Chapter 41
"So what we gonna do?" Remy asked, not letting go of Rogue's shoulders. "Does Creed live, or does he die?"
"Even if he lives, he don't get to hurt us no more." Of this one thing she was certain: Creed was not allowed to have any power over her after today.
"Je suis d'accord."
"Ah'd like tuh see him dead. But Ah don't wanna do it. And Ah don't want you tuh do it."
Remy nodded.
"So where does that leave us?" Rogue asked, rhetorically. "Makin' someone else do it? Would that even change anything?"
"We might sleep better," Remy pointed out. "But we both thinkin' like Rippers. We don' need his life—just his power."
"Can we take that away without killin' him?"
"You could."
Rogue shuddered involuntarily at the thought . . . doing to Senator Creed what she'd been planning to do to Remy. "Maybe. But Ah don't want him inside'a me. Not without Professor Xavier here to help me lock up his consciousness. An' me suckin' the life outta him wouldn't make his law go away in any case. Can you impeach senators?"
"Jus' presidents, I t'ink. But he could step down."
"Not likely."
"He could if he had some incentive."
"Lahk what? We know anybody he cares about that we could kidnap, maybe?"
Remy looked around the living room speculatively. "We got his whole big house t'ourselves here. He ain't gonna be back for ages. Anyt'in' in dis house, we could find. Suppose he got him some dirty little secret? A mistress, a drug habit . . . mebbe even a mutant power. Dey'd be somethin' in dis house t'show it."
"Blackmail?"
"Worth a shot."
Rogue nodded. "Worth a shot. Saves us haven' tuh kill him, anyway."
"If we can find somet'in'."
She let go of his arms, trying not to notice how her shoulders felt all cold when the warmth of his hands slipped way. "The guy is a flat-out evil scum-sucking skeeze. Ah ain't gonna believe he's got nothin' tuh hide. Wouldn't it be crazy if he actually was a mutant?"
"Ironic, more like. He's got de parentage an' all."
"Don't remind me. Ugh. Ah'm so glad Ah'm adopted."
Gambit smiled—a self-satisfied, calculating, dangerous smile. "Den let's get huntin'. You wanna get started on his office while I hunt up where he's hidin' de safe?"
She nodded. "And turn the tv on, when you find one. On the off chance the jury brings in a 'not guilty'."
"Or at least so we can tell when Creed's headed back here."
"Good point."
Gambit started to step away from her, then seemed to change his mind and hesitate. "Missed you," he said again, grinning.
Rogue smiled back. "Missed you, too. Now let's get to work so we can go home."
"Members of the jury, you are dismissed."
Wordlessly, the twelve anonymous men and women stood and filed out of the jury box. Kurt watched them go, wishing fiercely that he were a telepath. What were they all thinking right now?
"Court is adjourned until the jury has completed its deliberations."
Warren turned in his seat and caught Kurt's eye. He'd helped them so much, but he had no more help to give. Senator Creed sat motionless in his place behind and to the left of Warren, refusing to look anywhere but at the jury, but his PA scanned the room warily and leaned against her boss's shoulder.
Kurt shifted uncomfortably and looked at Magneto, who was sitting to his right. "If zey say Scott is guilty, vill you really kill him?" he asked under his breath, nodding at Senator Creed.
"Do you believe he really tried to kill you?"
"Yes."
"So do I. And I will not allow him to do it again."
Senator Creed's home office was absurdly neat: the sort of neatness that suggested he didn't use it all that often, or at least had not used it for a long time. However, the computer was on, though it was in sleep mode and password-protected, and yesterday's mail was in an orderly stack on the desk.
The mail was uninteresting: Time magazine, a utility bill, a 401K investment report, a Sears catalog.
From the room across the hall, the tv chattered banally away. The jury had been out for the better part of an hour. She could hear Gambit moving around in the basement downstairs.
She'd searched through the drawers of the desk, finding nothing of interest, and spent some time trying to guess the password on the computer. Now she turned her attention to the filing cabinet. It was a sturdy, two-drawer affair, locked. She debated for a moment whether to call Gambit to pick it open or to just break it open herself, before remembering seeing a collection of loose keys in the pen drawer of the desk. A few minutes of trying them resulted in an unlocked cabinet.
"Rogue?" Gambit's voice drifted up the basement stairs.
"Yeah?" Rogue called back as she pulled out the first file.
"Want a Coke?"
She flipped open the file; last year's taxes. If there were any wrongdoings there, she wasn't qualified to find them. "Is it a stolen Coke?"
"De man's tryin' t'kill us. De least he owes us is a Coke."
She chuckled to herself as she leafed through the pages. There was still tension in the house between them; a weeks-long fight like that didn't just evaporate from a relationship in an eyeblink. The Coke was a peace offering, and would have been welcome if her stomach wasn't still squirming from the aftershocks of stress. "Ah ain't all that thirsty," she shouted back, "but you go ahead."
She shoved the taxes back into their place and combed through the rows of files behind it. Mortgage stuff, campaign stuff, insurance stuff.
One file contained a manilla envelope, thick with papers. It was addressed to Senator Creed, but the handwriting was his own.
Curious, Rogue pulled it out. The envelope had been through the mail; the return address was for a publishing house in Maryland, and was in the same handwriting. The envelope bore a postmark dated nine months ago, and it had been opened.
Rogue reached inside it and pulled out the stack of papers.
In the other room, the news anchor announced, "We're just getting word now that the jury is returning from deliberation. It would seem that they've already reached a verdict."
So fast?
"Remy!"
"Quoi?"
"Jury's back."
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Dat was quick."
"We knew it was gonna be."
The first page of the stack of papers was a business letter on the letterhead of a publishing house, neatly typed in a conservative, professional font. First was the publishing house's address, then Creed's, then a date one day before the postmark.
Senator Creed,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript for the consideration of our editors. We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a publication contract at this time.
A publisher's rejection letter. What had he been trying to publish?
Below the formulaic text was a signature in blue ink, followed by a handwritten postscript.
Graydon—
Nobody appreciates your zeal more than I do, but you know that with the political climate the way it is right now, we just can't publish this. I'm so sorry. Keep fighting the good fight.
A.
"You gonna come watch?" asked Remy's voice, from the doorway.
"In a second," Rogue told him, not looking up.
She flipped over the rejection letter to reveal the first page of the manuscript.
For the last time, Scott stood up at Judge Webb's behest.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"
"We have, your honor," said a man with a thick Brooklyn accent.
"And how do you find?"
"We the jury, in the matter of Scott Summers versus the State of New York, find the defendant—"
Scott couldn't breathe. Just say it already . . . whatever it is, just say it!
"—guilty on all charges. We recommend maximum sentencing."
The courtroom erupted with noise.
Scott sagged forward, leaning on the table to stay upright, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could. His elbows were shaking under his weight. We lost.
"Take it easy, Scott," Royal told him. He could feel his lawyer's steadying hand on his back. "This isn't the end. Not by a long shot. We can appeal this."
Scott shook his head. He struggled to find words to explain, to articulate the horror and the dread that were circling around inside him. In the end, true to form, the only words he could think of were orders.
"Royal, take everyone you love and get them out of the country. Do it tonight."
"What?"
"You've helped me, and now I'm trying to help you. Bad things are going to happen in the morning. Get out tonight, or you may not be able to."
He was surprised Royal could hear him over the noise. Some people were cheering; others were shouting in protest. He could hear a faint clamor of "Excuse me . . . coming through . . ." as reporters fought to get themselves free of the courtroom to where they could call in the verdict.
He wanted his visor. He wanted it so badly that his hands were balling into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. He wanted to be able to see, just for one second . . . just to see the world as he knew it once more before Magneto launched his war and destroyed everything he loved . . .
Judge Webb's gavel came thudding down onto the bench. "The verdict is entered. We will convene tomorrow at ten o'clock for sentencing. Court is dismissed."
"The verdict is in! The jury has found Scott Summers guilty on all charges . . ."
A unanimous wail of dismay rose up from the thirty or so people watching the broadcast from Avalon. Most of the station's population was still at lunch; no one had expected the verdict to come in so quickly.
Everyone knew within thirty seconds, informed either by a telepath or by some super-speeded messenger. Some started crying; others started shouting.
Professor Xavier retreated from the chaos of the dining room and hurried up two levels to the station's jury-rigged Cerebro. Fitting the helmet onto his head, he called, Betsy! Can you hear me?
It's true, Professor. The verdict is guilty.
Charles hung his head until it nearly rested on the surface of the console. No. Oh, no.
You'd better get your people off that station as soon as you can.
And take them where? Muir Island was lost to them. Nowhere in the United States would be safe. Where could they go? To whom could they turn for help?
Betsy gave no answer. There was none to give. Charles Xavier, the most powerful telepath in the history of mankind, for the first time in his life felt utterly and absolutely alone.
Je suis d'accord: I agree.