****************
Chapter 1 - The Dead Girl

The girl died on a cold winter morning, slumped in one of the rear cars on the 5:36 train to Bristol. She had ridden the subway all morning, her life ebbing away as the districts and boroughs of Gotham slipped past her glazed-over eyes. The girl had miscarried, bled to death slowly and quietly on the rush-hour train.

The express to one of Gotham�s best neighborhoods was crowded that afternoon with investment bankers, lawyers and corporate executives. They were bound for the suburbs of Bristol Commons, eager for their gated communities, expensive condos and whatever treasures their TiVos had preserved for them. The 5:36 wound through the heart of Gotham: most of the passengers boarded in the financial district. They ignored the urban decay around them as they moved north through the city.

The journey through Gotham on that train was made within a tunnel, beginning in the safe, sanitized canyons of steel-and-glass office towers on Andrews Street, sliding up island along the river through the working-class neighborhoods with their humble townhouses and modest dreams. The tunnel narrowed and fell away as the train entered the East End on an elevated track and the city commuters found themselves sailing above tenements and tract housing, all inked in the sleazy neon of the sex district.

The shadow of the Sprang Bridge passed over the 5:36 as the train rocketed past a village of homeless transients. Gradually, the view outside the shatter-proof windows began to change, and the train emerged in the bright white countryside of Gotham County. Here, and only here, would the rush-hour Bristol commuters look up from their contracts and newspapers to absorb the cultivated nature only the wealthy could afford. The girl had died just as the train passed out of the tunnel; no one had noticed her slip away.

Detective Renee Montoya supervised the initial investigation, ignoring the business-suit clad passengers as easily as they ignored her. Sometimes street kids would board the Bristol 5:36 in the East End by mistake, head out to the suburbs and get on the next train back. Years ago, when she was a lowly beat cop, Montoya had answered more than a few frantic calls from Bristol commuters who wanted the rag-clad refugees from the East End booted from �their� train. She never had to pull a body from the 5:36 before. The Bristol train wasn�t that kind of commute.

Her partner, Crispus Allen, finished interviewing the passengers sitting closest to the dead girl. �They don�t know when she boarded, or at what stop. Not that I�m surprised,� he muttered under his breath, flicking his eyes dismissively over the passengers buried in their late-edition copies of the Gotham Gazette. Others stared vacantly out the window or listened to music stored on sleek, ultra-expensive MP3 players. �I don�t think they�d realize if the Joker boarded this train unless he offered them an investment portfolio.�

�Cause of death?� Montoya asked, scribbling on a notepad.

�The medical response team is ruling out foul play. They think it might have been a botched abortion.� Both detectives glanced at the far end of the train where the girl had been sitting quietly for the hour-long ride between the East End and Bristol. The grated metal floor of the subway car was liquid with her blood.

�And no one saw anything?� Montoya asked loudly. Allen shook his head. None of the passengers would meet her eyes, although this time it was out of a sense of self-preservation rather than the instinctive avoidance learned early in Gotham, even among the affluent. Montoya wrinkled her nose in disgust. The young girl was probably around same age as some of these people�s daughters. Girls like this, bedraggled, desperate, were part of the landscape in Gotham. Eventually, you stopped seeing them.

�Any ID?� Montoya asked, still challenging the commuters with angry brown eyes. Allen shook his head again.

�Nothing except this.� He crouched next to the girl, seemingly unaware of the smell wafting from the emaciated young body. The girl had definitely made a home on the streets of Gotham; she reeked of the city. Montoya tried to ignore the stink of wet garbage and human waste which clung to the girl�s ragged clothing.

Montoya knelt down gingerly, careful not to disturb the position of the body, and brushed matted black hair away from the girl�s face. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, unshed baby fat making her smooth, round face fuller and even younger-looking. Her dark skin accentuated the out-of-place nature of the girl�s body: young black women rarely boarded the 5:36. A fresh scar ran up the girl�s wide forehead, trailing from the eyebrow to the hairline. Knife wound, maybe. Allen was pointing at a piece of jewelry which glittered coldly next to the dead skin of the girl�s throat.

�Is it Catholic?� Allen asked as Montoya fingered the silver-plated cross dangling from a thin chain around the girl�s neck. The cross was delicate, expensive, inlaid with cut flowers. Tiny gemstones accented the petals of the flowers, glowing amidst the streaks of dirt on the dead girl�s body.

Montoya�s gloved fingers traced the contours of the necklace gingerly, careful preserve any possible fingerprints left on the silver-plated cross. �Not Catholic, one of the Protestant faiths, maybe,� she told Allen. �I�ve seen something like it before��

Allen rose, snapping off the rubber gloves he�d been wearing. �Can the ME move the body?�

Montoya nodded, still thinking. The chain slipped out of her fingers as the weight of the cross pulled heavily, falling back to rest against the girl�s skin. �Those gemstones are real, and the cross itself is probably expensive. She should have sold it already for food or drugs. That necklace was important to her.�

Allen frowned, squinting slightly at his partner. �Renee, you�re theorizing. That�s dangerous in our line of work. Facts first, right?�

Montoya rose quickly, glaring at her partner. She was the ranking officer on this case, and Allen knew she didn�t need a lecture on investigative procedure. She tugged off her own pair of gloves, dusting the talcum powder from her hands. �I think your problem is a lack of imagination, Allen,� she said, meeting his eyes evenly. �Let�s head back to Central. I need to check on some things.�

****************

The moon hung low over Police Headquarters, sharing the sky with a slash of bright white light. The Batsignal glowed above the city and as always, Montoya shivered slightly in anticipation, feeling nauseous and excited at the same time.

�Thanks for calling me in on this,� the man beside her said quietly, and Renee smiled.

�No problem, Commish,� she grinned. James Gordon shifted his weight, grunting a bit and leaning heavily on the newly-present wooden cane at his side.

�He certainly is taking his time tonight,� Gordon muttered, wishing he was ten years younger and able to afford a few puffs on a good cigar. And he wouldn�t mind if it were a few degrees warmer so his joints wouldn�t ache so much. �Or maybe it just seems like he�s taking longer these days.�

Montoya bit her lip, wanting to talk to her former commissioner privately before they were interrupted. �I guess you�ve heard about what�s been going on at Central. My badge��

�Is safe,� Gordon informed her. �You�re one of the finest officers on the force, Renee. Your private life won�t change that fact.�

The wind picked up, and Renee bowed her head, letting the cold air blow down her coat collar. She was sweating, nervous as a raw rookie seeing the Signal for the first time. She spoke quickly, hoping to get it out before He arrived.

�They all look at me differently now. Especially Allen. We�ve been partners for two years and he treats me like a stranger.� Montoya shook her head, letting the wind bite into her more deeply. �If I�d been honest from the start-�

�Give them time,� Gordon advised, watching the sky, his eyes focused on the signal. �They accept Maggie Sawyer, don�t they?�

�Maggie never lied to them,� Renee said quietly. �I never wanted anyone to know. I thought it would just be another part of me nobody could see. And now everyone at Central knows I�m gay. My parents��

Gordon took one hand from the knob of his cane, slipping his arm around Renee�s shoulders. �For what it�s worth, I think you�re a hell of an officer. They don�t like your personal life, tough. They�re not the ones who have to live with a secret. And a secret always eats you away in the end.�

Gordon rubbed her shoulder. Renee been at his side since he was Lieutenant Gordon; he�d personally appointed her to the Major Crimes Unit, hand-groomed her as a detective. Montoya had held firm through the Clench, through No Man�s Land and had stayed to morn his retirement. He thought of her as a second daughter, and this latest spot of trouble in her life made him ache for her.

Someone coughed politely behind them and Renee slipped from beneath Gordon�s arm, crossing the roof and switching off the Signal. The ambient light on the rooftop of Central vanished, and Gordon probed the darkness until his eyes readjusted.

�You called?�

Gordon�s face broke into a wide grin, and he felt years of sorrow and experience melt away as the Batman materialized from among the shadows. It always thrilled him, every time. Scared him too. Gordon moved forward stiffly, his cane striking the rooftop with a soft tapping noise.

If Batman was surprised to see the retired Commissioner on the rooftop of Gotham Central, he didn�t show it. His masked face was as impassive as ever, and that made Gordon smile slightly. �Good to see you, old friend,� Gordon whispered, getting to the point as quickly as possible. The Batman didn�t like to waste time.

�We have a break in the Bradshaw disappearance,� Gordon announced loudly enough to let Montoya hear what was said between the two men. Batman extended his hand without a word and Gordon dropped the small silver cross into the vigilante�s gloved palm. Batman examined the cross for a few seconds, his slitted eyes revealing nothing. They had met like this for twelve years and in all that time, Gordon couldn�t ever remember seeing the Batman falter or ask a pointless question.

�Jessica Bradshaw was wearing this the night she disappeared,� Batman said.

Gordon nodded. �Renee thought I�d want in on this, even in an unofficial capacity. Jessica�s been missing for six years, three months. This is the first evidence we have that she might still be alive.�

Gordon knew Batman had already memorized each miniscule detail of the case: he wouldn�t be Batman, otherwise. Jessica Bradshaw had failed to return home from school one day. She attended a private academy in Bristol. Her parents lived in one of the largest homes in Gotham County, and Jessica was due to inherit a quarter of a billion dollars on her eighteenth birthday. As the long, desperate days of searching had drawn to an end, Gordon had given up hope of a ransom demand. Jessica Bradshaw had joined the names of nearly 800,000 other children missing in America each year, and the case was never solved. Gordon kept expecting someone to unearth a skeleton of a young girl in the Gotham countryside sooner or later.

�Where?� Batman asked, his low, gravely voice tense with worry.

�A dead girl on the 5:36 to Bristol,� Montoya told him, watching as the huge, cloaked shadow examined the delicate silver cross, hunched over the piece of jewelry like a creature in a monster movie. Batman turned the cross over in his hand, reading the name of the jeweler engraved on the back. Gordon heard a slight mechanic buzzing noise as a magnifying lens popped into place beneath Batman�s cowl.

�It wasn�t Jessica on the train,� Montoya said quickly. Batman�s head rose, and he inclined his head towards Gordon. The former Commissioner nodded and watched as Batman placed the cross inside a small plastic evidence bag. The plastic bag disappeared instantly into the folds of his cape.

�I know it wasn�t her on the train,� Batman told her. �If it had been, I would have heard about it.� He said it matter-of-factly, but Renee blushed, feeling as though she�d been chastised. Gordon shifted, uncomfortable at the mention of Batman�s mysterious sources. Twelve years, and so many secrets.

�Anything else?� Batman asked, preparing to leave.

Montoya took a deep breath, not wanting to challenge the Batman directly but knowing it was her job to do so. �There�s been trouble in the East End�a building was rigged with explosives, and we pulled six bodies out of the old Robbins Arms Hotel.�

Gordon looked at Montoya in surprise, his brow furrowing beneath his glasses. �That was three months ago,� Gordon pointed out slowly. �Why ask now?�

�We need to know if it�s finished. We know it wasn�t you or your people,� Montoya said quickly, �But if you know something��

Batman�s immobile face was blank. He didn�t respond and after a few minutes of silence, Montoya ducked her head and muttered �Never mind.� She turned and opened the door to the stairwell leading down into the station. Both men watched her go, not speaking or looking at one another until the sound of her footsteps faded.

�Renee is a good officer,� Gordon said, his voice sounding old and frail as it competed with the wind. �She had to ask.�

�I know,� Batman replied, his cape swirling around his broad shoulders, tossed by the wind. �I didn�t have an answer for her.�

Gordon looked at his friend in surprise. �Since when have you not had an answer for every question we�ve ever asked you?�

Batman watched the city below. �I don�t patrol the East End any longer,� he told Gordon. �Whatever happens there�someone else is watching.�

Gordon nodded, pretending to understand, knowing he never really would. �Good luck. I hope you find Jessica,� he said honestly, but his friend was already gone.

****************

Batman landed on the roof of the Gotham Clock Tower, a Wayne building which had survived the quake and now housed his most important weapon in the war on crime. Entering through a secured door on the roof of the clock tower, Batman made his way downstairs to the nerve center of the operation. A glowing bank of computer monitors revealed a small figure sitting in the darkened room. The Oracle already knew he was there.

�Barbara,� he said by way of greeting, �Pull up everything you have on the Bradshaw kidnapping.�

�Hello to you too,� Barbara Gordon smiled, sipping at a warm cup of tea while simultaneously tapping a few keys, bringing up news stories and Gotham County maps on the monitor before her. �How was Dad? Giddy as a schoolboy, basking in the glow of old times?�

Batman didn�t respond and came forward to stand at her back, his eyes skimming the information displayed on the monitors. �Bring up the school photo.�

Barbara complied, tapping a sequence of keys until a school portrait of Jessica Bradshaw came up on the monitor. The girl in the photo smiled shyly, trying to hide a glittering row of braces on her upper and lower teeth. Her blue eyes were hidden behind thick glasses, and her curly brown hair was a frizzy mass of tangles. A smattering of freckles dusted her nose. Jessica Bradshaw looked young, vulnerable, unsure of herself, almost flinching away from the camera in an effort to avoid preserving her adolescent awkwardness for eternity in a yearbook photo. Barbara could see a resemblance between Jessica�s picture and her own portraits from junior high.

�She was thirteen when she disappeared?�

Batman grunted, reaching over Barbara�s shoulder to click the mouse. A detailed history of Jessica�s disappearance scrolled across the computer screen, most of it written by Batman himself. �I was�distracted, at the time. She should have been found sooner.�

Barbara did some quick mental math. Six years ago, when Jessica had disappeared off the face of the earth, Bane had come to Gotham. Batman hadn�t been simply distracted, he�d been engaged in the fight of his life. Barbara thought it was a miracle he remembered the girl�s case at all.

�The necklace,� he murmured, finally locating what he wanted in the mass of information in Jessica�s computer file. �It was a family heirloom, passed from her grandmother to her mother to her. By all accounts, Jessica Bradshaw was close to her family, particularly her grandmother. She would never have given up the cross willingly.�

�Did I miss something?� Barbara asked, frustrated with her mentor�s reluctance to part with information. Dick did the same thing, holding off the final revelation until the last possible moment, drawing out the suspense. Like father, like son. Both of them were hopeless drama queens.

�A young African-American girl was brought into the Gotham County Morgue early this evening. Bring up the information.�

�Just a sec,� Barbara replied, ignoring his rudeness, leaning forward and securing her glasses firmly on the bridge of her nose. �I assume she had Jessica Bradshaw�s necklace on her?�

Batman didn�t respond, scanning the other monitors for criminal activity in the vicinity of the clock tower and mentally plotting a patrol route through the city. Watching him, Barbara was reminded of a machine, coldly analyzing each data stream until it was ready to compute. She shivered, reminding herself to put on a sweater after he left. She took another sip of tea and finished the hack into the files of the Gotham City Morgue.

�Here we go,� she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. With an electronic blip, Barbara located the right file. �Young girl, Jane Doe, DOA. Miscarriage due to incomplete abortion of fetus. She was well into her second trimester, so a legal abortion wasn�t possible in Gotham. I guess she tried to terminate the pregnancy herself, or had a rank amateur attempt it�there�s something in here about a �foreign object�. She bled to death on the subway.� Barbara paused for a moment, clenching her jaw.

Batman�s eyes lingered on the autopsy photos of the unknown girl�s face, mentally contrasting them with Jessica�s school photos. They were both just children.

His voice was gruff as he spoke. �Any chance of an identification?�

Barbara pulled up a map of the Gotham subway system, highlighting the 5:36 Bristol route in red. �That train stops a hundred times between the financial district and Bristol. She could have boarded anywhere. And she could have been riding the train for hours before someone found her.�

�I need an answer, Barbara.�

Barbara leaned back, wrapping her fingers around her warm tea mug. �I could check the subway cameras, see if she shows up. It�ll take time, but I�ll use the facial recognition software and hopefully something�ll turn up.�

She felt him withdraw, getting ready to leave. Barbara turned her head. �Was it good, seeing him up there again?�

�It was fantastic.�

He didn�t say any more, but the simple answer made her smile. Six months ago, he would have left her sitting here in her dark clock tower, taking the information and heading back out into the night. Lately, Batman had been positively chatty. �I�m sure he felt the same,� Barbara told him, smiling. �He misses the work, I think.�

Batman turned to go. �I�ll be in the car. If you find anything, transmit the information. And Barbara,� he paused at the window, �Thanks.�

Barbara Gordon nodded, happier than she�d been in days, marveling that one kind word from Batman could please her so much. She wasn�t his daughter or his lover; she wasn�t even Batgirl any longer. But, like all of the rest of the urban vigilantes in Gotham, she valued his opinion over any other. �Good luck,� she said softly, echoing her father.

****************

She couldn�t stop the blood.

It passed over her and around her, seeping through layers of her clothing and filling her mouth, choking her, trailing scarlet tears down her cheeks. And the crying of children deafened her as the blood flowed in.

Dr. Leslie Thompkins sat up with a jerk, breathing heavily. A large, gloved hand rested on her shoulder and she looked up in fright. Leslie took a second to register her surroundings and closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, forcing her heartbeat to slow, her ragged breathing to steady. He stood over her, watching as she struggled for composure.

�It was a nightmare,� Batman told her, modulating the tone of his voice, comforting her with the low rumble of his baritone. �Are you all right?�

Leslie nodded, tasting salty tears on her lips. She dragged in a deep breath and asked him for a sip of water. He brought the glass to her lips and Leslie accepted it with shaking hands. �Thank you,� she told him, swallowing slowly. �I�m sorry�they come to me like this, sometimes.�

�How bad?�

Leslie�s eyes flew to his face. �Not good, but then not as awful as others I�ve heard about.�

He lowered his eyes at that, taking in his old friend�s threadbare apartment, the ragged coverlet spread over an ancient brass-knobbed bed. Every penny the Wayne Foundation donated to the Crime Alley Clinic went to Leslie�s patient. Every time Bruce Wayne bought Leslie Thompkins some new furniture, a lucky family in the East End had a new bedroom set.

�Are you hurt?� Leslie asked, struggling to her knees, touching his face with the hands of a surgeon or perhaps a mother. He shook his head and stepped back politely as she pulled on a pink terrycloth robe over her nightgown.

�I�m looking for information. A young black girl. You may have seen her�she might have come to you for an abortion.�

�Many do,� Leslie said, going into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and refill her glass with tap water.

�She died yesterday afternoon.�

Leslie watched herself in the darkened bathroom, staring into the dim reflection in the mirror. At this late hour, in the half-light of her bathroom, it was hard to avoid seeing the marks time had left on her face. Wrinkles marred the skin around her eyes and soft lines forged by pain had formed at the corners of her mouth. She would be fifty-five next month, the same age Thomas Wayne would be if� It was hard for her to imagine her old friend with wrinkles and white hair. To Leslie, he would be thirty-five for the rest of his life. �I�m sorry,� she told the mirror. �About the girl, I mean.�

�I know you are,� Batman said quietly. Leslie came out of the bathroom and he held out the morgue shots of the girl on the train that Barbara had printed for him. �Recognize her?�

Leslie adjusted her glasses, looking through the bottom of the bifocal lenses. �She�s local. Yhe Bowery, I think. I�ve seen her in the neighborhood. How did she die?�

�Miscarriage. Botched abortion. I was hoping you could tell me whose work it was.�

Leslie shook her head. �If she had come to me��

�She was six months gone.�

Leslie sat on the bed, her slight weight barely making a dip in the mattress. �She should have come. I could have done something. She didn�t have to resort to-� Leslie broke off, clenching her fists, her eyes closed tightly against the threat of tears.

He didn�t reply, knowing there was nothing he could say. Leslie took responsibility for every death, every lost soul in Gotham. Over the years, Alfred had become extremely critical of such a detrimental way of thinking. Batman had never tried to argue with her. He understood how she felt.

�Why are you interested in this poor girl?� Leslie asked, her voice deeper, sadder.

Batman shifted his weight. �She might have information about the Bradshaw kidnapping. She had a piece of jewelry the Oracle ID�d as belonging to Jessica.�

Leslie took another sip of water, remembering the details of the case which had consumed the city�s media six years ago. �You�ve met the Bradshaws?�

�A few times,� he told her, forcing his mind to recall a dull, wasted night that blended in with so many other charity balls and social functions he attended to benefit the Wayne Foundation. �Jessica has her mother�s eyes.�

�The Bradley family traveled in the same circles as your parents,� Leslie said in the dark room. �I hope this dead girl will lead you to another lost child.�

He nodded, turning to go, but paused as Leslie placed a restraining hand on his arm. �I was hoping you�d stop by. There�s something I wanted to talk to you about.�

Batman turned back to face her, a small, courageous woman drowning in a linen nightgown, her eyes glowing with warmth and love for him, for everyone in the city. �Our girl�s in trouble.�

He extracted his arm from her gentle grip, squaring his shoulders. �Selina?�

Leslie nodded, the lenses of her glasses catching light from the neon sign outside her window. �I assume you�ve been checking up on her?�

Batman started to shrug and then caught himself, feeling as though he were eight years old and preparing himself for a lecture. �She can take care of herself.�

Leslie sighed. �She certainly can. She can take care of herself, and her sister, and her friends, and the entire East End. It doesn�t mean she needs to do it alone.� She smiled at him, softly, wisely. �And she is alone. Especially now. Reminds me of you, when you first started out. She has a long, hard road ahead of her, and her passion for self-destruction rivals even your own. Help her, please. Don�t wait for her to ask.�

Batman nodded and Leslie surprised him as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. After a few seconds, he hugged her back, memories of childhood stirring. He had always been comforted by Leslie, by her warmth and selfless nature. If she hadn�t stepped in after his parents� murder, he knew he would have been lost years ago.

�You are my greatest project,� she told him softly. �You won�t fail at this. You won�t fail her.�

He left as quietly as he had come, a fading memory. If she wanted, Dr. Leslie Thompkins could close her eyes and pretend his coming had been a passing dream. She reminded herself again that Batman was the illusion, Bruce Wayne the reality. The man himself was only coming to realize that.