The Blind Eye: Part 3

by Kassia



Statistics show that there are more women in the world than anything else. Except insects.
-Glenn Ford, "Gilda"

Part 3

This is not the first death I've seen. It won't be the last. But I sincerely hope it's the bloodiest. I can handle a lot, I honestly can, but I rather doubt I could handle anything more gruesome than that.

His head simply exploded. It was rather like he'd been a pumpkin. I still can't believe it was that simple. I wish it hadn't been.

*=*=*

Scott pretended to read the newspaper at the kitchen table. Across from him Hank was actually reading his section, having emerged from the depths of his lab in order to grace them with his silent presence. Bobby finished pouring himself a bowl of cereal, then sat down at the table and took the Sunday comics.

Rogue came in, rubbing her eyes, and poured herself some coffee. Scott stopped his fake reading for a moment, and observed, "Everyone's up early today."

"Naw," said Bobby. "This isn't early for me. I usually get up at four AM so I can spend the morning training, before taking a brisk five mile jog. That's why you never see me."

"Ah actually *have* been up since four AM. Ah couldn't sleep."

Hank gave her a look of mingled concern and professional interest. "I hope you don't usually find it difficult to sleep."

I do, thought Scott.

"No. Sometimes, of course, but who doesn't?"

Vague suspicions of murder and tumultuous emotional atmospheres aside, it was right after she said this that Scott got his first real shock he'd had in a long time. It was well before nine o'clock, yet into the kitchen stumbled Remy LeBeau, mostly awake and relatively clothed. He paused at the wide gazes of the four people in the kitchen, and said defensively, "I'm just here for de coffee."

"Please," Rogue said in a perfect monotone, "help yourself."

Scott tore his eyes away from the always fascinating Rogue-Remy interplay, and realized with surprise that Bobby had his arms wrapped around his stomach and was regarding his cereal with something like disgust. Or horror. "Excuse me," he said in a choked voice, and rushed out of the room without further ceremony.

Hank shook his head. "I think he's sick, but he won't believe me."

Scott could sympathize. He was getting quite adept at sharing afflictions with his teammates, it seemed. Insomnia, nausea, paranoia.

Then there was Hank. Hank seemed calm, put together. Hank was unaffected by any empathic or telepathic vibes, completely without bitterness or suspicion. *I wouldn't mind catching some of that.* If you thought you might be going crazy, Hank was the best person to ask.

He followed Hank down as the man returned to his lab, receiving an update on his research. When they finally reached their destination, Scott closed the door and confessed, "I actually had something to ask you, Hank. Have you noticed any of the team members acting strangely as of late?"

It was, Scott realized as he said it, a supremely stupid sounding question.

Hank appeared to consider. "I haven't had an opportunity to closely observe anyone, hidden away as I am down here, but I couldn't help but notice the particularly haggard faces of Gambit and Rogue. Has there been some sort of rift between them? What a silly question. Don't even bother to answer it. And then, of course, there is Bobby's uncharacteristically stubborn refusal to believe he's sick, though he can't keep a meal down." Hank frowned.

"And Warren? Is it just me or is he more, uh, broody than usual?"

"He certainly looks particularly morose as of late. While we're on the topic, young Sam Guthrie has also been looking rather broody and red-eyed. Maybe you should speak with him, or have someone else do so..."

Scott waved Sam aside. "But I haven't been imagining all this?" he said, torn between relief and a stomach-churning fear.

"Unless we've both been doing so. But, flattered as I am that you value my opinion so much, couldn't you just as easily have asked Jean?"

That was, of course, the obvious question. Scott cursed himself for not having thought of an answer to it ahead of time, and shrugged. "I suppose I could have."

"Ah."

Scott stared at Hank for a long, long moment.

Hank stared back.

Scott knew he had to ask it.

"Hank, where were you on Thursday, between six and ten PM?"

Hank's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately."

"Really." He rubbed his chin. "As it happens, I do have an alibi."

Scott leaned forward, and said breathlessly, "What is it?"

"Who, actually." Hank cleared his throat, "Her name is Joan Perske. Would you like her number?"

Scott took Hank by the shoulders. "Are you sure, Hank? She's a real, honest-to-God alibi? I mean, she is a respectable alibi, isn't she?"

Hank looked slightly affronted. "Of course! Don't tell me you don't recognize the name. She's Brooke Taylor's lawyer." Scott looked blank, and Hank continued impatiently, "Brooke Taylor, the Olympic contender whose gold medal they took away on account of her being a mutant?"

"Oh, *that* Joan Perske," said Scott. "Um, Jean is following that case more closely than me."

"Philistine," sniffed Hank.

"Regardless, she's my new best friend, so long as she doesn't deny she was with you or anything."

"I don't think that will happen. But tell me if I understand correctly - you think someone on the team might have had something to do with the murder of Marvin Gatsburg?"

*No, I'm positive someone on the team had something to do with it.* "I think it's a possibility, and I have a duty to look into all possibilities."

Hank, a scientist, nodded. "Who else have you eliminated, if I may ask?"

"Just you, Hank. Just you. That is, if this Perske thing pans out."

Hank nodded again. He didn't seem to be taking this murder thing too seriously, which was reassuring in as much as Scott would have loved to find himself mistaken. It was not reassuring in that finding himself mistaken would mean he was a paranoid idiot. After taking the number Hank scribbled down for him, Scott, finally feeling he was making actual headway, left quickly to call it.

On his way out, he practically collided with Bobby.

"Hiya, fearless leader. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Hopefully to see a Miss Perske," said Scott.

Bobby looked pleased. "You mean Joan? Cute, isn't she? Sharp as a tack, too. I think she might be the one."

"The one?" Scott repeated blankly.

"The one for Hank! Sheesh, keep up, would you? Admittedly, I don't know that Hank feels *that* way about her, but he likes her. How couldn't he? I mean, this case will in all probability ruin her career, and she took it anyway. That's class. Brooke's nice, too. She does temperature. Hank and I had lunch with them, and Brooke and I talked shop. I *never* get to talk shop. It was fun, really. Scott, are you listening?"

"No. Sorry, Bobby, I was thinking of something else." Like, that Bobby in iceform would be very tough, essentially like rock. Easily able to make holes in people's faces.

"Scott? You look like little pointy-toothed creatures are nibbling at your brain. Maybe you'd better go rest, or something."

"Yeah. Maybe I will, after I talk to Joan Perske."

* * *

Scott called up Miss Perske and left a message on her machine. Then we went to the study on the first floor, to get some paper. On his way he passed Sam sitting in the living room, watching television with Rogue.

Rogue could have easily killed Gatsburg. And Sam... Scott bet that if he flew with a fist in front of him, he could have about the same effect.

*That would take incredible coordination. I hope you realize you're crazy.*

Scott took a deep breath. It was about as useful as taking a breath when you were about to dive into an active volcano. "Hey, Sam, Rogue. Could I ask you a question?"

"Fire away," said Rogue.

"Do you guys remember what were you each doing on Friday between six and ten PM?"

Sam looked flabbergasted. Rogue's brow furrowed.

"Ah... day before yesterday, right? Ah was just kind of lounging, Ah think. Went out and flew around a little."

"Sam?"

"Ah was with friends some of that time, but not all of it..."

"Get a paper and write them down for me, and, where necessary, how I can contact them."

Scott was extremely grateful when Sam simply nodded, and hastened to obey. Rogue looked suspicious, though. "What's all this about, Scott?"

"It's routine," Scott intoned. "Just routine."

He continued on the way to the study, and took out his folder, containing the background information on all the victims. Family, history, disposition in as much as that could be assessed. Feeling a bit depressed, got some blank paper, and sat down.

After an inner struggle, he at last managed to write at the top 'Suspects'.

* * *

*Let's review the facts.*

Gambit was in the right place at the right time for the murder. Well, wrong place, and wrong time, depending on how you looked at it. Anyhow, he was probably there, though he didn't do it.

At least not using his powers. Was the injury to Gatsburg's face one that could have been made by a very fit, angry man, wielding a blunt object?

He made a note at the bottom of the paper to check on the force needed to crush Gatsburg's face. What fun.

Okay, moving on. Assume Gambit did, indeed, have an accomplice. That could possible explain why none of the security cameras, which were at all the exits, showed him leaving. The camera in the elevator - which Betsy had not brought, but had asked the police about - showed him getting off on the third floor, but he had never left it by conventional means. Perhaps he had had someone's help doing it. Perhaps someone who wasn't an X-Man, someone else Gambit knew.

But that didn't seem too likely.

Jean could yell at him all she liked, but, in Scott's experience, when bad things happened, they almost always revolved around the X-Men.

* * *

Scott needed a distraction. He had a one-track mind, and it had come in handy often enough, but it could be damn depressing. He decided to watch something. Something more potent and less legal than images on a screen probably would have done better, but you took you escapes where you found them.

He found Bobby in the living room, watching TV. Scott sat down next to him, silently. Something about Bobby's face inspired silence. Even the television was relatively quiet.

After about ten minutes of silence, in which Bobby was seemingly oblivious to anything but the bright screen, the doorbell rang. For half a second, Scott couldn't place the sound. He wasn't used to the bell. Usually, people coming to the mansion either lived there, in which case they had keys, or were attacking the mansion, in which case they didn't usually bother with the doorbell. Maybe someone had ordered a pizza...?

The doorbell rang again. Scott started to rise. "I'd better-"

Bobby looked at him, as if mildly surprised by his presence, and held up a hand. "The door? No, no. I'll take care of it." Bobby cleared his throat, and shouted, "SAM! GET THE DOOR!"

"COMIN'!" came the distant reply. There was the sound of running, then the rushing noise of Sam using his blasting powers, then a thud. A panting Sam peered into the living room. "The door?"

"Yeah. Better hurry. They rang like ten times, and they're probably getting angry." Sam nodded, and disappeared from view. Scott shook his head, and murmured, "That's just wrong."

They heard the door open, and Sam conversing with someone female. Then Sam ushered a gracile, and - Scott thought it over - blond woman, into the living room. "Wait here a moment, miss. I'll go get him."

At the sight of the woman, Bobby sprang to his feet and went forward to greet her. Scott also got to his feet, waiting politely in the background.

"Joan!" said Bobby. "Scott, this is Joan Perske, Joan, this is Scott Summers. Or did you already meet...?"

"I haven't had the pleasure, yet," Miss Perske murmured in an attractive, trombone-like voice. She extended her hand, and Scott took it. She had a confident grip, to match her eyes.

"The pleasure's all mine. But, really, you didn't need to come all the way out here..."

"No, it was nothing. I was already visiting someone near here, and I wanted to speak to Hank."

"Good. So long as you weren't inconvenienced. If you don't mind talking now before you see Hank, this won't take above five minutes. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Coke? Water?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Bobby, go check about Hank, would you?"

"But Sam-" He stopped at a glance from Scott. "Oh, sure. Be back in a few minutes."

Ha. Telepathy, who needed it?

They both sat down, and Scott bluntly asked her if she could verify Hank's alibi, which she did very graciously, even if there was a hint of sarcasm in her eyes. She then leaned forward, and said in a quiet tone, "Let me get you straight, Mr. Summers. Are you worried that someone on your team might be connected - or be accused of being connected - with the murder of Marvin Gatsburg?"

"I have to examine all possibilities," he said neutrally.

"I'm not asking this out of vulgar curiosity." Her shoulder length blond hair fell in front of her eyes, and she pushed it back. "In light of my client's identity, I'm very interested in anything that might influence public opinion concerning mutants."

"I understand completely." After all, Xavier had first stuck them with this case because of the possible political repercussions. "I don't think the police's investigation has lead them to believe that any of the - of my team were involved, and I certainly have no good reason to believe so." He paused to collect his thoughts, and said slowly, "Of course, I think all the damage that can be done, has been done, since the natural assumption was that a mutant killed Gatsburg... Hello, Hank."

Hank beamed. "I see you've met Joan."

"Yes. I was thinking, Miss Perske-"

"Joan."

"Joan. If you have time, I think my wife would like to meet you. She's been following the case closely."

"That's actually a good idea," agreed Hank. "Jean might have a few insights that would useful to your case."

Joan raised her eyebrows curiously. "Is she an expert in genetics, too?"

Hank smiled. "No, better. She's an expert in humans."

* * *

It was Professor Xavier.

"I think we should have chocolate cake," he said to Jean, seated next to him on the bed.

"But tiramisu is so *classy*," she objected.

"I can count the number of classy X-Men on one hand, with three fingers cut off."

"This party isn't for the X-Men," Jean pointed out. "It's for Charles."

"True, but I'm sure he would prefer us to enjoy ourselves."

"Scott, over the years I've sensed many an emotion coming from Charles Xavier, but never once did I get an 'I just want you guys to have fun' vibe. Anyway," she said sulkily, sticking out her lower lip, "tiramisu *is* fun."

Scott burst out laughing. Jean kept up the pout for a few seconds before it dissolved into a grin.

"You know what? We should have two cakes. We need that many to feed the X-Men, anyway."

"All right. I'll leave it up to your discretion. Excuse me. I have to go."

He was out in the hall when he heard a soft tread. He turned to see Jean standing a few steps behind him.

"Why do you have to go?" she whispered.

He almost replied that Xavier wanted him, but then stopped himself. She looked smaller than usual as she stood in the hallway. Surely this self-inflicted telepathic blindness was taking its toll on her as much as on him.

What was so important to hide, that she was willing to do put herself through this? Why did he assume that it had to do with Gatsburg's murder? There were many other things a woman and a wife could wish to conceal.

He took a step towards her and pulled her up against him with one arm, using the other hand to raise her face to his. He kissed her deeply, and, after a moment, she kissed back, her arms going around his neck. His hands went back to twist through her hair, no doubt tangling it horribly. They must have been meant for each other, Scott reflected, they must have been because he saw everyone else with the wrong hair color, but hers he saw amplified.

Her kisses grew more frantic, but he didn't mind. They also seemed a bit fearful. He didn't mind that, either.

said Xavier's voice.

Scott cursed, and let go of Jean. She wobbled slightly, and Scott realized that her feet hadn't been on the ground.

he growled back.

"What is it, Scott?"

"Xavier wants to see me," Scott said, smiling viciously.

"You had better go, then," his wife said softly. She turned and began to walk away.

Scott watch her until she was out of sight, and then went to see - kill - Xavier.

* * *

Charles Xavier smiled brightly as Scott entered his office, scowling.

"Good afternoon, Scott."

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Scott bit out.

"Yes, Scott, sit down. It's about the Gatsburg case."

Scott sat down, sprawled over the chair, before he realized he had taken up the same posture Gambit used in his more rebellious moods. He sat up straighter. "What is it?"

"I don't think we should stop, or at least suspend, the investigation. It seems to be a waste of manpower, and it is also taking its toll on you."

"But we still don't understand why any of the three murders were committed. That could be critical information. We can't just stop now."

"Yes, we can," said Xavier with maddening assurance. "I'm not so sure that this will affect us in any way, if it does, we can cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Do we have another mission to go on, sir? Because if we don't, I can't see a better use of our energies-"

"Scott, let me be blunt. It's not *our* energies I'm worried about. It's yours. You've seemed very tired lately."

What was new about that? Where had Xavier's concern been all those other times when Scott had been stretched so thin he was about to snap?

"You've also lacked focus," Xavier went on. "When was the last time you trained, or organized a training session?"

"I don't know. A week ago, maybe, but that has nothing to do with the case-"

"Regardless, I want you off it."

Scott stared at the man who had been like a father to him for most of his life. If this had been a movie, Xavier would've been the murderer.

He couldn't abandon the case, especially now, and not only for the reasons he had told Xavier. His instincts told him that if things were allowed to continue the way they were going, it would have disastrous effects on the team. The X-Men could cope with a frontal attack, but this was more subtle than that, this was...

"A figment of your imagination," said Xavier suddenly.

Scott stared at Xavier in horror, an indignant, "What?" wrenched from his lips.

Xavier seemed oblivious to Scott's reaction. "I can see that some things are bothering you, but they aren't real, aren't tangible. You're worried that there will be consequences where there are none. You aren't thinking clearly, Scott. I sincerely think you should take a sabbatical."

Scott, thinking rapidly, replied, "Okay."

"I think it would be-" Xavier stopped abruptly, and eyed Scott askance. "What?"

"I said, okay. You're right. I've been seeing enemies where there are none, and we can't have that in a commander. For the next few days, I'll just relax."

"Good." Xavier nodded slightly. "Good, I'm glad to hear that."

Scott hoped his glasses hid the calculating look he knew must be in his eyes. *What are you afraid of, Charles? Do you even know?*

"I'll see you later, then, Charles."

"All right, Scott. Take care."

They were afraid. Every single one of them. The knowledge twisted inside Scott like a particularly lively tapeworm as he left the office.

There was no one to trust, no one to turn to. He was on his own. He was a leader without any followers.

And somewhere, deep down, buried beneath the hating it, he loved it.

As Scott walked down the hall, he was very surprised to find himself whistling.

* * *

"Do de police have *any* suspects?" Gambit asked Storm.

She shrugged. "None by name. They suspect that it was mutant friends of the victims."

"Huh. Have you found anything out about dis Nicholas Beal? He could very well have had more to do wit' it den anyone thinks."

"No, I have not been able to. Didn't I tell you? Charles wanted us to stop the investigation."

Remy's eyes widened. "Did he?" he breathed.

Storm held out a hand to him. "Yes."

He took it, and clutched it tightly, not even looking at her. "Dat's... interesting. Why?"

"He feels the case is affecting the team's concentration and morale. Especially Cyclops's."

"Hmm."

"He's right, of course. But Scott is nothing if not persistent."

"I know." He raised her hand to his lips. This time, his eyes never left her face. "T'ings could get really weird, really soon, Stormy."

"I know, Remy. I admit I do not quite understand what is going on, but be careful. And for the love of the Goddess, don't call me 'Stormy'.

* * *

*Let's review the facts.*

"Of course, we can't go through the whole day acting like we all forgot his birthday. We'll go through the motions, wish him happy birthday-"

There were so many ways to get out of a third story window. Off the top of his head - wings, iceslides, telekinesis. Riding on the wind and rocketing and Rogue's own unique brand of gravitational defiance.

"-mention a birthday dinner, but there will be no presents, and people will be off doing their own thing during the day. Maybe a few people can say they have previous engagements. They'll be really apologetic about it, of course-"

"It won't work," said Scott.

The eight eyes of the impromptu party committee turned to him.

"Why not?" demanded Warren.

"We have Jean and Elisabeth to help keep it secret," added Ororo, nodding to the two women.

Scott removed his hat, and fanned himself a couple of times with it. "You just can't keep a secret in the X-Men."

"We don't want it secret from other X-Men. Just Xavier."

"The most powerful telepath on the planet?" Scott smiled, then shrugged, firmly setting his hat back on his head. "Well, I suppose it's worth a shot."

"Do you have to wear that stupid hat?" Warren asked plaintively.

"Jean got it for me." He flicked the brim. "I rather like it."

Storm looked stern. "You should not wear it inside the house, though."

Obediently, Scott removed it again and placed it over his heart. "Funny, Betsy said much the same thing to me." He then became absorbed in examining his feet, and, after an awkward pause, the other four resumed discussion. After a while, Scott excused himself. He had a birthday present to buy, God help him.

He was going upstairs, to pick up a book he had half-heartedly started, when he heard yelling. There was nothing new in that, of course. The thing that made him pause and listen, though, was that both people yelling had southern accents. He couldn't make out most of the words, but the inflection was unmistakable.

Why the hell would Sam and Rogue be arguing?

Scott suppressed a very inappropriate grin and, after putting his hat back on, he followed the voices to their source.

They were standing in the kitchen. Rogue had a knife. It would have been more alarming if there hadn't been a chicken breast on the cutting board, but nonetheless it didn't exactly add to Scott's comfort. Sam seemed oblivious to the fact that the woman yelling at him was holding a large knife.

The both froze when Scott came in, and regarded him with flushed faces. Scott walked past them and took an apple out of the bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. "You guys all right?"

Sam nodded, once, and looked to Rogue.

"Yeah, we're fine. Sorry. We were discussing... something."

"So I heard." He bit into the apple and then grimaced. It was green. They always bought green apples. Scott was apparently the only X-Man who preferred red.

"Ah've... got to go," said Sam. "G'bye."

"Sam..." said Rogue.

He stopped, turned, and grabbed her gloved hand. "Ya know what? It's okay? It doesn't matter. None of it matters."

She blinked at him, and managed a small smile.

After Sam had gone, Scott said, "Well, I'm confused."

"And you're gonna stay that way." She turned back to the cutting board, and resumed chopping.

Scott took another bite of his apple, and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. By some miracle, it landed right in the middle, on top of an empty milk carton. "Need any help?"

"No, thanks." She was chopping quickly and recklessly, her fingers perilously close to the blade.

"Better slow down, or you'll cut yourself."

"Maybe I don't mind."

"Maybe I do." He reached over, and placed his hand over hers. She stopped chopping. "I need you all in working order, in case of emergencies. Let me do this, while you do something else."

She looked resentful, but went and sat down at the table.

"You still having trouble sleeping?"

She glanced back at her, to see her nod. "Yeah, but don't worry about it."

"I do. Maybe you should drink less coffee."

"Ah rarely have coffee," she objected.

The knife made a very satisfying sound, hitting against the wooden cutting board. "Except when you come down at night."

"How do you know Ah do that?"

"I hear you. I don't sleep so well, either. And you leave the coffee pot partly full."

She sighed. "That's 'cause it's early morning, not night, and Ah know Ah won't be gettin' back to sleep, anyway."

"Hmm."

Suddenly, she laughed. Loudly and, if he was any judge, sincerely.

"What?"

"It's just - ya look so funny, chopping things in that hat." She went off into another peal of laughter. "Oh, God, Ah wish Ah had a camera..."

Of course, he should have known she was laughing at him. He frowned up at his fedora. "I like it."

"It's a lovely hat," she reassured him, and went off into another peal of laughter. She stood up, and pushed him away from the cutting board. "Thanks, shug, for the heart to heart. Ah can take it from here."

He released the knife into her custody, and tipped his hat solemnly to her as he left.

* * *

It was just Scott's luck, that his favorite suspect was also the man with the least going against him. Because, quite frankly, you couldn't count annoying personal habits as evidence against a person, no matter how much you might want to.

He could still ask questions due to the fact that the man could probably come out of a three story drop relatively unscathed, though, and that was quite enough for Scott.

Scott's favorite suspect tapped the ashes of his cigar onto the concrete pathway which lead through the yard. They danced in the breeze, before being borne off into the grass. "Whaddya want, Summers?"

"I just wanted to know-"

"I've got nothing for you. I know what you're up to, and I don't have an alibi."

"Nothing?"

Logan cast the taller man a contemptuous glare. "No."

*Don't play the rebellious loner with me. I out-lonered you long ago, 'Wolvie'.* "All right. Well, thank you for your time."

"No problem. Just don't waste any more of it, okay?" He brushed past Scott, and went towards the door, tossing his cigar butt onto the porch before he entered. Scott flinched.

Scott knew it was rather perverse, but he always gained confidence from Logan's opposition. Sometimes he thought he wouldn't stand nearly so firm in his opinions if not for Wolverine arguing with every word out of his mouth.

After giving Logan a few minutes' head start, Scott started back inside.

The place seemed completely empty, but Scott almost felt like he could sense the others - Hank working diligently in his lab, Logan grabbing a beer from the fridge. Warren was probably brooding with the occasional irritated interjection from Betsy. Jean was no doubt skittering around the room nervously, hiding presents and making plans to herself. Bobby was probably playing computer solitaire, while Rogue was off in some corner crying, and Sam was busy pointedly avoiding everyone, red-eyed and twitchy....

God. Why couldn't he just think happy thoughts?

"Scott?"

Scott spun around, to see Warren watching him. It felt strange, seeing that he was not where Scott's mind's eye had placed him. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. Just thinking."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around. For a change. It's not like you to brood in doorways, Scott." Warren's tone was light, but he was darting quick glances at Scott beneath lowered lids.

"I was thinking, not brooding."

"Looked a lot like brooding to me."

"I suppose you would know."

"Scott, I know this is everybody's job but mine, but I have to ask, have you been getting *any* sleep lately?"

"About as much as usual," Scott lied.

Warren caulked his head to the side. "The bags under your eyes extend beneath your sunglasses."

"Really?" Scott walked over to the hallway mirror, and peered into it. "Maybe I'm just getting old."

"You've been getting old since you were fourteen, Scott. I'm just worried you're getting tired. Don't fall asleep on the job, okay? We count on you having both eyes open."

Scott tore himself away from the depressing contemplation of his reflection. "You doing anything, Warren?"

"No. Why?"

"Let's go get a drink. My treat."

* * *

Despite evidence to the contrary, alcohol was in fact a depressant. A very pretty depressant. Like liquid amber. Scott had heard that even experts had trouble telling amber from plastic just by looking at it.

"War?"

"Yes, my son?"

"I've got a philosophical question for you."

Warren's brows lowered. "Philosophical?"

"Yeah. Do you think it matters if something is fake - like a gem stone or an antique - so long as you think it's real?"

Warren considered. "I guess not."

"That's what I thought. But what if you're not sure? What if you've got doubts?"

"Well, that takes all the fun out of it. Then it matters. Then you have to find out. And if you find out it's fake, you return it and get your fucking money back."

Scott nodded. "That's what I figured, too."

"Great minds think alike."

"And so do we. 'Nother drink?"

"Please."