The Blind Eye: Part 2

by Kassia


Why don't you give that copper's brain of yours a rest? Every time you look at me, I can see it dwelling over its slogans. Once a crook, always a crook. Once a tramp, always a tramp.
-Ingrid Bergman, "Notorious"

Part 2

Somebody saw me.

They were standing at the window watching me as I went into the house, and I can't remember which window, and I have no idea who, male or female, human or spirit. All I know is that there was a shadowy figure, and it saw me.

Sometimes I think maybe I imagined it. I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. Sometimes I even listen to myself, and stop worrying.

But it doesn't last. I keep remembering.

* - * - *

Considering it was one of those rare occasions where almost everyone was eating together, the dinner table was unusually quiet, except for Bobby, who seemed to be radiating nervous energy. Jean seemed very pensive, Scott noted, scanning the faces around him, as did the Professor, but there was nothing new in that. Warren looked grim. Rogue, hair wet and limp from a recent shower, looked abstracted. Some emotion played on Betsy's face, like sunlight at the bottom of a pool, but Scott couldn't place the expression. Gambit was there - a rare occurrence - and he looked hung over. Hank looked tired, Sam, apprehensive, as he did only too often, and Bishop, well, he looked blank. Wolverine and Storm were both out somewhere.

"Do they know who killed him yet?"

Gambit's red rimmed eyes snapped to Bobby, then away.

"It just happened yesterday," Hank replied. "Give the over-worked, un-super-powered policemen a week at least, Bobby."

"Ah think whoever did it deserves a medal," said Sam, stabbing his food rather savagely. "Ah don't know much about who's who in the FOH, but even *Ah* had heard enough about this guy to loathe him."

"But ya have to admit," Rogue murmured, her voice soft like a dagger being pulled from its sheath, "it was a particularly gruesome way to die."

Bobby and Warren both glanced at her with concern. Remy's eyes stayed fixed on his almost un-touched plate.

"Not to be cold," said Betsy, "but some people deserve to die in particularly gruesome ways."

"But that doesn't mean," interjected Hank, "that we should discuss these things at the dinner table."

"My thoughts exactly," said Warren.

"What are we going to talk about then?" Bobby demanded. "I kinda missed the game, what with all the breaking news about the brutal and mysterious murder of an important figure in a major anti-mutant organization. Anyone watch 'Friends'?"

"Shut the hell up, Drake," said Gambit.

Bobby met his annoyed gaze for a moment, but Gambit rarely lost a staring contest. He certainly didn't this time. Bobby's gaze dropped, and, to Scott's surprise, he shut up.

There was a brief silence, which was prevented from becoming a long silence only by a cheerful query from Psylocke. "And how was your day, Daniel?"

All eyes turned on her. No doubt they were wondering, like Scott, whether she had gone insane. *Daniel?*

Bishop frowned. "Uneventful."

Oh, yes. Daniel.

"That's probably just as well," said Betsy. "Uneventful days are few and far between in this business, and must be cherished." She smiled brightly. "Jean, those are fabulous earrings. Are they new?"

Warren squeezed his eyes shut. "Betsy..."

Betsy turned wide, innocent eyes on him. "What, love?"

"May Ah be excused?" Rogue asked quietly.

"Of course," said Xavier, frowning at her.

*Jean,* Scott addressed his wife mentally. *Jean? JEAN?*

"Scott," Bobby's voice pierced through the conversation, "would you stop tele-flirting with your wife or whatever you're doing and pass the mashed potatoes already?"

"Oh. Sorry," said Scott, and passed the mashed potatoes.

* * *

"Thank God that dinner's over with," Scott said as he plopped down in one of the leather armchairs in the Professor's office. He sat up straight to pour some port from the decanter resting on the Professor's desk, and handed the glasses to Ororo and Xavier.

Ororo nodded. "The events of the past few days seem to have had a very pronounced affect on the team's morale."

Silence fell as they silently sipped their drinks.

"Gatsburg," said Xavier, seemingly irrelevantly, "was on the third floor, in his office, when he was killed. It would have been very difficult to get in and out without being seen by anybody."

Storm stirred uneasily. "Yes."

"It was very likely a mutant," Scott pointed out, "or at least that's how they want it to look. There are any number of ways a mutant can get in and out of a building undetected. What confuses me is that the man who seems the most likely suspect was seen entering but not leaving."

"So they say," shrugged Storm.

Scott glanced at her, taken aback by her reply. "There are security cameras."

"Have you seen them?"

Scott tilted his head bemusedly. "No..."

"Hearsay is not evidence."

"What the police report is hardly hearsay-"

"It depends on the police," Storm interrupted him. "I'm sorry, Scott. I don't wish to be contrary, but I do not believe anything in this case is as it appears."

"No, no. You're perfectly right. I'll have to look into those security cameras more thoroughly."

Storm didn't seem to think much of the idea. She vented a soft, "Oh?" and turned to the Professor, setting an empty glass down on his desk. Scott hadn't seen her drain it. "If you would excuse me, I have some things to attend to."

"Of course."

She nodded briefly to Scott, and rose. Scott usually thought she carried herself like a dancer, but, as she strode out of the room, he thought fencer would be more apt.

Scott excused himself shortly after, pleading fatigue, and resolving to follow up on Storm's advice the next day. For some reason, he had the feeling she didn't really want him to follow up on it.

* * *

Psylocke could have had a hell of a movie career, if only based on her spectacular skill in martial arts, to say nothing of her looks. She probably had a very limited range as far as acting went, but Scott had no doubt she would have been able to carry off certain types of roles to perfection.

She had promised to come as soon as she finished training. Scott waited in the study, reflecting on the strangeness of the whole situation. Jean's sudden shift in behavior. That hunted look in half the team member's eyes. The fact that Gatsburg was dead so soon after his son's murder, and the many, many possible explanations for his death. Too many. Scott had to narrow things down. If there was a plot in the works, it wouldn't do for the X-Men to be the last to know.

She wafted in like a hot breeze, wearing a T-shirt and sweats, hair plastered to her forehead and neck by water or sweat. She tossed herself down in the chair across from him. "You don't look happy to see me, Scott. Didn't you want me to come?."

"I did. You're going to help me with something."

"Me? What could I possible do for you that your wife couldn't do just as well?"

"She's too ethical for what I have in mind."

"Ouch, Scott. You'll catch more flies with honey, you know."

Scott leaned forward, and demanded urgently, "What do you know about Marvin Gatsburg?"

A little self-satisfied smile appeared on her lips. "I thought that's what this was about. His son, friend to the mutant community, and another boy, a mutant, were killed. A few days after, Gatsburg was murdered under mysterious circumstances, and the only discernible motive is revenge. Unless," she purred, catching Scott's eyes, "it's part of a larger, twisted plot. That's what you're afraid of, right?"

"Right. So far there's only one suspect-"

"The boy's mother?"

"No."

Betsy looked momentarily bemused, but then her expression smoothed out into one of exquisite blandness. "Oh. You're a proponent of the theory that the mysterious man in the lobby did it. The one who only the receptionist saw."

"And the security cameras. Don't forget them. They're reticent, but very reliable once you get them to talk, Miss Braddock. Which is what I want you to do for me."

* * *

The wind cycled around him, whipping through his hair, over his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked, but stood his ground, waiting as the weather goddess landed.

"Logan," she smiled, "I have not seen you for a while."

"I've been busy. Skulking."

She chuckled. "How brave of you to admit it."

"Yeah. You still investigating about that kid's and Gatsburg's deaths?"

"You knew we were looking into that?"

"Everyone does, 'Ro. Even if I didn't know, I could've guessed. Kind of thing we look into."

"Mmm. We have done a bit of investigation. We are not trying to solve any murders here, Logan. We are just making sure it is not part of a larger, more dangerous, picture."

"Glad to hear that." Storm arched one eyebrow, questioningly, and he explained, "From the little I know, Gatsburg's son was a good kid and Gatsburg wasn't a good anything. Seems to me justice has been served. No need to tamper with that."

"Let the dead bury their dead?" Storm asked softly.

"Exactly," said Logan.

"I think I would like that."

* * *

It wasn't until Scott watched the tapes that he realized what he had secretly been looking for. It was crazy, but not *completely* crazy. A man in a trench coat had entered the building, and shortly after, a man in that building's head had seemed to be partially *exploded*. The man had fit the description of Remy LeBeau. Maybe Scott was being a paranoid ass, but at least he was honest enough to investigate the case from all angles.

The man in the FOH HQ lobby sure looked like a certain Cajun thief, but, despite the accusations of certain redheads and white-haired women, Scott was not jumping to any conclusions. It was only grainy black and white film anyway - black and red, to Scott's eyes - and the man could only be seen at an odd angle, from above.

He finished shuffling through the surveillance photos. "Thank you, Betsy. I hope you didn't have much trouble acquiring these."

"Not at all. Make me try to get something from the police the aid of telepathy, and *that* would be a challenge."

*Maybe not, depending on the sexual preferences of said police,* thought Scott, glancing at her form-fitting outfit out of the corner of her eyes.

She caulked her head to the side. "So, what next?"

"For you, nothing," he said bluntly, and then amended his response, "For now." He might need Betsy in the future. It wouldn't do to rub her the wrong way.

"What next for you, then?"

She looked far too keen. "I don't know," he replied.

That was a lie. He knew exactly what was next. If he hurried, he could probably even get there before the building was closed.

As soon as Betsy was gone, he had a date with a receptionist.

* * *

Bishop frowned at Rogue as she approached the front door.

"Ah've just been flyin' around,' she said.

"I didn't ask."

"Ah know, Ah know. You just always look like a guard."

"I'm not guarding against X-Men."

Rogue smiled oddly at him. "Why ever not?" He said nothing, and she added, "Ya know, if you're gonna be sitting on the porch, ya should do it properly. Ya should have something to whittle."

He raised his eyebrows. "Whittle?"

"Ya know, when you have some wood and-"

"I know what it means."

She laughed. It was an odd laugh, too, or maybe it was just the misty air and dark, starless backdrop that made him think that.

"Bishop," she said, when she had finished laughing, "some day, some day Ah want to sit down with you, and you can tell me about your world. Not the big things. Just little things, like how people dressed, what things looked like, sounded like, smelled like. Whether they whittled. Ah want you to tell me."

She was in a strange mood tonight. "If I'm still here, we can do that."

Her brows snapped down. "Why wouldn't you be?"

He shrugged.

"Well," she said, pulling herself together and heading for the door, "stay as long as you can. Ah like having you here. You make me feel safe."

The door closed behind her. Bishop glanced down at his two large, motionless hands - hands that would no doubt be better employed in violence than anything so creative as whittling - and wondered why he would make anyone feel safe.

* * *

Fortunately, the receptionist behind the front desk was the same as in the video. She was talking unconcernedly on the phone, while upstairs men plotted and planned, devised new ways to kill and repress their mutant brothers and sisters. Lovely.

She probably carried some mutated genes, this receptionist. Those fingers that drummed lightly on her desk, those eyes which glanced questioningly at the man with the red sunglasses as he approached her, contained millions of cells with probably contained as many copies of her mutated DNA, dormant and unthreatening, waiting to manifest itself in her children, or her children's children.

Scott cleared his throat and his mind. "Excuse me? Miss?"

She held up one long, slim finger, and finished off her phone conversation. Hanging up the receiver, she asked politely, "Can I help you?"

"Yes." He flashed a badge; the X-Men had nothing if not mountains of fake ID's. "I'm a detective working on the Gatsburg case, and I wanted to ask a few follow-up questions."

She glanced around the almost-empty lobby, and frowned. "I'm working, now-"

"I know, but it will only take a few seconds. The man in the trench coat, who you saw on the day of the crime, did he have an accent?"

"I already told you people-"

"I know, I know. But I was hoping you could give us a more thorough description. The man, did he tend to replace his th's with d's?"

"I don't know. He could have, I suppose. I wasn't really paying attention at the time, I'm sorry to say. I didn't know he was a murderer," she added, "or I wouldn't have let him in."

She looked very perplexed, and something suddenly occurred to Scott. "This may sound odd but - would you describe him as charming?" She stared at him as if he had just sprouted an extra head, but he pressed on, "Did you feel compelled to do what he said? Did you find him unnaturally attractive?"

He was rewarded by a slight flush in her cheeks. "Well, I guess I kind of, um, yeah, he *was* attractive. But I didn't let him in because of that. It was - it was almost like I was hypnotized, or dreaming, you know?" She broke off, embarrassed by the way she had spoken, but then a hopeful light dawned in her eyes. "Hey, are you suggesting he was a mutant with some sort of mind-clouding ability?"

"I'm not sure. Of course, Gatsburg would be a target for people with mutant abilities."

She nodded, and seemed relieved to have an explanation for her carelessness in admitting a murderer. "Of course."

"Hands up!"

Scott turned to see a security guard standing a few feet away from him, hands on his gun. As Scott turned towards him, he pulled it out and pointed it straight at Scott. The receptionist gasped, but that was the only reaction, since the lobby was otherwise empty.

The guard waved his gun slightly in the direction of a metal door. "Over there. Go. And don't touch your glasses."

Apparently he was known here. Well, it would be a sad, sad FOH security guard who didn't know his X-Men by sight. Scott obediently put his hands up, but said softly, "You had better not do that."

"Do what?" demanded the guard.

"Wave that gun around like that," Scott explained. "It makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I start to sweat," his voice dropped, "And when I sweat, my glasses sometimes slip a little."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Go to the door," he ordered.

Scott didn't move.

Scott Summers: leader, hero, Xavier's chosen one, and now, idiot. Well, by all rights, 'idiot' should have been added to his credentials long ago, but usually fate had intervened had he had somehow come out looking good. That didn't seem too likely, this time. It wasn't a problem of getting out, since there was only one security guard. The problem was causing as little damage as possible as he made his escape.

He couldn't control the size or force of his eyebeams without his visor, so he couldn't target the gun without seriously injuring the man. He briefly considered blasting the wall, just to scare the man into letting him go, but his trigger finger looked shaky enough as it was.

"Okay, okay," said Scott, inching sideways in the direction of the door, and to the side of the guard. "I don't want any trouble."

The man snorted. Scott took a long step sideways. The gun turned to follow him, but the man's body was not completely behind it any longer. This was the best shot he'd get.

With a twitch of his face, he lowered the glasses. The edge of the blast took the gun's barrel, and the gun went flying as the man clutched at his slightly burned hand.

Others would be here in a minute. On some psychotic impulse, Scott spared the wide-eyed receptionist a thank you nod as he darted out at a speed that would have done an Olympic sprinter proud.

* * *

Scott made his way up the stairs, deeply depressed. There was still a chance of course that Remy hadn't committed the murder, but the circumstances were against him. He lacked motive, yes, but maybe he had known one of the kids who got killed. Regardless, he had definitely been there on the day that Gatsburg had been killed, barring the possibility that this was the most elaborate frame job Scott had ever seen. Or maybe it was a clone. Or a Gambit from a parallel dimension. Or - God, he needed to get a new job.

He had asked Gambit for an alibi, partially from a vague hope that the man would actually have one, and partially because Scott wanted to watch his response to being asked.

As it turned out, his response was hostile. And, apparently, 'alibi' was a much more flexible word than Scott had ever realized. "Yeah, I got an alibi. I was at dis place, kind of a bar - Nobody to back me up on it, *non*. Why does it matter? I was wit' Ororo around five. Dat won't do? What is dis, de Spanish inquisition? You feeling okay, Cyke?"

Well, it had been a long shot anyway.

He could here Jean rustling about in their room. He pushed open the door, calling as he did so, "Jean, are you decent?"

"Who, me?" she asked lightly, tossing her head back and causing her lustrous red hair to fall in neat waves down her back as she flashed a smile at him. Her smile vanished when she caught his gaze. "Scott, what's wrong?"

"Nothing - nothing yet, at least."

"Well, Scott, I have good news. I know you haven't wanted to admit it, but you've been rather suspicious about Gambit lately, though God knows why you were so eager to suspect him of a gruesome murder."

How could he tell her it was because of that chance encounter on the night that Gatsburg was killed? The look in his eyes? It would sound insane. It *was* insane.

However, the photographs and the receptionist's testimony were unfortunately rather reliable.

"Well, I was talking to Charles about the case," Jean went on, "and it turns out that Gatsburg's face was smashed, and definitely not exploded."

"Oh," said Scott, and then, more weakly, "Oh..."

Jean smiled. "Just thought you'd like to know." She went towards the door, pecking him on the cheek on the way out. "You know, you'd better get Charles a present. You only have two days. I'll talk to you later, okay, honey?"

Scott nodded mechanically, still staring blindly forward.

*Let's review the facts, shall we?*

There was little doubt in Scott's mind that Gambit had entered the FOH headquarters that day, though no one had seen him leave. He had been at the site of the murder, around the time of the murder.

But he hadn't done it.

Then why had everyone been acting strangely since the murder? Paranoid, wary, depressed. The telepaths had been acting particularly strange; Jean had even shuttered her psychic bond with Scott.

They had sensed something. Jean had sensed something. And everyone was acting like there was something to hide.

But Gambit hadn't done it.

Why couldn't he just accept that?

He was an utter fool. He had been so eager to think the worst of Gambit, to suspect everyone's behavior, he hadn't bothered to examine any of the simpler explanations. There were hundreds, no doubt. Maybe Gambit had a good reason for being there. Maybe he was being set up, and had never been there in the first place.

*Maybe I'm hallucinating. Maybe this is all a dream.* Was he crazy, or masochistic, that he clung to the theory that would mean the worst for him and the team?

The team.

Yes, so Gambit didn't do it. *That doesn't mean that someone else on the team didn't do it.*

Scott suddenly felt a bit sick.

* * *

There was piano music, coming from somewhere. 'Somewhere' probably being the room with the piano in it, Jean reflected. The notes were slow to come at first - obviously it was a novice at the keys - but eventually they came with more speed and confidence, and a song begin to form. A familiar song.

Jean followed the music to its source. As she entered the room, she found Bobby behind the piano, playing the same three keys over and over, and regarding the keyboard as if it were a difficult equation.

"I know that song," she commented.

"Well, good for you. I seem to have completely forgotten it." He tried another key, and shook his head. "I learned it for my mom, to make her feel better about money wasted on my piano lessons. It was the only thing I knew how to play. Damn, what comes next?"

Jean leaned against the piano, and helped him by humming at first, and then singing, "You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss..."

"Ah-ha! Got it. Here we go." He began to hammer out the whole thing, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Logan on the scene.

Logan went towards the liquor cabinet, darting an irritable glance at Bobby as he did so. "What are you trying to do to my ear drums, playing like that?"

Bobby wrinkled his nose at the older man. "Hey, it's a nice song."

"When it's played well, maybe."

"Be nice, Logan." Jean turned back towards the piano. "Play it again, Bobby. Play 'As Time Goes By.'"

"Logan?"

"If she can stand it, I can," Logan shrugged. "Go ahead."

Bobby began to play, and then started to warble in accompaniment to his shaky playing, "You must remember this ... A kiss is still a kiss ... A sigh is just a sigh... The fundamental things apply, as time goes by..."

"You have no shame, do you, Drake? Drink, Jean?"

"Now that you mention it, a gin and tonic would be nice."

"...And when two lovers woo, they still say, 'I love you'... On that you can rely..."

Jean joined in, her singing softer and more tuneful, but just as unprofessional, "No matter what the future brings... as time goes by...."

Logan handed Jean her drink.

"Join in," said Bobby brightly. Logan glared at him, silently declining the invitation, and sat down with his own drink.

"So, Jean, how's the investigation going?"

Bobby resumed singing, "Moonlight and love songs, never out of date..."

Jean hoisted herself on to the piano. "I don't know. It's Scott's, not mine." She had to raise her voice to be heard over Bobby's exuberant performance. "But I gather none too well."

"'Course not," said Logan. Jean decided not to ask what he meant.

"...Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate, Woman needs man..."

"Logan...? I was wondering about, well-"

"What?"

"...And man must have his mate, that no one can deny..."

"You're rather close to Rogue." Bobby's singing became momentarily deafening, and Jean spared a moment to frown discouragingly at him before continuing to Logan, "I don't suppose she's confided in you about, well, anything? Not that I would want you to betray any confidences, of course."

"But you're worried about her, I know. And, no, she hasn't told me anything."

"...Well, it's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die..."

"That's too bad."

"I think so, too."

"...The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by..."

"That was lovely, Bobby."

"...Oh yes, the world will always welcome lovers... as time goes by."

Logan glanced dispassionately at the piano. "Thank God that's over with."

"And now," Bobby declared cheerfully, "from the top!"

Logan threw the rest of his drink back, and rose. "In that case, I'll see you later."

"Thanks for the drink," Jean called after him.

As soon as Logan left, she stretched herself over the piano, extending her hands to rest on Bobby's and still his playing. "Bobby, I don't suppose you know what's going on with Rogue?"

He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. In fact, your guess is probably the same as mine."

"Gambit?"

"Always Gambit," said Bobby bitterly.

Jean ran a finger over some of the higher keys. "Not necessarily."

"Yes, necessarily." He looked up at her, and said pointedly, "Hey, Jean, you've seemed a little distraught lately. Why's that?"

Jean fixed a blank expression on her face. "Have I really? *Distraught*?"

"It's something to do with Scott, right?"

She returned his unflinching gaze for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

Bobby seemed to think he had just made an important point. He looked down at the keys, and began to run his fingers over them. "It's always Gambit," he pronounced, "because she's in love with him. It will always be Gambit."

* * *

Scott sat at the study desk, in the dark, and tried not to think.

It was an interesting exercise. Some people devoted their whole lives to trying not to think, and said that they had found God, or at least inner peace, when they succeeded in doing so. Scott could see what they were getting at.

He leaned back in the chair and pulled his fedora down over his eyes. Of course, his glasses got in the way. Experimentally, he tried resting his feet on the desk, but the position was very awkward, and he gave up.

The door opened, and he saw a figure silhouetted against the light of the hallway. He couldn't see her face, but he would have known that figure anywhere.

"My, it's dark in here," she said, and switched on the light. She closed the door behind her.

Scott now saw that Betsy was wearing something dark and slinky. It rippled like a snake's skin as she moved. "Warren and I were going to go out," she explained, "but I have a headache."

He tipped his hat slightly to get a better view of her, but didn't say anything.

"Scott..." She paused, seemingly at a loss for words. Scott wasn't about to help her. At last she said, "Do you really know what you're getting in to, with the Gatsburg case?"

"No," he said bluntly, "but I'm getting into it all the same."

She sighed. "I was afraid of that. I don't even know why I came." She approached his desk, and rested one hand on it, affording him an excellent view of her cleavage. The other arm reached out and, with one finger, she flicked off his hat. "Shouldn't wear hats inside," she said. "It's rude."

"Oh?"

She was leaning so far forward now that their noses were practically touching. She lifted her chin, and gently touched her lips to his forehead. "Good luck, Scott," she murmured into his hair. She straightened, slowly, and begin to walk out.

Scott could feel annoyance rise in his throat. He was tired of being danced around. "Psylocke?" he called out, in his drill sergeant voice.

She stopped, hand on the door knob, and didn't turn to look at him. "Yes?"

Telepaths. They always smiled like they knew what you were going to say. Maybe they did, most of the time, but surely sometimes they had to be taken by surprise. He smiled tightly at her. "Give me your professional opinion, Betsy - who on the team do you think is capable of murder?"

He asked the question merely from an urge to throw her off balance, and, of course, it didn't work. "Oh, Scott," she murmured. "What a lovely question." She glanced at him now, her eyes glinting briefly. "Everyone. I think everyone on the team is capable of murder." She switched off the light and stepped out of the room, calling over her shoulder, "I hope that helps."