Boston, Massachusetts
The Past, Three Weeks Ago
Matt had to admit that he was well and truly lost. South End Boston streets were not laid out in the grid pattern of the New York City streets he was accustomed to. South End streets ran both north-south and east-west, as well as going diagonally, around, and no where in particular. Some streets were wide, others were just alleyways disguised as streets. Then there were parks positively everywhere, interrupting avenues with their trees and greenery. The city designers had not been clever enough to put all the parks together in one centralized place, as it was with Manhattan's Central Park.
It had finally dawned on Matt that he was no longer in possession of his phone (his wonderful, wonderful phone), and had picked up Gambit's by mistake. Thinking to get his phone back, he'd tried to reach Gambit and instead heard Jean's voice on the other end of the line. He tried to let her know where they could meet. Matt had waited in the train station, expecting to find Jean, if not Gambit as well. After an hour's long wait, Matt decided Jean must not have received the whole message and that he would have to venture off into Boston on his own. Matt was sure the cab driver who had picked him up from the Back Bay Station had taken him for one wild ride and deposited him in the wrong place. These things happened when you were a blind out-of-towner. The incident had not painted a lovely image of the city or its inhabitants in Matt's mind.
Matt was walking slowly down one tree-lined street, his cane out before him, searching for any potential pitfalls in the old sidewalk. The sun had gone down and the air was chill with mist, chasing most people indoors. It was cold enough that as he passed before a shop window, he could detect the faintest of temperature changes caused by the cast of light shining from inside. Matt turned towards the warmth and put his fingertips to the great pane of glass. The window was spotted with moisture, and as he moved his hand across the glass he could feel the slightly raised letters of the shop name painted there. He had to smile to himself. Harvard Law School was on the other side of the river in Cambridge, and yet here was a shop with the peculiar name of The Witness Stand. Matt decided, as he was a lawyer, it had to be fate that had brought him here.
Matt searched out the front step with his cane and found the door latch with an outstretched hand. He pulled, but found the door shut tight. He had to wonder if the shop was locked. Matt tried the latch again and pushed inward. The door opened on slightly squeaky hinges. A bell rang overhead and he was greeted with the smell of paper, tobacco, and the odor of age that came with older buildings. He stepped up into the shop, feeling the warm dry air hug him as he entered. As he closed the door, the bell rang a second time. Matt turned his head to another sound; it was the ticking of a clock. But it was unlike any ticking he had heard before, as it came slowly and ponderously as if the pendulum was moving through molasses and not air. Matt imagined the clock must not keep very good time.
"You're late!" barked a voice from the rear of the shop.
Matt turned towards the voice as it was soon accompanied by footsteps. Matt's sensitive ears could also pick out a heartbeat and breathing. The heart rate was somewhat arrhythmic suggesting congestive heart failure and the man was faintly asthmatic, by Matt's account. Or perhaps it was allergies.
"I'm sorry, is the shop closed?" Matt asked.
"What are you doin' here?" the man asked impatiently.
Matt thought this was a strange way to greet a customer. "I actually came in here for directions," Matt told the man. "I'm afraid I'm lost. Can you –."
"Lost! I'll say!" the man declared as he approached. He took Matt's arm and turned him around to face the door. "You're not supposed t'be here!"
Matt reached out a hand and grasped a wooden shelf display. He seized the first thing he found on the shelf, which seemed to be the daily paper. "Look, if you're wanting me to buy something –."
"No, no, no!" the man told him and gave him a little push towards the door. "No time for that!"
"Sir, would you please get your hands –," Matt said as he was shuffled towards the exit.
"You need t'be on Montgomery! This is West Canton, y'dang fool!" the man continued. Matt found himself propelled out onto the front walk.
"Hey! Excuse me! I have a physical disability!" Matt said as he stumbled down the front step and onto the sidewalk. As he turned, he very accidentally-on-purpose swung his cane, thinking to give the cantankerous man a jab.
To his surprise, he found the cane was captured before it could make contact. "And I'm a geriatric wit' dementia! We all got our problems! Yours is gonna be me, if y'don't get a move on!"
Matt pulled the cane out of the man's grip (not with as much force as he wanted, taking the man's health into consideration). "And people say New Yorkers are rude!" Matt announced. He turned to walk back the way he came.
"You're goin' the wrong way! Turn left! No, your other left!" the man shouted after him.
Matt came to a halt and turned back towards the man.
"Step to, young man! Lives are at stake! Time's a-wastin'!" With that, the surly old man returned to his shop and slammed the door. Even as the door rattled in its frame, Matt could hear the man mutter: "Last time I rely on an Irishman! Good thing I still have Plan D in my back pocket."
"Good God," Matt said and shook out the newspaper he still held. "What the hell was that all about?" As he ran his fingertips over the header, his sensitive touch could pick up the slight change between paper and ink. He found the paper to be a copy of the Boston Herald. But the date seemed to be incorrect as it read Monday and today was Sunday. Confused, Matt fingered the date. Yes, the paper was dated for the next day.
Police investigating South End shooting read the lead article. Helen Moreux, South End woman, was found in her home suffering from a gunshot wound...
Helen Moreux! Matt thought. But she was the woman he was here to find! This didn't make any sense!
Just then, Matt heard the sudden sharp sound of gunfire in the distance. His mind became acutely focused on the sound. The newspaper fell to the pavement as Matt took off at a sprint. He turned left onto a residential street and dashed down the sidewalk. He paused, searching for sound, his radar sense painting an image of the world around him. From above came a soft creak; a window left open and moving on its hinges, stirred by a faint breeze. From that open window, he could hear voices. One was low and steady, the other, ragged and strained. Matt turned towards the sound, took a cement staircase in two bounds, then leapt upwards to grasp the decorative crenelations over the door. He quickly scaled the building's facade, jumping up into the window well of the second floor, then hooking the end of his cane into the wrought iron railing surrounding the porch above him. In an instant, he was propelling himself upward to land on the railing, then hopping down onto the porch to face a pair of open French doors. Past the doors and inside the room, he could sense two figures. One turned and stood as Matt entered the room. The figure had been crouched over the prone form of the victim. Matt could smell the blood as well as the tang of a recently fired weapon. The victim had been shot.
"Stay where you are!" Matt told the standing figure.
"Ah, dammit," said the figure which Matt now knew to be a woman...a woman he recognized.
"You!" Matt said and quickly threw one end of his billy club in the woman's direction.
The woman ducked and the club flew over her head to strike and embed itself into the opposite wall. Matt leapt upon the desk that separated them and launched himself at the woman.
"Don't – !" the woman shouted as she moved to stand. Matt was upon her, hoping to bear her slight figure to the ground, but the woman twisted and they both fell onto their sides. She kicked away from him and hit a shelf full of books. Books tumbled down onto the pair as she struggled to regain her feet. Matt grasped her ankle and pulled her down, throwing himself onto her back as she squirmed beneath him. He twisted her arm behind her back.
"Don't make me hurt you!" the woman panted, even as Matt's weight pressed her to the floorboards.
"What are you doing here, Belle?" Matt demanded.
"I warned you," Belle answered and Matt felt a searing pain in his thigh. The assassin had stabbed him.
Momentarily stunned by the pain, Matt found himself thrown from Belle's back as she snaked out from under him. She sent her elbow into his chin as she did, skidded backwards across the floor on her bottom, and then somersaulted to her feet. Matt clutched his jaw and launched the other half of his club in Belle's direction. She had flipped to land upon the desktop, then dropped to the floor as the club whipped above her. Matt yanked back on the cord and the club returned to his hand. Belle reappeared from behind the desk, then turned and dashed for the window. She was standing upon the railing and from what Matt could sense, was now holding a briefcase in one hand. Belle dropped from the railing as Matt dashed to the window. She landed in a crouch upon the sidewalk below, then turned to face in Matt's direction.
Matt was torn. He could pursue Belle or go to the woman who had been shot. He could hear the victim's hoarse, uneven breathing. Belle turned and ran down the street. Matt hesitated, gripping the railing with both hands. He muttered a curse and turned back to the shooting victim. Just then, he heard heavy footsteps on the sidewalk below. A man was running towards the house.
Matt could hear the man's voice: "Signs of forced entry – intruder on foot, fleeing the scene. A woman, heading west towards –."
Someone had seen Belle drop from the window and was now reporting the crime to the police, thinking it a burglary. Matt leaned over the landing to sense the man approaching from below.
"Someone has been shot!" Matt called down to him. "Get the paramedics here!" He then leapt out from the window to land before the astonished man on the street. "Do it!" Matt barked at the man. Matt turned and ran after Belle.
"A second intruder –!" reported the man who Matt thought must surely be in law enforcement from the way he spoke. "Send an ambulance. There may be a shooting victim! At eighty-five Montgomery!"
Matt raced after Belle, the pain from the stab wound tearing into his upper thigh. Her footfalls were quick and nearly silent, but he could still hear her ragged breathing and the beating of her heart. As empty as the streets were, it was easy to keep track of her. However, she was widening the distance with every second.
"Stop!" Matt called after her, the pain shot up his leg with every other stride. "Do you have any idea who you've killed?"
"I didn't kill her!" Belle shouted back over her shoulder. She splashed through a puddle.
"Fatally wounded, then, if we're mincing words!" Matt replied as he splashed after her.
"It wasn't me!" Belle called. "I didn't shoot de woman!"
"You just happened to find her shot in her office?" Matt asked with clear disbelief. "And you just happened to be standing over her when I arrived?"
"Yes, that's exactly it!" Belle responded as she turned a corner. She dashed across the street just before a passing car.
The car's horn blared as it skidded to a halt on the damp asphalt. Matt launched himself into the air, rolled across the hood of the vehicle, and continued his pursuit.
"If you're innocent, why are you running?" Matt asked as they passed into a park.
"Because you're chasing me!" Belle responded and vaulted a park bench.
"I'll stop chasing if you stop running," Matt bartered, clearing the bench a moment later.
"You stop first!" Belle answered.
"No, you stop! You carry the burden of proof!"
"What happened t''innocent 'til proven guilty'?" Belle shouted.
Matt wasn't going to be able to catch her, even if he continued to run. He trotted to a halt on the far side of the park while Belle continued across the opposite street. Matt stood, sensing her run a few more feet. To his surprise, Belle's footfalls slowed and she too came to a stop. She turned and started back towards him. Matt waited at the edge of the park for her to approach. She stopped several feet away at the edge of the sidewalk framing the park grass. She was close enough now that he could hear the bursts of air leaving her lungs and the rush of her heartbeat.
"Did you shoot that woman?" Matt asked, his voice even.
"I did not," Belle responded. "I don't even own a gun."
From her heart rate, he could tell that she was telling the truth. "Do you know who she was?" he asked.
"Not personally," Belle admitted. "We had a business relationship."
"She hired you?" Matt asked, surprised.
"Yes," Belle answered. "Helen Moreux."
Matt was startled to find his suspicions confirmed. Somehow, the newspaper from that shop had predicted the shooting. Matt asked: "If you were working for her, who were you conspiring to kill?"
"None of your business," Belle responded.
"Whoever it was might be the person responsible for shooting Helen."
"He wasn't responsible," Belle told him. "On account of him all ready bein' dead."
"How do you know another assassin wasn't hired?"
"Because that was an accidental gunshot wound," Belle said. "From de woman's own handgun."
"Why was Helen armed?" Matt asked. "Did she have a reason to have her gun loaded and ready?"
"There was someone else inside de house when I arrived," Belle answered. "Another woman. I tried t'stop her but she got away. I couldn't just leave Moreux on de floor."
"So you have a conscience after all," Matt observed.
"I still have t'pay my bills," Belle retorted. "She owed me."
Matt paused to consider her. "Is that why you stole that briefcase?" he asked.
Belle let out a little snort of disgust. "I didn't steal nothin'," she said with contempt. "De woman asked me to take it."
"Why? What's in it?" Matt asked.
"None of your business," she repeated.
"Do you know who that woman is?" Matt persisted.
"I all ready –," Belle began.
"No, I mean who she is – to Gambit."
Belle sucked in a tiny breath. In the distance, and getting closer every moment, was the sound of sirens from emergency vehicles. Two police cruisers and an ambulance, by Matt's judgement.
"I was coming here to meet with Helen," Matt continued. "She said she had come across some e-mails, some information, that led her to believe someone intended to kill Remy LeBeau. The woman is a hacker. She's an embezzler. An inside trader. She launders funds through multiple channels. She told me all of this. She also told me she is Gambit's mother."
Belle swallowed. "Did you tell Remy dis?"
"No," Matt replied.
"Good," Belle responded, then turned to walk away.
Matt darted forward and then reached out to grasp Belle by her upper arm. "Where are you going?"
"I'm goin' home," she told him. "It's too damn cold up here."
"What about Gambit?"
"What about him?" Belle snapped.
Matt's hand dropped down Belle's arm to clutch the briefcase. "What's in the briefcase?" he asked firmly.
Belle turned towards him. "Answers," Belle responded. "T'questions no one asked."
Matt now had his hand on the briefcase handle. "Helen wanted you to have it. Why? To give to Gambit?"
Belle tugged back her arm. "She wanted him t'have de truth. About himself, his folks. If it makes her happy, I'll let her t'ink I give it to him."
"But you aren't going to do that," Matt asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. "You're going to keep that information from him. Why? To use it against him somehow?"
"That's not it at all," Belle said hotly. "Who d'you think you are, anyway? Fancy New York City lawyer man – dis is no business of yours."
"Listen, I got pulled into this and I intend to see it through," Matt told her. "Who tried to murder Gambit and why?"
Belle suddenly took a step forward putting herself directly before Matt. The top of her head barely reached his chin, but it was hard not to feel menaced by this relatively diminutive opponent. "You want to stick your nose in other people's business? You want answers? Fine. I'll tell you who wants Remy dead. His own cold-blooded father, that's who."
Matt was taken aback.
"As to why, I can only guess that it's on account of him bein' a coward. Ashamed that his own flesh and blood was born a mutant," Belle continued.
"That's...tragic," Matt admitted.
"And why I'm not goin' t'be de one to tell Remy any kind of truth that won't do him any good," Belle finished and drew away. Matt retained his hold on the briefcase handle and pulled her back.
"He should at least be given a choice," Matt told him. "You can't deny him the truth."
"You don't know Remy," Belle answered. "I do. I know him better than anybody else. And when confronted wit' a truth, Remy'll do nothin' but bury his head in de sand."
"Give me the briefcase and I'll let him decide what to do for himself," Matt replied.
Belle let out a small sigh. "He never even let himself dream about who his birth parents were," Belle told him quietly. "He knew he'd only be disappointed."
"So you want to protect him," Matt said. "You must love him still?"
Belle paused, seeming to consider. "I did," she admitted. "I do mostly. Even though I know he doesn't love me de same way. And enough so that I wouldn't cause him any more hurt than I all ready have."
"You don't have to do anything but give me the briefcase," Matt told her. "He won't ever know you were involved."
Matt could sense her resistance falter while the desire to be unburdened grew. When she suddenly released the briefcase handle into his hand, it was still something of a surprise. He had to lunge forward slightly to keep it in his grip. Matt found himself head-level with the assassin. He could feel the soft hush of her breath on his face.
"You're a nosy busybody, Diable Rouge," she told him. "Not everyone needs all de answers. Not everyone needs de...burden of proof."
"It's my job. It's what I do," Matt responded. "Uncovering truths. Instead of burying them."
"You can leave that part t'me," Belle said, her tone falsely light. She stepped back and began to turn away. "I'm good at havin' things buried. I'll be seein' you, Diable. Too bad y'can't say de same about me. I'm really quite attractive, I'll have you know."
"I'll have to take your word for it," Matt responded. "But my sense of touch can paint a vivid picture..."
"Nice line, chèr," Belle said and paused. "But I'm onto you. Natchois mentioned you were somethin' of a ladies' man."
"Wha – wait...," Matt said, feeling a bit as if he'd been caught out. "You know Elektra?"
"Surprised? Is it so unusual for a couple of assassins t'get together and compare notes?" Belle asked, somewhat amused.
Matt felt himself flush with irritation.
"She might have mentioned you were a dynamite kisser," Belle teased.
Matt's shoulders relaxed somewhat. "Well. Okay, then."
Belle had now moved away. She added airily: "I suppose I'll not find out which is de better in a lip lock – you... or Remy. Quel dommage... And I'm sure you'd just hate N'Awlins. Almost completely lawless... full of crime and corruption..." Belle continued as she walked down the sidewalk into the darkness. "Sordid, steamy affairs... all sorts of – outrageous debauchery... clandestine encounters in the dead of night... Makes New York look like Candyland..."
"I still have your number," Matt said after her.
From a distance he heard Belle say: "C'est ça..."
"But you did stab me in the leg," Matt continued.
"I did warn you first, chèr," Belle said. "And I only do that wit' people I like."
~ oOo ~
Next time: In which Gambit wanders the desert and encounters the Devil.