A Year and A Day
Vancouver
by
Jenn



Vancouver, August 1

Hey Jubes babe!

Eh--it's been--interesting. This has gotta be short, for reasons that will become apparent.

First off--I'm just about vibrating, hon. I'm one month behind him, exactly. One month, and I know his next three stops, so if I'm right, I'll be seeing him sometime in November. Well, if I'm right, if Mary was right, and if Logan doesn't take it into his head to take some detours. I thought at first I could manage by September, but well, I have two targets now, you see.

Enough on that.

Anyway, the part you always wait for--what have I learned? Good question, and I'm struggling here to make it come out right.

One--I seem to eat best at bars.

Two--I seem to attract weirdos.

Three--well, I think I'll leave that for the end.

Okay, where do I start? Vancouver is beautiful--I mean it's gorgeous. Of course, I did the tour, saw the sights, then got myself down to some serious Logan-hunting. Now, according to Mary, Logan actually has a pattern of sorts in Canada--it's his home, so while he doesn't always use his name or anything, he's pretty well known in certain parts of every city. So it was relatively easy to find the place he stayed--a run down little motel on the edge of the city with the unlikely name Paradise City. Lemme count the ways that the name didn't apply and I won't start with the fleas, because they were the good point--they seemed to keep the rats from wanting to come in the rooms much--even rats have standards.

It was Des Moines all over again. The manager was shifty-eyed and nervous but was willing to talk for considerably less money than I expected. So I found out that Logan had four visitors--three of whom he brought here himself. And as far as I can ascertain, none of them were along the run of his usual gutter taste. In point of fact--well, he had another guy, was an upper class male who was remarkably free with his cash--you see, this visitor wasn't visiting when Logan was at home. In fact, he came three days after Logan checked out. And was damned pissed to find Logan gone.

In case of fact, he called himself Specter. Advertising, I suppose, the idiot.

I got a description and I faxed it to the Professor already at the post office a few minutes ago. So if this guy shows up anywhere in sight of one of the Professors contacts, he will be identified and hopefully disposed of in some gruesome way that my imagination will happily describe if you're interested. But you're probably not.

Anyway, the three people looked pretty nice, according to The Faithful Manager, and he gave me two names--Josephine and James. Both Americans, according to him, and both very nervous. Unless Logan is AC/DC, and I haven't gotten that impression from any of the girls, I'm thinking that these must either be contacts, potentials, or mutants. They came and left together and may or may not have been married, since he only saw a ring on the guy's finger--the woman's were gloved and she kept her head down a lot.

Interesting.

That was really all he had, and I retired to Logan's room to check it out--he's not big on leaving clues or anything, but there's always a first time. And--well--

Okay, I was going through the drawers and looking under the bed and generally doing my sleuth routine and I found a picture--of me. Remember last year, when Jean had us all photographed for the album? Logan hasn't been home since that was taken, Jubes. No where near. He was doing stuff in Brownsville or something, if my timetables are right, so how the hell did he get it? And those pictures--no one has a copy outside the school.

So who the hell sent it? There's no date or anything on it, and I didn't find anything else, so anyone from the school could have sent it. Maybe Jean sent him one or something when he was in Des Moines, but he never leaves an address. I don't know.

Okay, beside the point. Moving on...

Person number three remained sort of a mystery, since it could have been a him or her, though the manager, such a reliable witness indeed, thinks from the clothes it was a guy. So I'm thinking on this and trying to decide if I should just pack up and hit the next stop, but you know, something stops me--one, Logan could have a change in plans since he talked to Mary and two--well, two is personal. In any case, I *really* don't want to lose the trail this late and so I make myself comfortable.

Now the Manager couldn't tell me how often Logan went out--so I decided to go prowling around the general area. His pattern seems to be to stay relatively close to an escape route, so inner city won't do it, and if he stayed here--well, I checked at a three mile vicinity and found the sleaziest joint there was around--and to be honest, even though I put it like that, it was sort of nice, not picky on its clientele but pretty clean and it served food, so I was all for it. Anyway, I climbed up on a bar stool and ordered some nachos and a beer and went to find myself someplace to eat and watch the place at the same time.

Anyway, I knew that a female alone, even a female dressed as completely as I was, gloves, hat, and scarf in all, would get some attention. There were a few women around--barflies is the term Logan used, I think--but it wasn't like there was anything going on that should have made me nervous. But as I said, I've been twitchy for awhile, and that guy really shouldn't have come up behind me.

Anyway, he found himself stretched out on the table with a gloved hand against his throat--I'm learning, I didn't choke him, just held him down--and we got some attention, but the place took it real quiet--makes me wonder. He sort of stares at me and then tries to smile--girlfriend, he's got a pair, that one does--and asks me if he can buy me a drink.

And that's when I started laughing. I mean--okay, in his position, what would you do? So I let him up and tell him to sit down and he does.

"I'm David," he says, stretching out a hand, and I take it and shake, still sort of amused by the whole thing.

"Marie," I answer and he calls over a waitress, who is really nervous, as can be imagined. Nor is she amused by the fact that the nice beer she just brought me is now cleaning the floor. But she gets our beer and finds a mop, and after she leaves, David asks me what I'm doing here--like he's actually interested or something.

"Looking for a friend," I answer, taking a drink--the local brew is not bad, but I don't recommend it on an empty stomach, as you'll soon understand. "You live around here?"

"Just traveling," he answers, kind of playing with his glass. All to the good--we're off to a fine start. So he asks what I do, and since my resume wasn't with me, I said I was a teacher from Wichita touring the city. If you ask where that came from--I have no idea. The first thing that popped into my head--and don't laugh too hard babe--was stripper and I almost choked on the beer.

Well, he figures I'm lying but doesn't much care. So we chat about the weather--great weather--and talk a little about hockey, since that's the one sport I follow, and meander from topic to topic and I start eating nachos and he buys me beer and--well--

He asks me to dance.

Now, I'm nowhere near drunk, hon, but I'm feeling good about the world and say sure. I mean, I'm careful and besides, I'm feeling mellow so my concentration exercises will work and I can keep from killing him if he does touch my skin. He leads me up to the little floor and we start dancing to this country song I don't even remember.

It was sort of fun.

"What the *fuck* are you doing with my husband?"

This is my luck.

David sort of stiffens up and I come out of it to the bang of something very small and hard on the floor--heels. So I turn around and lo and behold, a cute little blonde storms up--heels so high she looks like she's on fucking stilts--but it takes me a minute to really take her in because--well--

"Who are you?" I ask wisely, because, as I've said, I wasn't drunk, just--em, cheery.

She plants both manicured hands on her hips and her truly impressive chest swells--Jubes, those were double Ds at least, which completely floored me--it was like talking to two huge breasts with a big mouth attached. She stands there fuming and I throw a glance at David, who looks guiltier than hell---hehehe, this is sooo funny in retrospect--and then I try and think of something to say.

"I'm sorry--I--um--didn't know he was married."

"Fuck that, bitch." She reaches out with extraordinarily long fingers and snatches David the Cheater's hand off my waist--why the hell is he still touching me?--and--God, Jubes, he was wearing a wedding ring.

So this is not how I envisioned my evening. Yeah, I know--I'm a magnet for trouble. But still--

Before I can think of something to say--well, I'm sort of on the floor and my head is throbbing. She looks short, Jubes--but damn, can she pack a punch. So I stare up at her and David starts gibbering and--

--well, she tried to kick me with those indecently high heels.

Oh my God, that was such a mistake.

To make this sordid little tale short, I'm currently trying to get out of the province to escape assault and battery charges. I didn't hit her that hard--I mean, I'm the one with the black eye!--but well--anyway, I considered the options and sort of ran. So--that's the life.

So what was number three I learned?

Three--watch the guy's hand for rings.

Well, I'm mailing this now--more news on the next stop. I'm feeling a little--er, exposed. Give my love to everyone.

Marie Summers



CHAPTERS:   Prologue   Des Moines   Chicago   Jackson   Harlingen   Interlude   Austin/Los Angeles   Seattle   Vancouver   Calgary/Regina/Winnipeg   Niagara Falls   Epilogue




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