BATMAN: The New Continuity

Not surprisingly, Bruce was already in front of the big computer when Tim arrived. He had the Victoria Bugle's morning edition in his hands, reading through its local news section. On the big screen was the electronic version of the morning's Gotham Globe. The front-page headline read: RUSSIA AIDING QAYIN? Off to the side of the page (or, the screen, in this case) was another headline that caught Tim's notice even more: Three More Found Executed; One Survives. This article was highlighted.

It was rare for Bruce to acknowledge the arrival of anyone else, even Tim, while he was in the Cave. Right way, this morning was different. This morning, when Tim walked up to the computer console, Bruce folded up the paper he was reading, swiveled around in his chair, and faced the electronic Globe on the big screen. "You were there when the Dominguez gang was executed?"

Last night had been a long one, but Tim remembered mentioning it to Batman near the end of patrol last night, after they'd found each other.

The three men executed last night were Gary Nipparone, Garnet Hicks, and Randle Patrick. The one who survived was Kenneth Patrick, the former's brother and former associate in business. "Business" was making sure Mossman's drugs went where Mossman wanted them to go. But, all four men had parted ways with Mossman's organization almost a year before settling in Gotham City, and that had been at least a year ago.

Naturally, Robin didn't recognize the three dead men upon arriving at the scene last night. By the time he got there, two of the three were already bagged and being loaded into the coroner's van. Gary Nipparone hadn't been bagged yet -- he was still being photographed by the crime scene unit -- when Batman arrived, joining Robin on the roof of 346 Harry Fingers Avenue, which looked down on the front of the apartment building across the street, in the foyer of which the bodies had been discovered, along with the distraught form of Kenneth Patrick.

Seeing Nipparone's body, as well as the live Patrick, Batman had turned to Robin and asked "How many were there?" The question represented the first words Robin had heard Batman speak in practically two days.

Robin had merely shrugged in response. "Three dead, I think. I'm not certain, though; I just got here a few minutes ago myself. From the way they're talking, though, I don't think there're more than two in the van already."

Then Batman had simply asked, "Who?"

"I was hoping you'd recognize them."

"The man being carried out is Gary Nipparone," Batman answered immediately. "The man in the squad car is Kenneth Patrick." He paused. "Are the other two Randle Patrick and Garnet Hicks?"

Robin shook his head. "No positive I.D. yet. But, I think I heard those names mentioned. Who are they?"

Batman had been surveying the crime scene, holding a pair of mini-binoculars to his eyes. Now, he put them back in his belt. "Mossman's," was his only answer to Robin's question.

"Not exactly," Tim told Bruce as they were in the Cave. "The Dominguezes were already dead. I got there just as the killers were fleeing the scene."

"Including the man in the Batman costume."

Tim nodded. "I didn't recognize his partner, but according to the one survivor, they both did about equal damage."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. Tim wondered how many times Bruce had done that that he hadn't noticed on account of the cowl. Nightwing claimed he could tell whenever Batman narrowed his eyes like that, but Tim still couldn't pick it up. Bruce lowered his gaze, appearing to look at the keyboard for a bit, then stood from the chair. "I wasn't expecting it to resurface this soon."

Tim followed as Bruce walked away from the computer console, toward the elevator at the edge of the plateau. "You haven't started your workout yet?" Tim asked in disbelief.

Stepping onto the elevator platform, Bruce explained that this morning he had two days' worth of newspapers to catch up on, not one, as was the usual. Bruce waited for Tim to step aboard, then pushed the control handle to the Down position.

"Did you confront the killers when you encountered them at the Dominguez scene?" asked Bruce.

Tim started to nod, but turned it into a shrug when he was halfway there. "In a way," he said, noncommittal.

Bruce stared silently straight ahead. It was a totally blank stare that could have held one of any number of meanings. Tim, in this case, took it that Bruce wanted a little more of the story; he did seem to be listening for something else, although it was difficult to tell.

"They were on their way out," Tim added. "And, I wasn't really able to do a whole lot to keep them there."

"You were alone?" Bruce asked. His eyes narrowed again. He does do that a lot . . .

Tim shook his head just as the elevator platform reached the lower plateau and came to a sudden stop. "Spoiler sort of found me," he said, walking off the platform a step or so behind Bruce, who was making for the gym. "Good thing, too," Tim was quick to say, "because I definitely needed the hand."

"Did you fight the man in my costume?"

"Briefly. Real briefly."

"Were you able to gauge his style at all?"

Tim shrugged. "He could've busted me up pretty thoroughly, with or without his partner, if I'd been alone. Whatever that says."

"What about his partner?"

"Same thing. . . . Just-- just real vicious and real effective." Tim remembered his encounter with the two costumed men outside Kilcher's Jewelry, and sighed, raising his eyebrows. "If you run into them, you'd probably be able to identify styles a lot better than I could. But, I didn't recognize either one."

Bruce lowered his head just slightly as he continued on toward the gym. "Perhaps," he said.

Arkham Asylum
12:49 p.m.

Oswald was seated behind his desk when Quentin walked into the office. "Close the door," he told the big man, who wore a loose white blazer instead of the tailored white tuxedo jacket Cobblepot preferred his employees wear. Quentin had the sleeves pushed halfway up his thick forearms. Oswald grinned at him. "I understand Miami Vice reruns are a regular staple of F-X's primetime lineup."

It was unclear whether Quentin realized at all what Oswald was talking about, but he apparently knew there was a joke being made, and smiled weakly and glanced around the office, which was admittedly modest compared to Oswald's penthouse/office at the casino. "How many offices do you have, anyhow?"

Oswald shrugged, leaned back in his chair casually -- a gesture which he had always felt gave him an aura of authority -- and responded, thoughtfully, "Just two, I think. I felt it was unnecessary to keep an office at the hotel, since I've been there so rarely since the re-opening."

Quentin just nodded. He stood there in front of the desk for a bit, quiet, glancing expectantly at Cobblepot.

Pulling open a drawer in his desk, Oswald pulled out a copy of the morning's Gotham Globe and slapped it down atop the desk. He turned it around so Quentin could read it and pushed it toward the edge of the desk. "I'm assuming you haven't read the paper yet from this morning."

"No," Quentin said, shaking his head. "I usually watch Summer Gleeson."

"Ah," said Cobblepot with a nod. "And every so often you just happen to catch some of the news, as well, I suppose." He tapped his finger on one of the side columns on the front page. "You should read the papers more often, my friend. You made them, with your exploits last night."

"No shit," Quentin said with interest, stepping forward and looking down at the paper. He appeared to read for a few quiet seconds. A grin spread slowly over his face during the course of his silence, and he was smiling widely by the time he looked up from the article at Cobblepot. "'The Batman and his accomplice,' huh?" Quentin gave an amused laugh.

Cobblepot regarded Quentin with a mild grin of his own, and nodded. "It's all working out rather nicely, as far as I can tell. Although I've not heard too much from the police department yet."

"Or the mayor," Quentin offered. ". . . Christ, she must be shittin' marble by now!"

Cobblepot cocked a curious eyebrow, which Quentin took notice of almost immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing," Oswald said, shaking his head. "I'm just not getting the marble reference . . ."

Quentin continued to eye Oswald with confusion. "What? . . . I dunno. 'Shit marble.' It's an expression. You know. 'Shit marble.' I don't know what it means."

Oswald blinked thoughtfully at Quentin. "Do you know whom is Groverton's favorite filmmaker, by chance?" he asked, following a preparatory breath.

". . . Yeah, I guess," Quentin said, nodding hesitantly.

"And?"

"Milos Foreman."

Cobblepot nodded with momentary satisfaction. "What's Groverton's favorite film of Mr. Foreman's?"

Quentin looked around the office for a bit. He cleared his throat. "Uh . . . Amadeus, probably."

"How many Milos Foreman films have you seen?"

"Two."

"Two?" Oswald was surprised. "Which two?"

"Larry Flynt and Amadeus."

Oswald nodded, validated. "Which one did Groverton show you last weekend?"

". . . Amadeus."

Oswald raised both eyebrows with bright satisfaction. "Well, there I have it, I suppose."

Quentin shrugged. "I guess . . ."

Nodding, ready to move on, the Penguin took the paper away from the edge of the desk. "I spoke with Sir Edmund a few minutes ago; he feels that Tihiro is ready for a solo stint in the bootleg Batman suit," he said, folding the paper in half again and tucking it back into a drawer of the desk. "Which means, at least for the time being, you'll be available for other assignments."

Quentin shrugged again, identical to a moment ago. When he said "I guess" again, it was the same, too. The Penguin raised his eyebrows and held them there as he drew in a long breath.

"I'll be dispatching Two-Face to the wee town of Karsted in the next day or so," he informed Quentin, who nodded right along, folding his arms across his chest. "For the sake of his well-being, and my piece-of-mind, I think it in the best interests of all involved that you accompany him."

Quentin kept on nodding right along, following what was being said, agreeing when appropriate: "Yeah, all right."

The Penguin's eyes widened a little as he regarded Quentin. "Agreeable, aren't we?" Quentin might have responded with another shrug, had Cobblepot not immediately told him, "It will be simpler for you if he isn't aware you're following him."

Quentin nodded, understanding. "Okay," he said, nodding gently until he was looking at the floor. After seeming to think for a bit, he looked back up at the Penguin. "Why not just send me by myself? I mean-- . . . Christ, you need someone killed, just say so. I'll kill his fuckin' ass."

"It's not a lack of confidence on my part," the Penguin assured him, smiling at the corners of his mouth. "Two-Face knows who he's looking for. You, on the other hand, do not. Besides, this isn't really the safest operation for me to be undertaking. It's in my best interests, yes, but the potential consequences, if you're the primary individual involved, for me are none too pleasing."

"Uh-huh."

The Penguin sighed. "If you were, by chance, killed by Aster, or someone else in Mossman's organization in Karsted, and you were unmasked -- revealing one of my employees here at this asylum -- things could quickly become needlessly complicated. It's so much simpler for Two-Face to do things for me all in the course of being himself, with you merely playing a supporting role."

Quentin shook his head and shrugged. "Whatever you say. Just tell me where to be and when to be there."

"Just be here tonight before ten. Groverton'll be here to make sure you know what to do."

Shortly thereafter, Quentin left the office. When he was alone, Oswald opened the desk drawer and pulled the morning's paper out again. He didn't expect to see his name anywhere in it, but decided to read it anyway.

Gotham City Police Headquarters
6:00 p.m.

"Seems like a long time since we've been here."

Bullock looked over at his partner, then down the building's front steps ahead of them. The podium had been brought out fifteen minutes ago and placed on the landing on the stairs for the press conference Commissioner Gordon had been compelled to call. The press had arrived well before that, and by now the podium had been fully miked, with half a dozen television news cameras focused on it, and dozens more newspaper reporters and photographers waiting on the steps beneath it. "What do you mean?" Bullock asked.

Bock shook his head and shrugged. "It looks like a different place when it's like this, all those people on the steps." Bock put his fist in front of his mouth as he yawned. "I'm still not used to press conferences."

"Commish don't like 'em," Bullock said, slipping his hands into his hip pockets and leaning against the doorway, looking down the steps. "He's only ever called a press conference when the mayor's told him to, in all the years I've been on the job with him." He opened his jacket and fished a cigar out of the inside pocket, stuck it in his mouth and started patting himself for a lighter. "Hates 'em."

Bock slapped a finger against the right breast pocket of Bullock's jacket. Bullock reached inside and produced a lighter, then gave his partner a halfway annoyed look. "How'd you ever get along and function without me? Did Montoya pay attention to all the things you forget about like that?"

"Montoya was too busy using every last bit of will-power in her to deny her animal attraction to me," Bullock explained as he lit the cigar between his teeth. He flipped the lighter closed and dropped it back into his pocket, took the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a long line of smoke. "Too bad for me you got here when you did, 'cause she was almost past the point of no return."

Bock grinned and folded his arms across his chest. "Damned if she didn't recover quick, though."

Bullock put the cigar back in his mouth, shrugged. "Defense mechanism."

Gordon and Kitch walked down the staircase together toward the first floor. Gordon held a manila folder in his right hand containing his prepared statement regarding the Dominguez and Nipparone slayings. Kitch had read it; it was a brief statement.

Things had turned tense whenever Gordon would enter the Major Crimes squadroom the last few days. The Dominguez slaying had put the city's Batman-detractors into a frenzy, but the media had just dismissed it. It wasn't, afterall, even close to the first time someone had put on a Batman suit and committed a crime.

Kitch, and everyone in Major Crimes, knew better, though. The Dominguez job was a far-cry from a liquor store hold-up or a standard mugging; it was violent -- brutal enough to be personal. And now the Nipparone job to add to what everyone must have already been feeling. From where Kitch stood, it was shaping up as one of two things: Either the killings were dressed-up gang slayings with someone working very hard to ensure the blame was put elsewhere, or it was Batman himself. Given the choice of targets -- especially in the Nipparone job -- the first possibility, from an investigative standpoint, was the strongest. But the difficulty Kitch -- and, apparently, everyone else -- was having in shaking that second possibility was undeniable. Gordon, for his part, hadn't spoken about it, and the statement to be momentarily given at the press conference was basically semantics.

"Done proofreading that for him yet, El Tee?" Bullock asked as Kitch and Gordon approached he and Bock, nodding at the folder Gordon held.

Kitch grinned momentarily at Gordon, then turned to Bullock and explained, "There were only a few minor spelling screw-ups." He looked back to the commissioner. "I was surprised."

Gordon moved past all three men and started down the steps toward the podium and the waiting press. "It's that damn word 'chrysanthemum,' you know," he commented as he went. "I've never been able to get that on the first try."

Bullock and Bock, following Gordon, but in front of Kitch, exchanged a mutually puzzled glance. "What's the word 'chrysanthemum' doing in there, Boss?" Bock wondered.

Gordon was already at the podium before he could answer, opening the folder and reviewing the statement on the paper. He took a moment to clear his throat. "Thank you all for coming," he began, not looking up at the assembling press at all until he was finished. "Unfortunately, since the investigation of the recent slayings is just beginning, the details I can give you are few. I can't give you any details because we the investigators have so few. The Dominguez and Nipparone slayings being related to one another is a possibility we have recognized, but we have no suspects at this time. At this time the Batman is not considered a suspect. Let me repeat that: the Batman is not a suspect at this time. . . . Now, if you have any other questions, I'll turn the proceedings over to my lieutenant, Samuel Kitch. His Major Crimes Unit, most specifically Detectives Bullock and Bock here, will be overseeing the investigation. If you have any other questions, please direct them to these three individuals here."

The commissioner folded up his statement, turned, and started straight up the steps back into the building. Looking down at the press in front of the podium, their hands waving, their voices all raised contributing to a milling dissonance, Kitch couldn't help but feel he'd been abandoned by his riding partner before the rampaging Indians.

The first question was "So, the Batman isn't a suspect?" Kitch answered it, and the others that followed for the next approximately ten minutes, as patiently as he could.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
6:07 p.m.

When he heard the knock on his door, Gordon's first assumption was that it was Gloria, and the first thought he had after that was why she was knocking on the door instead of beeping him using the phone. Both notions left his head a second later when the door opened and the head of Summer Gleeson peeked inside. "Can I come in for a moment?"

Gordon's eyes narrowed, although he hoped the gesture wouldn't be taken the wrong way. "Why didn't Gloria buzz me?" he asked curiously.

Summer glanced off to the side, where Gloria must have been sitting in the lobby. "She didn't think you'd mind."

Gordon nodded and waved for Summer to approach. "Come on in," he said. "And, thank you, Gloria!" he added in a louder, sarcastic tone.

"You're welcome," Gloria answered, all-too-pleasantly just before Summer closed the door behind her.

She stood in front of Gordon's desk, hands clasped lazily in front of her, looking very nearly schoolgirlish as she regarded the him from across the desk with meek silence. Her stare was constant and easy, and she said nothing, but only blinked.

Gordon blinked back at her for a second or so. "Just in the neighborhood . . . ?" he wondered.

She shrugged. Her hands remained together in front of her. "I assumed all of my colleagues would be downstairs throwing repetitive questions at your detectives, and I thought I might be able to sneak up here and have a quiet word with you," she said, seemingly trying very hard to project innocence all about her.

The commissioner blinked at her some more. "How nice," he observed flatly. "A word about what?"

Another shrug, more projected innocence. She seemed to be trying very hard to achieve a kind of purity of purpose before Gordon. So far, it wasn't working -- and the purpose hadn't even been disclosed yet. Summer apparently sensed this, and in another moment dropped the failing facade, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to her left side, eyeing Gordon with journalistic acuity. It was a stance that suited her much better than the previous one. She let out a brief, breathy sigh before starting to speak, perhaps so as to not appear too earnest suddenly. "I was wondering about getting your blessing for another interview with Christopher Wilpod."

Gordon leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and regarded Ms. Gleeson with an easy, relaxed countenance. "You mean my lack of protest."

"If you insist on withholding a definite blessing, then . . . yes, I suppose that," she said with a relenting nod.

"To another interview with Wilpod," added Gordon flatly, regarding her still from his relaxed position.

Summer gave another nod, but hesitated this time, balking perhaps at what Gordon imagined must've been a curious attitude he was suddenly displaying toward the subject of Wilpod.

Gordon remained in his current position for a moment longer, then sat forward and rested his hands on the desk. "About that . . ." he said pensively. He inhaled and leaned back in his chair again, staring at the desk and tapping its surface rhythmically with his left index finger, letting his right arm hang down at his side. "I had an opportunity to call George Gravis yesterday." He stopped a moment, watched Summer for a reaction. Her expression was unreadable. "The assistant editor of NewsTime magazine. A friend of yours from college."

A moment's hesitation, then a comprehending nod from Summer. "Yes, that's right."

"He didn't remember talking to you about any writing any articles for his magazine recently," said Gordon, his stare steadily burning a hole in her by this time. "He even made sort of a good-natured joke about what a poor writer he remembered you were."

Summer returned Gordon's stare for a moment, then shrugged and broke away. "George never did like my writing style. . . . He's one who was instrumental in my getting into television, actually . . ."

"Why didn't you tell me Christopher Wilpod was your father, Ms. Gleeson?"

"What?" she asked immediately, trying to laugh in disbelief but failing absolutely. She tried again a moment later when she said, "What are you talking about?"

Gordon kept the same even tone he had used in asking the question the first time as he repeated it: "Why didn't you tell me he was your father?"

She looked away from Gordon, staring to the side, her mouth opening and closing as though she were trying to say something. No sound came out. When she tried to shrug everything off with a grin, it appeared more like the confused grimace of a child unexpectedly caught in a lie. Her unsteady gaze returned to Gordon for a moment. "This-- . . . this isn't-- . . ." Whatever she had wanted to say now lost in her panic, Summer turned around and fled the office.

Gordon stood at his desk and watched her walk briskly through the lobby and out the door. When Gloria appeared in his office doorway, first looking after Summer, then looking at him with sharp concern and curiosity, Gordon said nothing. He just sat down and sighed, and comforted himself with the assurance that things had probably gone as good as they could have.

Rick's Rec
15 Wayne Plaza
7:39 p.m.

As the four of them approached the counter, there were two parties, each of three, already waiting. Tim stopped and stood up on his toes for a second, taking a glance at the price list above the cashiers' heads. "Okay," he said, turning to the other three, "who's paying?"

Hudson slipped his hands into his pockets and looked up at the price list himself. "You pay for the mini-golf and I'll pay for the driving range," he offered.

Tim looked next to him at Ariana, who was giving him a quietly urgent pleading stare. He looked from her to Hudson and shrugged, then looked outside, where it was getting dark. "I dunno if we'll have time for both, Hud-man," he admitted apologetically, turning back to regard his friend with a slightly wrinkled forehead.

Hudson looked patiently at Tim for a moment. "I was sort of hoping for a few minutes on the driving range," he said, his voice level.

"So go ahead," Ari suggested, smiling wickedly at Hudson as she moved a step closer to Tim. Hudson wrinkled his nose and gave her an equally wicked smile in return.

"She might have something, Hud," Tim suggested. "You wanna go to the driving range -- and whack a few -- then go ahead. We'll just meet back at the van when we're all done."

"If you want to do that," Ives told Hudson, "I'll go with you."

Hudson looked next to him at Ives, his face blank. "Great," he said flatly.

They were next at the counter. Tim signaled for the cashiers to wait for a second, then turned back to his friends. "So, you two go do the driving range, we'll play some golf, and maybe we can ride some go-karts when we're done." He clapped his hands together in front of him. "Sound good?"

"Sounds good!" Ives agreed.

"Sure," Hudson said with a joyless but agreeable shrug.

Tim nodded and turned around to the cashier. "Two for the 24-hole course, please," he said, and reached behind him for his wallet.

8:14 p.m.

Ari putted the orange ball into the hole -- her third stroke -- and stepped up behind Tim, standing on her tip-toes to see over his shoulder. "Add 'em up?"

Tim used the tiny pencil to scribble a 3 in the 12 box and a 31 in the OUT box of Ariana's score. He turned his head and looked at her, holding the card up another inch or so so she could see it. "One under par. Not bad."

She smiled. "And," she said, kissing him lightly on the nose and then laying her finger gingerly there as she spoke, "two ahead of you."

"Well . . ." Tim started to say in his defense, "I'm not really having what I would call a career night." He turned around fully to face her and kissed her on the lips, their faces remaining close. "Besides, you play more often than I do."

Ari regarded him curiously. "Hmm?"

Tim shrugged. "Well, I mean -- you and Erica; don't you guys play here, like, every other weekend or something?"

She gave a half-hearted laugh and looked at him as though not believing what she was hearing. "What?"

"Yeah," Tim insisted gently, nodding, planting the tip of his putter on the ground like a cane. "And on the other weekends you shop at the mall." He looked at her for another second and saw in her eyes that his ship had been sunk. "Right?" he asserted weakly, knowing it was a pointless thing to say.

Ari shook her head. Her forehead wrinkled as she looked up at Tim with an uncertain look. "I haven't hung out with Erica for . . . my God, two months, Tim." She continued to look at Tim as though he were a stranger to her, someone she was seeing for the very first time. "Two months," she repeated.

Tim swallowed, he blinked, and he didn't say a word, just stood there holding the head of his putter in his hand. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but said nothing just then. After struggling to find words for another second or so, he broke off with her continuing stare and cast his eyes on the ground at his feet.

With a deep, heavy sigh, he looked up at her again, brow furrowed apologetically. He shook his head at himself. "I am so sorry . . ." He said nothing else, just stared right back into her eyes. He brought his arms out at his sides, as though helpless there in front of her.

Ari's penetrating gaze relaxed; what had been subtly accusatory a moment ago became softly compassionate. She held out her arms and drew him into an embrace. He held her, and felt her head shift from his chest to his shoulder. "You need to pay more attention," he barely heard her whisper. Not knowing whether she was saying it to him, or for her own benefit, Tim didn't say anything. He just kept his arms around her there for a moment longer.

When Tim and Ari stepped off the end of the green and moved onto the 13th hole, the three people who had been waiting behind them for the last few minutes seemed annoyed, but not that annoyed.

The Crowne Major Hotel
8:47 p.m.

He had read the Globe this morning, and Gary Nipparone, Garnet Hicks, and Randle Patrick were names he knew very well, ranging from a close acquaintance (Gary) to a genuine long-time friend (Randle). As a result, when the phone rang three hours ago and the assignment was handed down, Rings Scacchi was only too eager to accept. He had thought about calling Vince Ellins to come along and lend a hand, since Vince was living in Gotham now, too (had been for years), but eventually decided that Vince was probably at the hospital with Kenneth tonight, and plus it was really only a one-man job. No sense in complicating things.

Rings knew Juts Rolens, too. He remembered him from when they both worked for Arnold Lynchon in Keystone City a few years ago. They played poker once, if Rings remembered right (he could've been thinking of Joey Pensone, but he didn't think so), and he liked him. But, that was the business. Rings Scacchi knew that as well as anyone, he guessed. He may have regretted it sometimes, but he knew better than to question it.

Quarter-till-nine had just come and gone, so Juts could be here at anytime. Rings was parked in his black Mercedes across the street from the front of the Crowne Major Hotel. He took his eyes off the entrance for the third time in the last two minutes to check the gun in his coat: the clip in the magazine was still full, the first round was still chambered. Satisfied for now, he tucked the gun back into his jacket.

He settled into his seat, and was staring restlessly at his own lap when movement caught the corner of his eye. He looked across the street and saw two men as they emerged from the entrance of the Crowne Major. The second one to exit, the tall, thick one with feathered black hair, was Juts. Rings kept his eye on the two of them as he pulled his gun from the left side of his coat, then reached for the silencer in the right side. He screwed the tube onto the pistol's muzzle, then opened his door and left the car.

Juts and his companion (a stocky blonde young man Rings didn't recognize) were in their car (a blue Mercedes of the same make and model as Rings') as Rings started across the street. He had to step quicker than usual to make it across the street as cars were approaching from either direction. As the blue Mercedes' turn signal flashed on, and it started to pull out, Rings raised the gun from his side and put a bullet in first the back left tire, then the back right tire. In another second, the car's brake lights came on, and it stopped abruptly, half in the space and half in the street.

The passenger-side door opened just as Rings was stepping up the curb onto the sidewalk, and the driver-side door a moment later. Juts was the passenger, and Rings raised the gun and shot him in the head before Juts saw him. The stocky blonde driver was out of the car with a gun in his hand by the time Juts' bleeding head smacked dully against the cement. Rings calmly raised his pistol on the driver and shot him once in the head.

Rings had to step over Juts' body, taking a wider step than usual to avoid the spreading pool of blood on the sidewalk. He walked calmly but briskly back across the street to his car, not looking behind him. Rings reached his black Mercedes, and heard a man's voice cry "Oh, Jesus Christ!" as he opened the door and climbed inside. He laid the gun on the passenger seat, started the car, and pulled away, still not having looked back at the scene in front of the hotel.

Listening in on a typical walkie-talkie broadcast is almost as easy as picking up another extension on a phone line, if you know what you're doing. Nightwing knew what he was doing. When on patrol, he always kept his two-way radio on scan mode to monitor the channels.

The security guards at the Crowne Major Hotel communicated with each other via walkie-talkie. Nightwing hadn't been on patrol exactly, but the scanner was on and he had happened to be passing through the area when a staticky voice in his earpiece announced "Two men down out front with bullet wounds to the head." The police call came after approximately another minute of walkie-talking between the hotel guards.

"Hey, Steve?"

The crackle of static for a second or so.

"Here."

crackle

"Go on and put in the 9-1-1 call now. Advise the dispatcher we have several witnesses from inside the hotel who witnessed the shooting, and that two of these have identified a white male driving a black Mercedes who left moving west on Gremlin as the shooter."

crackle

"Uh, roger, Will. Placing that call now."

Traffic on Gremlin Street was sparse tonight. The road ran straight and level for almost two miles through the city to the west, and the only headlights Nightwing saw were coming from the west. The shooting had occurred less than three minutes ago. Nothing had been mentioned about the shooter hurriedly speeding away from the scene; moving at the speed limit, there were only three intersections onto which the car could have turned in the time that had elapsed: north onto Fairfield, north and south onto South 11th, north and south onto Washington.

Fairfield passed through the edge of the downtown shopping district for two blocks, then ran straight on past block after block of apartment buildings until it intersected with Hamilton Avenue near the far north edge of the city. The shooter wasn't likely to be headed there. Both South 11th and Washington passed through districts of mostly clubs and hotels running south. The two streets ran parallel, a single block separating them. Nightwing fired a line from his grappling gun and swung off to the south, making his way across the buildings between South 11th and Washington.

crackle

"This is one-three-two: I've got the suspect moving north on Fairfield Drive in a black Mercedes sedan. In pursuit, requesting all available back-up."

crackle

"This is two-two-six: Roger that request for back-up, one-three-two."

crackle

What the hell?! . . . Where the hell is he going? Nightwing dropped down onto the roof of the building beneath him, spun around 180 degrees on his heel, and fired another line at the flag pole that jutted out from the wall of the Paulson-Michaels Hotel. He leapt off the roof, swinging away to the north.

Rings saw the squad car behind him, but knew that as soon as he sped up, the cop would speed up to overtake him. For this to work, the cop had to think he was still in control, at least until the next intersection. Nothing's more dangerous than a panicky cop, especially if you've just killed two people.

Fairfield Drive crossed with John Quincy Adams Avenue just up ahead. When Rings got to the intersection, he swung a hard right and floored the accelerator. An outlet to Dickey Circle, a one-way alley, was just up ahead. Rings turned in there before the cop could catch up to make the turn off of Fairfield and continued to floor it until he made it over the hump of a hill a few hundred yards in. He let the car coast down the decline of the hill and turned into the back lot of a grocery store just beyond the bottom. Two men he knew, Vic O'Rourke and Tom Indigo, were waiting for him in a blue Elantra there.

"Let's haul ass, guys," Rings told them earnestly as he climbed into the back seat and started shrugging off his jacket and pulling at his tie.

Vic, behind the wheel, nodded. "Fuckin'-A to that," he said as he shifted the car into reverse and left the lot.

Tom pulled a cellular phone out of his breast pocket and quickly dialed seven numbers. "Hey. James? Call Denny. You guys can move now; we got him."

Not five seconds after Rings had slumped back in the seat and allowed himself sigh with relief, he heard a thumping sound above his head, as if something had just landed on the roof.

The Roof of Gotham City Police Headquarters
9:06 p.m.

Gordon stood on the roof as he had a thousand times before. And, as a thousand times before, Batman emerged from the shadows along the edge.

"You look disturbed," he observed immediately.

Gordon walked toward him, shaking his head. "No, it's not tha-- It is tha-- . . . Yes, I am disturbed about something, but no, that's not why I called you here." Gordon mentally patted himself on the back for finally getting that out.

Batman just watched Gordon silently.

Gordon looked across at the other man, waiting for him to say something before remembering how pointless such a thing was about four seconds in. He inhaled and reached inside his overcoat. "They're transferring Harvey Dent to a hospital in New Jersey tonight," he said, a moment later producing a folded sheet of copy paper. He held it out to Batman, to took it and read it and handed it back before Gordon could add "That's the official request I received from Cobblepot."

As it was, Gordon took the paper, folded it again and stuffed it back into his inside pocket. "I received that not more than twenty minutes ago, by fax. The transfer is scheduled for less than an hour from now."

"You granted the transfer request, then," Batman assumed, darkly.

Gordon shrugged. "Legally, there's very little I can do other than send every last uniform I can spare over there to guard the place during the damn thing."

"You can't legally condone the activities of a vigilante, either," Batman countered.

Gordon lowered his head and regarded Batman from beneath his brow. "I haven't," he reminded the darkly draped figure. "Ulterior motives of the asylum's owner aside," he continued, moving on, "this at least looks like a legitimate transfer."

Batman just looked at him silently.

"I have ordered a dozen spare officers there," Gordon told him. "In addition, I'll be there personally to oversee the transfer."

"Understood," said Batman. He turned around and stepped back into the shadows, disappearing. It was one of the few times Gordon had seen him leave. Gordon himself turned around and left the roof a moment later.

The Franklin Street Restaurant
Open All Night
9:24 p.m.

Before changing from the Nightwing costume to his civvies, Dick had radioed Batman. "When you get the time, stop by the jail in the Thirty-third Precinct, huh? There's someone there you might be interested in talking to, maybe."

When Dick told him that the "someone" was Rings Scacchi, Batman had merely said "Understood," and terminated the connection. Dick wondered what had put him in such an unusually talkative mood.

When he called Lilhy, about four hours ago, he told her to meet him here, on Franklin Street. She said 9:00 was the earliest she thought she could make it. When Dick called the house at around 5:30, Brian answered the phone; Brother Innocent was already working with Jean-Paul, apparently, and Lilhy was insisting on bearing personal witness to the entire process.

That took up most of the next four hours. Most; the rest of the time Lilhy had spent riding around the city while Brian looked for the place on Franklin street -- as she told Dick when he sat down across from her in the booth. He had been ready to apologize to her for being almost thirty minutes late, when she informed him she had just arrived a few minutes ago herself.

"Well, that makes me feel like less of a dick," he told her, relieved.

Lilhy regarded him curiously for a moment. "You prefer 'Richard'?"

Dick blinked at her, blank. "What?" He took a moment to think about what she'd just said, and an embarrassed grin spread across his face. "Oh! No . . . I didn't mean 'Dick' as in 'Richard', like my name. It's another kind of expression." He laughed faintly. "I meant to say that, since you were late, too, I felt less rude for being late myself."

"Oh." After a moment, she nodded with understanding and took a sip from the glass of water in front of her. "I apologize for my naivet�. I'm not really accustomed to . . . that type of expression."

Dick gave her a curious smile. "The acolytes never used profanity?"

Lilhy shook her head.

"Never?!" asked Dick, incredulous.

Lilhy shook her head matter-of-factly again. "They were holy men. To speak in such a common way was to risk the displeasure of St. Dumas," she explained.

"Sounds like St. Dumas' priorities were as fucked--"

"Please don't speak that way in front of me," Lilhy asked, but, to Dick's astonishment, not sounding snooty in the least.

"--screwed up as St. Paul's were," Dick continued to observe.

It looked like Lilhy was about to ask Dick something when Leslie, the woman who owned and ran the restaurant, appeared next to the table. She gave Dick a warm smile, and laid a menu in front of he and Lilhy. "Will you need a few minutes?" she asked.

Dick shook his head. "You know what I want," he told Leslie, handing the menu right back to her without even opening it. "Only could I have an iced tea to drink instead of the coffee this time?"

Leslie scribbled something down on her order pad. "Absolutely." She turned to Lilhy. "Need a few minutes, Honey?"

Lilhy looked up at Leslie for a second, then back at the menu. "I'm not certain . . ."

"Want a few suggestions?" Dick offered.

"If you're familiar with the . . . cuisine," said Lilhy, closing her menu and folding her arms atop it.

Dick looked at Lilhy and leaned toward Leslie a bit. "Bring her," he started to tell Leslie in a considered tone, "the green salad with that really light oil dressing you have, and after that a plate of mashed potatoes in chicken gravy and a very, very lean steak." While Leslie scribbled that down, Dick asked Lilhy, "Sound good?"

"It doesn't sound . . . unappetizing," she said, looking at Leslie with a polite smile.

"Bring her an iced tea, too, will you, Leslie?" asked Dick.

"Okay, then!" Leslie said, dropping the pad and pencil into the pocket in the front of her apron. "I'll be right back with drinks!"

Lilhy waited until Leslie was back behind the counter on the other side of the room, then turned to Dick. "You seem to come here often."

Dick nodded, grinned. "You like this place?"

Lilhy stared blankly for a moment. "It's my first time here," she said, "and I haven't sampled the food yet."

"Well," Dick said as he shifted sideways in the booth, stretching his legs out in front of him across the rest of the seat, "the food won't disappoint you. Trust me." Lilhy just looked at him, and didn't look as though she was about to say anything. "Because I do come here fairly often," Dick went on. "Leslie and I know each other from a few years back."

Lilhy raised her eyebrows, looking interested. "Oh?" she asked, curious.

"When I was living in New York, with the Titans -- that was a . . . a group of people I used to work with as Nightwing -- Leslie owned a place on Broadway," Dick explained. "She called it the Broadway Restaurant, actually. Right next to the Ed Sullivan Theater. The Hello Deli is there, now."

"Oh," Lilhy said again. She'd been watching Dick intently while he spoke, and she continued to do so now, though he wasn't saying a word. "You find fault with the Gospel of St. Paul?" she asked him, from out of nowhere Dick thought at first.

"Hmm?" he asked her, confused.

Lilhy cleared her throat meekly. "When you used that . . . that common expression, you implied that St. Dumas and St. Paul shared a -- a misdirection of priorities."

"Oh," said Dick, remembering.

"What did you mean?" she asked, watching him again.

Dick opened his mouth to say something, then looked away from her and laughed weakly to himself. "Look," he said, turning back to Lilhy, "if I offended you with what I said . . ."

Lilhy's eyes brightened suddenly. "Oh, no!" she assured him urgently, "no, I didn't take offense! I was just interested in what you said! Please, please, don't worry about that. Truly. I wasn't offended."

"Okay," Dick said with an eased nod. "That's a relief."

"What did you mean by your criticism of their priorities?" asked Lilhy, watching him still.

"Were you born this persistent, or did they train you for it?" Dick wonder aloud, cracking a grin. He noticed Lilhy now regarding him curiously. "Nevermind that," he told her, waving his hand. He sighed. "The Gospel of St. Paul . . . What I meant was, it's in the book of Colossians that Paul says not to allow . . . I don't know, he said something like 'filthy language from thy mouth'. That's primarily where this whole 'swearing is bad' ideology comes from in this culture. And, I think Paul was wrong on that one, and that the God I believe in has His priorities more together than that."

Lilhy gave an understanding "Oh" again.

Dick continued: "I mean, I think God cares about more important things in His people. Like, is Paul telling me that if I dedicate my whole life to service and to helping other people and to living an honest life, I can still go to Hell for saying 'fuck', 'shit', et cetera, every once in awhile?"

Leslie appeared at the booth again with their drinks, and then left them alone just as quickly. Leslie had always possessed a keen sense of what was going on. She didn't know specifically what Dick had been talking about with Lilhy, but she knew it was something that didn't bear interrupting. Dick had always appreciated that about her.

Lilhy took a short sip of tea through her straw, then pushed the glass aside and folded her arms atop the table again. "Why did you want to talk to me?" she asked Dick. He couldn't get over the way she just kept watching him! She was so attentive it was almost unsettling.

He sipped his own tea. "Oh, that," he said dryly. "Yeah . . . I need to ask you something, Lilhy."

"You did?" she asked curiously. "What is it you wanted to ask me?"

Dick reached for his tea again. He pulled the straw out and laid it on the table next to his napkin. "I need to go back to Switzerland and I want you to come with me," he told her bluntly, promptly taking a deep drink from the glass of tea. When he was done, he put the glass back down and regarded Lilhy calmly, as if he'd just asked her to walk around the corner to the store with him.

"You just returned from Switzerland . . ." Lilhy observed, obviously trying to lead Dick somewhere.

"Yeah, I did," he said, nodding. "But I need to go back there. And, without you, I won't have the first idea what I'm doing or where I'm going once I get there."

"But . . . why do you need to go back there?" asked Lilhy.

Dick turned around in the booth to face the table, and leaned as far in Lilhy's direction as he could. He beckoned for her to come closer to him, and she leaned in as well. "While we were in the cathedral," he said to her, looking in her ever-watching eyes, "I found a filing cabinet that had my name on it. And, I don't know what it means. . . . And, I need to find out."

Lilhy's stare was wrought with concern now. She tilted her head to the side a bit and leaned even closer to Dick. "The Order has a file on you, Dick?"

He sighed as he looked at her, and shook his head. "A filing cabinet I saw had 'Grayson' on one of its drawers. Brother Mercior told me the file didn't pertain to me, but he still seemed to know a hell of a lot about me." Dick looked in Lilhy's eyes as deeply and directly as he ever had. "I can't just live with that."

"Of course you can't," Lilhy said, shaking her head sympathetically.

"I can't go back there without you, Lilhy," Dick told her. "Every file in that room we were in was burned up, and if I go back alone, I won't have idea one about . . . about where to look, where to go . . ."

She nodded her head before Dick could say anything else, and he felt her hand gripping his reassuringly. "I'll go back with you if you want me to go," she said. "But I'm uncertain how much help I can be too you . . ."

Dick sighed. "When I'm walking around in that cathedral, will you be able to tell me where I'm walking to?"

Lilhy nodded. "I think so."

"Then that's as much help as I'll need," he assured her. There was a short silence between them, then Dick pulled his hand self-consciously away from hers, and smiled gratefully at her. "Thank you, Lilhy," he said.

She returned the smile and shook her head modestly. "When are you leaving?"

He shrugged. "We" -- this evoked a small smile from Lilhy -- "are leaving as soon as I can call and reserve two tickets on a plane to Switzerland."

Dick pushed back away from the table when he saw Leslie approaching with their food. She put the plates down, lingered a moment to give Dick another warm, almost maternal smile, then left them alone again.

Rick's Rec
15 Wayne Plaza
9:39 p.m.

Tim had tired of the go-karts after two go-rounds. It was a mystery to him at first -- there was a time not too long ago when he couldn't have gotten enough from the go-kart track. It used to be too fun for words. Standing on the other side of the fenced perimeter with Ariana, watching Hudson blow off steam by intentionally ramming the back of Ives' kart, Tim decided that he'd been spoiled by the Redbird the last several months. He couldn't decide whether he minded that or not.

When the race was over, the four of them met and stood together near the old-looking brick structure that housed the restrooms. "Feel like having another run there, Timothy?" Hudson asked, grinning as he backhanded Tim gently in the chest.

"'Timothy', huh?" Tim said, regarding Hudson with a faint smile. "Your mood is much-improved . . ."

Hudson shrugged. "Well, that's what ramming Ives up the ass will--" Hudson stopped abruptly, maybe looking at how Tim's smile had grown in the last second. "Talking about go-karts, you fuckin' . . ."

Tim shook his head, holding his hands up innocently. "Absolutely!"

"You want to ride the go-karts with me again, or not, you damn sicko?" Hudson asked, looking first toward the track, then back at Tim.

"I didn't even say anything!" Tim insisted. "And not right now, man. But we've got all night, don't we? Aren't they open all night?"

Hudson nodded. "Yeah."

"You and Ives go one more time," Tim suggested, waving his arm toward the track. "Then maybe I'll have one more in me."

Looking a little disappointed, but undaunted, Hudson shrugged and clapped Ives hard on the back. "Okay, let's go, four-eyes," he said, somehow managing to make "four-eyes" sound endearing. He looked over his should as they walked toward the ticket booth. "You coming for this one, Ari?"

Ariana shook her head. "No, Hudson. Maybe the next one."

Hudson shrugged indifferently. "Whatever. Timmy see, Ari do."

"Yeah, uh-huh! 'Whatever' is right!" Ari called after him, crossing her arms, feigning great offense. She smiled and turned to Tim. "We just going to stay here until the boys get tired?"

Tim shrugged. "Unless someone gets a better idea, I guess." Ariana looked about to say something when Tim felt something moving in his left front pocket. His hand went there instinctively. He was at a loss for a moment, then looked up with a sly grin at Ari. "There's something vibrating in my pocket," he told her suggestively.

Ari cast her eyes down at Tim's hand over his pocket. "Oh?"

"It's my pager, unfortunately," he told her immediately, realizing he was killing the mood he'd just created, and also that it was absolutely necessary to do so. He turned around and pushed through the door to the Men's Room behind him.

"You know, I could be really offended by that!" he heard Ari call after him.

He pulled the pager out of his pocket, not that he needed to; as he expected, the call was from Batman: "Call the car line". The payphone in the Men's Room, Tim found almost instantly, was out of commission. The handset was missing entirely. He turned and walked back outside. Ari was still there, and instinctively he grabbed her, kissed her sudden and deep on the mouth, and pushed them both through the door of the Ladies' Room. Once inside, he broke the kiss, and Ari looked at him with shocked and excited eyes. "You sure that was just a pager in your pocket, or are you glad--"

Tim, grinning, hushed her by pressing a hand gently over her mouth. "That was just in case anyone was watching," he explained.

Ari's eyes closed, and Tim felt her tongue against his palm. He moved his hand away, and she kissed the side of his little finger, dragging her bottom lip seductively across his flesh to his wrist, where she planted another kiss. Her eyes opened and met longingly with Tim's. "That's the only reason?" she asked, whispering to him.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut a moment and concentrated. He took his hand away and moved it to her cheek. She pushed her face into it, seeming to need his touch suddenly. Through sheer will alone, Tim pulled his hand away and slid a few feet right to the phone. He picked up the handset, heard a dialtone, and immediately dialed. While he waited for an answer, he looked at Ari. She was watching him, looking angry, but hurt as well. "I don't have a choice, Ari," he told her, apologetic and deeply guilty.

She shook her head; he could tell she didn't buy a word. "You only think you don't," she said bitterly.

"Tim," Batman's voice said over the phone.

"Yeah," Tim answered, forcing himself to look away from Ariana, "I'm here."

Arkham Asylum
9:58 p.m.

Zed Montaigne leaned against the front of the squad car and tapped his foot restlessly. "I hate working late. I swear to God I do."

"Like it's your first late shift, or something," said Jon Goodson cynically, standing next to him. "Funny, though, how we both ended up at Arkham again." He watched Zed for a response, and saw none. "I think, at least . . ."

Zed looked at Jon for a moment, then looked away, then shrugged a moment later. "We're in the same precinct, though, I guess. . . . Still, out of so many hundred cops . . . I guess it is sort of, I dunno, fateful or something."

"Or serendipitous," Jon suggested.

"Yeah. Same thing," Zed said, shrugging indifferently.

Jon shook his head, said "No, not really. Not really."

"Why not?" Zed asked, eyeing Jon strangely. "They mean the exact same thing."

Jon continued to shake his head.

"Okay, what's the difference?"

Jon sighed laboriously. "'Serendipitous' means, like, a string of luck, you know? A series of fortunate events."

Zed crossed his arms and looked sharply straight ahead. Jon had no idea what he might be staring at. "So, what's 'fateful' then?"

"'Fateful' is 'fateful', man," Jon pleaded. "Like I need to tell you what 'fateful' means . . ."

Jon saw Zed looking at something intently, and followed his gaze to the guest parking lot. A green Ford Explorer had just pulled in. Brow wrinkled with curious concern, Jon started toward the lot. His first steps were slow, but he soon lengthened his stride a bit and broke into a brisk jog. He heard Zed's footsteps behind him. "We really should stay where we were put," he heard Zed say.

"We were put at Arkham Asylum," Jon said, not certain if Zed had heard him, and not particularly caring either. Just as he step onto the edge of the asphalt of the guest lot, Summer Gleeson, dressed very normally in jeans and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, a small purse slung across her, climbed out of the Explorer and started toward the building. "Ms. Gleeson!" Jon called to her. She didn't respond, not even with a look. "Summer!" he called again.

Jon broke into a full run to catch her before she made it to the door. Zed, he could hear, was behind him the whole way. "Summer!" Jon said, breathless, when he caught up to her. "What are you doing here?"

She turned to him very calmly, looking at him stone-faced for a second or so. "I need to do a follow-up on Christopher Wilpod," she told him, sounding coldly explanatory.

"Now?" Jon asked, incredulous. "But, with how late it is, I don't think--"

"I would've been here sooner, but I had to work," she told him, interrupting. "Nice talking to you again, Officer," she said a moment later as she turned and walked through the door. Jon looked back at Zed for a confused moment, then they both pushed through the door after her.

"We should be seeing them any time now, Commissioner," the guard told Gordon.

They were standing at the reception desk in the lobby, looking back the hall that led to the New Arkham section. Harvey Dent would be walking down that hall very soon, straight-jacketed, escorted by a small army of asylum guards and Gotham City Police. The added security didn't make Gordon feel any easier about the situation; he had arrived ten minutes ago, and in that time had hardly moved his eyes from the mouth of the hallway.

Footsteps from behind him, and a voice: "Summer, stop." Gordon turned toward the door behind him, leading out to the guest lot, and saw Summer Gleeson marching toward him, two of his officers close behind her. "Stop," the officer whose name-tag read Goodson repeated. She ignored him.

Gordon stepped directly into her path and held his arms out in front of him. "This is as far as I'm letting you go," he told her.

She stopped ten feet from him. "I won't be long at all, Commissioner," she told him in a persuasive voice. "Just in and out and done."

"Officers," Gordon ordered Goodson and his partner (Montaigne). Summer slipped a hand into the small purse slung across her body and removed a black snub-nosed revolver, the kind police still carried in some parts of the country. There was a tense moment as she held the gun, and then she brought it up to the side of her own head. Gordon shot a sharp glance to the officers behind her, and they responded well, keeping their distance.

"Let me have my five minutes, Commissioner," Summer said, walking slowly around behind him. "Just let me do what I came to do, and then as a bonus reward you can take me alive."

"What are you going to do, Summer?" Officer Goodson asked.

"It won't take long, not at all," was the only response.

Gordon watched her cautiously, and shook his head slowly. "Summer, I can't just let you do that . . ." She was watching the three of them, plus the security guard, backing slowly toward the hallway to the left, which led to Maximum Security.

Officer Goodson took an abrupt step forward. "Summer, wait!" he called to her. He stepped up ahead of Gordon, and began walking steadily toward her. She watched him nervously, stopping in her steps.

"Back here now, Officer," Gordon ordered tensely.

Goodson stopped where he was -- about ten feet from Summer -- and removed his belt. His gun, his nightstick, his radio all feel to the floor at his feet a moment later. He held his hands up and approached her cautiously. "Just wait, all right?" he asked her, pleading. "I'll go with you. All right?" She just stood there, the gun still to her head. A moment later, out of nowhere, she moved the gun to her mouth, pressing the muzzle up against her palate. Gordon instinctively sucked in sudden air. "No, Summer!" Goodson cried, reaching out to her. She stood there, eyes wide, looking at him and appearing to be absolutely terrified. "Won't it be easier if I just go with you?" he asked her.

She just stared at him.

"Won't it?" he asked her again, gently. "I won't interfere with anything, I promise."

For another five seconds, still no response. Then, quickly, she nodded several times and allowed Goodson to move up almost beside her. They walked back the hall toward Maximum Security.

Robin didn't have his police radio turned on. He knew he should turn it on, but didn't. Plus, he could absolutely guarantee that Batman, next to him on the roof of the asylum's roundhouse wing, was listening intently to his own.

Batman stood up so abruptly that Robin was startled. His head jerked up reflexively to regard Batman, and a moment later Robin stood himself. "What?"

"Turn on your radio," Batman ordered curtly as he started for the edge of the roof. Robin did so.

crackle

"--peat, do not transfer the prisoner from his cell at this time. You will wait at present positions for further instructions from me. Gordon out."

Batman vaulted over the edge of the roof, down to the ground. Robin followed him.

"What the fuck is going on, exactly?" Quentin, whispering into Groverton's ear, asked.

Groverton looked over at him and shrugged. "Excuse me," he said to one of the officers in front of him, "could you tell us what the delay is?"

"You heard as much as I did, sir," the officer said, glancing down at his belt to indicate the walkie-talkie clipped there.

There were a dozen of them, cops, guards, doctors, Quentin, and Groverton, all standing near the back of the single hallway that comprised the New Arkham wing. Two-Face, straight-jacketed and medicated into what the doctor who administered the drug had described as "an agreeable state", still sat behind the reinforced, electronically-mirrored glass of his cell. The mirror was activated now, so that inside the cell the only thing he saw was an image of himself staring back at him.

"So," Groverton said cheerfully, "we just stand here?"

The same officer as before looked at Groverton and sighed, seeming sympathetic. "You heard just what I did, sir. We don't move until we hear from the boss."

Groverton nodded. He looked at Quentin, leaned into him a bit. "I suppose this level of security isn't . . . unwarranted," he said rationally.

Quentin shrugged and shook his head. "Nope, guess not."

Robin crouched next to Batman at the edge of the guest parking lot. Through a miniature night-vision telescope, he observed the commissioner through the glass doors. He saw Gordon reach into his pocket and remove his cellular phone.

"Gordon here," Robin heard in his earpiece.

"Gordon," Batman said.

The commissioner walked away from the officer and the guard that he stood with and came toward the glass doors, stepping into the shadows surrounding the area just inside the doorway. "Go ahead," Gordon said.

"Situation," said Batman.

"I'm delaying the transfer of Dent until we can resolve another, unrelated, situation," Gordon explained. "Not much I see that you can do."

"What other situation?"

Batman asked.

Robin listened as Gordon explained. When the commissioner was done talking, Batman said "Understood," broke the connection to the cell phone, and stood.

Summer had allowed Jon to walk side-by-side with her, and once they'd gotten past the guard station, she took the gun from her mouth. She still kept a tense grip on it, however, and held it at her left side, farthest away from Jon. He had convinced her to let him carry the guard's keys, which Jon had obtained quite easily once it was realized that Summer seemed quite serious about pulling the trigger of the gun in her mouth.

She was trembling. Jon had been watching her the whole time, and he could plainly see she was trembling.

Jon couldn't be certain, necessarily, but he assumed this all had to have something to do with Christopher Wilpod; Wilpod's cell was just ahead. Jon looked at Summer and blurted out "So, when's your birthday?"

Not stopping, not slowing, she didn't even look over at Jon. "What?" she asked, as though she hadn't heard him, her voice flat.

"Your birthday," Jon said again. "I'm thirty-one, too," he explained. "When's your birthday? So I know who's older."

"I don't see how that matters right now," she said shortly, swallowing hard immediately afterwards. The closer they came to Wilpod's cell door, the more nervous Summer seemed to become. She didn't even hesitate on her way, but the grip she still had around the handle of the little pistol was continually being adjusted, fingers relaxing and then tightening again.

A steel-mesh-reinforced window was at the far end of the hallway, looking out over the lighted parking lot just beyond the grass on this side of the asylum. Jon looked ahead at the window; two shadows, one right after the other, passed in front of it.

They were almost to Wilpod's cell now. Jon tripped over his own feet on his next step, and the guard's keys left his hands and slid several feet back up the hall.

Outside the window, Robin turned to Batman. "He must've seen you."

Batman stood and motioned for Robin to stand back, throwing his cape open. He took a sideways stance a few feet in front of the window and drew in a deep breath. He drove his foot like a hammer into the meshed window, but succeeded in only cracking the glass. Robin heard the gruesomely audible hum of electrical power; the mesh inside the window was wired. Batman recovered from the first kick and assumed his stance again.

Jon Goodson was still on the floor, and Summer, who had been turning to grab the keys, was staring tensely at the window at the far end of the hall. She turned around and snatched the keys from the floor, then started to run down the hall toward Wilpod's cell. Jon reached out to trip her as she passed him, but succeeded in only brushing her ankle, slowing her a step. She turned around, hastily, and fired a single round at Jon, missing him by several feet.

As Jon got to his feet, Summer reached Wilpod's cell door, and the window at the end of the hall shook violently again. She fumbled the key into the lock as the window shook a third time, cracking open this time. Jon watched as the window broke apart and a figure clad in the colors of the night emerged from the darkness outside into the bright light of the hallway, like the resident of a nightmare stepping into reality.

Summer turned the lock and opened the door. Jon started for her. The nightmare figure at the end of the hall thrust out its hand, and two black razors imbedded themselves in Summer's calf. She continued forward, falling through the door into Wilpod's cell. Jon reached the door just in time to see that Wilpod was lying on his cot, awake, as Summer fired the remaining five bullets in her gun into his chest. She tried to put the gun in her mouth, not that it would have done any good now, but Jon wrestled it away from her and threw it disdainfully back the hall, away from him.

The nightmare creature stood over them now. Jon looked up, and recognized the Batman looking down at him, his face a dark scowl. "Gordon," the Batman said, "get back here. Officer Goodson has the situation under control." Without another word, the Batman turned and started back toward the shattered window. Jon looked down at Summer, who lay motionless on the floor of Wilpod's cell, wounded and crying. When Jon looked back down the hall, the Batman was gone.

10:49 p.m.

The ambulances that had arrived to tend to Christopher Wilpod and Summer Gleeson had left five minutes ago surrounded by a heavy police escort. Officers Montaigne and Goodson had left a short time ago as well, with instructions from Gordon to Goodson for him to meet with the commissioner tomorrow before going on duty. Now, only Gordon, a few officers, and the hospital staff remained.

Harvey Dent, still straight-jacketed and drugged into docility, was led from his cell, down the hall and outside to the armored police wagon that would take him to his temporary new home. The armored wagon pulled away, followed by two squad cars, and a car driven by the asylum's Chief of Patient Care, bound for Starkey Mental Hospital, outside of Karsted, New Jersey.

A few minutes later, Gordon was the only one left. Lingering no longer than a few seconds by himself, he left the building, walked across the lot to his car, and climbed inside.

The overhead light went out as Gordon shut the door. "What was Wilpod's condition when they took him away?" asked Batman from the back seat as Gordon pulled his seatbelt across his chest.

"Alive," Gordon answered flatly, not startled in the least, "and likely to stay that way."

"And Gleeson?"

Gordon adjusted the rear-view mirror to afford him a better view of the man in the back seat. He watched Batman's reflection as he spoke. "They bandaged her leg. Other than that, she had no serious physical injuries."

"Any ideas on motive?"

"Her real name is Samantha Wilpod," Gordon told Batman with a sigh. "He was her father. Seventeen years ago, he murdered his wife and another daughter -- which would've been Summer's mother and sister. So, revenge would be my bet at this stage."

"Revenge extremely after the fact," Batman commented, somewhat critically.

Gordon shrugged, then stared at Batman's reflection intently. "I'm sure she had her reasons," he suggested. Gordon turned his eyes from the mirror and started the car. "And I'm sure we'll find out what those are, eventually. But not tonight. The next destination on my itinerary is a shower, followed by a long sleep, so if you'll excuse me . . ." He reached up with his hand to re-adjust the mirror, and saw that Batman was gone from the back seat. "Thanks for your help tonight," he said, low, to the empty view in the mirror, and pulled out of the parking lot.