Boston, Massachusetts
The Past, Four Weeks Ago
Jean lay on her side, staring at the yellowed wall, listening to Remy's even breathing. When she felt assured that he was asleep, she let herself cry. She had gone along with Remy partly because she hadn't been ready to go home just yet...and at the same time, she didn't want to be alone. But she'd also followed Remy because he was familiar, at least on the surface. It was difficult to realize that Remy wasn't Poppet, when they looked and sounded exactly alike. She couldn't admit to herself that Poppet was truly dead, not when she could catch the briefest glimpses of the clone in Remy LeBeau. Sinister had stripped away all the troublesome aspects of Remy's personality to create his ideal pet. He had taken Gambit's rather malleable sense of loyalty, removed any sense of personal ethics, and translated it into Poppet's blind devotion. Poppet had been funny, even silly, but lacked Gambit's wit. Poppet was clever, but not cunning. Jean felt somewhat disgusted with herself. That she, like Sinister, might have preferred the company of the pet creation to the genuine article. Just like Sinister, she had taken advantage of the clone's uncomplicated desire to please. She felt horrible guilt for having used him, sacrificed his life for her own comfort and safety. How could she have done such a selfish thing? There was no one she could confess to; telling Remy what she had done would not do him any good. It would make an awkward situation even more awkward.
Remy, I slept with your clone and used him. Jean could only imagine what kind of reaction he might have to that.
She sniffled as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb her sleeping partner. Jean could tell from the shuffling of his thoughts that he was dreaming again, but she was not going to rouse him this time. Jean turned over onto her back and let her head fall to the side. Remy had left the bedroom light on. The lamp shown down on him from the nightstand. She took the time to study his profile. Remy was handsome, there was no doubt in her mind about that. There were plenty of handsome men amongst the X-Men, but only a few were truly striking. Warren Worthington, for certain, was as classically handsome as as his codename inferred. Remy had a different sort of attractiveness, as unkempt as he was. The growth of hair on his jaw only seemed to emphasize his features, framing his high cheekbones and unusual eyes. She reached out and lightly touched his chin with her forefinger; it wasn't as scratchy as she imagined it would be.
When Remy had grabbed her off the couch and angled her into the bedroom, she had experienced a charged sort of thrill. Then he had tossed her onto the bed, grasped her ankle and flipped her onto her stomach. She had felt her face flush, and not from embarrassment. Jean could have easily stopped him from taking her off the couch, but she didn't. Instead she allowed him to manhandle her over the threshold like the world's most awkward groom. It seemed, however, that whatever attraction she felt towards him was not reciprocated. He had pretty much told her that he didn't like what she'd done to her hair, after all.
Jean sat up and carefully leaned over his sleeping form to turn off the lamp. When she realized she couldn't reach the switch, she used her telekinesis to click off the light. As she moved to settle back on her side of the bed, Jean glanced down and saw the soft red glow of Remy's eyes looking up at her in the darkness.
"Uhm – I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."
She saw him blink slowly. "I had a dream," he mumbled. "You were in it."
"I didn't –," Jean began. "I mean, it wasn't me."
Jean watched as he seemed to become more aware, blinking away the fuzziness of sleep. He continued to gaze up at her.
"What was your dream about?" she asked.
"Mmn...what it's always about...," he began slowly. "Tunnels, or alleys, or hallways...and me walking down them. For what feels like forever."
"Are you lost?" Jean asked, her voice hushed in the darkness of the room.
"Yeah. But then I turned a corner and opened a door and you were there," Remy answered.
"Then what happened?"
"You showed me how to find my way out," he responded.
"Where did we go?" Jean asked.
He shook his head against the pillow. "I dunno. I woke up," he said. After a moment he added: "We was both of us kids. You were younger than you are now, but older than me."
"Well, that's impossible. I'm much, much younger than you," Jean told him with mock sternness.
Remy sighed. "That's too bad. I prefer older women."
"In that case, I should check and see what my new driver's license says," Jean said, still propped on her elbow, leaning over him. "Just how old did you make me, anyway?"
She could make out the faint outline of his grin. Quietly, he said: "More wishful thinkin', mebbe?"
Jean tentatively lowered her head and kissed him softly on the lips, feeling them yield to her touch. She pressed her mouth against his upper lip, feeling his coarse facial hair beneath her lips. Then she kissed the fullness of his lower lip, then the corner of his mouth, as if testing each part of him. Jean felt Remy's hand cup the back of her head and he returned her kiss. Their lips parted as they tasted one another. He moved towards her and she slowly lay back onto the mattress, his weight gently covering her for a moment. Her fingers traced the sides of his face, his bearded jaw, before she sunk her hands into the thickness of his hair. Remy kissed her deeply, inhaling against her cheek before gently pulling away.
"Let's not do somethin' you'll regret," he said softly. "I don't want you t'look at me tomorrow and be sorry."
Jean closed her eyes, letting her head sink back into the pillow. She was ashamed at her own foolishness. She could no longer deny the differences between Poppet and Remy LeBeau. She felt near to tears. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"Don't be sorry, chère. You couldn't help yourself. It happens every time I go t'lay down. Women can't help but jump my bones."
Jean let out a breathless sort of laugh and wiped her hand over her face. "You're incorrigible."
Remy kissed her cheek and whispered into her hair: "I'd be whatever you need right now. But remember...? It's Lent. And if it weren't for me tryin' to be good...by de time you'd leave dis bed, you'd be walkin' bowlegged."
Jean let out a surprised gasp and pushed against his shoulder. "I am appalled!" she announced, but she wasn't really. Instead, she felt the flush of heat rise to her face again.
She could hear his dark laugh as he moved away from her. His eyes were bright in the darkness. "That was the PG version. Imagine what I really wanted t'say."
"You know, if you weren't so handsome, you'd never get away with saying half the things you do," Jean told him as she crossed her arms to hug herself.
"Handsome?" Remy asked. "I thought I could say what I wanted on account of no one was listenin' in de first place."
Jean turned to look at him, able to make out his features now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He was laying on his side facing her. She turned towards him and brushed the hair from his forehead. She pressed her hand to the side of his face. "Maybe everyone can see through your act. So they choose to ignore you."
"That could be," Remy admitted. He took her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers, holding her hand near his chest. "I'd understand if you wanted to head back home tomorrow."
Jean felt a tremor of trepidation race through her. "I don't think I'm ready."
"Folks would be happy to see you," Remy said.
"I'm not as confident as you are," Jean told him. "I can't...I can't fathom – what it would be like, to have to live up to that kind of... I don't even know what – what people will want from me. I don't think I can give anything more of myself right now. I can't confront those kinds of expectations."
"Lucky for you, I'm a man of low expectations," Remy told her.
"You're not who I'm worried about," Jean told him. She was tired of being afraid. She was afraid of Sinister...but to be afraid of her own friends?
"Logan?" Remy asked.
"Intimidating, isn't it? Having a school posthumously named for you? What do you think he meant by it?" Jean asked.
"I dunno," Remy replied. "A grand gesture of some kind, I suppose."
"A grand gesture meant for me...or for Scott?" Jean asked pointedly.
Remy hesitated. "Enh, chère, if it makes any difference t'you, the two of them don't need you as an excuse to butt heads."
"I don't know if it makes a difference, but it certainly doesn't help," Jean told him flatly.
"I'm sure it'd do Logan good," Remy said candidly. "He could do with an attitude adjustment, missin' both you and Kurt now, too. He'd be pleased as punch t'see you."
"For how long?" Jean asked.
"Ain?"
"For how long...would Logan be pleased to see me?" Jean continued.
"What do you mean?" Remy asked.
"If I went back home. Whatever that would entail. How long would Logan be happy to... have me there? Before he begins to wonder: does she still love Scott?"
"Do you?"
"Yes, of course," she answered. "I'll always have feelings for him. I'll always care what happens to him."
"Even after – what happened?" Remy asked, his voice was strangely hopeful, as if he dare not believe her words.
"I could never fully trust him again," Jean said quietly. "There could never be a romantic relationship between us."
"Can you go on loving a body but not trust them?" Remy asked.
"Once trust has been broken...there's so much that needs to be rebuilt, or built from new. And time and energy and commitment. And is that something I can really afford? I don't know."
"When you add: 'saving a world that fears and hates us' to de mix...," Remy said. "But if you thought it was worth it. You could make de time."
"I just wanted Scott to be happy," Jean told him. "Even if it wasn't with me. I suppose I can say I loved someone selflessly. I gave up my pride, my identity, my life… Maybe that sounds romantic. But that kind of love, it's not sustaining. I can't do it again."
"But would you want to?" Remy asked, his tone regretful. "Seems like you don't get back what all you put in."
"It can drain you," she said wearily. "A person can burn out. But I can't regret it."
"No?"
"If I have another chance, then I don't want to live a life of regret."
"I wish I could say de same," Remy told her. "I got plenty to regret."
"Are you going to keep on living in the past, Remy?"
"Hard not to when it keeps comin' back to haunt me. It must be nice to be livin' wit' no regrets. But let me ask... if there's no regrets, then how can there be remorse? And if you're not sorry, how can you expect to be forgiven? But maybe that don't bother some as much as it do me."
"Is that what you want?" Jean asked quietly. "Forgiveness?"
"It's a primary concern."
Jean was silent for a time. She could see the faint glint of light from the ring she still wore on the hand that Remy was holding in his own. "Do you think you would ever get married again?" she asked.
Remy had lapsed into thoughtful daze. He gave a little jolt. "Heck, no," was his quick response. "Would you?"
"I can't imagine," Jean replied. "Not right now. But...I always thought that some day, I would have children. Not children from the future, or children from a different timeline or –. I mean...a child of my own. To raise in a normal kind of way."
"You can still have kids without gettin' married," Remy told her.
"I know that it's physically possible," Jean said obviously, tugging on his hand. "I meant that...Well, if you can make the kind of commitment to having a child, you can make a commitment to one other person to help you raise that child."
"De people who raised me up weren't married," Remy responded. "They had a commitment, but they weren't married."
"Did they love each other?" Jean asked.
"Bleagh – no," Remy said, and he seemed a little appalled at the thought. "I mean, not in a romantic sense. I suppose they must have cared about one another in a way...to have been friends for so long. They had more of a partnership."
"I see."
"Though considering de end result, that might not have been de best example to give," Remy concluded.
"Don't be mean to yourself," Jean told him. "Even if you don't want to get married again, I should give you your ring back."
"You can hang on to it. It suits you. I don't need it."
Jean wriggled her fingers in his. "Did you buy it for Rogue?" she asked.
"No...I didn't buy it," he answered slowly.
"Where did you get it?"
"I don't recall," Remy admitted.
"Another forgotten memory?" she asked.
"Seems so."
"Did you and Rogue break up?"
"Yes. Maybe. I guess so," Remy answered. "In any case, it's over now. At de very least there's no more uncertainty. Are we together, are we broke up? Are we on a break? Are we just friends? No. It's over."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Is it – was it her powers...that you couldn't overcome that obstacle?"
Remy sighed. "No. She's got control over her powers now."
"Oh," Jean said, confused. "But then...? Can I ask what happened?"
She wondered if he would answer. He was still looking at her, she could see his eyes studying hers. "She could come up wit' a million reasons not to be wit' me," he said finally. "If it wasn't her powers, it was some other reason. But she couldn't come up wit' one reason to not be...with somebody else."
"She left you?"
"She moved on. I stayed in de same place. What you were sayin' – about trust. I thought it was trust, or lack of it, that kept me an' Rogue apart. I knew she'd never trust me completely...not that I blame her any."
"You would have to trust her back," Jean told him. She spoke with kind sympathy when she said: "And you can't do that, can you?"
"Trust didn't have anything t'do wit' it," he replied guardedly. "In de end, she wanted to be wit' someone who – well, I can't see how anyone could trust him. No. It wasn't about trusting or not trusting. It was just her not wanting me."
"It must be lonely, not having anyone to trust," she told him.
"I only feel lonely when I'm with other people," he answered.
"That doesn't make any sense," Jean said.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"I had hoped that you and Rogue would work things out someday. You both deserve to be happy," Jean told him.
It seemed in the dark it was easier to have a conversation with him. Though he was less reticent, he was still withholding all of his emotions. He was silent while he struggled to prevent them from welling over.
"I don't know what I deserve," he told her. "I only hope to live long enough to even out de scales, to give back what I owe. Do my atonement now, so I don't got to pay later."
"There's no one waiting to punish you, Remy. Stop your self-flagellation. You have to let go of this guilt."
"I can't. It's like my religion," he sighed and rolled onto his back. He still held her hand against his chest.
"I thought you said you weren't a practicing Catholic."
"Believe me, even wit'out de religious part, it's an ingrained thing. Ex-Catholics just find something else to be guilty about."
"Doesn't confession play a role in appeasing that?" she asked.
"I usually skip that part and go straight on into penance."
"If you want, I could just give you a good hard spanking and we can call it even," Jean suggested.
She felt his chest move under her hand as he let out a soft laugh. "I think you've been sent by de Devil to tempt me, woman."
"I have this apple you're going to want to try...," Jean said.
"Dis is de longest Lent ever," Remy moaned.
~ oOo ~
Jean thought that since they had not received any phone calls from the doughnut shop, that she and Remy should go into the city.
"It's supposed to be your spring break," Jean told him. "We could go do some sightseeing."
Remy seemed amenable to just about anything, but did not "sightsee" in the manner that Jean was accustomed to. She tried to take him along the Freedom Trail to show him some of the significant historic sites, but he kept wandering off of it. Jean would go to point something out to him and find she had lost him in a farmer's market, or that he'd gotten into an debate with a Ben Franklin impersonator, or that he'd become intrigued with Christian Scientology at the Christian Science Monitor, or had disappeared into Chinatown. After awhile, Jean gave up and continued on the Trail alone. She was in Quincy Market of Faneuil Hall when he resurfaced to bring her a cupcake. She forgot her aggravation with him.
The rest of the week included a Cézanne exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts that Remy seemed enthusiastic about (though that waned a bit when Jean informed him they could go to look, but not touch). After the museum was the Symphony Orchestra. When Remy began to look forlornly at every pub and brewery they passed, Jean decided to remove all temptation and take him into Cambridge's Harvard University. She at least knew she couldn't lose him amidst the neat grassy lawns of Harvard Yard.
"Hahvid Yahd," Remy said.
"Shush, Remy, will you stop?" Jean told him. He'd been imitating a Boston accent all day.
"Hey, look at that," Remy said and pointed at the Charles River. They were walking down a red brick walk. Remy immediately veered off of it and began towards the riverbank. He started over a bridge and looked down as a rowing crew raced beneath them. They walked to the opposite side of the bridge to watch the crew emerge from beneath them to continue against the river's current.
"Let's go do that," Remy told her.
"They're not going to just let you have a boat. It's a private institution," Jean said.
"Well, it won't hurt to ask, will it?" Remy said. "Look how fast they go."
"What makes you think you can even row that boat?" Jean asked him.
"I've done it at de gym before," he told her. "On de rowing machine. And I know de song. Row, row, row de boat..."
Remy did manage to convince a boat house manager to allow them to borrow one of the lightweight boats. After brief instruction, Remy set off. Jean faced where they were going while Remy pulled at the oars. He pulled harder until satisfied with the rate of speed. Jean watched the muscles of his arms and chest work as he established a steady rhythm. He'd had to take off his coat as he grew warm from rowing.
"I can't see where I'm going!" he shouted to her. He seemed pretty happy about it.
Jean smiled at him. "I'll keep us on course. Just don't tip us into the river."
Jean came to realize that physical exertion only made Remy more energetic, and now he was not sleeping at all. At least, he never returned to the bed they'd shared that second night. He woke her early one morning asking if she wanted to go find a gym.
"That sounds like a horrible idea," she told him grumpily, turning her face to the pillow. She was tired and didn't feel particularly well.
"There's a CrossFit center down de road," he told her.
"What is CrossFit?" Jean moaned into the pillow.
"It's fun...One time I threw up."
"Will you get out of here," she said, swatting him away.
When she woke a few hours later, she found that Remy had still not returned. Jean dressed, ate a piece of burned toast, and set to tidying the small apartment. She took out the trash (stale doughnut, days old newspaper, tags and bags from her shopping spree), and packed up the dirty clothes that needed laundered. If Remy was unhappy about the toothbrush incident, he was going to be even more upset about her washing his shorts. But she tossed them into the bag with the other clothes and started off towards the nearest laundromat. She had never been to one, but she felt pretty confident that she could figure it out once she got there. At the laundromat, Jean began sorting out the clothing. She searched the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt and found several crumpled hundred dollar bills in the pocket. It was the reward money from returning the dog. Jean thought to put it back into the safe to replace the money she and Remy had borrowed. As she moved to the darks, the pair of jeans she was holding in her hands suddenly began to vibrate. Jean dropped them onto the worn tile floor, surprised. She realized the sound she was hearing was that of a cellphone. Jean scooped the jeans back up and searched the pockets. She found Matt Murdock's phone. Thinking one of Matt's clients may be looking for him, Jean decided to answer the call – just in case she could point the caller in the right direction.
"Hello?" she said.
She heard the sound of ambient street traffic and the sudden cutting in and out of a voice.
"Hello?" Jean repeated.
There was a second or two of dead silence and then: " – Jean?"
Jean paused. "Matt? Matt, is that you? I can't hear you, the connection keeps cutting out."
"Train stay –," Matt said.
"You're in a train station?" Jean repeated.
" – a lead on the assassin... on my way to Bost –," Matt continued.
"Matt?" Jean paused, then said in a hushed voice: "Did you say you found the assassin?"
"Meet me –," Matt was saying.
"Yes! Where?" Jean said, searching her handbag for something to write with.
"South End –," Matt told her.
"In Boston? Where?" Jean asked.
" – Moreux –," Matt said.
Three abrupt tones cut into the conversation. "The phone is dying, Matt! Where in Boston?" She had found a pen and had written on the palm of her hand: 'South End, Boston, More-o.'
There was sudden silence. Jean took the phone from where she had pinned it to her ear with her shoulder. She looked at the phone's surface. The battery had died. "Dammit!" she said. Just then, the buzzer on the washer went off, signaling the end of the wash cycle. Jean set the phone down onto a dryer and pulled open the washer. All the whites inside were now pink.
"Augh!" Jean shouted into the washer. She began pulling out the clothing in large handfuls. She found Remy's red shorts mixed into the load. "No! Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
"Excuse me!" said an outraged voice. Jean looked up from the washer, damp shorts clutched in her hand. She saw a woman leading away her small child, who was looking at Jean and giggling into his hands.
"Oh, my gosh," Jean said with embarrassment, her face coloring. "I'm so sorry! It just came out. I'm sorry, I never swear, I – I swear!"
The mother gave her a disbelieving look. Jean hurriedly stuffed the damp clothes into her canvas bag and left the laundromat. She returned to the apartment to find it was still empty. Now she was angry. Where was Remy? Why did he leave her here for so long, alone? Jean dumped the laundry onto the couch. She glared at the ugly painting on the wall. With a small growl, she stepped up onto the couch cushions and pulled the painting down. She set the painting on its end to lean up against the couch. Jean turned back to look at the wall safe, determined to figure out how to open it. She took the money from her pocket and then concentrated on the safe. Jean had a vague idea there were tumblers or some such inside, that she could move around until the safe unlocked. She also thought she had seen safe-crackers in movies listen to the door with a stethoscope or something. Jean pressed her ear to the door and used her telekinesis to fiddle with the safe's innards. She didn't hear anything and the door remained locked.
With a frown, Jean studied the safe. If she couldn't finesse it open, she would just force the lock to disengage. With some effort, she shot the bolt back into the door. Jean pulled the handle and the door swung open.
"Ha!" Jean said triumphantly. She placed the money into the safe. There was a handgun inside. Jean cautiously picked it up and held it in her hand. It felt heavy and dangerous. From behind her, she heard the sounds of a key turning in a lock. Jean hastily replaced the gun as Remy entered the room.
He looked at her quizzically, then closed the apartment door. "What de heck you doin'?" he asked her, in a not very patient sort of way.
"I got the safe open," Jean told him with a sly smile.
"I can see that," Remy said, his tone sarcastic. "Did ya think t'disarm de alarm?"
"There's no alarm," Jean said.
"Uhm...yeah, dere is," Remy told her.
Jean cast about the room, making a show of searching for an alarm. "Well, I can't hear anything."
"On account of it bein' a silent alarm!" Remy shouted.
"Oh," Jean said, her shoulders drooping. "Uhm. Whoops?"
Remy put his hands through his hair. "Agh!" he said with aggravation.
"I'm sorry," Jean said, stepping down from the couch. "Can you turn it off?"
"Why? It's too late now," he snapped and moved towards the safe. He slammed the door shut. "They'll have seen it up at de shop. And now they'll all be thinkin' what kinda know-nothing kouyon thief can't crack a safe? Or worse, they'll assume dis place got compromised!"
"Oh, Remy! I'm sorry. I can tell them it was me. It was an accident!" Jean told him.
"Yeah, great!" Remy said, holding his arms out to his sides. "So besides bein' a dummy, they'll say I can't control my woman neither!"
"I'm sorry – control your what?" Jean said taking offense and putting her hands on her hips.
"Don't give me that feminist –," Remy began when his expression suddenly shifted.
He strode forward and dropped his hands onto her shoulders. Jean took a surprised intake of breath as his mouth closed hard on hers. She belatedly responded, shocking herself by kissing him back while fisting her hand in his overlong hair. The kiss was prolonged and ardent. Remy seemed to relax into the embrace, the last of his resistance melted away and his mouth became less fierce and more gentle. His arms wrapped around her body.
The phone in the kitchen began to ring. Remy jolted as if from a shock and broke their embrace. "Ah, aitch – ee – double-hockey sticks!"
"Don't answer it," Jean told him breathlessly.
Remy sighed a defeated sigh. "I know for whom de bell tolls." He slouched off towards the kitchen.
Jean trailed after him, lingering in the dark hallway while Remy answered the phone.
"'Ello?" Remy said. There was a long and pregnant pause. "Père?" he said after a moment, confusion in his voice. He listened for a few moments longer, then replaced the phone into the cradle.
Jean could sense Remy's growing alarm. When he appeared in the hallway, she asked timidly: "What is it? Is it very bad?"
Remy seemed shell-shocked. "It was my father," he told her.
Remy left to go meet his father soon after, insisting that Jean remain behind.
"I could just explain – ," Jean began as she followed him towards the door.
"Dis ain't about de safe," Remy interrupted and pulled open the door. "And if I bring you along, I'm sure to get one of his lectures."
"What lecture is that?" Jean asked, her hand on the doorframe.
Remy sighed and looked Jean over. "De one about me, and women, and how much trouble women always seem t'cause me on account of I can't help myself."
Jean wanted to apologize to him again, but as she looked into his eyes she realized he was too lost in his own mercurial thoughts to be reasoned with. She stepped back as he pulled the door closed behind him. Jean sighed and rubbed her hand over her face. With her palm over her eyes, she felt a sudden wash of realization; she had just smeared pen ink across her face. Jean looked down into the smudged writing on her hand. Matt had wanted to meet up with them, but she didn't know when or exactly where. The laptop case was sitting on top of the coffee table. Jean opened it and removed the laptop. She searched for train stops near the South End of Boston, then a schedule. A train from New York City would take three, maybe four hours to arrive.
There was still the matter of the name Matt had given: More-o. Jean typed it into Google and realized she must have spelled it incorrectly. 'Moreo' was pronounced 'more-e-oh,' not 'more-oh' as Jean had heard. She thought it must be French, like the last name Remy had given her on her fake driver's license. He'd taught her how to say it: 'le gree,' or French for 'gray.' Jean tried Moreaux, Moreau, and finally Moreux. There was only one listing for someone in South End with that name: Helen Moreux.
Jean wrote down the address. She would have to find some way to get into town without a car. She called a taxi service to come pick her up. South End was a beautiful part of the city, full of bow-front brick row houses in the Parisian style adorned with black shutters and doors. The homes had intricate wrought-iron balconies and stair-rails. The sidewalks were red brick. Jean felt confident enough on her own, as there were others on the street touring the quaint Victorian streets and dining in the upscale restaurants. She had the cab driver leave her near the Back Bay Amtrak Station. From there, she began towards the address she had found. Jean stood across the street from the house, looking up at it thorough the bare-limbed trees lining the street. She could see a woman perched on the balcony of the third floor. The woman held one arm across her stomach, the other was aloft, a cigarette in her fingers. She blew a stream of smoke into the chill March air. When the woman finished her cigarette, she dropped the butt into a ornate urn on the balcony and returned inside. Jean thought that the woman didn't look anything like an assassin. She was a woman in her mid-forties, her long brown hair pinned into a roll at her nape, dressed in plain but well-made clothing. Even from this distance, Jean thought that the woman might be attractive.
Jean sat on a nearby bench. The weather wasn't so unpleasant. It was blustery, but the sun was shining. Jean was wearing the tan wool half-trench she had bought for herself; it had black buttons that matched her black cloche hat (which hid her hair that was not purple) and leather gloves. She pretended to play with the cellphone, even though it was no longer charged. She covertly watched the house, looking for signs of movement. After an hour had passed, Jean had to admit she was cold. The daylight was beginning to fade. Jean reached out her mind to brush that of the woman inside the house. The overall emotion she was able to glean from the woman was overwhelmingly sad. Jean withdrew.
There was a small French restaurant nearby. Jean decided she had had enough with staking out the residence for now. She would go and get herself a bowl of onion soup and warm up. After dinner, Jean continued to stroll through the neighborhood. She passed a small newsstand, a bakery, and more residences. Jean returned to the street to continue her surveillance. As she rounded the block, she saw the mysterious Helen Moreux stepping down her front stairs. She had a small peach-colored poodle under her arm. When she reached the base of the steps, she set the animal down. The woman and the dog walked across the street. Once in the park on the opposite side, Jean saw the woman light yet another cigarette.
Jean thought: Well this is my chance, and began towards the woman's front door. Jean had the door unlocked before she had reached the top step. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The interior was a short narrow foyer with dark wood floors and crisp white walls. There was little adornment in such a narrow space, just a small side table over which hung a mirror. Jean proceeded to the staircase. She thought to go up to the top floor, where she had seen the woman sitting in the window. Jean raced up the staircase, keeping her footsteps light. She turned at the landing and set up a second flight of steps. At the top she found herself in a loft with slanted ceilings. The room was long and narrow. There was a dark mahogany desk at one end in front of the bow-fronted window. To the right of the desk was a flat-panel television set mounted on the wall. It was turned to a news station, but the volume was muted. On the screen, an anchor person moved his mouth and the stock ticker crawled beneath him.
Jean moved to the desk. There was a laptop sitting open on the desktop. With a finger, she jiggled the mouse, waking the monitor. She saw the woman's e-mail was open. It was full of news alerts and messages from Fidelity and various banks. Jean minimized the window, then moved the cursor to the My Documents folder. Slowly, Jean sat in the soft leather desk chair. As she explored the woman's files, she realized Helen must be a day-trader, moving around money from account to account, purchasing and selling shares of stock as her e-mails came in with tips and advice.
Jean glanced up and saw the bookshelf to the right side of the room. It was filled with scientific journals and books, all of which had to do with genetics. Jean even recognized one of the volumes as something Doctor Hank McCoy had written. Her brow furrowed. Why would a stock-trader have a collection of genetics books?
Jean turned back to the computer. She opened the woman's internet browser and clicked on the browser history. Jean saw that the woman had gone to the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning website. Jean thought it was perplexing seeing her name in this stranger's computer. Jean saw the other searches the woman had performed. They were all to do with mutants, and one mutant in particular: Remy LeBeau. Jean felt a little jolt of panic. Amidst the other folders and documents saved were various low-resolution images of Remy, taken from the media and captured in screen-grabs from the news. The woman had Remy's address, his phone number, his class schedule. She had news clippings detailing the exploits of the X-Men, each of them featuring in some small way the X-Man known to the world at large as Gambit.
Good lord, the woman is some kind of crazy stalker, Jean thought.
On the floor under the desk was an open briefcase. When she pulled the case out from under the desk, Jean peered inside it. There was a small velvet pouch set on top of a stack of documents. Jean touched it, realizing there was a ring inside. Beneath the pouch was a manila folder full of documents. Jean opened it. The top page was a legal agreement of some kind, signed by Helen Moreux. It looked to be a release form, giving certain permissions to a government institution named Black Womb. Jean felt chilled. There was another packet inside the case, a thick business envelope. Jean picked it up. She opened the envelope, revealing a thick wad of hundred dollar bills inside.
A soft chime signaled an incoming e-mail. Jean glanced up from the envelope of cash and reached for the mouse. She reopened the e-mail window and saw yet another message had arrived. Something else caught her attention. As she watched, she saw that the message count in the "Drafts" folder had changed from one to two. Jean thought that strange. She opened the drafts folder. Inside she saw one message that had been composed but not sent. The message read: Is it too late to change my mind? I will still pay the agreed-upon amount. The second draft's subject line read: Contract has been fulfilled. Jean watched as the first message suddenly disappeared, deleted by someone else with the same account name and password.
What contract? Jean thought, her heart sinking with dread. Jean dropped the envelope back into the case, feeling as if the money were tainted.
There came a muffled echo of the front door closing two stories below. Jean's heart leapt. The woman had returned. Jean rose to her feet, her entire body taught as a bowstring. She thought of the numerous photos, the information from the school, the articles, the strange obsession with genetics, the e-mail, and the money. Why was this woman obsessed with Remy? Did she, for some reason hatched by her delirious mind, hire someone to kill Remy LeBeau? Did she intend to pay the murderer? Jean felt a dark red mantle of anger close over her head, suffocating her. Poppet was dead, and though Jean felt responsible, she wasn't the one to have killed him. Jean would make someone pay for that. For murdering her protector, Jean was going to kill this Helen Moreux.
~ oOo ~
Next time: Some people show their pain by crying, like Jean. Some people try to bury it, like Remy. And some people just get angry...