Chapter 10

The playing field of the Superdome looked like exactly what it was: a refugee camp.

Tents, some manufactured and some makeshift, spread across the heavily-battered grass. The huge space echoed with voices, and the air was heavy with smells: unwashed, overcrowded human bodies, woodsmoke, propane, chili dogs.

Armed members of the Louisiana National Guard were on patrol around the perimeter of the camp, keeping a watchful eye on things. More stood at the building entrances, checking everyone who entered for weapons. Since the power was still out, they were using battery-operated detector wands to check everyone for metal. Logan and Jean felt it best to come in through the roof.

"Look at that." Jean pointed down to the field as soon as her feet touched the top row of bleachers. "They left the fleur-de-lis."

There were no tents over the stylized dark purple flower on the fifty-yard line.

Logan grunted, an approving smile sneaking onto his face. "Cajuns." He crouched and jumped, landing neatly on the bleacher six rows down. Jean followed, stepping from one bleacher to the next on long, athletic legs.

When they reached the ground, Logan took a preliminary sniff. No sign of the scent he'd come hunting for, but the day was young and the room was big.

"Anything on your end?" he asked Jean, who had her eyes closed.

She shook her head. "Not so far. It's . . . it's a little overwhelming, sorting through all the voices. There's a lot of . . . stress . . . in this room." She reached out a hand and grabbed his arm. "You mind?"

"No problem, Red. You do what you gotta. I'll make sure you don't smack into a wall."

Half-leading, half-supporting Jean, Logan headed into the camp, wandering up the improvised streets marked off by the yard lines. Breakfast seemed to be well underway everywhere: the scent of coffee was heavy in the air. Occasionally they passed a Red Cross table, where long lines of people waited to receive something to eat. Logan could smell scores of people, men, women, and children, some hurt, some sick, some just tired, as well as dozens of dogs . . . but no Bobby LeBeau. Nobody even similar.

"Hey, pal . . . is she okay?"

Logan looked around. A heavy-set, middle-aged man was sitting on a camp chair outside his tent, eating pancakes off a plastic plate resting on his knees. He was eying Jean with concern.

"Headache," Logan explained. "She gets migraines, and the light and noise hurt her."

"Yeah, my wife gets those." He twisted in his seat and called back into the tent. "Margie, you have any of those headache pills left? There's a girl out here who looks like she could use 'em."

"Yeah, just a minute."

"Have a seat," offered the man, indicating a plastic storage bin. Logan sat Jean down on it. "It's tough when you've gotta get out of the house in a hurry. All sorts of things get left behind that you end up needing later."

"You folks seem to be doing all right," observed Logan, looking around at the spacious tent and the two other storage bins.

"Eh, we were ready for it. Not like last time. You had your breakfast yet?"

Jean started to nod, but Logan discreetly grabbed a handful of her hair to stop her. "Not as such, no."

"I'll put on a couple more pancakes. Spare you the wait in line." He set his plate down on the ground, heaved himself out of his chair, and ducked into the shelter.

Logan, we can't take food from these people! Jean hissed inside his mind. They're refugees. They're living out of boxes.

And charity is how they remind themselves they're still human, Logan thought back. Just take it. They need to give. Besides, nothing starts a good chat session like pancakes.

Margie, a stout woman with wiry brown-and-gray hair, emerged holding a paper cup of water and a pill. "There y'go, honey," she told Jean, offering them to her. "I know how much those stinkin' migraines hurt."

Jean accepted the water and swallowed the pill, figuring that one superfluous painkiller wasn't going to do her any harm. "Thanks."

"No trouble, hon. Now drink the rest of that and sit quiet for a while, and it'll get better." She took her husband's vacated chair and observed, "You two don't sound much like locals."

"We're not," Logan admitted. "We're down here on business."

Margie laughed. "Not a lot of business going on down here right now. The port's stalled, the airport's a wreck, and don't let's get started on downtown."

"Yeah, we saw it, comin' in." Logan leaned forward, resting his forearms on Jean's shoulders as though she were a table. "You folks New Orleans born and bred?"

"Charlie is," said Margie, indicating the tent with her head. "I grew up in Kentucky. We met in college."

"M-hm. Well, we're down here looking for a local boy who's got lost in the mess after the storm. I know it's a big city, but maybe you know him. The name's Henri LeBeau. Goes by Bobby."

Margie wrinkled her forehead in thought, then turned and hollered into the tent. "Charlie, we know any LeBeaus?"

"LeBeau?" echoed Charlie, emerging with a plate of pancakes in each hand. "That's a Cajun name. Not many Cajuns up our end of town—the ones that live this far east are all down in the French Quarter. That part of town didn't get much flooding, so there aren't too many folks in here from down there."

"Thanks," said Logan, taking the offered pancakes.

"I think there was one family," said Margie. "Over on the forty-yard line. I heard them talking their funny French when I was walking past yesterday. They had a gorgeous German Shepherd with them."

Logan and Jean considered this over pancakes.

Halfway through their very long walk from the French Quarter to the wharf called Nash A, Rogue finally worked up the nerve to say something.

It had taken a long time. Everything she'd thought of to say had sounded belligerent, defensive, or simply rude. But Gambit hadn't said a word since they'd left Delphine's kitchen, and one more second of silence was going to kill her. So finally she steeled her courage and said, "She's nice."

Gambit shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. He didn't need his usual flash of scarlet to make her tremble in terror: even with a brown eye, his raised brow was enough to shut her up again. Almost.

"Delphine," she clarified. "She's a nice person."

Gambit returned his gaze to the pavement in front of him. "You got some'tin' t'ask me, Rogue, den just spit it out."

Rogue flinched and huddled into the meager protection of the oversized canvas jacket. Gambit hardly ever called her by her name. It was unfamiliar, formal, distant, angry. Part of her wanted to turn lose her temper, to protect herself with harsh, cutting words, but she'd let herself do that once before and it hadn't gone well. They both had fierce tempers: when they blew at the same time, things got broken that didn't fix easily.

"Might as well," Gambit added, his voice still sharp with bitterness. "I kin see it all over your face. You want t'know if I slept wid her."

Rogue swallowed, feeling a hot, miserable blush rise in her cheeks. She did her best to ignore it. "Whether you slept with her is absolutely none of my business," she told him, struggling to hang onto her pride as a way of fighting down her embarrassment and anger. "I wanna . . . know if you hired her."

She didn't want to know. She knew his life before he'd met her—and for a long time after—had been thick with crime and lies and violence. But she wanted it all to just go away, to not matter anymore. She wanted him to be the best friend that she trusted, and nothing else, past, present, or future. She didn't want to know . . . but somehow she had to. Hanging onto uncertainty wouldn't keep her from thinking of Delphine and her girls every time she looked at Remy.

Remy hmphed, his way of laughing when something could have been funny in other circumstances. "Y'know how I feel 'bout capitalism, buyin' an' sellin' an' free trade an' all dat. I'm t'ief, born an' raised. When I want somet'in', I never buy it. I earn it."

Rogue struggled to find a good response to this. Finding none, she settled for a lousy response instead. "Earn it. Don't that mean 'steal it,' down here?" Her voice came out sounding angrier than she'd meant it to.

"Other way 'round," said Remy, not rising to her bait. "When y'steal somet'in', y'earn it, wid hard work an long study an' a lotta skill an' patience."

"And it don't matter to you if it's a piece of jewelry or a girl's heart. Or . . ."

"Or her self-respect?"

Rogue didn't know what to say to this. It was a little late to shut up now, but late was better than never. Not much better, but still.

"Lemme tell y'a story," said Gambit, taking a sudden left and veering towards the river. "Y'ain't gonna like it, but just hear me out. When I was mebbe sixteen years old, dey was a girl had a crush on me. Hélène, her name was. Pretty girl. Younger'n me. She was rarin' t'get int'trouble, like girls sometimes get when dey fifteen an' been raised real strict Catholic. An' dere was me, playin' her up an' eggin' her on, not 'cause I loved her or anythin' but 'cause she was pretty an' I liked raisin' hell just 'cause. So one night, late, I'm sneakin' out thinkin' dis gonna be it, y'know?" He shot a glance at her. "Y'don'know. Forget it. Anyway, I'm creepin' down de stairs wid my shoes in my hand, an' dere sittin' in de front room is my mother.

"Her name was Christine . . . Christine LeBeau. She was de most beautiful woman in de whole world. So said père, an' he'd be in a position to know. He worshipped her. So did Bobby an' me, 'cause he did. An' she says t'me, 'Goin' someplace, Remy?'"

"What'd you say?"

"Said I was catchin' fireflies. Just t'joke. She knew what I was up to, an' I knew she knew it. She didn'try t'stop me. Didn'even get outta her chair. She just sat real quiet, an' looked me in de eye, an' told me, 'Remy, you a t'ief an' a LeBeau. Everyt'in' in de world's yours t'take if you want it. But I tell you right now: if ever you steal away another human bein's self-respect, you may be a LeBeau, but you'll be no son'a mine.' Den she tol'me g'night an' went upstairs t'bed. Was like she shot me in de head."

"You sneak out anyway?"

"Oh, yeah. Met up wid Hélène. Stole beer an' ice cream an' wandered la ville all night. Den I took 'er home an' kissed her g'night an' dat was it. She was so young. She would'a hated herself if I'd let her have her way, an' it woulda been my fault. Maman knew it. Always knew everyt'in', dat woman. An' it's de same way wid Delphine. She's got her reasons for what she does, but no amount a'preachin' gonna change de fact dat her line'a work ain't good for a body. Does things t'your head, when y'parcel out yourself an' your love for so much an hour. She's done all right, mostly 'cause she looks after de others an' dey love her for it, but . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. "Christine would never forgive me if I laid a hand on Delphine or one'a her girls."

He shot a sidelong glance at Rogue. "You b'live me?"

Rogue nodded.

"Story's over, so you kin talk now. If y'want."

Rogue stopped walking. Gambit stopped, too, turning back to look at her.

"Just when Ah think Ah've got you figured out," said Rogue, shaking her head, "y'come back an' surprise me anyway. Ah always thought it was a pretty short list, things you didn't do just cause they were wrong."

Gambit's grin was back, wicked and unrepentant as always. "It is a short list. So don't you go t'inkin' I'm some kinda saint. I done a lotta stuff I ain't proud of, an a lotta stuff I shouldn' be proud of but am anyway. But I never laid hands on a girl for any other reason than 'cause she wanted me to. Eh bien, le voilà enfin."

This last referred to the wharf that suddenly spread out in front of them.

The Mississippi River, though running high, was not flooded in the traditional sense. There were fewer trees to damage here, so there were fewer branches all over the place. One massive cargo ship was pulled up to the wharf, with a bright blue crane extended over it. No one was working, though. The power was out here, too.

"What are we even lookin' for?" demanded Rogue, surveying the wharf in front of her.

"Clues," said Gambit unhelpfully.

"Oh. Great. Will they have a blue pawprint on 'em?"

"Shush."

Gambit stuck his hands in the hip pockets of his jeans and surveyed the wide, flat, languid Mississippi River. "Storm came in dat way," he mused, pointing across the river to the bright clear sky above it. "You kin see for miles right here. No way Bobby got took by surprise. But he stayed 'cause he wanted t'make de drop. How long would y'stand here and watch it roll in on top'a you?"

"Until about ten seconds after the very last minute, if he's related to you."

Gambit hmphed again, and almost smiled. "Problem wid somet'in' goin' missin' on de wharf is dat by now it could be anywhere. Upriver, out to sea, on a train t'Seattle, on a barge t'Brazil. Least, could be if anyt'in' was running."

"No scent to follow," Rogue added. "The storm washed everything away."

Gambit nodded. His gaze fell from the horizon to the smooth-worn boards at his feet. He scuffed one sneaker against them. "He's gotta be someplace. It's just a matter a'figurin' out . . . .wha's dat?"

Rogue looked where he was looking, at a spot on the wharf about ten feet to her left. She didn't see anything. "What's what? Ah don't see nothin'."

Gambit dropped to one knee and ran his hand across the boards. "I kin see somethin'," he announced. "Hang on." He stripped off one glove and used his bare hand to remove the brown contact over his left eye. The white pigment that remained turned his iris pink, but Rogue thought it better not to mention that just now.

He ran one hand over the boards again, closing his right eye so he could see better with his left. "Ouais. Dey's somet'in' under dere. Somet'in' warm. I kin see it glowin' through de wood." He looked up at Rogue with his absurdly mismatched eyes. "Can you get under dere?"

Rogue nodded. "Just a sec." She stripped off her jacket and her shoes, just in case she ended up getting dunked, dropped them in a heap on the pier and went skimming for the river.

There was still about three feet of clearance between the underside of the dock and the level of the river, making a dark, damp, fish-smelling crawlspace supported by a thick grid of pylons. Rogue darted through them, trying to remember where Gambit was standing. "Can you hear me?"

"Ouais," Gambit called back, his voice muffled by the wood and the deceptively soft murmur of the river.

"Knock or somethin' so Ah know where Ah'm goin!"

Knock, knock, knock. Rogue veered toward the sound, twisting to keep Jean's rather expensive clothes away from the green, slimy pylons and the murky water.

Knock, knock.

Rogue was now so far away from the edge of the pier that she could hardly see anything. She reached up and ran her hand across the rough wood surface above her.

Knock.

Her hand closed around a packet—something warm and solid, fastened to the pier with electrical tape. She tore it loose. "Got it!"

"Bring it up here!"

She shot through the pylons and out into the open air, understanding a little bit of what it meant to Storm to be claustrophobic. When you could fly, you didn't like small spaces. They made you powerless. She curved around and landed next to Gambit, shaking bits of wood and slime out of her now-curly hair, and handed him the bundle.

Gambit stripped off the black tape. Two objects separated into his hands. One was a little white packet, about the size of his palm. "Chemical handwarmer," he announced, tossing it to her. "Dat's where de heat's comin' from."

"Who tapes a handwarmer to the underside of a pier?" demanded Rogue, squeezing the packet to feel the little core of heat still cooking inside.

"Someone who wants me t'find dis." Gambit held up the other object, a little black case, like an eyeglasses case, only flatter. "Bobby's lockpicks."

Jean was now grateful she'd swallowed that pain pill, because her head was gently throbbing with what would otherwise have been the mother of all overworked-telepath headaches. Listen for Rogue. Listen for the Professor. Listen to the endless, insistent babble of stressed and worried minds all around them. Don't run into anything or anybody. She should have also been listening to Logan's conversations, but she just didn't have the strength left to translate a foreign language on top of everything else she was doing.

She'd taken two years of French in high school, on top of the four she'd done of Spanish, and had kept up both languages at the U. She was pretty good at them. Reasonably so. But when Logan walked up to a family of strangers and started chatting with them in their own language as easily and fluidly as if they'd all been speaking English, she just switched off. No way she was keeping up with that kind of show-off behavior. She could at least take comfort in knowing that his accent was incurably Canadian.

They had to have spoken with every French family in the camp by now. Many of them knew the LeBeaus; some knew Bobby and could describe him. But no one had seen him since before the storm.

"Looks like we're batting zero," Logan observed, surveying the now-half empty camp. "On to plan B."

"Good," Jean sighed, pressing one cool hand against her forehead. "I don't know how much more of this room I could have taken."

Logan surveyed her with a sympathetic glance. "Sorry you have to be The Psychic on this run, Red. I know what it does to ya."

"I can handle it," she insisted. "It just . . . takes a lot out of me, that's all."

He took hold of her arm, pressing his fingers against the temperature-sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist. He had a naturally low body temperature, and the coolness of his fingers helped soothe the feverish heat running through her. "Then let's get you out into the fresh air."

That sounded fine to Jean. She closed her eyes and allowed Logan to lead her towards the exit and Bobby Lebeau

She wheeled toward the stray thought. Two young men were approaching them out of the crowd. Their clothes were in drab colors, but clean and well-made, and they looked like they'd bathed and shaved much more recently than most of the people in the camp. And all though neither of them looked like Gambit, somehow looking at them made Jean think of him. It was in the way they moved: loose and loping, deceptively casual. Like wolves.

Trouble, she thought at Logan. One of them knows Bobby. I heard him think it.

Now we're getting somewhere. A small smile snuck onto Logan's face. He let go of her wrist and stretched his fingers, as though his claws were itching to get out and cause some trouble.

"You de folks askin' about Bobby LeBeau?" demanded one of the strangers.

"Well, that depends on who's asking about whoever's askin' about him," Logan answered.

The speaker sized Logan up. Jean could almost see him dismissing Logan as no serious threat: too short, no reach, not packing anything. More fool he.

"You're not from 'round here," he accused. "What business you got wid de LeBeaus?"

"Just lookin' for a missing kid is all."

The kid scoffed. "I bet." A small, wicked, dangerous smile crept onto his face. "Who sent you?"

"I ain't answered any of your other questions so far. What makes you think I'm gonna answer that one?"

"It was Remy," the kid announced. "Remy sent you."

The other one laughed. "Stupid smartmouth won't even show his face. Has t'send midgets and girls t'do his dirty work for him."

The spokesman pointed a finger in Logan's face, directly between his eyes. Logan didn't flinch. "You go back where you came from and you tell de diable blanc dat if he wants t'come lookin' for big brother, he kin come himself. An'tell him t'not forget t'pay his respects t'Marius."

"You might wanna get that finger outta my face, if you're attached to it," observed Logan. Jean could feel him tensing up with excitement, and knew exactly what he was thinking without bothering to look into his mind. He was thinking hit me, kid. C'mon. You know you want to. Bring it. Logan didn't throw first punches: he'd worked with Professor Xavier too long for that. But no amount of time in civilized society would erase his love of throwing the second punch.

"You threatenin' me, shorty?" The boy loomed over Logan, making the most of his undeniably superior height. "Dat's an awful stupid idea."

"I was always a real slow learner."

"Well, if dat be de case, mebbe I should write down my message so you be sure t'deliver it right."

With a flash of movement so quick Jean could barely follow it, there was a silver switchblade in the man's hand. He was fast, and he knew it. He let the blade drift across Logan's forehead, then come down until the tip rested against his cheekbone. "Not a lotta space, but don'worry. I write real small. Now you tell Remy LeBeau . . ."

The knife flashed, and Logan flinched as it laid open a broad scarlet gash from his eye to his ear.

"An' you be sure t'use dose exact words," the kid snarled.

Logan clapped a hand over the wound, seemingly to control the bleeding. "I think you just pulled a knife on me," he observed, his speech stilted since he wasn't moving his jaw more than he could help.

"You got a problem with it, mec?"

"Oh, no. 'Cause now I get to pull a knife on you."

"Try it. Y'lose y'hand before it get to yo'pocket."

Logan started to smile. He took his hand away from his face. The fingers were stained with blood, and long drips of it ran down to his chin, but as he smiled the wound itself closed like a zipper, leaving smooth, unbroken skin underneath. Still grinning a wild, predatory grin, he asked, "Who needs pockets?"

Jean took a step back. She was wearing a new shirt, and bloodstains were a pain to get out.

In a heartbeat, Logan was in the air, all six claws out, an animalistic snarl resonating from behind his bared teeth, arms spread wide to catch his target if it tried to dodge. Dodging, of course, was out of the question for the boy. He was fast, but Logan was at least forty years of training faster.

The quieter of their two opponents made a move for Jean. She heard her word hostage flicker through his mind, and rolled her eyes before taking a stance. Without a bit of wasted energy, she lifted him into the air, flipped him over, and dropped him on his head. Stay down or I'll just have to do it again, she advised him.

By this time Logan's fight was over. The kid was on his back on the grass, Logan kneeling on his chest. One fistful of claws was buried in the turf, dangerously close to the man's left ear. The other was ready to drive through the exposed throat.

"My turn to ask some questions," Logan snarled. His own blood was still all over his face, some of it dripping down onto his opponent's. "Where is Bobby LeBeau?"

"Dunno."

Logan retraced his middle claw a little and pressed the tips against the kid's throat, each claw leaving an identical spot of bright, warm blood. "Where's Bobby LeBeau?"

"I dunno, man. Je vous jure."

"Jeannie," said Logan without breaking his eye contact. "Make him tell me where Bobby LeBeau is."

"The Professor wouldn't like it. It's unethical."

"And you know what would be more unethical? Me slitting his throat while he's lyin' on the ground squirming like a flipped-over beetle. Real unethical. I'd lose sleep."

Jean sighed. "Fine." Her opponent was moaning and trying to get up, so she flicked her hand to slam his head against the ground again. Then she dropped to her knees next to Logan's downed opponent, took a deep breath, and dove into his mind.

It was an unpleasant mind, and her head already hurt. She combed through his memories, trying to avoid the dark corners where unspeakable deeds twisted like snakes, looking for the face she'd seen in Gambit's thoughts.

She saw him as a childhood friend, as a teenage enemy, an adult rival . . . but she didn't see him as a victim or a prisoner. She didn't see him at all since the storm.

"He doesn't know anything," she announced, pulling herself back into her own body and blinking a few times as she got used to the orientation. "He's as clueless as we are."

Logan sighed. "Too bad." He narrowed his eyes at the kid for a moment and then asked, "You think the Professor would be mad if I chopped him up anyway?"

"Yes, Logan, I think he would."

"Rats." Logan retracted his claws and climbed to his feet. "Well, time's a'wastin'. Nice talkin' to you boys. Hope we run into you again some time."

Today's French Lesson:

The fleur-de-lys is a stylized lily that is one of France's national symbols. It's also the logo of the New Orleans Saints.

Eh bien, le voilà enfin: Okay, there it is at last.

mec: Dude; man; pal.

Je vous jure: I swear to you. (This sentence is also in the formal: you only use vous when speaking to people who outrank you, or as a plural. He's being polite now.)