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Chapter.11.


“You’ve sure got some nerve Remington!” Ororo hissed quietly down the phone, attempting to hem her words in with a cupped hand around the receiver head and her mouth. She glanced back at Logan to see what he was doing, not to comfortable to see him watching her, clearly wondering who it was she was talking to.


“Look out de window ‘Roro.”


Ororo turned back to face the front, away from her lover’s piercing gaze. “What?”


“Please ‘Ro, jus’ look out de window.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the unconscionable din of the rain, still pounding the streets relentlessly. With one more quick look at Logan over her shoulder (still staring and increasingly pissed), Ororo moved over to the window, in the same spot more-or-less that she had been standing in just a moment ago. She looked left; she looked right but couldn’t see anything on the street, the bright orange light of the lamps that lined the sidewalk being reflected off the ground tenfold by the rain. “A little more to yaw right ‘Roro---dat’s it---a little more.” And there he was, looking up at her from an unsheltered phone, no hat, dripping wet, probably sodden to the skin. “I need to talk to yo’ chere.”


Something in the tone of her old friend’s voice stopped Ororo from being mad, he really sounded like he needed her...but not like usual. He stared up at her, not saying a word over the receiver but nor did she for the longest time. “Look, urm---just go to the bar around the corner---‘Tommy’s’ I think it’s called. I’ll meet you there in five, O. K?” Remy nodded at her and hung up, rushing off in the direction of their imminent meeting place. Ororo slowly brought the phone down from her ear as she watched after him, dreading the conversation she was just about to have before it had even started. She turned quickly, hanging up and making her way straight for the bedroom, not looking at Logan once, but she would have to pass him. She almost got to the doorway before he caught her at the elbow, bringing her to the side to stand in front of him.


“Who was it darlin’?” Like he needed to hear her say it, but it was a formality worth going through, a test of sorts he supposed. Would she lie to him?


Eventually she brought her eyes up to meet his, subtly removing herself from his light grasp as she did so. “It’s---it’s not who you think. I can’t just---Logan please,” she pressed close to him, running her free hand up into his hair, “you have to trust me my love.” Kissing him softly she then said, “I have to do this.” She looked at him then as if expecting his approval or something, but none was forthcoming as he walked past her without a word, picking up a cigar from an oriental, carved box on the coffee table and went about the elaborate ‘ritual’ of preparing it to be smoked. Ororo watched him, not being able to help the guilty feeling that was washing over her but she had to do this none-the-less. So she went to the bedroom and set about getting changed.


In no more than five minutes, (which had to be some sort of a record), Ororo came back out into the living room, placing the last few pins into her hat as she went. Logan didn’t look at her as she strode across the room in the direction of the door; he simply gazed out of the window from his slouched position in his favourite chair, which was tellingly much more worse for wear than even the others. Bringing his now lit cigar to his lips he clasped them around it and inhaled deeply at which point a blinding streak of lightening flashed outside, closely followed by a deafening crack of thunder.


“Be careful.” Logan warned her but still wouldn’t face her, seemingly concentrating on the extreme weather outside. Ororo was about to thank him and reassure him that there was no real need to worry but instead her head snapped round to the window just as the second bolt tore through the inky sky and the wind began to howl furiously. The storm had begun...


* * *


Scott Summers was knelt down by the rapidly stiffening corpse of Victor Creed, a man he had been unfortunate enough to know in life but thankfully not very well. What knowledge he did have on the deceased told him that as much as any death can be deserved, his was certainly as close to it as you could get. But all this was not Scott’s concern as he dipped his index and middle finger into the pool of thick red blood that had soaked into the carpet by the victims head, bringing them up for closer inspection. He ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, testing the viscous substance as his mind pondered what had brought these events to pass. Of course, he already knew who the murder was and the reason for it as plain as day, Remy Le Beau had been put into a position where it was either him or Forge’s muscle man. The choice clearly wasn’t too difficult, but Scott’s mind was working over time now, trying to think of a way he could turn this all to his, or moreover Warren’s advantage, although he was so deep in this now that he was just as much up to his neck in it as his erstwhile best friend.


“I never trusted the guy, ya know? Well, who the hell would trust a guy with eyes like that, heh? Red like blood they was...” Scott had one ear on the statement that the hotel’s concierge was giving to Officer Fitzgerald just behind him as all around other officers collected evidence into clear plastic bags and snap-happy forensic photographers took pictures of the corpse and surrounding area from every conceivable angle. There was already a B.P out on Le Beau to every officer in the City and cars were posted at the bridge should he try to get back to the mainland, the scenario that was most likely. But he’d given all squads specific instructions that if apprehended, the suspect was to be taken to the islands main police station, to be questioned personally and only by the Chief himself. It was a rather unusual order to say the least but no-one was in a position to question it.


*CRACKLE* Chief Summers this is squad car 28954, over. *CRACKLE* Scott’s radio had startled him slightly as it burst without warning into life. He unclipped the small black rectangle from his belt as he stood up, turning his back on Creed’s lifeless form. *CRACKLE* This is Chief Summers; I’m receiving you, over. *CRACKLE* He released the button at the side and listened intently for a reply.


*CRACKLE* We’ve had a report of the possible whereabouts of the suspect and we are on our way to check it out now, over. *CRACLKE*


A small smile of nervous satisfaction crept onto Summers’ thin lips as he pressed the button once more, bringing the radio back up to his mouth. *CRACKLE* Good, keep me posted, as soon as there are any developments, I want to know. A.S.A.P. You got that? Over.*CRACKLE*


*CRACKLE* Certainly Sir, this is 28954 signing out, over. *CRACKLE* With that same smile still ghosting on his face, Scott slowly replaced his radio as he turned back around to find the morgue guys had put the body into a black bag, that they’d struggled to get zipped up due to his abnormal height and it was now taking five grown men to lift the dead man from the floor and onto the stretcher. But all Scott could think about now was getting back to the station to await the delivery of their only direct link to Lensherr, a link that could prove most beneficial. The plan that was only now beginning to formulate in his mind. Quickly, without a word to anyone, Scott made his way from the room and back to his base of operations.


* * *


Remy played distractedly with the butt edge of his lit cigarette, tweaking it in a quick rhythm with his short thumbnail, every so often taking a long, deep drag. He did so now, his hand trembling as he brought the white stick to his still rain wet lips, although the tremor was curtailed somewhat by the fact that his elbows where leaning firmly on the booth table in front of him.


“Here ya go buddy.”

“Wha--?!” Remy jumped as the waiter spoke, his head whipping up to look at the portly figure as he placed a bottle of cheap whisky and a small glass from his tray onto the table.


“Your drink, ya know, the one you just ordered?” The stocky man said as if he were addressing a retard. It didn’t help that Remy stared at him for a little longer, looking completely at a loss, until he finally snapped out of it.


“Oh, right homme. Merci, merci.” He mumbled as he looked down at the liquor that had been placed before him like it was the first time he’d seen alcohol.


The waiter’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the soaking wet man, genuinely concerned at his spaced out demeanour. “Hey, you O.K, Cajun?” He’d spent quite a bit of time in New Orleans in the past and he could spot a French Quarter accent from twenty paces. But he received no response, so with a shrug of his broad shoulders he left Remy’s side to go get the order of the only other customer in the joint. Remy stubbed out his cigarette that he’d smoked almost past the light brown mottled filter and started to pour his drink, the only thing he was aware of at this point in time was the sloshing sound of the liquid crashing in the stubby, thick glass and the beating of the rain that was punctuated with the odd rumble and crack of the more hostile weather elements.


*


Ororo spotted her ‘friend’ immediately; hunched in the corner, his auburn hair sopping wet and slicked back, rain running down the back of his brown trench coat, giving it a slippery sheen like it did to the pavements outside. She lowered her brolly, giving it a couple of rough shakes before closing it completely walking quickly and determinedly over to him, waiting until he put his drink down before she took her next course of action.


“Stor---!” *WHACK!* Ororo slapped him with all the force she could muster, making his head snap violently to the side and once he’d taken his hand away from his stinging cheek a large red mark made itself visible even through the stubble. Without a word she took the opposite seat in the booth from him, picking up his glass and taking a sip. But she had to fight the urge to spit it back out into the glass; it tasted like cat piss, particularly potent cat piss but cat piss none-the-less. Years of being married to Forge had given her pallet a taste for the more refined things, especially when it came to whisky. Placing the glass back down with a look of utter distain, she shifted her gaze over to Remy, who was now rubbing his still burning cheek, with eyes of the coldest ice, waiting for him to plead his case.


After a moment he stuttered, “‘Roro, I---I dunno what to say, I---.”


“You could start by apologising you insufferable bastard!” She whispered the expletive at him, leaning forwards conspiratorially as if it horrified her to say the word in public.


“I’m sorry O.K?! Remy’s fuckin’ sorry.” He had no-such qualms about swearing in the company of strangers. “I did what I had to do chere,” He grabbed the glass and drained its contents in one go. “I’m not proud of dat---but it’s too late to change it now.” A moment passed where in neither spoke or even looked at each other, Ororo trying to contain her fury and Remy having several more glasses of the ‘cat piss’, as far as he as concerned alcohol was alcohol. Just as he was about to start the fifth one he asked tentatively, “De homme---Logan---he is O.K ain’t he?” His nose dived into the glass.


“Yes, Logan is fine.” She sat back in the seat, crossing her legs. “But no thanks to you.”


Remy took his face from the glass, holding it frozen in front of him for a moment as he nodded, then as he set it down, he said, “Good---I know yo’ might not believe me but Remy’s glad abou’ dat chere.”


Ororo had a spiteful retort just on the tip of her tongue but forced herself to swallow it, deciding instead to graciously accept his apology and concern as genuine, although she doubted that if Logan himself where here he would do the same. She knew that underneath it all, Remy was once a decent man, a thief yes, but still a good man. After Henri, he’d lost it and in some way she supposed she still felt guilty, guilty for walking out on him at his lowest ebb, but at the time she felt she’d done everything she could for him. He was almost...beyond hope. But now was not the time for debating the rights and wrongs of the past. “Well?”


“Well what?”


“Why am I here? Surely you didn’t get me here just to offer you’re apologies,” her crystal clear eyes narrowed, “I know you too well Cajun.”


Remy’s eyebrows knitted together, “Didn’ Logan tell yo’? Abou’ what we found in Forge’s office?”


“No.” Ororo stated flatly, doing a good job at hiding her embarrassment. She’d been with the man for over twenty four hours and hadn’t once thought to ask about them, but to be fair; they had been somewhat...distracted. “Does it really matter?”


“If yo’ wanna know why yo’ve jus’ put yo life in danger from both sides of de law den yeah, it does!” Remy was genuinely irritated that she didn’t seem to be unduly worried that once this whole thing came out, everyone who’d so much as heard of the documents existence was probably going to get dragged down by this, himself included now that he thought about it. But as Forge’s wife, if it came to light that he had been blackmailing the Mayor, she would most likely be caught in the hoo-ha as well, after all, they’d already made one attempt on her life.


“What is this all about Remy?!” She was trying hard to be strong but she could feel the tears, that where mainly of frustration it has to be said, stinging at the backs of her eyes. “Why where Forge and I nearly killed, who wanted us dead?!”


“I’m surprised yo’ hadn’t worked at least dat one out fo’ yo’self chere---it was de Mayor, an’ it was probably de Mancini’s he got to do de dirty work.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a misshapen packet of Marlborough’s, retrieving a rather bend and sad looking cigarette. “De reason that Monsieur Lensherr an’ Monsieur Worthington wanted de stuff Forge had is because dey prove what he been sayin’ all along, dat de Worthington family where involved in de ‘Tufano Scandal’ in de twenties.”


Ororo was only vaguely aware of the affair that happened in 1921 that had caused a massive, almost fatal upset in the power establishment of the city, namely the prestigious Worthington family, one of the oldest families on the East coast. “In what way?”


Remy leant forwards, bringing the tip of his cigarette into the match he’d just struck, waving his hand vigorously to extinguish it before tossing it into the ashtray. “De whole ‘Tufano’ shit was about money launderin’, t’rough dis phoney company dat had been set up in Erik Lensherr’s name, but it was mainly funded wit Worthington money. Dat’s what dey prove, dat de Worthington family where makin’ a tidy profit offa Organized Crime; copies of accounts, false bankers records, yo’ name it, de whole lot, it’s in dose papers.”


“Why would they need to?, they’ve always been wealthy.” Ororo didn’t try too hard to disguise the contempt in her voice.


“Dat’s what people didn’ realise at de time, de Worthington’s had los’ almos’ evert’in’ after de Great War. Worthington de Second had sunk mos’ of de family money into arms manufacturin’ and after de war, when de demand dried up an’ the bottom fell out o’ de world economy, de homme was almos’ broke.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, his next words coming out with a cloud of yellow smoke. “Dat’s when he met Lensherr, he was up an comin’ in de New York underworld at de time an wit what money he had left, they set up de Tufano Shippin’ Company. But de homme wasn’ stupid chere, he made sure all documents and contracts where signed t’rough Lensherr and when de whole t’ing blew up, it was de Polish immigrant dat went down an’ not de ‘old money name’.”


“Figures.” Ororo muttered bitterly, feeling the need for a stiff drink and deciding to brave another sip of Remy’s, or more over a gulp.


“As yo’ can imagine, Lensherr’s been itchin’ fo’ revenge evah since but all de accounts dat he kept copies of went missin’ durin’ de investigation an’ when he was released from de State Penitentiary eight years ago he been lookin’ fo’ dem.”


Ororo took in a thoughtful deep breath, “I wonder where Forge got his hands on them?” The question appeared to be addressed to herself, but Remy stabbed a guess anyway.


“De Marko’s? Cassidy’s? Who de hell knows, someone probably owed him---fuck, everyone owes someone somet’in’ in dis town at one time or anuddah, maybe he jus’ got lucky.”


“Oh, you mean like you where?” Her tone was more than a little spiteful.


He flashed her a guilty look and reached over for the glass that was still in Ororo’s hand; she conceded it to him willingly. “I am sorry chere, yo’ gotta believe me.” With his free hand, Remy reached over again, this time laying it on her slender creamy coffee coloured one, squeezing it gently. “I keep on lettin’ yo’ down, I nevah mean to, it’s jus’---.” Words failed him because there were none; nothing he could say or do could excuse his actions so there was no longer any point in trying. He set his drink down, his smoke still smouldering away between two fingers as he brought that hand up to his face, stretching his thumb and index finger so they could settle at the far corner of each eye.


“Remy, it’s O. K, I’m still angry---but I forgive you.” A mixed look of softness and worry flooded Ororo’s face as she watched her dejected friend, it was then she noticed that there was something more to this, something else was bothering him. “Remy, what’s wrong?”


He shook his head at first, loath to answer her, but eventually, after bringing his hand down from shielding his eyes and taking in a few more lung-fulls of smoke, he replied, “I gone done somet’in’ stupid ‘Roro,” He finally turned his gaze to meet hers, something like desperation burning in them, “But I had no choice---Creed would’ve---.”


She didn’t give him chance to finish, “Creed would have what?” she asked, quietly, not surprised that the detestable creature had tracked Remy down.


Suddenly both their heads shot to face the door as it burst open, not only the noise of the raging storm becoming louder to startle them, but also, the shrill shouting of several armed police officers rushing in their direction.


“REMY LE BEAU, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR MURDER, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SLIENT, ANYTHING YOU DO SAY...”


Ororo looked on in confused terror as she watched three of the five officers in total set upon Remy; throwing him to the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back as the most senior among them continued to scream the legal rights that accompany all arrests, at him. Remy didn’t struggle or utter a word, in fact he looked completely resigned to this, as if he’d been expecting it. It was only when the other two officers grabbed Ororo that he broke his silence. “Get yaw hands offa her! Dis got nothin’ ta do wit her!” He strained his head upwards as all the while, the officer that had his knee in Remy’s back tried to force it back down to the wet floorboards.


“Remy! What’s going on?” Ororo cried out in panic as she too was being put into hand cuffs, albeit more gently, but she still struggled.


“Don’t worry chere! It’s gonna be O.K, yo’ here!” Remy tried his best to calm her, much to the chagrin of his arresting officer who promptly took his sleek, heavy black baton from his belt; bringing it down hard on Remy’s head.


“Shut the fuck up, you dumb hick!” He got off Remy’s back then, and with the help of the officer to his immediate right, they both picked the now semi-conscious Cajun up from the ground and proceeded to drag him from the bar.


“What’s going on?! Let me go!” Ororo continued to scream and protest as the police men at her sides followed the others lead towards the exit.


“I’m sorry Ma’am but we’re gonna have to take you in for questionin’ for associatin’ with a murder suspect.” By now they where outside in the wild night and bundling her into a squad car whilst Remy was already being driven off in the one that had been parked in front. Ororo had had dealings with the police before, but never had she been as petrified as she was at this moment as the car pulled out and headed off down the rain lashed street.


* * *

Logan had got around the corner just a fraction of a second too late to stop them but soon enough to see the shock of white that was Ororo’s hair in the back of the police car. Just after she’d left his apartment, he’d decided to follow her. Maybe it was the private detective in him, his naturally distrusting nature or maybe just the fact that he was crazy about her and felt an overtly protective instinct as a result, he didn’t know. All he did know was that he felt compelled to go after her when she’d left, see what this Cajun bastard had to say for himself and why he wanted to talk to her. The last thing he’d expected was to see this...


“ORORO!” He shouted after her, his hands cupped around his mouth in an attempt to amplify the sound but it was no use; the racket of the storm that was growing heavier by the second, drowned him out. “ORORO!” he cried again regardless. “Fuck it!” Ripping his hat from his head in his impotent rage, Logan threw it into the gutter as he walked back and forth aimlessly, before plonking himself down on the edge of the pavement. He ran his hands through his hair, that now looked fairly long, the thick toughs that usually stood stubbornly on edge hanging limply thanks to the weight of the rain. Pushing them back and taking in a deep breath, Logan tried to gather his mind into some kind of rational order; it wouldn’t do Ororo much good if he lost the plot---this was going to be a real test for him, he couldn’t afford to lose his nerve.


“O.K. Logan, get it together.” He commanded himself as he stood up from the ground, snatching up his misshapen hat as he went. Rubbing his hand over his whiskers he tried to think of where they might have taken her. It couldn’t be the local station because this clearly had something to do with Scott so he’d want to see her personally, which meant...she was being taken to his headquarters in central Manhattan. Logan ran as fast as he could back round the block to his apartment to get his car.


* * *


Ororo had been here before, last year there had been a fundraiser for the building of a new station in Harlem and she’d sung at it. She’d hated doing it, everyone at the event was so patronising, so smarmy, so...goddamn pleased with themselves. But she’d done it because Forge had asked her to and it had given him the perfect opportunity to introduce himself to the New York elite, schmooze with the big guns, get close to Warren Worthington the Third to be more precise...She was in Scott’s office at the moment and from the second she’d been brought hear, Ororo knew that this was no ordinary arrest, but her own incarceration was not what was irking her at this point in time. She wanted to know what had become of Remy, frantically hoping that he had not done what she thought he had. Remy was many things but a murder? No, there was just no way he could have done something like that. But then again, what was he trying to tell her about that louse, Victor Creed? Surely...


“Ms. Munroe, I trust it wasn’t too much of an ordeal for you?” Scott Summers strode into the office, full uniform on, perfect to the letter, cap tucked under his arm. He looked like a fucking drill sergeant; not a single strand of mousey brown hair out of place. Ororo’s icy blues traced his path with unwavering intensity, somehow hoping that the pure vitriol of the stare would burn its way into his very soul. But the Chief seemed unaffected, taking his seat on the opposite side of the desk, placing his cap so that it sat ‘just so’ beside his ledger. For some reason, that little detail annoyed Ororo most of all.


“Where the hell is Remy, Scott? What have you done with him?” She asked, with a calm demeanour that was somehow ten times more menacing than if she’d have launched into a scathing attack


“Heeee’s---in for questioning.” Quick save but not quite quick enough.


“Cut the bull shit Scott, what has he done---we know each other, there’s no need to be coy.” Ororo shifted her legs, crossing one over the other, distracting Scott for just a millisecond. “The arresting officer said he was taking him in for murder. Is that true?”


Better take the sympathetic route. “I’m sorry Ororo, but yes. We suspect that Le Beau was responsible for killing an associate of your husband’s, one Mr. Victor Creed, earlier this evening.”


Ororo pursed her lips, the beginning of tears collecting in the corners of her pretty eyes that were now swamped with sadness. She began to nod absently, like she’d finally conceded to herself that yes, Remy had crossed that line and although it was that piece of scum Creed that had been on the receiving end she couldn’t help but weep for her former love. She wept tears of sadness for the Remy that she had known; the Remy that was probably lost forever. Scott sensed his opening, just like the pro that he was, he could see the angle he had to play that would get her to carry out the plan that he had worked out. A plan that had come to him the moment he had been informed that Remy Le Beau was not alone, but that Ororo Munroe was with him; when Scott had received that news he’d felt like all his Christmases had come at once. Of course, he’d already heard that Ororo had left him two days ago and it hadn’t taken that long for the news to filter through to him who she’d left him for. Jimmy fucking Logan of all people! How he detested that little man, but how his own father had respected him...he’d never forgive Charles for that, never. But these things didn’t matter, for Scott had realised a way in which he could use these most unexpected of circumstances to his advantage and that was what was most important right now.


“Look, Ororo,” He leant his elbows forwards on the desk, bringing his hands together like an understanding priest. “I’m sure the last thing you want is for Remy to serve time---or worse. And I’m not going to pretend like you don’t know the---awkward situation that Warren and I have been put in.” She cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him, he ignored it. “There is a way that we can all get out of this---Remy too.”


“Oh, is there really.” Now she sounded unimpressed too.


“Yes.” Scott replied with a flat irritation. “But only if you do as I say.”


-TBC-





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