It was with a heavy heart, then, that he entered the mansion home of the Xavier Institute, to be greeted by a worried-looking Cyclops and the fateful words: “We’ve got a situation.” He listened with mounting despair as the X-Men’s leader filled him in, and he wondered if his life would ever be his own again.
Scott, it transpired, had spent the last few hours with Wolverine and another teammate, Storm, compiling a list of likely suspects for the probable kidnapping of Moira MacTaggert. With nothing else to go on, they were working on the assumption that one of the X-Men’s many enemies had chosen to get at them through their human friend. Bobby felt a pang of guilt when he realized that he was hardly listening to the details. It wasn’t until they were halfway to the conference room that he suddenly stopped, and allowed a half-remembered fragment of a television news broadcast to resurface in his mind. “What if,” he proposed tentatively, “this was nothing to do with us? What if somebody wanted Moira for her skills?”
Cyclops gave him an inquisitive look. “We’ve considered that possibility, of course. What makes you say that?”
“Because,” said Bobby-and, to his own surprise, he grinned-“Doctor Moira MacTaggert isn’t the only scientist specializing in genetic research to have disappeared recently.”
The old fisherman in the homely dockside tavern was reluctant to talk to them at first.
Jean Grey smiled at him sweetly, and bought him another halfpint of mild-whatever that was. In return, he mumbled into his graying beard about the state of the fishing industry nowadays, what with EEC quotas and the Eastern European factory trawlers. Rogue felt quite sorry for him, as he talked about a way of life that was gone forever. But she became gradually less sympathetic as he continued to talk and talk, without answering the questions that her teammate gently put to him.
They had borrowed some of Moira’s clothes, and donned them over their costumes, before flying under their own power to the nearest population center to Muir Island: Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. They had started at the harbor, asking questions of one person after another. It hadn’t taken long for one woman to remember that, looking out to sea, she had seen a large aircraft coming in to land at about half past one. She didn’t know where it had put down exactly, but she had seen it again, flying in the opposite direction, about fifteen minutes later.
“Looks like it was a plane after all, then,” Rogue had said.
But Phoenix had disagreed. “Like Hank said, too noisy. Somebody might well have flown to Muir Island to collect Moira, but I’m betting she was already a prisoner by then.”
It had taken another two hours after that—until Rogue was about ready to give up-before they had found another lead, which had brought them here.
At last, the fisherman confirmed what had already been suggested to the two women by a witness. But not before explaining that he lived off a meager state pension these days, taking out his old boat only when the pain of his gout and arthritis subsided enough to make such an undertaking feasible. There was no living to be made at his game any more. That was why (and he was getting to the point at last now), when he had been made a generous offer this afternoon, he had taken it. He had hired out the Sea Tiger to a pair of strangers. They had returned it a couple of hours later, and the old man had thought no more about it.
Finally, Rogue thought, they were getting somewhere.
Except that the fisherman refused to say anything more about his customers. They had sworn him to secrecy.
Jean didn’t seem to mind. She smiled again, thanked the old man and bought him another drink, then ushered Rogue out of the tavern. With the coming of night, a bitter chill had descended upon this part of the island. Despite her near-invulnerable skin and two layers of clothing, Rogue shivered as a fierce sea wind whipped against her face.
“Tell me that wasn’t a complete waste of our time,” she said. “Tell me you read his mind!”
Jean smiled knowingly. “Our suspects had Scottish accents,” she said.
“Locals, then.”
“Let’s hope so. They certainly didn’t leave in the plane with Moira. But they were veiy careful not to let anything slip. I’ve been through every word they said to our man in there. They gave him names, but they didn’t produce any forms of identification. They were almost certainly using pseudonyms-and they didn’t say a thing that might help us find out who they really are or where they came from.”
“If only he’d been so secretive,” said Rogue, wryly. “Couldn’t you have rooted out this information an hour ago, before we had to sit through the story of his life?”
“I don’t like to invade people’s privacy unless I have to,” said Jean. “Anyway, I spent quite some time in our fisherman friend’s mind during the course of our conversation.”
“Oh?”
“He might not know the kidnappers’ names, but he did see their faces. The images are still very clear in his memory. I was studying them, memorizing every detail. I think I can safely say that, if I were to see them now, I’d recognize them.”
“So, what do we do next? Look at mug shots?”
“In a way,” said Jean. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll take a ferry to Ullapool on the mainland. It’s the only way the kidnappers could have arrived on, and left, the island—and somebody at the terminal must have seen them. I can scan a few minds, and look for images that match the ones in here.” She pointed to her own head.
“You’re planning to follow them all the way across Scotland like that?” Rogue was incredulous. “Won’t that be a bit like looking for a needle in a veiy big haystack?”
“Not necessarily. If they were in a private car, then a worker at the terminal will have spotted it, and might remember the registration number subconsciously, even if they think they don’t. If the kidnappers used public transport, they’ll have left an even clearer trail in the memories of ticket clerks, bus drivers and regular commuters.” “Are you gonna describe these fellows to me then?” asked Rogue. “Since it looks like we’ll be catching up to them pretty soon, and all.” “I can do better than that,” said Jean. “I can place a picture of them into your mind-and in Hank’s and Kurt’s too, when we get back to Muir.”
Rogue grinned. “These guys sure didn’t know what they were getting themselves into when they messed with a friend of the X-Men, did they?”
“OK, people, change of plan.”
Cyclops was standing in the Xavier Institute’s main conference room, stooped over the head of an oblong table, his gloved knuckles resting on its oaken top. Three other X-Men were present. Wolverine leaned back in his chair, champing on a foul-smelling cigar and glaring at his team leader as if ready to question his every utterance. Iceman had changed into his costume, which, at present, consisted simply of a pair of black trunks with a large red X sewn into the yellow waistband. Having most of his skin exposed helped him to use his powers more effectively, apparently-and he didn’t feel the cold. If the X-Men went into action, then Bobby would shift into his armored ice form, anyway.
Rounding out the quartet was Ororo Munroe, better known as Storm. Before joining the X-Men, she had been worshipped as a goddess in the rainforests of her native Kenya-and, when she wielded her ability to control weather patterns, it was easy to see why. Storm was tall and elegant, with dark brown skin and long, white hair, which she kept off her forehead with a black headband. To see her hovering serenely in the midst of a gale of her own creation, her black cloak billowing around her as she brought down lightning bolts to smite her foes, was like looking at a raw force of nature.
“Thanks to Bobby,” said Cyclops, “we now have a lead. We’ve been searching through archived news stories on the web, and we’ve learned that Moira is only one of at least four accomplished geneticists to have vanished in the last few months.”
“The disappearances were each weeks apart,” said Iceman, “and in different countries, which is probably why no one’s thought to connect them before.”
“And of
course,” said Cyclops, “no one else knows about Moira yet.” He handed out color printouts of downloaded photographs. “A Doctor Takamoto from Tokyo was reported missing first. She’s been gone for almost four months now, and the Japanese police have found no leads at all. They’ve begun to work on the assumption that she’s dropped out of sight on purpose. The older gentleman is a Professor Travers from London. But the nearest victim is also the most recent. His name is Clyde Scott, and he lives right here in New York, up in Poughkeepsie.”
“I saw his wife on the TV news this evening,” said Iceman, as the others inspected a picture of a middle-aged, African-American man with cropped, graying hair.
“So,” said Storm, “we are now working on the assumption that Moira was kidnapped, like these other people, because somebody needed her specialist knowledge.”
“Precisely,” said Cyclops, “which unfortunately widens the field of suspects somewhat.”
“What’s the plan then, boss?” Wolverine asked.
“I think we should pay a call on Mrs. Scott tomorrow.”
E KNOW who you are.
Allan Coleman started, jerking his head up from the puddle of stale beer on the bar top. He looked behind him, over first one shoulder and then the other, searching for the woman who had spoken. He saw nobody. Nobody who was interested in him, anyway. Oh man, he thought, it’s much too early in the night to be this smashed already!
Come to think of it, he had no idea what time it was.
He contemplated his near-empty glass, then shrugged his shoulders, swigged down the last of his bitter to steady his nerves, and counted the loose change in his threadbare pockets, wondering if he could scrape together enough to order a chaser with the next pint. Business hadn’t been good lately. With many of his associates enjoying extended holidays at Her Majesty’s pleasure, the flow of merchandise had slowed to a trickle.
Allan looked around the seedy bar again, reminding himself of the surroundings in which he had settled into an alcoholic stupor, who knew how long ago. He frowned at the unexpected sight of a beautiful woman, sitting at the bar, three stools along. He rubbed his eyes and squinted, trying to focus. Was he seeing things, as well as hearing voices?
The gorgeous redhead certainly looked out of place among the White Lamb’s usual Friday night collection of thugs and tramps. Allan rummaged through his change again, this time to see if he could afford to buy her a drink. It would be a hopeless gesture, he was sure, but Allan Coleman was nothing if not a hopeless, even mindless, optimist.
He levered himself up from his stool, wondering why he hadn’t remembered that the floor was so far down and that it sloped at such a treacherous angle. He leaned against the bar to support himself, let out a controlled breath, and set his sights upon his prey.
We know who you are, Allan Coleman, and we know where you
live.
This time, he let out a strangulated cry of fear. His head thrashed about wildly as he tried to find the source of the mysterious voice, but it was beginning to penetrate even his pickled brain that there was no source; that the voice was contained within his own mind.
“Who are you?” he cried, aloud, staring up at the nicotine-yellowed ceiling. “What do you want with me?” He attracted a few looks, but no one was really interested in, nor cared about, his unseemly outburst. They were used to such behavior in here. From Allan, more than most.
Oh, I think you know the answer to that.
“No ... no, it can’t be ...”
What are you most afraid of, Allan? What keeps you awake at night?
“M-m-mutants! They’ve come for me! They’ve come for me!”
Remember the girl in the hardware store, Allan? Remember how she accidentally used her power in front of you: her harmless little ability, to create a small pyrotechnic display with her fingers? Remember what you did to her, Allan?
Allan Coleman tried to bury his head in his hands, to block out the terrible voice, but it didn’t work. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he was on his knees, and he realized he must have been shouting, begging for help. But people were no longer ignoring him; they were shaking their heads and moving slowly away from this gibbering madman.
The next thing Allan knew, he was being hoisted to his feet by Roger, the landlord, who was coming out with all the usual admonishments: he’d had enough to drink now, he was upsetting the other customers. Allan tried to resist, but he wasn’t strong enough, and his terrified appeals went unheeded as he was propelled toward and through the doors.
He hit the pavement running, wanting to put as much distance between him and the public house as possible, knowing in his heart that it would make no difference. But the cold Edinburgh night acted like a slap to his face. As Allan came to an exhausted halt, bent double and wheezing in the shadow of the city’s famous hilltop castle, he began to sober up. He began to realize that Roger had been right, that he had let the drink play games with his mind, that he had experienced nothing more than a half-waking dream. He felt foolish, but the feeling was nothing compared to the relief that washed over him. He laughed giddily, chiding himself for having believed such an unlikely fantasy, even for a moment.
Presently, Allan straightened up again, adjusted his twisted jacket and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He swore never to touch an alcoholic drink again, as he did at least once every week.
And, just as he was about to set off for home-for his cramped, untidy and over-expensive third-floor flat-he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.
Allan turned, and gasped to find himself face-to-face with a blue-skinned demon.
“Guten tag," said the nightmarish creature, its fangs bared, its luminous yellow eyes boring into his skull.
And then there was a ferocious bamf! of imploding air, and a sickly wrenching feeling in Allan Coleman’s stomach, as Princess Street disappeared in a cloud of evil-smelling smoke.
Mrs. Pearl Scott had become used to receiving unannounced visitors over the past three weeks. Ever since she had reported her husband missing—ever since the fateful day when he had apparently left his Long Island laboratory as usual, but hadn’t come home-she had answered the door to a steady stream of policemen, journalists and men in dark suits from various government agencies known only by their initials. At first, her heart had leapt at each new chime of the doorbell. She had raced through the hallway wondering if this was the one, the visitor who would tell her that they had finally found her husband. She had hoped for good news, but steeled herself for bad.
She didn’t feel that anticipation any more. She had been disappointed too many times.
What Pearl hadn’t got used to yet was the empty space in her bed, and the feeling of waking up in the morning alone, of going through the motions of life-sending her son off to school, reassuring him that Daddy was safe and well when she didn’t believe it herself-even as fear gnawed its way through her stomach.
At least, if Clyde had died, she could have begun to accept her loss. This uncertainty was agony. She didn’t know how to feel, what to prepare herself for.
There was something different about today’s visitors.
It wasn’t the couple’s appearance that alerted her. Well, not really. The woman was of African descent, like herself, but younger, slimmer and taller, her hair a beautiful but unusual white. The man looked every inch the FBI agent he claimed to be, with his black suit and grim expression—but his red eyeglasses made for an odd fashion statement.
It wasn’t anything they said, nor anything about the FBI passes they showed. Pearl had seen a lot of official cards and bits of paper recently, but how was she supposed to know if they were faked or not? How was she supposed to know what an FBI pass was supposed to look like, other than from brief glimpses on The X-Files?
No, it was nothing like that. Just a tingling sensation at the base of Pearl Scott’s skull, as she let Agents Summers and Munroe into her house. An instinct, nothing more. A suspicion with no grounds in fact. But a powerful suspicion
, nonetheless.
Could it be them at last?
The thought made her afraid, but hopeful at the same time. As the agents sat side by side on her sofa, she questioned them gently. She pointed out that she had already spoken to the FBI, and Summers smoothly explained that, in view of the lack of progress so far, the case had been handed to another department, but he didn’t say which one.
“We’d just like to go through your statement again,” he said.
“I’ve told you what happened a thousand times,” said Pearl.
“Nevertheless,” said Agent Munroe with an encouraging smile, “it might help to bring to mind a fresh detail, something you might have forgotten.”
“Don’t you think I’ve wracked my brains trying to think of something? I’ve got nothing new to tell you!” Archly, she added: “And you never take much notice of what I say, anyhow.”
“I know it must be difficult for you, Mrs. Scott,” said the young man, “but it really would be helpful to us if you could just go through it all one more time.”
Pearl offered to make a cup of tea, then. In fact, she insisted, even when the agents indicated that they really weren’t thirsty and would rather get down to business. She wanted to get away from them, to spend a few minutes in the safety of her kitchen, to think.
Almost mechanically, she lit a ring on the gas stove and filled the big old kettle, which, to Clyde’s frustration, she had always refused to replace. And she wondered: what were they doing here? What had they done to her husband, and what did they want with her now?
She was drawn back down the hallway, to the door of the living room, and she pressed her ear up against the wood. She could hear
her visitors talking, their voices unintelligible at first but a few words and phrases becoming recognizable as she strained to make them out. .. pity Jean isn’t here. She could just...”
“... gone through so much already... seems such a shame ... lying to her..
.. exactly tell the truth, can ... both know how paranoid people can be ...”
The Legacy Quest Trilogy Page 5