"My Little Runaway"

  Chapter Two: Hearth and Home

 The food at the tiny motel restaurant was surprisingly good, and Logan simply let the boy eat.

 No longer half-starved, Remy kept glancing at the man under his long, eye-hiding bangs, wondering at his good fortune - and fearing it might end.

 "D' you live near here, sir?" he finally asked, careful to be respectful.

 Respectful hid his mounting fright.

 What if his benefactor decided to turn him over to the care of the authorities?

 A moment's panic almost made him drop his soft drink, and Logan regarded him with those deep, beautiful, somehow unreadable eyes.

 "Nah." replied the man, voice naturally low and gruff, like a great cat breathing. "I live on th' road, Remy."

 Terror rose in those young eyes then, red on black, and he felt the sting of tears as he prepared himself for another betrayal.

 The streets, please God, not the fake families that hurt even worse, please, please...he thought, disjointedly.

 "Are ya...movin' on, then...?" Remy was suddenly ashamed of the break in his young voice.

 Logan stared at him, then placed a surprisingly gentle hand on the boy's.

 "Depends."

 "D-depends?"

 "Yeah."

 "On what?" asked the boy, voice trembling, struggling not to cry.

 "If ya wanna come along."

 The next days were a blur of unfamiliar activity for young Remy. The short man brought in books, and moved them to a small, functional apartment with a suddenness that shocked his younger companion.

 Remy would have never imagined, in a million years, that he would be offered with simple calm, the priceless gifts Logan gave him.

 For one thing, he brought in supplies and with patience and unshakable belief in the boy's abilities, taught the youngster to read more than simple signs.

 "I never gave much thinkin' to this book stuff." said the boy, as Logan passed him a series of books. He'd expected "good educational titles", but not the eclectic, interesting mix his companion had returned with in a battered paper bag.

 "Try findin' what ya like, Remy. We'll go from there."

 He was given clothing, trusted with money to run short errands to and from the tiny corner store, and even sent off to a movie on some weekends.

 It was more than perfect.

 And even better, Logan was always there with an answer when he ran out of understanding, patience when Remy was on the verge of tears, and trust when the boy doubted himself.

 Eyes now concealed behind finely-made RayBan sunglasses, he could walk anywhere he wanted, though his companion's stern admonition to be "in by nine" was never questioned.

 Some days, Logan would tell him he had a job, and would disappear for a day or so, never more than three. He would pay Miz Bernald downstairs for the rent and give Remy a list of lessons, but he never placed demands on the boy.

 Remy found himself able to spend time with boys his own age up at the church on the corner, though he never entered the building.

 It made him nervous.

 And his voice was changing, gaining a rich timbre of a New Orleans native.

 Every time Logan returned, he and Remy would sit and talk, sometimes of important things, sometimes just about - life.

 Remy had seen himself as an outcast, lower than dirt.

 Now, Logan believed in him.

 Remy loved him for that.

 One stormy evening, Remy came into the kitchen yawning and stretching, and began to rummage through the refrigerator.

 "Remy, this is a friend o' mine. Jean-Paul, this is Remy." said Logan, who somehow had remained unseen the entire time.

 The tall man smiled at the boy, nodded a greeting.

 "Evenin'." said the boy, noting the fine clothes the other man wore.

 "Remy, why doncha siddown, here." Something in Logan's voice made all Remy's senses go on the alert. Feeling an acute sense of nervous tension tighten it's way up his back, he pulled out a chair and sat obediently.

 "I got a long job comin' up, kiddo, and I don't wanna leave ya here alone. Thought ya might like some company, and Jean-Paul's got a right fine place." said Logan, gently.

 "You leavin' soon, mon ami?" asked Remy, voice controlled.

 "Jus' fer a couple weeks."

 Remy regarded Jean-Paul sidelong, half-wary.

 Then he nodded, careful to not show his inner turmoil.

 After a few more jobs, Remy came to enjoy staying with Jean-Paul LeBeau and his huge, extended family out in the thick, humid Louisiana swamp.

 Logan taught him some basic fighting techniques after he returned, and his fear of abandonment began to subside.

 But it was then the confusion set in.

 He had felt a bond with Logan from the beginning, a closeness, and at first it was from son to father, loving him for his compassion and gentle patience.

 Then it had become young man to older brother.

 Now it wasn't the simple friendship his age-mates described, it was something - different.

 Every time he thought about it, he was half-frightened and half-exhilarated, confused and sure, and often had to find something to do to burn off nervous energy.

 But then one horrible day, the news he had subconsciously dreaded all along came.

 The team Logan had been with had been killed on the job.

 He was dead.

 Logan was dead.

 Somewhere in the distance, Remy heard Jean-Paul telling him he would be safe, and he knew he would be this man, this Cajun's, son.

 Like Logan planned, he would not be alone.

 He'd be with people who already - cared.

 Would be with him, teach him, keep him safe.

 Logan was dead.

 In too much pain to weep and with all the power in his ten-year-old body, Remy screamed.

Insanity is great fun! Never let the voices tell you different.