Batman: Lost to the Night Part III

“It’s a simple matter, Penguin.” The Calculator steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “I use my not inconsiderable resources to help you discover the most opportune times to… add to your art collection. I will help you to obtain the most valuable pieces at the lowest possible risk to your body or, ahem, reputation. In exchange, I want you to help me to locate the Oracle.”

Penguin blinked. “There might be several pieces by that name,” he stated. “I’d need more details from you before I could begin to research the item. For example, is this a classic work? Pre-Raphaelite?” He sniffed. “It’s not,” he shuddered, “something… modern, is it?”

“You don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

The comment stung. “I believe I’ve just said as much, my good fellow. Now are you going to enlighten me, or insult me?”

Calculator sighed. “Normally I wouldn’t bother coming to you. You’re a primitive man, Cobblepot. You don’t even own a computer, let alone an email address. You special order tape cassettes because you won’t buy a CD player. And you have to be the only man in existence who owns a wide-screen black and white television set.”

“All the truly great cinema was filmed before Technicolor became commonplace. What, might one ask, is your point?”

“Oracle is an… information broker for the so-called ‘hero’ community. This individual, whosoever she or he might be, has been operating for the last several years. I find that the information that this person is able to procure has been harmful for many of my clients. Now, while a little competition is always good for business, when my best customers find themselves facing long prison terms, I’m sure that even you can appreciate the long-term ramifications for my own enterprises.”

Cobblepot sniffed again. “So you want me to eliminate your competitor?”

“Oh, of course not,” Kuttler snapped. “I’ve got at least a dozen people in my circle who would be willing to pay top dollar for that privilege. My problem is that I can’t begin to search for this person without alerting her or him to my investigations. The instant I turn on my computer, Oracle is waiting.”

“Hmmm. You keep saying ‘her or him’.” Penguin noted.

“Based on Oracle’s behaviour, I calculate a sixty-eight per cent probability that I’m dealing with a woman. I’m not certain, though. Hopefully, that’s something you’ll find out for me.”

Penguin shook his head. “As you noted, I don’t even own a computer. What good could I possibly be to you?”

Calculator smiled. “You have contacts that I don’t. You have a network of informants that, quite frankly, astounds me, considering that you’re able to maintain it without the benefit of modern technology. Oracle’s world, like my own, is modern technology. At present, I’m entertaining the possibility that I’ve become blindsided by my own methods. Essentially, I’m racking my brain to deduce the code to a combination lock, when one of your people might look at it, shrug, and reach for a hacksaw. My way has a certain panache; I won’t deny it. But your way might get the lock off the door faster.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Penguin said briskly. “What do I get out of it?”

“Thirty per cent of the highest bid for Oracle’s location and my services for a year at ten per cent of the profits acquired through the information I supply. I normally charge fifteen.”

“You’ll take five. And my fee is fifty per cent.”

Kuttler smiled. “Every moment we haggle, the Oracle sinks deeper claws into my activities. If you’re asking fifty you plan to settle for forty. And I’ll work for seven point five per cent. Suppose we dispense with the posturing and bargaining and conclude there?”

Cobblepot adjusted his monocle. “That sounds equitable. Would you care to drink on it?”

“It’s only fair to tell you that I neutralized your silent alarm while I was waiting. If, despite that action, your offer’s still open, I’m partial to Chateau Calon Segur. 1985 was an extremely good year, from what I understand.”

The shorter man rose to his feet and spread his hands wide. “Now was that deactivation really necessary?”

“Not by my calculations. But I do try to be thorough.” Noah Kuttler smiled as Cobblepot waddled over to the bar and scanned the selections. “Do make sure it’s the ’85, please.”

“But of course,” Cobblepot said affably, pouring the wine into a goblet. Four ounces of that vintage was worth twenty dollars. He wondered whether there would be some way to recoup it from his new partner. Interesting how a man with such terrible taste in clothing could have such excellent taste in wines.

As it turned out, Bruce Wayne did not meet with his new doctor the following morning. Circumstances saw to that. He’d woken up shortly before the overhead light switched on for the day. He was somewhat apprehensive, but still resolved. He would at least make a pretence of working with this therapist. Given his behaviour to date, simply making eye contact might suffice for a week or so. He could handle that.

Bruce drew a deep breath, and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. It had been too long since he’d attempted meditation. It took him a moment to remember the techniques. At first, the sedatives had hindered him. Later… enough excuses, he told himself. They cut the dosage six doctors ago and never increased it. Concentrate.

His prior experiences with therapy had not been… pleasant. His mind took him back to an earlier time. He’d been watching… what was the name of that show again? Nightime. That was it. It was a late-night talk show. Captain James Gordon had been one of the in-studio guests. As had a balding man, introduced as Doctor Hugo Strange. In Strange’s analysis, Batman was “obsessed”, “paranoid”, and “distrustful”. Bruce had listened with no small amusement, to the good doctor’s ramblings. And then…

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he or a loved one proved to be a victim of crime… a crime committed in darkness. Indeed, the very genesis of this tormented figure might well be traced back to the traumatic events of a single key night…

That analysis had hit a little too close to home for Bruce’s comfort. And then, a few months later, he’d fallen into the hands of Stephen Gallagher. The man had concocted an elaborate scheme to make Bruce believe that he was a penniless alcoholic, his lives, both as billionaire philanthropist and costumed vigilante, no more than figments of his imagination. Gallagher had worn many masks to keep up the illusion. Most frequently, he’d posed as a psychiatrist…

What we’ve got here is classic hysterical neurosis… put simply, you dissociate yourself from your other personalities… You flee into this ‘Batman’ identity in an attempt to control your world…

Wrong. Distorted. And yet… there was just enough truth in the analysis to make him uncomfortable. He didn’t like anybody coming too close to knowing him. Maybe this discomfort had kept him from opening up to Shondra in the beginning. She had cared. She had been genuinely interested in his well-being. But, she had also told him that they were going to revisit the night of his parents’ murder. And then, he had suddenly found reasons to cancel his appointments. Would he have to face those memories now, he wondered. Probably.

Bruce looked down at his hands and found them trembling. Of all the cowardly… He envisioned a pond, its surface unruffled. Trees grew around it, arcing their branches heavenward. As he watched, a pair of mallard ducks soaring overhead dove down to land in the water. They paddled contentedly. Bruce allowed himself a rare smile, losing himself in the serenity of the scene before him.

Something grey and furry lunged past him into the water. The ducks raised their wings in preparation for flight. One was too slow. The wolf seized it in his jaws, and shook his prize vigorously back and forth.

Bruce looked away, sickened.

The ground lurched, as a fissure opened by his feet. He scrambled to get clear and leapt back. A tree fell heavily, smashing into the ground where he had just been standing. He gasped and opened his eyes.

He was still shaking, as he heard a voice over the institution’s intercom system: Attention all personnel. We have a code orange, repeat code orange. We are attempting to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. Please remain calm.

Bruce fought down a wave of panic. Remain calm? What was happening? Why wouldn’t anybody tell him anything? How was he supposed to prepare, how could he fight, if nobody gave him the necessary tools? He could help, if someone would just give him the details. Then he could come up with a defence.

He clutched at the wire mesh. “What’s going on?” He called.

There was no reply. The outer room was empty. No. No, they couldn’t leave him alone, trapped like this. He flung himself at the door. Locked, of course. Did anybody even remember that he was down here? He went cold. What if someone did remember he was down here? How many of his enemies were locked up with him? He cast about frantically looking for something that he could use to signal. Or something to use as a weapon. The sparse furniture was bolted to the floor, or attached to the wall. Pillow? Yes. I’m positive THAT will make Joker think twice about coming in here…Blanket. He could try flailing it… no, if someone grabbed hold and gave a good yank that would be it. So, what else was there? Nothing. There had to be something. Think! It was so hard to concentrate… had they upped his meds, after all?

He sniffed the air. There was an oddly familiar odour… something chemical… he racked his brains trying to remember… What was a ‘code orange’, again? Something to do with… bombs? No… that was what it meant at Central Hospital, but for Arkham, a ‘code orange’ meant something else. It meant… hazardous materials spilled or released. It could be Smilex… or… or fear gas… Scarecrow! He must have put something in the ventilation system, Bruce realized. That explained a few things. And if Arkham had declared a ‘code orange’, then the administration knew what was happening, and it was just a matter of time until they got the antidote into the atmosphere. He just had to hold on until then, and remember that the fear was all in his mind.

It would be easier, Bruce realized, had there been a legitimate reason to fear. Rational fears could be analysed. They could be worked through, perhaps even harnessed and used to maintain a heightened state of awareness. But the fear gas was different. It attacked its victims with irrational, unchecked panic. But there were real, cogent reasons for his terror! He was locked up with at least a dozen people who wanted to kill him, and he was powerless to stop them. If they found him, he was a dead man. If they… why couldn’t he suppress this? If his fears were rational, he should be able to handle them. All it took was a strong mind, willpower… his fingernails dug into his palms. They were too short to do any real damage—to him or to anyone else. He shuddered. He hated feeling this helpless.

Bruce bit down, hard, on his lower lip, using the pain to steady him. He knew that his emotional state was induced, that there was probably no cause for alarm. There had been numerous breakouts since his incarceration. No inmate had ever come down here, before. It still took everything he had not to curl into the fetal position. He couldn’t control the fact that the gas was affecting him, but he could control his reactions. Barely. He knew, at this point, that it was sheer stubbornness that was keeping him from utterly succumbing to the gas’s effects. He didn’t care. He had to fight this. He was done with huddling in a corner. If a year of Jeremiah hasn’t broken me, I’ll be damned if Crane will!

And, he froze as a new thought occurred to him, if he was too nervous to leave his cell when the attendants came around with the wheelchair, today, would that be seen as a lack of co-operation? Grounds enough to allow Jeremiah to carry out his threat? If Arkham was going to be reasonable, then no, Bruce had nothing to worry about. But if the man was looking for an excuse… Bruce hugged his knees to his chest, and waited.

By nine AM, the worst of the gas’s effects had been neutralized. However, because he couldn’t be certain how long it would be before everything was back to ‘normal’; Jeremiah Arkham took the precaution of cancelling the morning therapy sessions for all patients, and paged those doctors not currently on the asylum grounds to advise to take a day off.

The asylum director removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Reluctantly, he picked up the telephone and hit a number that he wished he didn’t have on speed-dial. “Commissioner Sawyer?” He asked, in response to the low-pitched authoritative voice on the other end. “This is Jeremiah Arkham. Jonathan Crane has escaped.”

To Dick’s surprise, the guest who awaited him was the doctor who had allowed him in to see Bruce yesterday.

“Mr. Grayson,” he smiled, as he shook Dick’s hand once, firmly. “Alexander Morgenstern. I apologize for barging in on you like this, but your contact number was in my office, and that’s currently inaccessible, so I thought I’d see if I could reach you in person.”

Dick’s expression turned serious. “Inaccessible?”

Morgenstern quickly filled Dick in on Scarecrow’s escape. “I was on my way into work when I got the call,” he explained. “Contacting you was on my list of things to do, in any case, so…”

Dick nodded, thinking all the while. Scarecrow was on the loose. Lovely. Well, at least he’d have a chance to pretend to be psychic when the signal went up tonight. He was beginning to see how much Bruce must have enjoyed that. Knowing Commissioner Sawyer, unless Crane himself announced that he was at large, the media would not be informed of the escape for 24 hours. No point in panicking the population.

Morgenstern seemed to realise something. “I’m interrupting your work,” he said. “I’m sorry. I could come back another time, or wait for your lunch break?”

Dick looked at his watch. “Let’s grab some coffee,” he said. “I can spare a few minutes, right now. If it looks like you need more than that, maybe we could schedule something.”

“Dick, hello!”

Dick grimaced. The last thing he needed was for Lucius to think that he was goofing off. “Mr. Fox,” he said formally, “this is Dr. Morgenstern, from Arkham. He’s…”

Lucius nodded. “I was passing by your area, earlier, when I heard someone coughing,” he said casually. “I’d hate for that to spread around the office. Just to be on the safe side, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

Dick did a double take. “I…”

“Would you excuse us a moment, Doctor?” Lucius motioned for Dick to follow him back the way that he had just come. Before Dick could open his mouth, the CEO held up a hand.

“I don’t need to hear it. Nor do I want to. If you hadn’t sold off Bruce’s shares last year, you’d be sitting in his chair right now, and not a soul here would question your comings and goings. Instead, you put the company’s interests first. Think of this as ‘what goes around comes around’, and get out of here.”

“I didn’t want to ask for special favours,” Dick started to say. Grateful though he was, he didn’t want to act like the ‘boss’s son’ pulling strings and throwing his weight around.

“Read the employee handbook,” Lucius rumbled. “Specifically the sections on emergency days and medical leave. You’ll find that those benefits cover both employees and their families. And if a family member’s physician shows up at the workplace, unless he’s got a bag of golf clubs, I’m willing to categorise the situation as an emergency. Now why are you still here?"

Dick grinned. “I’m trying to gauge how far back I’ll need to go to get a running start at the door,” he said.

“I heard you had some excitement, before.”

Bruce was sitting up, for once. He lifted his eyes briefly.

“Are you okay?”

A nod.

“Look, Bruce?” Dick pressed one hand against the mesh. Bruce looked up again, his expression unreadable. Dick sighed and continued. “I… can you do me one favor? If it ever sounds like I’m patronising you, stop me. I don’t mean to do it, it’s just been…”

“Dick.” Bruce’s hand stretched to meet his. “I… I’m glad you came.” More than you could possibly know. “But I think I’d rather be alone, tonight.” He looked away, but not before he saw the hurt in his surrogate son’s eyes. “Surely you have something else you could be doing?”

Catching Scarecrow. Dick nodded. He could head out to GCPD a bit earlier. The signal was probably up by now. “If you’re positive?”

Silence.

“Okay, Bruce. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“You don’t have to.”

Dick let out an explosive breath. “I never have to. Any more than you had to saddle yourself with a kid one night at the circus.” He saw Bruce flinch, but continued. “I’m sorry, Bruce. You can yell at me. You can call me every name in the book. You can disown me. Hell, you can even train a platoon of Robins. But don’t you ever… ever tell me I don’t have to come by here. You owe me better than that!”

He braced both hands on the edge of the shelf that projected outward on his side of the wall, and shut his eyes tightly, not sure he wanted to see the other man’s reaction. “I will see you tomorrow, Bruce. Take care.” He fired off the last two words as a parting shot.

Then he was gone, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts. Presently, he heard an unfamiliar voice.

“It’s good he comes by so often. Most of the other patients here don’t get much company.”

Bruce looked up. He didn’t recognise the middle-aged man at his window. He debated holding his peace. On the other hand, praise for Dick was something he could accept with far greater ease than acclaim for his own actions.

“I don’t deserve him,” he said finally. I don’t deserve his attention. And he does not deserve the pain I’ve inflicted upon him.
The man looked surprised. “Ever tried telling him that?”

“Repeatedly. He has… selective hearing.”

“I get the feeling you don’t mind that much.”

Silence.

“I’ve got four boys of my own,” his visitor said after a moment. And three girls. “My oldest, Yoni is 15, then there’s Sruli. He’s 12. P’nina’s 11, then comes Yossi, 9, and Daniel, 7. And then there are my youngest girls, Miri and Shira. They’re 5 and 4.”

“Large family.”

“I suppose. Sometimes I wonder whether I deserve them, myself.” He smiled. “Of course, on the odd occasion when one of them brings home a poor test grade, I tend to wonder what I did to deserve that as well.

A brief answering smile flickered on Bruce’s lips. “I’ve had some experience with that.” Then, worried that he might give this stranger a poor impression of Dick, he added, “rarely.”

“I can believe it. Just looking at the way he acts around you. Most of the other patients I’ve seen… if they do get visitors, you can tell in a minute they’d be much happier staying away. I haven’t had the nerve to ask them why they bother coming, but I’d suspect in a lot of cases, it’s insurance. In case the person they’re visiting ever gets out of here, they don’t want to be cut out of the will.”

If he was trying to imply something… “Dick already has full access to my assets. I set that up years ago, in case—”

“I see. Well, it sounds like you made a good choice, then. Grapevine has it he’s been fighting for your release practically since the day you arrived. And he didn’t run out and buy a Porsche this year, either.”

Bruce shrugged. “He has his own resources to tap, if he needed one.” Unconsciously, he smiled. “He’d probably be happier with a Chevrolet, if you want the truth.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t mind finding out how one raises a child with such… moderate tastes, given the sort of lifestyle he must have led.

“I’m Alex, by the way.”

“A… volunteer, or something?” He’d never heard of such a thing at Arkham, but maybe those patients who were deemed less violent had one assigned to them?

Alex looked away. “Not exactly.”

Realization dawned. Bruce turned his back, angrily. “I should have guessed.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Alex sighed. “I was hoping for a meeting with you that wouldn’t involve either of us getting on the defensive. I never intended to deceive you.”

The light switched off, then.

“I guess we’ll see each other under more formal circumstances tomorrow,” Alex said. “It’ll be a bit later than you’re used to though. Four o’clock.”

Silence.

“I did enjoy our conversation, by the way.”

Silence.

“Good night, then.”

Bruce didn’t unclench his fists until he heard Alex’s footsteps fade away. Of all the underhanded tricks…! He closed his eyes. He was imagining how this new doctor might try to invite conversation—after fourteen doctors, he had some idea—and how he planned to respond, when sleep claimed him.

Cobblepot glanced up from his nearly-finished humming bird. The new bartender was shaping up nicely. He’d remembered to use one-and-a-half times the usual amount of strawberry syrup, and only three-quarters the normal amounts of rum cream and Amaretto, respectively. Those instructions pertained only to his own cocktail, of course. For the paying customers, the alcohol content was increased. “Yes, Talbot?”

The tuxedoed maitre d’ bowed respectfully. “There’s a gentleman waiting in your office, Mr. Cobblepot. He said he had some information on your Greek lady. That was all he told me.”

The Penguin nodded. “Excellent. Did you offer him a drink?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ve just now come from serving him a Heineken.”

He nodded again. Certainly, he had chosen a European import, but still and all, the man had ordered a… beer. In one of the finest establishments in the city. The boor! Cobblepot sniffed as he rose to his feet and headed toward the back of the Iceberg.