Disclaimer: I INSIST that they are not mine.
Author's Note: I was aiming for the cliche, just to note.
Chapter Two
Old Wounds
Start at the beginning.
That was the advice of an old high school teacher. Mind you, besides being a drunk and an otherwise promiscuous figure, that teacher had 'resigned' off the staff a little after Bookie had made acquaintance with him.
But it was good advice, and good advice applies to everything.
And, despite the fact that his last library visit had had something to do with Dr. Seuss, Bookie figured it was the logical place to go. What else, really, did he have to do but start his research? Besides, it was a great way to kill a few hours.
He stepped inside the unfamiliar halls of the public library, and the musty odour startled him for a moment. When he walked further in through the mammoth doors, he realized that his notion of a library was shattered.
"I thought it was s'pose to be no noise," Bookie joked to the young, prim looking woman seated behind the desk. Heh. She was kinda a fox.
But she didn't get the joke, and gave him a look that would have melted ice. She cleared her throat.
"We have finally been given a grant that allows us to extend the non-fiction wing. If the construction workers bother you, sir," she said, stressing the 'sir', "you're more than welcome to return when they are gone." What a waste, he thought to himself. This one was kinda cute.
He wiggled his jaw, tempted to laugh off her obvious dislike for him. "Nah, don't bother me none." He smiled, enjoying her repulsion at his intentional bad grammar. "If you'd be kind to direct me to the research wing, I'll be out of your hair."
She rolled her eyes and pointed to her right, bracelets jangling on her slim wrist. "Take a left at that sign there that says 'Research Wing.' Right over there."
Bookie followed her outstretched hand and chuckled sheepishly. "My thanks, ma'am. Now, can I just come get you if I need any assistance?"
Bookie watched her as she considered the possibility of this idiot interrupting her once again. With a deep sigh, she hoisted herself off the chair. "Follow me."
Amidst the drilling and sawdust of the construction workers, the brunette librarian led him in through the door and stopped abruptly.
"What kind of research are you looking to undertake?"
"Um...with that spinning thing...you know, with all the newspaper reels?"
"The microfilm?"
"That's it!" He smiled triumphantly. "I think. You got one of those?"
She pursed her lips and nodded curtly. "Yes, we have one. It's in back." She started off again, and Bookie followed her clicking heels into a dark, dusty room.
She clicked on the light switch, not that it made much difference. The room was still pretty dark. "We have reels dating back almost fifty years. It might help if you know exactly when you're looking for, instead of shooting blindly in the dark."
"Yeah, I do," Bookie replied, thumbed a sealed box to his left. "About ten years back?"
"Oh, well, that's not too far." She actually smiled. "Any particular newspaper?"
Bookie shook his head. "I'm looking more for the information. Pretty straightforward."
She seemed to ignore his last comment. "This is the reader. You can have either a full source, or a ¾ COM picture. Twist this little knob to scan forward or backward..."
Bookie only half listened as she droned on about the machine. He was busy drifting his eyes over the many boxes piled on top of each other. Maybe he'd even look over some of his old articles. Nah, that was a waste of time. His older stuff was pretty bad.
His attention snapped back to the voice, still talking. "...and you just pop it in and go. Did you get all that?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," Bookie assured her, plopping down in the seat. "Where are the little...things?"
"The film?"
"Right. I'm looking for a certain date."
"Which is?"
Bookie tried smiling, but she still looked a little mad. "Uh, I don't know exactly. When I say date, I mean a certain event."
"Maybe I've heard of it...although if it was ten years ago."
Bookie took her cue. "Assassination of Charles Xavier. About a decade ago."
Her face was blank. "Charles who?"
He realized that she knew just a little less than he did. "Never mind. I'm fine here. Just point out the stuff from ten years ago."
She smiled again, relived at being let off the hook. "Along the back wall there. Be careful not to mix anything up." She excused herself and headed for the door, pausing just before she disappeared from sight. "Happy hunting, sir."
He winced at the 'sir' reference. Was he really getting so old? With a short sigh, he spun his chair to check out what he had to work with at the back wall.
And held back a groan when he realized the back wall was hidden somewhere underneath all those boxes.
At some time after two hours had passed, the first mention of Charles Xavier appeared.
Well, Bookie realized, not the first. The guy had been all over the place at one time, appearing at this benefit, or presenting a former student with some award at another. For a long time, he was just a rich guy in a wheelchair, who happened to be an advocate for mutants and their rights.
Bookie argued the wisdom in looking back an extra five years. He figured he'd get a feel for who the guy had been. You know, for human interest purposes.
But for a long time, all he had been was a rich guy in a wheelchair.
Then, around eleven years back, he upped the intensity on his mutant cause, going all out and public. He appeared at rallies, on television, and Bookie even found a few editorials the guy had written. Of course, a lot of people were suspicious of why exactly he was so pro-mutie, but it was never a huge issue.
On a reel dated August 15th, nine years ago, there was a small square at the base of a society page. A little snippet that Bookie might have missed if not for good fortune. He scanned the little box and smiled widely.
*Early next week, a benefit is planned for early next week to bring further attention to the homo-superior cause. A world-wide spokesman for the issue, Charles Xavier, is scheduled to attend, as well as other advocates, such as Theodore Gangly, of the University of Alberta, and Dr. Moira MacTaggert, a foremost expert in the field of genetic mutation. A generous turnout is expected. Tickets are available by calling...*
He felt it, right down to the marrow in his bones, that this was it. He'd stake his claim as a reporter that that was the big one. The one where Chucky went down. Quickly, with the temporary expertise of someone who's been doing it for a few hours, he sorted through the film chips and picked a handful to scan thorough. It took him another twenty minutes.
Then, bang! There it was, the headline splashed across the page, as plain as a bomb exploding:
ADVOCATE KILLED AT BENEFIT
He scrolled down and read the article, still with a smug expression on his face.
*Last night, during a speech from Chief Executive of Relations, mutant advocate Charles Xavier was shot point blank in the head. The assailant was able to flee in the ensuing commotion, and all attempts to locate the culprit were abandoned early this morning.
"This is truly a blow to the mutant community," said Ursula Pickerings, an attendee at the gathering. "One wonders how it could have occurred in the first place."
Xavier was rushed to the nearest hospital, to no avail. He was pronounced dead on arrival.
Many were led out in tears, or in shock, as the benefit dispersed immediately afterward. Police attempted to question many at the site, only to be greeted by either hostility or ignorance.
As of now, the police have no leads, and are doubtful of a further investigation. "Chances are that this was a hit," Sergeant James Graham reported solemnly. "And the likelihood we're gonna catch this guy is pretty small. I'm not saying I like it, but that's how it looks."
A source close to family and friends report a service will be held late this week in his honour.*
There was more, but Bookie just rubbed his eyes and placed his head in his arms. He suddenly felt very tired. But, he remembered the words of his first journalism professor: Sleep is for normal people, not reporters.
Besides, he was on a roll. He flipped open the cover of his trusty notebook and scribbled down the date it had happened on August 21st, and the date it had been reported.
He picked up the next slide in procession and popped it into place. It was from a few days later. This article was on the third page, this time.
*Dr. Henry McCoy, a close associate of slain Charles Xavier held a small press conference this morning at the Walden Hotel regarding the current state of investigation into the recent assassination. Dr. McCoy greeted a select group of reporters and journalists with a solemn tone.
"Ladies and gentleman, believe me when I say this is not over," McCoy announced well into the statement. "We seek justice, and will settle for nothing less than the absolute truth. Those who knew Charles Xavier grieve for him, but are not deterred by this tragedy. I have only one thing to say to the man who took this life. You may try to kill the dreamer, sir, but will never kill the dream."
Dr. McCoy had no further comment.*
Over the next few editions, Bookie found scattered reports, of new evidence that eventually fell through, of witnesses who hadn't seen a thing, and of police leads that led nowhere. After what seemed like a million articles, the trail suddenly went cold. Just...stopped. No more accounts of what happened, no more little blurbs about an upcoming trial, nothing.
Looks like it became old news quick, Bookie figured as he silently reviewed his notes.
He decided that was enough research for today (or any day). After he had shoved the film clips back in their semi-respective boxes, he packed up the few belongings he had brought in with him, and figured out how to print a few of the articles he'd found. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, and rubbed his temples dully.
Always at the worst times, he thought to himself. He snatched up the freshly printed papers and walked back out into civilization. The pretty brunette was still at her desk at the front.
"It's a good thing you came out when you did," she said almost civilly to him. "I was about to get you myself. We're closing in fifteen minutes."
"Yeah, well..." he trailed off, pausing only for a moment in front of her desk.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
He nodded slowly. "I think I did." He tossed her a casual good bye and headed for the street.
Night fell.
With the evening came the sticky humid air. His fan was cranked up to the highest setting, but it was still kind of useless sitting on the dresser.
Bookie picked up the phone and dialled the number from memory. After three rings, the other end picked up.
"Uh huh?"
"Hey Wesley."
"Oh...Bookie...long time, no speak."
"Yeah, yeah. Listen, Wesley..."
"No. No more favours."
"Look, I-"
"Absolutely not. See, I decided this a while ago. No more."
"Give it up, Wes," Bookie drawled. "You owe me."
"Oh, really."
"Do I need to remind you of the incident at Genosha? And how I managed to keep that little incident out of the papers...?"
"Okay, okay, I remember." There was a lengthy pause as Wes considered. "What'dya want?" He asked in a quiet voice.
"I need you to find somebody for me."
Another pause. "Doesn't sound so bad. Yet."
"It's not so bad. It might even be perfectly legal." Bookie let out a chuckle.
Wesley was quiet for about three seconds. "Yeah, alright. I guess. But I'm only leavin' retirement temporarily, you hear? Don't expect me to do this on every whim you got."
"I got it, Wes."
"What's the name?"
"McCoy." Bookie thumbed through his notebook for a second before he found the page. "Dr. Henry McCoy."
Me Again: Still working on that telepathy idea of mine, so if you'd indulge me...
