Batman: Lost to the Night Part IX

“Whistle Down the Wind” lyrics by Jim Steinman. From the Whistle Down the Wind CD, copyright 1998 by Decca Broadway.

It was raining when Bruce finally approached One Gotham Center. He’d been able to see its 110 stories projecting over the skyline as soon as he’d alighted from the bridge. It had seemed as though he’d never get there. But from this point, he was less than ten minutes away from food and shelter. He forced himself onward.

He had a satellite cave, one that he hadn’t told anyone else about, set up in an old air-raid shelter under an empty office building owned by Wayne Tech. There, he would obtain better clothing, ready cash, a hot meal—he could at least work a microwave—and a place to rest and plan his next move.

His grandfather, Bruce reflected, had been a careful man. He had constructed dozens of these bunkers beneath the properties he’d erected in the forties and fifties. Well over a half-century later, Bruce was reaping the benefit.

Judging from the remaining daylight, it was probably about an hour or so before dark. Were the circumstances different, he would have taken the time to look around, to really take in the city. It had been far too long since he had walked her streets. But he was alone, on the run, and clad only in a cotton cover-all and threadbare sweater. And right now, the temperature seemed to be hovering around the freezing mark…

…The traffic light changed, and a silver Jaguar sped across the intersection, drenching Bruce with a wave of icy water as it drove through a puddle.

Terrific. He supposed that the muddy water made the bright orange jumpsuit less obvious, but now the wind whipped mercilessly through his clothing. He pulled the sweater around him more tightly so that it entirely obscured the top part of the jumpsuit. A young man, seemingly impervious to cold, strode past him, wearing only a T-shirt, shorts and sandals. ‘Alcatraz Inmate No. AZ85’ was emblazoned prominently across his chest. Bruce blinked. He should have just taken his jacket. The Gotham City souvenir shops probably stocked dozens like it. He walked faster, hoping that it would help him keep warmer. He only had a few more streets to navigate.

Another car splashed him when he was a block away from the cave. Bruce’s teeth were chattering as he turned the corner. He stood stock-still. His jaw dropped. The building wasn’t there. There was a chain-link fence around the property, and through it, Bruce could see a massive hole. Drawing closer to the fence, he could see construction equipment within the enclosure, and he thought he could make out iron girders at the bottom of the pit. He cast about looking for the gate although he was positive that it would be locked. No surprises there, he thought, when he saw the massive padlock. His gaze slid upwards to the large white sign, stark black lettering visible by streetlight: Future Site of Foxteca Research and Development. Completion… a date some eighteen months from now. His gaze slid further down the placard, and froze at the words: A Patrick Morgan Company. Patrick… Morgan? Correction: this was indeed a surprise to him. Near the bottom of the sign, Bruce could make out the line: Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises: The face of Gotham City for over eighty years.

Bruce’s shoulders slumped. Since his own name had never actually been on the company logo, it wasn’t quite accurate to state that they’d erased it. But by adding his grandfather to the corporate letterhead, that was essentially what they’d done.

Another gust of wind ripped into him and he shuddered. The safehouse was inaccessible. What was he supposed to do now?

Within the curtained cubicle, Bruce hastily donned the dry shirt and pants and rolled his coverall into a ball. He checked the sweater’s pockets automatically and extracted a damp sheet of paper, neatly folded into eight squares. He transferred it to the pocket of his pants without unfolding it. Bruce regretted leaving the sweater behind, but he didn’t want to risk waiting for it to dry. Besides, the Arkham security feeds would have shown him wearing it earlier. He dropped his wet things into the laundry hamper that stood at the end of the row of changing cubicles, and arranged some of the other garments on top of them.

When he emerged from the hallway, a freckle-faced youth who didn’t look a day over sixteen handed him a plastic tray and waved him over to a line of people who were waiting to be served.

It wasn’t until he was seated at a long table, a bowl of stew and a crusty roll in front of him that he began to reflect. What was he going to do now? How long would it be before somebody found the uniform, turned on a television set, and put two and two together?

He’d been a fugitive before, but then he’d had the costume. He’d had the essentials to survive on his own. He’d had Alfred.

During his years of wandering, he’d lived on meager fare and slept in hovels that made Gotham’s worst slums seem like his bedroom at the manor in comparison. But he’d always known that if the life he was leading proved too difficult to bear, a ticket back to civilization was one telephone call away. He’d never made that call, but the option had been there. Alfred had been there.

Now… everything was different. He wasn’t Batman anymore. It was too dangerous to be Bruce. Alfred was gone. Tim had left. And Dick… Bruce lifted a spoonful of stew to his lips. Dick had refused to help him. When he’d needed him most, Dick had turned his back on him.

He blew on the stew, chewed and swallowed. He should have known better than to rely on anyone else. Hadn’t he learned yet? If you trusted people, if you cared about them, sooner or later—by accident or by design—they abandoned you. The safest thing to do was to cut them loose first.

Kicking down our sandcastles again, aren’t we?

Bruce tried to banish the thought. This was completely different. For once he’d actually asked for help, trusting that Dick wouldn’t turn him down. He’d been so sure of the boy…

He’s no boy. He’s grown up. He’s had to make tough decisions before. Do you really believe that this one came easily?

Easy, hard, it didn’t matter. It had been the wrong decision. He’d decided to leave Bruce in Arkham.

So? You broke out anyway. And now you’re wearing borrowed clothes, eating charity food, in a homeless shelter. Is this meant to be an improvement?

This was temporary. He needed breathing room. The important thing was, he was out of Arkham. He was free.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Bruce tensed, eyes darting about the room. It was too crowded in here. If the police came in with guns blazing, there was too great a possibility of someone else getting hurt in the crossfire. He’d have to steer things outside… and then…? He had no Kevlar, no batarangs… he was out of practice, out of shape…

The sirens faded. Bruce breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Yes, you’re certainly free. Why not walk outside in broad daylight tomorrow and test that?

He took another spoonful of stew. This, he realized, was quite likely what the future held for him. The supplies in the caves were meant for emergencies only. The cash stored there would likely be enough to last him for two weeks. A month, if he was careful. He wasn’t used to being careful with his finances. He’d never really had to be. Two weeks, then. His forged identities would hold up to cursory scrutiny, but without Oracle to monitor them, he doubted that they’d get him by any deeper investigation.

Dick had told him to be patient, Bruce remembered. He should have listened. Instead, it dawned on him that despite the absence of locked doors, guards, and other restrictions, he was more completely cut off outside Arkham’s walls than within them. For well over a year, his family had been the only thing that had kept him from giving up completely; and now, Bruce realized, even if he’d wanted to, he didn’t dare contact Dick. The police were probably already monitoring that telephone number.

The spoon slid from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Bruce bent to retrieve it, and as he did so, he saw the folded paper fall out of his pocket. He picked that up and unfolded it. It was the list of contact numbers that Dick had given him weeks ago. Well, he wouldn’t be needing that anymore…

His eye stopped at the second number on the list. Maybe… he hesitated. Gordon knew the law. Maybe there was something… some loophole he was missing. And if not, maybe Jim would be able to pass a message on to Rae Greene for him. It was probably safer to contact Jim anyway. The police would expect him to try to reach Dick first.

One of the volunteers approached, bearing a fresh spoon. Bruce shook his head. “Is there… could I possibly make a telephone call?” He asked.

The young man nodded and motioned toward a wall of old-fashioned wooden phone booths with accordion-style doors. “They’re free, but we ask that you limit your time to five minutes if you see anybody waiting to use one after you.”

Bruce nodded his thanks. Not a single booth was occupied. He entered the cubicle and slid the door shut. As he dialed the number, he felt his heart begin to pound. What if Gordon turned him in?

The phone rang once.

Bruce drew a deep breath.

It rang again and Gordon picked up. “Hello?”

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, and no sound came out.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

The stresses of the last week… Jeremiah’s smugness, Dick’s betrayal, the escape, the weather, the cars, the fact that he was currently sitting in castoff clothing in a homeless shelter… it was all too much for him. If he was going to speak now, he knew he was going to cry, and he couldn’t do that while he was talking to Jim. Jim knew Batman and Batman didn’t cry.

“Must be a wrong number,” Bruce heard him say.

Another second, he realized, and Gordon would disconnect.

“Hello?”

“Jimmmmmmm?” Bruce managed to force the syllable out.

“Bruce? Is that you?”

He couldn’t answer. He was too busy fighting for self-control. Calling had been a mistake anyway. What was Jim going to do besides urge him to give himself up?

“Bruce,” Gordon’s voice rang with authority. “Bruce, if that is you, don’t hang up the phone. Are you listening?”

Silence.

“Bruce. I’m right here. I’ll stay on this phone line as long as you need me to. If we get disconnected call me back. But I need to know that you’re there. Are you listening?”

He hesitated. “Y-yes.”

“Good,” Gordon rumbled. “I’d hate to think I was talking to myself.”

Driving toward the shelter, Gordon tried to be optimistic. Bruce had reached out, had called him. That had to be an improvement. It was… but it was also out of character. Gordon forced himself to face facts. There were changes in Bruce… serious ones. They weren’t necessarily unwelcome, but they were disconcerting. Gordon didn’t know what to expect anymore.

“I’m about ten minutes away,” he said into the speaker. “Still with me?”

“Yes.”

The monosyllabic answers were nothing new. The ill-concealed note of panic, on the other hand…

“Bruce,” Gordon hesitated. “Son. Listen to me. I…” His mind went blank. What was he supposed to say next? He couldn’t promise that everything was going to be all right; he knew better than that and so did Bruce. To imply otherwise would be an insult.

“Jim?”

“I’m here, Bruce,” he said finally. “Just stay with me. I’m not going to bail out on you. Hold on, Son.”

“Trying…”

Gordon smiled at that. “I know you are, Son. It won’t be too much longer. I’m just driving past the park now. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

There was no response save for ragged breathing.

“You are going to get through this, you know,” Gordon said after a moment.

Another long pause. “How?”

Gordon sighed. “Right at the moment? I haven’t got a clue. But… but I know you, Son. You’ll find a way.” He did know him, Gordon realized. Whatever was going on in Bruce’s head, whatever had been stripped away from him, the man on the other end of the phone was still the same person who had faced Gotham at his side for well over a decade. His lips twitched. “You’re stubborn that way.”

“That’s… not always a good thing.”

Was there a hint of amusement in his voice? Gordon might be imagining things. But Bruce had just uttered a complete sentence.

“You’re not going to get an argument from me on that score,” he said. “But it can be. And you know that, anyway.” He spied a parking spot, and homed in on it.

“I know.” Pause. “I made a mess of it. Everything. Didn’t I?”

Gordon pulled into the vacant space. “Well, it’s a bad situation,” he admitted finally. “I don’t honestly know how to salvage it, but we’re going to try.” He turned off the motor, pulled the key out of the ignition and reached behind him for the trench coat. “Believe me.”

He pulled up the collar of his own coat. The temperature was expected to drop below freezing tonight. “Okay, Bruce. I’m on foot. I’ve got the shelter in view. Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now I haven’t come this far to blow things at the last minute. I’m guessing you would’ve had to give them a false name to register?”

“No. They never asked,” Bruce replied.

“Ah.” He ignored the steps leading up to the entrance in favor of the ramp. A guard stood at the door, barring his path.

“Can I help you, Mister?”

Gordon nodded. “Hang on another second,” he said into the mouthpiece.

He directed his attention to the guard. “Sorry to bother you.” Gordon hesitated only a moment before telling the man that he had come to the shelter in response to a call from his son. A sharp intake of breath was the only intimation Gordon had that Bruce had heard him.

The guard stood aside at once to let him pass. “First door on your right’s the dining room. The phones are along the far wall.”

Gordon thanked him. “I’m right outside,” he said as he faced the row of booths. “All you have to do is push the door open. I’m here.”

For a moment there was no response. Then, slowly, a door slid open and Bruce stared out at him. One hand clutched the phone cord as though it were a lifeline.

Gordon turned off the cell phone with a sigh of relief. “I brought your coat, Son,” he said, handing it to him. “You can let go, now,” he added.

It took Bruce a moment to realize that he was still holding on to the phone. He relinquished his grip with more than a little embarrassment.

Gordon clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

At first, Bruce didn’t pay much attention to the route that they were taking. They were going south—away from Arkham; that was enough. The hum of the car engine, the whir of the heater, the slight tug of inertia pushing him back and pulling him forward as the vehicle sped up or slowed down, all worked in concert to calm him. It wasn’t until Gordon took the right fork toward the Brown Bridge that Bruce realized that they weren’t headed for Tricorner.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Gordon changed lanes, pulled ahead of two other drivers and changed back. “That’s up to you.”

Up to him. That phrase should have been music to his ears, and yet… “To me?”

Jim nodded. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoy driving around at night. It helps me clear my head.” He snorted. “Of course, that’s not going to be news to you, considering. One thing’s for sure: there’s no way I’m going to tell you that you have to go back to the Asylum. So. I have two other ideas for you. Neither of them are ideal, but maybe after hearing them, you’ll either decide that one of them can work for you, or you’ll come up with something better.”

Bruce waited a moment to see if Jim was going to elaborate further. “I’m listening,” he said finally.

Gordon turned off the heater. “All right. I can hide you. It’s illegal as Hell, but I can do it at least short-term. Here’s the problem, though. My house, and this was true long before Barbara moved out of it, has become an unofficial place for GCPD officers to drop by and chat about the good old days. I have to tell you that a lot of my regulars are top-rated detectives. Now, I think that it would look mighty suspicious if I suddenly told them I wanted my privacy, right about the time you escaped Arkham.”

Bruce nodded. Jim had a point.

“Another thing: right now, the police are keeping a close eye on Dick’s activities. Only stands to reason they’d expect him to be helping you. That buys us time, but sooner or later they’re going to remember he’s not the only ally you’ve got. Which means that sooner or later, they’ll start looking at me. I do have one place in my house that might escape notice in the event of a search warrant: Under the stairs going down to my basement, there’s a closet. I’ve got a bunch of old cardboard boxes piled up in there. Don’t ask me what’s in them—there are memories in there that date clear back to my first marriage and move on forward from there.” He laughed. “When I moved to Metropolis, I put everything in storage, and when I moved back I shoved it all under there. One day I’ll go through it, I guess.

“Anyway, if you push aside some of the boxes, there’s a small door that leads to a crawl space. If you were to go in there and fasten a latch so it would lock from the inside, an investigative team might buy that it was painted shut. Problem is, while there were people around, you’d have to be very careful about moving around in there. And I don’t know about how much light you could have. If there are any chinks in those walls, it’s possible that someone could spot it leaking out. You’d have enough room in there to sit up or lie down comfortably, but not to stand.” He waited for his words to sink in. “It won’t be a picnic, I’ll admit. However, you do know that sooner or later the media’s going to have another top story to follow, and the furor over your escape will fade. Once that happens, we might be able to set you up with an assumed ID so that you can stay on in Gotham. Before that, they’ll be looking for you too closely. I don’t know if you’re up to maintaining a cover ID at present.”

Bruce nodded, but his head was spinning. It wouldn’t be Arkham… but it would still be a form of imprisonment; one that would be, in its own way, far more onerous than that which he had endured to date. True, it would be a prison entered by choice, and it would be for his own safety, but he hadn’t left one cell only to enter another.

Really? And what do you think might have happened had Dick agreed to break you out? Were you expecting to retire to the manor and compose your memoirs?

Gordon was right on another score, too. Bruce was currently in no shape to keep up a new alter ego. His instincts were blunted from months of disuse. And if he were challenged, he doubted he’d be able to make good another escape. True, he’d taken the guards by surprise when he’d broken out of Arkham this time, but the effort he’d expended in doing so had only driven home to him the knowledge that he wasn’t likely to win a fight if his opponent was ready for an attack.

“And the other suggestion?” He forced the words out.

“We crossed the bridge a couple of minutes back,” Gordon said. “If I continue on to the highway, in about five minutes, right before the interstate, we’re going to come to a rest area. There’s a Roxxon station attached to a convenience store of some kind and a Burger Barn. When we get there, I’m going to fill up with gas, and I’ll go and take my time in the convenience store, browsing the aisles. Meanwhile, if you look in the back seat, you’ll find a knapsack. There’s a change of clothes, two sandwiches, and a bottle of water. Check the glove compartment for an envelope with six hundred in cash. If I could afford more it would be in there. Maybe you’ll stand a better chance outside the city.”

Bruce chewed the inside of his lip. Leave Gotham? And go where, exactly? He’d have no identification, supplies for a few days at most… Hadn’t the JLA had an emergency assistance program for times like this…?

Yes. YOU funded it. Before you resigned from the League, of course.

Who was he kidding? The JLA had disbanded in any case. Even if they’d reformed during his time in Arkham, he wasn’t a part of it anymore. He wasn’t entitled to any of the benefits of League membership. And without him funding the emergency assistance program, IF the League existed—which was by no means certain—the program was probably a thing of the past.

He closed his eyes. He’d been right the first time: he’d made a mess of things. “I could go back.” His voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

Gordon took his eyes off the road long enough to look at him. “You could.”

“Should I?” He demanded. “Is that the right decision?”

“For who?” Gordon shot back. “For me? I don’t like seeing you caged up like some… some blasted animal. That’s a hell of a thing to ask me to go along with, almost as bad as asking me to be your jailer. And leaving you by the side of the road with a knapsack and a wad of cash isn’t any better. So, in the sense that if you go back to Arkham, at least it lets me off the hook, and lets your son go pick up a pizza without noticing he’s being followed by a plain wrapper, yes that’s the right decision.”

Bruce blinked, confused. Plain… wrapper? He was more out of practice than he’d realized. It took him a moment to recall that the term was CB slang for an unmarked car.

Gordon sighed. “The thing is, Bruce? This isn’t about what’s best for me.” The exit for the rest stop was fast approaching. Jim took it.

“This,” he continued, “is about what’s best for you. If going back means that you’ll let that place beat you, if it means I’m going to see you lying practically catatonic on that bed, day after day, then no, Bruce. That is NOT the right decision.”

He drove into the rest station area. As he’d described it, there was a gas station attached to a convenience store. The fast-food restaurant was next door. Adjacent to it, was a long corridor sheltered by a peaked roof. A sign announced that it led to public restrooms.

Gordon pulled up next to the gas pump and parked the car. “Now,” he said, “I’m going to fill up, like I said, and I’ll give you some time to think things over. Did you want me to pick you up something to eat?”

Bruce thought for a moment. “Soup,” he said. “Or macaroni and cheese. A salad, even. Just please get something that isn’t finger food.”

Gordon nodded. “No problem,” he said as he slid his card into the reader.

When he emerged from the convenience store ten minutes later, a slab of microwaved lasagna in a brown paper bag, the car was empty. Bruce was gone.

Gordon looked at the empty front seat with some dismay. He couldn’t exactly blame Bruce for cutting and running. He might well have done the same thing given the circumstances, but even so, he wasn’t enjoying the prospect of telling the rest of the family. His eyes widened. The knapsack was still in the back seat, untouched. Hesitantly, Gordon opened the glove compartment. The envelope was still there, its funds undisturbed. The former commissioner shook his head. Pride was one thing but this…

…Bruce emerged from the direction of the restrooms and made his way quickly back to the car. “I’d thought to be back before you,” he said before Gordon could utter a word. “Thanks for not driving off.”

Jim stifled the urge to yell. Now that he knew Bruce was all right, he had a sudden mad urge to throttle the man. “Don’t scare me like that, again,” he snapped. “Get in.” He thrust the bag at Bruce. “This is for you.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, ducking into the car. He drew a deep breath. “I’ve thought it over.”

“You should eat that before it gets cold.”

“I will.” He took another breath as he worked the staple carefully loose from the paper bag. “I have to go back.”

Gordon paused. “Are you sure?”

Bruce shook his head. “No.” He removed the plastic lid from the entrée and dug in with the plastic cutlery. “How can I be? But I,” he took a bite of the lasagna. His eyes widened. It was good. Probably oily like anything, but good. “I think my leaving Arkham might have been… premature.” He paused. “It’s not like before, when I,” he thought carefully, choosing his words. “When I thought I deserved to be there. But I think that right now, it might be where I,” he bit his lip, “where I need to be.”

Gordon said nothing.

Bruce sighed. “I forgot, you know.”

“Forgot?”

“I’ve begun to notice,” he explained, “that when I’m in a situation not of my choosing, I tend to… twist things until it looks as though it came about through my own volition. So when Arkham threatened to prevent you from visiting me…”

This was news to Jim. “He what?” Oh, that smug, supercilious bastard!

“He threatened to stop the visits if I was unwilling to work with the medical staff. So when Dick came that night I tried to… dissuade him from returning.” He took another forkful of lasagna. “If it was my own idea, then it made the situation bearable.”

He took another few bites before he spoke again. “I… the way I was when I was transferred from the hospital wasn’t an… act. Not an intentional one. But I think that… being aware that I was going to Arkham, something in me made me want it to be by my own choice. What Elliot did gave me a reason not to fight it. So that on some level… I could believe that I was in that place because I wanted to be.”

“Now you’ve got me worried,” Gordon admitted. “I was all set to swear that you weren’t insane, but after that last bit…”

Bruce smiled at that. “I’m still working some things through,” he said. “But I think that because I—in my own mind, at least—came to Arkham voluntarily, it didn’t really occur to me that I couldn’t leave voluntarily.”

Gordon blinked. “So you thought the locks on the door were just for show?”

“As you pointed out not so long ago,” Bruce said, “I wasn’t thinking.” He swallowed the last bite of lasagna. “I…” he hesitated. “My current doctor took a leave of absence. Jeremiah took over for him…”

“Hmmmph,” Gordon sniffed. “I don’t blame you for running then.”

The smile flashed again briefly. “He reminded me of the true state of affairs. I… disliked it.” He sobered. “When I go back…” he squared his shoulders. “Is it a further indication of insanity that I’d almost rather face the Joker?”

Gordon squeezed his forearm. “Not as long as it’s ‘almost’. Can you manage?”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll have to.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gordon said, “I think what you said before about needing to make everything seem like it was your idea makes a lot of sense. Question, though: can you somehow twist things around so that you can put up with Jeremiah until your regular doctor gets back?”

Silence.

Gordon turned on the motor. “You’ll probably have to face him at least once before another sanity hearing can be convened. Maybe you can use this time to prepare.”

Bruce seemed to be mulling over his words. “Maybe. Jim?”

“Mmmmmhm?”

“Do we… do I have to go right now? I mean… could we… stop somewhere first?”

Gordon glanced at him. “Where did you have in mind?”

“The cemetery,” Bruce said after a moment’s hesitation. “I never really said ‘goodbye’.”

They weren’t clear of the lot yet. Gordon pulled the car into a vacant spot, turned off the motor, and reached across to pat the younger man’s shoulder. “You’ve… never been good at that, have you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know if we can, Son. They’re watching the manor, you know.”

Bruce nodded miserably. “I… understand.”

Gordon thought for a moment. “Stay here. Maybe…” He did not finish the sentence. He got out of the car and walked back toward the convenience store. Bruce saw him take the cell phone out of his pocket. He settled back to wait.

About ten minutes later, Jim returned. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case Commissioner Sawyer didn’t go for this, but she’s willing,” he said. “She’s agreed to what you’re asking...”

Bruce blinked as a real smile began to spread across his face.

“But…” Gordon added.

“But?”

“The police will be there. You can take as long as you need, but when you’re finished, you go back with them. Technically, you’ll be in police custody from the moment you set foot on the Manor grounds, but they won’t step in until you’re ready to leave.” Gordon sighed. “Which basically means that if you change your mind about going back, from here on in, you’re going to have to give me the slip and make it look convincing.”

Or Jim would be facing charges for helping him. Bruce nodded. “Alright. Call her back. Tell her I agree.” Jim started to dial the number. “Wait. Jim?” Bruce hesitated. “Tell her… thanks.”

Jim leaned heavily against the wrought-iron fence as he watched the younger man kneel before the double grave that marked Thomas and Martha Wayne’s final resting place. Jim imagined that he was talking to them, although he couldn’t hear a word.

About ten minutes later, Bruce arose, walked to the headstone and brushed his fingers reverently over it. Then, shoulders slumping, he made his way several feet over, to where two newer granite markers stood. He spent several minutes by Jason’s. Then, Gordon saw him move slowly to the last grave…

“Hello, Old Friend,” Bruce whispered. “I wish I could have come sooner. Circumstances dictated otherwise,” he paused before continuing, “but then, I’m sure you already know that.

“I failed you. I realize that. I was too slow, too careless, too clumsy. I can be there for everybody… except the people who need me… who I need the most.” His voice broke.

“You were right, Alfred. About everything. I let the mission consume me… wasted time… years… I know you wanted to see me… happy. I thought that later, after my work was com…plete…” tears were pouring down his cheeks and he made no effort to hold them back or brush them away. “And I told you that every time I ran past you into the cave. I couldn’t wait to get into that costume and leave… leave…

“I was a fool. A blind… stupid… fool. You were right about everything, Alfred. I…”

Something seemed to wrap about his shoulders then. He half-turned, expecting to see Jim there, but… no, Jim was still standing against the fence. There was nobody nearby. It had to have been the wind.

“I know, Old Friend,” he continued softly. “I made this mess. I need to put things right.”


He gestured toward his parents’ tombstone. “I almost hope they can’t see what’s happened to…” He buried his face in his hands. “Oh, G-d, Alfred. What they must think of me!”

“If they were half the people you seem to believe they were, Son,” a voice broke into his thoughts, “I think they’d be damned proud of you.”

Slowly, he half-turned. “Jim?”

“Still here.” With some difficulty, he sat down next to Bruce on the cold ground.

Bruce shook his head. “You shouldn’t be…”

“Ahhh… You’ll help me up, afterwards.” He rested a hand on the younger man’s forearm. “It’s harder bending over you, anyway. Here.” He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a small package of tissues.

Bruce accepted one with a mumbled thank you. “I wish I could know that for sure,” he said. “That they’d be proud.”

Gordon said nothing.

“Sometimes, when I dream,” he admitted, “I see them telling me… that I’m wasting my life, and I wonder…”

“What were they like?” Gordon interrupted.

Bruce thought for a moment. “My father was a fair man,” he said slowly. “Strict, but fair. He was impossible to fool, but sometimes, he’d allow you to think otherwise.

“He’d go out of his way to find work for anybody who approached him to ask for a job. And if they needed some… assistance that,” he broke off for a moment, thinking. “I can give you an example. At WE, medical benefits only kick in after an employee has worked for the company for three months. That’s in the standard employment contract. It’s understood. But there were times when a new employee would ask whether anything could be done sooner. Invariably, my father gave in. One time, I can remember visiting him at work, when somebody—from accounting, I suppose—came into the office demanding to know why Father had authorized the payment. After all, legally there was no requirement to do so.

“Father’s reply was that there was a time to do what was legal… and a time to do what was right.”

Gordon smiled gently. “You can tell me that story and yet, you honestly think he wouldn’t approve of your activities?”

Bruce shook his head. “It’s different…”

“It’s a difference of degree, only.” He smiled. “Of course he’d be worried. G-d knows I was when I found out what Barbara was up to. And I don’t doubt you went through something similar with Dick at one point or another. Are you going to sit there and tell me that you’re ashamed of the way he’s chosen to live his life? Some of his choices may have been disappointing to you, but can you honestly tell me that there’s been a single day since he came to you that you considered him a disgrace?”

Thunderstruck, Bruce turned to face him. “I…” Words deserted him. “I…” He shook his head. There had been times when he’d considered Dick to be headstrong, emotional, on occasion, even foolish. But… a disgrace? Never.

“Then why do you think for one moment that they’d believe something like that about you?”

Bruce had no answer. He could shrug off emotional arguments, but Gordon was appealing to his logic. There was no way to know how his parents would react… but Jim’s argument was sound. Jim… was right. He was right. Bruce exhaled slowly, then gulped in a fresh breath of air. He got to his feet and extended a hand to help Jim up. Jim took it.

“You… ah… might want to wash up before you go,” Jim suggested.

It took a moment for Bruce to understand. Of course. He shouldn’t look as though he’d been crying when he arrived at… at Arkham. He’d managed to forget about Arkham for a little while, at least.

Without another word, he trotted toward the shed where various tools were stored. There was a faucet set in its outer wall. Bruce turned it on and splashed cold water on his face. A breeze started up, making his exposed skin tingle where the water touched it. He gulped in another deep breath of fresh air. This might be the last time he’d be out at night for awhile—he might as well try to take it in as fully as possible.

When he turned around, he could see several officers standing just inside the cemetery gates. How long had they been waiting? It didn’t matter. He locked eyes with one officer and nodded slightly. He was ready.

Cautiously, the group approached him. Bruce raised his hands. He’d agreed to this. He wasn’t going to resist. He…

“Sergeant Robbins, GCPD. We’re parked just outside the gate,” one of them said. “Did you need some more time?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. I’m ready.” He would not look back. The police had kept up their end of the agreement. He was going to keep his. He tensed, waiting for the handcuffs.

“Let’s go, then.”

Bruce blinked.

Robbins gestured toward the car. “Unless you do need another minute…?”

Understanding dawned. Bruce smiled slowly as he straightened his stance. “I’m ready,” he said again, as he followed the officer, head held high. The others waited until he had passed before they closed ranks behind him.

Bruce sat in the back seat of the squad car. He could see the police officers standing around outside. One officer was in a different car, probably alerting Central that they had Batman in custody. The others were talking with Jim. Bruce noticed that one of them was keeping an eye on the squad car at all times. The officer wasn’t being obvious about it, and Bruce didn’t mind. He’d been expecting to be more closely observed.

His eyes narrowed. There was a teen in neat civilian attire standing with the blueshirts. There was something familiar about him. Bruce watched as the youth leaned forward to ask a question. After a moment, the officer nodded and accompanied the young man to the car. He opened the front passenger door and the boy climbed in. “Mr. Wayne?” He asked. Then he corrected himself. “Batman?”

Bruce nodded an acknowledgement. “These days, I’ll answer to either.”

The boy grinned.

Bruce waited. After a moment, he asked “Do I… know you?”

“You did,” the boy replied. “Mind you, it was a few years ago so I’m not really surprised you don’t remember. I’m Leroy. Leroy Shood? Grant Park P.S. ring any bells?”

Yes, it did indeed. “The IHAD program,” Bruce nodded. “You’d be in your junior year, now?”

“Senior, actually,” Leroy said. “I did my bit—I’m graduating high school in June. You gonna do yours?” He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like…”

Bruce had forgotten about that agreement. He’d have to mention it to Dick. “Your post-secondary education will be paid for,” he nodded. “How have you been?”

“Good!” Leroy beamed. “I mean, living in the projects isn’t a picnic, but my mom got her act together, and she’s working part-time now. I aced the SAT last year… still waiting to hear from the places I applied to,” he shrugged. “It’s good.”

The boy hesitated. “Can I ask you something?” Without waiting for an answer, he plunged onward. “The way you set things up for my friends and me, it was like first you scared the crap out of us and then you gave a whole new set of options. You always work that way? Sorta ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ in the same package?”

Bruce wasn’t sure he’d heard it phrased that way before. His lips twitched. “Not always,” he admitted. “But often. Usually when it involves people like you and your friends.”

“People running with the wrong crowd,” Leroy nodded, “but who haven’t totally messed up their lives yet.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to ‘totally mess up,’” Bruce countered. “But there are certain lines which, once crossed, make it more difficult to turn around.” He paused. “Did that satisfy your curiosity?”

Leroy nodded again. “Just looking for pointers. See, I want to go into social work. I think I’d probably do well working with kids like me… the ones everyone thinks don’t have a chance. One day, someone’s gonna say something like that to my face, and after I finish laughing at them, I’ll tell them that a few years ago, I was saying exactly the same thing, and if I can make it out of the projects, so can they.” His dreamy smile faded. “But sometimes, I think I might need to… scare them a little. Not so much they’ll run away but enough so they know they can’t just… drift. I was wondering how to know how hard to push.”

“Over time,” Bruce said slowly, “you develop an instinct for it. I’m not sure I can explain further… here.”

“Oh,” Leroy said, realizing. “Right. Sorry. Look, when you get out… would it be okay if maybe we met a few times? I’m trying to see the problem from all sides. I know what it’s like growing up in a high-crime neighborhood. I signed up for the Ride-Along program to try to see what it’s like being a cop and having to patrol one. I’m gonna network with teachers, probation officers, you name it. But you’ve got to have another perspective, right?”

The driver-side door opened before Bruce could answer, and Gordon stuck his head in. “What’s your favorite flavor?” He demanded, a broad grin creasing his features.

“Strawberry,” Leroy replied instantly, as Bruce blinked.

Gordon turned to him. “How about you?”

“What?”

“Bruce,” Gordon said, “I’m not asking you to spell methylenedioxymethamphetamine. What’s your favorite flavor?” His grin grew wider. “Commissioner Sawyer’s orders. We’re stopping at Baskin-Robbins en route to the asylum. Apparently it was by Jeremiah’s own suggestion.”

Bruce somehow doubted that.

After a moment of silence, Gordon spoke again. “If you don’t tell me, I’m getting you rum-raisin.”

“I don’t…”

“Bruce!” Gordon’s tone was sharp. “As under-funded as the GCPD is, they have managed to find it in their budget to allow eleven single-scoop cones. You are getting one. For the purpose of this exercise, assume that the place we’re stopping at is out of vanilla and chocolate. If they aren’t, I will personally buy their remaining stock. Now… pick a damned flavor.”

Leroy clapped a hand to his mouth.

Bruce sighed. “Jamoca almond fudge,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

Gordon smiled at him. “Was that really so hard?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Barbara was trying to look at the positives. From what she’d heard and seen over the asylum security feeds, Bruce was safe. He sounded better than he had in a very long time. And it looked as though Dick wasn’t going to be up on assault charges… But Bruce was back in Arkham. As necessary as that circumstance might be, Barbara couldn’t call it a good thing. And he was back under Jeremiah’s thumb… She toyed with the idea of arranging for the IRS to audit Dr. Arkham. A few keystrokes would be all it would take. It would be that easy. She smiled. It was only November. She had a few months to make up her mind on that front. The young woman yawned as she reached for the last slice of cold pizza. She’d just finish this and call it a night…

…She almost choked on her second bite, as her laptop screen went blank. A moment later, a single horizontal line of text appeared across the center of the monitor:

Have you written any quatrains recently, Oracle?