Chapter Seventy

Two o'clock in the morning; the house still blazing with light and I'm parked at the end of the drive trying to screw up the courage to go in. Wouldn't, except for Matthew but with Susie laid up in the hospital for a day or two, I'm all he's got.

Brrrrr! Cold chills race up my backbone, raising goose bumps. Taking a deep drag from my cigar doesn't help. Might be 'cuz the temperature gauge on the dashboard says minus eight degrees and I'm wearing borrowed hospital scrubs. Jeans, jacket, shirt; all got trashed when Susie started puking on the race to the hospital.

I owe Scott a debt for his cool head and lead foot getting us there as fast as he did. Make that a double debt cuz he and Julia stayed and kept Matthew from freaking out.

Christ! The whole thing scared the shit out o'me. The love of my life's screaming in pain, sick as a dog and I can't do anything except take her to a hospital.

Right! Hospitals with their macabre gizmos and contraptions, stench and noise; takes me right back to Stryker's lab. For Susie's sake, I kept myself together. Didn't threaten anybody, smash anything or cuss anybody out—much.

It's crazy. No, I am. Jeannie was a doctor and now I'm married to one. A shrink would have a field day analyzing that.

From the left, a blue beam splits the night. It's the groundskeeper motioning me to roll down the window. Too fuckin' tired to jerk his chain, I comply.

"They're all a-waitin' inside," his breath forms a cloud of steam in the frigid air. "We've all been rightly worried about the little mama, eh."

After our last encounter, I'm amazed by his kindness. "Thanks," my appreciation's genuine. "She's gonna be ok."

"Good to hear. Drive on up and I'll garage the car. Looks like you could use a stiff drink and some sleep, eh?"

Drink's a definite. Sleep? With all that's gone down t'day? Primed for nightmares, I won't chance it.

Trudging up the steps, the front door swings open just as I reach for the handle. "Mister Logan," Phillip's spot on, as usual. "Good that you've returned."

Doubt he's really happy I'm back but at least he ain't pointing a gun in my face. Pretty good bet that my buddy the groundskeeper was scoping me out and reporting back.

"I trust Doctor Harris is recovering?"

I sense his concern for Susie's genuine. "She's on the mend," I answer instead of my usual phlegmatic grunt.

"You'll find everyone in the drawing room, sir."

There are a grand total of four rooms in this house that have more good than bad memories; my old bedroom, the solarium, kitchen and here; the drawing room. Leaning against the doorframe, silently surveying, little seems changed. Polished wood, greenery, underlying smoke from the fireplace, the redolence of living tickle my olfactory nerve; and oh yeah, somebody farted not too long ago. The old Steinway dominates the rounded turret bay, still wearing the scars from the Christmas Tree JP and I knocked into it. Funny! The tree standing now looks a lot smaller.

Gathered around the worn gaming table, Matt, Scott and Julia play a subdued card game. Beneath their feet, marring the rug, is that old ink stain; the result of a science project gone awry. Wonder if Elizabeth's ever given up pointing it out and carping to anyone who'd listen how worthless her youngest offspring was over that blunder?

The Empress, herself seems to be napping on the couch by the garland and ribbon festooned fireplace. Damn! The scorch marks are still on the mantle. Discovered the hard way it ain't a good idea to build a bonfire in a fireplace. I'll state unequivocally the ass whuppin' dished out for that disaster was richly earned.

The old coot's still here, sitting next to my mother, reading a book. What the fuck is so familiar about him?

A floor board creaks under my boot. "Logan!" Matt exclaims. "How's mom?"

Scott and Julia stare expectantly. Old coot peers over his bifocals.

"Came through the operation fine, kiddo," I reply with a restrained grin.

"Thank heaven," Elizabeth yawns, stands and draws her sweater tightly around herself. "And my grand children?"

My attitude turns surly. "Ever'body's fine," my reply's brusque, recalling the callous accusation she made when Susie first got sick; Reckless cad! See what you're brutish behavior's caused. On the defensive, I add, "And the doc's say it was a cyst on her ovary; not anything anybody could o'predicted or caused." Blazing eyes temp her to dispute me.

"Easy Logan," Scott interposes.

Catching my fuck-off- and-die glare, the Boy Scout backs down.

"Yes. Scott so kindly told us when they got back," Elizabeth snaps, undaunted. What is it with her? Can't intimidate her for shit. I'm either losin' my touch or she's stupid.

Her mood abruptly softens, "And you son? You must be exhausted."

Pouring a scotch, I sense honest concern. She's right though; I'm fried. Falling onto the opposite couch, "Yeah! been a long day." That's all the assent I'll offer.

Heaving a weary sigh, the old coot's scent invades my sinuses. Giving him the once over, I'm curious, "I know you but I don't know why?"

"Yes, you do." Smiling affably, offering his hand, "Robert Eastham, at your service."

A grunt's all he gets out o'me.

He clears his throat, "Ahem!" Soldiering past my snub, "Introductions this afternoon were less than ideal."

"Ya think?" I blast. "Look bub; Eastham, ain't in the mood for games. Who the he---"

"James!" Elizabeth reprimands, tossing a blue velvet cushion. "Show some respect for the man who kept you from a life as a convicted criminal."

Startled, I dodge and deflect it to the floor. What the fuck? Almost spilled my libation. Swift one, mother dearest. Do you not see my step kid hanging onto every nuance? Seems to me he's witnessed more than enough garbage today. "Hang on a sec," I demand. Swallowing back the drink, "Matt, time for you to pack it in. Visiting hours start at nine and we're gonna be there."

"Okay," he's drawls, disappointed to be dismissed. "Did they say how long mom's gotta stay?"

I know he's curious and stalling, so I cut him slack, "Nah. Her doc said they'd know tomorrow. Head on upstairs now."

Dragging sneakers across rich, maple wood floor with a do- I- hafta frown, he replies, "Yes sir,"

Wise to the kid's tactics, I emphasize, "Matt, the operative word is upstairs to your room." I didn't miss him mutter, "Dammit, busted," before he bid goodnight.

Sliding his chair back, Scott stretches, "Matt's got the right idea. It's been a day." Clasping my shoulder, "Logan, we're really glad Sue and the twins are ok."

It takes effort not to balk at uninvited physical contact, "Thanks."

Julia touches my arm, joining with, "We really mean it. Sue's good people."

Yeah, and I'm just road kill the dogs dragged in, right? Shut up. They're sincere and you know it. I nod, "I owe you."

"You'd have done the same for us," Scott replies.

Wouldn't pick ya for my best friend, but yeah, if it came down to it I'd cover yer ass. Mellowed and bone weary, I nod and turn back to the geriatric set, "Ok Robert Eastham, I give. Enlighten me."

"Delighted!" He's so fucking urbane I wanna barf. "Thirty three years ago you stood in my chambers convicted of involuntary manslaughter. I gave you the choice of incarceration or military service."

Aw no fucking way! Oh yeah, fuckin' away probably is the catalyst for the deal in the first place. Tossing my head against the sofa back, a disparaging chortle escapes my throat. My mother and hizoner's been an item since—well, a helluva long time.

"So, now I guess this is the part I'm supposed to express undying gratitude."

His tone's all oatmeal and saccharine. "No, young man. This is the part whereby I express deep regret for the horrific things done to you."

"Right." Hope he chokes on my derisiveness. "And whatdaya know about it anyway?" Never mind. I'm fairly opened minded but the idea of being a topic of geriatric pillow talk—gaahh!

He's on the defensive, "However, given the circumstance at the time, it was still the optimal choice."

"How ya figure, bub?"

"If you'd gone to prison I have no doubt you'd never been released."

"Bullshit, your honor!" I spit contemptuously. "I'd have been sent up for five years max!"

"Don't be thick headed, Logan. One look at your record; those years at Fort Saskatchewan and you'd be marked. Our fair nation wasn't as open minded in those days."

"We could sit here and debate this 'til hell freezes over." He's got me on a couple o'points but no fuckin' way I'll concede. "Won't change anything and frankly, I don't give a shit."

It's back to the scotch decanter. Just about to pour, instead I take a slug right out of it. "And this is the part where I drink m'self insensate. Ain't that how ya put it, mother?"

Ice water couldn't extinguish her blistering expression, "How much time goes by and how little changes, James."

One evil eye deserves another, "And you're point is?" I snarl.

Unexpectedly, she reverses course, "Forgive me, son. There's so much I'd take back if I could. I still have such hopes to repair the damage and rebuild something between us."

Hang on! Lemme pull out the violins. "Whatever," I grumble before chugging more amber anesthetic.

Eastham takes her tenderly by the elbow, "Liz, my sweet, it's late." He looks at me and shakes his head, "The past can't be changed but you're future is as bright or as dark as you choose to make it. Goodnight, Logan."

Piss off! Save the arm chair philosophizing for somebody who gives a shit.

#

Making sure the coast is clear and filching two decanters, I make my way upstairs. Gotta check on Matt first and then I've got a date with my kind o'arm chair philosopher.

Seeing light from beneath the door, I knock and poke my head in, "Hey, it's really late. Doin' ok?"

Engrossed in a new computer game, Matt answers with a distracted, "Uh huh."

"Can I come in?"

"Yes sir."

Couldn't help track my eyes around the room with its deep green wainscoting and cream colored plaster. A three toned, Hudson Bay blanketed sleigh bed still dominates and furnishings wear the scars of it's former exuberant, juvenile inhabitant; in other words well- worn. "Wow!" I mutter.

Matt looks at me curiously, "What?"

"She didn't change a thing."

"Huh? Oh yeah. You mean your bedroom?"

"Yep."

Pointing to the wall behind me, "That really you in those pictures," he snickers.

Turning around I can't help laughing. "Yeah." Ten years worth of hocke photographs mounted around… "Whoa!" I gasp recognizing a prized relic. "See this?" Reverently caressing a battered hockey stick hung on the wall over my beat up and scratched desk, "It's signed by the greatest hockey player ever. This guy was my hero." My voice trails off, "Wanted to play just like him."

"How come ya didn't?"

Mourning stolen possibilities, I sigh, "Life kind o'got in the way."

"Part of the stuff we talked about earlier?"

"In a way, yeah." Sitting at the foot of the bed, unsure what to say makes me feel twitchier than a toddler with a butt full o'pin worms. Smoothing uncharacteristically sweaty palms on the scratchy woolen blanket, "Listen, I'm not real sure what's gonna happen over the next couple o'days. You're Christmas vacation's getting screwed so if ya want me to send ya to your dad, just say the word."

"Heck no! I'm staying right here with mom."

That was easy. Exhaling in relief, "Ok kiddo. Lights out. We gotta be at the hospital before ya know it."

#

So, two hours later with one decanter down and sloshing through the other, I've yet to turn off the incessant loop of today's events going 'round in my head.

My gut told me from the outset there's abso-fucking-lutely nothing good to be gained from being here. I'm beyond humiliation for loosing control in front of Matthew. Don't care for the shame I feel having put Susie on the spot like I did, either. Why is love so bloody hard?

And yeah, I'm down. Deep inside, there was a spark of hope that I might've grabbed the brass ring; finally forged normal family bonds. Over looked a minor detail; nothing about the Howlett's is normal or sane. I never stood a chance.

Worst of all, Susie collapsing in my arms like that raised a demon I thought finally vanquished; namely I'm the grim reaper when it comes to women I love. Wallowing briefly in the notion, a hot tear settles onto cheek stubble. I'd gladly have the metal ripped off my bones and re-bonded if it guaranteed I'd have her by my side for the rest of her life.

Eastham's got one thing right. The past is beyond control. But a promising future, mine and Susie's, doesn't include Elizabeth Deschenes Howlett. I don't care 'bout her regrets or yen to patch it up.

Draining the last bit from the decanter, I lay my head back debating the merits of another one. The room's warm, the couch is comfortable and I've got just enough buzz for neurons to defrag. Clocks all over the house chime; another hour gone.

#

A vibration in my pants pocket jets me off the couch. Muttering, "Shit!" I realize I fell asleep. It's daylight. There's the vibration again; my comm. unit. "Yo!"

"Logan." No mistaking Charles' precise diction, "Forgive the early hour."

Whiskey soaked, my voice is coarse, "No problem. What's the score?"

"Is something amiss?"

Coughing to clear my pipes, "Nah! Long night, long story."

"Hmm!"

"Don't sweat it, ok."

"Very well. I'll get to the point. Doctor Jennings and her daughter are safe and sound."

"Ok. What's the story?"

"It appears that the Replications division of Weapon X is active and possibly thriving."

His disclosure hits like a grenade. Bye-bye buzz. "What's that got to do with them?"

"Far more than I can go into under these circumstances."

"Come on Charles!" Perturbed, I pace, "Why the fuck did ya call if ya ain't got nothing to say."

He's resolute, "There's plenty to say but Doctor Jennings has requested she speak with you directly."

"Not good enough," I bark.

After lengthy pause, he sounds conciliatory, "Very well. Simply put without breaking trust with Doctor Jennings…"

"Fuck her!" Rage seeps into my voice and I slam an open palm into a doorframe. "If it's got anything t'do with Weapon X…"

His tone's calm, "Logan, hear me out!" a purposeful counter response to mine. "It seems Ruchinsky approached her while on holiday informing her that it is time to assimilate Wendy into what she described as the Company."

"Aw shit!" So Ruchinsky's a recruiter now! Assholes must be slippin' cuz in my day there'd be no chance of a potential asset getting past. Past me, anyway. "Charles, this don't smell right. The Company's not this sloppy."

"Indeed. I've considered the possibility of a trap. Scanning Doctor Jennings' mind, if there is a trap; she's not part of it. Howev--"

Fiddling with a window drape, "Don't under estimate 'em."

"I don't. However, I've not dismissed the possibility she may be an unwitting participant."

"Lemme get this straight. You got her and the kid safe and sound on campus?"

"Of course…"

Gesturing with both hands, the phone cradled between jaw and shoulder, "Are you fuckin' nuts!" I rant.

"…With full security protocols activated."

"No ya don't." My lips curl into a humorless smirk, "You're number one and number two boys ain't there."

"Other Team members are thoroughly cross- trained. You supervised that yourself."

"If the Company's after either one, they ain't gonna be easy to stop." No sneer plays on my face now; just dead eyed seriousness.

"What are you saying, Logan?"

I won't veil knife's edge criticism from my voice, "I'm saying you're putting the entire school at excessive risk."

"Providing shelter to at risk mutants is what we do. Would you have me turn them away?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

Short of knocking him upside it, there's no changing bare head's mind. "Alright, what's the deal with Marla wantin' to talk to me directly?"

"Precisely that."

Pulling the phone from my ear, I stare incredulously; return it to my ear and grumble, "So you ain't sayin'?"

"Correct."

"Charles, answer this." Flopping down on the couch, my voice projects apprehension, "Does she know I'm her father?"

"As of this moment she hasn't been told and I can safely say that's part of what her mother wishes to discuss." There's no condescension in his paternalistic tone.

Sighing with frustration and fatigue, "You ain't given me squat more information than when ya first called; ya know that?"

"I'm sorry, Logan. The issues are extremely complicated and delicate. By the way, the jet is free. Do you still wish to return?"

"Yeah, but unless it's crucial I'm stuck."

"How so?"

"Susie's havin' a little problem and umm—well she's in the hospital."

"Good heavens! The twins?"

"No. Cyst on her ovary. Everything's under control but I think she's gonna need a day or two before her doc'll let her do anything. Least that's the impression I'm under."

"Understood. Concentrate on your wife. We'll manage."

"Thanks. Later."

#

Gotta stretch out the kinks. "Graarrggrrhhh!" Bobbling my neck right, then left, adamantium vertebrae sound like an amplified bowl of crispy rice cereal. Hell's afire! The Company's got a hard on for Wendy. What the fuck's that about?

Picking out a volume from the bookshelf, I thumb absently through it. Doing the math here, a lot don't add up but there's a key element I can't remember to save my ass and a not so niggling sense I better figure it out—fast.

With no Danger Room handy my preferred method of working it through is severely curbed. But recalling an indoor pool and spacious surrounding deck, I think I've got the ticket.

Padding through the silent house, I make my way to the rear wing and discover it's still there though seems modernized since I last saw it. Yanking off my boots and stripping down to jeans, I'm ready for a little civilized stress de-escalation.

Ram rod straight, I stand. Deep breathe in through my nose; slow exhale between lightly pursed lips; close my eyes. Chanting silently, "Clear my mind. Bring forth peace. Focus inner strength. Seek perfection."

Bowing deeply, as customary, "Yoi," echoes off the glass enclosure.

Lunging so the right leg's straight behind, left legs bent at the knee, my right arm projects forward parallel with my knee while the left arm angles back and bends at the elbow. In a fluid motion, hips rotate, right leg trades with left for stance and my left fist rams forward. Taking a controlled breath, I pivot one hundred and eighty degrees and mirror the lunge, leg and arm maneuvers.

So it goes, lunging, spinning, punching and kicking my way thru progressions of physically and mentally challenging sequences. The sting of perspiration in my eyes and taste of it on my upper lip attests as much to my zeal for perfection as it does to the humidity in the pool house.

Exhaling past clenched teeth, completing the final move, I shout, "Yame!" and assume the same posture I began with.

More than halfway thru a second Kata, my body's loose and into the groove. Shame my mind's not with the program. In combat or competition, this kind o'inattention could cost me but since this ain't either, might as well go with the flow.

The flow, in this instance, is an unrelenting replay of Susie collapsing in my arms. Let it go, bub! She's fine. Ya know she is. The doc told ya. She told ya. Ya smelled it; that certain whatever it is.

"E-itt!" A roundhouse kick morphs into air born spiral. Landing in a perfect lunge helps to banish unsettling images but visualizing the crushed larynx of my latest emotional demon gratifies like nothing else.

Bugger! Now this piss-ant excuse for a mind I've got's taking me back to Stryker's lab. What the fuck? There's five of us sitting in a non-descript, chilly lounge in nothing but our skivvies.

I lose rhythm picturing fat head Creed sitting there in drawers emblazoned with The Real Home of the Whopper. Where's the Beef's more like it.

Who the hell's on my left? Kane! With enhanced prosthetics, that mother was more machine than man. Sparring, he turned me into butcher scraps a couple times.

David North--Maverick, sits to my right, thumbing through the swimsuit issue of a sports rag sheet. He's one of a half handful of men I genuinely respected and considered a true friend. Helluva a pool shark, too.

Who's the last one? Oh yeah, that big mouth, mother fucker Deadpool. What was his real name? God only knows. Never liked or trusted the poser.

Holy shit! In she walks; statuesque with curves no lab coat could conceal. Tendrils of cocoa brown hair disobey the controlling clasp of the gold barrette she wears. She's balancing a stack of specimen cups, "Ok…er gentlemen. Here's the deal," she says casting a stern eye at us under shorted degenerates.

Can't recall her exact words but I sure as hell remember our reactions. First, dead silence. Creed's the first to spout off, "Yo princess, ain't no way that puny thing's gonna hold all my jiz."

"Flea bag, we're talking quality, not quantity," Kane provokes. "Guess yer out o'the game."

Creed snarls, "Bite me!"

"Hey bitch," Deadpool adds, "no fuckin' way I'm jackin' off in a cup for nobody; not even Luc Devil-face hisself."

"Yo' 'pool!" Kane bristles, "Where ya get off talkin' to the lady like that?"

"What ya gonna do Scrap-borg?"

Grinning wickedly, Kane raises his prosthetic arm, projects and snaps a mean looking set of pinchers.

Maverick looks up from his magazine and snickers, "Kind o'tough to whank off with a nub, wouldn't ya say?"

The whole place damn near erupts into a brawl after I crack, "There's enough jerk-offs around here without me joining the club," to which Creed shoots back, "You couldn't make the club, Runt."

Marla sets the cups on a table. "Boys!" she emphasizes. "Sort yourselves out without too much carnage." Beating a quick retreat, she shouts over her shoulder, "You'll find appropriate magazines in the stalls should you have any difficulty."

Just as it's my turn, opportunity knocks. Sidling up intimately, I take her hand, "Darlin'?" Suggestively licking each finger, "Thought I ranked a little more up close and personal." Tasting her palm, "How about you and me…" then easing her warm, soft mitt southbound, "…go next door and discuss my sample in private?"

"Ooff!" Didn't expect an elbow in my solar plexus or her flippant, "Think again, bub!"

"Haaa-aaahh!" my voice echoes in the pool house in a vain effort to refocus on my Kata. Images of the past and Charles' words repeat non stop in my cranium: Replications…, cloning…, genetic engineering…, blood…, semen…, bone marrow…, Wendy…, Ruchinsky…, assimilation.

The kid's an emerging telepath and telekinetic; a strong one at that. Didn't Susie say she seemed to have a healing factor?

More recently, that little chat Marla and I had at the ballet reverberates between my ears.

" Lemme ask you this; what are you gonna tell her when she does ask?"

"The truth."

"And what's the truth?"

"You simply provided a share of the biological material needed to bring her to life"

"Mother fuckin' sonofabitch!" A million volt revelation explodes in my brain and my head to pounds to a frenzied, adrenalin juiced heartbeat.

Pistoning fists pound out pieces of a puzzle that interlock forming an abominable prospect. Wendy ain't just adopted!

"Fuucckk!" I bellow, redoubling kicks and punches. No images of shattered sternums or pulverized faces can exorcise the repugnant thought. I feel sick to my stomach.

She's a … Images of Diebel, Stryker and Ruchinsky explode in my face before vanishing in sulphuric haze. … she's been created; engineered using me and fuck all only knows who else.

Rage escalating, my vision goes scarlet, muscles burn and claws eject. "Grraahhrrrggghh!" Clawed fists crash down, pelting my face with shards of cement. An elegantly carved bench lays split to rubble.

Sinking to the deck in lotus form, the grisly insight marinates my core with toxic effluent. It'll be over my bloated, maggot infested corpse; I vow inwardly, those bastards ever get to her!

#