Batman: Lost To The Night--Part VI

Authors Note: The book Bruce picks up is Over Sea, Under Stone by Susan Cooper. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1965, 1989)

“Little Hercules” lyrics written by Craig Carothers and performed by Trisha Yearwood on her Everybody Knows CD (MCA, 1996)

Five minutes later, Nightwing let out a low whistle. “Nightwing to Robin. How far are you from Central?”

Whatever answer he got seemed to please him.

“Listen carefully. Go there now. Tell Montoya or Sawyer that Scarecrow has a batch of his latest concoction under the commuter rail tracks on the western side of North Island, about 74 yards south of the mouth of the Peterson tunnel, right where it crosses over Marcus Boulevard. Time was going to be up at 5:40 p.m., day after tomorrow. ”

Huntress blinked. “Not 7:40?” She asked.

He shook his head. “Seventeen forty. This,” he rolled his eyes, “is the difference between a true obsessive compulsive, like, say Two-Face, and someone who’s decided that a certain number sounds like it would be… fun to incorporate. Bet Crane used poetic license in English composition class, too.”

He turned his attention back to the comlink. “Still there, Robin? Good. From the plans Crane’s got here, he’s got the thing on a timer. The bomb’s angled so that if it explodes, the bulk of the fear toxin lands in the reservoir, but some of it will hit the streets too. No, let the bomb squad handle that one. That’s what they’re there for. Nightwing out.”

Huntress regarded him quizzically. “You’re not going to do it yourself?”

“GCPD can stop the trains,” he pointed out. “They can also work in daylight. And this way, they get the credit for stopping Crane based on an anonymous tip. So the press doesn’t get to write up it’s usual ‘GCPD needs vigilantes to do their dirty work for them’ diatribe. Everyone wins.”

“Except us.”

“Top brass knows we lent a hand. Everyone wins,” he said with finality. “Oh, and here.” He tossed her a small syringe. “Robin found a counter for the toxin. This should clear up any lingering hallucinations.”

Bruce walked slowly down the corridor, two guards leading him, two bringing up the rear. He didn’t speak, but instead concentrated on matching his steps precisely to those of his captors, maintaining a three pace distance before and behind. It was 45 paces to the elevator at the end of the passageway, then a two-minute wait for the elevator. Another 50 seconds brought him from the basement level to the third floor, and then another 20 paces to office 309. After two sessions, he had it memorized.

Alex greeted him as he had on the earlier occasions and motioned him toward the sofa. Bruce sat.

As before, Alex made no effort to engage him in conversation. Bruce reflected. If Alex’s behavior ran true to form, then the silence would persist until Bruce chose to break it. If he did not choose to break it, then Alex would continue to cheat at his crossword puzzles. It might be interesting to see how long the psychiatrist would be able to keep playing this game. Bruce frowned. No. It wouldn’t be at all interesting.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the man at the desk. Alex’s body language was completely relaxed. He didn’t seem to be waiting for any attempt at communication on Bruce’s part. Bizarre as it seemed, Bruce was beginning to believe that Alex had been serious about not bothering to try to treat him, if Bruce didn’t want to be treated. The ball, as it were, was squarely in his court. Bruce mulled that over.

Did he want to be ‘cured’? What exactly would that mean? The idea that some sort of counseling might prove helpful to him wasn’t a new concept. He’d actually considered the notion in the past. But therapy would have meant opening up. It wasn’t just about ‘the secret’, although it was still a consideration; the rest of his family had secrets of their own that he might inadvertently expose. On top of that, it would have meant picking at old wounds that still hadn’t healed over. And, if those wounds were what ultimately fueled Batman’s quest, then what would happen if they did heal over? Bruce didn’t always like the person he was, but at least he thought he knew the kind of person he was. Without his personal demons spurring him on… he couldn’t even conceive of what he might be. Better the devil he knew…

His eyes slid guardedly to Alex. The psychiatrist was looking at the solutions at the back of the magazine again. Well, let him. Why should Bruce be the only one who didn’t know all the answers anymore? Still, Alex had helped him in one way at least.

“I suppose I should thank you for yesterday.”

Alex looked up with a surprised smile. “You’re welcome.”

Silence ensued. A moment later, Alex returned to the crossword.

Bruce rose and walked over to the bookcase. He skimmed the titles. Alex seemed to have stocked classics, mass-market paperbacks, school textbooks, there were even a few popular children’s’ books. His eyes lit on a series he’d enjoyed as a child. Almost without realizing it, he pulled the first volume free. He sat back down on the sofa and opened to Chapter One.

“Where is he?”

Barney hopped from one foot to the other…

The narrative worked the same magic on him that it had when he had first read it thirty-odd years ago. He read on…

…Was it time to go already? He’d only just sat down. But yes, Alex was opening the door to admit the guards.

Bruce rose. “Can I…” He paused, and corrected himself. “May I borrow this?”

Alex glanced at the book. “I’d need to get clearance for that,” he said apologetically. “It might take a day or so.”

Bruce feigned indifference. “Don’t bother, then,” he said. “It’s not important.”

“Wayne, visitor!” Bruce heard a voice call.

Montoya was coming a little earlier than usual today, he thought. No… the footfalls were a bit slower, and belonged to a heavier person. He heard the muffled squeak of a rubber-tipped cane as it tapped deliberately on the stone floor.

Bruce drew a deep breath, steeling himself. He had to be strong, for Jim’s sake.

Gordon took a seat before the window. “Good morning, Bruce,” he said quietly.

Silence. The former commissioner’s brow furrowed. “I’ve…” he began awkwardly. “I’ve missed our conversations.” He sighed. “I know. You’ve heard this before. Or maybe you haven’t. I’m never sure how much of what I say gets through to you. But I don’t know what else I can talk about that might stand a chance of penetrating that thick head of yours.”

Bruce didn’t respond. But Gordon thought something seemed different today. After a moment it came to him: This time, Bruce was struggling not to respond. Good. He’d been waiting for something like this. Gordon thought for a moment.

“I took a swing at you during the No Man’s Land when you weren’t expecting it.” He said seriously. “Can’t we just call it even?”

“That was different.” Bruce’s voice was barely audible. “I… deserved it.”

“Well, you don’t deserve this.” He gestured expansively. “Bruce,” he hesitated. “After all these years,” he thought carefully about how he wanted to phrase his next words, “I think I know how… important… it is for you to be in control of a situation. You’ve always felt that you had to be in charge, oversee every last detail. You had to be the responsible one. And, I’ll be the first to admit that because of it, I was able to feel I could trust your judgment and let you operate with little… police interference. But Bruce,” he said, “I am telling you right now that when somebody dissolves large quantities of Desoxyn in your food, you are not responsible for your actions. Now,” he continued, “I want you to pay extremely close attention what I’m going to ask you next, Bruce.” He drew a deep breath. “What,” he demanded, voice rising in volume, “is it going to take before you stop moping and start thinking?”

Jim didn’t understand, Bruce realized. Control wasn’t the issue. It wasn’t. Haltingly, he tried to find the words to explain: whether he’d meant to injure Jim wasn’t the point. It was the simple fact that he had. Actions, not intent, were what counted. He hadn’t let Superman off the hook for his actions under Maxwell Lord’s influence. How could he allow himself such a loophole? Bruce tried to make Gordon see. He was more than halfway through relating what had happened at the JLA moon-base when Gordon’s brow furrowed, not in confusion but in rage.

“You hold it right there, Mister! If you can’t forgive a man for nearly killing you, I can’t say as I blame you. But where do you get off deciding if you can’t, nobody else can?”

Dimly, he knew that his anger was directed at the situation, but to hell with that. Bruce was proving to be a most convenient outlet.

“You want to try to take responsibility for what happened almost a year ago? Fine. But you can’t have all the credit. What about me? You think I don’t know that a trained fighter, any trained fighter, can instinctively lash out if someone comes into physical contact with him while he’s sleeping? I grabbed you anyway, so some of what happened was my fault, wasn’t it? How about the officers on guard detail who didn’t stop me? Or… or… hospital security for not testing your food?” He dropped his voice until it was little more than a harsh whisper. “Here’s an offbeat suggestion for you. Why not try blaming Elliot for feeding you those damned pills in the first place?”

Bruce shook his head. “I should have—”

“What?” Gordon demanded. “What? My G-d. Are you that much of a… a control freak that you…” He broke off. “Yes. I suppose you are.” He pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“I… I just don’t know what to say anymore. You’ve dug your heels in and there’s no budging you on this, is there? I haven’t got a clue how to convince you that you’ve been beating yourself up needlessly over this whole business.” He pressed one hand against the mesh screen.

“You’re a stubborn man, and it’s damned near impossible work convincing you when you’ve already made your mind up. But there are a couple of things you’re overlooking, Bruce.” He smiled grimly. “I’m about twenty-five years older than you are. That’s twenty-five years more stubbornness than you’ve had the opportunity to acquire. You think you had it rough after the mob war when Akins turned on you? You should have had my beat in Chicago. After that, Gotham actually looked better. And this was when Loeb ran the force. There were a million times I could’ve ignored the graft going on around me. G-d knows my life would’ve been easier. Except, I’m too damned obstinate or idiotic to know when to quit. And I’ve been that way longer than you’ve been alive!

“Now, I’ve never had many friends.” He looked away for a moment. “And I’ve buried more than a few of the ones I have had. But you know what they say. The more you lose, the tighter you hold on to what you’ve got left. So, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Bruce, but I’m not going to stop coming here. That stubbornness I was mentioning a minute ago? I’m channeling it. I’m not going to give in, and I’m not giving up on you. And even if you don’t value our friendship. I do!”

“I never said I didn’t value it,” Bruce protested. “But I can’t…”

Gordon cut him off. “Fine. Let me ask you something, then. And I want you to give me an honest answer. Give me an honest answer, and if that’s your decision, I’ll respect it. Do you want me to walk out of here, and not come back?”

As Bruce opened his mouth to reply, Gordon held up a hand. “Listen to the question. I’m not asking you if you think it’s for the best, or whether it’s no more than you deserve, or a million and one other questions. Put every other consideration aside. Do you want me to leave… and not come back?

In his decades on the force, Gordon had gained the ability to pinpoint when a suspect, faced with the evidence against him was about to confess. He’d never expected to see Bruce with that same panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look, but he was seeing it now. Gordon could almost hear the thoughts churning in his friend’s mind as he tried to find some loophole to the question.

Finally Bruce closed his eyes. “No,” he whispered, defeated. “I don’t.”

The former police commissioner nodded. His own voice was barely louder than Bruce’s had been. “That’s about what I’d figured.”

The first thing Bruce noticed when they came for him the next afternoon was that Haney was missing. In his place stood another orderly, no less big or less beefy.

The second thing he noticed was that his escorts seemed somewhat cautious today. Curious.

Alex was still doing his puzzles. Bruce rolled his eyes as he walked past the desk and crossed to the bookcase.

“I never really got into the Dark is Rising sequence,” Alex said. “I read the second one, and kept meaning to pick up the others.”

“What stopped you?” Bruce asked.

“I think I discovered Lloyd Alexander,” Alex admitted. “He wrote—”

“The Prydain chronicles,” Bruce nodded, thinking back. Dick had loved those books. He’d devoured all five in his tenth summer. Up until then, Bruce hadn’t been certain that his ward was capable of sitting still for longer than an hour or so at a stretch. He smiled at the memory, forgetting his surroundings for a moment. “They’re modern classics,” he added.

“Are they?” Alex shrugged. “I just remember liking them. And I specifically remember not liking the classics I was supposed to be reading in English class.” He thought for a moment. “If I recall correctly, we had to do one of Steinbeck’s stories in sixth grade.”

Bruce frowned. “Not The Red Pony?”

“I’m afraid so. Hideous thing to make a child read.”

That was one statement Bruce could agree with. The last subject he’d wanted to study in detail at that point in his life had been the story of a boy who was given a pony for his birthday, only to watch it suffer an agonizing illness and death. “A year later,” he ventured, “they had The Pearl on the syllabus.”

Alex whistled. “And they wonder how kids get turned off from reading. If there were texts on the reading list that the kids actually liked to read…”

“The administration would assume that they couldn’t possibly hold any literary merit,” Bruce finished, smiling slightly.

Alex laughed. “Very true. If…”

Bruce stopped listening. Something had just occurred to him. Although Alex was probably analyzing everything he said, Bruce realized, the doctor was letting him steer the conversation in whichever direction he chose. In fact… Bruce thought, Alex had been giving him that control from the outset. Of course it was illusory. Alex and the rest of the Arkham staff held all the cards. And if Alex chose to do so, he could assert his authority in a heartbeat. Somehow, though, Bruce didn’t think he would. And with that insight, he felt himself relax.

He blinked. Alex was looking at him expectantly. “Sorry,” he admitted. “I was thinking.” And he’d just handed the psychiatrist a golden opportunity to press him for further details.

Alex didn’t take it. “That can happen now and again,” he observed. “I’ve been told it can even be habit-forming.” Then he grinned and repeated the question.

He waited until night fell before he detonated the phone. The colors would contrast better against a dark sky.

At first, Lynns could see only a white cloud of smoke that enveloped the structure. An eerie grating sound, like a siren on a child’s toy fire engine accompanied the haze. Then a black cloud engulfed the factory. Some of the fireworks within exploded immediately, starbursts of color spilling through blown-out windows. The black lightened to gray. Feathery zigzags of white smoke flew in all directions, creating an ethereal fog-like effect. From within the fog, sparks appeared. Some were mere flashes of light. Others gleamed red or violet as they detonated. Then, a streak of pink light flashed past the confines of the smoke cloud. Seconds later, a flash of green was visible, then blue. Like kernels in an air-popper, the interval between the light-bursts narrowed. Now more were going off at once. The white smoke seemed to tremble and flicker for a moment, before a burst of orange flame appeared at its heart. It expanded, nearly doubling in size in less than three seconds. New, smaller pockets of flame appeared a short distance away from the main blaze.

One minute and thirty-four seconds after the first incendiaries had detonated, a fireball engulfed the factory—and every structure within a two-block radius. Most buildings within an additional block of that perimeter suffered smoke and fire damage. In all, three hundred and forty-nine people lost their lives. Scores more were injured.

Sporadic explosions continued for several minutes more, as a few remaining rockets and shells ignited and exploded

Caldon Incorporated had one hundred seventeen employees, all of whom became jobless in one minute and fifty seconds. Early estimates of the number of workers employed at the other buildings in the blast radius ranged from two to four thousand.

Garfield Lynns, also known as Firefly, lowered his binoculars in awe once it was clear that the last of the firecrackers had detonated. “Pretty…” he breathed.

“Dick!” Barbara’s voice rushed through the cave speakers loud enough to make the cowled figure start.

“What is it, Babs?” He asked, recovering quickly.

A moment later, her face appeared on his monitor. “You have to see this,” she said. “Hot off the asylum feed.”

Dick passed a hand slowly across his forehead. “Oh, no.” He groaned. “Don’t tell me someone else tried something? I thought Arkham could at least control his own people a little better.”

“No!” Barbara was laughing. “I’m sending the relevant portion over to you now. Watch it!”

The computer pinged softly. “Got it. Opening the file.”

“The lighting’s not the greatest,” she admitted. “I’ve done what I can with it, but you might have to watch a few times.”

Dick nodded absently. Bruce was in bed, eyes closed. And he didn’t seem to be having an easy night of it. The younger man shook his head as he watched his mentor tossing and turning on the narrow trundle cot. Suddenly, Bruce gasped, and his eyes flew open. They locked on the camera. And then, Dick saw him smile. He only spoke four words, but as he heard them, an answering grin plastered itself across Dick’s own face. A moment later, Bruce repeated his question.

“Oracle… are you watching?”