Chapter 5: Revelations

Jean closed the door with a telekinetic flick and dragged over two chairs for herself and Scott. "She's fine, firstly," she said, "from the stupid paintballs. She's not, however, fine physically. She let slip the fact that she was sick all last night because she was forced to eat the stuff they cook using the dirty water. She's been sensible enough so far to avoid the cooking by simply not eating it, but last night when one of the boys made fun of her poor eating habits, she lost her temper and threw her plate into the boy's face. The headmaster brought her a new plate and made her sit there until she ate it. She didn't have a choice; she said she had homework to do, and I gather she wasn't going to be allowed to get up without having eaten it."

Scott made a noise of disgust and pity, and Xavier looked like he was going to be sick himself. "That's not all. She told me her parents died when she was very young, and her grandfather took her in. He died in a drunk driving accident four years ago. She and some friends were on their way back from somewhere when another car slammed into the one she and her grandfather was in. It caught fire. She was badly burned all over by the time the firemen got her out. When she woke up in the hospital she was nearly blind from her prolonged exposure to the flames, badly scarred from the fire that burned her, and grieving for her grandfather. To top all that off, she was told she would have to go into an orphanage because they couldn't locate any other relatives. Charles, can you imagine waking up in a hospital and being told that you don't have anyone anymore to love you, to care about you, and you have to go to an orphanage, and oh, by the way, you're almost blind, too?"

Xavier was shaking his head. "I can't imagine," he said gently. "Poor child."

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Hank's blue-furred head poked around the door. "Ready for the results of the blood test?" he said. From the expression on his face, Jean knew it wasn't going to be good news.

"Come on in, Hank," Xavier said.

Hank came in and sat in one of the chairs. It creaked under his weight, but didn't break, a testament to the sturdiness of its construction. "She's malnourished, which should come as no surprise, once one gives her a cursory visual examination," he said. "Her body is lacking calcium, vitamins A, B, B12, C, D, E, and every other vitamin for which there is a letter. I will not drag it out. Her blood pressure is eighty over forty, which, as every doctor knows, is dangerously low. She has very few white blood cells in her body. That means she has next to no immunity against anything that might hit her. She's lacking in iron, which she needs to build up her immune system." He paused.

"Now here are the odd things. She's got an old fracture of the left tibia—that's one of the lower leg bones—that never healed correctly. She also has, " he consulted the readout he held, "Four broken ribs, two of which were broken at least twice. A fracture of the right humerus, a fracture of her upper right thigh bone, a fractured jaw, and a hairline skull fracture. I checked the dating on some of these, and some can be attributed to the car accident that killed her grandfather, but most of these are recent." He took off his glasses.

Xavier released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "How recent?" he asked.

"Within the last two years recent," Hank said.

"Someone beat her that bad?" Jean looked like she was going to faint.

"No. They were inflicted at different times over the last couple of years. The most recent, I'd say, is actually the skull fracture. That's probably no more than a few months old."

Xavier propelled his hoverchair around his desk. "Can I speak to her?" he said.

Hank hesitated. "I had given her a sedative to allow her to sleep before Jean left," he said. "She was becoming insistent on your not calling the Headmaster of the orphanage, and allowing her to return. I decided it was best to allow her to sleep until you had decided what to do."

Xavier leaned back. "Until you came in, I was actually planning to allow her to return once I had warned the Headmaster to take better care of his charges and given her a chance to eat a decent meal and get a hot shower. Your information changes that, though. She is certainly not returning until I figure out where Mr. Gilmore came from, what he does, what his past is like, and I find out some more information about her as well. By all means, let her sleep. Scott, please instruct the others to take no calls from Mr. Gilmore until I say otherwise. I am going to try to find out what happened to her." He retreated to the computer behind his desk as the others left the room.

He blanked the computer screen, clearing it of all his work, then called up the DSL that ran into the mansion. When the search bar appeared, he typed in the name McCarly and waited to see what would appear.

Nothing.

Mystified, he tried again. Still nothing.

He typed in 'Amy McCarly.' Nothing. When he tried again, his finger misspelled her name, and it went to the search engine as McClary. This time the screen filled up with news clippings and articles. He clicked on the first one, watched the page load. And there, on the screen, was a photo of a smiling, pretty, adorable little girl, about five or six, with the same dimple on her cheek that Amy had. He noted, with some amusement, that the picture had been taken by Peter Parker.

The caption on the article in the Daily Bugle read, "Tragic Fire Kills Two, Fire Deemed Suspicious." He read the article.

A fire swept through the suburban home of Edward and Mary McClary early yesterday morning, killing the couple as they slept in their beds. Neighbors awoke to the sound of screams and the sight of flames erupting from the upstairs rooms. The fire department was immediately called, but upon their arrival at the site, the fire chief declared the situation hopeless and no attempt was made to rescue the couple hopelessly trapped inside. The neighbors were standing around watching when they clearly saw a woman, badly burned, come stumbling out of the front door, carrying her screaming little girl, Amy, six, wrapped in a blanket soaked in water. Ambulances rushed the woman and child to Manhattan General, but the mother died en route. The little girl was treated for shock and smoke inhalation, and released to the custody of her maternal Grandfather by hospital officials. The cause of the fire has not been determined, but the fire department has tentatively labeled the fire as suspicious.

Edward and Mary were much-loved teachers at the local university, where Mary taught English Literature and Edward taught Biology. Their students say they will miss them very much.

Xavier printed out the article, hit the back button and clicked on the next article.

The fire at the McClary house two months ago has officially been labeled an accident, although there are some aspects of it which has fire investigators puzzled. The fire started in the child's room, in some faulty wiring in a light socket to which a child's night-light was plugged. The fire spread quickly throughout the house; as Amy was dressed when she arrived at the hospital but her mother was not, officials concluded that she may have had time to put on clothes and go to wake her parents up. There were also large swathes of floor untouched by fire leading from the upstairs bedrooms where they were sleeping to the front door. One investigator said that it looked as though someone or something had tried to keep the fire at bay so that the occupants could escape. There was no one else in the house at the time, however, and autopsies on the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. McClary showed no evidence of their being mutants.

Fire investigators attempted to speak with the McClary's daughter, Amy, who survived miraculously unscathed, but she still lies in a semi-comatose state in her grandfather's home in upstate New York. Though Mr. Howard Ferguson is a paraplegic, he has not felt inconvenienced by his granddaughter's presence. "My daughter's husband's parents are helping me," he said.

Xavier clicked the back button, puzzled. The photos were definitely Amy; the two others were definitely her parents. There was enough of a family resemblance to be reasonably sure. So why was Amy's name now McCarly, and not McClary? And from this article, she had loving relatives, a grandmother and grandfather on her father's side. When had her name been changed, who had done it, and why?

He printed out the second article, clicked on the next one, and was confronted by another picture of Amy, smiling, in the arms of an elderly man in a wheelchair with a kind smile. There was a definite resemblance here, too. This was her grandfather, then, her mother's father. He read the headline. "McClary Girl Awakens From Three Month Coma; It's a Medical Miracle; Doctors Elated." This was from some medical journal, and involved a great deal of medical jargon. He printed it anyway, mostly for Hank's benefit, and went on.

"Drunk Driver Brings Tragedy to Young Girl" said the next article's caption. He read it.

Tragedy has struck young Amy McClary again, this time in the form of the death of her beloved grandfather. Young Amy McClary was on her way back from an audition at Juilliard, as part of their Aspiring Artists program. They were in a jubilant mood, Amy having just been accepted into the program as an exceptionally talented young ballerina. At the intersection of Madison and Fifth a drunk driver ran a red light and slammed into the lift-equipped van carrying Amy, her grandfather, her friend, Michelle Matera, and her mother, Allison Matera. The Materas and Howard Ferguson, Amy's grandfather, died instantly, but Amy herself remained trapped. The van was in flames and rescuers could hear her screaming inside as they tried to cut her out of the wreckage. She was finally freed, and onlookers were horrified to see that she appeared to be on fire. Firemen rolled her on the ground to douse the flames, then an ambulance took her to a local hospital, where Social Services informs us she is in serious but stable condition.

Xavier clicked on the next article. This one was short.

The paternal grandparents of a little girl named Amy McClary wish to trace her whereabouts. Amy is described as a slender, graceful little girl, a born dancer, with short black hair and brown eyes. She is about 3'2", ten years old, slightly nearsighted due to her love of books. Amy was last seen being checked into Manhattan General after a Car accident killed her other grandparent, Howard Ferguson. She was never checked out of the hospital, yet a thorough search has not revealed her anywhere on the hospital premises. Her doctor, a Mr. Harvey Gilmore, assures us he would not have released her to anyone who did not show proper identification. If you have seen this little girl anywhere please call 555-2398. Reward offered. Or call 1-800-THE MISSING if you wish to remain anonymous.

Xavier stared at the words on the screen, mind racing. Harvey Gilmore was the clue to all of this, then. How had he gotten from the doctor of a Manhattan hospital to this, administrator of an orphanage? How had he managed to change Amy's name from her given to the one she now believed was hers? How had he gotten her to believe it?

And what was he going to do with her? Because Xavier could see why he wanted her. Amy must be an Alpha-class mutant, to have been able to hold back the fire for so long, to put on her own clothes, go wake her parents and try to get them out of the house. At only five years old, no less! Hers was a formidable ability, and one that needed careful handling. What would he want her for?

He realized that the other McClary's the search had turned up must be other people. He blanked the search bar, typed in 'Harvey Gilmore'.

The search engine came back with over five thousand results. Xavier sighed. This wouldn't get him anywhere. A sudden inspiration seized him, and he typed in 'Pinewood Orphanage'.

A description of the establishment came up, a brief history, then he clicked on 'Waiting to be Adopted' and scrolled down to the M's. There was a picture of Amy, with a line through the picture, and her description was replaced with the words, "Social Services worker Mr. Harvey Gilmore has said that this child is not available for adoption at this time."

Xavier blew out his breath. Maybe he would have to search all those Harvey Gilmores.

There was a tap on the door, and Scott and Jean stood there, in his-and-hers matching light green satin pajamas. Scott held a steaming mug, and Jean held two similar cups, one of which she held out to him. "Scott and I couldn't sleep," she said quietly. "We went to make some tea, and I thought you could use some too. Have you found anything yet?"

"Plenty," Xavier sighed. "But it seems to raise more questions than it answers. Did you know her parents died in a house fire? She was five. She held the fire at bay while she tried to wake her parents and get them out of the house. Her mother made it out holding her, but died on the way to the hospital."

"Five years old?" Scott read the article Xavier printed. "Wow. Too early, Charles, her powers manifested way too early. She's got to be an Alpha-class by now."

Jean picked up the second printed article. "So her grandfather died in a car crash. Charles, the end of the article says the fire started inside the car. Do you think she was so grief-stricken she tried to burn herself?"

Xavier took back the paper. He read the last paragraph. "It seems like that to me," he said grimly.

Scott looked at the last paper. "She disappeared? How does a hospital lose a patient?"

"They didn't," Xavier told him. "The doctor changed all her patient information and turned her over to social services. From this," he handed Scott the latest printout, "It looks like Harvey Gilmore is a chameleon. First he was a doctor at the hospital; then a Social Services worker. Now it looks like he's the Headmaster of the orphanage next door. The question is, what has he been doing? For the last four years, during the time Amy's gotten all those injuries, where has she been, and what has he been doing to her? Why is he chasing her?" he sighed.

Jean looked at the Harvey Gilmores on the screen. "He could be any one of those," she said. "Did you try and see if he has a police record?"

"No, I didn't, Jean, you're a genius." He typed, "New York State Police Records."

A message came up. If you are searching for the record of a specific individual, please enter all known information about the person into the fields below.

Xavier typed in 'Harvey' in the first name field, and 'Gilmore' in the last name field, and waited. The screen suddenly came up full of print. Scott and Jean both leaned over his shoulder, tea and sleep forgotten. "Robbery," Jean said after a moment. "I never knew there were so many different kinds or types or degrees of robbery."

"But look," Scott said, "it's all suspected's. He hasn't been convicted of any of them except of that last one." He reached over Xavier's shoulder to point at the screen. "Sorry, Charles--"

"It's okay," he said, sitting back.

"—and look, he did nine months for that four years ago. That was right after he'd spirited Amy out of the hospital. Someone must have taken over his 'cases' and placed Amy in an orphanage when no one could find any relatives under the name McCarly. It looks like when he go out he went straight back to pursuing her. Found her in the orphanage, kidnapped her, for lack of a better word, and took her…where? Where did he take her? There's a big gap there, Charles, four years worth."

"I'm planning to ask Amy that tomorrow morning," Xavier said, collecting the scattered sheets of printout and organizing them. "I don't think there's anything else I can find in the computer. Maybe something will occur to me tonight." He switched off the computer, mildly surprised to find he'd been on it for almost four hours, and looked at the clock. Almost midnight. He looked at Jean. "How is she? Have you checked?"

Jean looked at him in consternation. "Charles! Of course I've checked!" Then she laughed. "Yes, I have," she said. "A few minutes ago. Logan was keeping an eye on her in the medlabs. Hank's gone to bed to catch some sleep. He'll take over for Ororo after she takes over for Logan. I asked Rogue to work out a schedule so she wouldn't be left unguarded, or she'll sneak back into the orphanage. And judging from what we found out so far, if Gilmore finds out where she's been, we'll probably never see her again."

"Is she all right?" Xavier asked.

Jean sat down and sipped her tea. "Yes, she is. Remember, Charles, she spent all last night throwing up because she got sick from the dirty water at the house. You know what she called the meal she had? Roadkill meat."

"Jean," Scott groaned at his wife. "What an image to take with me to bed!"

Jean shrugged. "Sorry, but that's what she said," she shrugged. "And really, if you're grossed out by the description, how do you think she felt about being forced to actually eat it?"

"I would have gotten sick at the table," Scott made a face. "The orphanage I grew up in was pretty awful, but not like that. This is inhuman. Poor Amy."

Xavier stretched his arms, yawned, and finished off the last of his tea. "I will be going to bed, Jean," he said. "No, don't worry about the cup, Jean, I'll drop it off in the kitchen on my way down to the medlabs tomorrow morning. Goodnight, Scott." And he went through the door in his office wall that led into his bedroom.

As he undressed, turned off the lights, slid into bed, and powered off the hoverchair, he thought regretfully about the little volume of Shakespeare that Amy prized so highly, and the fragile, precious letter it contained. He had no intention of allowing her to return to the orphanage. She would lose the book she loved. He hoped she would forgive him when she met her father's parents. He hoped they were still alive; a lot of things could happen in four years. He thought, rather regretfully, that he should have kept it. Then she would have it here and she wouldn't be tempted to go back.

Well, tempted or not, she wouldn't be going back. He wouldn't allow her to.

With that comforting thought, he drifted off into sleep.