BEST SERVED COLD

CHAPTER 7: AFTERMATH

I wish we could have taken the Blackbird all the way, Bobby thought as he streaked down the road on a souped-up motorcycle, but the police and emergency services might have an issue with that. If I didn't care who saw me using my powers, I'd just make a highway of my own.

The call from Kathy's place had been just under an hour ago; Bobby and Logan had flown the Blackbird from the Xavier Institute in Westchester nearer to Kathy's home in Manhattan, but now he and Logan were still fighting the Manhattan traffic, weaving between cars, cutting corners over sidewalks, taking alleyway shortcuts. Generally, Professor Xavier disapproved of such flagrant law breaking, but this was definitely an emergency. Bobby and Logan were just leaving the metropolitan area and entering the more sparsely populated waterfront districts when Logan decelerated and stopped in the middle of the road. Bobby pulled up beside him.

"What is it, Logan?"

Logan took a deep breath through his nose then blew it out again. His eyes narrowed.

"Smoke."

"Christ," Bobby swore, "Let's GO!" Rubber squealed and smoked and Bobby tore away with Logan in hot pursuit.

Following Kathy's directions, they arrived just minutes later, greeted by a grim tableau. Fire engines, police vehicles and an ambulance were parked outside of what was left of Katherine Wister's home, now a blackened shell. Charred beams and crumbling corners of roof stretched starkly into the afternoon sky like skeletal fingers. Fire fighters used long handled rakes to sift through the ashes, and policemen with rolled up sleeves helped to shift aside fallen beams. A group of confused firefighters stood nearby, still manning a fire hose; oddly, they looked like they didn't know what they should be doing.

That's odd, Bobby thought numbly, looking them over, usually the guys with the hoses are covered in soot and ashes. These guys are squeaky clean. One of the firefighters near the fire truck noticed them watching and started walking their direction.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" The guy had to be a veteran, at least. His voice was gruff, hoarse from repeated exposure to the smoke of countless fires; a few small burn scars and some gray hair peeked out from beneath his helmet. His friendly but gravelly query asked without saying Why are you here? Bobby shut off the bike and dismounted. Logan followed suit.

"Maybe. My name is Robert Drake, and this is Logan. We work for the Xavier Institution. We received a call about an hour ago from this address, from a Miss Katherine Wister."

"Well, this IS the right place," the fireman confirmed gravely. "What's it to you guys?"

"Miss Wister called us on behalf of a friend, about enrolling her friends' daughter into the Xavier Institution." Bobby's look went to the house. "Is she-?"

"-In there? 'Fraid not. We just got done goin' that ash pile. There's nothing left."

"Find anyone? Survivors?"

The firefighter looked down and shook his head.

"Did you find anything? Anything at all?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," the guy sighed. His head turned and Bobby followed his gaze towards the ambulance. A pair of coroners were pulling a white sheet over a gurney. Bobby covered his face with a hand. Logan remained impassive and vaguely menacing; his eyes darted back and forth and his nostrils flared several times.

"You guys got an ID on the victim?" Bobby asked after a moment.

"Yeah, her name's Gibbens. Tracy Gibbens: sixteen-year-old female, five-foot-nine, albino. We checked both of their files once we got a positive ID. Each of their names was listed on the others' file as a secondary contact. Apparently, the girl's mother and Ms. Wister were good friends. She must be the kid they wanted to enroll in your school."

I'm gonna be sick, Bobby thought.

"Ya sure ya didn't find anything else?" Logan said. The firefighter met his look levelly and shook his head again. "Ya mind if we just take a look around?"

"Naw, go ahead. Just stay out of our way and let us know if you find anything." The veteran tipped his helmet and walked away. Bobby turned to Logan.

"Take that look around, I'm going to check the body." Logan nodded sharply, then turned to stalk around the grounds.

Damn. What the HELL happened here?! Was it an accident? Or was someone trying to keep Wister and that kid from talking? For a moment, Bobby could almost hear Professor Xavier's voice asking, Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?

Bobby shook his head and rubbed his temples. After a minute or so, he worked up the nerve to approach the coroners, still busy around the gurney and its shrouded occupant. One of them held a small white wrist while checking a laser thermometer. He shook his head at his colleague and the two began (or resumed, possibly) a spirited debate.

"I'm telling you, it's just not possible! The time table is all wrong!"

"Well how else do you explain this temperature? I know MY instruments aren't faulty. There's no denying the reading! Look! There it is, plain as day!"

"All I'm saying is that when the call came in, witnesses placed the girl AND her mother at the house this morning! The mother left around eleven; she wouldn't have left her daughter with someone she didn't trust! Besides, they found her body in the middle of it! Think, man think!" At the second coroner's glare, the first added, "Did those guys find anything that could be identified as pieces of a meat freezer? I don't THINK so! So how could she do it?"

"It's my—our job—to be scientific," the second coroner snapped, "and my scientific data states that this body, at this temperature, has been dead for the last two days." The first coroner turned red and looked ready to explode when the second cut him off. "Dead, for two days, by extreme hypothermia," he insisted. He kicked the wheel brake into the unlocked position and wheeled the gurney into the ambulance by himself. Meanwhile, the first coroner stewed and glared daggers at his retreating coworker.

"Excuse me," Bobby said, approaching cautiously, "Is there something going on?" The coroner spun and looked at Bobby with surprise. He relaxed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters," the coroner said, "the fire was reported just under an hour ago. There's absolutely no way the fire could be out already. We just got here, for Chrissakes! When we pulled up, those firefighters over there had all their gear out and ready to go, but there was no fire! Well, I mean, obviously there was a fire here, but look! Those ashes are stone cold. There wasn't even any smoke coming from them. It's just impossible! A fire that size should be a smoldering pile of red-hot coals for hours!"

"Then, there's that body that they recovered for us. More weird shit. She's cold as a Popsicle and perfectly untouched, straight from where the heart of that fire should have been. That body ought to be a pile of ashes inside another pile of ashes. Instead, she looks like she fell asleep inside a meat locker. My coworker insists that she froze to death two days ago, and the firefighters are saying that she croaked from smoke inhalation. Either which way, she's DOA; no breathing, no pulse. Even better, a neighbor down the beach aways—the one who made the call—said that he saw an albino girl playing with Wister's dog this morning before sun-up. It just doesn't make sense." Bobby mulled this over for a moment.

"You said Wister had a dog? Has anyone seen it?"

"Nope, just what's left of the kennel out back."

"Thanks." Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets and trudged around the back of the house to look for Logan, muttering obscenities.

Damn, blasted, frickin'— CRUNCH. Huh? What the—? Looking down, Bobby saw that the grass in the back yard was dead, wilted by—

Jesus! Bobby knelt and put a hand to the earth. It was cold; REALLY cold. With his special talent for ice, Bobby "Iceman" Drake sensed several tons of it beneath the frozen earth. It extended from under the foundation, like an upturned hemisphere, centered in the basement.

Crap! Wister wasn't kidding. That kid has—had, DAMN it—a lot of power. But why the basement? Why not outside? Bobby was still kneeling in the grass when Logan approached and said his name. Bobby ignored him for a second and started sputtering in amazement.

"Logan, you're not gonna believe this! There must be a freakin' ICEBERG under this house! Wister said the girl did this on her first try with her powers!"

"Stuff it, Drake. The girl's dead. You need to see this." Logan's voice offered many things: irritation, impatience (and maybe a grudge for losing that game of pool), but this time it also held something else. Compassion. Confused, Bobby stood and followed Logan for about twenty yards from the house.

"Logan, what are we—"

"Shut up for a minute. Just listen ta me. Look," Logan pointed at a spot a few yards away. When Bobby looked, he bit back the sarcastic retort he'd prepared. Logan had discovered the reamains of Kathy's dog.

"Gunny," Bobby whispered. The dog's body was still fresh, but his head was ruined. His charred ears had already attracted a small cloud of flies. They buzzed in and out of his gaping mouth and empty eye sockets. Bobby swallowed back nausea.

"What happened to him? How did you find him? And for the love of little mutants, why is he so important?"

Logan snapped a glare at Bobby. His upper lip curled up.

"Somebody killed him. I scented the body from the house. He's important 'cause he's telling me how the killers killed him and set that fire back there," Logan growled. Bobby blinked.

"Huh?"

"His brain's cooked. That's what I smelled. See those ears? Whoever the killer is, he's got three fingers on each hand, and some hefty electrical current. Ya heard how the firefighters think the fire started? Electrical fire in the garage. Somethin's wrong though. The smell comin' from the garage ain't gasoline, it's JP-5." Bobby stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

"Diesel fuel, kid, for the boat. Hard to ignite, but once you get it going, there ain't no stoppin' it."

"Then why would Wister keep it in the garage?"

"She didn't. The trail starts from the boat shack by the pier then heads towards the house. Recent too." Logan's gaze burned into Bobby's. "Somebody torched the house, someone who knew what they were doin'. I jus' can't figure out how the fire went out. They're right, ya know. There shouldn't be anything left." Bobby looked at the dead dog, then back to the house.

All right. No more questions, we have a winner. Someone came here to kill Kathy and Tracy. Bobby heaved a sigh. Looks like they got Tracy. No sign of Kathy, though. Maybe she got away? Bobby began to pace. If she got away, she could be miles from here by now; how are we—? Bobby stopped and smacked his forehead with a palm. Of course! How ELSE do you find a mutant in hiding?

"C'mon Logan. We need the Professor to fire up Cerebro."

As the two X-men walked away, a soft, mournful sound echoed across the Hudson River. Bobby didn't notice it for his enthusiastic stride to the motorcycle. Logan paused and looked out across the river. The afternoon sun turned the water to liquid gold, blinding to look at. Logan thought he caught a glimpse of a dolphin slipping beneath the waves.

"Naah."