Dick Grayson's motorcycle rode up the long driveway. Dick dismounted the bike, sat his helmet down on the asphalt beside, and jogged up the front steps of the mansion. Alfred met him at the door. "Bruce around?" Dick asked.
Alfred nodded. "He's downstairs, sir. May I take your jacket?"
Dick stepped inside and shook his head. "No thanks, I shouldn't be here very long. I've got some errands to run in the city."
"We are fourteen miles outside the city," Alfred observed dryly, but Dick didn't respond.
Bruce was in the Batcave, as Alfred had said, sitting in front of the computer, with his back to the screens. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his fist. Dick walked down the stone steps quietly, not wanting to disturb Bruce is he were meditating--but it didn't look like it. Dick stopped and stood several feet from Bruce, deciding to wait until Bruce was done doing whatever it was he was doing.
"It's all right to talk, Dick," Bruce said, not opening his eyes, "I'm not doing anything special."
Dick raised his head and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "So, how's Robin?" he asked for starters.
Bruce opened his eyes and raised his head. "Tim was angry, bitter. But, he's not blaming himself, which I suppose is good. He's recognizing that the boy's death was the fault of whoever sent the bomb."
Dick cleared his throat. "Speaking of which, who did send it?" Bruce turned to the computer, punched several keys, and an electronic issue of the Gotham Globe popped up huge on the main monitor. Bruce glanced at the screen, then looked beside him at the floor. "They recovered pieces of the car, evidence of the explosive--plastique, as I suspected--and the remains of a man who was most likely the driver of the car." Bruce punched several more commands into the keyboard, and a smaller window opened in front of the electronic Globe, one bearing dental records. "I managed to get a picture what was left of the guy, mostly skull fragments. I ran what I could from his teeth and the only match I found was this one. William Tork. He was fired from LexCars in Metropolis about two years ago, and apparently, he's been homeless ever since."
Dick stared blankly at the computer display for a minute. "So . . . who's behind it?"
Bruce removed both files from the display and switched on the screensaver, a simple blank screen. He swiveled in his chair to face the far wall of the cave, one shrouded in shadow. "About four years ago, Edward Yardley used a drunken homeless man to deliver a car full of explosives to an enemy's house. It wasn't nearly as large a bomb, or as devastating, but it's the same technique, exactly."
Dick nodded once, pushing his lower lip out thoughtfully. "Yardley is working for Black Mask now."
It was Bruce's turn to nod. "Robin was right; he must have been after us. He must have been nearby, known where we were."
"So, what next?"
"Next," Bruce began, "we find Black Mask, and destroy everything he is." Bruce's voice was cold, merciless. Dick had only heard him talk like that once before, when the second Robin, Jason Todd, had been killed by the Joker. "Then," Bruce continued in his dark tone of voice, "we find out who's really after Black Mask, and do the same thing to them." Bruce's normally neutral facial expression had altered slightly, he was now a portrait of carefully controlled rage. Then, he returned to normal and looked up at Dick. "Are you free tonight?"
"Yes," Dick said without hesitation. "I think I can swing it."
Avian Paradise Casino, 11:30 a.m.
Oswald Cobblepot stared down the length of the polished wooden shaft, took aim, and struck, hard and precise. The cue ball rolled across the felt surface and collided with the six ball, sending it into the corner pocket.
The Penguin stood and watched as the cue ball bounced off the far cushion and came to a rest near the center of the pool table. He surveyed the table, looking for his next shot, sliding the cue stick through his white-gloved hands. The Penguin spotted the seven ball, all alone right next to the head cushion. He leaned down and took aim.
"Mr. Cobblepot?"
The Penguin shoved the stick forward, and the end scraped off the side of the cue ball. He dropped the stick on the table and turned around, highly annoyed. "Yes, Groverton?"
Groverton stood calmly, his hands behind his back, in the doorway. "I've prepared the report you asked for, sir." Groverton produced a file folder from behind his back and presented it to the Penguin. Cobblepot walked forward and took it, then turned around immediately and walked back to the pool table. Holding the cue stick with one hand, the Penguin flipped the folder open and skimmed over the first page.
" . . . Several hundred pounds of high-grade plastic explosive." The Penguin looked up and over his shoulder. "How does that compare to Oklahoma City?"
Groverton drew in a breath. "The bomb itself was less powerful, but since the Treadmont building is smaller than the Federal Building in Oklahoma city, the effects are proportionately the same. You'll find everything in there, sir."
The Penguin nodded. "Very well, you're dismissed." Groverton spun around on the heel of his left foot and exited the office. Cobblepot tossed the folder over to a nearby chair, and leaned back behind the cue ball. He struck the ball solidly, and it knocked the seven easily off the cushion and into the far corner pocket. The Penguin smiled at his own skill.
He was about to lean over to target his next shot when something mentally struck him, and he stood up straight. Dropping the cue stick back on the table, he strode quickly over to his desk on the other side of the huge penthouse. The Penguin tapped a button on his phone and waited.
"Yes, sir?" Groverton's voice asked dutifully.
"Groverton, get Edward Yardley on the phone for me, would you?"
Groverton was silent for several seconds. "A bit challenging, Mr. Cobblepot."
The Penguin nodded. "I have little doubt you are up to the task. Call me when you have him." Cobblepot switched off the phone and walked back to the pool table.
Office of Police Commissioner Gordon, 1:45 p.m.
Commissioner Gordon was staring out at the city between the venetian blinds over his window. Everything seemed so quiet, as if the city were still in a state of shock. He thought back to a time several months ago, when over thirty police officers had been killed when an LSA company warehouse had exploded. More than three hundred criminals had been inside as well, members of an army raised by a vengeful former kingpin, had been inside the building as well, but no one ever thought of them.
A granite memorial had been erected in honor of those thirty police officers. Gordon wondered what the city would do about those killed in the Treadmont blast. Gordon laughed bitterly to himself. "The Treadmont Blast" . . . we've already got a name for it. He turned away from the window and sat down behind his desk. I can already see the TV movie . . . I wonder who'll play me . . . I wonder who the hero will be . . .
Gordon looked up as he heard a knock on his door. The door came open a crack, and Lieutenant Kitch stuck his head inside. "Commissioner?" Kitch held a manila file folder inside the office. "I have a preliminary death toll. I . . . I thought you might like to take a look."
Gordon nodded and tapped on the surface of his desk. Kitch walked inside and dropped the file in front of the commissioner's finger. Gordon picked it up, but didn't open it. "Is there a survivors list?"
Kitch stood in front of the desk, his hands in his pockets. "A short one. It's in there, last page."
Gordon nodded and opened the folder. He laid it flat on the desk and began to read, putting his hand to his forehead. He sighed loudly and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. Kitch, who had been about to leave, stopped and looked at the older man. "Commissioner . . . Jim, if there's something you want to talk about, you know that you . . ."
The commissioner sat forward in his chair, glancing down at the file, the list of names. "There must be a hundred names here."
"Eighty-four, so far. Ninety-eight lived there, and only six are known for sure to have survived."
Gordon closed the file and shoved it to the far left-hand corner of the desk. "I wonder what goes through the mind of someone when they plan the murder of a hundred innocent people. I wonder what agenda they have to justify something like that."
Kitch stood in front of the desk silently, running his hand along the edge of the surface. "I don't have any idea. But, I'm sure it makes sense to them. I'm sure it always does."
Gordon looked at the closed file intently. "One of those people could have been . . ." Gordon took the file and opened it. "Mary Yorkton could have been this country's Mother Teresa. This . . . Timothy Rourke . . . just ten years old, could have grown up to find the cure for cancer, or walk on Mars, or even do something that might look stupid and trivial to us, like write a screenplay, or . . . or maybe save someone else's life . . ." Gordon shook his head to keep from crying. He wiped his eyes quickly, then looked up at Kitch. "Thank you, Samuel."
Kitch turned and left the office, and left Commissioner Gordon alone.
Mountain Drive, Gotham Heights, 3:43 p.m.
Since Tim's driver's license was granted to him as a result of his father's disability, he had only been required to complete an abbreviated Driver's Education course. One of the things the course had stressed was that concentration was of utmost importance when driving. Right now, that rule was furthest from Tim's mind. As his green van rolled on towards home, he was looking at the road, but not paying attention.
How, he thought, could he keep his mind on driving when all he could think of was the young boy trapped beneath the pile of twisted metal, an entire building leaning to collapse on him, and then doing just that. How could he think about driving when all he could think about was finding Black Mask and making him feel the same fear that young boy--Tim--must have felt just before the support beam collapsed on him.
Black Mask's cold, inhuman visage had been with Tim all day. Mrs. Hubbell had caught him off guard in Geometry, resulting in a small amount of embarrassment; Ariana had tried to talk to him during lunch, but in his disposition he must have seemed cold and uninterested in her company. Black Mask was the epitome of all that was vile, standing side by side with the Obeah Man in Tim's mind. The Obeah Man had killed Tim's mother, Black Mask had killed almost one hundred innocent people, with no greater justification than trying to, as he saw it, save his own skin.
This would be one night for certain when Tim couldn't wait to put on the Robin costume.
Avian Paradise Casino, 4:12 p.m.
Oswald Cobblepot was dressed in his finest tuxedo, pressed black slacks, polished black dress shoes, and of course, his favorite white jacket. He strode along the floor of his pride and joy, the crown jewel of the Gotham City waterfront, smiling and nodding at the many wealthy patrons standing around blackjack tables, tossing dice and hoping for a good roll.
Suzanne Tristfield was not a regular fixture at the casino, so when Oswald noticed her, he moved in to discreetly investigate. She saw him and gave him a practiced public relations smile, the result of years in front of a camera as the entertainment correspondent for WWGC-TV 12 News at Midnight. Cobblepot took her hand and kissed it lightly, smiling broadly at her. "Good day, Miss Tristfield. What brings you here so early in the day?"
Suzanne drew her hand back and looked around at her surroundings. "The guys at W-W-G-C thought it would be a good idea to take a look at the local entertainment attractions. Avian Paradise is one of the biggies."
Oswald smiled proudly. "Yes, well . . . if you hope to see any famous Gothamites at the slot machines, you should come back in about three hours. It's mostly tourists now, my dear."
"Well, this was the only time I could free up in my . . . ever so busy schedule." Suzanne's bright, artificial smile disappeared, replaced by a more natural, business-like expression. "Say, Mr. Cobblepot--"
"Please, Oswald," the Penguin said, holding up his hand.
"All right, Oswald . . . what's this I hear about you buying a few blocks of slum property in downtown Gotham?"
Oswald laughed, his small-but-noticeable pot-belly shaking slightly. "No, no, dear Suzanne, not slums . . . although I have purchased the Crowne Major hotel on Gremlin Street. I'll be opening a few tourist attractions in the city, and I'd like to be closer to the heart of Gotham, to be able to oversee my affairs more closely."
Journalistic opportunity flashed over Suzanne Tristfield's eyes. "Oswald, if we could go somewhere and hash out all this in a little more detail--"
Oswald raised his hand again, shaking his head slowly and taking notice of Groverton standing in a far corner of the room. "Forgive me, my dear, but I haven't the time now. Perhaps if you contacted my secretary, we could schedule an interview." Suzanne was about to ask one final question, but Cobblepot had already started into the crowd of gamblers. "Good day," he called back.
The Penguin made his way swiftly through the crowd towards Groverton. The secretary stood with hands clasped in front of a door marked Private, patiently awaiting the arrival of his employer. "Groverton?" the Penguin asked, joining him inside the room and securing the door behind them.
Groverton picked up a phone that hung on the wall to his left, handed the handset to the Penguin, and tapped a button at the bottom of the phone. "Mr. Yardley," Groverton mouthed silently. The Penguin nodded in approval, then held the phone to his ear.
"Mr. Yardley? . . . I trust my associate has filled you in on why I am in want of your services . . . no, no . . . I was actually quite impressed by that. Congratulations, it was fine work. I was actually hoping to secure, not only your services, but also those of several of your friends. . . . No, I'm not speaking of those particular gentlemen. I was actually thinking more along the lines of your friends in the Front Liners. . . . Well, admittedly, my knowledge is limited, but I do know that during your time in South Carolina several years ago you were involved in a militia group called the Front Liners, terrorists, mostly, and that you still contact several members from time to time. . . . Suffice it to say, Mr. Yardley, that I am in need of good men to do tough jobs, and the military training of you and your friends would likely prove favorable. . . . Very well, no rush--oh, well . . . grand. Shall we meet tonight, then? Before sundown, if you please . . . perhaps at five o'clock? Good. My secretary will set up the place." The Penguin handed the phone back to Groverton.
Straightening the collar of his jacket, and checking his hair in a mirror that hung on the back of the door, Oswald exited the room and rejoined the crowd.
Gotham City International Airport, 6:44 p.m.
Edward Yardley stood against the wall near the Gate 39, hands in his pockets. His eyes were covered by dark glasses, his slick black hair hidden beneath a dirty Gotham Knights baseball cap. Beneath his open overcoat, Yardley wore a white tee-shirt with a simple lightning-bolt design, and old white tennis shoes covered his feet. Yardley leaned against the wall, studying the crowd from behind his glasses; if there was one thing that he had learned from dealing with organized crime, it was that patience was a virtue above all others.
After Yardley had been waiting against the wall for almost twenty minutes, a young blonde man approached him, his head bobbing back and forth. "Hey, I think you're wanted in the men's room." Yardley stepped away from the wall, and the blonde man pointed down towards the south side of the airport. "Down that way, man."
Yardley secured the cap down practically over his eyes, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and walked until he saw the first men's room. He stepped inside, and walked along between the rows of urinals and stalls. "Please lock the door, Hard-Knox."
"Hello?" Yardley asked immediately, looking around for the source of the voice. He spotted two feet in a stall three-quarters of the way to the far wall. Edward returned to the door and locked it. "Okay, door's locked. Now, come-on out."
"Won't you have a seat?"
It was the voice of the Penguin. Yardley walked up in front of the stall in which the Penguin sat and rapped on the door. "Come-on, Cobblepot, open the door and stop screwing around with me."
Unnoticed to Yardley, the second stall from the entrance opened, and the Penguin stepped out, brandishing a small silver Derringer. He aimed for Yardley's head and pulled the trigger; the hammer of the gun clicked harmlessly. Yardley jumped in surprise and looked at the Penguin, shocked. Edward pulled open the stall in front of him and saw a pair of fake legs dangling from the toilet seat to the floor.
Yardley looked at the Penguin with annoyance. "That was a childish prank," he said, gesturing towards the fake legs.
The Penguin pocketed the Derringer, then looked calmly to Yardley. "It is also the oldest trick in the book, and you fell for it as the typical child would have. This does not impress me."
Yardley looked at the floor, then shot an angry glance at Cobblepot. He pulled a gun from inside his overcoat. "What the fuck do you want?!"
The Penguin stared calmly at the gun. "How did you ever get that past the metal detectors?" Yardley's finger wrapped firmly around the trigger, and he raised the gun, lowering it slowly back towards the Penguin's head. "Sionis must be tremendously overstuffing your ego, Eddie."
Hard-Knox looked at Cobblepot down the barrel of the gun, confused. "Who the fuck is Sionis?"
The Penguin took a few steps to the right, putting his hands in his pockets. Yardley took two big steps forward. "Get your goddamn hands up!" The Penguin obeyed, and looked at Yardley with his eyebrows raised slightly. "Better?"
"What--do--you--want with me?"
"Sionis. You asked me who . . . who the fuck that is, no?"
Yardley nodded, then waited. "Well?"
"He's my old, dear friend, Black Mask. Unfortunately, he's acquired a big head these past few years. He and the Batman are both fools, both believing that the mere act of putting on a mask can change a man's identity, give him powers over others he never had before. Black Mask thought that all he had could never be taken away, that no one would dare to challenge him. . . . He was wrong."
Yardley nodded in understanding, then took another step towards the Penguin. "I hope you brought a loaded gun with you."
The Penguin nodded once, then cleared his throat. The last two stalls opened, and two men dressed in white tuxedoes stepped out, brandishing large automatic weapons. They walked up silently behind Yardley and one plucked the gun from his hand. The white tux spun him around, driving the butt of his gun into Yardley's gut, then smacking him hard in the face with the stock. Yardley's thin frame dropped to the bathroom floor.
"I believe those are loaded," the Penguin said, kneeling down several feet from Yardley. "Use your head, Hard-Knox. Black Mask is on the way out. His empire is going the way of disco, Elvis, and the career of that lovely young girl in Showgirls." The Penguin now spoke through clenched teeth. "It will disappear from the face of the earth, and a new one, my empire will rise to replace it. Don't be a fool, Edward . . . don't be the brave imbecile who goes down with the sinking ship. There's a place for you with me."
Yardley looked up at the two white tuxes who hovered over him, then around at the similarly dressed Penguin. "What do you want me to do? Kill Black Mask? Blow up another building?"
"Well, not right away. Just having secured your services will be fine for now."
"What makes you think I would even consider working for you?"
"Because you didn't earn your reputation from remaining loyal to a single employer. You've always gone to where the money is, and in case you haven't noticed . . ."
"I'm going to need more incentive than that."
"How about if I turned in the man who talked a boozed-out drunk into driving a car full of explosives into the Treadmont apartment building?"
Yardley looked up at the Penguin with a combination of confusion and terror. "What are you talking about? You have no proof I had anything to do with . . . that."
The Penguin reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed a small tape recorder. Yardley's mouth dropped open, and he smacked the floor with anger. The Penguin rewound the tape, then pressed play. " . . . Kill Black Mask? Blow up another building?"
Yardley got to his knees, resting his hands on his lap. "This is blackmail," he said in desperation.
The Penguin tilted his head to the side. "Really? What are you going to do? Go to the police and tell them everything? Last I heard, blackmail was a much less serious charge than terrorism, the premeditated murder of eighty innocent people. . . ."
Yardley looked at the Penguin, then down at the floor. "All right." The white tuxedoes took Yardley by the arms and lifted him to his feet. "But, you are a manipulative bastard."
The Penguin shrugged. "Can there be a higher compliment?" The Penguin left the bathroom. After several minutes, one of the white tuxes exited. "Wait about three minutes, then go," the last white tux said as he left Yardley alone in the bathroom.
Beneath Wayne Manor, 9:29 p.m.
Robin was already suited up when he entered the Batcave. Nightwing sat in front of the computer, staring at the screen and tapping a single key every few seconds. "Hey there, boy wonder," he said cordially, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Robin looked at Nightwing a second, then turned away. "Hey, Nightwing." Robin walked quickly up to the computer and stood behind Nightwing much as he often did with Batman. "What's going on?"
Nightwing tapped the keyboard's page-down key and continued to read. "Just checking out the paper while Bruce is working out. He's down in the gym if you want to . . . talk to him about something." Robin crossed his arms and regarded Nightwing with suspicion.
"Talk to Bruce about what?"
Nightwing took his hand away from the keyboard and swiveled the chair around to face Robin. "He said you were pretty upset--pretty angry yesterday."
Robin turned around so he wouldn't have to look at Nightwing, and unfolded his arms. "Can you blame me?"
Nightwing looked to the side with his eyes, not moving his head. "Well, no. I mean--"
"I mean, you weren't there, Dick. You didn't see what happened when I was in there."
Nightwing drew in a breath, trying to keep a calm mood. "That's true, I wasn't there when you were. But that doesn't mean I didn't feel for those people. Doesn't mean I didn't help."
Robin looked curiously at Nightwing, his anger subsiding temporarily.
Nightwing continued. "Did you hear about the guy who pulled the bodies of a mother and her twelve year-old daughter out of the rubble?"
Robin nodded slowly. "Yeah . . . yeah, I heard about that?"
Nightwing's mask moved up on his face; he was raising his eyebrows. Pursing his lips and grinning, but without humor or happiness, Nightwing looked silently at Robin.
"It was you," Robin said, provoking a nod from Nightwing. "Then, you can understand how angry I am about this whole thing."
"I can certainly understand what it must feel like to watch an innocent die in front of you, I've seen it happen. But, I can tell you this: I wouldn't let that anger overwhelm me, like you seem to be doing. I would keep a level head." Nightwing was silent for a moment. He hated himself for what he was about to say. "Remember Karl Ranck?"
Robin's shoulders dropped low, his head bowed. "He hasn't been dead that long."
"What did Batman tell you about letting anger overwhelm you, like Karl did?"
Robin was silent. Then he said, "'When anger is all you bring to a fight, you've already lost.' I know."
"Remember that. You can be angry, but don't lose control. That's the most dangerous thing that people like us can do." Robin nodded, turning to face Nightwing.
"Thanks for reminding me."
Nightwing nodded, smiling bittersweetly. "No prob, my friend." He looked towards the elevator. "Now, if it makes you feel better, Batman is planning on paying a visit to a few of Black Mask's hideouts. Maybe we'll find something on him that we can use to take him down. The right way."
Robin nodded and headed for the elevator. Halfway there, he unclenched his fist.
Above Curly Bill's Palace of Amphibious Pets, 11:23 p.m.
Robin stood by the window, staring out at the night. Behind him in the room, Batman and Nightwing plowed through filing cabinets, flipping through folders, looking for something--anything--that could locate Black Mask., link him concretely to the activities of the Falseface Society.
Batman looked up suddenly when he heard a car come to a stop outside. Robin looked down at the street and saw three cars pulling to a stop in front of the building. Three men piled out of the first two cars, four from the second. They all wore masks; the one wearing the pig mask led the group inside the building. An instant after the group was inside, Black Mask himself emerged from the first car and entered.
"Come-on," Batman said, pulling the window open.
Robin took hold of his arm firmly. "No! We can't leave, not while they're here!"
Batman looked at Robin. "We're not going to leave; we're going to wait on the ledge and see what we can see." Robin let go of Batman's arm and nodded. He mouthed the words "Okay." Batman and Nightwing exited first, Robin followed, standing on the ledge, directly next to the window. Inside the room, the Falseface members filed into the room. They got to work immediately, pulling files from the cabinets, emptying desk drawers, tossing the contents into the center of the room.
Batman peered in the window, watching as Black Mask stood in the doorway and oversaw the whole operation. "My God," Batman said, knowing exactly what was happening. Robin looked inside the room, and then over at Batman. "He's pulling up stakes," Batman said, looking behind him at Nightwing.
"But, what is he doing in that room?"
"Looks like he's going to burn the contents of the file cabinets."
"But, why? We couldn't find anything in any of those."
Batman shrugged, looking back in the window. "Maybe there's something in there that we didn't know to look for. At any rate, they've probably done this at a few other places, as well. We should check the news tomorrow for--" Batman froze as he saw Black Mask lurch forward suddenly, nearly falling to the ground. From behind him, five men dressed in white tuxedoes came into the room, holding automatic rifles. They each took aim at a masked man, and fired their weapons, sweeping them across the room. One Falsefacer, the one wearing a Bogart mask, dove through the window, falling past Batman and Robin, and landing hard on the roof of one of the cars. Not lying still for a second, Bogart rolled off the roof of the car and took off into the night, limping heavily on one leg, leaving spots of blood behind him as he went.
Inside the room, the shooting stopped, and the last empty shell casings clattered to the floor. Hard-Knox Yardley stepped into the room carrying a .45 caliber pistol, and shot each of the white tuxes in the back of the head. They fell to the floor. Crouched near the middle of the floor was Black Mask, not a scratch on him. Yardley kicked Black Mask in the side, then rolled him over and reached down, pulling the mask from his face.
"So, that's what Roman Sionis looks like," Yardley said, pressing the muzzle of his gun up against Sionis' scarred face. Roman Sionis looked at Yardley with pure shock, but no fear. "I think the words you're looking for are 'Et Tu., Brute?'" Yardley smiled. "Thanks for a great couple a days."
Robin leapt through the window, letting out a rage-filled scream. His feet touched the floor for an instant, and then he leapt forward, taking hold of Yardley's gun and smacking him hard in the face with its barrel, shattering Yardley's nose. Sionis stood quickly and ran for the window. Batman appeared, but before he could reach Sionis, Robin threw the gun at the fleeing man, striking him in the small of the back and knocking him to the ground. Robin grabbed him and dragged him by the hair to the other side of the room, where he pushed him up against the wall and kneed him hard in the groin.
"You son of a bitch!" Robin whispered venemously in Sionis' ear. "You heartless son of a bitch!" Robin stepped away from the wall and raised his foot. He felt someone take hold of his foot before he could begin his kick, and trip him to the floor. Robin hit the floor hard, then rolled over and saw Batman standing over him. Nightwing moved past quickly, exited the room, then returned.
"He's gone," Nightwing said. Batman looked at him quickly. "Yardley," Nightwing clarified. "He's gone." Batman spun Sionis around and bound his hands behind his back, then pushed him to the floor. Batman and Nightwing went out into the hall, searched it quickly, then returned. "He just disappeared," Nightwing said. "Just like whoever killed the Rabbit." Batman nodded grimly.
He looked at Nightwing and pointed to the window. "Let's go; I'll alert the police from the car." He started for the window, and looked back at Robin. "Let's go," he repeated. Robin stood and exited through the window. "I'll deal with you back home," Batman added before leaving himself.
Avian Paradise Casino, 11:56 p.m.
Edward Yardley sat down in front of the desk, the Penguin sitting down behind it. "Well," the Penguin said, "you're lucky I decided to tag along."
"Look, we took care of Black Mask, and Falseface--"
The Penguin held up his hand. "Most of Falseface, actually. And, as for Black Mask being taken care of, that's a matter of opinion based on perspective."
Yardley shrugged. "Either way, the road is paved for you to take things over."
"True, true. And, my first order of business will be for you to summon your friends from South Carolina. I'd like you and they to form my first group of permanent employees. The sooner you bring them here, the sooner you can be fitted for your white tuxedoes."
Yardley stood. "I'll get them on the phone . . . after I make a trip to the emergency room to see about this nose. Felt like the little bastard knocked it off."
"Let me know if you can't handle the bill." Yardley started for the door. The Penguin stood. "Wait. I'll be re-opening the Crowne Major in a few days under my ownership. I'll be marking the occasion by sponsoring and participating in a little sportsman's contest."
"Oh?" Yardley asked. "Like what? A softball tournament or something?"
"No, no," the Penguin said with a shake of his head. "Tell me, Hard-Knox," he said, nodding towards the table in the center of the room, "do you play pool?"
Beneath Wayne Manor, 12:00 a.m.
Tim had removed his Robin mask, and now sat quietly in the center of the Batcave's top plateau. Nightwing was down in the gym, engaging in a workout with the electronic dummies. Batman was in front of the computer, discussing something with Oracle over the network. Tim stood to leave, but Batman turned away from the computer. "Don't leave yet, Tim," he called. "Sorry, Oracle. We'll have to resume this discussion sometime later."
"No problem," Oracle said, sounding only slightly annoyed. "I'll have that info faxed to you as soon as I can get my hands on it." Batman nodded, then exited the network. Standing, he approached Robin.
"You mind telling me what got into you with Black Mask?"
Tim stared at the floor. "I was just--"
Batman raised his head. "Look at me, Tim."
Tim looked up reluctantly, looking at Batman but not making eye-contact. "I was angry. You were there, at Treadmont. You saw what happened."
Batman nodded. "I did. So did Dick, but neither of us lost control as you did tonight."
"You and Dick have been at this longer, Bruce. You've had more discipline, more time."
Batman stepped up to Tim and looked down at him. "I thought more of you than that, Tim. You're more disciplined than Dick was when he wore the Robin costume. In fact, one could argue that you're more disciplined than Dick is now." Tim looked at Batman fully, and grinned slightly. "But," Batman continued, sounding very firm, "whatever happened to you tonight, what you did back there, is unacceptable. You may have heard that everyone is entitled to one mistake. In this work, you are not. We can't afford to screw up, or we'll end up getting ourselves or someone else killed. I know that the Treadmont incident angered you, but it angered all of us, Tim. You have to control the anger, channel it, use it to do something productive."
Batman pulled the cowl from his face, and looked at Tim as Bruce Wayne. Bruce put his fingers to his forehead and turned around. His voice was still firm, but bore a note of compassion. "I know that you're going through the death of your mother all over again because of this, and maybe this time it's worse, since you know you could have prevented the death of that boy. And, you could have. Just like I could have saved my parents, or . . . or maybe if I would have laid down the law with Jason firmer than I did, he'd still be alive today, the Joker would have one less murder on his head. . . ." Bruce turned around and drew in a deep breath. He put his hands to his hips. "You can't let guilt get the better of you. Rationalize it if you have to, look at it from a different perspective. Try and find a silver lining, if there is one. Just don't let something like what happened tonight happen again." Bruce turned and walked back to the computer. "Maybe now you can see why I made you wait so long to become Robin in the first place," he said over his shoulder. "Show up a few hours early tomorrow, if possible." Bruce sat down and began typing.
Tim started for his exit. "Thanks, Bruce," he said before he left.
Bruce nodded.