Thicker Than Water
Part I
Scott Summers stepped into the taxicab, grateful for the relief the air-condition provided. He had only been waiting for about ten minutes, but the late morning air was already hot and thick with humidity. His forehead was damp with perspiration and his shirt clung to his back with annoying persistence. Only in the city for twenty-five minutes and already he knew that Montgomery, Alabama was not a place he would like to live in the summer.
"Where to?"
Scott withdrew a manila envelope from his computer bag, the only piece of luggage he carried. He opened the sheaf of papers that had been folded carefully around the newspaper clippings and photograph tucked inside. Pulling a napkin out of the group, he gave the driver the faded address that was scribbled across it.
Before folding the items up again, he took the photo out and perused it once again. It was the reason he was here. It was a strip of three photos, taken in one of the ubiquitous arcade machines found in malls and airports everywhere. A young man and woman smiled up at him from various poses. In the first, the young couple's cheeks were pressed together as they smiled directly into the camera. In the second, the man's face was wildly contorted and the woman's was frozen in laughter. The third was a picture of the two kissing. And although the photo was old and fading and only captured one instant of the kiss, Scott could feel the passion of it.
He stared at it for a long time, unable to put it back into the envelope. He didn't know what disturbed him more: the identity of the man in the pictures or the identity of the man who had possessed it. He only hoped that the woman he was going to see would be able to shed some light on it.
It had started a few weeks ago when he and Jean had returned to New York for Alex's funeral. That had been a terrible shock of its own. He could still hear Lorna's voice over the phone, flat with shock, "Alex is dead." That was it, no preamble, no euphemisms to cushion the blow. Alex is dead. You had a brother. You lost him. You found him. You lost him again. And found him again. Just that morning. And now he's dead. Scott couldn't suppress a shudder when he thought about the eerie coincidence that Alex had called him just that morning to make amends for their recent rift.
The funeral was over quickly. Since Alex had died in an explosion, there was no viewing. Just a photograph that served as a memorial, and a marker on top of an empty grave. The turnout had been impressive, but there was one notable absence. It was, perhaps, unreasonable to hold Corsair responsible for not attending his son's funeral; after all, the Shi'ar technology that allowed him to reach his father had been stolen from the mansion. Still, Scott resented his absence.
He scowled at the photo in his hand.
The photo. Logan had found him sitting alone by the pool long after the funeral and after the last of the mourners had left the mansion. Scott had been contemplating the events of the past few months: his brother's death on the heels of Jean's telepathic-blindness on the heels of his almost dying from a bomb planted in his chest on the heels of...
Logan sat beside him without a word, fumbling with an envelope in his hands with uncharacteristic discomfort.
"We, uh, found this a coupla weeks ago," he'd finally said, pushing the envelope into Scott's hands. "Doin' some remodelin'. We found it under some floorboards in the Cajun's room. There was a buncha stuff there, but this looks like it concerns you." Scott raised an eyebrow and could only imagine the items that Gambit had hidden away. Curious, he took the envelope.
"Not sure what it means," Logan mused as he opened it and withdrew the contents. He flipped through the papers, some yellowed with age, many with handwritten notes. He recognized Gambit's handwriting immediately. There were photocopies of newspaper clippings about a murdered prostitute; a list of names and phone numbers, each carefully crossed out; a napkin with a name and address written across it; a wax paper envelope with what appeared to be a lock of hair; and, the photostrip.
Scott's head shot up and he pinned Logan with an outraged glare. "What the hell?"
Logan shook his head. "Dunno. Ask me a few months ago, and I woulda...hell, I don't know what I would have thought. But since this whole Antarctica trial and all, it's obvious Gambit had some kind of hidden agenda." He shrugged. "Looks to me like he was trying to set you up for--"
"Blackmail?" Scott finished. He studied the photostrip intently. The man in the pictures was much younger than today, but there was no mistaking his father's face. The woman looked to be a few years younger; and although the picture on the newspaper article was dark and distorted by the copy, he was certain that the woman with her father was the murdered prostitute. He peered at Logan and tried to put to voice the hundred questions roiling through his head. "Do you think Corsair had something to do with her murder? That Gambit somehow found out about it? That he intended to use that information somehow? What could he possibly hope to gain?"
Logan sat back with a sigh, fished a cigar out of his pocket and rolled it between his fingers, considering. "Well, like I said, I don't know what it means, but...Well, considerin' what we know now about Gumbo working fer Sinister..."
Scott cursed. The possibility that Gambit was gathering information on his father made more sense than his trying to blackmail Corsair or himself. Sinister would find perverse pleasure in exploiting this information, he was sure.
That had been almost three weeks ago. He and Jean had left a few days later to visit Jean's folks for a while. He hadn't wanted to take her back to Alaska too soon. With her telepathy destroyed, she had become very withdrawn and he feared that she was sinking into a deep depression. He hoped that spending some extra time with those she loved would help.
He, however, was unable to dispel the multitude of questions the photo and their accompanying clues presented. He pored over the articles, the list of names, the scribbled notes and lay awake most nights trying to puzzle them together. It irritated him that he couldn't just call his father and ask him. He couldn't even call him and tell him about Alex. And Gambit was gone. If what Logan had told him about Rogue leaving him to die in Antarctica was true, then he was most likely dead. If not, then he was probably keeping a very low profile.
Unable to fit the pieces together without more information, he decided to follow some of the leads that it appeared Gambit had taken. The name and address on the napkin seemed the most promising. It was the same name that appeared on the other list, only there it was circled with an exclamation point beside it. So, with a call to the airline, he soon found himself on his way to Montgomery.
"This is it."
The driver's voice startled him from his reverie. He tucked the photostrip into his pocket, gathered his bag and paid the driver. As the cab left, he stood where he was dropped and stared at the house in front of him. The house sat back a ways behind an open wrought iron fence. It wasn't nearly as large as the mansion in Westchester, but it was impressive nonetheless with that certain antebellum charm that was so characteristic of the south.
He absently swiped a hand across his forehead, sweeping his sweat-dampened hair off his face. Okay, Summers, you're here. Let's see what we shall see.
The chime of the doorbell brought a prompt response, and the woman that answered the door took an appraising look at him, her expression cool. "May I help you?"
She was a handsome woman, dressed smartly in black slacks, black turtleneck and a turquoise blazer. Her blond hair was cropped short in a fashionable style, and a black leather attache was slung across her shoulder. Scott guessed her age to be early to mid-forties.
"I hope so. I'm looking for Patricia Stewart," Scott started, politely.
"I am she," she stated brusquely. "I'm on my way to an appointment. State your business."
"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, and I won't take too much of your time." He pulled the photostrip from his pocket and held it up. "My name is Scott Summers. I'm trying to find out some information about the people in these pictures, and I came across your name as someone that might be able to help me."
"Are you a detective or something?" she asked, holding out her hand impatiently.
"No, ma'am. It's a personal matter." Scott handed her the pictures, and watched with great curiosity as the woman's perfect poise faltered.
She looked up at him sharply, and Scott caught the spark of anger in her eyes. "Where did you get this?"
"A friend gave it to me."
"And how is this a personal matter?" she demanded.
"The man in the picture is my father."
That caught her attention. She regarded him with a closer look, searching his face and comparing it to the one in the photos. After a few moments, she stepped aside. "Perhaps you should come in, Mr. Summers."
She led him through the marble foyer to a set of french doors that led into a formal sitting area. She indicated the room with a nod of her head as she set her attache on the hallway table and reached for the phone. Scott went into the room ahead of her and waited without taking a seat, listening with half an ear as she called to postpone her appointment. He was encouraged. It was obvious the woman knew something about it, and she must have considered it important to put off the appointment that only minutes earlier she seemed eager to get to.
She joined him as soon as she hung up, taking a seat on the embroidered settee. "Is your father still alive?" she started without preamble.
Scott took a seat across from her and nodded. "He is."
"Have you asked him about this photo? He should certainly be able to answer all of your questions about it."
Probably not all of them, Scott mused, thinking of Gambit’s involvement. Aloud, he replied, "My father is...difficult to get a hold of. I don't see him very often." He took a deep breath. "Can you tell me who the woman is?"
Her features softened as she studied the photo reverently, lightly tracing her fingers over the yellowed images. "Her name was Marietta. She was my sister." She set the picture on the coffee table between them. "She was only nineteen when this picture was taken."
It was Scott's turn to be surprised. What he had hoped would be a lead to solving this mystery turned out to be a windfall. He never imagined that he would get this close so quickly. But he cautioned himself to tread carefully, if Marietta was indeed the murdered prostitute in the newspaper article, then it was sure to be a painful subject for Patricia.
"How long ago was this taken?"
She looked him square in the eye. "Twenty-seven years ago."
His eyebrows shot up. "They were lovers?" He mentally kicked himself for the stupid question. Of course they were lovers. His eyes raced to the photo, the one at the bottom where the couple embraced in a kiss. It was just that his father looked so young that he assumed that the picture was taken before his parents met. However, that certainly was not the case. His parents were not only already married but he himself would have been almost two years old.
"Are you sure you want to hear about this, Mr. Summers? It doesn't paint a very flattering picture of your father."
His mind flashed to the newspaper article. He certainly didn't believe his father was capable of murder, but what was the connection that Gambit was after? "Yes. Please, it's important."
Patricia watched him carefully for a few moments then nodded finally. "Marietta knew that your father was married. Knew he had a young son. But she was so young, and so full of romantic notions." She smiled sadly. "I'm getting ahead of myself. They met at an airport lounge where she waitressed. Your father is a pilot, right?"
Was. But, he only nodded, not bothering to correct her.
"I'm not sure how long they knew each other or how often he came here. I never met him myself. Half of what I'm telling you I only know from reading her diary after she died." She waved her hand as if the matter was unimportant. "Anyway, she was in love with him and sure that he would leave his wife to be with her." She pursed her lips, measuring her next words carefully. "She wrote that your father wanted to wait a while because his wife was pregnant and he didn't want to leave until after she had the baby. He promised her that he would leave then and move to Alabama so they could be together."
He felt his cheeks burning with anger. While his mother was at home taking care of one son and carrying another, his father was carrying on an affair with a girl barely old enough to be legal and making promises he had no business making. It was a bitter contradiction to the loving father he remembered from his youth.
"Then," Patricia continued, "Marietta found herself pregnant."
Unable to sit still, Scott found himself rising and pacing to the window. Oh, how Gambit must have reveled in this story. He could feel the older woman's eyes on his back and finally turned back. "Well, I know my father didn't leave my mother, so what happened? What did he do?"
"No, he didn't. He told her that he was sorry. Finally admitted that he had no intention of leaving his wife and family." She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, regretfully. "He gave her money for an abortion and left. He never came back."
Scott turned back to the window, his mind still churning to put the pieces together. There was still the newspaper article. It didn't seem that his father had anything to do with her death. And yet, it was a piece that Gambit paid attention to, copying and saving several articles about the event. Scott came back and sat across from Patricia again. He placed a hand on hers, and her eyes opened to meet his. "I know how Marietta died," he said quietly. "What happened?"
She snorted. "My father was furious when he found out. He kicked her out of the house, told her never to come back. I remember that night so well. I hid in my bedroom crying, listening to the two of them yelling at each other. She came in to pack some clothes and I asked her to take me with her. I was sixteen then. Our father was pretty abusive. Marietta was my protector and I was so afraid of what would happen if she left. She told me she was going to go south to New Orleans, where she could make some real money. Then she would send for me." A tear escaped, unnoticed. "I never saw her again."
He tightened his hand on hers in a comforting gesture. "I’m very sorry," he murmured. He imagined he could fill in the rest of the story. Nineteen years old and alone in a city like New Orleans, abandoned by her father, she must have turned to prostitution, and was later killed. Could that have been what Gambit angling for? It seems Corsair was at least indirectly responsible for this woman’s death, but was that blackmail material? What would Sinister even do with that information? There was still something missing, Scott was sure.
"She turned to prostitution, then, didn’t she?" he prompted carefully.
She dabbed at her tears daintily before answering. "Not at first. It was only after she had the baby and couldn’t make ends meet that she—"
"Baby?" Scott gasped. He felt his jaws go slack with the implications, but he could only stare at her.
Her eyes hardened momentarily, and he could see that first flash of anger return there. "My sister didn’t have that abortion, Mr. Summers."
"I just…I didn’t…" he stammered. Unable to put his chaotic thoughts into words, he just shook his head. He rose again and paced the room in agitation.
Patricia looked away shortly, that expression returning to her face that said she was debating what to tell him. Sighing, she turned back, following him with her eyes. "She had a son. Named him Raymond Christopher." She snorted delicately. "After all that, she still believed that your father would come back to her."
A son. A brother. The missing piece. Nothing in the envelope had hinted at a son, but that is what Sinister would have been most interested in. Gambit had sold precious information about his family to his worst enemy. How Sinister must have crowed at finding another Summers to exploit.
…I care enough to wish you and your brothers to be protected from this illness.
Brothers?
Excuse me?
You said brothers—plural.
I’m sorry, did I? I meant your brother, Alex. (1)
The remembered conversation with Sinister returned, unbidden. Scott had thought it odd at the time, but he wasn’t given much time to mull it over as the Dark Riders appeared to ‘test his worthiness’. That had been just about three years ago, and he hadn’t thought about it since then.
Three years. Gambit had joined the team the year before that. He had fought by their side, had become an integral part of the X-Men. Scott had never put complete trust in him, not like Jean, or Hank, or even Logan. But there was a certain amount of trust that was automatically given because he was an X-Man. To find out about his part in the mutant massacre was one thing. As much as that hurt everyone, it was done before he joined them. He wasn’t the only one among them that had committed deadly crimes before joining the team. But this, knowing that Gambit lived with them and became part of their family, then dug up this information on his family and sold it to Sinister…That was entirely unforgivable.
He stopped his pacing shortly. "There was a man that might have come here looking for this same information on this photo. Tall, about my height, thinner, red hair, wears it long. If you saw his eyes, they’re red and black. Name’s LeBeau. Do you remember if he came here, maybe about three or four years ago?"
"Remy?"
Scott looked at her curiously. She said the name with mild surprise and great familiarity. "Yes. Remy. He was here, then."
"Yes. He was. But it was more like seven years ago. I gave the picture to him. That’s why I was so surprised that you had it."
Scott knew the confusion was evident on his face, but it just didn’t make sense. Seven years was well before Remy joined the X-Men, even long before the mutant massacre. "He didn’t even know me then," he mused aloud.
"I should think not, Mr. Summers."
But he wasn’t paying attention to her. His mind was spinning. "Are you sure it was seven years ago? That doesn’t make sense. You see, I believe he was trying to dig up information on my family to sell to an enemy of mine. But, we didn’t even know each other seven years ago."
Patricia looked at him with mild amusement, and he actually saw her laugh. She rose and came to stand before him. "You’ve got it all wrong, Mr. Summers. Remy didn’t come here to dig up information on your family." She pinned him with a meaningful look. "He came here looking for his."
The carefully constructed puzzle flew apart in his mind as the pieces scattered and joined to form a new picture. Scott felt his knees go weak as he flopped himself none-too-gracefully into the window seat behind him. "You’re telling me that—"
"Remy is your half-brother."
(1) This conversation took place in X-Men #23.