7

Logan couldn’t quite believe it when a limousine pulled up to the curb.

Here he was, standing under the awning of a closed adult book store, catty-corner to one of the few phone kiosks still in existence, on one of the seediest streets in Vancouver, and suddenly a brand new stretch limo pulls up.  For him.  It was surreal.

(Already he’d been asked if he wanted to buy several different varieties of drugs, and propositioned by hookers both female, male, and unclear. He'd told the drug dealers he was part of a police stake out, prompting them to call him narc along with several filthy names, but they cleared out.  He said the same thing to the hookers, save for one boy and one girl:  the boy looked about fifteen, and smelled like a junkie. Logan gave him fifty bucks and told him to go get a decent meal - the kid didn’t trust getting money for nothing, but he did take it and scurry off as if he’d been mugged.  The girl was probably fourteen if not younger, and looked cold, scared, and high.  He gave her fifty bucks and asked her to get a decent meal as well, as both had the same hungry, ravaged look he ascribed to all drug addicts or famished vampires; they seemed so evanescent they just might blow away, or dissolve in the first good rain.  She'd glanced at the money suspiciously and asked him if he was one of those “god freaks”.  He wasn’t sure how to answer that - would Bob want him preaching for him?  And just what would a Bob-worshipper preach anyway? “Free beer!” “Everybody should just take a chill pill and relax.” “Swagman’s hats and feather boas for everybody!” - but he finally settled on a simple “No”.  She took the money, but she kept eyeing him like he was a freak, unsteady on her high heels, her bare legs puckered with goosebumps from the cold.  There were just so many fucking sad stories out here, it was crushing. )

The hookers huddled on the street corner across the way looked on with as much shock as Logan had as a uniformed chauffer - a young woman with tufts of reddish brown hair sticking out from beneath her chauffeur’s hat -- walked around the large, phallic vehicle, and opened the rear door for him. At this point, some of the hookers were jeering, “Hey, pick me! “ “Are you into bears, big guy?  I could wear a wig!” and cracking themselves up with laughter.

Inside the limo, Toshiro “Tony” Tagawa waved at him playfully, undoing the tie around his neck. “Are you looking for a good time?” He wondered, grinning at his own joke.  Even the chauffer tittered as Logan scowled, and got inside the limo.

The driver shut the door after him, and went around to the front, although it was kind of hard to tell:  the windows were tinted a smoky black.  The interior of the car was a rich, soothing royal blue, and real leather by the smell, that seemed to absorb noise like a supernatural force. “When ya said you’d have someone come pick me up, I thought you meant a lackey.”

“Lackey?” Tagawa repeated, clearly amused. “I don’t have lackeys, Logan-san, simply employees. And I was done with the charity function, so why not come get you myself?” There was a small television screen embedded in the seat back, which was an easy eight feet away, and it was currently showing a Simpsons episode.

“That why you’re wearing a tux?” He asked, even though he knew that was why. “I thought maybe you were just wildly formal.”

Tagawa chuckled good naturedly, opening a panel in the seatback before them - it contained a very mini bar. “I hate the penguin suit.  I also prefer to give to charity anonymously, but this group insisted on honoring me with some kind of award.” He took out a tiny bottle of liquor, the kind they served on airplanes, and asked, “Do you think they’d accept my contribution if they knew much of it sprang from
my family’s fortune of blood money?  I know my money to be honest, but theirs …”

“Look, if it’s gonna keep food on the table or keep ‘em from freezing to death, I think most people aren’t too concerned about the moral underpinnings of the cash that could save their lives.”

Tagawa considered that a moment, then nodded. “Very true. You are wise for someone so young.”

“I’m not that young. Or wise.” He watched as Tagawa selected a mini bottle from the collection, and tried to figure out what else he had in there.

Tagawa must have noticed, because he asked, “Would you like a drink?”

“Got a real tiny bottle of beer in there?”

Tagawa chuckled again, and it was easy to see the laugh lines on his narrow face.  He laughed a lot, but that was hardly a surprise; he seemed so pleasant and easy going it was hard to imagine him ever getting angry. “All I have are what I’ve been told is “children’s drinks” - liqueurs.  I can’t help it; I’ve never liked beer, or even sake. 'Love crème de menthe, though.” He held up the tiny green bottle for emphasis. “It tastes like melted ice cream, and yet still gets you comfortably numb.”

Logan smiled, surprised that a guy in his sixties would reference a Pink Floyd song - but, then, why the hell not?  The band members had to be nearing sixty themselves. “I'll bet it does.  I kinda avoid strong mints, though, ‘cause … well, sometimes the taste is too much, ya know?”

Although he didn’t understand, Tagawa nodded, which was polite of him. “So what did you wish to ask me?  If it was simply for the lift, it‘s my pleasure.”

“No, although I appreciate that.  I realize your business doesn’t exactly put you in contact with top drawer forensic labs, but do you think you might be able to put in some calls?  I have something … unusual that needs to be analyzed as soon as possible.  Something special.”

Tagawa took a pull from the tiny bottle - the fact that he didn’t use a glass was something Logan found kind of cool - and paused before answering. “I know people, yes. What is it that you need exactly?”

Logan pulled the sealed plastic evidence bag from his coat pocket, and held it out so they could see the slender, bloody dart inside it.  He'd been astonished at how small it was, so slender and insubstantial, with the blood dried to a rusty brown.  It hardly seemed like it could have killed someone, and yet it apparently had.  “A … friend of mine was killed with this.  It’s some kind of poison dart, but the police haven’t been able to determine what the composition is.  Since it’s the only way to find her killer, I was hoping you could use your connections to find a lab that could analyze it and actually get something from it.”

There was genuine shock in Tagawa’s languid brown eyes, tempered somewhat by the crème de menthe he’d already had at the charity function. “Killed?  I don’t wish to disappoint you, but even if there is someone who can analyze it properly, I do not think such evidence will be legally admissible anywhere …”

“I know.  This isn’t gonna be settled in court.”

Tagawa studied him, with a surprising intensity for a man so mild.  And even though he looked slightly rumpled, he still exuded that same dignity that had made Logan like him instantly, as well as reminded him to be just a bit wary of him, because his natural placidity was not due to passivity;  he was a sharp man who simply watched, biding his time, and waited to make his move.  He was the every day life equivalent of a Grand Master. “Logan -” he began, and his tone sounded like bad news.

“She was a cop,” he quickly explained. “A good one.  And I’m afraid what happened to her is somehow my fault. The cops are at a standstill - one of ‘em gave this to me - and I need to find this guy.  I need to make this right.”

Tagawa’s eyes never left his, judging his veracity.  It was a test he must have passed, because after a moment he nodded, and reached out to take the evidence bag. “You understand it will be easier if I think of this as mercenary stuff rather than murder.”

Logan nodded in agreement. “I understand.”

Tagawa opened up a small shelf in the seatback (maybe it was a James Bond kind of vehicle; was there
a jetpack somewhere in here?) and put the evidence bag on it, possibly so he didn’t have to touch it any longer. “It’s an awful world sometimes,” he said sadly.

Logan sighed heavily in tacit agreement, settling back into the seat.  The vehicle was moving, but it was difficult to tell.  It was such a smooth ride, and the interior was made in such a way that the passenger couldn’t really hear what the engine was up to. Were all limos like this?  He really didn’t know, as he’d never been in one before (or at least not to his memory).  But he could see its appeal, even if it looked so phallic as to almost be a joke.

Tagawa broke the long silence by saying, “I’m surprised anyone would try and anger you.  All respect intended, but who would deliberately go after you and risk your wrath?”

Logan scowled and concentrated on trying to see the world outside the dark glass. “You’d be surprised.”

****

She'd had to talk to Monie - Constable Monica Stenz - about him, because Monie was the only one who could really work the facial feature compiling software with any kind of competence.  And Brent was just hanging around to be an asshole.

“Ya know, if he was shaved, bathed, and brought to my tent, I’d do him,” Monie said, turning the laptop screen towards her to show her what she had.

Brent made a rude noise. “You’d do a crazy guy?”

“Haven't you met my ex-husband?  I already have.”

“Far be it from me to interrupt the comic relief,” Lily said impatiently, and gestured at the screen, where a computerized illustration showed a guy with some similarity to Logan - but only some.  “His nose is a bit sharper, his face leaner, and his hair is kind of weird.  There’s a bit more of it, and it’s obvious he hasn’t combed it. Also, it looked like he trimmed his beard with scissors, but neatly done, especially since he didn’t use a mirror.”

“What was that thing with the mirrors anyways?” Monie asked, turning the laptop back towards her.

“Frightened by his own reflection?” Brent suggested.

They were in her office in the police station, which was technically the old post office building - when the post office used to also be a trading post and dried good store. Times changed, mini-marts came into existence, and the post office got itself a bigger, decent building a couple miles down the road. It was the cops that got the drafty place that often smelled of mold in summer, and creaked in the big winds like it was about to come tumbling down on their heads. It was basically a low building of cinderblock design, with a front area that was technically the province of her entire “force” (all five of them - and even that was considered too many, even with all these tourists in and out), her office, a holding ‘cell” that also doubled as a coffee room (on the rare occasion they arrested someone, they usually turned them over to the larger province authorities, simply because they had neither the space or the manpower to deal with them), a small bathroom unisex out of! necessity, and her office, which was Chief Milligan’s office until he retired three months ago. Because it was so hard to find actual “chiefs” (not to mention cops) for rural areas such as these, she was promoted to Chief, but it was de facto until the paperwork promoting her went through. There was nothing like bureaucracy.

Her desk was raw pine, stained but too lightly to matter, and every now and then she found a splinter whenever she least wanted to. It was lightly covered with files, the paperwork of every day life (the last crime to cross her desk before the corpse? A tourist reporting the theft of his snowboard), a coffee cup decorated with a cartoon moose wearing a toque and thinking “Now where did I park my snowmobile?” full of pencils and pens, and a boxy, extremely old computer pushed off to one side. Her chair was padded and reasonably nice, but she knew the plastic chair on the other side that Monie was currently occupying - and its mate, that Brent was consciously avoiding by leaning against the door - was highly uncomfortable; she was pretty sure that they were rejected dentist waiting room chairs. They couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if they had spikes in them.

“I know you’re being a jackass,” Lily told Brent. “But I think you’re right. He didn’t - doesn’t - like looking at his own reflection.”

“So we’ve established he’s no narcissist,” Monie said, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“How could he be? He’s like Eddie Munster, all grown up.” Brent noted.

“Somebody’s jealous,” Monie said in a childish sing song.

Lily opened her top desk drawer, and pulled out one of the large rubber bands she kept not just for paperwork, but also discipline. She took aim, and said, “Next smart ass gets it between the eyes.”

Brent held up his hands in mock surrender. He was a long, thin man with chestnut hair that was always a little longer than regulation, but who cared in these parts? He was good looking in a sort of sleek, youthful way, although something about his long, narrow face and the glint in his always sly eyes warned you right away he was trouble.

“You know, this could be considered abuse,” Monie noted.

“Tell it to the RCMP.”

She simply turned the laptop towards her again. “Pick a nose - any nose.” Monie was somewhat short and somewhat stocky, but had an attractive oval face and luxuriously, naturally curly brunette hair when she wasn’t putting it back in a heavy and somewhat dowdy bun. She had grown up just a few miles away, in a speed bump of a town called (according to her, appropriately) Folly, and was as tough as they came. Not only could she be your local police officer, she could build you a home annex and skin you a coat, from a passing skier if necessary. Brent sometimes liked to refer to her as “Grizzly Stenz”.

Lily pointed to one of the six noses displayed on the computer screen, all certain types designated by a number. “Number four, I think.”

As Monie turned it back around and started to remodel the Logan “sketch” composite, Brent said, “Okay, so what am I missing here? He’s starving, obviously nuts, and seems to have no idea who he is, but he speaks some Asian language fluently, and that freaked him out?”

“That’s about the size of it.” She dropped the rubber band on her desk, figuring she wasn’t going to have to use it just yet.

“Okay, any distinguishing marks,” Monie asked, in a voice suggesting she was done with the compilation. “And are you sure you don’t want to amend his weight? One eighty seems to be a lot for a guy who’s half starved.”

“I know, but … it feels right. He carries himself like he’s got a lot of weight to throw around. If anyone sees him, they won’t think he’s some half-starved wretch.” She closed her eyes, and pictured him in her mind across the table from her, trying to see if there were any details she might have forgotten. “I think he’s got a mole on his left cheek, but it’s covered by his facial hair…” She concentrated hard, and realized there was a small lump beneath his shirt. “Wait … he was wearing something around his neck.”

“A choke chain?” Brent suggested.

She opened her eyes and gave him a cutting glare. “No, we’re not discussing your girlfriend.”

“I thought his girlfriend went “baa”,” Monie said, jumping in.

Brent scowled at the both of them, but said, “Like any one woman could tie me down.”

“I’m sure they’ve tried; tell them to use a nail gun next time,” Monie said acidly, and then turned her cool hazel eyes on her. “So what was it, boss?”

Now she wished she’d have thought to ask him about it in the diner, but considering the shapes of the thing, what else could it be? “They were small rectangles - dog tags?”

Monie raised her eyebrows. “Military? Well, crazed vets are not unheard of.”

Brent snapped his fingers, as if he just had a great idea. “Yeah, and that might explain the other language - he was stationed overseas somewhere.”

Lily consider that, frowning. It was certainly a good possibility, and was another avenue to explore.

“Might also give him the ability to kill,” Monie said, turning the laptop to face her. “Is this him?”

She studied the computer composite, and nodded, deciding it was close enough. “Yeah. I want you to circulate it among the rest of the guys here, and fax that to every police department within a hundred and thirty kilometer radius.”

Monie whistled low, turning the laptop back towards her. “That far?”

“Yeah, and maybe you wanna fax it back to the Alberta authorities too. Logan has the ability to cover lots of ground on foot, more than you’d think possible for a man without equipment. But I want you to make it clear I want updates on his location only. He is not wanted, I don’t want him arrested, and for god’s sakes, no one approach him armed. This is a safety issue as far as I’m concerned; I just want him in from the cold before the next big storm socks in, that’s all.”

Brent straightened up, concern creasing his face. “But Sarge, what if he’s our guy?”

She knew he meant the murder. “There’s nothing to indicate that he is. In fact, I think the necessary level of forensic awareness needed to leave a crime scene so clean is beyond him at this point. He can even adequately feed himself.”

“But it could have been coincidence,” Brent argued. “The scene was compromised by the environment. He could have lucked out.”

“How lucky can one man be, Brent? Besides, if he had a weapon, I never saw it, and he was so freaked out I’m sure he’d have pulled it in the beginning if he had one.” Okay, that was a guess, and from the look Brent gave her, he knew that. “I think he’s scared, but I don’t think he’s dangerous to anyone but himself.”

Monie looked up, the computer screen reflection a blue light in her eyes. “Frightened animals are the most dangerous, Chief.”

That was a truism she had been trying very hard not to think about. “Just get it out to everybody before they go on or off duty tonight,” she told her, getting to her feet. “And fax it like it’s contagious. Brent, I want you to call the military bases and hospitals around here, see if they’ve got anyone who went AWOL that matches our guy’s description. Keep in mind the name Logan may have just been pulled off the menu, so that’s unreliable at best.”

Brent frowned at his assignment, always hating the desk work most of all. He preferred to be out there doing something, but the sad truth of policing in the Bear Creek region was that there was very rarely anything worth doing. He was a good cop, and she figured she‘d lose him to one of the bigger outfits as soon as he could no longer stand his own restlessness. “What are you gonna be doing?” He asked, and it neared a challenge.

She picked up the file on her desk, and waved it like a trophy. “I still have to crack the nefarious snowboard theft case. Let’s get moving, people, this guy is a marathon sprinter. I wanna find him before he’s out of my jurisdiction, and before that storm hits.”

And she wanted to figure him out before he disappeared for good, or more bodies started turning up. She figured either option, of roughly equal possibility, was not good at all.

8

Somehow, he thought the Professor would be more surprised.

There seemed to be no reaction at all as he looked at the photo and glanced at the papers - if he judged from the length of his looks correctly, he read some of the French ones - and then seeing that the envelope was sent from Wolfram and Hart, called up Logan’s undead buddies.

A strangely perky woman answered, and said he couldn’t speak to Angel because he was busy “killing something in the bathroom” (did anyone want to know? No, but she started to tell them; mercifully, Xavier stopped her soon after she said, “It just came out of the toilet, and apparently ate Phil from marketing … or maybe it came out of Phil from marketing …”) , but they got switched over to Wesley, which was better, because at least he was Human. (He was, wasn’t he?)

Scott had to sit in stunned silence as Xavier actually offered Wesley a position on the X-Men, should he ever tire of Los Angeles. As Scott mouthed that he was absolutely crazy, he heard Xavier say, in his mind. *He’d be a good asset. What bothers you more - that he has no powers, or that he’s a friend of Logan’s?*

That was unfair. He had no problem that he had no powers (unless the ability to cast spells that actually seemed to work was a power), but how could he be an X-Man? He’d be the weak link; they’d always have to worry about covering his back.

Or would they? Xavier didn’t seem to think so, and although their tale had been somewhat rambling and hard to follow, certainly the unbreakable trio of Rogue, Bobby, and Brendan seemed duly impressed that he tried to fight the “big ugly thing”, and got up after being put through a wall, after they had written him off as dead. Maybe the fact that he survived and was one of the last people standing in the mansion when he got back was impressive enough.

Thankfully, Wesley turned down the offer - for now (did he have to add that?) - and sounded flattered, which he damn well should have been. Scott was grateful Xavier hadn’t extended the offer to Angel, but maybe the Professor realized he should draw the line at vampires. The Professor explained the envelope had been “accidentally” opened (and gave him a dirty look, which he thought was unfair - the last thing Logan got was a head), and there was some question about the contents. Wesley explained that Yasha had spurred them on a search through their archives, and they found some records pertaining in a roundabout way to Logan, although they had no idea why he was in Wolfram and Hart’s files at all. They were obviously keeping track of the “mutant phenomenon” before science was aware of it, but it was unclear why; it was also unclear why Logan seemed to have been “singled out” so early. He said there may have been a heretofore unknown connection to the “Weapon X” project, b! ut they hadn’t been able to find anything even circumstantial.

Scott was about to ask what Scorpion’s project - he was “Weapon X,” right? - had to do with this, but he heard Xavier’s voice in his head again, swift and stern. *Not now, Scott. Later.*

He sat forward, staring at Xavier, who seemed to avoid his eyes. Was Logan somehow connected to Scorpion’s project? Was that why they were friends? What the hell was the “project” anyways - something about mutant killing machines, right? Well, Logan would fit right in there, all right.

Wesley then seemed to grow even more glum - if that was possible, and told them their timing was “fortuitous” (now he saw why the professor wanted him here - he’d make a terrific English teacher), as one of their “seers” had some free time come up, and had done some “casting”, whatever that meant. “One of the men in the photograph,” he said, his faint British accent giving the words a portentous sound they didn’t deserve. “His code name is Eagle if you follow the names and men from left to right. His real name is Julius Easton, and he is still alive, in a convalescent home in Portland, Oregon.”

“Alive?” Xavier repeated, hands clenching on the top of his desk.

It took a moment for Scott to get it, but he did. If this guy did serve in some sort of military operation with Logan, would he remember him? Would he know things about him that no one else did?

“We do not know the state of his physical or mental health,” Wesley warned, and rightly so. No one in that photo looked all that young - what was this Easton guy’s age? He had to be pushing a hundred. “But I thought I should tell Logan and let him figure out for himself what he wished to do. I can e-mail you the address.”

But the Professor had picked up a pen and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. “No need, I have it.”

“Oh yes, telepathy. Makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

“Quite,” Xavier agreed. “I will pass it on to Logan once he returns.”

“Please. And … tell him I’m still sorry about Yasha.”

Xavier grimaced as if in pain, and said, “I will.” As soon as he cut the connection, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“Is something wrong?” Scott asked, getting up from his chair. He was tired of being frozen, in fear that Wesley would pick him up listening in.

“No. It’s just that … perhaps I was wrong about Yasha.”

Scott wondered what brought that on, but decided he had other questions he wanted to ask first. “Look, what was that thing about Weapon X? There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, isn’t there?”

The Professor’s blue eyes were cool as they seemed to measure him, and after a long pause, he said, “If I tell you, it can’t leave this room. You can’t mention it to Logan either, not until he’s ready to talk about it.”

Suddenly, Scott had a very bad feeling about this. “What?”

“Marcus lied, to take the … well, fall, I suppose, for Logan. Marcus is not Weapon X; Logan is. It was Stryker’s program, and they tried to recruit Marcus after the fact, but it never happened. If you ever wanted proof that Marcus cared about someone besides himself, there it is.”

It made so much sense. Logan had always been nothing but a killing machine, so how could he not be it? “You knew this?” Scott said, finally grasping the full implications. “You knew he was a programmed mutant killer, and you allowed him to stay at the school?”

Xavier shook his head. “Scott -”

But he didn’t let him finish. “You endangered the kids? To what, prove a point? To spit in the government’s face?”

He fixed him with a cold, hard gaze that he hadn’t seen too often - or at least, not directed at him. “Logan is not a machine, he’s a man. If you haven’t noticed, he’s broken his programming. Stryker’s main problem with him was he wouldn’t complete adhere to it for long.”

Scott threw up his hands, feeling the anger he felt before come back in a triumphant, tidal surge. Some father figure he was - all he had been doing lately was lying to him. “And that could have been what he wanted you to think. Did that ever occur to you?”

Xavier’s lips thinned to a grim line. If he was at all repentant about this, it didn’t show. “I would know.”

“Would you?” he scoffed. “Considering the sheer number of telepaths the Organization employs?” he knew he was speaking of his own experience at the Organization’s hands, but he didn’t want to think that Logan could shake the ‘programming” he couldn’t, healing factor or not. Logan was not the toughest man alive, he was simply the most pig headed. His stomach burned with acid as he began to realize he was surrounded by lies; was there anyone he could trust anymore?

(He couldn’t even trust Jean anymore.)

“How long have you known?” He demanded angrily. “How long have you kept this from us?”