Lieutenant Kitch's gray LeSable pulled up to the edge of the police line.
As soon as he stepped out of his car, he could smell recent death in the air. Stepping over the yellow tape, the tall blonde-haired man was approached by Officer Jerry Thurman. Kitch buried his hands in the pockets of his dark brown overcoat and looked down at Officer Thurman; Kitch was a full six inches taller. "What do we got, Jerry?"
Thurman flipped open his notebook. "Homicide. The victim is yet to be identified, approximately thirty to thirty five years old, five foot-nine, around a hundred and sixty pounds. Nick estimates time of death at about an hour ago, but no witnesses."
Kitch held up his hand. "Hang on--this guy was killed outside a grocery store. No witnesses?"
Officer Thurman shook his head. "None so far. See, the store's closed on Mondays, the owner lives in the suburbs; we're still looking for him."
Kitch nodded. "Okay, fine. Suspects?"
"Nope, not a one until we figure out who this guy is. He died of a single gun shot, but . . . no--murder--weapon." Thurman flipped his notebook shut for emphasis.
"Um, all right. Get to work on finding out who this guy is, er . . . was. When you get that done, call me at Headquarters." Kitch started back for his car. He stopped before stepping over the police line and turned back towards Officer Thurman. "Once you got that done, get to work on getting me some suspects." Kitch stepped over the yellow tape. "And a murder weapon!" Lieutenant Kitch opened his door, climbed in, and turned the key.
He pulled out and drove off down the street.
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 5:36 p.m.
Lieutenant Kitch hit the top step at a quick step and made for his desk. He took off his overcoat, dropped it over the back of his chair, then headed back to the stairs. He ran down one flight to Special Crimes.
Sergeant Harvey Bullock was at his desk, or at least the miniature model of the County Landfill that the desk had become in the past several years. Across from him, in sharp contrast to the pig sty that defined Bullock's presence in Special Crimes, Mackenzie Bock sat at his painfully clean bureau, a spotless calendar blotter covering the writing surface. Bock was typing feverishly at the primitive typewriter, filing a final report on the apparent arson on Mountain Drive two nights before. Bock and Bullock had been the first plainclothes to the scene, since arson was suspected, and in Gotham City, arson usually meant the Firefly.
Bullock, having talked Bock into filing the report, was reading one of Mackenzie's seemingly infinite hardback novels. He had literally hundreds of them, and always kept one with him. He never read paperback. This had earned Bock his nickname, Hardback. It was a moniker that Bullock had bestowed upon his new partner the first day they met. It seemed to Bock that Harvey Bullock was unable to call anyone by their proper first name.
Lieutenant Kitch walked up to Bullock and Bock and stood between their two desks. Bullock looked up slowly from his borrowed novel. "I've got a little job for you two. After what you've been through the last few months, it should be a piece of cake."
Bock looked interested, stopped his typing. "Really? Like . . . ?"
Kitch shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "We just got a homicide at a grocery store on Gerald Avenue. Sound like fun?"
Bullock laid the book down and leaned back in his chair. "If you say so," he said, "but, why not give this one to Homicide?"
Kitch chuckled as if the question was genuinely amusing. "Homicide is overrun, Harvey. Did you forget where you were living for a second there? Besides, I thought you two would like a chance to get away from the freak show for a few hours."
Bock exhaled, raising his eyebrows. "Wouldn't that be a dream . . ."
Kitch patted Bock on the back. "I'll call you as soon as I hear anything. We're working on an identity of the victim right now."
Kitch left Bullock to his novel, Bock to his typing, and ran back upstairs to his own desk.
New Orleans International Airport, 6:25 p.m.
Edward Yardley stepped across Gate 47 and walked over to the baggage carousel to wait for his luggage. His colleagues joined him several minutes later, waiting as inconspicuously as possible around their leader. Three large suitcases rolled out on the conveyor belt. Yardley took one, and two of his companions each took one. Yardley waited expectantly near the baggage carousel. "Where's the fourth one?" he said, holding his arms out in front of him. He turned around to face his six companions and looked at them with an incensed expression. "They lost the fucking bag . . ." he said slowly, under his breath. "Unbelievable . . . totally un-Goddamn-believable."
Greg Huxtous, the unofficial second-in-command of the group, stepped up the Yardley. "Relax, Eddie. I'll go up to the desk and . . . talk to the clerk, or something." Greg turned and walked several feet to the left of Gate 47, where there sat an information desk.
Yardley turned back to his five remaining partners. "All right, let's think through this." He looked at the short, muscular man with short-cropped black hair who stood across from him. "Morry, what bags did we get?"
Morry Korrinthus looked at the three bags that sat on the floor in front of him, scratching his chin. "Um . . . we got One . . . Three, and Four. Missing Two."
Edward Yardley nodded. "Okay . . . we've still got most of our vital equipment. If necessary, we can continue without the second bag." He glanced over at Greg, who was talking to someone at the desk. "Let's just hope they didn't lose the bag too far away." Greg left the desk and rejoined the group. "Well? What'd they say?"
Greg Huxtous crossed his arms and sighed. "They said they'd make a few inquiries. That's it."
"Great," Yardley said frustratedly. "Fucking airlines . . ."
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 6:03 p.m.
Bock made sure his belt was fastened before he pushed the door open.
Walking from the Men's Room back to his desk, he could hear Bullock's distinctive Brooklyn accent, repeating what he was being told over the telephone. Bock sat down behind his desk, reclined in his swivel chair and crossed his arms. Bullock hung up the phone. "What'd you find?" Bock asked.
Bullock sniffed a tiny line of mucous back into his nose, then whipped out a well-used handkerchief. "Got an I-D on our stiff," he said, then blew his nose. He sniffed again, pocketed the snot rag, and leaned forward on his desk. He read off of the notepad in front of him: "Name's Raymond Grail, age forty-seven. Criminal record that could stretch from here to God's house and back again twice. We're talking real dirtball. Didn't hear a whole lot from 'im for a few months, then he resurfaced, rented a house out in Gotham Heights. Get this, it was the same place that Firefly burnt down a few days ago."
Bock nodded. "That's interesting. Now, we have a possible motive in the arson. But, we still aren't sure that Firefly did it."
"Come-on, Hardback. The smell of napalm was so strong at that place, I was having 'Nam flashbacks! It fits his style, and now we've got motive. Firefly is a mob guy; this Grail guy was a mook. Sounds like a hit to me."
Bock tapped his index finger on his calendar blotter. "Great, Bullock. One thing, though--we're not working the arson case now. Who killed Grail? Sure wasn't Garfield Lynns, unless he's had one profound philosophy change."
Bullock conceded, raising his eyebrows. "Well . . . Firefly burned down a house to kill Ray Grail. Grail either wasn't home or . . . well, anyway, he survived. Firefly doesn't want to take any chances, hires someone to take out Grail . . . finish the job he couldn't do."
Bock exhaled loudly. "I hope you have a few snitches we can lean on, Bullock."
A smile crept over Bullock's face. "Oh, I have I couple . . ."
Houma Caf�, Houma, Louisiana, 7:32 p.m. CST
Jean-Paul Valley sat down at the bar. He hadn't noticed a liquor license anywhere on the wall, so ordering a beer and trying out his tough guy act would have to be moved down the itinerary, saved for the LaFayette Old Fashioned Saloon.
The waiter behind the bar walked up to Jean-Paul, who was one of only six people currently in the Caf�. "What'll it be, Blondie?"
Jean-Paul looked the man over quickly; he was typical for what Jean-Paul had pictured as a restaurant employee in the Bayou: average height, stubble covering his chin and the sides of his face, arms that were large without being either fat or particularly muscular. He seemed tough enough to be able to make remarks like "Blondie" to Jean-Paul, who was bigger than the man by a few inches and a few pounds. "Just a diet soda, please," Jean-Paul said politely.
The bartender filled a glass with Diet Coke and sat it down on a napkin in front of Jean-Paul. He took a sip of the soda, then looked up at the bartender. "Excuse me,"
"Something wrong?"
Jean-Paul took another sip of the Diet Coke. "Um, would you say that you see a lot of the town in here?"
The bartender looked at Jean-Paul with puzzlement. "Huh? Why--you lookin' for someone?"
Jean-Paul sipped the soda. "Yes, actually," he said after swallowing. "You haven't seen several gentlemen in here, traveling as a group, have you?"
The bartender walked up across from Jean-Paul. "That all the description you have for me? Just a couple a guys?"
Jean-Paul thought for a moment. "One of them would have been kind of thin, but not exactly bony. About as tall as me."
"Do you know about how many men are in this little group?"
"No . . . actually, I don't."
The bartender shrugged. "Sorry, Blondie. Can't help you."
Jean-Paul reached into his coat and removed a pen. He scribbled a phone number on a napkin and passed it to the bartender. "I'm staying at the George and Halley Bed and Breakfast. If you see anyone like I was talking about, please call me."
Jean-Paul stood. The bartender almost laughed as he took the napkin. "Sure, pal."
Jean-Paul left. Once he was gone, the bartender crumpled the napkin, tossing it indifferently into the trash.
Avian Paradise Casino, 6:40 p.m.
"They should be almost to Houma by now, Sir," Groverton answered.
The Penguin nodded with satisfaction. So far, things had gone off without a hitch, except for the loss of one bag at the New Orleans airport, which prompted an angry (and anxious) phone call from Edward Yardley. With the situation in Houma in such capable, if jumpy, hands, the Penguin could turn his attention to other matters.
Namely, how to round up the rest of his counsel, and--once they'd been gathered--how to keep them away from the police. Of the first five he was likely to get, two were in Blackgate, one was an escaped death row inmate, and one had never been caught by police, had no known "real name," and had only been seen publicly once.
It was Groverton, that bottomless well of ideas, who had first suggested purchasing the floundering Grant Hospital. Grant Hospital was located several miles north of Gotham City, with the North River snaking around it, and Mount Gotham only three miles to its north. In its time, Grant was the most modern hospital in the east, the only one of its kind. The hospital flourished for nearly fifteen years, but by that time, most hospitals had been updated to the standards set by Grant. New hospitals were built in the city, ones closer to where they were needed.
Now, after struggling to survive for nearly five years, with what was now sub-par equipment, and an even more pathetic staff, it seemed that Grant Hospital was about to die its final death.
It had been Groverton's suggestion that Cobblepot buy the hospital, and pay for whatever renovations and staff changes were necessary to convert Grant from a medical hospital into a mental one. Not just a mental hospital, but a maximum security asylum for the criminally insane that could rival, and eventually replace, the aging and oft-decried Arkham Asylum, the only current facility of its kind in Gotham.
It was at that point that the Penguin raised his hand. "It seems to me that you've thought over this thoroughly, Groverton. Explain to me this, then--why can't I simply purchase Arkham itself?"
Groverton fell silent. "Good point, Sir. I suppose you could. However, it would a difficult acquisition. The asylum has been owned by the estate of Amadeus Arkham since before the nineteen-twenties."
Cobblepot nodded. "Yes, but the only living member of that estate is Jeremiah Arkham. And, with all the fire that Arkham has been taking lately, I think that he would be only too happy for someone to take the old place off his hands." The Penguin began boaring his letteropener into the desk, watching as it turned up the wood. "Get Mr. Arkham on the phone. Make him an offer."
Groverton stood and started for the door. Stopping halfway there, he turned around and asked, "How high are you willing to go? What if he isn't as anxious to get rid of his bloodstained ancestral home as you think he should be?"
The Penguin stared at his letteropener, still turning up wood from beneath the smooth, polished surface. "Let him name a price. If it's not . . . too high, then give it to him. I want that asylum."
"A specific price, though, Sir. A limit?"
"Use your own judgment. I trust you."
"Yes, Mr. Cobblepot."
The Pulp Pit, Downtown Gotham City, 6:56 p.m.
Bullock turned off the engine and slid out from behind the steering wheel.
He heard his own door slam shut, then Bock's. Both men met at the front of the car, then started for the entrance to the bar.
Bullock spotted Harry Stanley almost as soon as he entered the bar. Stanley was sitting in the booth farthest away from the door, in the very back corner of the room. The bartender went through the ritual of asking Bullock and Bock if they wanted a drink. Bock discreetly flashed his badge, then followed his partner to Stanley's booth.
Bullock sat down across the table from Stanley; Bock scooted into the booth right beside the small man. "How ya been, Harry?" Bullock asked, leaning forward.
Harry Stanley took a sip of his drink, showing off a confidence that, given his size compared to the two police officers in the booth with him, didn't seem quite right. "What the fuck do you want?"
Bullock turned his head to the side and laughed weakly. When he turned his head back, the smile was gone from his fat, unshaven face. "Why don't you watch your mouth, snitch?"
"Why don't you hit the road, pig?"
Bock took a deep breath. "Listen, we don't have a lot of time here, so I'll level with you, Harry. We both know that you supply Garfield Lynns with his napalm, and we both know that you're his primary underworld . . . well, let's say attach�." Bock looked at Bullock, then resettled his gaze on Harry. "Who did Firefly hire to kill Ray Grail?"
"I got no idea what you're even talking about, Nigger."
Bock maintained his composure, looking at his partner and grinning ferociously. Bullock leaned forward again and said calmly, "Harry, we both know that you're full a' shit. Now, you can answer my partner's question here, or we can go out to the car and I can beat it out of you."
Stanley sat his glass down and laughed out loud. "Now who's full of shit? You're a cop, Bullock. The name Rodney Kind mean anything to you?"
Bullock thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket. He removed his badge and held it out to Bock, who took it without a word. Bullock settled his gaze on Stanley. "Not anymore I'm not." He turned to Bock. "Officer, please arrest that man sitting beside you."
Bock stood and pulled Harry Stanley out of the booth with him, forcing his head down to the table and holding his hands behind his back. "You have the right to remain silent." Bock closed a pair of handcuffs around Stanley's wrists. "If you give up your right, anything you say can and, believe me, will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can't get one of your own, don't worry. We'll give you one, Harry."
Bullock waved to the bartender as Bock ushered Stanley outside. Bullock held his back door open, and Bock shoved Stanley into the car. Bullock crawled in with him, pinning the smaller man down on the back seat.
"Maybe you thought I was fooling around in there, Harry. I'm not. There's a guy who's dead, and I think you can help me find who did it."
"I don't have to say nothin' to you, asshole."
Bullock backhanded Stanley hard across the mouth. "I really love this car, Harry. I would hate it so much if I had to mess it up now."
Stanley wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand. "Guy named Luke Proture. He's worked with Firefly before. He's the only real contact, besides me, that Lynns has in Gotham. Had to be him."
Bullock nodded. "Sounds good, Harry. And, if it's not, I will come back for you." Bullock opened up the door behind Harry Stanley's head and shoved him out into the street. Shutting the door, then climbing over the front seat and sliding in behind the wheel, Bullock started the car. "I've heard the name 'Proture' before. Shouldn't be too hard to find."
"Really . . ." Bock said sarcastically, "about as easy as it's been looking for Firefly."
LaFayette Old Fashioned Saloon, Houma, Louisiana, 8:16 p.m. CST
Jean-Paul Valley walked into the bar. He imagined he appeared very much like an outlaw of a hundred years past, walking into a room that was totally silent in anticipation of his arrival. Jean-Paul walked up and sat down at the bar. He wondered why Houma had so many caf�s, restaurants, and bars; every one he had been to so far had been nearly empty, and the LaFayette was no exception. Jean-Paul slapped several dollars onto the bar and asked for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
The bartender obliged, taking the money and setting a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in front of Jean-Paul. "Excuse me," Jean-Paul began, "but have you seen anyone around town today, maybe a group of people, traveling together? Out-of-towners?"
The bartender thought for a minute, then shook his head. "Sorry, pal. Nothing like that around here. In fact, you're the first 'out-of-towner' I've seen in about a week."
Jean-Paul filled the shot glass and swallowed it in one gulp. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Anyone come in, maybe asking about the swamp outside of town?"
The bartender took a glass from beneath the bar and began wiping it with his apron front. "Not a one. In fact, you're the first one of those in a while, too. Everyone around here knows all they need to know about that place. Basically, just stay away from it." The bartender thought for a moment, then added, "Actually, I did have a guy who called here from, um . . . Gotham City yesterday. He was asking all kinds of questions about the swamp, and about that alligator thing that came storming through here on his way to the swamp. That's as close as I got."
Jean-Paul nodded, then stood. He pulled a pad and pen from his jacket, scribbled the number of George and Halley's Bed & Breakfast on a slip of paper, tore off and passed the paper to the bartender. "That's the number of where I'm staying while I'm in town. If you see anyone around like we've been talking about, please call me."
The bartender took the paper, looked at it briefly, then pocketed it. "Whatever you say, pal. But it's usually pretty dead here during the week."
"Thank you," Jean-Paul said, then left. He stepped outside, took a deep breath of fresh air, then started down the sidewalk towards the bed and breakfast. The sun had set; Jean-Paul was suddenly blinded by a car's headlights, and he shielded his face with his forearm. The lights belonged to a black Chevy Blazer, and as it drove past, Jean-Paul counted six heads inside. He saw the license plate as the car passed beneath a street lamp; it was a rental car.
Looking to the sky for thanks, Jean-Paul started back to the bed and breakfast, where his rental car was parked.
He was running.
Apartment 15-T, Gielgood Building, Gotham City, 7:54 p.m.
"Ballistics matched the bullet in Grail's body to a twenty-two pistol," Bock said as he and Bullock stood outside the apartment of Luke Proture.
Bullock flipped up the collar of his overcoat. "Good; at least we know what we're lookin' for." Bullock knocked hard twice on the door. Then, there was the sound of six locks being undone, one after the other. The door came open a crack.
"What?" came a deep, demanding voice.
Bullock shoved the door open the whole way, and stepped into the apartment. Luke Proture was a tall, large man. He wasn't fat, but wasn't muscular either, just big--but not clumsy. "Guess what, Luke?" Bullock said, reaching into his coat pocket, "you're throwing a party tonight." Bullock pulled an envelope from his inner pocket and dropped it at Proture's feet. "That's my invitation."
Proture picked up the envelope and tore it open. He briefly read its contents. "A search warrant? For what?"
Bullock shrugged and walked past Proture. Bock kicked the door closed and walked up to Proture. Bock was slightly taller than the other man, so wasn't as intimidated as some police officers would have been. "Listen, Luke. We both know that you killed Ray Grail, and we both know it's because Firefly paid you to do it. Now, all we have to do is find that twenty-two that you're hiding. Because, you see, we can't arrest you until we find it." Bock looked at Bullock, who had started into the closet. "We don't expect you to help us, but just keep out of our way, all right?"
Bock didn't wait for an answer; he didn't want one. The first thing he did was to pull every drawer out of Proture's chest.
Four Miles Outside Houma, Louisiana, 9:04 p.m. CST
Jean-Paul kept the tail lights of the Blazer in his sight. It had only taken him a few minutes to get back to his car, a dark red Ford Explorer that Jean-Paul had thought would come in handy if he had to enter the swamp. Beside him on the front passenger seat was his Azrael costume.
The brake lights of the Blazer were lit. Jean-Paul, who had been following about half a mile behind the other vehicle, brought his car to a stop. The Blazer pulled off to the side of the dirt road, and the six men piled out. Watching them, Jean-Paul exited his vehicle and pulled on the first layer of his Azrael costume. First the kevlar tights, then the golden ceramic armor, then the cape, then the boots and gauntlets, and finally the hood and mask. Azrael reached into the back seat and produced his sword, the sword of Azrael. It was the same sword his father had used as Azrael, while in the service of the Order of Saint Dumas.
Azrael secured the sword in its place, the sheath beneath his cape. He touched the side of his mask, activating the night-vision circuitry that had been added to the costume during Jean-Paul's recent return to the Order. Up ahead, the six men, members of the Front Liners, started into the swamp. Walking slowly in the center of the road, Azrael followed.
Up ahead, Edward Yardley led his small corps into the jungle. It had been years since Yardley had been asked to do battle in this kind of setting; he had become used to another kind of jungle, an urban one. To his delight, Yardley found that his senses hadn't diminished in the years since he had left the Front Liners for the city. He could hear every sound around him. He could hear footsteps behind him. Very discreetly, he glanced behind him.
Azrael knew he'd been seen immediately. At first, he continued down the road. Then, the gunfire started. Instincts and skills implanted in his mind by the System came alive. Azrael leapt to the right, rolling off the road into the grass. Propping himself up on his elbows, Azrael fired a volley of shurikens from his right gauntlet.
Morry Korrinthus felt something sharp tear through his fatigues and imbed itself in his leg. He suppressed a scream, then dropped to the ground and began feeling around on his leg. Greg reached into one of the pockets in his utility vest and produced a small set of infared goggles. He strapped the goggles in front of his eyes, and sighted the form advancing towards them in the grass by the road. "Everyone else into the swamp!" Huxtous ordered. Everyone obeyed except Yardley, who now wore his own infared goggles. Both men took aim with their machine guns and began firing continuously at the advancing figure.
Azrael continued forward. He didn't have to fear the bullets; his armor would protect him until he got within a few feet of the guns.
Yardley slapped Huxtous on the shoulder. "Forget him; we can nail him in the swamp. Don't forget why we're here." Greg nodded, and both men took off into the swamp.
Azrael watched them go, and began running after them, not wanting to lose sight of his queries. Azrael watched, and all six of the Front Liners suddenly blinked out of sight. Stopping, Azrael switched his night-vision off, then on again. He still couldn't see them. It was almost as if something had wrapped around them, concealing them from view.
When he reached the perimeter of the swamp, Azrael stopped and looked inside. "Magnify by five," he ordered. A small computer in his mask enlarged the image of what was in front of him; there was a tall wall of vines and leaves that stood between Azrael and where the Front Liners had been. "Vision normal." The computer obeyed, and everything in front of him shrank back to normal size. Azrael started into the swamp.
When he reached the living wall, he stopped. Azrael turned off his night-vision, and held his left gauntlet out in front of him. He adjusted a wrist component, activating a powerful light on the top of his left hand. The light revealed the basic structure of the wall; it was a tightly-woven mesh of leaves and vines that seemed to grow straight from the ground. It was still composed only of plants, though. A triangular blade sprung out from a compartment beneath the light on his left gauntlet, and Azrael began slicing away at the wall of vines.
As soon as the first slice was complete, it was as if nothing had happened; the plant wall had repaired itself. Azrael sliced at the wall again, and again the plants grew back to repair the hole. Taking a step back, Azrael sprung the blade from his right gauntlet, then held both blades together on the wall. With both blades, he sliced down to the swamp floor, then dove forward, penetrating the wall before it could totally heal itself.
Azrael hit the ground inside the wall, attempted to roll to his feet . . . but his feet never touched the ground. He felt himself being lifted by the waist. His arms and legs were spread apart and restrained. Azrael struggled, but in vain. Whatever it was held him fast. "Light," he commanded. Another powerful light was activated, this one mounted just beneath a translucent section in the center of his ceramic chest armor. The Front Liners were all here, restrained much as Azrael was. Their weapons were piled in the center of the enclosure. Rising up above them stood the apparent culprit of all of this, Houma's fabled swamp creature.
Swamp Thing rose up from the floor of the swamp, an integrated component of his environment. He controlled everything around him. Edward Yardley and his companions still struggled mightily against their bonds, but were clearly growing tired. Azrael simply remained limp, allowed himself to rest. The swamp creature was focusing his attention on the Front Liners for the moment, examining the intruders, as if deciding what to do.
"Swamp creature," Azrael said in a commanding tone. "Why have you imprisoned us?"
Swamp Thing turned to Azrael, moving easily along the swamp floor to a point just below him. "You seven are intruders. You are not a part of this place. You are outsiders."
Azrael was silent for a moment. "But," he began hesitantly, "I have come to remove these six intruders from your swamp. They are minions for an enemy of my home."
Swamp Thing looked at the six struggling Front Liners, then turned back to Azrael, regarding him with suspicion. "Why have they come? Who is this enemy?"
Azrael looked to the Front Liners. "They do what they do for their own reasons. I don't know their motives. But, this intrusion is not of their own will. They were commanded to come here by their leader." Azrael hated having to defend them, but six deaths in one night was too much for his conscience. "They are only following their orders."
Swamp Thing seemed to consider this. "What would you suggest I do with you seven intruders?"
"If you release us, I will see that they do not intrude on your home again."
"Wait!" Edward Yardley called, his voice cracking. "Listen, we've only come to retrieve someone who's been lost here. His name is Waylon Jones, people call him Killer--"
Swamp Thing held up his large hand, and Yardley fell silent. "He is a child of this place. I called him here; here, he is happy. Here, he is at peace."
"That ain't true," called another voice. Azrael, Swamp Thing, and the six Front Liners all turned their heads to see Killer Croc standing just inside the living wall. Croc looked almost apologetic as he addressed Swamp Thing. "You brought me here . . . 'cause I was lookin' for peace. But, I ain't found it here. At first it was great. All I had to do was hunt, sleep . . . just survive. But, that's what an animal does." Croc looked at the floor, then around at Azrael and the six men. "I ain't no animal. I might not look a whole lot like one, but I'm as human as these guys. Crocodiles belong in swamps, but I don't. I don't want . . . " Croc looked around him at the floor, and at the wall of vines that enclosed him. " . . . this anymore."
Swamp Thing seemed disappointed by this. He drifted along the floor, stopping beside Croc, who cowered slightly in the presence of the swamp creature. "You are a child of this swamp. You belong here, with your brothers."
Croc looked down at the ground. "I'm not an animal. I had . . . I had parents. And, they were people." Croc shook his head. "There's more for me than just livin'. I have to try to be a man."
"Do you wish to leave with these intruders?"
"I just wanna leave."
Swamp Thing released Azrael from his bonds. He landed deftly on the swamp floor and stood before the swamp creature. "You will not allow these men to intrude on my home again?" Swamp Thing asked dubiously.
Azrael nodded. "You have my word." He looked to Killer Croc. "Besides, I believe they have what they want."
Swamp Thing nodded, and released the six Front Liners. "You will go first, intruders. Once you have left, I will allow the child of my swamp to join you."
Azrael started for the road immediately, with the Front Liners following behind him. Azrael had accomplished one thing, he was out of the swamp. But, unless he acted fast, Killer Croc was going to leave with Hard-Knox Yardley.
There wouldn't be time. As soon as Croc was outside the swamp, he leapt for Azrael. Both men hit the floor, Azrael using the momentum to his advantage and flipping over on top of the crocodile man. Croc punched Azrael hard in the front of his face, knocking him back. Croc walked to the Front Liner's Blazer.
Before he climbed into the Blazer, Croc turned back to Azrael. "It's the only life I ever known," he said. "I gotta start somewhere. Might as well be with these guys." Croc climbed into the car, then leaned out the window. "Better keep clear a my way, if you know what's good for you."
Azrael ran up to the car. "Croc! Wait! That's the life you left!!"
Croc shook his head fervently. "Not this time. This time, I'm havin' a purpose. Doin' it right way, my way." The Blazer started and pulled off. Azrael took off after it, firing shurikens at the tires. The back two tires popped, and the Blazer skidded off into the grass. Croc climbed out angrily, charging out towards Azrael.
Croc jumped forward several feet, landed in a crouch, then leapt straight towards Azrael. Taking a step back, Azrael sidestepped Croc, landing a punch in the attacker's stomach. Croc hit the ground, rolled quickly, and dove back at Azrael, letting out a primal scream. Azrael ducked, and Croc flew overhead. Azrael spun around and fired a grappling hook and line from his right gauntlet. The grapple curved around Croc's ankle, wrapping the cord tightly around. Croc began running. Azrael planted his feet firmly in the dirt road and held the line fast. Croc tripped, rolled over and took the cord in his hands, snapping it as if it were sewing thread.
Azrael took the offensive, leaping towards Croc, his left leg extended. Croc blocked the kick, grabbing Azrael's ankle and twisting him to the ground. Taking Azrael by his hood, Croc backhanded him hard across the front of the mask. The protection of the mask didn't prove sufficient in this case, Azrael fell unconscious.
When he awoke, Killer Croc and the six Front Liners were gone.
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 10:05 p.m.
Bullock looked behind him and saw Bock trotting down the steps after him.
"They're holding Proture at least overnight." Bock stepped ahead of Bullock and pulled the door open for him. Both men stepped outside and started down the outside steps. "He's not talking, but we have the murder weapon."
Bullock walked over to his car, pulled the keys out of his pocket. "It's mooks like that who make me wish that Miranda rights didn't exist." He punched his right fist into his left hand. "Smartass."
Bock shook his finger in mock scolding fashion. "Now, now, partner. Let's not forget what city we're living in here."
Bullock shook his head in disgust. He pointed at Bock with his car keys. "Listen, those idiots out in L-A think they've got it so tough out there. I'd like to see some of those panty-waists come out here and try to be a cop in Gotham for awhile. For a day!"
Bullock climbed into his car. Bock sat down behind the wheel of his car, and within the minute, both men had driven into the depths of the city, towards their respective homes.
From the roof of Police Headquarters, Batman followed Bullock's car as it drove off towards some distant destination. For most of this night, Batman had followed Bullock and Bock, debating whether or not to approach him. With Commissioner Gordon still wary of him, Batman would eventually have need of an ally on the side of law enforcement. Was Bullock that person? He often portrayed an attitude towards criminals that was at least similar to that of Batman's. He had undeniable connections in the underworld, not to mention the fearful respect of many underworld denizens.
In the end, Batman decided to wait, to watch. He let Bullock go. In the end, only Gordon could be a true ally.
That day would come.
It had to.