Nightwing spotted Batman silhouetted against the large full moon. Even though he had known Batman and the man he was behind the cowl, Nightwing still stopped and looked at the scene with something like awe. Here was his mentor, his friend, his surrogate father, a genuine contemporary urban legend. Nightwing shook himself away from his childlike admiration and threw a grappling hook up towards the top of the towering cathedral.
The grapple latched onto the ledge of a belltower window. Nightwing stepped up onto the ledge of the roof he stood on, checked the security of his line, and swung out across the street. His feet contacted the side of the cathedral, about halfway to the belltower. Nightwing reaffirmed his grip on the polyfiber line and began his climb. He reached the top in under a minute, vaulted up through the window into the tower, and gathered his grappling hook and line back into their utility compartments.
Batman turned to acknowledge him, then returned his gaze to the city. "Hell of a climb," Nightwing said quietly as he walked up beside the quiet figure.
"Yes," Batman said thoughtfully, "But I've been doing it for ten years; it never gives me any problems."
Nightwing took a short breath. "Oh, by the way," he began quickly, "If you drop by your pal Lester Punny's apartment, you might want to let him know what a lying, backstabbing, traitorous son of a bitch he is."
That got Batman's attention; he turned fully to face Nightwing and looked at him strangely. "What are you talking about?"
"When I rescued that woman from the fire earlier, I wasn't in costume. I was Dick Grayson, and Firefly never saw me long enough to see my face." Batman listened intently, hearing every word and waiting for the part that pertained to Punny. "When I went to Lynns' motel room, he left me a little something on an empty napalm canister."
Batman took the crumbled note that Nightwing handed him and read it quickly. "Notice that salutation," Nightwing pointed out.
Batman's eyes narrowed beneath his cowl. "It says, 'Nightwing.'" Batman handed back the note. "But, Firefly never saw you as Nightwing?"
Nightwing shook his head emphatically. "Not once. He had to have told Lynns that I was coming, Batman. There is no other way he could have known that I was coming for him."
Batman looked at Nightwing wryly. "Come-on, Dick; you're a much better detective than that." Nightwing looked at Batman, expecting something else.
"Well . . . ?"
"I can think of at least one other possibility."
Nightwing opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and stared at the ground. "A bug," he said, looking up at Batman and laughing at his own blindness. "There could have been a bug."
Batman nodded. "I'd say most likely. What'd I tell you about your emotions? They just clouded the most obvious . . . well, most probable explanation from you."
Nightwing held his hand up to Batman. "Just wait a second . . . don't you talk to me like you're my damn teacher, Bruce. Why do you do this?" Nightwing looked at the floor and began yelling. "Why do you patronize me? You know I'm . . . oh, God, you're not my parent anymore. You know I'm pissed about this! You know what I had to do tonight!! Why do you still treat me like some kid wearing a red vest and short pants?"
Batman had looked on calmly during what he considered to be Nightwing's tantrum. "Are you done?"
This only infuriated Nightwing further. "Why do you talk to me that way?! Dammit, I'm not your little proteg� anymore . . ."
"Calm down," Batman said firmly. Despite Nightwing's previous insistence to the contrary, he quieted down as a child would before an angry father. "Now, you know that I always give you the respect you deserve as an adult. You know that. I think you've been through a lot tonight, Nightwing. You had to let a man die to save another life. Someone had to die, and that's never easy, especially for men like us, who see it almost every night. We keep thinking that the more we see it, the easier it'll be. Turns out it's just the opposite; it's always the same or, sometimes, worse." Nightwing looked silently at Batman, looking only a little ashamed after his outburst. "If it makes you feel better, you can yell at me some more."
Nightwing laughed once as he exhaled the breath he had been holding since Batman began speaking. "I don't think that'll be necessary."
Batman removed the grappling gun from his utility belt, leaned out the window, and took aim at the steeple of the cathedral. "I'll stop by Lester Punny's apartment later today; see what I can see." Batman climbed up on the window ledge and fired the grappling hook. He took hold of the line. "Punny's the real deal, Dick. He's become a valuable source of information, and he's smart enough to know not to cross me."
Another second, and Batman disappeared out the window. Nightwing gave him time to get a few blocks away, then left in the opposite direction.
Avian Paradise Casino, 9:03 a.m.
Oswald Cobblepot had awoken in an understandably foul mood. When Groverton arrived at the penthouse, the Penguin didn't even acknowledge him, just sat quietly at his desk and stared out the huge picture window.
"Sir, about what happened last night--"
The Penguin held up his hand, and Groverton fell silent. "Last night was an important event in my life, Groverton. Not only does Batman know about me and Black Mask, but he seems quite eager to usurp me from my newfound throne."
Groverton scribbled something down on his ever-present notepad, then looked up at his employer. "Might I suggest enlisting some help?"
The Penguin swiveled the chair around to face Groverton. "I've got Hard-Knox Yardley down in North Carolina recruiting some men who'll soon be wearing white tuxedos on a permanent basis for me. I've stayed ahead of Batman before; what more help do I need?"
"Sir, I think this time, since Batman was willing to give up an identity he's kept apparently for years just to get close to you, that you might consider getting some help from those who . . . have more experience dealing hands-on with our enemy."
The Penguin looked at his assistant thoughtfully. "I might need more than just strongmen this time, you think?"
Groverton nodded. "You do have much more to protect this time," he said with raised eyebrows.
"You sound like you've thought all of this out ahead of time." Groverton looked around innocently. "You have, haven't you?"
Groverton turned to a page in the middle of his notepad. "I've been running over names, checking police files, and just using my memory of recent events to put together a list of candidates."
The Penguin waited silently for a moment, then said expectantly to his friend, "Candidates for what?"
Groverton pulled up a seat in front of the desk, tore the sheet from the notepad, and handed it over to the Penguin. "I've listed the five names that I believe would be most willing to assist you against Batman. There are also three names that would serve satisfactorily as alternates. All of these are what the media would label as master criminals, and they've all had numerous experiences against the Batman, but never with the caliber of resources you're capable of providing them."
Cobblepot took the list and read over it:
Harvey Dent, a.k.a. Two-Face:
Has considerable intelligence. Few have more experience against the enemy. One of the few to have extensive experience with the sidekick. Major influence in Gotham underworld, especially with the street gangs. Has great respect.
Edward Nygma, a.k.a. the Riddler:
Highly intelligent, elusive, experienced at managing with limited funds; should flourish with unlimited resources. Should be excellent at managing funds, ensuring minimal expenditures. Should prove most useful in any attempts to "break" the Batman emotionally or psychologically. Riddles can be very unnerving, as well as draining to one's resolve.
Bane (surname unknown):
Only man known to impact the Batman in any noticeable way during the past decade. Claimed to have "broken" the enemy, and soon after assumed full control of the Gotham underworld, the kind of all-reaching control that hasn't been seen since the days of Stromwell. Definite insight into the venom industry.
Raven (a.k.a. Peter Devorak):
A difficult acquisition, but definitely a warranted one. Has more experience "hands-on" against Robin than anyone else currently available. Operates with an arrogance that seems to suggest he knows something about Robin that could prove extremely useful. Robin seems to be a decidedly weak link in the Batman's war on crime. His care for the youngster is a major handicap.
Killer Croc (a.k.a. Waylon Jones):
Definitely one of the most powerful adversaries ever to face the enemy. Friction with Bane could prove troublesome. Croc also has extensive experience with the Gotham crime world. Acquisition could prove difficult; last seen in the swamps of Louisiana.
Quentin (no surname known):
Extremely agile, excellent warrior. Could prove very useful in one-on-one situations. Could prove difficult to find, though.
Catwoman (no surname known):
Another who would prove very useful in combat situations. Seems to "know" Batman, and has proven worthy against him. Again, difficult to find. Not seeming to be a "team player"
Lady Shiva:
A near impossible acquisition, but I think this one speaks for itself. Possibly the greatest martial artist alive today.
The Penguin laid the list down on his desk. "This could take time, Groverton. I'll have to find some way of meeting with these, all of whom are known criminals, and all but two are either uncageable or scattered in far corners of the globe. The other two are locked up in Arkham."
Groverton nodded. "I realize that it will be difficult, but I believe it must be done. With all due respect, you cannot hold on to what you have by yourself. Since Batman appeared ten years ago, no one has been able to maintain control over this much of the crime world in Gotham City for very long."
"Yes, well, rules are made to be broken." The Penguin picked up the list again. "Decide which of these you want first, then decide how to get him."
Groverton took the list and began in earnest.
Mercy Hospital, 1:32 p.m.
Dick Grayson's motorcycle pulled up to a space near the front of the lot. He dismounted, removed his helmet and carried it in the crook of his elbow. The hospital was busy as always, and its lack of sufficient staff accounted for the constant long lines.
Dick took a spot at the end of the long line in front of the information desk. A man stood nervously in front of him, rocking back and forth on his heels and pulling his hands in and out of his pockets. This soon became too much for Dick. "Excuse me," he said, smiling, "Could you stand still, please?"
The man stopped and looked incredibly at Dick. "Hey, lay off, all right?"
"I'm not trying to start anything, all right, man? Just . . . calm down. You're getting on my nerves and I haven't even been here two minutes."
"They've had me waiting for three hours in that room. I brought my wife in at ten this morning, I mean, how long does it take to have a baby, anyway?"
Dick shrugged. "I really can't remember."
"Is that a joke?"
Dick shook his head.
"Why are you here, anyway, smart-aleck?"
Dick inhaled deeply. "I saved a pregnant woman from burning to death last night and I thought I'd see how she's doing." Dick smiled with satisfaction. "How's that, friend?"
The man turned around and said nothing more for the next twenty minutes. After fifteen of those minutes had passed, Dick, now growing restless himself, stepped briefly out of line to see what was going on ahead of him. Seeing only one nurse trying to stall another anxious would-be father, Dick moved back to the line. He tried to reassume his former position, but a woman had already moved up to replace him. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said politely, "But, I was here."
"Yes, but you stepped out of line."
Dick's eyes widened as he stared at the woman. "Yes, but only for a second. I'm back now." Dick tried to squeeze back in front of her, but she stubbornly refused to move. "Ma'am, come-on."
"I've been here for fifteen minutes," she said smugly.
"Yes, well, I've been here for twenty. When I do get up there, it will only be to ask for a room number, taking about . . . oh, five seconds. You won't get where you're going any faster by pushing me out. So, excuse me."
"No," the woman maintained.
Dick sighed, irritated. "What are you, in the third grade? Come-on, this is childish. We're adults here. Now, let me back in line."
"No."
Dick opened his mouth, fully prepared to yell at this stubborn old bird who had deemed it her responsibility to ruin his day. Who was she, anyway? What gave her the right to do this to Dick, after all that had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours? Dick raised his hand, stopped, and slowly lowered it. No, he said to himself. Shaking his head profusely, he stepped away from line and started for the desk.
"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to wait at the end of the line," the nurse said when Dick reached the desk.
"No, you misunderstand. I only need to know what room--"
The nurse raised her voice to a loud, rude volume. "I'm sorry, sir. You will have to wait your turn, just like everyone else."
"It'll take five seconds."
"You can wait like everyone else."
Dick sighed with heavy frustration, looking at the floor, then back up at the nurse. "You realize that you could have told me the room number I want already, don't you? Instead, you've wasted this time."
"Sir, please. If you can't follow the rules, then I'll have security escort you to your vehicle."
"Really? How convenient that, despite you being so busy, security is ready and willing to be at your beck and call. Listen to me, Madame; this will take five seconds. I need to know what room Heidi--"
"Sir, I won't ask you again."
"Tell me where Heidi Barrell is staying. That's all I want to know."
"Sir, go to the end of the line."
"I just want to see her!"
"Then go and wait your turn."
Dick threw his hands up in the air. Nodding, wide-eyed anger in his face, he started for the back of the line, which had grown four people longer in the time since Dick had left the line.
Avian Paradise Casino, 2:00 p.m.
Groverton had been on the phone ever since leaving Cobblepot's office that morning.
Pretending to be everything from a detective, to a newspaper reporter, to a television news anchor, Groverton had telephoned the town of Houma, Louisiana and spoken to every witness available about a train wreck outside the town a month or so ago. Most people confirmed reports of a large reptilian creature seen running from the train towards the swamps that lie nine miles outside of town. The creature had reportedly disappeared into the swamp and hadn't been seen since then.
There were also other stories, stories of a supernatural swamp creature that inhabited the bayou. Some said this creature actually was the swamp, the conscious entity of what was essentially a living, unified being. The people of Houma said this swamp creature had accepted the reptilian life-form as one of its fellow denizens of the swamp, and that it would most likely never be seen again.
Some town members said this. Others simply maintained that the swamp was haunted, and you'd better leave it alone because you'll regret it if you don't. Groverton had spoken with the frequenters of a town tavern, the principal, staff, and several students of the town's high school, even the mayor himself, but only after promising the interview would air on the next edition of This Morning in Gotham, narrated by Summer Gleeson herself.
Since Killer Croc would most likely prove to be the most difficult acquisition, yet also possibly the most beneficial (few others could physically dominate the Batman as he could), Groverton had opted to locate him first. From all eyewitness accounts, Croc was living in the swamp outside of Houma. Who else could the giant reptilian creature described by the townspeople be? Groverton rationalized. It was highly unlikely that every tavern denizen in the town would be having the same drunken hallucination.
Groverton had just hung up the phone; now he reached for it again. There was another long-distance call he had to make. He removed a key from his breast pocket and inserted it in the lock of the bottom drawer of his desk. From that drawer he removed a rolodex card file, which was also locked. He inserted the same key into it, and opened it up, removing a card from the Y divider. He checked the telephone number that had been scribbled in pencil at the bottom, then dialed.
After three rings, Groverton hung up. He waited three seconds, then dialed the number all over again, not hitting the redial button. After four rings, Hard-Knox Yardley answered.
"Cobblepot?"
"No, but you're close. I need to know when you and your men will be ready for your first assignment."
"Is this line secure?"
"I wouldn't have called if it were otherwise."
"All right, I trust you. Yeah, I think we're ready. Now. Why, you don't want us back in Gotham yet?"
"Not quite yet. Mr. Cobblepot needs you to make a stop in Louisiana."
"Louisiana? That's about a thousand miles out of my way, you know."
"There is a small town there called Houma. Killer Croc is believed to be living in a swamp about ten miles outside there. We want you to pick him up."
"How am I supposed to find this town?"
"I'll be putting together a report containing the absolutely necessary information you'll need. I'll fax it to you tonight as soon as I complete it."
"Fine. You've got the number?"
Groverton picked up the rolodex card. "I'm looking at it right now. Don't worry; you'll get everything you need."
"I would certainly hope so." On the other end of the phone, Yardley hung up. He turned around to look at his compatriots. There were six of them, all military-trained and tested. They were the best of North Carolina's Front Liners, what the media at large would label an extremist, right-wing group of separatists. For the most part, that's what they were. That's were Yardley had honed his skills as a rigger before going off to start his fruitful criminal career. "Okay, guys," he said to the other five men, "Slight change of plans. We're taking a trip to Louisiana tomorrow, so start loading up the heavy gear."
Mercy Hospital, 2:12 p.m.
Waiting in line for forty minutes did strange things to the human mind.
Dick had found himself looking enviously at accident victims being rolled into the emergency room. They didn't have to wait in line, didn't have to deal with rude nurses . . . just straight on in. The nurses were never rude to the patients. Well, not usually, depending on the injuries. For instance, Dick reasoned, if a man had a sucking chest wound, he would be treated with the utmost courtesy and swiftness. That same man complaining about a ruptured Achilles heel, or a shattered elbow, might be met with more a irascible response.
There were only two people ahead of Dick in line now. He hoped to get to Heidi Barrell's room before the polar ice caps had completely melted. Dick had realized about ten minutes ago that he had arrived at the hospital empty handed. He couldn't just go up to her room empty handed; the woman had just lost her husband, and was about to have a baby. A stop by the giftshop was a must. Hopefully, the line there wouldn't be as long, since most of the people standing in line here seemed to return to the waiting room after asking their question of the nurse. Back to the waiting room, Dick thought, for more waiting . . .
There was only one man ahead of Dick now. Like seemingly every other man in line, he was an expectant father desperately wanting information about his wife, who had been in labor twelve hours, and whom he could hear telepathically screaming at him constantly, pushing him to the edge of insanity. He got the standard answer from the nurse: "Sorry, sir. We will call you when she's had the baby."
"What about if she dies?" the man asked anxiously.
The nurse rolled her eyes. "We will call you, sir. Please go sit down."
The man turned and walked away. Smiling, swaggering slightly as he walked, Dick approached the desk and nodded at the nurse. "Why, hello there, Nurse Mannerly. And how are you this fine day?"
The nurse, who apparently hadn't picked up Dick's "Mannerly" wisecrack, stared at him blankly and presented a slip of paper to him.
"Heidi Barrell. Room Thirteen, Maternity. Fourth floor."
Dick was about to say something, then stopped himself. "Thank you," he said with feigned gratitude, and made for the nearest elevator. Of course, Dick thought as he stepped into the elevator and heard someone yell "Hold it!"
Dick turned and saw a doctor and two orderlies pushing a gurney towards the elevator. He held the elevator doors from sliding shut as they rolled their patient in. Lying on the gurney was a middle-aged man, letting out long, agonized groans. He held both bloody hands over his crotch.
Dick looked at the man calmly. "How're you doing?" he said wryly, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket.
The doctor looked scornfully at him. "This man is in pain, can't you see that?" he said, sounding as if he were giving a lecture to his child.
"Yes, I can." Dick looked the patient up and down; the man was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. "However, unless this guy is a very avid deer hunter, he's recently checked out from 'Hotel Blackgate.' He didn't let the front desk know, and got what he deserved." Dick smiled, his eyes pinning the doctor to the elevator wall. "Can't you see that?"
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. Dick stepped off. "Excuse me," he said politely as the doors closed in front of him. He checked the slip of paper the nurse had given him; Room Thirteen, Dick thought as he picked a direction and started down the hall.
Beneath Wayne Manor, 2:12 p.m.
Bruce was in front of the computer console when Alfred walked down the stairs.
"I've heard that many civilized people like to spend their Sundays in church," the butler said drolly.
Bruce looked at Alfred, shook his head hopelessly, then returned his attention to the main computer screen. Something caught his eye. He highlighted and enlarged a file window, it soon filled the entire massive screen. Alfred walked up behind him. "Is this what you've been doing for the past four hours, sir?"
Instead of answering the question, Bruce explained what he was doing. "Nightwing thinks the Penguin could have Lester Punny bugged. I'm checking Cobblepot's phone company records to see if there's anything unusual. What I didn't expect to find was this--" Bruce highlighted several lines on the phone statement and augmented them. "Eleven telephone calls were made from an inside line of the Penguin's casino to Houma, Louisiana. Eleven calls in roughly a five-hour period." Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Most of the calls lasted over ten minutes . . . but that's not really long enough to have a conversation."
Alfred crossed his arms. "Seems a peculiar location. If memory serves, Houma is quite the small town."
Bruce nodded in agreement. "If memory serves well enough, Alfred, you will also remember that it was outside of Houma where Killer Croc . . . took up residence."
Alfred put his hand to his chin. "Yes, you told me of that, of that bizarre swamp man. What is his name . . . ?"
"He was more than a man, Alfred. Alec Holland controlled the swamp; I had no choice but to let Croc stay with him, although it may have been for the better . . ."
"It appears that our Mister Cobblepot is quite interested in Killer Croc's new home," Alfred observed.
"Yes," Bruce said thoughtfully, "Certainly does." He scrolled further down the phone statement. Something else caught his eye. "Look here," he said, highlighting a single phone call, "A few minutes later, another phone call was made, to North Carolina, the town of Asheville." Bruce switched to another window running a search engine program. He entered Asheville into the database, and a list of past newspaper headlines appeared. Bruce read down the list quickly; most of the headlines pertained to a group of extremely Right-wing separatists calling themselves the Front Liners. They had made news by confiscating media equipment, publicly denouncing the freedom of the press, as well as the rest of the First Amendment, along with most of the rest of the Constitution. Bruce's eyes narrowed further. Politics aside, it looked as though the Penguin had made some new friends.
Alfred examined the list of headlines. "Oh dear . . . what are you going to do about this, sir?"
The question seemed to stump Bruce. "Well, I would assume that the Penguin is sending members of the Front Liners to Houma to retrieve Killer Croc for him. For all his physical flaws, Croc does know the Gotham crime world better than most. He'd be a perfect addition to Cobblepot's organization, whatever that is." Bruce shook his head. "But, I can't afford to go to Houma. I can't leave Gotham, not now. Especially not today; I'll be leaving for Lester Punny's apartment in a few hours."
"What about Nightwing, sir? I'm sure that Master Dick would appreciate an all-expenses paid vacation to the bayou."
Bruce rejected that notion as well. "No, I think Dick has his own business to attend to. Besides, he's his own man now. Even if he would do it, I can't keep asking . . . I can't keep counting on him as of we're still partners."
Alfred thought for a moment, then sighed. "It seems you've hit a dead end, sir."
Bruce was silent for a moment. He rested his chin on his fist and thought. His eyes shot open and he raised his head. "Not quite, old friend. There's still one person I can call . . ."
Mercy Hospital, 2:23 p.m.
Dick had, of course, run into another line at the gift shop. This being the maternity ward, the line of men buying flowers was quite long. Mercifully, the wait was only a few minutes this time. Dick soon had a dozen roses in his hand and was walking towards Room 13. He reached the door and hesitated before entering the room. He listened at first; if someone else was visiting with her, he--a total stranger for all practical purposes--didn't want to disturb them. Hearing nothing, Dick peered timidly around into the room.
"Hello?" he heard a voice ask. He looked inside and saw the blonde woman he had rescued the night before, lying in a hospital bed, looking healthy, and still very pregnant. "Who are you?" she asked, making the question sound as polite as Dick supposed it possibly could.
Dick walked inside towards the bed, feeling extremely awkward. Inside, he said to himself, Dick, you have got to find a better way of meeting women, pal. Dick's last significant (albeit very brief) relationship with a woman had been with Miggie Webster, a girl whom he had saved as Nightwing and approached the next day in the hospital. He certainly felt a wave of dej� v� now. "Um, hi," Dick said shyly, waving. Dick approached and presented her the flowers. Heidi took the flowers and smiled up at him. "I'm Dick Grayson. I . . . I was the one who pulled you out last night . . ."
Heidi's eyes lit up, she smiled as she sat the roses aside. She held her arms out, and Dick walked forward, embracing her lightly. He smiled bashfully as he stepped back. "Well . . . um, thank you," she said, then laughed lightly.
Dick pulled a chair from against the wall and sat beside the bed. "So," he said, placing his hands on his knees and pressing his back against that of the chair, "How's the baby?"
Heidi nodded several times. "The doctors say he'll be fine. At first, they were worried that I might go into, um, early labor, but . . ."
Dick nodded. "So, you already know it's going to be a boy?"
Heidi smiled at Dick's phrasing of the question. "He is a boy!" She looked straight ahead, maintaining the smile. "We . . . were going to name him . . ." Heidi stopped, looking down at her stomach, her eyes wet with tears suddenly. "Hmmph . . . we . . ."
Dick looked at her helplessly for a moment, not sure what to do. Finally, he put his hand on top of hers. Sorrow on his face, he looked into her eyes. His voice was more woeful than he had ever heard it. "I am so sorry about your husband," he said, feeling his own tears coming on. Dick couldn't even remember the last time he had actually cried. "I . . . I wish I could have saved you both . . . I wish to God, but . . ." Dick took his hand away from Heidi's and clasped his hands between his knees. Looking up at her, now crying, Dick said, "I couldn't do it . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry."
Heidi sniffed once, wiping her tears from her eyes. "We . . . Jack and me . . . were going to name him Bruce, after Jack's father." Heidi had to wipe her eyes again. "Do you think Bruce is a good name for a little boy?"
Dick didn't even have to think about it. He put his hand on Heidi's again. "I think it's a wonderful name. Perfect."
Heidi looked at Dick and sniffed again. "Listen, um, my parents are on their way here from Annapolis, in Maryland. Can you . . . stay with me until they get here?"
Dick nodded. He had nowhere else to be.
Apartment of Lester Punny, 4:07 p.m.
Lester Punny had received an E-mail twenty minutes ago, an E-mail from Batman:
Don't take any phone calls. Your apartment may be bugged. I'll be sending someone over soon, in a manner of speaking. Don't answer the door until you hear five quick rings at the bell.
--YKW
That had been nearly two hours ago. Punny hadn't said a word, hadn't turned on the TV or radio, hadn't opened his window. Lester Punny simply sat there and waited for the doorbell to ring five times.
The doorbell rung once, and Punny leapt to his feet. Immediately it rang once more, and again, again, again. Punny took a deep breath, settled himself down, and walked to the door. He took the knob, turned it, and pulled open the door all in one motion. He was looking at a total stranger.
The man on the other side of the door was tall, wore a plaid blazer with a dark blue shirt beneath. He had sandy red hair, wore dark wrap-around sunglasses, and had a thick mustache beneath his nose. The man smiled, revealing yellowing teeth. "Lester Punny?" he asked in a shrill voice. Punny also detected a slight New York accent in the man's voice.
Punny nodded. "Yes, yes I am." Staring intently at the strangely dressed man, Punny stepped aside to let him in. Batman? he mouthed silently.
The man nodded. He reached down and to the side and produced a small vacuum cleaner from beside him in the hallway. Stepping into the apartment, the man extended his hand to Punny. "Hello there, sir. My name is Lance Furlington, licensed sales representative for Fitzgerald and Theodore Vacuums of Greater Gotham. I want you to know that we received your request for a demonstration, and that's why I'm here." The man calling himself Lance Furlington walked into the center of the apartment and sat his vacuum down. "All right if I set up here, Mister Punny? Can I call you Lester?"
Lester Punny hadn't even shut the door yet. He did so, then walked towards his guest. "Uh . . . yes. And, yes."
Lance Furlington nodded. He handed the cord of the vacuum to Punny. "Here, plug that in for me, eh, friend?" Punny took the cord to the wall and plugged it in. Furlington started up the vacuum and attached a metal tube and brush to the hose. He began running the brush over the rug. From there, he moved to the couch, bending down and looking under it as he vacuumed. "Notice how well it sucks in even the heavy objects," Furlington directed, shouting over the vacuum's engine.
Punny played along. "Yeah," he said, crossing his arms, "I noticed that. . . . Amazing."
Furlington stepped away from the couch. "Not a piece of lint under there," he shouted over the vacuum cleaner. Furlington moved on to the reading table beside the couch. He ran the vacuum over it, looking under the table, running his hands over the bottom of the drawer. "Hope there's nothing too important in here," he said as he pulled the drawer open and ran the vacuum brush inside. That done, he closed the drawer. "Clean as a whistle, Lester, my friend," he said as he started for the window.
Lance Furlington ran the vacuum brush up and down the wall, and then removed the brush and slid the tube along under the window sill. Lester could hear something click, then clatter as it was pulled into the tube. Lance looked up at Lester. "Hear that?" he said over the roar of the vacuum. "Sucks in the heaviest objects! You'll never have to bend over to pick up a penny again!"
Lance Furlington vacuumed the entire apartment several times over. When he finally left, Lester Punny didn't expect to see him again.
At least not in that guise.
Gotham City National Airport, 5:32 p.m.
Sister Lilhy had seemed worried when Jean-Paul and Brian left for the airport. When she and Jean-Paul had embraced before he left, it had been long, lingering. Jean-Paul had never felt a hug like that before; he was almost sorry he had to leave.
But, there were things that needed to be done for the sake of the Dark City. There were things Azrael had to do to ensure the safety of its innocents. Brian dropped Jean-Paul off for his 6:30 p.m. flight to New Orleans. From there, Jean-Paul had a rental car waiting, which would take him southwest along Route 90 to the town of Houma. There, he would frequent the local hang-outs, ask around, wait to hear about someone from out of town asking about the swamp outside of town.
Jean-Paul waited patiently until his flight was announced over the P.A. system. Up until then, he ran through in his mind what he would do after his plane landed. By the time he boarded the flight, he had it perfect. He knew just what he was going to do.
A tall, slightly overweight older man was in the seat beside Jean-Paul. "Going to New Orleans?" he asked Jean-Paul conversationally.
Jean-Paul stuffed his carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. He looked at the man. "Yes. I think it's a non-stop flight."
The other man nodded. "I'm going to see my grandson. I haven't seen him since he was born last year. I don't get out of Gotham very often." The man fidgeted silently for a few moments. "Why are you going to New Orleans?"
Jean-Paul thought for a moment. "Oh, just business," he said.