FIVE

I arrived at Xavier's school, which was a huge fenced off compound in Westchester. Its ornate wrought iron gates greeted me at the end of Graymalkin lane. The Buick's bald tires crunched up the gravel and the gates swung open as if they sensed the car approaching. Beyond the gates was a long paved driveway that led right to the front door of the school. I parked the car and stepped out. The lawns were perfectly manicured, and it seemed as though my Buick was sullying the place just by its very presence. In fact, I felt as if I had the same effect. I knocked on the huge carved doors and waited. A sense that this place was more than what it appeared overwhelmed me. It seemed that the grand façade, the lawns, the lake, were all a cover for something else. The door opened to reveal the same huge Russian that approached me with Xavier's offer. I looked up and almost took a step back. A slight smile played upon his lips as he made a gesture towards the foyer. "Please come in, Mr. Logan. The professor is expecting you."

I stepped through the doors and into a huge, tastefully decorated foyer. The floors were honey coloured and polished. Huge rugs of burgundy and gold ran towards two flights of stairs. There was a balcony above, made of the same honey coloured wood. Our footsteps echoed as we walked down a hallway. The big Russian offered to take my coat and I declined. The Russian knocked on the door at the end of the hall. Affixed to it was a brass plate that read HEADMASTER.

A voice came from within. "Come in, please."

The Russian opened the door and I entered. Xavier was sitting behind his huge oak desk, his fingers laced on an ink blotter in front of him. He was bald as a cue ball, and his scalp shone in the light. He was smiling up at me. "Ah, Mr. Logan. Please take a seat. I'm Charles Xavier. I believe you've already met Peter. He's one of my former students."

The big Russian closed the door behind him. "Is he your houseboy as well?" I asked as I sat in a big armchair opposite Xavier. He smiled at me and inclined his head.

"I'm sorry if he offended you, Mr. Logan. Peter takes care of errands for me when I'm indisposed at the school. I should have realised that it might not have pleased you to be approached in such a way."

I waved it away. Xavier smiled still, and leaned forward. "So, Professor, what can I do for you?"

"Straight to the point. Very well, Mr. Logan. I discovered recently that Some of my files were stolen. They contain very sensitive information that I would not like to be in the wrong hands.

I took out a notepad and scribbled stolen files down. I looked up and tapped my pencil on the edge of the notepad. "And you want me to recover these files?"

Xavier drew a breath. "Well, that's part of it." He leaned forward some more and looked me in the eyes. Something flashed there for a moment, and then he looked away. "I keep copies of all my confidential files, of course. I feel that certain enemies of my school will use these documents to track down our prospective students."

"And why would they do that?"

His eyes flicked up to mine again. "To kill them." He sat back and it seemed as though he was exhausted. "I believe these people want to shut me up, and stop me spreading my teachings to the greater world."

I nodded. "Right. They oppose your theories of evolution. To me it looks like most people who oppose your theories are from the religious right, and from more traditional, died in the wool scientific backgrounds. Most prefer to argue in the public arena. What makes you think it is an opponent of your school?"

"You bring up some very valid points, Mr. Logan." He waved a long finger and levelled his gaze on me. "And I see you've done your homework."

I shifted in my seat. "I don't like to take on cases where I'm in the dark. I read your articles, in particular "The X-Factor: The next phase in Human Evolution. It was a groundbreaking study."

"Thankyou. So you also know the violent fervour with which my opponents argued my theories."

I had to think about that. His choice of words was interesting. Violent fervour. I paused a little too long and Xavier's eyebrows formed a question mark. "Well, I saw some very extreme views being put across," I replied. "Although to a layman like me, it all seemed a bit too academic."

He nodded. "I'm afraid that is what this argument will ever be. If I cannot present them with something that they could see, or touch, then my work will always belong to quackery rather than genuine science."

"So this list of documents that was stolen," I said. "It contains information regarding prospective students which you consider sensitive."

"Well, information that could lead to a very real threat."

"Can you tell me what the files contain?"

He sighed. "Background files mostly. Some stretching back to before I was born. My father was a scientist and when he died most of his files were left to me. His research papers and personal correspondence was kept with some of the more outdated background files on my current and prospective students."

"So your father's files were not of any value?"

Xavier smiled as though I had made some subtle intellectual joke. "Not of any great scientific value anymore, I'm afraid. But they hold a certain sentimental value."

I wrote Dead father's paperwork and underlined it. "Who would have access to your files, other than yourself?"

He frowned. "My research assistant, one or two of my senior pupils…They are held in a secure area with all my other sensitive files."

"Are they kept at the school here?"

He shook his head and reached for a folder on the coffee table near him. "They were kept at a secure storage facility in the city. The manager of the facility called to inform me of the theft two days ago." He handed me the folder and I opened it. All it contained was some invoices and an inventory of all items stored.

"May I keep this?" I asked.

"Absolutely. I have copies."

The big Russian came back in and Xavier smiled up at him. "Ah, Peter." He looked across at me. "Mister Logan, I'm afraid I have another appointment now. I'll have your car brought round."

Joe Greenson's office was a small cube painted in faded green with balding brown carpet. It could be said that the man and the office were the same: Shabby, balding and unpleasant to look at. I wouldn't have been there at all if I could have avoided it. Joe ushered me in and offered me a seat. I sat and looked around. The walls were crowded with old photographs, certificates and press clippings, all of them in some way related to his father, the late Bobby Greenson, a retired boxer who made a fortune in property and investments after he left the ring. Greenson senior became quite a legend in his time, his wealth at one time rivalling that of Warren Worthington III's business empire. But after the stock market crash, the great Bobby Greenson lost most of it save for a few strategic investments, which he left to his son. If his son had the same business acumen he may have made something of what was left, but he squandered it on booze and whores. Joe looked across at me with red rimmed eyes. When he spoke, his breath reeked of cheap wine. "So you managed to rustle up what you owe, huh Logan?"

I nodded and pulled off some bills from the wad that Mrs. Peel had pressed into my palm earlier. When I looked up, I saw Joe eyeing the cash like a salivating dog. "A month's rent." I threw the bills across his desk and he looked at them, then up at me. His hand was trembling, like he was fighting the urge to snatch the bills away before I changed my mind. I was impressed by his show of self restraint.

"Logan, I like having you here," He said quickly, biting his fleshy lip as he swiftly scooped up the bills and placed them in a drawer. "You're the best type of tenant. Quiet. You Don't bring any trouble into the place which is good." He coughed a little, and then loosened his tie. His collar was grubby with sweat. "But I couldn't help noticing your…conversation with that big Russian boy outside the other day."

"What about it, Joe?"

"Well, I was wondering whether you were in any kinda trouble now. In your line of work, you would make a lot of enemies."

I shook my head. "I wouldn't worry about that Joe."

He sighed through his nose and shrugged. "It's just that, you know what people are like, Logan. People get the wrong impressions."

"Can't have that."

"Just be careful, OK Logan? Don't be stepping on any toes."

What worried me about Joe Greenson's warning wasn't what he said; it was the fact that he had never showed any concern over my safety or showed more than a superficial interest in my work. I began to wonder whose toes I had stepped on for Joe to issue me a friendly bit of advice. Joe might have heard of my tangle with Warren Worthington and got scared. Joe Greenson would fall over himself to grab at even the hint of money dangling like a bit of live bait in front of him, and Worthington would know it. I tried to shake my head of conspiracy theories. After my altercation with Ricky, I couldn't reign in these thoughts. Worthington despised me, there's no doubt about it, but I couldn't think why he would spy on me. It Didn't seem like his style.

I decided to take a walk to the library. Too many things had happened over the past few days. I had suddenly become a popular man, judging by the attempt on my life the other night. Nothing says I love you like a hired assassin.

I sensed a chill in the air. My lungs burned as I walked the six blocks between my apartment building and the library. I needed the sanctuary that only the atmosphere of the library could provide. In an odd way, I craved Edmund's cranky old lectures. I rarely visited him during business hours, as I suspected he slept through most of the daylight. Those foolish enough to disturb his rest would most likely pay for it, as I fully expected to do. You can imagine my surprise when I descended into the bowels of the Archives Section and found Edmund upright and very much awake, debating with a young man about chess. When he noticed my arrival, he swiped the young man's arguments away with a decisive flick of his wrist and, hand on hips, welcomed me in his own fashion. "I thought the Library had a strict policy about letting drifters in."

"Good to see you Edmund. I see you don't retire to a crypt during the day."

He snorted-his version of a hearty laugh-and returned behind his desk. He made a steeple of his fingers under his chin and looked me right in the eye. "What do you want, Logan?"

I looked at my hands. "I…I want to find out some information."

"Surprise surprise. Last time it was Xavier. Who is it this time?"

After a long pause, I had to admit, "Warren Worthington III."

Edmund's bushy eyebrows rose over his thick spectacles, but he did not immediately respond. He leaned back in his chair and made a noise like he was about to clear his throat. "What do you want to know?" It was clear he had a mass of information to impart, but he was not going to make it easy.

"Look, I know the sketch. Old money. comes from a long line of great white industrialists. Built himself up on the shoulders of giants and fairly runs this town. Now I want to know all the stuff they don't print in the papers."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Why?"

I don't miss a beat. "Research."

He nods slowly. "You should know that none of the men named Warren Worthington take kindly to intrusions into their private lives. Having said that, for a supposedly private family, they certainly do have a lot of very public skeletons in their closets. Like most of the great dynasties."

I didn't want to interrupt his flow, but I felt compelled to speak. "Scandals, you mean?"

His chair squeaked alarmingly as he leaned forward. "You mean to say you don't have your fair share of secrets, Logan? Not all of us can merrily trip through life without any knowledge of whom or what we are." He fixed me with a look that pierced right through me. "Warren Worthington the first knew exactly what he was. And he made a killing, literally, from many wars he helped to instigate. He bent the ears of presidents and beat the media into believing his own publicity. While he ritualistically abused his wife and philandered with everything of woman born, he projected the image of a family man who happened to be a billionaire. He was the first Worthington to truly wield the power that incredible wealth had given him." Edmund laced fingers over his belly and smiled, his yellowing dentures displayed like a predator in the savannah. "Of course, he was protected at all levels because of his good relations with the White House. He had established a connection with the upper echelons of power, which would endure for generations to come. It was just assumed that while the conservatives were in power, the Worthington fortune would be assured. They were deeply involved in the manufacturing of weapons for the army, which, as you know, easily quadrupled their worth. By the time Warren Worthington the first had passed on, his Grandson, named after him, was old enough to take over the family fortune. The fortune was in safe hands with good old Warren the second. He was almost a perfect copy of his grandfather. He kept the Worthington name alive and respectable throughout his tenure as CEO of Worthington Enterprises. The contracts with the government were renewed, and the good relations with the media continued. During his reign, the obtained several national newspapers and expanded their textile and metal fabrication businesses. All of this under federal approval of course."

I knew Edmund was about to veer off course, so I steered him back to his narrative. "This skips us to Warren Worthington III"

Edmund's nose wrinkled. "Yes. He's all we have left of a great family. The unfortunate thing is, Warren the Third knew what he was. From a very young age he knew he was in a position of privilege. When he was old enough he wrested the empire from his uncle Maxwell, one of the only decent men to control the fortunes of that family. Warren was twenty one and had already garnered a long and impressive list of enemies. His uncle Maxwell was unhappy with the direction the business was taking and very publicly said so." Edmund shifted in his chair and coughed into his fist. "Of course, Max Worthington came to a sudden demise a few years ago. Hunting accident. It was revealed later that Max was attempting to organize a coup at the time of his death."

"The implication being that he was murdered by Warren?"

Edmund smiled thinly. "It was more a common belief than implication. Warren was afraid that the empire would slip through his fingers, that if his uncle could seize control again, he would lose access to the family fortune." Edmund looked away, as if his knowledge was spent, but to my surprise he continued. "The Worthington fortune is not as immense as it used to be, mostly thanks to Warren's mismanagement. His interest in running the company that made his millions waned after he turned twenty five, and now he lets others deal with it. These days he prefers to waste his life in the club he owns, which I have been told you are familiar with."

I looked up. My shock must have been plain, because his smile was wide. "I heard about your little altercation with Warren outside his club the other night." His smiled faded. "I thought you had more sense than that, Logan."

His gaze forced mine to the floor. I felt like a misbehaving student in front of a stern headmaster. "So did I."

"Logan, you need to understand. Worthington will not relinquish that which he owns. He could easily have you killed in the blink of an eye. Do you really think a woman is worth all of this?"

My head shot up and the words came before I was able to stop. "I never said anything about…"

"But you didn't need to. When men wrestle like idiots in the rain, it's usually to do with a woman. "