BATMAN: The New Continuity

The fuckin' phone was ringing.

Quentin, his eyes still closed, rolled over and slapped a big, tough-skinned hand across the top of the handset, feeling to pick it up. "Yeah?" he said in a tired/annoyed/demanding sort of voice, holding the phone to the side of his face.

Across came a pleasant sounding voice. "This is Kenneth downstairs, Mr. Quentin," it said.

"And . . . ?" Quentin said, having waited a second or so for Kenneth to say something else.

"And . . . you wanted us to wake you up at ten p-m, didn't you?"

"Huh?"

"If there's been some error, I-- I apologize, but it says right here that you wanted a--"

"Oh, no no no . . . You're right. You're right," Quentin assured him, sitting up in bed and leaning into the phone now. "You're right, I'm sorry. Thank you." He hung up the phone and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed.

Just as he stood up and began to stretch, the phone rang again. "Yeah, what is it?" he said, having answered it.

"It's me." Groverton.

"Oh," said Quentin, running a hand through his tangled hair. "Hey."

"The line was busy a moment ago. What was that?"

Quentin picked up the phone by the cradle and walked it across to the other side of the room, peeking out the window of his room. "Oh, nothing. I just had someone here give me a wake-up call. That's what that was."

"Tired, were you?"

"Fuckin' right!" he exclaimed, turning away from the window. "Christ, I been out with Tee-heh-ro so much at night lately that the only sleep I've been getting is during the day."

"It's pronounced Tih-hi-ro, by the way," Groverton reminded him. "Just in case it ever comes up in conversation with him."

Quentin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "Yeah, 'cause God knows I talk with him all the time, about all sortsa shit . . ."

Neither man said anything for a few seconds. The dead air was broken by Groverton, when he said, "Anyway, I expect you should be getting dressed and exiting the premises soon."

"Oh," Quentin said. He laid back down on the bed so as to see the clock on the nightstand. "Shit. Yeah."

A few more seconds' worth of dead air. "Can't be late," Groverton said.

"Nope. . . . All right. I'll give you a call to check in later, keep you apprised on how everything's goin'."

"Very well," Groverton said, adding a moment later, "Stay out of sight, remember."

"Yeah." Quentin hung up the phone and put it back on the nightstand, next to the lamp and behind the clock.

Starkey Mental Hospital
Outside of Karsted, New Jersey
10:32 p.m.

Daryl Berns was a night-watchman here. He hadn't known Dr. Epkins for more than, say, a week or so. But, the patient in Room 304 was of such rare and special interest that Daryl waited at the nurse's desk on the third floor for the doctor to emerge from between the two New Jersey State Police officers who stood guard at the door.

When Dr. Epkins appeared in the hallway, Daryl started slowly down, mostly letting the doctor come to him. "How is -- he?" Dr. Epkins nodded. "He. How is he?"

The doctor -- a six-foot-tall man of average build, slightly balding, in his late 30's, and currently dressed in bluejeans and a tweed jacket -- slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged undecidedly. "I think he'll be all right for his first session with me tomorrow."

Daryl nodded. "Did he seem cooperative?"

Epkins' face took on a thoughtful look for a moment. "He wasn't exceptionally responsive to me just now, but he seems to still be very heavily sedated. I wish I could've gotten here sooner -- they've really doped him up today, it seems."

"Really?" said Daryl, comforted by that. "Lots of meperidine on his chart?"

Dr. Epkins stopped and looked at Daryl strangely. "Why call it that?"

"Instead of Demerol?" asked Daryl. "I dunno. I saw it on a Demerol label once, and thought it sounded a lot better than the more popular -- and more commercial -- name that most people use for it."

"Ah." Epkins nodded with understanding. "Most of us lazy doctors just say 'Demerol'. Fewer syllables."

They started up the hall again. "Right," Daryl said, "can't really afford to waste time, I guess."

The doctor shook his head. "No, I guess not." They reached the end of the hall, walked past the nurse's desk, and turned toward the elevator. Daryl reached out and pressed the Down button. "Actually," the doctor said reflectively, "I don't think I saw his ch--"

A man's aborted scream and, an instant later, two gunshots cut the doctor's sentence short. The elevator doors slid open, and Daryl pushed Epkins inside. "Stay here," he said, then started quickly back the hall. He saw the second of the two state cops about to enter Room 304 when another pair of gunshots went off, and the first state cop was thrown back out into the hall. A third pair of shots struck down the second cop just as Daryl was nearing the door.

Looking inside, his own gun now in hand, he saw Two-Face standing on the bed. The one guard posted inside the room was dead, blood still running from a hole in the middle of his forehead and another just above his eye.

Two-Face noticed Daryl at the door, raised his gun, and fired twice more.

Beneath Wayne Manor
Gotham Heights
10:49 p.m.

Dick could hear Bruce moving around in the costume vault as he sat in front of the computer console, typing away at . . . moderate speed. He turned his head at an insistent beeping sound. "Gordon's calling," Dick announced loudly, glancing at the phone on the console.

Bruce emerged from the costume vault, clad in the bottom half of the Batsuit, and walked straight over to the console. "Yes?" he said in Batman's low rasp, holding the handset to the side of his head. Dick stopped his typing and listened, without turning his head away from the big monitor. Bruce was silent for three seconds or so, then said "How long ago?" Another period of silence, as a shadow fell over his face. "Where'd he get the gun? . . . No -- unnecessary. . . . Yes." He hung up, turned immediately around, and started back toward the vault.

"What's up?" Dick asked, leaning back in his chair to follow Bruce with his eyes.

Continuing on toward the costume vault without missing a step, Bruce said "Harvey Dent escaped from the mental hospital in Karsted." He disappeared back inside the costume vault.

Dick watched the vacant doorway of the vault for a few seconds, blinking once. "You're leaving, then?"

"I have to go to Karsted," came the answer. "Immediately. Make sure Tim knows, when he gets here."

Dick blinked away another moment of silence. "Sure you don't want me to go with you? I might not be around for awhile . . ."

Bruce didn't answer right away, although that could've been because he was in a hurry to get dressed. "I'll go alone," Dick heard finally. Batman emerged from the costume vault soon afterward, stalking toward the car, sitting ready on the turntable.

"Don't you want to know why I won't be around for awhile?" Dick asked, telling himself he wasn't offended, nor surprised in the least, that Batman hadn't so much as acknowledged that he'd said anything.

The car's roof canopy slid open. Batman stood there in front of the vehicle, staring straight ahead. "You're using the computer to book a flight back to Bern, so I assume you want to return to the Cathedral of St. Dumas to investigate whatever it is you think you discovered there."

Dick swiveled his chair around away from the console to face Batman. Dick stared at him, brow wrinkled, intently suspicious. "What the fuck do you mean what I 'think' I discovered?"

Batman shook his head once. "I didn't mean anything."

"Do you know about this? Do you know what was in that file?" Dick stood up at the chair. Batman continued to stare straight ahead. "Bruce . . ."

"No," said Batman. "No, Dick. I don't know what was in that file. But, I think it might be in your best interest to examine why you're going all the way back to Switzerland -- at all -- but especially now."

Dick shook his head, not understanding. "What -- because we just barely got out of there with our asses? . . . In the eight years I've known you, you've gone a lot farther for a lot less."

Batman said nothing for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he turned his back to Dick and started to climb into the car. "Go to Switzerland if you feel you have to," he told Dick. He said nothing else. The car's roof canopy slid shut and locked. Less than a minute later, the turntable was empty, and Dick was alone in the cave. He looked at the turntable for a long time, then traced the path from there, across the elevator bridge, and as far into the access tunnel as he could before his eyes were met with nothing but darkness.

Karsted, New Jersey
11:06 p.m.

"It's a small town, you know. Only a few hundred people, by my admittedly uninformed estimation. Your best bet would probably be to ask around, as quaint as that seems. Everyone is bound to know everyone. Someone should be able to tell you where to find Jacob Arken. . . . Of course, faced with someone of your . . . exceptional countenance, those whom you confront might be prone to fabrication, however involuntary. You'll have to decide whether or not you're being lied to, I'm afraid. It's a decision you'll have to make for yourself, each time."

-- the last words Cobblepot had said before the transfer to the Starkey Hospital.

The coin said to start on the even side of the street.

The town was as small as Cobblepot had said, if not smaller -- essentially a single street. From here, at the southern edge, to the only intersection, in the center of town, there were twelve houses lined up, one next to another, on either side of the street, for a total of twenty four.

Directly ahead were the first two buildings on this side: 2 Main Street and 4 Main Street. But, as to which one to enter first . . .

The hospital pants Two-Face was wearing had pockets. He reached his hand into the pocket on the right side, and it moved around as though he were passing something through his fingers, over and again. When his hand came out, it held his coin. He continued to hold it in his fingers, not looking at it, just running his thumb across both sides of its tarnished silver surface.

The coin rang off of his thumbnail as it was flipped into the air. Two-Face caught it in the palm of his right hand and slapped it promptly onto the back of his left, which still held the 9-millimeter he'd used to shoot his way out of the hospital. Two-Face looked at the coin a moment, whichever side it was that came up, immediately pocketed it again, and walked up the stairs of the concrete stoop outside 4 Main Street.

Harold Kesey heard someone trying to turn the knob of his locked front door, and stood from his seat on the couch. He was a bald, pot-bellied man of sixty-eight, with what his nineteen year-old grandson often described as "flabby old-man arms".

Before Harold got to the door, two gunshots rang out suddenly, and the doorknob was jolted soundly with both shots. The door opened, and a man dressed all in lightweight white cotton, carrying a handgun down at his right side, walked inside. Harold opened his mouth to mutter "Oh my God" when he first saw the man's scarred and mutilated face, but ended up saying nothing.

"A man named Conrad Wilton was murdered in this town several days ago," the disfigured intruder said to Harold, raising the handgun on him. "Who killed him?"

Of course Harold knew what this man was talking about. It had been only the second murder in Karsted in almost a decade. The victim, something of a local hood, was found in the garbage dumpster in the parking lot of the Burger King about a half-mile outside of town. Harold was damned if he knew who killed that boy. He looked at this man in front of him, looked at the gun pointed at him, and shook his head helplessly. "I-- . . . I'm not able to tell you that . . ."

The scarred man shifted the gun to his left hand and reached into the pocket of his cotton pants with his right. He came out with a coin -- what looked like an old Liberty-head silver dollar -- and flipped it into the air. Holding his hand out flat, he caught the coin in his palm and closed his fist around it. A moment later, he opened his fist and looked down at the coin.

The silver dollar was pocketed, and Harold Kesey was shot twice in the left shoulder. He fell back hard on his living room floor and felt the breath leave his body in a punishing rush. He quickly gasped for air, and tried to sit upright, his right hand clutching his aching and bleeding shoulder.

"Who in this town would know the answer to our question?" Harold was asked. He could only shake his head.

"I . . . don't know . . . I--"

The coin was flipped again. Then the gun was raised and Harold was shot twice more, this time in the head.

"Jesus Christ! . . . that makes six!" Paul whispered excitedly, turning away from the window.

There were four of them in Paul's bedroom, all seventeen: Paul, Andy, Cody, and Orrin. Paul sat back on his bed below the window and looked at his friends. Orrin and Cody sat close next to each other against the wall on the other side of the room, Andy hung close to the door. The gunshots had sounded so close-by that Andy had flipped off the lights moments after the first two rang out, less than three minutes ago now.

"Fuck! Did he kill Harold?" Orrin asked, looking nervously from Paul, to Cody next to him.

Paul looked out his window at Harold Kesey's house across the street. The front door was open, and Paul could just make out about half of the living room. But he couldn't see anyone inside -- Kesey's house was the second in town on his side, and Paul lived four houses in. "I don't know," he said, turning away from the window, shaking his head. "I can't see anyone inside."

Orrin pushed off from the wall and got to his feet. He walked over to Paul's side of the room and pushed him aside to see out the window. After a few seconds peering out, he returned to his spot next to Cody, muttering something about how he couldn't see anything either.

"Man, what the hell is going on?" Cody asked as Orrin sat back down next to him. "Who would want to kill Harold, man?"

"Don't ask me, man," said Paul, looking out the window again, still seeing nothing from Harold Kesey's house.

Andy let out a heavy sigh from the doorway. He was shaking his head, looking down at the carpet. "Why would anyone want to kill anyone, man?"

"Don't start," Paul told Andy, shooting him a stern look.

"What . . . ?" said Andy self-consciously, palms out.

Paul shook his head at him. "You with your philosophy bullshit," he said, pointing an annoyed finger. "Just don't even start, all right?"

"I wasn't meaning to start a-- a discussion, or anything," said Andy after a roll of his eyes. "I was just saying, that's all. What kind of a person would do--"

"Listen to Paul, Andy," Cody said abruptly.

"What?" Andy asked, stopping and turning to Cody for clarification, although Paul was certain it was no more than posturing.

"Shut-up, Andy," Cody said, staring at him sharply and nodding his head. "Listen to Paul and shut-up."

"Fine, fine," Andy muttered, crossing his arms. "Jesus Christ . . ."

Paul looked out the window again. The figure of a man appeared at the open doorway in the front of Harold Kesey's house, and walked down the concrete front steps. A gun was clearly visible in his right hand. The man turned immediately to the left and started toward the house next to Harold's -- 2 Main Street.

"He's going toward Bobby and Jill Smythe's now," Paul told his three friends as he sat back down on his bed. Everyone was silent. Everything was silent, until two more shots rang out a few seconds later.

Orrin now sat tensely, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them. He rocked back and forth deliberately three or four times, then piped up: "Do you think anyone's called 9-1-1 yet?"

Cody, next to him, shrugged. "I'd say probably."

"One more couldn't hurt, I guess," Paul said as he reached across his nightstand for the phone.

Emergency Dispatch Office
New Jersey State Police Barracks
Camden, New Jersey
11:10 p.m.

This one coming in was the fifth in as many minutes. Sitting to the right of Beth, Neil and Brandy were each still on the phone with one, and to the left of Beth, Nina had just gotten off with one. "Emergency Dispatch: What is your emergency?" Beth said, answering this latest call.

The voice belonged to a young man, probably not too much younger than Beth herself, who was three days shy of twenty. "Yeah, um . . . me and my friends, we heard gunshots a few minutes ago, and I looked out the window to see this guy breaking into one of my neighbors' house."

Beth checked the information now coming in on her computer screen. "You're from Karsted?" she asked the young man on the phone.

"Yeah, I am." He sounded relieved, although just a bit. "We figured you would've gotten some other calls before this one."

"Yeah, we've gotten four so far besides yours, . . . um -- what's your name?"

"Um, my name is Paul."

Beth typed a bit on her keyboard. "All right."

"Do you need, like, a last name? Is this for anything?" Paul asked.

"Nothing except for making conversation a lot easier, Paul," Beth told him. "Could you tell me where your house is, though? It's so I can get an idea of where you are as opposed to these other callers we've gotten."

"Okay. I'm at Seven Main Street."

"And this house that the man with the gun went into -- where's that?"

"That's Harold Kesey's, at Four Main Street, but he just left there and went into the neighbor's, at Two."

"He went into another house?"

"Yeah."

"So you're across the street from him?"

"Sort of. Across the street and down a little bit, like."

Beth typed a bit more on her keyboard. "Okay. Listen, Paul, you and your friends there just sit tight. Stay where you are; we've already dispatched the state police to your town from these earlier calls. With yours now, I'm gonna send 'em a little message saying 'Get the lead out', all right?"

"Yeah, okay. Thanks a lot . . ." He sounded ready to hang-up the phone.

"Just hold on with me, all right, Paul?" Beth said. "You say you can see the man with the gun from your house?"

"Yeah, I can see him. . . . Well, I could. I think he's in the Smythe's house now."

"All right. They're the house at Two Main Street you mentioned?"

Before Paul answered, Beth could hear two more gunshots over the phone. Paul was a few seconds in saying something else. "Christ, there were two more shots." Another two shots came a moment later. "Christ, two more."

"I know, I know -- I heard them. Paul, this man with the gun hasn't seen you guys in the house?"

"No. No, he hasn't even looked over in this direction, I don't think."

Beth typed again on her keyboard, reporting the additional gunshots. "Paul, I need you to stay on the line with me until I tell you it's okay to go, all right? I need you to help us out until the police get there, keeping peeking out your window to see where the man with the gun is going, what he's doing."

"Yeah, okay. Okay."

"But don't let him see you."

"Yeah, okay. I won't. . . . How long do you think until the cops get here?"

Beth swallowed. "Probably at least fifteen minutes, still, before they get there, Paul."

"Oh, Jesus . . ."

"But I've told them about the additional gunshots, and I'll keep updating them with what you tell me, so they'll not be observing the speed limits on the way out there, all right? And they'll be in pretty good shape, with all this information I can give them from you, once they arrive."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Just stay on the line with me for a little while. We don't have to talk the whole time, but in case you want to, my name is Beth."

"Okay," Paul said. "Hi, Beth . . ."

Karsted, New Jersey
11:13 p.m.

Whoever lived in the house at 2 Main Street had to have been dead. Two-Face emerged from the house and started immediately toward the building at 6. He walked on a bit, and stood almost exactly between 6 and 8 Main Street. He flipped his coin, caught it, and flipped it onto the back of his gun-toting left hand. Two-Face then pocketed the coin again, and started toward the front steps of the house at 8.

Two shots from the 9-millimeter rendered the lock on the door useless. Two-Face turned the knob and walked inside, leaving the door wide open.

Another pair of shots, then another. Maybe five full seconds where nothing was heard. Then two more shots, and a man's scream of raw pain -- it sounded more like emotional pain than physical, although who could be sure? A man who looked to be somewhere in his forties was shoved out the front door, his right shoulder bloodied and his right arm hanging useless at his side. Two-Face emerged from the house right behind him, and snaked a hand out to grab the man by his thick black hair. "Then show it to us," Two-Face demanded. He sounded pissed, impatient -- snarling at the guy.

The wounded man was shoved out to the curb in front of his home, where he stood nearly doubled-over with Two-Face directly behind him. A brutal jerk of the hair from Two-Face brought the man snap-upright, his face a tense shade of red. "Over there . . . over there," he said, gasping frantically for air. He was pointing to a house across and up the street, probably either 9 or 11 Main, but exactly which one was hard to tell.

"Which one?" Two-Face demanded, apparently uncertain himself.

" . . .the light-blue one," the man said. That would make it the house at 9 Main Street. The man was trying to sink to his knees, but was unable due to the hand on his hair. A moment later, Two-Face released him. The wounded man collapsed onto the sidewalk, sitting on his knees, slumped forward, groaning and crying in various kinds of pain.

Two-Face flipped his coin. He looked at it, pocketed it, and stepped forward a bit from where he was standing to shoot the man twice in the back of his head.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
Gotham City
11:17 p.m.

Gordon had been sitting behind his desk doing nothing for about five minutes. He didn't move at first when his phone went off, just stared at it for two rings. Just as the third ring started, Gordon leaned forward easily and picked up the handset. "Yes?"

"Gordon."

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you," Gordon said, pushing away from the desk and leaning back in his chair. He sighed, not optimistic. "Any news?"

"I'm still at least ten minutes outside of Karsted," Batman said. "Dent's gone into the town; the state police were dispatched several minutes ago."

"They'll be there before you, then . . ."

"Almost certainly." The line was silent for a few seconds. Gordon couldn't even hear him breathing. "While I have the time, I'd like you to tell me what you were told regarding his escape from the hospital," Batman said finally.

So it isn't a personal call, then . . .

"There were no surviving witnesses to his actual escape," Gordon said, taking a breath before he began. "A Dr. Ronald Epkins was present right up until the shooting started. He's the closest we've got to a witness. But he was shoved into an elevator by a hospital guard before everything went down, so he's essentially useless."

"How did he get the gun?"

"As far as I know, he wasn't searched before the transfer by anyone other than asylum personnel . . . which is a glaring mistake in hindsight . . . and I take full responsibility. . . . He probably had the gun and the ammo the entire time, kept it concealed beneath his clothes."

There was silence for a short while. "The reports I've managed to pick up so far list five deaths at the hospital . . ." Batman said after a few seconds, trailing off.

Gordon sighed heavily and leaned forward toward his desk. He held the phone between his shoulder and chin, and reached for a manila folder near the center of the desktop. Inside were several sheets of fax paper. He flipped through them briefly, pulling the third one out in front of him. "Molly Kensube, nurse; Tully Minoba, night-watchman; Victor Korynski and Phillip Reynolds, New Jersey State Police; and Daryl Berns, night-watchman." Gordon put the paper back in its place in the folder, closed the folder, and shoved it across the desk away from him.

Gordon listened, but Batman said nothing more. The line went dead after a few seconds.

En Route to Karsted, New Jersey
11:23 p.m.

Four more reported gunshots. An emergency dispatcher in Camden had some kid from Karsted on the phone, and was reporting everything as it happened. The gunman had just left 9 Main Street, and was starting for the neighbors' house at 7. The kid on the line was calling from that house. Time was officially up.

His hands gripped the wheel tighter even than they had before. His jaw muscles tightened, his eyes narrowed and all he saw was the road. A moment's glance at the speedometer gave him 73 MPH; his foot smashed the accelerator until it was up to 80. He shifted his hand position again, tightening his grip even further then.

"Bart, are you all right?"

Eyes off the road for a moment, having to be pulled away -- it took an effort. Officer Flannery -- Darren -- was looking at him from the side-seat. "What?" Officer Grove asked, although he'd heard what Flannery had said the first time.

"I asked are you all right," Officer Flannery repeated. "You're zoning out over there."

Officer Grove answered with a succinct "Yes." He added "I'm fine" a moment later.

Officer Flannery was still staring at him from the passenger seat. Flannery gave a satisfied nod, then looked ahead at the road for himself. "Just . . . slow down, all right? I can't hardly even see Panzer's lights behind us."

"That's not my fault, and I'm not slowing down," Grove responded, immovable. "The bastard's still shooting people, for Christ's sake. They should be beside me -- ahead of me, instead of back there. They're getting the same damn reports I am."

"We, Bart," Officer Flannery said, as if he were reminding him. "Don't forget me."

"Just shut-up until we get there," Grove told his partner. "And, stay shut-up when we get there. No time for chatter." He turned from the road and looked sharply at Officer Flannery. "Not this time, Darren."

Flannery was quiet from then on.

7 Main Street
Karsted
11:24 p.m.

"Shit! He's coming over here! . . . I think I just heard my door opening downstairs! Shit!"

"Okay, okay! Paul, what I want you to do is to just settle down and keep quiet! You and your friends, just stay where you are and keep quiet!"

Paul listened to Beth, gripping the phone tightly with both hands. Orrin and Cody were still scared shitless against the wall, but Andy had taken two big steps away from the door when Paul heard the latch opening downstairs.

"Paul, is there a lock on your bedroom door?"

"No, there isn't one," Paul told her, and mentally cursed himself -- if he hadn't accidentally locked himself in the room when he was four and then cried because he couldn't get out, the fucking door would have a lock on it. "Jesus! I swear to God I just heard the door open downstairs -- what am I supposed to do?!"

He could hear Beth starting to breathe a little heavier; she must've been getting nervous, too. Waiting for her to say something, Paul found himself wishing like hell that he'd locked the damn kitchen door before everyone came upstairs for the night. Around here, it wasn't considered a necessity, really, but Jesus Christ . . . Paul all-of-a-sudden felt completely naked, like he'd been naked and standing in front of that open door downstairs this whole time.

"Block the door with something!" Beth suggested, pegging on "Can you do that?" a few moments later.

"Yeah," Paul said, standing up from his bed and looking around the room for a few seconds before he actually saw his bed. He looked at Andy, who was standing nervously near the middle of the room. Paul motioned for him to come over here and help him move this bed, but it took Andy a second to react. "Damn," Paul muttered, looking at the bed against the wall. "Um, I'm gonna have to put the phone down."

"Give it to one of your friends then," Beth said. "I don't want to hear dead air, all right?"

"Yeah, okay. Here's my friend Orrin." Paul started to pick up the phone and toss it to Orrin, but realized part-way through that the cord from the phone to the jack in the wall wasn't long enough. He motioned hastily for Orrin to stand up, come over here, and take the phone, which Orrin did, after a shove forward from Cody.

"Hi. This is Orrin," he said after taking the phone.

Paul wrenched the head of the bed away from the wall with one mighty pull, then quickly slipped into the space created, motioning for Andy to get in there with him. Together, they pushed the bed, wood screeching against wood, across the floor and tight against the door.

". . . but he fuckin' knows we're here now," Orrin said into the phone.

"Beth?" Paul said when he'd taken the phone from Orrin. "The door's blocked, but it made a lotta noise on my floor, so he's gotta know we're up here now."

"All right, but he can't get in for right now," Beth assured him. "Just stay on the phone with me, keep quiet, and try to hang in there until help gets there."

Paul settled down on the floor between the wall and the bed, and braced his legs against the back of the bed, motioning for Andy to come and do the same on the other side. "I thought you didn't want any dead air," Paul said as Andy stepped over him and sat down on the floor in the corner.

"Just breathe, Paul," Beth told him.

Emergency Dispatch Office
New Jersey State Police Barracks
Camden, New Jersey
11:27 p.m.

He was a good listener: not a word for the last minute or so, just an inhale, then an exhale, and so on. "Paul," Beth said, "I'm taking my head-set off to try and get some information for you, but I'm putting you on speakers, so I'll still be able to hear you. All right?"

"Okay," Paul said, whispering.

"I'll be right back." Beth put her head-set down and turned up the speaker next to her monitor. Paul was still breathing, and now everyone could hear it. Beth stood up and looked around: Brandy was off the phone. "Brandy!" Beth called to her. "How long before they get to Karsted?"

Brandy held up an index finger. She looked at her monitor and typed something. "Yeah, Don? See how far those guys are from Karsted, could you?" She put her hand over the microphone of her head-set and turned to Beth, whispering "It'll be a second." After four seconds, Brandy looked up and turned back to her monitor. "Uh-huh . . . Okay. Yeah. . . . No. Thanks, Don." Brandy turned back to Beth. "Don Simmons just talked to one of the officers in the second car, and he said that the lead car ought to be there in about two or three minutes, since he was doing, like, eighty before they finally lost sight of him up ahead of 'em."

"Two or three minutes? Great!" Beth turned down the speaker and put her head-set back on. "Paul?"

"You're back?"

"Just try to hold on for two or three minutes, okay? And the first of the police should be there."

"Okay, okay."

"They know he's in your house already, so they'll come straight there. Just hang on," Beth reassured him, praying at the same time that she'd be able to make it that long herself.

7 Main Street
Karsted
11:28 p.m.

Two gun-shots, and the doorknob shook.

"He's right outside the door, Beth," Paul whispered into the phone, with a terror now that made him long for the mere unease of just a few minutes ago.

"Keep him out! No matter what, don't let him in the door!" Beth urged him. "Just hang on a little more!"

The doorknob turned, and the door came open a crack. "Oh, shit!" Orrin hissed, then quickly covered his mouth.

"Fuck it; he knows we're in here already," Cody said anxiously. He then stood and stepped quickly across the room. He nearly tripped over Paul, but made it to the floor between he and Andy, where Cody sat down against the wall and pushed his feet against the back of the bed along with theirs.

The door was pounded twice from the other side, so violently that Paul felt the vibration through the bed. It ran from his feet up along his spine. The door shook two more times, and then there was nothing for what seemed like a long time. It couldn't have been longer than a few seconds, though; Beth was cut-off in mid-sentence by the next blow to the door. "Paul, is the door--" she said. Then, the door was pushed open another inch or so by a loud, mighty strike. Another blow, of at least equal force, followed less than a second later, and the door came open still further.

"Paul? Paul!" Beth said again, louder than she'd been at any time during the call. "Is the door still shut? Are you all right?"

When Paul spoke to her, it was in a low, strained voice; every inch of him was fighting toward pushing the bed against the door. "He's not in yet, but -- FUCK!" Paul groaned outloud as the bed screeched back another two inches, forcing his legs back on him.

A cotton-draped arm appeared through the narrow opening in the door and braced itself against the wall inside the room. A moment later, the bed began to slide back again, and the door slowly opened wider. The arm inched in further, then a shoulder, forcing the door open even more.

"They'd better hurry up, Beth!" Paul yelled into the phone. "He's coming in!"

On the phone, Beth was stammering nervously. "Hide!" she finally blurted out. "Hide under the bed and keep quiet!"

"What?"

A leg was squeezing through the door.

"Do it!" Beth cried. "And hang up the phone so he won't see it!"

Paul looked to his left, at Andy and Cody, and motioned for them to slide beneath the bed. They did, swinging their legs away from the headboard and slipping beneath it under the bed. Paul followed suit a second later, barely able to hold the bed in place himself, pulling the entire phone with him. The bed lurched forward several more inches over them.

"Paul, are you still here?!" Beth asked excitedly. "Hang up the phone!"

"It plugs in at the bottom of the wall behind the bed," Paul said, whispering so low he hoped she could hear him. "It's okay."

"All right, but just stay quiet!" Beth implored him.

The hardwood floor creaked as it bore the footsteps of the intruder. His voice was low and cold and merciless when Paul heard him ask "Do you know where Jacob Arken is?"

"Oh, shit! Orrin!"

-- Paul had thought it; Andy had said it. It had been a whisper, but he'd definitely said it. Paul just closed his eyes and prayed to God that he and Cody had been the only ones to hear it. And, when the thought occurred to him a moment later, he prayed for Orrin, too.

The intruder's gun went off twice. Paul kept his eyes squeezed shut. Beside him, he thought he could hear Andy starting to cry. Paul could hear Orrin moaning in pain, but could see nothing -- the sheets and comforter hung from the mattress down to the edge of the bed, and Paul couldn't have moved them if he wanted to -- he'd just realized he couldn't move his arms.

Paul sensed movement directly over him. It took him a moment, but with a look to the side he realized that the mattress had just been lifted off the bed. With the sheets and comforter out of the way, he could see Orrin slumped against the wall, holding his right thigh, which was running over red with blood and forcing still more over Orrin's hands. There was the sound of the door slamming shut, probably from the force of the mattress being thrown back against it. There was nowhere else it could've gone.

The box-spring set was next. Lifting it took longer than the mattress, but the intruder apparently found his grip, and tilted it up on its edge and back against the wall. Paul didn't look up -- he couldn't -- but he was acutely aware that there was nothing above his head. He instinctively covered the back of his head with his hands, interlocking his fingers tightly. He squeezed his fingers together at the knuckles until they hurt, then tried with everything he had to focus on that pain and nothing else. But the intruder's voice didn't allow that to happen.

"Where is Jacob Arken?" the voice asked. Paul was almost certain there was a gun pointed at his head, but he clung to the rapidly dissipating hope that he was wrong.

Jacon Arken? It was the second time he'd heard the name, but the first time he'd really processed it. "Jacob Arken?" he repeated outloud.

"We know this is where he lives. Where is he?"

Paul swallowed hard and squeezed his fingers again. ". . . Jacob Aster lives here," he fumbled out. His leg caught on fire a moment later. The gun-shots didn't register until a second or so after that first sweep of pain.

"Where is he?" the intruder asked again.

"He lives in the basement," Paul said. He tried to imagine his knuckles turning white as he squeezed his fingers against each other even harder.

Paul heard the high ding of metal on . . . something. Soon after that, two gun-shots were followed a moment later by two more, and then two more. Six. Paul realized that Orrin, Andy, and Cody were all dead. A second later, Paul was shot twice in the back of the head. His hands, fingers knit tight together though they were, proved useless. Before the shots came, Paul's eyes slid back and forth behind their shut lids as he tried to remember what the last thing was that he saw. He decided it must've been the back of the headboard.

Jacob Arken was crouched partially behind an old couch, holding a .45 with both hands and cursing himself for not getting the fuck out of Dodge on Friday when he had the chance. But, that would've been suspicious. That's what he told himself when he decided to stick around for awhile longer. You had to be so goddamn smart . . .

He shook his head and focused, making sure the gun was aimed at the door to the stairs. He comes through the door, you got 'im. That's it. Done. It's over. You live here . . . he's got a gun, he's killed everybody in the fuckin' town. . . . Self-defense, through and through. Better, if that's even fuckin' possible. . . .

There was noise on the steps. Jacob Arken quickly checked the gun to make sure he'd chambered his first shot. He thought he remembered doing it, but felt compelled to make certain. When he was satisfied, he re-took his aim at the door. The noise on the steps stopped for a moment, then began to recede -- whoever had started to come down the stairs to the basement was now heading back up.

It took a few more tense seconds, but Jacob Arken lowered the gun and slipped back behind the couch. He closed his eyes and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn't let go of the gun.

11:33 p.m.

The cruiser that pulled into town and stopped in front of 7 Main Street belonged to the New Jersey State Police, and it was alone. Two state cops climbed out. They drew their guns immediately and started warily toward the house's open door. One of them, the cop who'd been in the car's passenger seat, got two bullets in the forehead almost immediately. Two more shots were fired almost immediately after, but the other cop had run to the side as soon as he realized the man they were after had appeared in the doorway with a gun.

The cop had his .45 ready and was pressed flat against the wall of the house, right beside the front steps, beneath and to the right of the door. Two-Face knew he was there, and turned in that direction immediately. The cop saw him coming and shot three times rapidly. Two-Face shuffled to the side just before the shooting started, and it looked like only the first shot touched him, and that hit didn't appear anymore serious than a grazing.

While the cop, back against the wall, slid to his right and around the corner of the house, Two-Face ducked back inside. He appeared at the window to the left of the front door, and broke it out with his gun. The cop, who'd been waiting around the corner, heard the glass shatter and swung back around to the front, gun blazing. He blew off four more shots, rapid-fire, non of which found Two-Face, who disappeared from the window almost as soon as the cop came back from around the corner.

Two-Face reappeared framed in the doorway a moment later, his back to the outside, moving quickly through another doorway and disappearing down a set of steps. Audible several seconds later was the sound of a door slamming shut.

Jacob Arken brought the gun to his chest when he heard the door close. He checked one more time out of compulsion to see that the first shot was chambered. His grip around the handle tightened tensely. He put his feet under him, and readied himself to turn, rise above the back of the couch, and fire. Before that happened, a familiar voice came to him. It said "Jacob Arken" urgently.

Arken said nothing.

"Get up, Arken," the voice ordered insistently. "Don't make us come find you."

Arken slid across the floor toward the end of the couch to his left. He braced himself with his left hand and prepared to pivot all his weight on it. After another second had passed, and a nervous breath had been taken, Arken moved out from behind the couch, gun-arm swinging up. He found Two-Face and fired immediately. Two-Face had seen him, fired two shots of his own, and ran for the other end of the couch. To keep covered, Arken crouched lower than ever below the arm of the couch. Two-Face, he realized, was on the other end. The length of the couch was all that separated them now.

The basement door opened and a New Jersey state cop came in, low, and gun ready. He saw Arken just about the same time Arken saw him. Arken raised his gun, but two shots rang out before he could squeeze his trigger. Blood flew from the cop's neck and the side of his head, and he slumped to the floor.

As Arken quickly regained his focus on the situation, he turned from the basement door back to the couch. As he did so, he realized that Two-Face had already moved from the end of the couch to the back. Arken saw Two-Face's .9-millimeter raised on him, and he was shot twice in the forehead.

11:37 p.m.

The second State Police cruiser pulled in right behind the first, and the two cops jumped out, department-issue .45's in hand and ready. It was impossible to see down the stairs inside 7 Main, but judging from the gunfire that had just come from the basement, either the mission was accomplished or Two-Face was dead. The two state cops started warily for the open front door. They definitely noticed the body of the dead officer near the first cruiser, but kept going.

"Careful, Trooper." The voice came from a tall, sturdy-looking gray-haired man standing on the stoop of a house up the street. He was holding a shotgun across his chest, and he looked willing to use it.

The first of the state cops, the one who had been about to enter the house, just nodded at the man and motioned for him to get the hell back in his house. The man with the shotgun gave a hesitant nod, and slipped back inside. The two state cops entered the house then, and positioned themselves so that one was on either side of the doorway looking down on the stairs.

The third car to arrive on the scene was sleek and low to the ground and so black that Quentin didn't even see it at first. And, when he did realize it was there, it took him another second or so to realize exactly what it was. He'd never actually seen it before. He should've guessed it would show up sooner or later, though.

Quentin put the binoculars down against the bottom of the chimney of 8 Main, where he'd been perched since shortly after Two-Face entered the building across the street. Watching to ensure success had been perfectly do-able up until now. But Two-Face was cornered in the basement having murdered a whole slew of people in the last few minutes, including a pair of New Jersey State cops, and the Batman had just emerged from the top of his shadow car. Quentin walked to the edge of the roof and stepped off. He landed easily on the sidewalk below.

The Batman had seen him almost immediately, and was walking straight toward him. A blue-gloved hand was thrust out from the folds of the same-colored cloak, and Quentin felt a sharp pain in his right thigh and another in the right side of his torso. He ignored the pain as best he could, and focused on the Batman, who was advancing much faster now.

Quentin faked a hard right to the Batman's head, and connected with a solid left to the stomach. It didn't double Batman over, but it drove him back a step. Quentin pulled his fist away quickly, but Batman's hand snaked out and found his right forearm instead. Batman wrenched the arm behind Quentin's back and pulled until he dislocated it at the shoulder, then punched him hard in the side of the head and tripped him face-first to the sidewalk.

Rolling over, Quentin looked up to see Batman already halfway across the street. Sitting up, he could see inside 7 Main, too: the two state cops were looking at Batman approaching them. "Behind you!" the Batman yelled suddenly.

Two-Face burst past the two cops a moment later and charged out of the house. The staties recovered and fired off two shots apiece after the fleeing figure in white, none of which looked to have hit. Two-Face turned hard to his right immediately and slipped down the narrow alley between 7 and 9 Main Street. Batman got there before the state cops did, and followed him in.

Four shots rang out almost immediately -- first two, then a pause of less than a second, then two more. Then silence. The lamp-posts along Main Street did almost nothing to illuminate the alley between the houses, so Quentin couldn't even make out the shapes of the two men back there. The state cops remained fast in front of the house, but both watched the opening to the alley intently, .45's ready.

The Batman emerged from between 7 and 9 Main after about twenty seconds. He had Two-Face by the bullet-grazed left arm, and pulled him toward the waiting state cops.

One of the state cops stepped up and brought his gun in front of him, as if about to take aim. He stopped though, and looked at Batman. "You'll want to get out of the way," the cop said.

Batman didn't move away, but didn't make any attempt to step protectively in front of Two-Face, either. He just said, "Kill him now and it's murder."

The cop raised his gun up to eye level, and his eye was on Two-Face. Batman still didn't move. "See Officer Flannery's body over there?" the cop asked, addressing Batman. "That murdering fuck in front of you killed him."

"I know," Batman said. "Put your gun away, or I'll take it from you."

The cop didn't put the gun away, so Batman took it from him -- the left arm that had been hiding beneath the cloak lashed out, and the gun was dropped a moment later as the cop grabbed his wrist, wearing agony on his face. Quentin couldn't see exactly what it was, but he assumed that the cop had a small, black, bat's wing-shaped razor half-buried in his wrist -- just like the ones Quentin had pulled from his leg and side.

The second cop still had his gun, and had it out and ready. Batman, still holding Two-Face by the arm, advanced calmly on the cop and pulled the weapon from his hand as confidently as a parent relieving a child of a troublesome toy. The gun was tossed to the sidewalk. Batman's hand went to the belt of the man in front of him and plucked away the cop's hand-cuffs. With them, he secured Two-Face's hands behind his back, and shoved him down hard against the side of one of the cruisers.

Batman started back toward his car. "The murder weapon is still in the alley," he said to the cop before he climbed back in the car and drove away.

It wasn't long after the Batman's car disappeared into the absolute black outside of town that the two state cops got on the radio and called for help. Flashing lights were all over the place inside half an hour.

Quentin had returned to the roof of 8 Main by the time Batman took the gun from the second cop, unnoticed. He kept out of sight, sat behind the chimney until the police cars and ambulances had gone. That wasn't for over three hours. He reset his shoulder while he waited.

Monday
Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
12:14 a.m.

Gordon felt a breeze come in from behind him. He didn't even need to look up to know who it was. "I really should be getting home and to bed," Gordon said.

"Why don't you?" Batman asked, standing next to the window.

"I don't know." Gordon remained seated, and didn't even look at Batman until he'd been in the office for almost a full minute. "Maybe I would have already if I thought it would do any good."

Batman gave no verbal response. He outstretched his arm and tossed something on the desk. Gordon looked down and saw an old Liberty-head silver dollar, its face scratched and marred. "Bad-side up," Gordon remarked, now looking up at Batman.

"Flip it over," Batman told him.

Gordon did flip it over. The other face bore an image of a Liberty-head, scratched and marred. Gordon flipped the coin over again, looked at it, then flipped it back. He repeated the process. The two heads were identical, down to the very scratches in the surface. Gordon looked up at Batman, at a loss.

"I took that coin from Harvey Dent in Karsted," Batman said.

"Someone slipped him another coin . . ." Gordon said, staring down at the coin on his desk. "What must've happened to his real coin?"

Batman was looking down at the desk when Gordon glanced up at him a moment later. "That is his real coin."

Gordon's eyes shot back to the silver dollar on the desk. He flipped it over, and over again, trying all of a sudden to eye its every detail. "How can you tell, exactly?" he asked. No answer. Gordon looked up: Batman was gone. Gordon put the coin back down on the desk and stood up to close the window.

Emergency Dispatch Office
New Jersey State Police Barracks
Camden, New Jersey
12:17 a.m.

"Sorry, Beth. I know I'm, like, fifteen minutes late."

Beth shook her head. "Seventeen," she corrected him, her voice flat.

Stan hung up his jacket, and shrugged as he walked over to his computer, where Beth still sat. "Fifteen by my watch. Anyway, get up and go home."

"Yeah. . . . All right." Her voice still had a dead sound to it, no emotion, no relief at being able to go home -- just like she'd had the life sucked out of her by something. Stan watched Beth as she stood, walked straight over to the rack for her jacket, and then pushed straight through the door and out.

Brandy, from Beth's shift, was still here, waiting for her relief. Stan found a small comfort in knowing that someone else was later than he was. "Bye, Beth," Brandy had said before Beth went out the door, with no response given.

Stan sat down at his computer and hung his head-set around his neck, pushing the microphone away from his mouth. The phones were quiet for now. He looked over at the door, and then at Brandy, who had taken her head-set off altogether. "What was wrong with Beth, for Christ's sake?" he asked -- looking back, not in the most sensitive tone of voice.

"She got a rough call tonight, Stan," Brandy said, looking at him as if she'd never seen anyone more disgusting. "All right?"

"Yeah, yeah. All right. Jesus . . ." Stan said, turning away from her and shaking his head and wondering how big was the bug that flew up her cunt. Or "ass", he thought. Maybe it should be "ass"; would a bug up the cunt feel good or not? Hell with it. He put his head-set up and turned around in his chair to face the monitor of his computer. I wonder what the bug that flew up Beth's cunt -- or ass -- was.

Barry showed up to relieve Brandy about five minutes later. Stan liked Barry -- they'd worked the midnight-to-eight together for a good seven months now. Nicholas and Tom were on this shift, too. In between calls, of which there were few this morning, the discussion ranged from sports, to personal stuff, then back to sports. Stan still couldn't believe Steinbrenner was thinking of moving the Yankees over here to Jersey. It just seemed wrong, somehow.