The Witness' Stand
Somewhere, Somewhen

Jean knew she couldn't live in denial forever. It was time, past time. She had to make a decision. She didn't know where the man calling himself The Witness was. Could it be that he was making himself scarce? Or was he simply...gone? She felt her throat tighten at the thought.

Remy was in the kitchen, looking at a cup of tea. Jean still couldn't stand the smell of coffee, and Remy was still avoiding caffeine. He took a sip from the mug and grimaced. Jean pulled out a chair and sat across from him. She placed a deck of cards on the tabletop.

"Thought you hated card games?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"I do," she responded. "But I can play this one. Here's the deal. Loser is first to face their fears with the unquestioning compassion and support of the winner."

Remy's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't think I want t'play."

"We can't keep avoiding our problems," she said. "Lives are at stake."

Remy pushed his mug of tea aside. "Okay," he acquiesced. "Deal me in. What're we playin'?"

"This is war," Jean said, dealing cards.

"What now?" Remy asked, watching as his pile of cards grew before him. He caught them up and gathered them into a pile.

"The name of the game is 'War,'" she explained, dealing until there were no cards left. She tidied her pile of cards. "It's easy, the player with the highest card wins both."

"What kinda dumb game is dat?" Remy asked. "There's no skill involved. It's just random. Chance."

"That's right," Jean said. "That makes it fair. Since when it comes to card games, I have no skill."

Remy made a derisive sound.

"Are you ready?" Jean asked, looking for his confirmation.

"Alright, let's get dis over with," he said, and turned over the first card. Jean's card trumped his and she claimed them both. The same thing happened again twice when Remy said: "Who shuffled dis here deck?"

He claimed her next card, and from there it went back and forth. Remy ended up claiming several of her smaller valued cards and she could see the game was going in her favor. Remy was becoming irritable.

"When's dis game over?" he asked.

"When someone runs out of cards," she answered. They both drew a Seven.

"Okay, now what?" Remy said.

"Now it's War," Jean replied. She removed three cards from her pile and he imitated her. "W-A-R," she said as she placed each card face-down. Then she turned over the last and declared: "War!"

Remy revealed a Nine of Clubs. Jean turned over her card, the Jack of Spades. She smiled grimly at him and collected all six cards. "Sorry, Remy."

He fared her with a glare, unhappy to be losing so badly.

They continued. A second War began. Jean claimed Remy's cards with a Jack of Diamonds to his Two of Hearts.

"Do you want to give up," Jean suggested. "Or battle to the bitter end?"

Remy snapped another card down in front of Jean. "To the death," he said.

"W-A-R...War!" Jean said, and her Jack of Clubs swept away Remy's Eight.

Remy had one card remaining. He tapped it with his finger, his eyes issued a challenge. "My hill t'die on," he said. "Let's say, we have a parley?"

"To negotiate the terms of your surrender," Jean said.

"No surrender," Remy whispered, leaning forward. "But I will ask for mercy. If my card is high, we call a draw. Cease fire."

Jean looked at him, pretending to consider. "Alright," she said. She was certain she was about to win.

Remy turned over his card. The Ten of Diamonds. Jean regarded it for a long moment, then turned over her card: The Jack of Hearts. Jean now held all the cards.

Remy stared at her dejectedly.

"Are you ready?" she asked finally.

His expression was grim, his eyes resigned. Jean stood to leave the kitchen. "I'm going to get the briefcase," she said. "Don't run away."

"Did you just read my thoughts?" he called after her with annoyance.

She paused in the doorway and turned to look at him. "No Remy, I know you well enough by now." Jean retrieved the briefcase from the hall closet, where it had been hidden. She carried it back to the kitchen and set it on the table.

"Do you want me to open it, or do you want to?" she asked.

"You do it," he told her.

"Are you sure? This is personal, I understand if you don't want me to-."

He shook his head, his fingers flicking away her words.

Jean unlocked the case; the case they'd carried with them from New York to Boston. They'd left it behind in the safehouse. Gone temporarily, but not forgotten, it seemed. She lifted the lid. There was the laptop and the files she had pawed through when she'd opened it the first time. She reopened the folder with the records concerning the state senator that bore some resemblance to Remy. She flipped through the contents, but on its own, the folder had no answers. She looked at the second folder. It looked as if it had held more paper at one time, but now, it held only three documents. The first was a birth certificate from the State of Louisiana. There was the name of the infant, the date, which was twenty-six years prior, the time, and the location. It was followed by the mother's name. The space for the father's name was blank. Jean stared at the mother's name. She recognized it. It was the woman from the South End apartment. The woman who had been shot in the struggle: Helen Moreux. Jean drew a sharp breath. She sensed Remy's rising alarm at her reaction. Jean placed the birth certificate down with a trembling hand, and picked up the next document. It was a death certificate for the same baby, one that had died mere hours after birth. Cause of death simply stated: congenital defects. Jean's hands shook as she stared at the attending physician's name. Jean placed the death certificate aside. The final document was an agreement, signed by Helen and another, Honoré DesJarlais.

Jean's mind returned to the office where she had struggled with Helen. She recalled the news clippings, the photos, the books on genetic mutation. She recalled the woman's profound sadness. Not the emotions of an insane, bitterly jealous woman driven to murder. The woman wasn't stalking Remy. She was looking for him. Her sadness was loss, not of a lover, but the loss of a child.

Jean took a steadying breath. She consulted the folder about the senator again, confirming his name appeared on both sets of documents. She stared at his photograph, his familiar features. She looked through the files outlining his congressional record, the federal dollars earmarked in the bill he sponsored, funding the program whose name was spelled out on the agreement: Black Womb.

Jean shuddered. "Remy," she croaked. He had his head in his hands, elbows on the table, his gaze focused on the kitchen tabletop. She could feel his fear, his dread. She answered the question he was so terrified to face: "Remy, Sinister is not your father."

He gasped like a drowning man coming up for air. His arms went around himself and he turned from the table and folded forward, a picture of agony. Jean went to him, knelt before him, put her hands on his shoulders, held the back of his head.

"How can you know?" he asked her, talking to his knees. "How can you be sure? The times he said, called me-son."

Jean grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. "He's a liar," she hissed. "He's not your father. He thinks he owns you. Because the man-," here Jean's jaw tightened. "Because your biological father gave you to Sinister. He gave you away."

Remy shook his head, eyes closed. "So it's like he said. What de crazy Sinister said. Paid for the privilege, t'be rid of me." Jean laid her arms over his back, kissed the back of his head. She felt tears coming. "Remy, your mother. She was twenty when she had you. She thought you were dead. Found out you weren't. She was looking for you. Remy, she wanted you back."

Remy sat up slowly. She glimpsed an expression of misery she'd never seen on his face before, but then it was gone, marshalled into blank composure, his mouth a grim smile.

Jean pressed her hands to her eyes. What have I done? she asked herself. She had finally found him. And I killed her.

She felt his hands touch her hair, come to rest on her shoulders. "Don't cry, chѐre," he said. "It's okay. Thank you. Thanks for tryin' to help me." She could feel him tamping down his emotions, shutting them away.

Jean let out a keening wail. "Oh, god, Remy," she said, her hand clasped against her mouth. She stood shakily. "Don't thank me." She staggered away from the kitchen.

"Jean?" Remy called. "Jean!"

Jean went to the door at the end of the hall. She did not want to look at the room, to go inside. She didn't even know that if she were to look out the window, what time or place she might see through the glass. She threw open the door to Jackie's room. Went inside. She felt Remy's presence behind her, less than a foot away. Jean pushed back the soft white draperies, drew up the shade. The child's room filled with light. She looked out the window. There was a courtyard and the back of a matching row house beyond. She looked at the opposite window, the window she'd tumbled through when she'd fled Helen's office. It was a blank, staring eye. Dark, with no window hangings. The other windows looked equally vacant. Jean pressed her hand to her throat, weeping.

She heard a hollow tapping sound from below, and a small tennis ball bounced into sight in the courtyard. A little dog capered after it, claimed the ball with its mouth, then bounded across the flagstones, tail wagging. A teenage boy appeared from below, following the dog. He knelt, clapped, and the dog returned to him to drop the ball at the boy's feet. The boy's back was to them. His hair was dyed a flat black color. He was dressed smartly, a white shirt over dark jeans, designer tennis shoes. Jean stared at the back of the boy's head. Jean recognized the little peach poodle. The back door of the opposite row house opened. A woman stepped onto the small rear landing. Jean gasped to see her. The teen boy approached her and she handed him a large canvas backpack. He hoisted it onto his shoulder while the dog jumped on his legs hoping to resume their game.

Helen bent and picked up the dog, put her hand on the teen's shoulder, and guided him into the house. She cast a final glance around the courtyard, looking at the building where Jean and Remy now stood. She apparently did not see what she was looking for. Jean's stomach fluttered, and she clutched her hands to her belly. The woman looked just the same as when Jean had seen her last. Only she was unhurt. She was alive.

Helen turned back to the house and closed the door.

"Jean?" Remy asked, his hand on her back.

She slowly turned toward him. "Remy...even if...even if your father really was-him-it wouldn't change who you are."

His eyes studied her face. "I suppose it'd change how I'd see myself," he confessed.

"No," Jean said forcefully. "I wouldn't let that happen."

Remy opened his arms and she moved into his embrace. Jean wrapped her arms around his waist, she murmured into his chest: "I'd remind you of who you are. I wouldn't let you forget."

~oOo~

Jean went downstairs to the newsstand. She was alone. The shop was dark and silent, save for her footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Light from the streetlights outside filtered through the shop window. She paced down one length of the shop, using her telekinesis to set the clocks on the wall ticking. Their pendulums swayed as she passed. The newspapers were neatly folded on shallow shelves to the right of the front door. The center of the shop had a wooden shelving unit that held magazines, books of crosswords and Sudoku, comic books, and paperback novels. The left hand side of the shop had a glass counter. Tobacco, pipes, cigars and rolling papers sat inside the case. The rear of the store, where Jean had emerged, held the shop counter and cash register. A small spinning rack on the counter displayed postcards from around the world. Jean made a slow circuit of the small shop, then returned to the counter. She looked into the rear work area. The room was dark. She looked at the worn wooden countertop. There was a small silver desk bell next to the cash register. There was a handwritten sign taped to the counter under the bell. "Ring at your own risk," the sign read.

Jean reached out a finger and depressed the bell. It made a long, clear sound that resonated longer than she would have expected. She heard the sound of a footfall in the back of the workroom. A dim light clicked on inside and a narrow rectangle of yellow light spilled into the shop through the partially opened door. The footsteps approached, the floor creaked. The door to the workroom opened fully, and the figure there was momentarily silhouetted in the light.

"Can I help you?" the man asked.

Jean searched his features for some sign of Sinister, or Poppet, or herself. Maybe there was something in the shape of his forehead, the pale skin. Or the curves at the corners of his mouth. His narrow hands, the shape of his chin. Maybe.

"I suppose I'm going to need directions," Jean told him, trying to relay confidence. "To a hospital. In a few months or so."

The Witness took a few steps closer to stand behind the counter. He looked like a phantom in the dim light. What did she know of him as a person? Manipulative, secretive, maybe controlling? Did she have the capacity to comprehend or forgive him, for what had been done to her? Was he even to blame? He didn't seem to be motivated by self-interest. When she brushed his thoughts it seemed he honestly cared for her, cared for Remy.

"I can help you wit' that," The Witness answered, his scratchy voice quiet. "I know just de place."

Steeling herself, she extended a hand in his direction. After a moment, he placed his hand in hers. She pressed his frail fingers in her own, then released his hand. "I was lonely," she said softly. "In the white room."

"You need people," The Witness told her. "You're not like me, like him up there," he gestured to the ceiling. Remy was upstairs in the apartment. It sounded like he might be doing jumping jacks. "It's your power. You're connected to other people. You bring them together."

"You said you do that yourself. Make connections," she said.

He shook his head sadly. "Chance. Coincidence. Random encounters. Not heart connections. Not a bond. You do that. I send people away. You bring people close. Everyone wants your light t'shine upon them."

She hastily wiped her eyes and looked away. "Flatterer," she said. "Charmer."

"I don't lie," he said.

Jean nodded. "Did you...have anything to do with our card game?"

"Hm?" he said obliquely, raising his pale brows. "What makes you think I had anything to do with a card game?"

She reached up her sleeve to extract what she had hidden there. She placed it on the countertop. Jean pushed a playing card across the countertop towards him, revealing the Jack of Hearts.

"Is this your calling card?" she asked archly.

"I confess, I stole those tarts."

Jean was confused for a moment. "Is that...from a poem?"

"I was read a lot of fantasy literature as a pup," he said, shrugging.

Jean glanced upwards. Apparently, Remy was done jumping. She thought he must be in the kitchen now, because all was silent. "Not by him?" she asked and pointed upwards.

"Man can tell a tale," The Witness replied. "Have one of my own. But if you want t'hear the whole story, we're gonna have to start at de beginning."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Jean asked.

The Witness paused, then drew a breath. "Once upon a time, in a magical city, the most beautiful woman in the world fell in love. She gave birth to a little boy, a prince. The evil king thought to take the little prince away to his dark kingdom, so he conspired with a lying serpent to tell the beautiful woman that the prince was dead. That dark, stormy night, the evil king came to take what he thought was his," The Witness stopped, then asked: "D'you know this story?"

Jean nodded slowly. "I think so. How did the prince get away from the evil king?"

"Y'see, that's de thing. It hasn't happened yet. That's where you come in."

"More schemes, Jackie?" she asked.

The older man looked offended. "I don't scheme. Like some cartoon villain, twirling my moustache!"

"Okay, not a scheme. What do you call it?"

"Objective setting," he answered snappily. "It's one of my skills, along with time management."

"That's some résumé. And will you tell me how to accomplish this objective?" Jean asked.

"No, that would spoil the story for myself," The Witness responded. "Free will and all. No telling what you'll do."

"So you won't tell us if we live happily ever after?"

"It's a possibility," he said.

"I suppose I'll have to take that as an answer," she said. "Can you tell me how we're going to get to this magical place?"

"I will make de arrangements," he confirmed, then he paused to consider something. He tapped his finger against his chin. "At the right place, at the right time. Hm…"

"I don't think I like that look," she said. "I can already tell you're going to cause me a lot of trouble."

"Well, that I can tell you," he nodded.

"And what are you thinking now?" she asked.

"I'm thinkin'...about cookies."


Next: Closing the circle