Issue 7 of 8

Locked Inside the Façade

Now there is no choice
I must put aside
The fears I feel inside…
There’s no place to hide…

This is the moment!
This is the day
When I send all my doubts and demons
On their way!
Every endeavour
I have made--ever--
Is coming into play,
Is here and now--today!

This is the moment!
This is the time,
When the momentum and the moment
Are in rhyme!

Leslie Bricusse--Jekyll & Hyde

Writer's Note: Jeannie’s monologue is from Detective Comics #600 by Sam Hamm.

Casa Puccini is modeled after Puccini’s in Montreal, where my friends and I enjoyed many a pre-movie dinner during our college years.

Casa Puccini was located almost at the halfway point between GCPD headquarters and the Gotham City Courthouse, making it a preferred lunch spot for police and lawyers alike. Its generous portions and all-you-can-eat bread bar more than made up for the slightly higher-than-average cost of a meal.

Mike Akins sat at one of the tables, idly arranging his loose change on the blue-and-white chequered tablecloth, as though setting up a game. He’d scheduled an after-work meeting with Karl May, and the current district attorney was ten minutes late.

“Sir!”

Akins looked up to see the MCU’s second shift commander, Lieutenant David Cornwell waving a greeting at him.

“Cornwell,” Akins forced himself to smile back. “Here by yourself, tonight?”

“Sarge’ll be joining me in a bit,” Cornwell replied. “I’ve been scheduling time to get to know my people, one-on-one. And,” he glanced away, “I know Sarge wanted my job in the first place. I just figured…”

“Has he been giving you any trouble, Lieutenant?”

Cornwell shook his head emphatically. “Not at all, Sir. His performance has been exemplary. But, just in case, I’d rather clear the air now then face a problem down the road.”

Akins started to respond, when a deep booming voice called out “Mike!” The police commissioner turned with relief.

“Afternoon, Karl. I was concerned you weren’t going to make it.” He turned to Cornwell. “If you’ll excuse us, Lieutenant?”

Cornwell nodded easily and headed for the bread bar. It featured several different sorts of bread and plain and seasoned butters. Diners made their selections and toasted their choice on an open grill. This feature alone had made Casa Puccini a popular fixture in the neighbourhood.

“Sorry, Mike,” Karl said as he took his seat. “We’ve had a busy few days of it, what with all of the excitement.”

Akins nodded. “How does it look?”

May busied himself with one of the menus that their server had dropped unobtrusively onto their table. “By ‘it’, I would assume you mean the number one news story of the week,” he said. “Have you tried the veal tortellini?”

“I haven’t been here before. Any good? And, yes.” Akins opened his own menu.

“Judge Craig recommends it, but I haven’t tried it myself.” May cleared his throat. “Getting on to the business end of things,” he continued, “it’s going to take time, and plenty of it. There’s a lot of red tape to cut through.”

Akins grunted. “So, it would come to trial… when? Some time in the new year?”

“Now, you’re being optimistic,” May chuckled. “I’ve just today sent off a petition to the UN for the right to try him under our jurisdiction. Considering the number of other items currently on their agenda, I’d guess it would take a couple of months before the topic even comes up for discussion. Then, of course, the issue will be debated back and forth before it’s denied--“

“Denied?” Akins asked sharply.

“Initially, yes. We’re effectively asking them to waive diplomatic immunity. That’s not something they’ll undertake lightly. Not with the kind of precedent we’re about to set. When you get right down to it, virtually every JLA member can theoretically be charged with assault, property damage, obstruction of justice--“

“Murder?”

“Believe me, the whole fiasco with Wonder Woman is the single strongest point in our favor,” May stated. “It’s probably the only reason the UN council is even willing to hear our petition in the first place, but they’re still going to worry about pushing that door open any wider.” He shook his head. “No, Mike. They’ll deny it the first time, that’s a given. Then we’ll file an appeal, and they’ll debate that for a spell. The earliest that this is likely to get a trial date would be a year and a half. And it could drag on longer.”

“May I take your orders?” A waiter materialized at May’s shoulder. May took the tortellini. Akins went for the linguine al pesto. The two men got up to go to the bread bar. Akins noted that Cornwell already returning from a second trip. Or, perhaps a third--he hadn’t been paying attention. Sarge still hadn’t shown up.

As the two men approached, Cornwell’s eyes widened. “Down! Now!” The lieutenant shouted, launching himself at them. At that instant, a gunshot blasted from the street outside the restaurant, and the plate-glass window behind Akins and May shattered.

To Akins, everything seemed to happen in slow-motion. He dropped to his knees, and dove under one of the tables. May froze. Cornwell tackled the DA, pushing him to the ground, and shielding the large man’s body with his own as the crown of the officer’s head erupted in a flood of red… then time sped up to normal as Cornwell slumped over the DA, his weight holding the petrified man down.

“Someone call an ambulance,” Akins shouted as he crawled the few feet over to where his lieutenant lay bleeding. He told himself that it was probably just a graze. Scalp wounds bled a lot, everybody knew that. As long as the EMTs could get the bleeding under control, Cornwell would be fine. Akins told himself that, and he kept telling himself that, until he realized that a good part of his shift commander’s skull seemed to have been shorn off by the force of the bullet’s entry, and that the lieutenant did not seem to be moving… or breathing.

Dick Grayson hated writing speeches. And, media relations success notwithstanding, he wasn’t overly fond of giving them, either. This was one situation, however, where he truly had no choice in the matter. He would have deferred Alfred’s eulogy to anyone else, except that this time, there really wasn’t anybody else. Bruce should be here. Bruce should be… Dick shook his head. It had been years before Bruce had been able to bring up Jason’s name in conversation. Expecting Bruce to be able to stand up and speak about Alfred, even were such a thing feasible… it would be correct. It would be proper. Had it been anybody other than Alfred being interred today, then Alfred himself would have reminded Bruce of what was expected. But forcing Bruce to fulfill this duty would have been one more cruelty that, propriety aside, Dick was glad his mentor was being spared.

It wasn’t as though there was any other choice. With Bruce out of commission, the task fell to Dick as the person next-best-qualified to speak. Tim couldn’t. As well as he had come to know Alfred over the last four years, Tim had not had the experience of growing up under the elderly man’s influence. And Dick wouldn’t, couldn’t place that kind of burden on the shoulders of a teenaged boy, who had already buried a parent, a girlfriend, and a classmate, only a year or so ago. Barbara knew Alfred well, but it wasn’t her place either. If it couldn’t be Bruce, it had to be him. Dick realized. There simply wasn’t an alternative. Somehow, that steadied him. If he couldn’t delegate, then he would have to perform the eulogy and perform it well.

Dick looked at the people who had followed the hearse to the Wayne Family Cemetery, and who now gathered around the open grave. Alfred had no surviving relatives, at least none that he had ever mentioned. At Dick’s urging, Barbara had listed his obituary in the London dailies. If anyone from Alfred’s past had seen the notices and flown in for the funeral, they hadn’t approached to introduce themselves. Most of the people surrounding him now were the people that he, and to a certain extent, Bruce, were close to. Tim was standing beside him, pale and nervous. He claimed it was only the after-effect of his encounter with Stirk. Dick wasn’t going to call him on it. Barbara was on Dick’s other side, flanked by her father. Cass stood alone, a few paces behind Tim. Dick wondered idly whether this was her first funeral. He’d been out of commission when Stephanie Brown and Jack Drake had been interred, and he’d never asked whether she had been there. It wasn’t important, in any case. You were always too young for your first, and the rest didn’t get any easier.

The other faces were also familiar. Although Gordon had tried to keep the funeral private, the costumed crowd had its own grapevine. Babs said that she hadn’t passed the word on, and Dick believed her. Still, those who were gathered to pay their respects included Titans, past and present, Outsiders, and former Justice-leaguers, both in and out of costume. Lucius Fox, and, Dick noted with some surprise, Renee Montoya was present as well. There were two other people with her: a young Hispanic woman, whose short dark hair fell back from her forehead in a widow’s peak, and a solidly-built African-American with a goatee and moustache. Despite his civilian attire, Dick was fairly sure that the man was also police. He wasn’t certain about the woman, but he didn’t think so.

There were also a few reporters and photographers keeping to the rear of the crowd. Dick’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t invited them. He relaxed slightly when he saw that Lois Lane and Clark Kent stood among them. Actually, they were standing in front of them, discreetly blocking the others from approaching too closely. As their eyes met, Clark nodded slightly, and gave an encouraging nod. Dick nodded back, feeling a momentary swell of gratitude, as the minister began to speak.

Dick heard without hearing. He wondered why he still couldn’t cry. He’s really gone, he thought to himself. That’s what this is all about. That’s why you’re here. Alfred is in that box. And that box is going into the ground. And you’ll never see him again. He’s not going to turn up unannounced with a home-cooked breakfast and shake his head over the leftover Chinese takeout you were about to dig into. He’s not going to smooth things over when you and Bruce get into one of your stupid arguments--and face it, Grayson, most of them are stupid, and would end a lot sooner if you decided once in a while, that it isn’t so blasted important for you to be right! Alfred is… dead. Gone. Passed on. All those times when you broke off contact with him because you were afraid that if you called the manor, Bruce would pick up the phone… all those times he’d ask you to stop by and you didn’t because you were afraid of another scene, or you were working on a case, or you were afraid of being lectured, or afraid that he wouldn’t lecture you, even though you both knew you deserved it… it looks like you can stop worrying, now. You’re never going to have to worry about anything like that again.

Did Alfred ever wonder, when you stormed off in a huff, whether he had done something to offend you? Did he ever wonder if you hated him? After all, during that year and a half that you didn’t speak to Bruce, did you ever even drop Alfred a note, a birthday card, anything? You always figured there’d be time for that down the road, didn’t you?

He realized that the minister had finished and was looking at him. Dick nodded, swallowed, and took a step forward. He delivered the eulogy that he had written two nights earlier, knowing that it wasn’t doing Alfred justice, knowing that no words could, and knowing that if Alfred were standing next to him right now, he’d be telling his surrogate grandson to stop bothering about him and start figuring out a way to help Bruce. He was positive that despite his hours of preparation and half-finished drafts, it sounded as though he was reciting something dashed off five minutes before the funeral, until he saw Anissa blinking rapidly. Unconsciously, she moved closer to Roy, who wrapped an arm about her shoulders. Dick felt a slight pressure on his hand, and looked down to see Barbara holding it firmly. He squeezed back. Tears were pouring down the red-haired woman’s cheeks. This is one time where crying isn’t just okay, it’s expected, Dick told himself. Then, why couldn’t he?

He concluded the speech, and watched as the coffin dropped slowly into the open gravesite. As the undertakers began shovelling earth, the knot of reporters started to move forward. Dick groaned mentally, as he steadied himself, bracing for the inevitable barrage of flashbulbs and questions. To his surprise, Montoya and the man standing next to her turned as one, and Dick caught the glint of badges as they faced down the press. Uncertainly, the paparazzi fell back, mumbling.

“This is neither the time nor the place for you people to do anything other than pay your respects,” the man’s basso profundo rang out clearly. The faint squelching of leather-soled shoes running through damp grass made Dick turn his head, to see Tim sprinting the half-mile back to the manor. He turned as if to follow, then looked down at Barbara. She nodded understanding, and released his hand. Dick started walking briskly in the direction in which the youth had gone, but made no effort to catch up to him.

When he entered the manor, there was no sign of the Tim. Hesitantly, Dick made his way up the stairs. The door to Alfred’s bedroom was ajar. He pushed it open wider. Tim was sitting on the bed, looking dully at a portrait on Alfred’s dresser. Dick recognized it; it had been taken shortly after Bruce had been granted legal custody over him. He’d never known that Alfred had kept that photo, though it really shouldn’t have surprised him. Many people did, after all, have pictures of their loved ones out in plain view. “Hey,” Dick said, sitting down next to him.

Tim didn’t look at him, but as the mattress sagged when Dick’s weight came down on it, Tim edged slightly closer to him. “H-hey,” he echoed.

“They’ll be coming back here in a few minutes,” Dick said quietly. “You don’t have to mingle.” He glanced at the picture. “I was nine when Alfred snapped that one,” he ventured after a few minutes.

“He… he’ll come back. I know it.”

“Tim,” Dick started to say.

“Every time we think Joker’s gone, he comes back. Almost two years ago, I thought I killed a man. He survived. We… we thought Jason was dead. Bruce buried him! And he turned up again.” He looked at Dick. “So, don’t you see?” His voice was earnest. “Alfred has to come back, too. Right?”

Dick slid an arm around the younger man, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry, Tim.”

“Don’t say that!” Tim shouted as the tears that had been welling up finally overflowed. He would have leaped up from the bed, but Dick’s grip was firm. “He’s got to come back. I need him. Bruce needs him. We...” He tore himself out of Dick’s grip and threw himself facedown onto the eiderdown quilt. “Why don’t the right people come back?” His voice was muffled. “Black Mask falls off a building, and he’s fine.” Dick stretched a hand out and rested it on Tim’s shoulder. “Riddler gets to dunk in a Lazarus pit! But my mom… my dad…” He choked, taking up handfuls of the coverlet. “Stephanie… Alfred. Why are the ones who should come back the ones who really go? Why?” And whatever else he had been about to say was lost in his sobs.

“I know,” Dick whispered hoarsely, as he stroked Tim’s back. “I need him too,” his voice broke. “But he is gone,” he said, “and he’s not coming back. I am so, so sorry.” And finally, he felt his own tears course down his cheeks.

Tim rolled onto his back, sat up, and lolled his head against Dick’s shoulder. Dick hugged him. “It’s not fair,” Tim whispered.

“I know,” Dick managed to choke out. “I know.”

Three days later

“…The house with the green door is east of the Johnson residence,” Renee read aloud, “and west of the household with the Chevy Lumina in the driveway.” She waited for Bruce to nod before going on to the next clue provided for the logic puzzle. “Neither the Martins nor the family living in the house with the blue door, which is not the westernmost on the block, drive the Ford Taurus.” As she finished the sentence, she turned, suddenly aware of another’s presence in the room. A young man in the nondescript green scrubs that nurses and orderlies both seemed to wear stood patiently holding a quart-sized mason jar.

“I just wanted to advise you, Sir,” he said looking at Bruce, “that someone dropped off some applesauce for you. It’ll be in the fridge at the nurse’s station. If you want it, just ask for it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who sent it?”

The man tugged at the small folded piece of paper through which somebody had punched two holes. A string was threaded through the holes and attached to the neck of the bottle. “Card says, ‘Thank-you. Romy Chandler,’” he read.

“Romy?” Montoya exclaimed. She looked at Bruce. “But she… I mean, after you broke her nose…”

Bruce looked stunned. “It is… unexpected,” he admitted. “Thank-you,” he added to the man in scrubs, who smiled and withdrew. “There was something with which I was able to help her last week. I suppose she felt the need to make this gesture. Unnecessary,” he added.

“But appreciated, anyway?” Renee asked shrewdly.

Bruce didn’t answer.

Romy was having a good night off. In point of fact, for over a week, she’d felt more relaxed than she had in a long time. It wasn’t just knowing the truth about Nate’s death, although that was part of it. It was that, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she’d been holding on too tightly to too much: her grief over Nate’s passing, her guilt at obeying his orders to vacate the building before the bomb went off, her hatred of Batman. She could admit, now, that she’d been clinging to that last one as though letting go would have been a betrayal of Nate, of her academy instructor, of the other officers killed during the mob war. Ironically, she had begun to heal and move on months ago, after Batman had returned her weapon to her. But she hadn’t wanted to admit it. What was it they said about keeping a grudge being like letting somebody you didn’t like live rent-free in your head?

She reached into her handbag again, feeling the smoothness of the quarter-pint jelly jar with its tightly-fitting lid and ring. She smiled to herself. She still didn’t like him… but he’d helped her. And she owed him. She’d just drop this off at the nurse’s station, she thought to herself as she ascended in the elevator.

Pandemonium greeted her on the eighth floor. Medical personnel and officers raced along the corridor that led to and from Wayne’s room. Hesitantly she started walking in that direction. The guard detail that had been outside the room was nowhere to be seen. The door was ajar. Peering inside, Romy saw a familiar person standing by Wayne’s bed, barking orders.

“Run a tox test on him,” Hardy directed. “I want to know why he stopped responding to the sedatives.” His eye fell on a plastic bowl on the dinner tray. “That’s not part of his standard meal,” he said, pointing to it. “What is it?”

“Applesauce, Doctor Stearns,” one of the nurses said. “There’s a jar of it in the nurses’ fridge.”

Romy froze. Stearns? He’d told her his name was Elliot Hardy.

“Get it,” Hardy/Stearns directed. “And just for the fun of it, someone check out the contents of the wastepaper baskets before custodial empties them.”

Romy sensed a presence behind her, turned, and nearly stumbled into Marcus Driver. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down the corridor and around the corner.

“Romy?” He asked. “What’s gotten into you?”

Romy didn’t answer right away. “What happened, Marcus?” She demanded. “Where is everybody?”

“You know what’s going on out there,” Marcus replied. “Commish decided Wayne didn’t need the guard detail in the corridor. They’re back on the streets. You okay?” He slid an arm around her waist.

“Never mind about me,” she snapped. “What happened in there?”

Marcus sighed. “They’re trying to answer that right now. All I know is that Batman had some kind of seizure or something. He knocked Gordon out cold. That guy, Stearns, the one acting like he’s in charge thinks somebody might have tampered with Wayne’s meds, in some way.” He shook his head. “With all the security around here, I can’t think how.”

Romy smiled, commiserating. Then, the smile froze. Purposefully, she strode to the small kitchen alcove behind the nurses’ station, Marcus on her heels. She opened the refrigerator door, and gasped. She’d been right, she realized in disbelief. There, on the top shelf, was the jar of applesauce, now two-thirds empty, that she’d given to Dr. Hardy. Or was it really Dr. Stearns? She reached for the jar, as someone opened the fridge door wider behind her.

“Excuse me,” a nurse apologized, taking hold of the jar. “Doctor needed this.”

Numbly, Romy closed the fridge behind her. So, he’d given away her gift, she thought, hurt. But then why had he reacted as though he hadn’t known about it?

“Doctor!” She whirled. An orderly, who had dumped the contents of a nearby garbage pail onto the floor was waving a small foil card triumphantly aloft. Each plastic blister that had once contained a pill was now empty. As the orderly dashed toward Wayne’s room, Romy started to shake.

Marcus seized hold of her shoulders. “Talk to me, Romy. Please. What’s the matter?”

“Everything,” she said dully. “I… I have to get out of here. Now.” She tore herself free of Detective Driver’s grasp, opened the door to the stairwell, and ran down the stairs. Was she too late? Would security… or worse, some of her fellow officers be waiting at the bottom? She had to make it out of the hospital unnoticed, she thought, trying and failing to calm her apprehensions. She had to get someplace where she could think calmly and determine whether things really were as bad as they looked. She thought for a moment.

Four floors down, she exited, dashed down the corridor to a second staircase, ran three flights up, and summoned an elevator, which she rode down to the main floor. Sitting in her car, she hugged herself, tightly, then fumbled in her purse and pulled out the unused Desoxyn card that Hardy had give her nearly two weeks ago. It could well have been a match for the one that the orderly had found in the trash. Again, she mentally replayed what Hardy had told her about Desoxyn in their earlier conversation:

If the dosage is too high, it can also cause paranoia, hallucinations, panic states, assaultiveness…

Tampering directly with medications was tricky. The meds were not supposed to be out of sight of the medical personnel distributing them. But, concealed in food, such as applesauce… She froze. Hardy had been wearing gloves when she’d give him the jar. And when he’d given her the Desoxyn. But she hadn’t been! Her fingerprints were all over that jar! And…no! He couldn’t have… as though watching a film rewind and play forward slowly, she saw him reach with his left hand into his pocket to give her the sample card. She saw herself push it back to him, and watched him replace it on the same side. And then, she saw his right hand reach down toward a different pocket to pull out the sample card a second time. But, her fingerprints were on the first sample card. The card, she realized, that was, in all likelihood, the one that the orderly had just found in the waste bin. The meds could have been blended into the applesauce at any time. All Hardy had to do was hold on to the card, and dispose of it when he knew that somebody would be searching for it.

Think calmly, she told herself. So your fingerprints are on the jar. You made the applesauce, after all. And if you explain how you got your hands on that sample card, they’ll believe you. She pressed her hand against her eyes. No, they wouldn’t. Her animosity toward Batman was well known. Given her lacklustre job performance of late, and her… just own up to it, already, erratic behaviour… She hadn’t had anything to do with Wayne’s attack. But who would believe her?

“Means, motive, and opportunity,” she whispered, breaking the silence. “I’ve been set up.” The panic that she’d been trying to suppress overwhelmed her. She had to talk to somebody … somebody who had also been framed, who might, at least be inclined to consider her version of events.

“You alright, Chandler?” Azevedo asked.

Romy jumped. “Fine,” she lied. “Just wondering when the party starts.” Her temporary partner had filled her in on the way. Somebody had phoned in a tip that Black Mask, Batman, and Robin were holed up in one of the warehouses that faced out onto the waterfront. That was weird. Batman had been at GCPD thirty minutes ago, and, from the half of the conversation that she’d overheard, it hadn’t sounded like he’d had any plans to head for the docks until he’d gotten that call. So the tip had to have been phoned in before Batman had ever gotten there. Great. And just how am I supposed to tell anybody without admitting that I was talking to him? She glanced across the pier, spying Renee crouched behind another flat of crates. Montoya gave her a brief smile, and touched her finger to her lips. Romy nodded. She wasn’t supposed to tell anybody.

Robin knew his business, Batman reflected as he stumbled over his eighth unconscious mob enforcer. The kid was cutting a swath through all of Black Mask’s henchmen--no mean feat for a seventeen-year-old. But then, he did have the advantage of having been trained by the best: Bruce, Lady Shiva, Dick himself, and these days, Vic, Raven, and Kory. Maybe Robin wasn’t a natural, as Dick had been, but he’d striven to overcome that shortcoming. And, Batman considered as he dashed past mook number nine, by and large, he’d succeeded. That still didn’t excuse his running into the warehouse over Batman’s explicit orders, however.

Batman heard the thud of flesh and bone landing against plywood. From the impact, it was probably somebody weighing between 190 and 200 pounds. Not Robin, then, he thought, as he rounded the corner, and pushed open the door.

Black Mask rose unsteadily to his feet. “Looks like Batman trains some of his brats better than others,” he said mockingly. “Don’t tell me the girl was supposed to be cannon fodder.”

Robin flung himself furiously at his wiry adversary. At the last instant, Black Mask stepped aside. Robin tried to stop short, but his momentum propelled him into the wall. Black Mask clamped a hand about the back of his neck and pulled him to the ground. As the young man struggled to rise, Black Mask straddled him, fastened his other hand about the vigilante’s throat, and slowly leaned behind, forcing Robin’s neck up and back.

“Let him alone!” Batman gritted, tossing a batarang. It sliced deeply into Black Mask’s upper arm.

The crime lord gave a cry of pain, and his grip on Robin slackened slightly. Before he could regain it, a flying kick carried him clear of the youth, and Black Mask found himself lying on his back with Batman pinning him in a judo hold.

“Well, well,” Black Mask chortled. “I must say this is a surprise. Of course, you do realize that I have you at a disadvantage.”

Beneath the cowl, Batman raised an eyebrow. “How so?” He growled.

“Easy. You’re a mass of conflict. You want to kill me,” he said, “but if you do that, you’ll betray everything that Batman stands for, but,” his voice took on a sing-song intonation, “if you don’t kill me, then you’ll betray the memories of that blonde bat-wannabe, and the English bloke, won’t you?”

“Shut up, Roman,” Batman gritted. “Or you’ll find out how much I can do to you and still keep you alive!”

“Oh, puh-leeze!” Sionis mocked, breaking loose, “you’re actually feeding me those lines? Seriously. Who writes your material?” He aimed a high kick at Batman. Batman crouched, and the foot passed harmlessly over his head. An R-shaped throwing knife thunked heavily into Black Mask’s exposed thigh, and the mob boss staggered and landed heavily on one knee.

Batman pinned his wrists behind his back with one hand, while twisting the knife deeper into his thigh with the other. “Give up, before I nick the artery, pull it free, and let you bleed out,” he ordered.

“Nice try, Batclone, but I know you’re bluffing.”

Batman didn’t hesitate. “A few months ago, you would have been right. But you know what they say,” he gave the knife another half-turn, surprised at his rush of satisfaction when Black Mask cried out. “Practise makes perfect. This is for Alfred,” he twisted again. “And this is for Stephanie Brown. And…” Bruce said to FIND him… NOT kill him! He reminded himself. But he had to know what happened with Blockbuster. He couldn’t order me to kill Black Mask, but he must want me to… doesn’t he? Or is it that even if he knows what happened, and even if he wants Black Mask dead, he trusts me to do the right thing? How do I figure out what he really wants me to do, this time? A new thought occurred to him, suddenly. Why should that even be a factor? Even if he wants you to kill him, YOU know better. But… he killed Alfred. He started to twist the knife again, then stopped. Would Alfred want you to avenge him this way? Sure, Black Mask deserves it. But YOU don’t deserve to become his murderer. Do this and he wins. Blockbuster wins. Joker wins.

He blinked. You don’t want to kill him, not really. Not because Bruce wouldn’t approve—Bruce doesn’t have anything to do with this decision. When you attacked Joker, you either weren’t thinking clearly, or else… you were thinking very clearly. Strangling Joker with at least two people nearby who knew CPR and rescue breathing… you knew there was a better than even chance that somebody was going to resuscitate him. Blockbuster… you walked away and let somebody else pull the trigger. There’s no way that you made the right move, that time. But, you didn’t actively kill him. You screwed up, and you did everything you could to punish yourself for it… everything except talk to the person you felt you’d failed the most. Were you that afraid he wouldn’t forgive you? Or… were you afraid that he would? Realization hit him. Forgiving you was never up to Bruce, because you never failed him in the first place. The only person you ever really failed was yourself. Moment of truth, then, Grayson: how do you really make up for that moment of weakness?

He took his hand off the throwing knife and clamped it tightly around Black Mask’s neck, feeling for the right spot. A moment later, the crime lord’s head lolled forward, as the blackout hold took effect. Dick suddenly realized that he hadn’t exhaled for a while. He did so now, and gulped in several breaths of, truth-be-told, somewhat stale air. He didn’t care; right now, it was sweeter to him than fresh-mown grass in summertime.

“Robin,” he asked faintly, “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes,” Batman replied, wonderingly. “I think I am.” His voice turned grim. “I also think I told you to stay put until I got here,” he added with a glare.

Robin looked away. “You know you did. I…” He shook his head. “No excuses. I messed up.”

Dick nodded. “Good. You know it. Help me move Roman out into the hallway with the rest of his people. I think the cops are getting ready to burst in, here.”

Tim blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“You know you goofed. It doesn’t happen often. And you won’t make the same mistake again, right?”

Tim grinned, as he moved forward to take hold of Black Mask’s legs. That was when the gunshot rang out.

“Robin!”

The younger boy automatically clapped a hand to the side of his head. It came away bloody.

“Here,” Batman said urgently. “Let me see.” He sighed with relief. “It only grazed you.” He ripped open a sterile gauze packet and pressed it to the wound.

A second shot sounded, and Black Mask’s body jerked once, then stiffened. Batman turned grimly. “Don’t tell me,” he said to the figure standing atop the staircase in the corner, “you were the only one in your graduating class who took the hypocritic instead of the Hippocratic.”

If Hush was smiling, you couldn’t tell through the bandages. “Careful with the wisecracks,” he replied. “Of the last two comics I encountered, one ended up broken, and I’m fairly sure the other one’s no longer breathing.”

“Why?” He demanded. “Why Alfred?”

“Why Chandler?” Hush taunted. “Why Ivy? Why the Clocktower?”

Batman started forward. “What?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why Black Mask was so certain that the Tower was the Batcave?” Hush chuckled. “You have no idea how hard it was to sink that notion into his,” he pointed negligently at the body on the floor, “head.”

Dick advanced another step. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why?”

“What happened after the Clocktower was destroyed?” Hush asked. “It’s the age old question: who benefits? Or, conversely, in this case… who suffers? Who suffers when his chief information-gatherer washes her hands of him? When his allies disperse, because the Gotham climate suddenly becomes too dangerous for the costumed crowd…”

“You couldn’t have known that the Tower would be destroyed,” he snapped, wondering how in the hell Hush had even known of its significance.

“That’s right,” Hush agreed, “but I had an idea of how he would react if someone put one of his contingency plans into effect. I’ve made my studies of you, all of you… from my old childhood friend, to his surrogate family, to those on the periphery. Even to his former inventor-cum-mechanic. The right trigger, the appropriate words or actions at the proper time… and people generally behave as you’d expect them to. Chandler’s a perfect example. She couldn’t have been a bigger help if she’d known what I was planning. But then,” he sighed mockingly, “I’m usually a few moves ahead of the multitude. Even your mentor.”

“So you set out to destroy him, because—“

“Because I could,” Hush said easily. “Because even though a few have come close, nobody’s really succeeded. Besides,” he added, “it was fun. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work, you know.”

Dick felt his mind reeling. “You mean that all of this was just to… to prove that you can outthink Bruce? No wonder,” he spat bitterly, “you and Nigma got on so well!”

Hush laughed. “Very good. How many a dispute could have been deflated into a single paragraph if the disputants had dared to define their terms, I wonder.

“Bane had the right idea, of course,” he continued, as though conducting a lecture. “He successfully exhausted him physically and mentally… but when the crunch came, Batman still had his allies about him. Not all of you, but enough. I went one better. And now…”

“Alfred,” Dick snarled.

Hush sighed. “I am sorry about that one. He was a good man. I needed Batman reacting emotionally, rather than logically. I did suggest to Sionis that he hold the man for ransom, knowing how that would rattle Brucie. But I never condoned torture. Not for him, and not for the Brown girl. I told him, if he wanted somebody out of the way permanently, it was much more effective to simply… how shall I phrase it… ‘stick a needle in’?”

Batman felt rage, white hot and incandescent churning within him. He was about to lunge up the stairs, when a woman’s voice behind him called out:

“Batman! Move out of the way. You’re blocking my shot.”