Chapter Eighteen:
Where are you?
Logan stared at the computer screen in front of him, a deep frown creasing his brow as he studied a computerized map of the areas surrounding Chicago. He was sitting on the passenger side of the nondescript black sedan, which all secret organizations seemed to prefer on covert missions.
The team was divided between two cars; Creed and Marko accompanying Logan in the first, while Dolarhyde and Fisk followed in the second as they sped north onto Interstate 94.
Logan knew where Charlene McGee was headed. She had quite recklessly dropped her ticket during the brief conflict at the bus station. She had been planning to go north, into Canada. Perhaps she thought crossing the border would keep her safe from her pursuers.
Normally, U.S. authorities would have no jurisdiction on international soil. However, treaties and governmental laws did not restrict William Stryker and his operations. He had earned the place vacated by the defunct department of D.S.I. known as the SHOP, and that gave him and his teams certain privileges.
We'll follow you over the straights and into Russia if that's what it takes, Logan thought, as if he were sending a warning to McGee herself.
Logan glanced up once from the screen as Creed maneuvered the sedan onto the interstate. The first sign they passed read, Milwaukee 70 miles.
Where are you?
Jay Malloy sat cross-legged on the bed of his motel room among a pile of paper maps and scowled. His frustration would have been comical to any onlooker. The Watcher-in-Training was fighting (and losing) against stubborn folds and static to keep the documents flat.
He had no idea what he was looking for. The maps had been purchased from the lobby of the hotel where he had been staying with the rest of the team. Unfortunately, Jay's current financial situation did not support staying in the five-star joint another night.
The Watchers left him with enough money to get to Nebraska, visit his family and hit a flight from Omaha back to England. Sneaky solo investigations that could get him expelled from training had to be funded on his own.
After a few more minutes of map wars, Jay shoved the pile away from him with a sigh of disgust and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
Great plan, Malloy, he thought sarcastically, Terr-rr-rr-rr-ific. I don't know why you thought finding one chick in one of the biggest cities in the country would be hard. I mean, I don't want to say needle in a haystack but...
"But, I'm a cocky son of a bitch who thinks he knows everything," he muttered, "And what I don't know, the dead will tell me... if they feel like it..."
Jay closed his eyes and felt his second sight take hold. When he looked around the room again, he sighed unhappily. The room was clean. Absolutely frigging clean. Out of all the cheap, sleazy motels in the city, he apparently picked the one run by nuns. No dead men here to tell tales.
Jay jumped off the bed and stretched his back, trying to figure out some way to locate Charlene McGee again. Short of her starting an unexplainable fire and then waiting for media to show up and broadcast it, Jay really had no leads.
After a moment of thought, Jay glanced to the corner where he had dropped his luggage and considered one option he had been trying to avoid. He took a few steps toward the bags and paced around them broodingly.
Along with clothes, his toothbrush and a healthy supply of clean underwear, Jay had brought along another staple of his Watcher life. He picked up his suitcase and set it down on the bed. With tentative care, he unzipped the cover and searched through his belongings until his hands touched a leather-bound book.
It should not have been there. All regulations state clearly that students are not to meddle outside a supervised setting. Watchers were only to use magics under necessary circumstances and never for personal gain. Trainees were certainly not permitted to bring spell books with them on their first mission... especially an outlawed spell book that he had found during a late night adolescent dare to get a mythical stash of scotch from the cellar.
Jay looked down at the book with something akin to nostalgia, but the strange expression on his face could have easily been confused with hunger. He did not bring the book with him to be brazen or rebellious. Jay kept it with him because he had to... because he needed to...
His friends knew about the dangerous prize. Of course they knew. He had gone out for alcohol and come back with something better. They had all been fascinated by the forbidden text, but Jay had not let anyone else so much as touch the pages. Surprisingly, Giles had been the one to warn him of the consequences. First sensible thing ol' Ripper had ever done. Got him going down the right path instead of the road to juvenile hall...
Jay would never admit it. Not even to his friends. He talked about the book so casually. But he never talked about the need. Never talked about the times woke up at night just to make sure it was still hidden in his closet. Never talked about the spells he had tried. Never talked about how the spirits, those he could so easily see, would shriek in horror as he read the words over and over again...
"What's the harm?" Jay muttered to himself, "What's the harm? I'm doing it to help. Have to help Charlie. The little blind boy said so. Charlie is in danger... Charlie needs help... Charlie is power..."
Jay opened the book and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. A locator spell. Nothing fancy. Certainly nothing dangerous. What's the harm? What's the harm?
The lights in the motel room flickered as Jeremiah Malloy began to chant. The words fell from his mouth like rusty nails, sharp, bitter, leaving a coppery taste on his tongue that was almost like blood...
The maps he had shoved to the floor began to writhe as if in pain. The paper became almost fluid, almost alive as it curled along the floor. The red and blue lines of highways and interstates began to leave the pages and rise toward the ceiling. Jay's eyes, glowing with the power of his second sight, began to change. The subtle inner light grew bright, shone out unnaturally from his face...
His irises pulsed and expanded until there was nothing but blue...
blue...
blue...
Hated blue...
Murderous blue...
There. There. Something was there.
Jeremiah was lost in the power around him. He reached out and grabbed a pack of matches from atop the television set. He let go of the spell book, which continued to hover before him, and struck one sulfa tip against his palm. There was a moment of pain, but it was a minor sensation among the storm of magics.
Jeremiah held the burning stick in his fingers and stared into the flame.
There was power. Yes. Oh, yes, he felt it now. The book seemed to hum with pleasure as the fire burned. The flame departed from the match's head and moved toward the intertwining mass of roadways.
Jeremiah watched. Jeremiah saw. He saw the flame surround Chicago, and then move north. North. North.
That's where she's going, Jeremiah, an inner voice said to him urgently, That's where she's going. They want her. Get to her first. They'll hurt her. You must save her. Save her. Jeremiah... our boy... our special boy...
...Bring her to us...
...The hovering flame began to grow, consuming everything on the maps, heading down every roadway, until everything in its path was burning down...
Jay opened his eyes and grumbled unhappily. He was sprawled across the bed, surrounded by a pile of crumpled maps. His luggage was still piled in one corner, untouched and unopened.
With a groan of protest, Jay got to his feet and stretched his back. He head hurt like hell. God, he must have fallen asleep in a weird position.
"Way to kick off the recon, Malloy," he muttered to himself, "Not like north is that hard to find..."
North... the word repeated in his head though he had no idea why, North... north... she's heading north...
Charles Xavier let out an audible gasp as he opened his eyes.
The experimental machine he dubbed 'Cerebro' hummed noisily around him. It took Charles a moment to catch his breath before he took the odd looking helmet from his head.
His heart was beating rapidly in his chest as he came down from the rush of psychic energy that the machine had focused into his mind. It was not the first time he had attempted to use the proto-type Cerebro, but he decided it would take years before he became accustomed to it.
Once he had composed himself, Charles maneuvered his silver wheel chair out of the machine's metallic skeleton and toward the exit. Erik, as he expected, was waiting for him in the hall.
"Well?" Xavier's colleague asked with obvious impatience, "Did it work? Did you locate the girl? What did you see?"
Charles offered his friend an amused grin and replied, "Yes... No... and I'm not sure."
"Not sure?" Erik repeated with surprise, "I hope it is not paining you too much to admit that."
Charles accepted the jibe and nodded, "It was clearer than last time, for certain. I could tell you what the Queen in having for lunch, if you would like to know. But, both Miss McGee and Mr. Malloy are still out of my range."
Erik considered this quietly for a moment, folding his arms over his chest and marching toward the machine. The sphere was a thing of beauty, metallic plates molded by his unique gift to harmonic perfection. He was loath to admit that perfection needed a little tweaking in order to sync with Xavier's telepathic ability.
"Perhaps..." Erik began thoughtfully, "Perhaps... there is a way to single her mind out from everyone else. Give you something to focus on."
"I suppose that's possible," Charles replied, "If I had met her before, if I knew of something in her mind that could distinguish her from those around her, then I may be better able to pinpoint her location..."
"Like only focusing on those with the mutant gene?" Erik interjected quickly, causing Xavier to sigh resigningly.
"I'm not sure I could be that precise," Charles said, "Her power over fire may not even originate in her mind..."
"Still think she might be a demon, eh?" Erik asked with obvious displeasure.
Charles shook his head, "No. I don't believe that at all. I'm simply saying... those involved with the Lot 6 program were exposed to a number of variables not related to genetic mutation..."
"Lot 6," Erik interrupted, "Lot 6 triggered mutation in Dr. Wanless's test subjects. You saw the same tapes I did. Psychic and telekinetic abilities inherent in all human beings brought out by the enzyme they used! I thought we agreed on that fact!"
"Yes," Charles replied calmly, "However, we have never ascertained what Lot 6 was exactly. That young woman's parents were directly exposed to it before she was conceived. There is not telling how it has effected her own genetic makeup."
Erik glared at him for a moment, a deep-seeded and vicious anger in his eyes. Then, he sighed heavily and folded his arms over his chest. His expression softened and he grinned at Xavier.
"You know, that's the one thing I don't think I will ever be able to tolerate about you, Charles," he said, "You are far too cautious when the time comes to act."
His associate shrugged, never losing his own civil exterior, "We watch... and we are always here."
"Yes..." Erik agreed begrudgingly, "We are always here..."
