October, 1997

Salem Center in New York State's Westchester County was, in Remy's opinion, a whole lot of nothing. Passing through the area on his Harley, he encountered fields full of horses, sprawling homes and farmhouses from the 18th and 19th centuries, and fences and bridges made of rough-hewn fieldstone. The streets in the small towns, if you could call them towns and not just small assemblages of local businesses, were flanked by red brick sidewalks and black iron lamp posts. Outside of what passed for civilization were rolling hills of leafed trees skirting a reservoir of chilly looking blue-gray water. It wasn't so bad, riding leisurely down the curving roads, looking at the scenery. The trees here were unlike anything he'd ever seen before, as it was early October and the green maples, birches, and oaks were now edged with red, auburn and gold. Later he would find out that tourists actually took vacations just to look at leaves. It occurred to Remy that if watching leaves change color in autumn was what passed for entertainment, then what the heck did people do with the other three seasons in a year?

He had to concede that the area had some appeal, the same way the Arizona desert, even with all its sand and armadillos, had a serene beauty in the ridged blue purple hills, red-yellow dirt, and towering green cacti. Not to mention the enormity of the sky, blue-white at day, and at night, blue-black with swaths of stars. And it was just as well that Salem Center and its environs were quiet, because ever since his encounter with Dr. Essex, Remy's gut burned like a banked fire, just waiting to be stirred into sparks, then true flames.

Ever the optimist (or delusional fool, perhaps), Remy looked for the good in his situation. The isolation, while not his idea of a good time, was what he needed. There was no shortage of farmers' markets, so that was something, even if they were prohibitively expensive. Horses were pretty. And the area had a very nice library, which was where he was spending the majority of his time.

The library was situated on a corner in one of the picturesque towns, the largest building around. It was a Federal style building perched at the top of a slight hill, with a broad cement staircase leading to the main entrance. Three wings extended to the north, southeast, and southwest of the white central building, which was round like the turret of a castle. The front doors were flanked by columns in the Ionic style, the windows along each of the red brick wings were made of cut and stained glass. At street level, one could enter the building from the lower level through a pair of double doors, which is how Remy first approached the building.

He stepped through the doors to find himself in the children's section of the library. There was a lot going on and at first; total sensory overload. There were colorful carpets and furnishings, brightly colored walls covered in childrens' artwork, a bubbling fish tank of tropical fish. Remy wandered in, bemused. A puppet show was going on in the corner, and several children were interacting with the puppets. It seemed they were all pretending to cast magic spells. Remy had heard of some new book about a boy wizard that had recently been published. Apparently, this was today's puppet show theme.

Remy was approached by an older frizzled-haired librarian. "Can I help you find something?" she asked.

Remy was stooped to look into the fish tank. He straightened and asked: "D'you have a copy of that book?" he asked, pointing his chin in the direction of the puppet show.

The librarian smiled apologetically. "Not right now, but I could put you on the waiting list. Though," here she leaned closer and put her hand to the side of her mouth as if to convey dire secrecy, "I would recommend you buy yourself a personal copy. Don't tell anyone here I said that."

Amused, Remy replied: "Your secret's safe with me. So, this show over here doesn't have any spoilers in it, does it?"

"You're going to want to leave before the second act!"

"I'd best get to getting then. Hey, can you point me to information?"

"Top of the stairs, in the central lobby. You can't miss it."

Remy nodded his thanks and went to the upper floor. The woman at the information desk pointed him towards the quiet study area as he requested, but also told him where he could find the Reference, Fiction, and Nonfiction sections. She was quite helpful. Remy didn't know why he was of the mindset that the people of New England were cold and aloof, these folks seemed plenty nice. The north-facing wing held the private study carrels and a newly set up computer lab. Remy had had limited experience with the personal computers that were becoming more and more readily accessible. There were six here, maintained by a younger man with a freckled complexion and ginger colored moustache. The man, who identified himself as Curtis, opened up a schedule book.

"How long do you think you'd want to reserve the study carrel?" Curtis asked.

"Two-three weeks, maybe?" Remy suggested.

"Let's just make it a month," Curtis said. "I put you in carrel five. It's the only one with a window. Your name?"

"John," Remy said. "John Grey."

Remy thanked the man, accepted the key, and stepped into the small wooden cubicle and into absolute privacy. He hung his coat and bag on the hooks provided. There was a large desk, a chair, and a corkboard affixed to one of the wooden walls.

Not too bad, this'll be just fine as a base of operations, Remy thought. Because unlike the nightmare of Seattle, Remy was not going to go into this next adventure without first getting to know exactly what he was getting himself into.

He began with the computers because he'd heard something about the World Wide Web and an "information superhighway." Remy was trying to reserve judgement, but thought it likely the internet was going to be a bust. Curtis showed him how to open a web browser called Netscape Navigator. Remy was instructed that if he knew the web address he could type it into a text bar. Otherwise he'd have to use a "web crawler" called Altavista, and perform a keyword search. It was all very interesting. As a first foray into internet exploration, Remy typed in "New Orleans Saints," and was disappointed to see the scores for the season so far. "Ah, we're already getting creamed this year!" he groused. Then he saw that the New England Patriots were once again winning. "Booo!" he told the computer screen and saluted it with a doubly rude gesture.

Curtis took on an air of mock offense and strode away, hands in the air. "See if I help you anymore!" he announced.

Remy performed a search for Charles Xavier, a man as it happened, he'd vaguely heard of before. Remy found a news article about the man from last year, that he'd been attacked and severely beaten by a group of anti-mutant protestors. It wasn't difficult for Remy to put together that the Columbia professor Greycrow had spoken of also headed the elite school here in New York State, by the name of The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.

The last mention of Xavier was from Magneto's trial, several months ago. During his indenturement, Remy had been made to watch the televised event, knowing that doing so would only serve to rattle Remy, infuriate him. It seemed to Remy that Magneto had turned himself over to the authorities not to atone for his sins. If he were truly repentant, then why was self-defense put forward as his defense strategy? From his personal island, declaring himself the world's savior, the man had provoked attack and retaliated, sinking a submarine to the bottom of the sea, raising a volcano to destroy a city. No, the trial was yet another way for Magneto to grandstand before a global audience, to make justifications for his actions. No verdict had been handed down, the man had vanished in the melee of anti-mutant riots and pro-mutant protests.

Remy did not find any more recent articles about the professor; it seemed the man had disappeared off the planet. He did find a webpage for the school, which had a single pixelated image of the front facade of the building, the logo, an address, and phone number. There was a brief biography about Charles Xavier. There was no information about teachers or staff, admissions or classes. Granted, most websites Remy found were completely rudimentary or entirely filled with dancing cartoon hamsters for some reason. Remy started a list in his notebook. At the top he wrote the school name, location and phone number. Below that: Xavier. If he was some kind of head doctor for mutants, then perhaps he was a telepath. Remy put that next to the man's name, followed by a question mark.

He spent the next few hours consulting the index to the back issues of local newspapers, then requesting the microfiche reels from the genealogist on staff. Sitting before the microfiche reader gave him vertigo, and he hoped for a day when all this stuff would just be on the internet (he had decided the World Wide Web might be worthwhile after all). Still, he was able to recall a few more articles about Charles Xavier and the Xavier School. It seemed the school was prone to fires and random explosions. There was a longer biography on Xavier in the Who's Who in America book in Reference. It didn't give too many more details than the website, but it did mention a colleague, a Doctor Henry McCoy.

As it turned out Dr. McCoy had six advanced degrees in various sciences, including biochemistry and bioinformatics and genetics. And the man wasn't yet twenty-seven years old. Next to McCoy's name, Remy wrote 'Super Genius.' McCoy had quite a few published academic articles which Remy requested from the reference librarian. She informed him it may take three to five days to obtain the articles. Remy was content to wait, there were other venues to pursue.

At the county auditor office, he requested the parcel information for the address he'd found on the website: 1407 Graymalkin Lane. It listed the property size and sketch of the building and outbuildings, additions, and original construction date. The original house had been built in 1898. Additions were made in subsequent years beginning in 1947. Remy returned to the library's genealogical section to consult several old city directories for the names of architectural firms in the area. The permit indexes and land surveys he found narrowed down his options. As it turned out, the architecture firm responsible for the house additions was now dissolved. Fortunately, their records could be found at the state archives. That was a longer trip clear out to Albany, but well worth it. From the archives there Remy now had several iterations of the Xavier's school floor plans and each elevation; top floor, second floor, ground floor, and two sub-floors. He took photos of the drawings with a snazzy new digital camera he'd procured. No more film, who knew? Finally, at the North Salem Historical Society, he found a vertical file of aerial survey photographs from the 1950s to the mid-1980s. While the school itself wasn't the focus of the photos, he was able to cobble together a full bird's-eye view of the house as it stood over the years.

All of these puzzle pieces he arranged carefully in his study carrel. A local copy shop had printed his digital photos in full size. He stuck the ground floor plan onto the cork board. In a little more than a week, he had enough information to start planning his infiltration of this school, to do some poking around inside and see what was what. Now that he had all the paper records, he should probably get a visual on the situation over on Graymalkin.

While Remy would have been content to simply live inside the library with its quiet rooms, rustling of pages, gentle tapping of keyboards, and scent of printed paper, he was not going to be permitted to sleep on the floor of the study carrel. He sweet-talked an older woman into the short-term rental of the small efficiency apartment over her detached garage. There was a wooden staircase on the garage exterior leading up to the loft apartment. The loft itself was pleasant enough, filled with cozy cast-off furniture. The bed was situated at the front of the apartment under the window dormer, hemmed on three of four sides by the surrounding walls. At his apartment, he changed into a gray hoodie featuring the name of a local state college, running shorts and shoes, and stuffed his too-long hair into a knit beanie. Though the day was overcast, he had little choice but to wear sunglasses. He had a Walkman and headphones to complete his disguise: college student out for a jog.

Remy didn't have much in the way of jogging music, but the librarian in the audio visual section recommended a new album by Alanis Morrissette. The first few songs sounded angry, which was great because when someone else was angry, that made Remy feel less so by way of vicarious justification. He hopped down the wooden staircase from the apartment and began jogging down the street, heading west towards Graymalkin Lane. After sitting so long in the library in peaceable comfort, it felt good to be moving again. Maybe a little too good. He struggled to keep himself at an even pace and not a full out sprint.

After a half-hour he found the access road that would take him past the school. The building wasn't readily visible from the street, the lower floors hidden by the slight rise in the land. The school was fronted by a gated black wrought-iron fence. From what he could make of the roofline and dormers, the house had a decidedly institutional air, not unlike the asylum in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Unfortunately, the school wasn't so polite as to post what kind of security system they employed on a handy sign out front. He jogged past the school and rounded the cul de sac to run past again in the opposite direction. Remy didn't see a single student. He'd seen a gravel drive around the back perimeter of the property that he thought to take next, but as he ran he saw a small path through the trees perpendicular to the front fence. He turned and trotted down it. His running shoes struck hard packed earth that must have been traveled by many feet over time. He was flanked on either side by dark trees. Every so often, a leaf would detach itself from above and float down to the leaf litter on either side of the path. He'd been running for an hour at this point and didn't feel tired, just the opposite. He was getting irritated with the musical artist's incorrect usage of the word "ironic" (no, a black fly in your Chardonnay was not ironic, it was unfortunate) which might have been the reason he was so startled when a man descended from the trees above to land directly in Remy's path. Remy came to a sudden stop, his momentum sending him forward a few extra paces.

The man in his path was stout and barrel-chested. He was wearing a red and black flannel shirt over a white tee, jeans, cowboy boots. His hair stood out from his head and face like some kind of wiry mane. His face, while not classically attractive, had an appealing rugged quality, and bright steely eyes with a thousand-yard stare. Charlton Heston's Will Penny-esque. He was crouched somewhat, and appeared ready to spring in Remy's direction.

"This is private property, bub," the man growled. Remy didn't know about the 'bub' part, but the man's pronunciation of certain vowels put his origins somewhere up north, Canada. A Canuck.

Remy lifted the earphone from his ear and grinned sheepishly at the man. "Sorry," he said awkwardly in a flat midwestern accent. "I kinda zoned out there for a minute." With a small wave, he trotted several paces backwards and then turned to jog away.

"Geez, Logan," said a girl's voice. "Way to be neighborly." Remy hadn't seen any girl, it seems that she had materialized out of thin air just after he'd turned. Remy didn't dare look behind him, but continued his jog back to the apartment.

As he opened the door, he pulled off his knit hat, letting his hair fall down around his face to land on his shoulders. Somehow he hadn't even broken a sweat. Once inside the apartment, he sat himself at the small kitchenette set that afforded two chairs. Remy opened the notebook he'd left there. Under the names Xavier and McCoy, Remy added the name: Logan. Between the Canadian accent and the red-checked shirt, Remy was put in mind of a certain song.

I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay…

Remy couldn't begin to speculate what the man's mutant abilities were. He wrote "grouchy" next to Logan's name. Below that, he wrote "Ghost Girl." Mutant power: invisibility, maybe? He stared at his list, nervously tapping his pen against his forehead. His knee jogged up and down. The glowy feeling was gnawing at his insides. Anxiously, he stood, paced through the tiny kitchen, opened the refrigerator door. There was a six-pack of beer in his fridge. He didn't think alcohol was going to be a good solution to his problem. Closing the door, he turned and rubbed his head vigorously. His hair crackled. Remy went back outside and sat on the landing, his feet on the top step. He lit a cigarette, trying to calm himself. One cigarette turned into two, lighting the second with the butt of the first. He was just starting to feel some measure of composure when he heard a loud crack. The sound triggered a memory, a phantom sensation of pain across his back from right shoulder to left hip. He shot down the staircase, leaping the last few steps. The cracking sound had been the slam of an aluminum screen door, coming from the main house where the old woman lived. It didn't matter, Remy was off and running across the side yard, the street, into the forest beyond, through the trees. Running from the fear, the pain, the memory, but he couldn't run from the glowing sensation growing in his core. It was a long time before he could force himself to stop.

Next time: "Research is what I'm doing when I don't know what I'm doing." -Wernher von Braun