit. It would eat up a good chunk of the money he had stashed away, but it was worth it. Sidney nodded stiffly and sat back.

"Alright. Chuck will let you know when we last talked to him. He's got all

the stuff."

"Very well. Five days, at most."

"Thanks Aaron."

The man nodded once and left, leaving Lyttle in his booth for a long moment, considering his options. If Aaron found Eckert, then Eckert was dead and he was safe. If he didn't, and Lyttle went down, he'd have Aaron after him for his retainer as well. When the officer came and brought him back to his cell, he almost brightened at the sight of the bars. At least behind them, he felt safe for a moment.

John Caulder scrubbed his face with his hands, and took a deep breath. He'd been working on back-tracking possible links to the killer's equipment. Unfortunately, the number of jewelers, watch makers and hobbyists in New York was making his search impossible. Still, like Adams

had said, most police work was grinding away at every damn lead until somebody talks. His celphone had gone off, and Cortez had let him in on the news that another body had been found. He's been on his way back to the station when the scanner tipped him off to a bombing in Harlem. Community house for mutants wounded badly in Operation: Zero Tolerance was bombed, sixteen killed and no survivors. John felt very old all of a sudden.

He took the stairs down to the morgue two at a time, nearly running over the beat at the bottom of the stairwell. A quick flash of his identification had him through, and he paused at the door to the room, catching his breath and straightening his tie. He felt the old sweat around

his collar from the heat outside, and tugged it from his skin. The cold air of the morgue knifed through his summer-weight suit, and chilled him. His shirt clung to his shoulder-blades like a clammy hand, and John again cursed having to come down here. With a final deep breath, he opened the door.

In the centre of the grey-tiled floor there was an examination table, and on it there was a body, it's shape covered in a green surgical sheet. The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air, and cutting through it there was a rich, sick odor of overcooked pork. Doctor Sharpe turned as he came in, and shot an annoyed look at her watch.

"Detective–"

"Right, I know." Caulder held his hands up. "I know. What do you have?"

"An investment banker named Karl McCoy. Wife found him an hour ago."

"Wife?"

"She works in the museum. Left for work as usual, and came home to find her husband dead. She's upstairs. Quite shaken up." Lillian's voice was cool and crisp, without a hint of sympathy for the woman.

"Wait. Why wasn't he at work?"

"I'm certain I have no idea. The report is on that table." Sharpe pointed, and John snatched up the file. The beat reports and crime scene pictures were there, but the actual art on the body wasn't. Sharpe had likely removed them to analyze already.

According to the report, the woman had left and her husband had called into his office after that time and let them know he was off sick. The wife had no clue that he was ill when she left. Something nibbled at John's intuition. Why would he take a day off of work without telling his wife? An affair? But how would his murderer coordinate with a lover? Or was the murderer his lover? Caulder mentally filed away the question and put the file back down. Obviously, the fact that the wife would be returning home at the time of the bombing was the reason for the setup of the execution.

"Shall we?" Lillian said, and John nodded. She dropped the sheet from the body on the table behind her. Caulder stared, then swallowed the sudden rush of bile that had risen instantly to the back of his throat.

"Sweet fucking Christ!" He groaned. The face of the thing on the table was barely human. The hair was almost completely burned away, the flesh on the right side of the skull turned to lumps and ridges of carbonized gristle to reveal the yellow bone beneath.

The ear was gone and the skin and fat of the right cheek had split like roasted meat, opening up the mouth, palate and teeth. The tongue, blackened and charred, hung back limply down into the throat. The right eye had liquefied, leaving a dark, empty socket, pink-edged and swollen like an angry open sore.

Doctor Sharpe smiled pleasantly. "Are you sure you wish to stay, detective? You've gone very pale."

"Yes." Caulder said shakily. "Just... just– go right ahead."

"Very well." Sharpe bent over the body, poking away at the cooked flesh around the nostrils with a long metal tool. "He wasn't just set on fire. The burns around the body were minimal. It was centred on the man's head, and went fast enough not to trigger every alarm in the building." Caulder looked away hurriedly and swallowed again as part of McCoy's face crumbled

under pressure from the pathologist's hand. Sharpe continued unperturbed, bending low and delicately blowing away the ash obscuring her field of view. She sniffed, nostrils flaring. "Phosphorus, I'm sure. Something else as well. Thermite."

"So it was an incendiary."

"Yes. Something homemade specifically for our visitor here."

"But that wasn't the cause of death."

"If it had been, detective, I would not have called you down here." Lillian passed over a pair of x-rays. "You can see the outline of a projectile lodged between the second and third cervical vertebrae, just as before."

"I would have liked to see the body on site." Caulder said, frowning. Unfortunately, the men on the scene often are not aware of the connections to cases, and proceed with normal procedures. At least he had the scene photos for now. He glanced at one of the photos. "He was naked?"

"Yes. Sitting in a chair close to a window. If you look, you can detect ligature marks on the wrists and ankles."

"He was bound?" That was something new.

"Postmortem." Said Sharpe. "Just enough to keep him upright in the chair."

"On display. Any other connections? Was this one marked?"

Sharpe nodded and motioned him over the examination table and its gruesome cargo. She lifted up the corpse's right wrist, and turned it towards the light. A narrow blackened area curled around the otherwise unblemished skin, banding the wrist with a repeating pattern of 'X's.

"Quite ingenious." Said Sharpe. "It was done using electrical current. Postmortem again, like the other wounds. This was found at the scene." Lillian pointed to the counter, and Caulder saw a length of electrical cord lying like a black snake. One end of the flex had been stripped of it's insulation and connected to a length of heavy wire, bent to crisscross itself in a pattern of repeating 'X's. The plug end was intact. "Do you see it, detective?"

John nodded, as he lined the end up with the wrist. "Changing his pattern."

"In a way, it would seem. We'll run the normal tests, but I think we mostly have it, detective. I'll be in touch if there is anything new."

"Thanks." John said, and turned. He all but fled the room, pausing at the stairwell to gulp great lungfuls of air. The stench of the charred body and the all too antiseptic odor of the room had mixed in his nose, cloying and overpowering. He left up the stairs, feeling like a man paroled as he reached the second floor. Will was still at the FoH site, but Struan had the wife in one of the 'safe' questioning rooms. Caulder paused to gulp down a cup of water before he let himself in, nodding to both of them.

"Mrs. McCoy? I'm Detective John Caulder. I'm in charge of the investigation of the man we believe killed your husband. I know this is a hard time for you, but I need to ask you a few questions so we can clarify some details." John pitched his voice low, and keep his body language open to relax the woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and from the trembling of her narrow shoulders, she was on the verge of collapse. Darcy Struan raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and he shook his head. He wanted a female detective present to help anchor the woman.

"Y–Yes?"

"Mrs. McCoy, was there any reason that your husband might have decided to stay home at the last minute? Sudden errand to run? Anything."

"No. Karl was a bit of a workaholic. Even when he was sick, he always went into work for a few hours to check up on things. If there was something, he never told me."

"Mrs. McCoy, this is going to sound very harsh, but was your husband having an affair?"

"What?"

"Was there another woman? Someone he could have been waiting for?" John broke off as the woman began sobbing harder, her face twisted in grief. They sat for a few moment in silence, while she sobbed. With a few shaky breaths, she finally stopped her crying, and shook her head.

"It wasn't his fault. He loved me! But, he– he didn't know about it until after we were married. He cried when he told me. He didn't– he didn't want it to be a part of his life. But there were times that he just couldn't– "

"Mrs. McCoy?"

"My husband was not gay, detective! He just had... urges. Sometimes they got too much for him."

"You're saying your husband had a gay lover?"

"Never!" Her voice was so venomous that Caulder edged back from her. "He never loved them! They were– they were men there for what he needed. He never had a relationship with them. He loved me!"

"He hired male prostitutes then?"

"He'd use those Internet sites to set up meetings. Once every few months. He paid them cash. I knew about it, but he never told me when or who. He wanted to spare me that, and I didn't want to know."

John leaned back, tapping the side of his noise. "So, your husband would take a day off and bring up his... choice while you were at work."

"Yes."

"Different men each time?"

"He said so, yes. My husband was a good man, detective."

"How did they get up? Your doorman swears he didn't admit anyone to your floor that morning."

"Karl used to send them a building key with the money. They'd come up from the parking garage. He didn't want anyone else to know."

"Thank you, Mrs. McCoy. I'm going to leave you with Detective Struan. She'll take you home when they've finished." Caulder said and slipped back out of the room. Suddenly, things were falling into place.

The killer contacts his victim through one of the Internet sites he uses. He either is a homosexual or poses as one to get Karl McCoy's attentions, and sets up a meeting. He slips in the back way with a key, and McCoy lets him into the room. He waits for McCoy to strip, before killing him with a single projectile to the back of the neck, and then ties his dead body to a chair. Then, a homemade incendiary to his face; the whole thing to be discovered by McCoy's wife in time with the latest bombing.

It was sickly brilliant. Elegant even. Whoever they were looking for was more than confident about his abilities. He was unafraid of capture. He wasn't taking increasing risks or leaving behind the trademark signs of a man taunting capture. He simply didn't believe it part of the scenario. One thing was certain, and that was that the pace was increasing, and his systems with it. This was culminating towards something, and Caulder's instincts told him it would be more than just another corpse. Caulder sat down at his desk and stared at his files. Somewhere in here was the key to unlock the mind of this madman. And every delay he made in finding it would

be counted against him in blood.

Emma Frost stood in front of Eastpark Mental Hospital, and suppressed a shudder. For her, this was about as close to fear as she came. Telepaths tend to avoid mental hospitals as a rule, since the chaos of the minds inside has a way of bleeding past even the best shields and can swamp a person. Most people have a sort of rudimentary form of mental shielding, which they use to hide their thoughts; the kind that are let down to those they trust or care for to create intimacy or are slammed up to prevent anyone from reading them in a situation. Frost was of the belief that

mankind was slightly socially telepathic, both sending and receiving thoughts on a limited and extremely deeply buried subconscious level.

However, the insane worked differently. They might broadcast constantly and powerfully; a tidal wave of images and thoughts that could swamp a psychic not prepared for it. The flipside was that some had such intense blocks built up that it was like trying to split open a ball bearing. They had dense slick mental shields that even the most skilled telepath couldn't open without resorting to raw bludgeoning in, and potential permanent scarring of the psyche. Even worse was trying just to grip them, with their slick featureless walls.

Add on to that the wealth of memories from her own time in an institution like this, fighting the twin abuses of parental rejection and the guards attentions. Her virginity had been taken when she was twelve. Forcing her to give them oral sex had begun two years earlier. Emma had torn them apart when her powers had emerged. One was in her at the time. Last she heard,

all three of them were still alive in the asylum she paid for to care for them, trapped in a constant loop of simulated rape and the mental capacity of twelve year olds. Emma did not take revenge lightly.

She forced back the swell of revulsion and slipped back into her icy composure. She was no longer a helpless child, and this was no more threatening than the other thousand buildings in the city. Frost tucked her portfolio under her arm and walked into the building. Eastpark was made up of a central block; two sprawling wings jutting out from it to the north and south, and two minor wings at the rear. Every window on the floor was glassed, wire-meshed, and barred. It was a bleak, grey building, built in the style of the Victorian institutions of the turn of the century.

Doctor Richard Hillman was seated behind his desk when Emma was escourted into his office. The director was in his late fifties, slim, and his thinning hair was a nicotine yellow. A pair of circular, wire-framed glasses perched on the hooked, wide-nostriled nose that dominated his face.

The desk in front of him was almost bare, with a single black telephone, a closed laptop and a plastic paper tray. Three Sword pens sat in perfect parallels at the top of his desk, and a half-dozen needle sharp HB pencils were aligned next to his paper tray. To Emma, the surface of the desk marked the overt expression of an obsessive-compulsive neurotic. Dr. Richard Hillman was half as mad as the inmates he controlled.

"Agent Frost." His voice was flat, almost metallic. Emma could taste the distaste behind the voice.

"Doctor Hillman."

"Please, have a seat."

"Thank you." Emma settled into the sole, underpadded chair and crossed her legs.

"According to my secretary, the FBI appears to have some interest in one of my patients." As he spoke, he used his left hand to disturb the row of pencils, and then to rearrange them again.

"Yes. Thomas Allen Eckert. He was committed here 13 months ago."

"Committed? Oh dear me, no. He was a voluntary patient. Signed himself in for extreme observation and treatment. Very strange mix of rationality and madness. His lucid periods were remarkably functional." The pencils askew, the pencils aligned. The movement distracted Emma, and she suddenly realized that the man didn't have the slightest idea what his hand was

doing.

"Where you the director here at the time?"

"No, I was the Senior Staff doctor at the time. I became the director only a few months ago."

"Did you know Eckert?"

"I supervised his therapy. He was– a very interesting challenge."

"How so?"

"May I ask why the FBI has taken an interest in him now?"

"His name came up in connection with a case we're working on."

"I see." Hillman didn't sound convinced. The pencils moved magically under his twitching fingers. "I assume I don't have much choice in this."

"Well, it would not be in your interest to hamper us, Doctor. The FBI does not take obstruction very lightly, especially in a case of major importance." Emma said, letting her voice chill slightly. "I could obtain legal warrant for your cooperation, however, we would of course be happy to supply you with material should you wish to publish after our investigations are complete. That is if you were to do so willing." Emma reached out and lightly brushed his mind, seeding her suggestion with the right stimulus.

"Indeed." The movement of the pencils stopped, and Frost knew he had swallowed her lure completely. Publishing in conjunction with a big media profile case was a sure ticket to a book deal and a lucrative speaking tour. "Well, as I said, Eckert was fascinating. Demanded complete isolation for the first three months of his internment. After an initial diagnosis, we were inclined to agree with him."

"How was he diagnosed?"

"Restricted ego, substitutive, totemic."

"Not psychotic?"

Hillman smiled condescendingly. "Certainly not, Agent Frost. Psychotic is a term bandied about too much by the media."

"But he was violent."

"Only in terms of his substitutive neuroses," Hillman pontificated. "His anger was aimed at inducing his substituted mother-image to accomplish his wishes. He had no mother, ergo, he transferred those frustrations onto society in general. So, in his reactive phases, he could be extremely violent. But those phases were intermittent and rare."

Emma nodded, and tried not to roll her eyes. Hillman was a mix of Neo-Freudian and structural analysis. Notoriously the most egocentric professionals in the community.

"You mentioned totemism?"

"Yes. By far the most interesting feature of the case." Hillman offered a bland smile. "Were you aware of Eckert's obsession with the works of John Martin?"

"The painter?" Frost could vaguely remember seeing some of the religious artist's gigantic canvases on display during a trip to London years ago. Huge melodramatic evocations of biblical catastrophe and cataclysm. "No, I was not aware of that."

"He was fascinated by the man; compulsively so. Here, let me show you something." The director rose from his chair and opened a drawer in a set of dull green filing cabinets along the one wall. He withdrew a large manilla folder, and set it down on the desk in front of Emma Frost.

It was like staring into a neatly organized vision of hell. Dozens of carefully executed pencil drawings showed various scenes from the Bible and John Milton's 'Paradise Lost', each one with a neatly inscribed notation in the lower left hand corner, giving the date and the source. Pandemonium, The Bridge of Chaos, The Conflict Between Satan and Death, Satan on the

Burning Lake, The Destruction of Sodom, The Opening of the Seventh Seal, The Deluge, The Great Day of his Wrath. There were also a series of images with a single repetitive image: The Last Judgement. In these the scene was always the same. Hillman read Eckert's own title aloud:

"God, seated on his Heavenly Throne, flanked by A Gathering of Saints, Sternly watching the Avenging Angel bringing the fiery Spear of God to the Damned assembled in the Valley of Jehoshaphat below."

The largest of the drawings, folded over twice in the file, had been done on translucent vellum and hand obviously been traced. There were literally hundreds of tiny figures in the drawing, each one numbered, faint lines joining one to the other, and all to the tip of the flaming spear.

"There is another file just as large of these. Martin was also an engineer and mathematician. He designed rail lines, sewers, that sort of thing. Eckert was very keen on those. The copies are done with remarkable precision."

"Doctor Hillman. Has Eckert had any visitors here since he was committed?"

"One or two. Not something I really tracked."

"And would I be able to speak with him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"And why is that?"

"Because, Agent Frost, Eckert has been dead for almost four months."

The Number stepped into the monitoring station and waved at no one in particular. He was ignored as he walked through the station and into the sub-levels. His uniform and easy manner immediately disarmed any suspicion that he may not be allowed there. He hoisted his toolkit and duffel bag as he ducked under a set of piping and finally entered the access tunnels. New York had one of the most complex and extensive gas infrastructures in the world, set to keep the giant metropolis breathing. The Number passed row on row of pipes, bundles, and tunnels, all carrying gas, power or communications to areas of the city.

The Number saw none of this, none of the engineering and innovation designed to keep the giant city running. To him, the thick cable bundles and stacked lines of piping were the veins and arteries of a beast that had to be vanquished at any price; the filthy pathways leading to the

creature's dark heart and soul.

He stopped at a metal door and pulled two slim pieces of metal from his pocket. After a few seconds, the metal rods caught and the lock snapped open. The Number opened it and walked in. A tower of intersecting pipes and junctions rose from out of the cement, one of the great gas mains of the city. The station monitored the main from above, hooked into the system and controlling this area of the distribution to a million locations. But down here was the forgotten link to the controls. This was were everything connected and streamed out from.

The Number set both the toolkit and the duffel bag down, and eased with his back against the wall to the far edge of the piping. A thick layer of dust and mildew coated the pipes, and he bit back a disgusted oath. He was getting too close, too excited. That was a mistake. Control. He needed his control back, especially now. Purity of purpose. A single final sum. He felt the excitement drain away, and calm settle over him.

He wiped away a large area around one of the main conduits and pulled his bag closer. The pipes of the New York system were almost an inch thick, two-thirds of that being steel. He pulled four pill bottles from his bag and placed them at his feet. From his tool kit, he drew out a roll of duct tape, a number of wires and a compact flat gray coloured plastic box. The pill bottles had been three-quarters filled with thermite, mixed in the basement of his house and packed away. The rest had been packed down with the primer; cotton balls soaked in an ethanol/glycerine mix. He lined the four bottles up and wrapped several pieces of duct tape around them. Then, flattening the bottles to the side of the conduit, he used another half dozen long strips of tape to hold it in place. Into the tops of each bottle, he placed a sparkplug, using a thick dollop of silicone to hold them in place. The Number twisted the stripped ends of the wire around the tops of the sparkplugs, and bundled them with a twist-tie. He ran the wire back down the conduit, using a few pieces of tape to fix it to the side of the pipe. On the floor next to the pipe, he set the plastic box, and attached the leads to a set of pegs jutting out from the side. The box held the firing circuit and a small cell receiver. He could dial a single number, and it would activate the next receiver and the next and the next, in a parallel. He snapped a flat phone battery into the box and used more silicone to seal it to the pipe. He fished out a can of spray paint from his duffel bag and sprayed the entire setup, painting it the same dull gray as the rest of the pipe. A casual look would likely slide right over the bomb, or make them believe it was supposed to be there.

The Number tossed his gear back into the bag and closed his toolkit. He took a last look at the bomb, satisfied with the way it blended into the rest of the equipment. He had nine others in place, and two left to finish. Twelve was an important number. Extremely versatile. Divisible cleanly into five of the first six numbers. The Greeks knew its magic, as did the Aztecs. It cropped up in religious texts the world over. Twelve labours, twelve disciples, twelve books; it confirmed his equation was correct.

Twelve bombs, and twelve times twelve more hours before his symphony played; before his great canvas was painted in colours of fire. The Number smiled thinly as he gathered his equipment and slipped back out of the room, leaving it's warm fog and still shapes behind him.

"Dead?" Emma Frost said carefully, and felt the contempt ripple out from the other man. Dr. Richard Hillman was exactly the kind of academic snob that detested government agencies, especially investigative ones like the FBI. The prejudice expanded to the assumption that even a trained psychiatrist working for them was obviously the product of inferior abilities and schooling. Few Yale and Harvard graduates entered the Bureau.

As the White Queen of the Hellfire Club, Emma Frost was overly familiar with his attitudes, and in the not so distant past, Doctor Hillman would have found himself being 're-educated' on the dangers of underestimating her. However, she didn't work that way anymore, unless necessary, she conceded and stifled her irritation.

"Quite dead, Agent Frost."

"How?"

Hillman sighed wearily and leaned back in his desk. "As far as the police could tell, Eckert had gotten a hold of a number of the cleaning solvents, and after dousing himself quite thoroughly, set himself on fire."

"He committed suicide by burning himself to death?"

"Yes, quite novel and yet totally within the scope of his psychosis. It was a while before one of the attendants noticed the smoke coming from the wooded area and went to–"

"He was outside alone?"

"Agent Frost," Hillman's tone was brittle and annoyed. He was not a man used to being interrupted. "Thomas Eckert signed himself into this facility for treatment. He had the ability to leave at any time he wished. He always had access to the hospital grounds, as well as free movement through the wards, save for his periods of isolation."

"Which he had also requested."

"Indeed. So, when Eckert decided to take a stroll around the grounds, no one thought anything of it. At least, until one of our attendants noticed a plume of smoke, and investigated it. That's where we found him."

"How was he found?"

"Burned into a charred stump. Identification was made from the articles of clothing around him, and his suicide note. The fire had destroyed everything else." Hillman rummaged through the file again. "It seems that the note is no longer in our possession, but I do recall it referring to 'Martin's other self' several times. The rest was mad gibberish. I believe he had a final extreme psychotic episode and killed himself in the midst of it."

"How does Martin's other self fit into it? Was Eckert referring to himself or was there someone else involved?"

"Well, it seems that John Martin had a younger brother, also named John for some ridiculous reason. John Martin the Younger was quite an arsonist, and spent most of his own life inside one asylum or another. He used to introduce himself to guests as 'John Martin, the Other'. My theory is that the self immolation was due to a final split, where the Martin persona

fractured and the Eckert remains asserted a subconscious wish for closure. Hence, the suicide."

"By fire."

"Rather shocking, isn't it."

"How could someone get in or out of the hospital, Doctor Hillman, other than the front doors?"

"It would be difficult. The grounds back up on the Hudson, and there's quite a drop there. We're bracketed by buildings on both sides, and we have ten foot fences topped with barbed wire around the perimeter." Hillman drummed his fingers on the desk. "Most of our security is to prevent the patients from getting out. I suppose sneaking in is possible by someone who was very determined, but I can't imagine why."

"Did Eckert have any visitors? Fellow patients he spent a lot of time with?"

"Not that I can recall. Part of the Martin obsession was a definite loner mentality. He was very stand-offish of the other patients; detested being touched, that sort of thing." Hillman looked at his watch. "The front desk will have the visitors log if you wish to see it. Frankly, I don't recall

anyone coming to see Thomas Allen Eckert during his time here. Now, I must go. I have a meeting to attend. If you need anything else, please let the front staff know."

"Doctor Hillman," Emma said, just as the Doctor was ushering her out. "Do you think Eckert could have committed acts of violence in his Martin shell?"

"Agent Frost, if Thomas Allen Eckert had focused his psychosis in a violent direction, he could have been more dangerous then I care to imagine," Hillman said quietly, and left the room.

"McCoy?"

"Yup. The art's in the folder." John said as he reached for another bagel. Scott flipped through the file quickly, scanning the documents and wincing slightly at the destruction of Karl's body. "And before you ask, no, no real leads. Looks like our boy got in posing as a gay prostitute and did it so the wife would find him at the same time as the bombing in Harlem.

Sharpe's post- mortem report is in there as well."

"Phosphorous? That's elegant."

"Yeah, we'll dealing with a real fucking artist." John Caulder slumped back in his seat and rubbed a hand across his stubbled face. He hadn't slept in the last 36 hours, save for snatches in his chair which were haunted by laughing madmen, wreathed in fire. The coffee was burning a hole in his gut and he felt sluggish and dull.

"More then you might think. I may have a line on the next target." Scott said, mentally wondering if this was worth the gamble. His last few days with Caulder had been enough to outline the man's deductive abilities, and to come to respect them as a formidable talent. If he even caught a hint of the true nature of 'agents' Summers and Frost, he'd be almost impossible to

shake off the scent without using permanent means.

"How?"

"We might have made a match up in the government archives. However, I have to warn you before we continue here, John. This is highly classified deep black stuff. Which means if any of it goes even in shouting distance of going public, several very serious and non-descript men in black suits will show up at your apartment and shoot you in the head several times." Scott's

voice was cold and deadly business-like. To his credit, Caulder only blinked twice and straightened up.

"Got it. What do you have?"

"The target is working of a list of operatives he must have picked up somehow with Operation: Zero Tolerance. He's going down a list of names based on recruitment order, only transposed over the known mutant population of New York." Summers pulled out a few sheets of paper from his file and put them on the table in front of John. "His next target should be this woman, Eileen Sydney. She's a professor at Metro University, and a chess master. Teaches mathematics. Does work in bounding harmonic functions, something like that."

"Has she been contacted?"

"I just put it together a few minutes ago. Look, the undercover end of police procedures is not really my end of things. Suggestions?"

"We go on it... but–"

"But?"

"There is no way the chief is going to authorize a walk and trap based off spook files he isn't cleared to know about. What about the feds?"

"I can see, but I doubt it." Scott winced. With the team spread out, he had virtually no assets to call into play.

"So then it's us. Let's start by contacting this woman. Maybe we can arrange a meeting and get her to make our lives a little easier. Police protection or something."

"Let me know what you need, Detective."

"Here you are, Agent Frost." The office manager handed over a thick file of paper from the end of the photocopier. The pages held the visitors log for the last year, and came to a weighty package. Emma nodded and began to separate them into the document case she'd brought along with her.

"Man, that's funny." The other woman commented as she started to put the originals back into storage.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, in the last two years I've worked here, I've only had to bring out these files... oh, I'd say five times. But now twice in two days." She smiled. "It's funny how it goes, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Emma's eyes narrowed. "Do you remember who took the files yesterday?"

"I think he was a researcher. Black guy, about so tall–" She measured a point around her eyes. "–dressed very sharp. Kind of an accent too."

Emma ghosted over the top of the woman's mind to grab the mental image she was working off of. It was a black man, with curiously sharp features, dressed in an expensive summer weight suit and a leather briefcase. She committed the image to memory and let go her contact with the woman's mind.

"Yes, it is funny. Thank you for the files." Emma said and left the Eastpark Mental Hospital with a sigh of relief. She caught a cab back to the precinct and dumped the vast volume of paperwork on her temporary desk. Carefully closing and locking the door, Emma Frost took a deep breath and found a legal pad and pen before sitting down to go over the information. Notes rapidly began to fill the pad in her exquisite handwriting.

Fact one: the prime suspect in their case was dead, burned to death more than four months ago. He was interned in the Eastpark Mental Hospital at the time of the first killing, and dead by the third. However, he also was the source of the explosives used by the FoH in their terrorist actions.

That meant one of two things had to be the truth. Either Thomas Allen Eckert was dead and someone was using his name for their own purposes, or that Thomas Allen Eckert was alive, and somehow free of his interment and death at the hospital.

Fact two: Someone else was looking for Eckert, or at least whoever was using 'Eckert' to work with. That meant another element in the entire situation. The FoH out to remove a source of information, or someone who had also discovered that Eckert had access to files that would name the X-Men.

Fact three: The killer was increasing his speed and tempo, which meant he was nearing some goal, like a culmination. Oddly, the idea of a crescendo popped into Emma's head, and she jotted down a brief note beside the information she was parceling into smaller bits for analysis.

Frost decided to work on the first fact, and tackled the pile of paper from the hospital. It wasn't long before she had isolated the common thread: David John Webster. Webster had a cousin in the institution, but only visited when Eckert was not confined to his solitary isolation. Emma pulled the paper with the dates of the killings/bombings back to her, and rechecked them. Five days prior to each bombing, Webster had visited for at least two hours. During each murder, Webster had visited the morning of, and had revisited the next day. Why? thought Emma, and she opened her laptop.

Frost breathed a sigh of relief that Webster had a police record, and pulled up the file. A picture of David John Webster filled the screen, and Frost held up the picture of Eckert for comparison. Both men had sharp features, with the same mousy brown hair and thin face. Webster was 5ft 7in, while Eckert was 5ft 8in. There was eight pounds difference in their

weight. It was simple.

David John Webster would go to the hospital, either carrying the needed parts or having dropped them off before, to collect a finished bomb from Eckert, requiring only the explosive elements to be added. On the days of the murders, Eckert and Webster would switch identities, counting on the laxity of the security and Eckert's own loner personality to allow him to slip free and take his victim. He'd then make his way back to the hospital.

He must have gotten his information about the X-Men from files stolen from the FoH somehow, and used his initial period of isolation to refine his plan.

So, four months ago, something happens. Either he subdues Webster and burns him alive, slipping out with the same ease as before, or Webster does it to him and leaves, imprinted with the dedication of the killer. Emma considered, staring at the photos.

No, it was Eckert who was free. Webster was not the most balanced individual, but his profile revealed a man who was led. A flunky on the world stage, or a thug when directed. Their killer had a self-perceived artistry about himself. No, it had to be Eckert. Emma was sure.

Frost dug deeper, pulling up files from the CIA database easily. Emma had long ago paid heavily to ensure backdoors in much of the software and encryption used by the US government. Now she pulled up the work record of Eckert, Thomas Allen from the archives.

He graduated from Brown's, a prestigious technical college on the East Coast, with top marks. His technical aptitude was stunning, and his ability to fabricate using even the crudest materials was legendary. The CIA happily snapped him up and set him to work in their own laboratories. Their later reports on him were mixed; the man was as brilliant an engineer as

rumoured, but showed little originality in his own designs. Mostly, he did the assembly on the most delicate systems and tracking devices that other CIA engineers designed. He was transferred into the proto-program of Zero Tolerance, and worked on the Sentinel Prime systems. His psyche reports all came back borderline.

The main analysis came from the lead doctor, who identified Eckert as having severe socialization issues, almost to the point of being pathologically shy. He made few associations within even his own design group, and was a definite loner. However, he also admitted that his

experiences in school had made him very internal, and he really lived for his work. His love of art and history had been cited as a balance to his withdrawn habits. He was cleared yearly.

Emma dug further, pulling up his school records from before. Eckert had claimed solitary habits due to his time there. She quickly discovered that Eckert had gone to Emmett Wilson Academy, sent there after the death of his mother when he was twelve. The insurance policy of his also deceased father had covered schooling, and young Thomas Allen Eckert was placed in

one of the more exclusive schools in South Carolina.

The Academy had a good part of their records on-line, and Emma scanned oldclass photos and groups. Eckert was a small teen, thin and weak looking. He stood stiffly in the pictures, part turned from the camera, as if recoiling from the flash. He was involved in the Chess and the Math clubs. He had also been a fencer, Frost noted with some surprise, and had won two

championships. Otherwise, he didn't distinguish himself beyond that. He graduated quietly and moved on to Brown's.

However, there was a small note that pegged Frost's attention. In Eckert's junior year, the yearbook held a small memorial page for Paul Wilkes. Emma cross-referenced with her news database, and quickly came back with a series of articles.

Paul Wilkes, a 15 year old student at Emmett Wilson Academy was found dead under a group of bushes less than 200 yards from the highway, near the school. Forensics showed that his body had been dragged from the roadside, leading police to conclude that a drifter or lone motorist had been the cause of Wilkes' savage death. He'd been beaten to death with a wooden club of some type, and his body showed evidence of being sexually abused after death. The autopsy report also noted that Wilkes had a third lung, smaller and hidden behind the left one, leading them to believe he was a mutant. The case was reclassified as a hate crime, and remained unsolved.

Wilkes had been a popular student, and shared several clubs with his classmate, a 15 year old Thomas Allen Eckert. He had been part of the memorial organized for Wilkes, the only break from his established clubs in his entire school career. Emma's blood ran cold as she took it all in, and leaded back in her chair.

For good or ill, she know knew who Thomas Allen Eckert really was, and what he was doing.

"Professor Sydney, this is very important." John juggled the phone as Scott drive through the heavy traffic. "We have reason to believe that you may be in some danger, and would very much like to meet with you as soon as possible."

"Very well, detective." The woman sounded extremely annoyed, as if a possible death threat was nothing more than a minor irritation. There was a shuffling of paper over the line and some muffled thumps. "I assume you can find my office?"

"Sure."

"Good. Shall we meet in an hour? I have a class waiting."

"Yeah, great. Thank you very--" the line went dead. "–much." Caulder finished lamely and clicked off his celphone. He gave Scott an exasperated look, and hunkered down in his seat. Summers chuckled as he eased the car past a Buick and finally caught a clear lane.

"Hard to help those who don't want it, isn't it?"

"That's the trouble with this job. If you're the heat, it's the stupidity." Caulder said wryly and Scott laughed.

"That's good. So, how do you want to play this?"

"Low key. We're not official, and if I can't turn over the list to the Chief, we need this woman to work with us. If she says no, there's not a damn thing we can do."

"She won't say no."

"So sure?"

"She might have a problem with the police, but having a problem with the FBI is a whole other matter." Scott said. As an X-Man, he knew very well the power that a uniform had, be it spandex, military or Hollywood. The monotone suit and glasses of the FBI agent had seeped into enough people's consciousness to guarantee a certain response. Cyclops was ready to use

that to his advantage.

He pulled the car into the visitors parking, and the two men trotted up the steps of the building. A scattering of students where perched on the steps and the benches at the bottom, in various stages of transit to and from classes. It took them a second to locate Dr. Sydney's office in the barely comprehensible floor plan, and longer to navigate through the students to it. John rapped on the door and opened it to the brisk call to enter from inside.

Professor Eileen Sydney was standing behind her desk, looking at a blackboard and frowning. Caulder and Summers snuck a look at the board, only to turn away in confusion. The work on the board seemed closer to ancient runes then any math they recognized. Sydney turned with a look bordering on distaste to speak to them.

"Detective Caulder, I assume."

"Yes Professor. I'd like to thank you for meeting with us. It is very important that-"

"Detective. I am not meeting with you to consent to whatever ridiculousness you have in mind. I wanted to tell you in person to desist in contacting me." Eileen Sydney was a formidable looking woman. She had graying blonde hair pulled back tight in a bun, over a square face and

deep-set blue eyes. She was the same height as Caulder, and almost the same breadth across the shoulders.

"Professor." Scott spoke for the first time, in what he called his 'Commander' voice. It was one that allowed no opposition. "I'm Agent Summers, FBI."

Eileen's eyes widened at the identification in his hand. "FBI? But-"

"Professor Sydney. We have reason to believe that a serial killer who is fixated on mutants may have gotten your name from the registry in Washington. You could be in very grave danger." Eileen went bone white and her eyes were very wide.

"I've never told anyone that I work with."

"But you did register with the government. I apologize, Professor. The registry should never have gotten out of government hands. However, it has, and you are in danger. Now, the NYPD has offered their assistance with this. We'd like to keep you under surveillance for the next few days." Scott said.

"My god."

"Professor, this would have to be done at your approval. If you decide not to let us, we can't protect you."

"But my classes-"

"We won't try to interrupt any of your schedules."

Eileen Sydney sat down and ran her hands over her face. She plucked at her day book for a moment, and then nodded. "Very well, Agent Summers. Detective."

"Excellent. Now, do you have other classes today?"

"No. I have a match at five, and then I was planning to go home." She laughed bitterly. "Before I knew I was being hunted by a madman, that is."

"A match?"

"Chess."

"Right. Um, is that here at the University?"

"No, only the official games are played here. Mine is at Umbaldo's."

"This is unofficial then?"

"Absolutely. I'm barred from the International organization."

"Why?"

"My power. When I registered, the records went to the organization."

"Your power got you barred?" Caulder said incredulously.

"Tunneled empathy. I pick up emotions from people in little bursts when they change. Like when they pick up a card or move a piece. I paid my way through school at poker. It was deemed to give me an unfair advantage in a match." Sydney sighed. "So, I play through an internet league mostly. No way to be tipped off over the net. However, those of us in New York like to meet regularly for games. Umbaldo's has had chess tables for reservation for sixty years now in the restaurant. I think it's becoming trendy again."

"That was at five?"

"Yes."

"Scott, why don't you stay with the Professor, and I'll scout out the bar."

"Agreed." Cyclops nodded. "Call me when you're set up."

"Got it."

Umbaldo's was fairly large restaurant/bar In the Cheslea Park area, just north of the university. It was the sort of neighborhood that cycles between trendy and social obscurity every few years, with the supporting businesses and apartments constantly moving their prices with the trends. By the looks of the cars on the street, it was back on an up swing. Caulder opened the heavy door of the restaurant with the overly large brass handle and went in. The air-conditioning rolled over him and he sighed.

The bar was dim with the blinds closed over the windows and only the muted track lighting for illumination, but not so much as to make the place a cave. There were a few patrons scattered around the tables and bar; remnants of the lunch crowd. Off to the right, by the door, were a series of tables with inlayed chess sets in them.

Caulder ordered a coffee, and prowled the bar while it was being poured. There was a hallway in the far left, leading to the washrooms and the kitchen. At the very end, a door opened into a rear parking lot and garbage area. John poked his head up and down the alleys, checking for escape routes. He walked back in and sat down, sipping his coffee and thinking.

Two exits made the place fairly easy to protect. After this, it would be Sydney's apartment. If she was the average New Yorker, then they'd have three locks on the door. If this killer was as obsessed with time as he thought, then he'd have to risk Summers and Caulder to get to Eileen in time for the next bombing. Which meant all they had to do was keep a close eye on Sydney until then. His celphone shrilled, and Caulder clicked it on with his thumb.

"Yeah?"

"Hell of a way to answer the phone."

"I never get nice calls on this phone, Scott. What's up?"

"We're moving to the bar. You there?"

"Yeah. It's clear. Two exits, good lighting. It's safe enough."

"Got it. There a parking lot?"

"Yup. Come in through the back. I'd hurry. The traffic is starting to pick up."

"Thanks."

John sipped his coffee and settled back in his chair. People began to filter in, and Umbaldo's rapidly began to fill with the after work crowd. Caulder was sandwiched between a pair of lawyers when Professor Sydney came in. Summers followed a step behind but deviated towards the bar as she took a set at on of the reserved tables. A waitress brought her over a glass of white wine as she began to set up the pieces.

"Busy in here."

"Yup. What time you got?"

"Couple of minutes to five. I'm going to check out the alleys. See where they go and who's there. She's not going anywhere for a while." Scott said, and John nodded.

"Got it. Call me if you find anything."

"Sure." The taller man stalked back out, and John resumed to scanning the crowd. The normal blend of suits and power skirts you saw everywhere in this city. He drank another cup of coffee waiting for something to happen. The door opened and a small, thin man came in. Eileen waved, and the man nodded at her. Obviously the opponent, John mused, motioning to the

bartender for a refill.

The man was short, with light brown hair and thin sharp features. He shook Professor Sydney's hand and was about to sit when something clicked in Caulder's mind. He had seen that face the day before, outside of the FoH building. The Con-Ed worker. But this man looked nothing like a utilities worker. Suspicions formed in his mind and he was beginning to stand when a voice called loudly from a table behind him.

"Detective Caulder!" His head whipped around to see Erin off-duty, sitting at a table with a few friends and waving at him. He snapped back to the man at Sydney's table, and saw the suddenly change in his face as he went for his pocket.

For a single, nightmarish instant, it seemed to the detective that time had been suspended. The man's hand came out from his pocket, and Eileen Sydney grabbed her own throat, eyes bulging unnaturally. John ripped his gun from the holster and shoved out of his seat. Erin was looking bewildered at him as he tried to shove through the crowd. The little man was already dashing out the doors as Caulder found his voice.

"Stop! Police!" John broke through the crowd and made it to the Professor's side. Blood bubbled up through her fingers and soaked the front of her suit. Screams echoed behind him as the fountain of red became obvious. The older woman's mouth moved soundlessly, trying to forced words out through her ruined throat.

"Erin!" He yelled as the woman was at his side. "Get an ambulance here, now!" And he left, smashing over two people coming in the doors and racing into the street. He thumbed his phone and Scott's voice came on the line.

"Summers."

"He got her, Scott! The bastard took off down Ninth!" John gasped, pelting down the street. He couldn't even see the man any more, hoping that he'd catch up with him some how.

"I'm on it." Caulder slowed up, trying to catch his breath. A uniformed beat cop caught sight of him, and had his gun out in a flash.

"Drop the gun, sir." He said, and only then did Caulder realize that he was running down a New York street with a gun in his hand and blood all over his suit. With a sigh he set down his gun and motioned to his pocket.

"I'm Detective Caulder, officer. My badge is in my pocket."

"Two fingers. Bring it out nice and slow." John did so, and the beat holstered his weapon. "I'm sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do to help?" John looked rueful up the street and then at the blood on his shirt and jacket, before shaking his head.

"No Officer, I don't think anyone can help now."

Aaron laid the piece of oil cloth down on his work bench and again reflected on the stupidity of man. He was neither a psychopath or a sociopath; he killed because it was a better living then his other skills could provide for him. Demolitions, firearms, hand to hand combat; all of them still were worth a pittance on the open market. Mercenaries were a dime a dozen, but good assassins were invaluable.

First, Aaron depressed the stud and the action spring on the .45. Next, he swivelled the brushing. That allowed the spring to go free. Aaron dismounted the slide assembly, removed the barrel, and now the pistol was field stripped. Most of his 'colleagues' used small bore .22 or equally anonymous 9mm weapons in their favourite configurations. But Aaron kept his .45. He liked the balance; the heavy dead weight of it. He also liked the large holes it created in his targets. Even suppressed, the guttural cough of the weapon was distinctive.

Aaron held the barrel up to the light, and as he expected, it was dirty from firing. He'd used up a box of ammunition in his personal quick fire drills; the gun from the holster to target, over and over like a Western gunfighter. Aaron cleaned every surface, using rags, Hoppe's cleaning solvent, and a toothbrush until there was no trace of dirt on any metal surface. Next, he lightly oiled the weapon. Not too much oil, which would attract dirt and grit and possibly foul or jam the pistol at an inconvenient moment. Finished cleaning, he reassembled the pistol quickly and expertly -- with his eyes closed. It had a nice feel in his hand as he jacked the slide back a few times to make sure it was properly assembled.

Aaron looked at the slip of paper at his elbow. People were so stupid, and so obvious. Because of that, he'd be killing one in the next few hours. Other men would have smiled, but Aaron simply did a visual check of the weapon. This was his job. And the object of his job only had a few more hours to breathe. There was a final clack as he loaded the weapon, and laid it down on the oil cloth, in the dull light.

Naked, filthy, hot, the Number lay curled on the small landing, the locked door only inches from the pink-white soles of his bare feet. The hallway was an oven; sticky with heat and dust. He soiled himself more than once since coming up to the landing and the door, but made no attempt to clean up after himself. The smell of shit and old sweat was part of the penalty he would have to pay for his failures.

From time to time he would look up, see the door, and cower down again, small sounds escaping from his dry, cracked lips. He'd had no food or water for the day previous to his newest sum, and between the heat and stench, he was beginning to hallucinate. The sounds had come first — the telltale creaking from behind the door, the whispered voices of his sums, some old and faint like the first, buried in the moist earth of South Carolina. Others were louder, dying gasps from a waitress, and a banker. Or the single raising gasp of the last sum, as the razor vanes sliced through her delicate carotid artery and buried in her spine. His own trouble failure, his weakness, perhaps even the forfeiture of his power.

He prayed for that power's return, his cracked lips whispering on the landing, down the stairwell, into the empty rooms. But even as he prayed, he knew he had yet to pay the price that lay waiting for him behind the door. He must pay it, he knew, and would, but not yet. Not yet.

After the sounds came the desperate memories from his childhood, and in some ways, that was even worse. The giant birch in the garden of the quad, sickly yellow in the moonlight as he crept so quietly across the rooftop of the west wing and down to it. The fleeting glint of the moon on blade as he sliced away the perfect length, sneaking back to his bed beneath the window, slipping the heavy, exquisitely balanced limb between the spring and mattress, leaving it there to cure. The guilt of transgression, the fear of capture and revelation. The long waiting silence of the room and all the sleeping boys. The will of God, the crack of doom, the handwriting on the wall.

Finally, the landing and its bolted, fourfold door; waiting. The door of Sighs. The Door of Despair. The Door of Penitence. The Door of Paradise regained. The Door, and what lay behind it.

"John. Why don't you tell me that I'm wrong here. Really. Just tell me you didn't try and pull this bullshit stunt and I can let you go," Oscar Adams said quietly, leaning back in his chair and staring at the younger man. John Caulder stared blankly back,

"John." That threw Caulder. He'd seen the Chief mad before. In fact, one of his major hobbies was to drive Oscar Adams into a towering rage. But this was different. Adams wasn't mad; he was angry, and the cold edge of suppressed fury in his voice made John recoil.

"Chief, it was a play based on classified-"

"Classified! I've got a woman dead under police protection by the current flavour of the month serial killer, and you're talking about classified hunches!" Adams exploded, his face flushing darker with anger. "She's dead, John! She's dead after you, and through you the NYPD, said we'd keep her alive! She's dead because you didn't come to me."

"Chief Adams-" Scott started, and Adams' baleful stare swept over to him.

"And you. You government puke. You think I can't find out where you're from and crush your nuts until they're juiced? You withheld evidence on a major case from us, after all the help we've given you! I'm a short stack away from mashing you out in my ashtray as it is. Now shut up!" Adams snarled, and Summers flushed. Only Wolverine had ever come close to this level of abuse. This was made worse by the fact that Oscar Adams was right. Scott cursed himself again for being so stupid; so damn confident that he had all the angles.

"John, you fucked up. Bad. I've talked to Officer Mallory. The official story to both the newspapers and the inquiry board is that you were off duty with her in the bar and saw it happen. Unless someone comes out that Professor Sydney saw you in her office earlier, the story will hold." Adams took a deep breath, cursed, and slammed his hands down on his desk. "It's your shield if this gets out, John. The commissioner is howling for blood on this, and he'll chew your ass out to the street if he finds out."

"Chief, it's my fault, I know. Look, he got ahead of me. I know I blew it but--"

"John, that woman is dead. There aren't excuses. You're too well trained and experienced for this to have happened. Dammit John, you know better! I trained you to goddamn know better, and you let him kill her right in front of you." Oscar Adams pulled a lighter from his desk and lit his cigar.

"Sir, your wife--"

"Fuck my wife. You are officially off the case, Detective. You will bury yourself under a mountain of paperwork and not move until this whole thing is over. Or use your vacation time. I don't really care which. All I know is that I don't want to see you until this is all over."

"I can't. Everything points to him getting closer to something, sir! I don't know what it is, but I'm sure it'll make his killings look like a bike ride. You have to--" Caulder caught the look in Adams eyes and back down. "I mean, that is..."

"I have to? You will go to your desk and file your fucking reports and keep away from the goddamn case, Caulder, or I will be forced to fire my best detective. That is the end of it, John. No more discussion. And you," Adams pointed the lit end of the cigar at Scott. "You and the other agent are gone. I've sent a message to FBI headquarters telling them that no further FBI assistance will be required. You're benched until I get confirmation to send you back to them."

"Chief Adams--"

"This conversation is over."

"Look John, this is a very bad idea." Will Piper adjusted his glasses nervously. "I've never seen Adams this angry. If he catches you snooping around, he'll fire you. You might be his golden boy, but after the murder... well, it's not a good idea."

"Will, we all know you're going to take over the investigation. You're the next in line and have been on since the beginning. Hell, you should have gotten it first anyhow. I got lucky when the Iron Maiden found the blade." Caulder tossed another file in the box. "But something is coming to a head, man. I don't know what, but it's going to be bad. Anything I get, I'll pass your way first. You can get the collar and everything. But I need to be involved in this."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why? John, weird and clever shit aside, this guy is just a murderer. You've dealt with them before without making it a holy crusade. Is it because of the girl in the alley?"

"Why is that the first thing everybody thinks? Like I'm some emotional cripple who can't get past his divorce."

"Because you are an emotional cripple, John. Shit, we all are. Struan hasn't had a date in 18 months. Cortez is on wife two and working up the soon-to-be-number-three on the side, and my last girlfriend is now dating my sister. The Chief has the most stable home life of us all, and that's because he and his wife try to spend no more than an hour a week in each others' presence." Piper shrugged. "This job draws our kind of people, I'm afraid. So yeah, it is about Jenny, isn't it?"

"Yes, no, maybe." Caulder sank into his chair. "She's in Seattle now. Working at a hospital up there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I ran into her mom downtown a few weeks ago. She caught me up a little bit."

"I don't know why you put yourself through it."

"Just one of those things, Will." John shrugged. "Grass is green, the sky is blue, and I still love my wife, who divorced me to live with another man in Seattle."

"But that doesn't explain the obsession you're developing with this case, John."

"I can't explain it. It was the girl that got me twigged on it, you know. But now... it's just so unreal. Like one of those bad horror novels, where we find out our bad guy has been a thousand year old vampire all along or something. I mean, who uses a weapon only a master engineer could make? And elaborately timed setups. It's unlike any other serial pattern, like the

murders are all incidental against a larger goal." Caulder grimaced. "If I could get just the slightest hint of what this guy really wanted, I'm sure I could get him but... I just don't know."

"Figures."

"What?"

"You always have been too smart for you own good, John. You never thought that this guy could be doing it solely based on the fact that he's fucked in the head and the pixies tell him it's a good idea?"

"Too many patterns. That's what bugs me. I know everything is right there for me. I just can't piece it together." Caulder sighed and slapped the lid on the box. "So, do we have a deal?"

"Will it matter if I say no?"

"Not really."

"Alright. But--" Piper pointed a finger at John. "I call the shots, John. You might be the hotshit detective, but I'm not getting canned along side with you. You find something and you call me, right? Remember, for the next few weeks and in regards to this investigation, you're a civilian."

"Deal. I'll give you a call later." John Caulder paused. "Thanks Will."

"Just go before I change my mind and decide to do something stupid like save my career or something." Piper said and turned back to the pile of paperwork on his desk. Caulder slipped out of the room and walked down the hall to the temporary office loaned to Summers and Frost. John poked his head in to see Scott neatly stacking up piles of paper and filing them in a box identical to Caulder's.

"Clearing out?"

"So it seems. Adams has withdrawn the assistance of the department until he hears back from our boss, so we're out of the building." Scott didn't add that he'd also changed hotels, destroyed all major records of their visit, and had Gambit trying to scrounge up a way to delay the FBI's official and confused response to a pair of non-existent agents being kicked out of New York. 'Agents' Frost and Summers might have to pull a quick disappearing act at the end of this case, and Scott didn't want to leave anything behind for them to follow.

"Hey, toss your stuff in the car. We'll meet back at my place."

"Your place?"

"Yeah. I'm taking a couple of weeks off. Stress of the murder, you know."

"So, we're still on the team then?"

"Mostly. It won't be our bust, but that's not really the important part, is it?" Caulder said and Scott grinned back.

"You've got that right." He hefted the first box and headed towards the garage. "I'll tell Frost on the way."

"And hey, if you two need some private time..."

"John, if it wasn't for this box, I'd have to shoot you. Twice."

"Some things are worth it."

The Number sat in a tiny pool of light and let his mind whirl. In his mind's eye, he could see the figures dance and flicker like insubstantial flames, joining each other and growing around his carefully computed solutions. He had consigned his notebook to the flames earlier; the final

purification before the last sum could come into play. Everything he had to do was locked in his mind; etched in finer detail then any of Martin's images could be.

With nimble fingers, he loaded the cylinder one last time. It was a reminder of his power, to keep him focused during the last step, even though he had no real use for it. His equations had finally been able to work in the untimely death of Sydney, after the horrible hours of terror about the possible permanent loss of his power. He had been forgiven. The new equation was clean and real in his head.

A final sum to deliver on the great tally. A City of Sin, delivered up to purification, along with those who were its worst denizens. Mutants and sinners burning together in the belly of the Great Beast. An angry, swearing, sweaty, vile concrete beast, which had a stake pointed directly

at its heart.

The Number turned and the light glazed his glasses opaque for a moment, two flat white circles, set into a deathshead mask. He was the final tool of a long-forging by God. It was so easy to see. His love was revealed as a mutant, to test his resolve. His job was taken away by the agents of the city, to focus him on his mission. And now, he was at the very last stage. The final check of numbers before he could prepare his great canvas.

He heard a faint noise at the edge of his hearing and smiled. Just a few final tests of his worth. He picked up the cylinder with a faint scraping noise and padded out of the room nude. Like a tempered blade, plunged into the fire again and again to burn out the last traces of impurity. The equation was ready. The Number stepped out into the last pyre and smiled like a corpse.

Aaron adjusted his sport coat as he stepped out of the cab. It was starting to finally cool off in the evening, cutting down some of the oven-like nights the New York summer had been subjecting them to. Not that heat bothered him any more. He'd trained for two years in Syria and then another two on the Sinai. The hot haze and tang of sand would never really leave him, he thought. The heavy weight of the .45 pressed against the small of his back in its holster. Despite what the movies believed, a shoulder holster was the worst of all worlds for holding a weapon. It was too cumbersome to draw from, too easy to spot in a crowd, and interfered with the mobility of the shooter. Aaron's break-away holster was at the small of his back, and from experience, he could clear it and be firing in under seconds. It also was a touch harder to spot, often giving them the element of surprise.

Not that it would be a factor, he thought, looking at the lines of houses crouched on the East River. They all had the same look of desperate lower class; the wooden faces huddled right up to the sidewalk. It was a line of twisted and warped porches, fronted by a foot of brown and patchy grass. A few trash cans overflowed at the curb with a haze of flies buzzed around its contents. Aaron smiled. That meant no alarm systems, nosy neighbours, and best of all, no one to find the results of his work for days. If the target had cats, it would take even longer.

Aaron walked down the street, hands in his pockets and looking straight ahead. His eyes flicked back and forth behind his sunglasses, ticking off numbers and analyzing the surroundings. He'd have no trouble with his escape if it came to it. The East River could pose some trouble, but if he tracked back towards Central Park, only a city wide dragnet would be able to catch him.

As Aaron passed number 31, he smiled. It was a house like all the rest, but more so. In place of the heavy shades the rest of the houses had, the front windows were tightly shuttered. There was no car parked in front, and he could only see a rusting chain-link door down the alley between the next house. Aaron continued to the end of the street, and turned left, walking down to the car drive that ran behind the houses and turned down it. He counted chimney pots until he was at the back of 31.

It really was so simple. The man Eckert had killed was in the phone book, and a few hours of discrete surveillance had revealed that it was still occupied. David John Webster had died to give Thomas Allen Eckert new life, and now Thomas Allen Eckert would die to for the profit of Aaron. He opened the back gate and crept into the forgotten backyard.

A path led up to a small raised stoop, and Aaron followed it, stepping carefully as he climbed the rudely made stairs. He kept close to the wall to avoid any creaking boards and crouched by the door. He could see the windows of the house had actually been painted black behind the shutters, to shut out all light coming in or out. The rear door was plain wood, dark

paint bubbled and crazed by decades of neglect. Aaron tried the knob.

It was locked, but by the feel of it, not too securely. Judging by the warping of the door frame and the rust on the knob, picking it would be pointless. Aaron drew out a screwdriver from his pocket and dug the flat head into the crack between door and frame, just below the lock plate.

There was a brief resistance, and then a short snapping noise as the bolt released. It sounded very loud in Aaron's ears, and he stood still for a long moment, breathing softly and straining his ears for any noise from the house. After minutes of frozen silence, Aaron pocketed the screwdriver and drew out the big .45. The silencer screwed into the front made the gun a blunt and ugly looking instrument of death. Aaron eased off the safety and took a deep breath. He nudged the door further open and with his weapon in front of him, stepped inside the house.

Emma Frost handed her files to Scott as she stepped out of the car in front of Caulder's building. She had received a condensed version of the two men's interview with Chief Adams, and had removed her files from the office to her hotel room immediately. Emma had also taken one last trip down to the morgue to speak with Doctor Sharpe, questioning her about the medical details of Paul Wilkes autopsy. The police in South Carolina had faxed her all the documents they had on the case, and Lillian Sharpe had poured over them while Emma waited.

Sharpe's opinion was that the killing had been either done by a teen or a small adult. And by a trained professional. She had held up a copy of an x-ray for Frost, and circled the highly accurate blows to the throat, spine and ribs. The attacker used a number of strikes to break through bones which a normal adult male would only need a single blow. The precision of the strikes ruled out an attack by a drifter or a junkie, unless he'd been trained in staff or sword fighting. Emma had received Scott's call during the session, and Sharpe promised to follow up with her if she discovered anything further.

"Is that it?"

"Unless I should have brought a bottle of wine and the corset, Scott."

"Emma--" Scott sighed.

"Yes, I know dear. The urges, the longing... perhaps if you spoke to Jean? She seems fairly open-minded." Emma said smiling, and Scott ground his teeth together.

"Upstairs."

"My, how forward." Frost laughed and walked into the building. John was in the lobby to buzz them in, and took part of the file load from Scott.

"Agent Frost."

"Detective Caulder. I'm guessing that we are not off the case yet."

"In a sense. We'll talk... upstairs, I mean." John hit a button and walked into the elevator, followed by the two mutants. His apartment was on the ninth floor, occupying an odd almost turret-like extension of the older building. Emma stepped inside and removed her coat, eyes roving over the rooms. John and Scott followed her in, and dropped their piles on the table in his kitchen.

"Detective. You're breaking the stereotype, you know." Frost said, looking over the neat apartment. It was clean enough to be sterile, and the furnishings only furthered that atmosphere. His coffee table, bookshelves, chairs and stands were in naked pine, only varnished to make the blond wood shine. The rest of the furniture was steel pipped or covered in tan leather. Even his kitchen was a clockwork-like array of steel counter tops, steel pots and pans, wooden racks, and pine tables. Emma noted the lack of paintings, posters or pictures on the white walls, but saw the furniture had been arranged as if to once showcase ones that had been there. There were also gaps in the room; places where something had been placed and had later been removed.

"If it helps, the only thing in my fridge is old Chinese food, a six pack, and some mustard." Caulder said as he sat down on the couch.

"Reality makes sense again. Thank you." Frost nodded and sat opposite him. Scott had been sorting through a pile of notes in the kitchen, and brought them back to the living room with him.

"So, John. You're officially off this investigation, right."

"Yes."

"Won't you be breaking the law by doing this?"

"Just doing my duty as a private citizen to assist the police." Caulder said, and Scott could see how uncomfortable he was with it. Caulder obviously took the view he'd espoused in the diner very seriously, and was breaking a lot of his own personal rules working outside his capacity as a

police officer.

"Technically, we are still on the case. The NYPD can't just dismiss FBI involvement in a matter, especially in a terrorism investigation." Scott said. He'd made a quick check of the actual jurisdictions of federal agents verses that of police forces, and found a dozen loopholes he could use to get police assistance, no matter how unwilling Adams might be. That is, as long as his report to the real FBI was delayed and befuddled. "Which means if trouble appears, you are legally compelled to assist us."

"I didn't know that." John said, and Summers watched him relax a bit, the tension draining slowly from his position. That was good, because they'd need Caulder at his best to catch the murderer. More important, Scott had seen how good a cop John Caulder was, and that he wasn't worried about race or genetics when it came to suspects; only facts. The more John Caulders that existed, the less difficult it would be for the X-Men to do what they had to.

"So, if we are satisfied with the legalities of our little investigations, may we get to the facts." Emma said, picking up a notepad and flipping it open. "Shall we review?"

"Alright." John Picked up his pen and opened his own notebook. "We have a series of murders committed in New York over the last seven months. All of those murders where timed to coincide with incendiary bombings by the Friends of Humanity. All the names of the victims and the order of their deaths are linked to a list of special operatives in the government. Each murder was done using an incredibly specialized projectile weapon, which requires amazing skill to tool and use effectively. Each of the victims was a mutant of varying levels."

"Right." Scott shuffled a few pieces of paper. " We know that our killer got the lists from a piggybacked connection to the FoH computers, which means he had to have been known by the organization well enough to have had some access to the secure areas of the building. He also seems of spend a great deal of time researching his victims, enough to get close to them without any alarm."

"Here's where it gets interesting, gentlemen." Emma stacked a set of notes in front of her and looked at the two men. "Our killer is a man named Thomas Allen Eckert. He was a mechanical engineer for both the CIA and after that, the Zero Tolerance campaign."

"Yeah, but he's been in an asylum for the last year, hasn't he?"

"It's better than that, detective. He's been dead for the last three months."

"Excuse me?"

"According to the hospital, Thomas Allen Eckert committed suicide by self-immolation. His body was identified and he was declared dead by local authorities." Emma said, and John suppressed a groan.

"So, our main suspect is a man who's been dead for months? Man, I love this town."

"It's not that supernatural, Detective. Eckert had a man who used to visit regularly. In fact, his visits can be tied in with the schedule of bombings in New York. Eckert was building explosives for the FoH, and switching identities with this man to do so. He also used his time out to kill his first victims."

"So, there are two of them?" Summers asked.

"No. David John Webster is likely the body identified as Eckert. Both men were about the same height and weight, body type and looks. Eckert was a voluntary patient, which means he wasn't guarded too closely or forced to follow a regimen. That's how they were able to switch identities. Obviously, Eckert decided he needed to be out permanently to finish his work. He killed Webster, set his body on fire, and then used his identity to leave the hospital. Webster was a low level member of the FoH. A kind of office boy for a terrorist group. It makes sense to use him as a courier for the bombs. He was low enough not to know anything and loyal enough to never talk."

"So, Eckert is the killer for sure?"

"He fits the profile. He believes himself to be the reincarnation of John Martin, a turn of the century painter and engineer. He used to paint huge canvases of biblical scenes of destruction and Armageddon, between designing sewer systems and subway passages for the city of London." Emma pulled out copies of the drawings she'd received at the hospital and passed them over. "Obviously, Eckert is taking direct action against those who he's identified as sinners. Mutants are at the top of his list."

"Why?"

"He feels deep betrayal from one. I believe Eckert was abused by his mother, either physically or sexually. He has too many of the normal repressive traits of a mother-dominated psyche evident for that not to have happened. His father died when he was very young, and has never had a real elder male figure. Maybe Bastion acted as one for a while. That's just speculation, though."

"Might not be so far off. I remember this case in Brooklyn a couple of years ago. Guy working in a butcher shop most of his life. The owner finally decides to sell it. The thing is that the owner has been like a father to this guy, since he just lives with his mother. He feels that

selling this business is like trying to disown him. He grabs the owner, kills him, feeds him through the grinder, and sells him to all his customers as a big sale the next day. Saves a batch to cook for his mother for dinner. Then he offs her with a fileting knife and hangs himself." Caulder said.

"I can see why the police don't get many dinner invitations." Emma said dryly.

"Still..."

"In any case, when his mother died, Eckert was sent to a private school. I believe he fell in love with a boy named Paul Wilkes. I'm not sure if it was an obsession on Eckert's part or if they had an actual relationship. However, at some point, Wilkes tells Eckert that he's a mutant. Something that Eckert has been raised to believe is evil and unclean. He blames Wilkes for betraying him, like his mother, and kills him. He also abuses the corpse sexually after the killing, in a way to assert his new power." Emma steepled her long fingers in front of her face and leaned back. "And after our killer has his epiphany about Martin, the two divergent psychosis merge. He's been 'forged' for a holy purpose as the new Martin."

"And what purpose is that?"

"I don't know." Emma sighed. "That's what's been bothering me. I can't guess at what kind of goal he could have decided on. Some mass punishment of the wicked, I'd assume. But we know that Eckert doesn't have a nuclear warhead in his basement, so it has to be something different."

"Great. So he's even crazier then we thought, and wants to punish all of us."

"Essentially correct, detective. Eckert is a classic serial killer. A man in his early forties, secretly homosexual, a lone wolf, socially inept, and painfully shy. A skilled man who takes pride in his vicious but 'brilliant' instruments of death and is carrying a traumatic secret from his childhood." Emma closed her notepad and set it down.

"Yes, but now what? We know all about him, but how do we catch him?" John Caulder snorted in disgust and tossed down his pen.

"How about the phone book?" Scott said, and Caulder laughed.

"I don't think Information has a serial killer directory."

"John, Emma, think about this for a second. This is a man obsessed with new identities, correct? The sort that draws a kind of personal power from them."

"True."

"He gained his freedom as David John Webster. Why wouldn't he assume that name to maintain it?" Scott said, and Emma's eyes went wide for a brief moment.

"Scott, for once, I am speechless. You're right. He'd have assumed Webster's life around his own for a sense of safety." Emma dug through her files and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it over to Caulder. "This is Webster's address. If Agent Summers is right, we should find him there."

"This is too thin to call Piper on. We'll have to check it out ourselves. If we find him, we can make up some kind of story for Piper to use." Caulder looked at the paper for a minute. "You really think he'd be this predictable?"

"It's not predictability. After all, what kind of idiot would go investigating a dead man for murder?"

"Us." Caulder said and laughed. He put the piece of paper down and reached for his jacket. He had that same tingle on the back of his neck as before; Frost and Summers were right. Eckert was the killer and he'd be there. And then Caulder could send him to the hell that he so feverishly killed for.

'The Sum Of Zero' Part 9

All recognizable characters and settings belong to Marvel; I am using them without permission but mean no harm and am making no profit. The plot and original characters, however belong to me. Any and all feedback is appreciated at dexfsympatico.ca. Redistribution of this tale for profit is illegal. Please do not archive this story without contacting me first to obtain my permission. This story contains extremely disturbing imagery and graphic content. Viewer should use discretion before reading.

Many thanks to Tapestry, DuAnn, and Mel for beta assistance.

The Number stared reverently up the imposing facade of St.Patrick's Cathedral, and felt the numbers in his head pause. This was the House of the Final Sum. After years of searching, he had finally come to the end of the quest; his place in the Tapestry. His solution to his own Great

Equation would now be offered up to the final judge. He would look upon his creation's work and find it was Good.

St.Patrick's Cathedral was a splendor of Gothic revisitation. For more than a hundred years, it sat as one of the premier examples of American religious architecture. The twin spires soared over three hundred feet into the night above the Number's head; their pale grey stone illuminated by the spotlights on the ground. They served to bracket the immense rose window of

stained glass that looked out over Fifth Avenue. The window was the work of Charles Connick, the greatest artisan in stained glass the Twentieth Century ever produced. His windows were also set in the churches that John Martin conceived the start of the Number's equation, and he trembled at the twinning of fates.

The Number ascended the broad steps, worn smooth by the passage of countless millions of devout. The massive doors were open, and a thin trickle of evening worshipers filtered in and out of the portal. While there was no service scheduled for tonight, the church was always ready to receive and succor those in need, at all hours. The Number exalted as he passed through the doors and into the great nave. Above him stretched the fluted columns that merged to the ribbed vaulting, zigzagging down four hundred feet to the altar. The lights of the city and the streets drove crazed beams of colour through the lancet windows of stained glass along the nave and the transepts, sending them racing and fleeting over the solemn grey stone.

The Number knelt before the alter and crossed himself, feeling the last nervous flutters in his soul die away. They were soothed and replaced by a deep sense of calm satisfaction. He moved off to sit in one of the pews, thumbing through the service books sightlessly. He had several hours to wait before it was time to trigger his explosives. At the exact stroke of twelve he'd touch off the fiery holocaust of Manhattan. In his mind's eye he could see the gas ignite, blasting great holes in the buildings and streets above. The intense heat would flash boil the water in the pipes, causing them to rupture from the steam pressure. The tightly packed bundles of utilities would be destroyed, and the loss of electricity would destroy the effectiveness of the emergency services of New York. The firefighters would have a desperate struggle trying to find intact water lines to combat the inferno around them. As they searched, the fires would gut the great skyscrapers, raze the foul slums to the ground, and still the heart of the Great Beast.

"Good evening, my son."

"Evening Father." The Number said reverently to the old priest. His heart swelled with pride at his act, and he longed to tell the priest of the coming of His work. But he clamped down the desire and made his fevered eyes blank behind his smile.

"Do you need some help?"

"No Father. I'd just like to wait here for a while."

"Who are you waiting for, my son?"

"God, Father. I'm waiting to see God."

"This would be the place to find him. It is His house, after all." The priest smiled kindly.

"He will be here soon, I'm sure." The Number said to the priest, who smiled and moved further down the aisles of pews. Only a few dozen people dotted the two thousand plus seats in the cathedral, and he was left to consider his own thoughts.

The Number lifted his eyes to the Medici-wrought altar of God and considered the final sum of the Godhead. The cellphone with its detention code was in his pocket; almost hot to the touch, he felt. It was ironic that his code '666' would be used to slay the very Beast it was supposed to herald. The Number rasped out the words from the Bible before him, his voice brittle and hoarse with passion.

"For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?"

Sidney Lyttle dragged himself into consciousness like a drowned man breeching the surface of the water. He sucked in huge gasps of air, trying to still his racing heart and terror addled brain. His body was drenched in sweat, and the single thin blanket on his cell bunk was twisted into a tight rope around his legs.

The dream had come again.

Lyttle was a hard man. He had worked in the military before joining Operation: Zero Tolerance. His own speciality was as an administrator and organizer, but that didn't shield him from making unsavory decisions in the field. He had ordered peoples deaths, and carried some of them out himself. Sidney didn't have the sort of grandiose imagination to commit large scale

atrocities, but he was aptly suited for local terror and destruction. In short, he was not a man who was prone to twinges of conscience about his actions. Nor nightmares.

For the last few nights, ever since his incarceration down in the bowels of the police cells, he had been consumed with dreams of fire and death; all the while he was helpless as the world burned around him and consumed his hapless form. The guards knew and laughed at his nightmares, caused him to hate them even more. Once he was out of this pit and hidden away, he'd have some sort of revenge on them. That he'd already decided.

"Bad dreams again, Lyttle?" The guard jeered and Sidney turned over sullenly. "Want me to get you a teddy bear?"

"Fuck you." He muttered and tried in vain to fall back asleep. The soft noises of the officer shifting in his seat and reading his magazine where the only ones in the small block. Lyttle had been moved to a special isolation area, which only held three cells. The city wanted him alive to

testify, and felt that he might be in danger in the general holding population. Since everyone was in danger in the general holding population, it was a smart move.

After an hour or so, Lyttle awoke from his light doze to the sound of the door of the block opening. The guard on duty sat up, yawned and nodded to the police officer coming in. Sidney groggily wondered why they were shifting early, and rose up on his elbows. The duty guard took his coffee and magazine with him out the door, and the new cop slung a nylon rucksack on to the desk, beside a fresh cup of coffee.

Lyttle lay back down, expecting the new guard to settle into the long night shift over a book. The zipper on the nylon hissed, and the soft footsteps echoed as he approached the cell. Lyttle snarled and levered himself back up on his elbows. His curse died on his lips as he saw the

silenced pistol in the man's hand aimed at him.

"Goodbye, Mister Lyttle."

"What? Wait--" Lyttle started and thrust a hand out in front of him, as if to ward off the threat. His last words died on his lips.

The silenced weapon spat twice, the first round entering just about the right eyebrow in a small puckered hole. The second followed almost immediately, this time an inch to the left, square in the centre of his forehead. Lyttle jerked, his head snapping back with the impact, and crashed back on the bunk.

"The Friends of Humanity accept your resignation." The cop said, stashing the gun back in his bag and leaving the room. The normal duty guard returned a few minutes later, with a fresh coffee steaming in his hands. He looked at the dim black lump that was cooling in Lyttle's cell, and decided to wait another minute or two before he called it in.

Officer Reggie Dumbronski used to have a younger sister in college upstate. During her frosh week, she let slip that she was a mutant to a few new friends. Eventually, it got to the Friends of Humanity group on the college. They waited until she was coming home from the bar one day, and grabbed her. According to the detective up there, they raped her for hours before finally beating her to death with a tire iron. No charges were ever laid on the unsolved hate crime. Dumbronski thought of his sister as he sipped his coffee and waited to raise the alarm.

John Caulder stood at the top step at the rear of number 31 and waited. He scrutinized the door in front of him, trained eyes searching the old wood for clues. It was slightly ajar, and he could detect a faint light coming from somewhere deep inside the house. Straining, he held his breath and listened. He could just make out a strange, muffled sound, slowed repeated. It was steady, like the regular ticking of a clock, a monotonous thumping. Grotesquely, he had the sudden image of a hanged man's hammering heels.

"Steady, detective." Emma said quietly behind him. She was following him up into the house, as Scott lay in wait around at the front. There was no chance he was going to slip by, if he was here. Emma cocked her head to one side and laid a hand on Caulder's arm. "I think we missed him."

"What?"

"I don't think there's anyone inside the house."

"Why?"

"Just believe me on this. We should go in."

That at least made sense, John thought as he turned back to the door. Using two fingers, he pulled the door open and stepped inside, Emma at his heels. There was enough light to see that he was in a scullery, the shelves on either side of him empty. Up three steps there was another door, also ajar, and from somewhere beyond it a deep, rich scent, dark and sour like newly composted earth mixed with an overly sweet incense. Shit and sandalwood. Standing in the house, nerves drawn to the limit, it was easy to be drawn farther in by the dim light and the dark hypnotic sound. He unholstered his gun, and motioned for Emma to do the same. The blonde agent

opened her jacket to reveal she was unarmed, and Caulder bit back a curse. What kind of agent goes into a potentially dangerous situation barehanded?

Together, they went up the second set of steps, acutely aware that only one of them was armed. Caulder eased open the door and found himself standing in a kitchen. There was a flashlight sitting on the counter beside an enamel sink. Its muted beam was on but dying, accounting for the light that he'd glimpsed earlier. Somewhere, high above, the thumping sound

continued. The smell was more pronounced now, the sweet incense unable to disguise the rank, foul odor beneath.

Directly in front of them was a door leading towards the front of the house, and to the left there was a dark bottom step of a narrow staircase. Far above their heads, the pounding went on. Listening, Caulder was able to distinguish it as two sounds: a firm mechanical progression followed by something else, a sound that was barely a sound at all. John pointed up the stairs, and Emma nodded, ignoring the door in front of them. They turned and began to climb the stairs, following the oddly patterned noise and the terrible dark smell. The first floor landing had no surprises. A door gaping widely open, showing an empty hallway coated with great hanging

strands of cobwebs. A rotted carpet runner on the floor, stained wallpaper; empty and abandoned years ago. The window at the end of the hallway had been painted black on the inside, and the gloom was oppressive. John turned back down the stairs and snatched the flashlight from the counter below. It was a matte-black halogen light, the same kind that are issued to military

personnel. He twisted the beam to a tighter and brighter light, before rejoining Emma upstairs.

Emma took the light from him, freeing up his gun hand, and they went up to the next landing. The door was shut, but behind it the beating rhythm was much louder. A cold heart, beating away in a dead house.

The wood panels of the door had been painted over by a madman, filled with a bizarre motif of twisted snakes, oddly shaped stars, and roughly drawn creatures that could only have come from the depths of an irreparably damaged mind. Half were male, their genitals huge and engorged, eye monstrous and bulging, sores dripping from crippled limbs, mounds of coiled

excrement piled beneath withered buttocks. The other half were hermaphrodites, penises small and immature, breasts huge and sagging, each face looking upwards innocently, roughly splashed halos of yellow paint around their heads. The background to the writhing tangle of the figures

was a fuming hell of flames in pink and red and orange that licked and framed the hideous scene.

John fell back against the wall and closed his eyes for an instant. The stench here was overpowering, thick and palpable like the killing floor of a slaughterhouse. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed, gagged, and swallowed again. He could here a new sound now. The harsh, whispered buzzing of a thousand swarming flies.

Emma turned the light around on the landing, and paled. John followed the beam and almost vomited. In one corner there was a crumpled nest of old newspaper, soiled with excrement. Lines and daubs climbed up the walls around him, dried and caked over everything. A few steps away another flight of stairs led up to the attic floor. The muted pounding mocked him

from the far side of the door. The flies buzzed. John hefted his weapon up to a ready position as Emma turned the knob and pushed open the door. They looked through the open doorway and into hell on earth.

They stared, instantly aware that this was something that no one should ever have to see; a tortured, screaming horror more vile and obscene than the most blasphemous imaginings of any demented Brueghel. The entire third story of the house had been transformed into a single, glowing chamber, lit by a hundred candles fixed to rudely made tinplate sconces screwed into the

walls and scattered from floor to ceiling. The walls themselves were primitively painted, depicting scenes a thousand times more ghastly than the ones splashed onto the door.

Chasms swallowed entire flaming cities whole; white-hot tongs pricked lolling, pink-wet tongues; rutting boars, tusks red with blood, tore entrails from infants in the midst of being birthed by headless, limbless women; blood boiled in pools; flames rose everywhere, fueled by crudely drawn gas mains. Pale and fine as spider's silk, a thousand careful lines connected one image to the other in a monstrous cosmology. A demon's chart and guide.

The ceiling was dull black, and from it hung one hundred lengths of bright, stiff copper wire, the ends of some hooked to impale small leathery things that might once have been flesh, while dozens more were twisted to hold larger splintered lengths of bone. On a wire close to the door, a big automatic pistol had been hung as a final trophy.

Emma's quick opening of the door had disturbed the air, and the fresh currents set the wires moving, bone tapping dully against bone like a terrible wind chime, flies thrown from their meaty perch and whispering in angry muted counterpoint. The flickering candle shadows danced, and John thought he saw small scuttling insect movements amidst the other hideous artifacts cast across the dark, oilcloth-covered floor.

In the centre of the room stood the worst of all.

A dozen metal poles stood at clock-hour distance from each other in a large circle on the floor. Atop each pole was a skull, wax flesh built up on human bone, eyes made of bits of coloured glass. Below each poorly sculpted head was a small metal square, and on each square, neatly printed with a draftsman's hand, there was a name, twelve in all. Christ's apostles, clockwise in alphabetical order.

In the circle, on the floor, symbols had been drawn in chalk. A crude pentacle in yellow, a snake in white, and over everything, overlapping and in bright scarlet was the letter 'X', chalked over four times, in lurid spikes. Above the symbols was a horrid device. Eckert's savage realization of deus ex machina, its application witnessed by the blind bottle-glass eyes of the surrounding saints and the buzzing, swarming flies.

A metal frame rose as tall as a standing man, forming a cage above the runic images. Scaffolding bolted to the cage held cogs and cams and wheels and pulleys, all powered by a huge, crank-wound main spring in a boxlike framework of its own. The strange, oil-gleaming system of descending gears, looking for all the world like the works of some giant clock, drove a piston through a long, angled tube that ended at the back of a high wooden throne. A rod of tungsten steel, sharpened to a chisel point, was steadily pushed forward by the piston, each movement marked by the metronome swing of a weighted pendulum attached to the spring. This was the source of the thumping sound; the impact of the piston on the rod.

The target of the slowly moving spear sat rigid on the throne, facing the door. A man, dark, with a deep bruise vivid on the black skin of his temple, black eyed and naked, palms flat on the chair's broad arms, hands hideously pinioned by a pair of heavy spikes hammered flush between the bones. Some crushing tool had been used to tear away the nails, and the ends of the curled, talon fingers were chewed to bloody stumps.

The eyes bulged madly, held open by gleaming curved taxidermist needles threaded through the lids, and the man's spine was arched away from the seat in a vain desperate attempt to escape the descending rod. It had pushed through the flesh of his neck, one fractional movement at a time, digging slowly down through fat and muscle, narrowly missing the spinal cord, eventually cutting through the esophagus, silencing the tortured screams that had caused the man to bite through his tongue, then rupturing the madly beating heart. It had continued beyond the death throes, slicing onward and then coming out through the chest wall, letting the thickly

flowing apron of blood ooze down the belly and the groin, pooling in the dead man's lap.

"Good god..."

"I don't think He had anything to do with this." Emma said quietly, eyes frozen on the horrific sight. How long had it taken for the man to die? He would have felt the first cutting stroke, knowing what was to come, felt it puncture his screaming throat. And after that- Emma tore her mind away from the thoughts.

A glitter of light reflected from the array of candles, and they turned upwards. It came from the ceiling, high above and back from the throne.

Eyes. Flashing chips of deep red glass. Eyes in the yellow wax face of the apostle that never was. Eckert's avenging angel- St.Patrick: The Final Judgement.

"Scott, you'd better get in here." Emma said into her phone, and turned her back to the grotesque seated horror to examine the mad paintings. John shook off the horror of the room, and viciously quashed his wish to flee.

Carefully reaching around the throne, he patted the pockets of the dead man, looking for a wallet or identification. All her found was a blood soaked sheet of note paper, with the address scrawled on it.

"Who do you think this is?"

"The other hunter."

"What?"

"When I was at the hospital, I discovered that another man was looking into Eckert's files." Emma explained. "He was described as a short black man. Our victim fits the profile." Emma neglected to mention that she knew it was him from the telepathic scan she'd pulled from the staff.

"I wonder why..."

"Christ!"

"Come in, Scott."

The X-Man entered the room, holding a hand over his mouth and nose. Even after seeing the culling pits of Apocalypse first hand, this was still a scene of ingenious horror. Emma motioned them both over to the paintings on the wall, away from the thumping device in the middle of the poles.

"Look at the paintings. They mirror the same symbols as those I found in Eckert's file. Fire, destruction, the Final Coming. But look at the buildings in these." Emma pointed, and both men made out the familiar buildings of the New York skyline.

"What are those things? Gas mains?" Scott motioned to the large hubs that were gouting flames in the painting.

"Yes. Wait a minute... those are the real mains for Manhattan. Look at the surrounding buildings. He's got each of the exploding mains at the right intersections." Caulder said, turning back to the others. "What if this isn't just delusion?"

"Planning to blow up New York seems a little fanciful." Emma started, but Scott waved her silent.

"I think I see what John is getting at, Emma. Eckert was a mechanical genius, right? He'd know that New York utilities are designed in bundle packets. If the gas lines exploded, it would likely cut electrical power as well. And the water pipes would go from steam pressure." Scott said.

"This is a big maybe. I'm going to take a look through the rest of this hellhole. If he's mining gas mains, we'll know about it from here." John headed towards the door, and Emma nodded.

"I'll be here a little longer." She said. Scott looked at her for a moment, waiting for Caulder to leave.

"Are you sure about this, Emma? This is not exactly--"

"Please Scott, the alpha male superhero concerns are tiring. Run along." Emma said, and Summers winced slightly at the steel in her voice. He nodded silently and followed John down the stairs. Emma circled the room slowly, finding a progression in the images; a sort of spiraled thread of madness.

The cycle of images aligned with the poles in the centre of the floor, and she was mentally counting hours as she followed the destruction. The last step was a church, sitting amidst the flames, its twin spires reached into the heavens, wreathed in the flames around it. A copper wire was pinned into the wall at the painted doorway of the church, and it threaded up to the mock skull of St. Patrick hanging from the ceiling. She looking back, to find herself at the pole for number 12. The scattered jumble came together, and she raced out of the room, almost tripping as she tore down the stairs.

John Caulder and Scott Summers were in the tiny cellar of the house, standing around a workbench with equally grim expressions. Emma dashed up to them, as they were pushing around the scattered bits of trash and supplies with a pencil.

"He was making thermite." Scott said offhandedly to Emma as she came up behind them.

"And he's got blueprints for the twelve mains in lower Manhattan. Wires, sparkplugs... he could have made any number of bombs." Caulder finished.

"He made twelve, and he's going to detonate them at midnight from St.Patrick's Cathedral." Emma said.

"What?"

"That's what that mural was. It's not totally an insane ranting. It's a plan. He's going to do it in," Emma checked her watch, "a little under an hour from now."

"Are you sure?" Caulder said, and edged back from the sudden ice that formed in Frost's expression. "Alright, alright. I'll call this into Piper. Scott, you get the car. We can make the church in time if we hurry." Scott took the keys and bounded up the stairs, leaving the hellish atmosphere of the house behind him. Caulder holstered his gun and turned away from the table.

"Midnight?"

"Midnight, detective." Emma said, her mouth set in a grim line. Caulder pulled out his celphone as the both went up the stairs, calling Piper and trying to arrange police to the house and the church, on the slimmest of excuses. He passed the door and a shivered worked down his spine. He was not able to dislodge that feeling inside; the voice that screamed 'Too late! Too late!' in his mind. John looked at the night sky, and in his minds eye, a thousand tongues of flame leapt into the velvet black sky.

The Sum of Zero Part 10

Will Piper looked at the house for a long moment before nodding to the jumpsuited man beside him. The NYPD SWAT team crashed through the front door of the house with a thunderous sound, and raced inside one after another. The shouts of 'Clear!' echoed over and over as they zig-zagged back and forth from room to room. Piper was right behind them, gun out even though he knew it wasn't necessary. Caulder's call had him moving in immediately but he was still unsure about the house. Piper knew that he'd need the clues that John swore were in the house as an excuse to move this squad along to St. Patrick's Cathedral. He went up the stairs on the heels of another SWAT member, and hit the landing just as the muted curses and retching reached him.

The gruesomeness of the room almost overpowered Piper, despite his foreknowledge of what he was going to find. One of the SWAT team members clawed at his mask, failing to yank it clear before he vomited messily down his front. More than a few of the tough, veteran force were milk pale against their uniforms.

"Motherfucker." The squad leader said next to Piper, who ignored him. He was editing out the horror, breaking the scene down into objective information, just like he and every other good detective had been trained to do. His eyes immediately caught the symbolism that Emma had described, and he made a show of turning slowly to follow it with a pencil before he spoke.

"St.Pat's."

"What?"

"The cathedral. He's at the church."

"How can you know that?" The squad leader, a twenty year veteran scoffed.

"Follow the wall. Look, I'm the detective, right? He's at the church. Get your men back in that fucking van and get them over there. You still have your suspect profile. I'll go over now."

"Rush a church? Man, you're talking civilians in the field of fire."

"Call the Hostage team. Have them standby if we need them." Piper said, rushing down the stairs. He didn't bother to add that the Hostage response team would be useless anyway. One of their most important tactics involved preying on the sense of the guiltless innocent in the shooter. And Piper knew that with this killer, there was no innocence.

Scott yanked the door open and was moving even before the car stopped. John Caulder and Emma followed at his heels, bounding up the steps of the church. The doors of St. Patrick's were open, with a trickle of people moving in and out of them. John ducked past a man in a blue polo shirt who was snapping pictures of the facade and drew up short at the doors. Summers and Frost came up behind him. Scott had switched his glasses for the same brushed metal visor he had worn in the FoH building, and was already trying to figure out how to minimize crowd panic.

"Alright. If he's in there, he'll be either in the pews or off to one side. Unless he's ducked by the priests and is in the back rooms." Caulder said.

"No. He'll be in the open. Where he can see the alter." Emma said, and John nodded.

"That's your call. Suggestions?"

"We take the front, Emma goes in the side. If we can bracket him, she should be able to slow him down long enough for us to neutralize him." Cyclops said.

"Perhaps. Don't forget, Scott, his mind is different from a normal person's. I can't guarantee that I can even touch him, much less control him." Frost said, ignoring Caulder's sudden puzzled expression. "You'll have to be very fast."

"I can do fast." Scott affirmed, and turned back to the door.

"You better. I'll give you three minutes." Emma said quietly, and jogged around the side of the building. Caulder watched her go for a moment, and turned back to Scott.

"You're not FBI." He said simply.

"No."

"You lied to me. And to the department."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because this lunatic somehow has access to my family and my friends. I'm not about to let him work his way to them."

"And if he hadn't? Would you still be here?"

"Detective, is this the time?"

"No. But I want answers."

"You'll have them. I give you my word."

"Fine." John checked his pistol in the holster, shifting his jacket so it would be more accessible. "I trusted you."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But does it matter what I am?"

"Yes, and you know it."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Damn you."

"If you have to," Scott said, and checked his watch. "It's time."

"I'll follow you in."

"Fine." Scott turned back to the door, and walked in. St.Patrick's was not crowded at this time of night. Even this late, a trickle of tourists snapped photos of the elaborate mouldings and spectacular altar. He had the entire length of the nave in front of him, and at least fifty or more people milling around or seated in the pews. Carefully, Scott faded back from the hall, into the darker shadows at the sides of the church. Caulder did much the same, checking his weapon again. They broke apart, at separate ends of the church, scanning each head and face that they saw. Painstakingly, they crept down the aisles, trying desperately not to appear obvious in the thin crowds.

John saw him first, sitting off to the left, near the front of the altar. The mousy brown hair was nearly hidden behind the impressive halo of white curls of the older woman behind him, but there was no doubting his eyes. As Eckert's head swivelled slowly, taking in the church around him, Caulder caught a flash of those black, tortured eyes. They were holes in his face, like a monstrous skull in the lights. John was about to motion to Scott when Eckert's gaze snapped over to him, and his expression passed from satisfied to shocked to terrible in a matter of a second.

"Shit," Caulder said to himself, and went for his gun. Eckert virtually leapt from his seat at the pews, crashing out into the aisle. Cyclops caught the move, and was racing down to close the distance from his side. Eckert pulled the celphone from his pocket at the same time Caulder's gun came up, and both men froze in a suddenly motionless tableau. The Number's thumb twitched on the quick dial button, feeling an almost sexual ache to start the destruction. But no, his equation was still too early; unfinished. He would have to wait for twelve. Fortunately, neither the detective nor the mutant knew that.

"Police! You're under arrest, Eckert," Caulder yelled. Around him, there was a smattering

of screams and alarmed shouts as the patrons of the church tried to filter out and away from the sudden scene. John watched Eckert's thumb on the phone, knowing that he couldn't shoot him before that button was pressed. The stand off continued.

"I will not be arrested, detective." The Number's voice was steady and calm, his dry clipped tones suitable for a meeting or a lunch date, as opposed to a face off between police and mutants. The Number took in the situation, and the feeling of power rose in him. "In fact, I think you will point your gun at the ground. Now, detective."

"Eckert--" Caulder growled warningly, but knew that he was right. Slowly, he began to lower the barrel, ready to snap it back up at any moment.

"Now, get that thing away from me." For the first time, a touch of emotion entered the Number's voice, and Cyclops edged back from him. Eckert took three steps across the aisle and turned, his back to the wall. He was walking sideways towards a small alcove, that lead up into the upper levels of the church. "If I hear you on the stairs, I will push the button." He said crisply, and turned, dashing up the steps. Caulder and Cyclops watched helplessly as he disappeared.

"Godammit!" Caulder cursed, moving to the doorway and looking up the darkened staircase.

"Emma, where are you," Cyclops hissed.

There's a problem, Scott. You and the detective can take the stairs. I'll block him and meet you up there. Her clear voice rang in his head.

"What? Where are— "

There's no time. It's less than five minutes to midnight. He'll press that button then, no matter what. Move.

"John. Up the stairs."

"What? No, he's got the— "

"It's covered. We'll get up there clean. Now go," Cyclops said, starting up. "You have to trust me on this."

"Fine," Caulder said, clearly unhappy with the situation. Together they raced up the narrow stone steps. The stairs followed the wall up past the levels of the nave, towards the great vaulted ceiling. Their feet made clicks on the stone that rang like cannon shots in their ears, but they refused to pause. The stairway gave way to a long shadowy vaulted chamber, extending all the way to the arch over the alter. John Caulder eased forward like a wraith, Cyclops behind him. He squeezed against the wall half behind a pillar. Cyclops faded back on the other side, his visor strip reflecting oddly in the light.

The Number stood half way down the chamber, his lean frame caught under a shaft of light, no doubt shining in the high lancet windows from one of the nearby buildings. His head was half cocked, as if he was listening for something, and his body was turned away from them, the celphone hidden by his form. Caulder raised his gun, waiting for a shot. The Number looked at his watch, and began to raise the phone. Caulder tensed, and he saw Scott do the same, knowing already that a shot from either of them would fail to stop the maniac before he could press that button. The Number raised the phone, and put his thumb on the button.

"Thomas Allen Eckert." A voice rang through the hall and in their heads at the same time. "Your mother would not approve."

Emma Frost stepped out of the shadows, like a pale ghost in the dim light. The Number rose up on his toes, his body twitching and a horrible light in his eyes. His face twisted, struggling against the telepathic wash that fell on him like a cresting wave. Emma could feel, for that brief instant, the steel trip of his mind change ever so slightly, and a small crack in the faceless wall opened. Mercilessly, she drove her mind into that crack, wedging her power down against his madness and seizing him for a brief second.

"Scott— " she said through clutched teeth. Cyclops didn't hesitate, seeing the Number jerk under Emma's temporary control. He touched the trigger on his visor, and a tight beam of ruby energy flashed out of the slit. It caught the Number on the wrist, snapping it like a twig and sending the celphone spinning away to the ground. The pain ripped through the Number, and refueled his personal equation. Emma felt his mind close back around her probe, forcing her out. She started to cry out, to warn the others of the danger, but Eckert was too fast. Like a striking snake, his other hand went to his jacket and came out with a small revolver. Caulder was moving, his gun tracking up at the same time as Cyclops went for his visor. The Number fired twice, and Frost crumpled.

"Emma!" Scott fired, his beam slamming into Eckert's chest like a sledge hammer, driving him to the ground. Both of John's shots went high due to Cyclops' shot. Scott moved forward towards Emma, while Caulder moved on the Number. The lean man rolled over, scrambling to his feet. The discarded celphone was at his feet, and Caulder caught his look towards it.

"Don't do it, Eckert. You're under arrest."

"Have you every read about St.John, detective?" The Number said, his odd voice now animate for the first time.

"Eckert— " Caulder said, catching the thinly veiled intimation towards martyrdom.

"For an equation to show its power, you must finish it first." The Number gave a tight smile, and lunged for the phone.

John Caulder fired twice.

"Scott, is Emma— " Caulder began, stepping over the prone body of Eckert, snapping the battery from the phone. Scott kneeled over her, tearing back the silk shirt and checking her body. The first slug had passed through her upper arm, missing the bone and leaving cleanly from the back. The second round had caught her under the right breast, leaving an ugly wound. Her breathing was shallow, and blood trickled around the bandage Scott had pressed to the wound.

"She's alive."

"I'll call for an ambulance."

"No." Scott hoisted Frost up in his arms. She groaned, protesting weakly. "I'll get her directly to a hospital."

"Scott, that's— "

"John, it's time for us to go."

"But— "

"I'll be in touch. Please, don't try to find us."

"I can't promise that."

"I know." Cyclops turned and began to head down the steps. For a moment, Caulder wrestled with his own instincts. They were a pair of vigilantes. Both broke the law on a regular basis. Even worse, both had used the department for their own ends. But they had brought down a man who was ready to commit an atrocity on the same scale as the Holocaust. John slowly holster his weapon, and sat down beside Eckert's corpse to wait for Piper. Eckert had been right about one thing; an equation's power was only realized at its end.

"The St.Patrick cathedral, one of New York's oldest and most celebrated churchs, has been witness to the dramatic end of a dark story. The serial killer know only as 'X Jack' was shot to death by detectives from the NYPD just prior to midnight in the upper reaches of the church. While details are sketchy, according to police sources, X Jack was in possession of a bomb of some type, which he was planning to detonate at the stroke of midnight."

"Detective William Piper, the head of the Task Force hunting X Jack said that details will not be released until the investigation is complete" The screen cut to a tired Piper, his face grey in the hot television lights.

"We have no intention of releasing any information at this time. X Jack, otherwise known as Thomas Allen Eckert, was an associate of the Friends of Humanity terrorist organization, and linked to several bombing prior to his death. We want to be sure that all elements of his quest have been neutralized before further details are released."

"Detective Piper, does that mean there is a risk of more explosions?"

"We don't believe so. Eckert did have a detonator for a small device in the church which has been retrieved and disabled. We just want to make absolutely sure that no other surprises are found. The ATF and elements of the NYPD bomb squad are at his residence right now, and should have the situation will in hand by morning."

"Detective, what lead to the final capture?"

"We have been following numerous leads, with assistance from outside agencies and some very talented people in the department. Once we found his house, this was the only place he could have gone. No further questions, thanks."

"Eckert was a former patient of the Eastpark Mental Hospital in New York. Doctor Richard Hillman, the chief of staff was one of the man who treated Eckert during his detainment. Doctor Hillman, was Eckert capable of the violence as X Jack?" Hillman appeared on the screen, outside of the Eastpark complex, a pencil twirling in his right hand.

"Certainly. Thomas Allen Eckert was a brilliant and meticulous psychopath. His mind was constantly under pressure from his own psychosis, and the rituals of his killings, the choosing, the hunt, served as a sort of outlet, a balm to his madness. Were it not for the police, he could have continued indefinitely."

"Why was he released if he was so dangerous?"

"Eckert came into the hospital voluntarily, which gives us a very difficult procedure under state law to have him interned against his wishes for a period of time. However, he had faked his own death and escaped us. I will be outlining this all on the Amber Jones show on Tuesday."

"A man thought dead, returning to avenge himself on those he believed wronged him, finally shot to death at the peak of his mad quest. The full truth of the serial killer known as X Jack may never be known, but that story at last can be called finished. For CNN, I'm Trish Tilby."

"Emma."

"Scott." Emma said wanly from the bed. "I see that we're not back at the estate."

"Your wound was fairly serious. I decided that it would be safer to get you to a local hospital until you were stabilized." Scott set down his package on the bedside and pulled up a chair.

"Was it that serious?"

"About an inch to the left and he would have hit you in the heart. As it was, the rib deflected the bullet down, through your lung. It was just luck that you weren't killed." Scott said.

"I'm too busy to die. Death will have to make an appointment with my assistant."

"I figured that."

"Eckert?"

"Went for the detonator. Caulder got him."

"Good. What does the detective know?"

"That we're not FBI. Remy managed to get the NYPD's request for information garbled, and send them a false response, so we're at least covered. Only Caulder knows enough to determine that we're X-Men."

"It's not going to take him long to piece the rest together."

"No."

"Scott, it would be safest for me to mind wipe him."

"I know." Scott stood up, pacing slowing in front of the windows. "That doesn't make it the right thing to do, though."

"How often have right and necessary ever been the same thing?" Emma said acerbically. "Scott, there are a few harsh facts about our world, and one of them is that to protect our students, and your dream, sometimes you have to step off the right path for a little while."

"Is that your opinion?"

"If he showed up at my school with a SWAT team in tow, I wouldn't hesitate to give each of them a major aneurism. I will not allow my students to be threatened again. Even if that means the removal of a dozen Caulders," Emma said, without fire or passion, a mere statement of absolute fact. Scott shivered a little inside, every so often amazed at the coldness of this woman he thought he knew.

"Is there another way?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Scott, this is a hospital. Don't you think you should have your hearing checked? I can ring for the nurse."

"Emma— " Scott growled.

"It's very simple. I can implant something I developed a few years ago. It's what is called a delayed trigger block. It sits deep in Caulder's subconscious. He'd never even know. However, a specific thought pattern, like say, the detective starting to look for us with threatening purposes in mind, it activates, and runs the telepathic commands." Emma stretched her neck to one side. "The command will strip him of the damaging knowledge of us. He'll be left with the memories of a pair of FBI agents that helped him on a case, and returned to Washington at the end."

"You know, they once implanted similar memories into Logan. It didn't work out very well."

"Considering they used cheap Korean optical chips inside the metal laced dome of his head, I'm not terribly surprised. Logan may have believed many things about his past, especially when his skull began to receive CNN signals." Scott laughed, breaking the tension. When he and Caulder had been in the diner, they had spoken of rules, and Scott was about to step away from his own rigidly defined set. However, he wasn't left with much choice. This way he would give Caulder his trust, but if that trust was broken, John himself would not suffer from it. He stared out the window over the city for a long moment, and then nodded.

"Alright, but before we do, we tell him everything."

"Excuse me?"

"Hearing problems, Emma?" The withering glare he received was highly gratifying. "Caulder has earned our trust. We show him the X-Men, and then if he turns, your implant takes effect."

"Why?"

"Because we need to start branching out, Emma. John was right. We never would have gotten involved if the X-Men had not been threatened. If that had happened, New York would be counting its dead as we speak. Caulder is smart, capable and likely in his job for a long time. I want to build a relationship with the department. The X-Men have to move out of the shadows, or the dream will never see the light," Scott said. Emma took in his body language and stilled her initial urge to clap sarcastically. The fact that she agreed with him was her secret.

"If you must. Now, shall we see about my clothes and getting out of this place?"

"You ever think I might want to keep you in bed, Emma?"

For the first time in her memory, Emma sat stunned, her mind fused. She shook off the shock like a tangible force and smiled at Scott.

"Mister Summers, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was an innuendo."

"Stranger things have happened. That's one for me." Scott grinned and walked out the door, leaving Emma to chuckle quietly as she began to gather her things.

"John. Will. Sit down." Adams twisted the unlit cigar between his fingers, scowling ferociously at the two detectives as they sat down. He brought it up to his lips, and with a deep sigh, fished out a lighter and flicked up a flame.

"Sir, your wife— " John started, and stopped as Oscar's glare bored into him.

"Now, both of you. I've read your reports. According to what you've told me, Piper followed up your original leads, John, and you just happened to be at the church when Piper uncovered this Eckert's plan. By the time you and the rest of the SWAT team reached St. Patrick's, John had identified the killer by his description, and subdued him with a firearm he wasn't supposed to have." Adams tossed the two reports down on the desk. "Now, this is the biggest pile of bullshit that I have ever read. John, you went after him, and somehow convinced Piper to help you, didn't you?"

"Chief, just like the reports says. It was coincidence." Caulder looked pained.

"John, I've been a detective since before you hit kindergarten. Give me a little credit."

"Chief, like John says. It all went down across the board," Piper said, adjusting his glasses nervously. Oscar Adams drew deeply on his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm pretty sure the precinct is now all non-smoking— " John started and was again silenced with a glare. Adams finally shook his head and sat back up.

"Very well. We just got the final word from downtown. Will, because of your work on the case, the collar is officially yours. You've just been promoted. New rank, pay scale, all of that. You are the first member of the NYPD to ever bag a serial killer, Will," Oscar said, and turned to Caulder. "As for you, since you officially were on leave at the time, your presence was not as a police officer but as a civilian. You're going to receive a commendation from City Hall. No charges will be filed for your unregistered handgun, but it is not coming out of the evidence drawer. Don't ever carry a fucking unlisted piece in the city again, John. Not if you want to remain a detective."

"Uh, yes sir... sorry sir."

"Now, you will return to your job, and the review board has been advised that the bulk of the groundwork was prepared by you. It will look good on your record. We also got a call from the FBI. It seems that they were ready to take over once Eckert was listed as a serial killer. We got him about two days before their task force out of BSci Langley was going to move in. They wanted all sorts of files. Why they didn't just read their agents reports is beyond me." Adams pulled a piece of paper from his desk and tossed it at Caulder. "They want you to come out and do a full brief on Eckert to them. Asked for your performance record too. I think they want to headhunt you."

"Sir, I'm sure that— "

"John," Oscar said levelly, staring into Caulder's eyes. "You stepped outside the line on this one. You did a lot of good," John started to look up, and was stopped by the iron stare. "But you did it in the wrong way. This department is not about vigilantes. If they make an offer, the best thing for you to do is go."

"Wait, are you serious?"

"John, you've been falling apart for the last two years. Your dress, attitudes... everything since Jenny left. The fact that you're a brilliant reliable detective has been the only reason that your fitness reports haven't had you shuffled off to a traffic beat. But now I can't trust you. You've stepped off once, and I can't allow you a chance to do it again on my watch." Adams snuffed out his cigar. "This whole city owes you, John, and because of that, I'll give you the best recommendation to take to the Feds with you. There isn't a place for you here. Not now, not anymore. Now out, both of you. I've got work to do."

John Caulder started to open his mouth, to protest the decision when he really looked at Adams for the first time. The man looked sick, tired; a core of pain behind those dark eyes. It was the act of a father betrayed by his son, completely and irreversibly. The words died in his throat, and John nodded mutely, following Piper out.

They trudged silently down the short hall to the detectives pool, and stopped at his desk. Will sat down on the edge of the desk, staring at his hands.

"Look, John. I'm going to be flavour of the month for a little while. You can appeal this; fight it. I'll back you, and so will half of the others in the pen. If— "

"No." John turned, staring out the window. "Will, I think he might have been right. Too much of the same. I can't even hang a new picture in my own apartment, because it means she's gone for good. Too much of this town."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'll go talk to the FBI. Maybe they'll make an offer. Or I'll look at a transfer."

"One nowhere near Seattle?"

"Right. However, I'm still technically on leave. I think I'm going to take some time off, upstate. Go do some thinking."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, it's just because I heard that Erin Mallory was planning to spend a weekend up the Hudson." Piper grinned as John rolled his eyes.

"I wish. Look, congratulations on the promotion. You deserve it."

"No, you deserve it."

"Not really. Piper, can you do me a favour? I'm going to list the apartment. Keep an eye on the whole deal?"

"I can do that. I'm going to go get some coffee. You need anything?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." Caulder stood looking out his window as Piper walked away. He felt a certain clarity inside, a sense of peace lost to him ever since the loss of his wife. There was a lot of rubble in his life that simply disappeared.

The city skyline looked different in the waning light, with hints of red and gold running along the grey and blue reflective windows of the skyscrapers. It soothed his own imaginings of the skyline in red, reflecting only the carnage of flames and explosions. A small smile grew on his lips and he put his hand on the glass, leaning forward as if to connect directly to the city itself. He had crossed a line, but in doing so had ultimately done the duty he swore to do; 'To protect and serve'. John Caulder stood looking over the city, lost in the red on the skyscrapers and his own future.

FIN