The Way Back #21

Consciousness returned slowly. Bruce realized that he was lying on his stomach with his hands bound behind his back. He was in his stocking feet—they seemed to be resting on someone's lap, as a cord wound tightly about his ankles. His head hurt.

"I don't get it," a voice spoke up from behind him.

Bruce felt someone—almost definitely the speaker—give the cord a final jerk before securing it.

"What don't you get, Shaughnessy? Frap his ankles, too." Bruce recognized that voice. Flass.

"If we're going to off him anyway, why not just do it?"

Bruce heard the click of a revolver being cocked.

"His ankles," Flass repeated. "And the answer's simple. I own this albatross of a building. And while it could be months before anybody finds the body, if it turns up here—or if we move it and forensics finds something, the cops will start asking questions. I'm not going back to Blackgate because they found one of his hairs stuck in the mud on the bottom of my shoe! Now, put the gun down and finish up. We'll wait until around two, three in the morning, when there aren't so many cars on the road. Then we shove him into the trunk of the Olds. You and Macklin are going to drive out to the Scott Creek Bridge. Cooper and I'll follow in the Chevy. We shoot him at the bridge and toss him over. Then we head along the coast road until we hit those cliffs near where the Gotham River meets the Atlantic. Shove the Olds into the drink and we all drive back in the Chevy."

Bruce felt the cords dig deeper around his ankles as Shaughnessy looped a second rope around the bindings. "I guess," Shaughnessy said dubiously, "But why not just drive to the cliffs, shoot him there, and leave him in the car when we send it over? I mean, if anyone's coming over the bridge, we might have some serious explaining to do."

"I think our guest's waking up," Flass smirked. "And you're right, Shaughnessy. That makes even more sense. But for reasons best-known to the Bat, and to myself, the Scott Creek's much more appropriate." He snapped his fingers obnoxiously a scant inch from Bruce's eye. "Ain't that right, Goldbricker?"

Bruce kept his eyes shut, pretending that he was still out. He felt a light pressure on his cheek, followed by a soft twang and a stinging sensation. Blearily, he opened his eyes.

"Aw, did I interrupt your beauty sleep, Bat?"

Another twang. Another sting. His fake scar. Flass was pressing the bottom end of it against his cheek, stretching it taut, and letting go.

"It came off in the scuffle, Bat," Flass said softly. "I had my suspicions before, but that clinched it." He pulled the scar away, rose to his feet and flung the piece of rubber on the floor, directly in front of Bruce.

Bruce glowered as Flass moved behind him to examine the cords. "This is good," Flass said, sounding pleased. "This is very good. It just needs a couple of extra touches."

All at once, Bruce felt a sharp jerk as Flass tugged at the frap cord on his ankles. It was complemented almost immediately by a similar tug at his wrists as Flass knotted the two cords together, effectively hogtying him. More footsteps, and Flass stood before him once more, holding another length of cord. "This," he said with relish as he fashioned a slipknot noose at one end, "is just in case you have any ideas about escaping. " He placed the noose around Bruce's neck and moved behind him once more. "I'm going to tie the other end of this to your ankles. If you don't struggle, you'll be fine. If you do..." Flass chuckled unpleasantly. "Well, don't. Despite what you might have overheard, I'm not that disturbed at the thought of you dying here. This is an abandoned site. Doesn't get a lot of visitors, and I mean to be long gone by the time any turn up. There we go," he patted the back of Bruce's head as he walked back. "All secured. We'll be getting this show on the road in about six hours, give or take, so you've got plenty of time to reflect. See you in a bit."

With that, he and Shaughnessy exited, pulling the door closed behind them.

Bruce watched them go, his eyes blazing with fury. Then he gripped the cord connecting wrists to ankles, reeled his feet in closer, and set to work on the knots. The noose didn't worry him nearly as much as the thought of losing circulation in his hands. He was going to have to work quickly, but calmly, to get out of this one.

--

Jim waited until the yard was deserted before making his move. The idea of leaving Bruce behind didn't sit well with him, but the order had been clear. He sighed. There wasn't much room for debate. If he went back inside, he'd likely succeed only in getting himself recaptured, rendering the entire rescue attempt pointless. He had to get out of here, call the police and...

No. If the police found Bruce here, it could lead to questions about the circumstances. It would have been one thing, had their positions been reversed. If Bruce had been the one abducted, and Jim had been the one to follow the thugs to their destination, it wouldn't have been a problem. But he couldn't be sure whether Bruce's rescue attempt could be counted as vigilante activity, and he wasn't going to be responsible for Bruce going back to Arkham. Not a second time. Not for something like this. He had to reach Barbara.

Resolutely, he pulled himself up and forced himself to walk to the gate as quickly as he could. The guards hadn't returned yet, but they might at any moment. He nearly stumbled over a heavy tree branch. About to step over it, Jim suddenly had a better idea. As he stooped to pick it up, he realized that it was a bit longer than his usual cane, but it would serve the same purpose. He continued walking, more steadily than before. He felt a quick surge of triumph as he stepped off the property, but he knew he wasn't home-free yet. The street was deserted. No witnesses if his captors came after him, and he was too visible out here. He slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the reassuring shape of the key chain. Bruce had parked the car two blocks away, he'd said. He could manage two blocks.

Raucous cheers startled him as an open convertible barrelled down the road. His first thought was that there seemed to be far more people in it than the manufacturer had intended.

"Take that, ya bum!"

Something hurtled into his shin and sent him falling heavily to the sidewalk. Liquid trickled out of the missile, wetting his pant-leg. A familiar smell rose up from the puddle forming on the pavement. Beer. They'd chucked a beer bottle at him.

"You got him, Darren! But watch this!" One of the men—boys, really—stood up in the back seat and drew back his arm to throw another bottle as the car drove past.

That was when the drunken yells turned to screams, as an inky shadow slammed heavily onto the hood of the car.

"Hey! Get off! I can't see where we're going! We're—"

Batman braced his boots on the hood, seized hold of one of the two youths in the passenger seat and yanked him forward, half over the windshield. "Drunk, and no seat belt?" He asked in disbelief. "You're even a bigger idiot than I thought." With that, he shoved the young man partway into the back seat. His friends pulled him further to safety. The second youth paled, opened the passenger door and rolled to the pavement. He lay on the ground, groaning for a few seconds. Then he staggered to his feet and ran without a backward glance. A moment later, Batman occupied his seat. "Pull over," he told the driver. "Now!"

Jim watched as the car squealed to a stop and Batman hauled the protesting passengers out of the vehicle.

"Aw, man! We were just having a little fun!" The driver was the last one out. Batman turned to him with a cold glare.

"Then I hope you find breathalyser tests and paying a visit to the GCPD lockup entertaining," he said, spinning the driver around and locking zip-ties on his wrists. The others were already similarly restrained. There were eight altogether.

"Come on," one of them protested. "I didn't throw any bottle. It was Darren!" He jerked his head toward one of the others.

Batman advanced a step toward Darren. "Is that true?"

The youth's face blanched. "Ohgodohgod, don't hurt me. I didn't mean..."

Batman paused for a moment, considering. Then he steered Darren over to a nearby streetlamp and pushed him down. He approached a second youth. "You. You were about to throw the other one," he snarled. "Get over here!" He placed him against the same streetlamp, his back to Darren's and used two more zip-ties to bind them together at their upper arms.

He reached into the front of the car and pulled the keys from the ignition. "I don't think any of you are fit to drive, and I have business elsewhere. So. I presume that at least one of you has a cell and enough money to pay for a taxi?" He did a mental head-count. "Or two?"

The young men looked at each other. They nodded nervously. "Yeah. Yeah, man, we got it," one of them mumbled.

"Okay. That's how you're getting home tonight. The car's likely to be impounded, but you'll have the keys back in the morning. I wouldn't stick around here much longer. When the police show up, they're bound to start asking questions. And I definitely wouldn't get any ideas in my head about cutting your friends loose. Clear enough?"

There were muttered 'yeah's. "Wait, man." It was the driver. "How do you know where I live?"

Batman's expression grew positively murderous. "I know. Stay under your legal drinking limit before you get behind the wheel again." His voice dropped to a low growl. "Think of your health and well being."

The driver gulped and tore off down the sidewalk. The others followed suit.

Dick turned to Jim. "You okay?"

"Yes, but they have Bruce."

"Think he can get out of it on his own?"

Jim knew why he was asking. "In a word," he shook his head, "no."

Dick nodded. "Alright. I'm going in, then. Um... Are you..."

"The car's parked on Morales. I have the keys. Unfortunately, my night vision isn't what it once was. I'm not going to be able to drive."

"Morales is only a block or so away," Dick remarked. "I'll walk you. You can bring me up to speed on the situation at the same time."

Jim nodded. "The man behind this is Lt. Flass, late of the GCPD, and probably the dirtiest cop I ever had the displeasure of meeting. He's had it in for both me and Batman for a very long time. And he knows who it is he's captured."

"Damn."

--

As Bruce painstakingly worked away at his bindings, his thoughts flew back to the last time he'd encountered Flass. It had been at the bridge, of course. For the second time, Flass had orchestrated the abduction of Gordon's son. The first time, he hadn't been the actual kidnapper, but he'd chosen the site and made the arrangements—as the man who'd actually committed the deed later confessed. The second time, though, Flass had taken a more hands-on approach. He'd gone clear to Chicago to steal the boy away... And he'd brought him to that same bridge. And both times, Batman had saved the boy and seen to it that Flass was apprehended. Yes, of course, Flass would want to take him to the Scott Creek Bridge. But Bruce didn't mean to wait around passively for that to happen.

He felt a surge of relief as the knot that connected his wrists to his ankles finally parted, and he felt the pressure on his quadriceps ease. Slowly, he started to lower his feet. Constriction at his throat made him freeze as he realized his mistake. You forgot about the noose, you idiot! His ankles were no longer bound to his wrists, but they were still connected to his neck! It was a good thing he hadn't just dropped his legs at once, or he'd be gasping out his last by now. As it was, despite his increased discomfort, he could still breathe freely.

Bruce willed himself to remain calm. He just had to get the other end of the noose-line untied. Just get that done, and the rest would be a cakewalk. Flass wouldn't have tied it directly to his ankles, but rather, over the frap-cord that was wrapped around the bindings. His fingers brushed the ropes, probing. Yes, there were two knots. And since the noose had been tied last, its knot should be the outermost. His fingers were growing stiff. Just get this one unfastened and then you can work on getting your hands in front of you. Then you can use your teeth. It's coming. Just a little bit more... more... He felt the cord slacken. Carefully, cautiously, he moved his head forward, prepared to freeze again at the first sign that the noose was tightening. It didn't tighten. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, he straightened his legs, bringing his feet to the floor. He let out a long breath. He'd done it! He wasn't free, not yet, but he soon would be.

"What the hell?"

Flass. Damn it! Another five minutes and he would have had it!

The burly ex-cop took in the situation at a glance. "Shaughnessy, you idiot! Get in here! And get me a tarp!" He flipped Bruce heavily onto his back, so that he was lying on top of his numbed hands. An instant later, Flass was on top of him, pinning him down. "Shaughnessy!"

Bruce kicked upward, knowing that it was futile. He caught Flass in the side, but it was only a glancing blow. Flass seized hold of the free end of the noose. "Stop struggling or I end this right now!" He shouted.

Bruce froze. It wasn't over for him yet—but it would be if he didn't bide his time and wait for a better opportunity. Reluctantly, he complied. Approaching footsteps told him that Shaughnessy had returned.

"That's better," Flass snapped.

"Here's the tarp, boss," Shaughnessy announced.

"Wrap him up," Flass snapped. "Then toss him in the trunk. He can wait there until we're ready to leave."

The thug nodded grimly. He walked toward Bruce, unfolding the heavy fabric as he advanced.

And then, Dick was there. No. Not Dick. Batman. Bruce hadn't even heard him enter, but suddenly the air seemed to explode with a flurry of punches and high kicks. He'd seen Dick in action before, but never like this: no quips; no grandstanding; no flourishes—just fluid movement and white-hot determination. Flass and Shaughnessy never knew what hit them before they were both lying on the floor, out cold, with plastic zip-ties on their wrists and ankles.

And then, as quickly as Batman had burst onto the scene, he was gone, and it was Dick untying him, asking if he was alright. Just Dick, wearing the costume, acting a part—except at that moment, it hadn't been an act.

"Did you find Jim?" he asked, rubbing at his wrists to stimulate the circulation.

Dick nodded. "He's fine. I ran into a couple of other guys in the front. Took care of them, too. Are you okay?"

"Yes. See if you can find my shoes," he said. "And Jim's cane."

"Alright. You're..." He stopped. "If you say you're okay, you're okay. I'll be back in a few minutes. Hang in there."

It took closer to a half-hour for Dick to locate the items. By the time he returned, Bruce was nowhere to be found. And Shaughnessy was in his stocking feet.

Dick sighed. Then he headed back toward Morales Street. Best thing to do was probably to drive Jim back to the manor in the Batmobile. If the other car was still parked here when he got back, there'd be plenty of time to go looking for Bruce then.

--

"Somehow, I thought you might end up here," Dick said softly, several hours later.

Bruce didn't turn around. "I'm not planning to jump," he replied. He was sitting on a narrow spur that jutted outward from the base of the domed roof of Gotham Tower, his feet dangling one hundred twenty stories above street level.

Dick grinned. "I know that," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I can go, if you—"

"Stay, if you like," Bruce cut him off. "I don't mind."

"Okay." He walked out along the next spur—there were a dozen of them radiating out from the top of the tower, like a spiked crown. "Best view in town," he grinned, taking a seat.

Bruce nodded. "I passed my final test here," he said. "The night before I put on the suit for the first time, I... walked out to the tip of this spur, cast my line—"

Behind the cowl, Dick's eyes widened. "From a standing position?" On a perch this narrow, with no safety net below... if there'd been a wind...if there had been a wet or slippery spot... "Whoa." He shivered—and not only because he could feel the cold concrete of the spur seeping through his insulated costume. "You warm enough up here?" He asked, as he reached for the cape fastenings.

"I'm fine." Bruce shook his head. "Keep it on." He grimaced. "I was younger then. More foolhardy than brave, I can see now. Still, taking that leap did manage to wipe away any vestigial fear of heights I might have still held. I looped the line around the neck of that gargoyle," he pointed to an office tower across the street, "and leaped to that ledge... there... detaching the line as I landed."

Dick blinked. "That one? It can't be more than thirty inches wide. I..." He could probably do it... if he had to, but it wasn't exactly a stunt to pull for the fun of it. In fact, he would have bet money that Bruce would have chewed him out unmercifully had he attempted it without a valid reason.

"Two feet," Bruce corrected. "It was reckless. I didn't see it that way at the time, though."

"Ah."

"After that," Bruce continued, "I often came up here when I wanted to think things through without interference. Sometimes, even in the cave, that was... difficult."

Which, Dick reflected, was probably about as close as Bruce would ever come to criticizing Alfred's penchant for dry sarcasm. "I understand," he said.

Silence. Then, softly, "Thanks."

For understanding? For... earlier? "Uh... You're welcome." It was the safest response.

Bruce smiled faintly. "I don't just mean for tonight, although that's part of it." The smile became a grimace. "Alex wants me to work on expressing gratitude. It... it doesn't come as easily for me as it should."

Dick's face suddenly felt warm. "Bruce, it's—"

"No. It's not alright," Bruce cut him off. "Thanks," he said again, this time in a voice that dripped sarcasm. "That's something to say when the cashier hands you your change, or someone holds the door open for you. In this case, it's... woefully inadequate."

"You don't have to say—"

"I've always told you that actions speak louder than words. That... that doesn't excuse not saying the words in the first place." Bruce looked at him. "I was in over my head tonight. Maybe I could have gotten out on my own—it's possible. But it was by no means a sure thing."

"I should have been there sooner," Dick protested. "Would have been, if I hadn't been coming from Sommerset General. Lucius wanted me along to evaluate a medical research project for a possible Wayne Foundation grant. The nickel tour and presentation ran long—we didn't leave until after seven."

Moving north and east from Gotham, Sommerset was the next township after Bristol. It would have taken Dick a half-hour just to get from the hospital to the bridge into Gotham. "And in a hospital, your cell phone would have been off," Bruce nodded. He lifted his head and waited for Dick to meet his eyes. He took a deep breath. "Thank you for saving my life. I don't just mean tonight. I... there is no way that I would have survived the last two and a half years without your support. Jim's and Barbara's as well—and I do mean to tell them as much later—but yours in particular. It couldn't have been easy. In fact, we both know that there were times when I went out of my way to make it difficult. I honestly don't know how the rest of you stuck it out. I'm not sure whether I could have." He held up a hand as Dick opened his mouth to say something. "Don't feed me that bull about my never teaching you how to walk out. I gave you many object lessons on how to... to push others away. Distance yourself—"

"Yeah, well I flunked out of college, so maybe I'm just a lousy student," Dick muttered. A glare from Bruce checked him. He pushed back the cowl. "Bruce," he said, softly, "what's it going to take before you finally get it through your head? You're not in this alone. You've got a lot of people who care about you." He was aware that his hands were starting to sweat, but he forced himself to continue. Bruce wasn't the only one with something he'd been wanting to say for awhile. "Some of us even love you." The words came out at a rush. "One of them's me." He grinned. "Deal."

He pulled a key ring out of his utility belt pouch and tossed it gently across the space between them. It landed on the spur, next to Bruce. "Car's where you left it. I'll call you tomorrow. Try to get street side before you freak out some poor window washer." He pulled up to a handstand, flipped to his feet, turned, and cast his line—not around the gargoyle that Bruce had indicated before—but rather around one of the balusters of a nearby roof railing. A second later, he was gone in the night, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

--

"You can go home, Tim," Gordon said for the fifth time. "I'll look after Helena."

"It's okay. I'll just wait until Bruce gets in." He gave an exasperated sigh. "It's been almost four hours since Dick called. Why isn't he home?"

Gordon got up and poured another two cups of coffee. "Here." He watched as Tim added two spoonfuls of sugar. "My guess is, he just needs some time alone—and he knows he won't have that walking in here. Now, until ten o'clock tomo..." he broke off. "Until ten o'clock this morning, he can be alone, if that's what he wants."

"What if he's not back by then?"

Jim sighed. "Then we start looking."

A key turned in the front door lock. Jim smiled. "Of course, that's moot, now."

A moment later, Bruce walked into the kitchen. "Hi," he said softly.

"Coffee's brewed if you want it," Jim said. "Pull up a chair."

Bruce sank down onto the kitchen chair with a sigh. "I'll pass on the coffee." He smothered a yawn. Turning to Tim, he asked, "Were you alright with Helena?"

Tim blinked. "Yeah, sure. She went to sleep around eight or so. You okay?"

Bruce actually seemed to be considering his response. "I don't know," he said finally, "but I think I might be getting there." His eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't you have gone home by now?"

"Um," Tim looked away. "Yeah, I guess so. I just wanted..." he hesitated. "Never mind."

Instead of the irritation that Tim had half been expecting, Bruce simply nodded. "You look exhausted. I... should have anticipated that." He smiled wearily. "You're welcome to take one of the spare rooms upstairs. Get some sleep. You can drive home in the morning."

"Good advice," Jim said dryly, as Tim rose to his feet. "About getting some sleep. Were you planning on taking it, too?"

Bruce smiled. "In a few minutes. There's just... something I need to do first. It won't take long."

--

It wasn't that Dick was exactly a light sleeper. He could doze off at a club with the music pulsating from a speaker two yards away—and had done so on more than one occasion. Certain sounds, however, could always rouse him: a door opening, the sound of his name, the sound of a gun going off—with or without a silencer—and, of course, the telephone. He'd turned off the ringer in the bedroom before turning in, but not the kitchen extension. Dick looked at the digital clock on the night-table and groaned. It was slightly after four. Voicemail can answer that one. If I pick up, I'm not exactly going to be Mr. Friendly at this hour.

To his surprise, though, the ring cut off in mid-tone and he heard Barbara's voice carry indistinctly from down the hall. A moment later, the bedroom door opened. "Are you still up?"

Dick rubbed his eyes. "Yeah," he mumbled. She didn't sound tense enough for it to be an emergency. "Who's on the phone?"

"Bruce. He specifically told me not to wake you if you were asleep."

Dick reached for the phone. "Too late for that now. I got it." He lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"I know it's late," Bruce said quietly, without preamble. "I won't keep you. I just... thought I should let you know that I made it home."

Dick blinked. "Good," he said, careful not to let his shock come through in his voice. "I'm glad. Are you alright?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that," Bruce said dryly. "And yes," a glint of humour stole into his voice, "I do understand that the reason likely has something to do with a certain point you brought up earlier. I'm fine. Or at least, I think I will be, after a hot shower and a few hours sleep."

"Sleep sounds good," Dick agreed. "Very good. See you later?"

"Later," Bruce agreed. "Good night."

"Night." Dick hung up the phone, smiling. Would wonders never cease...?

--

Dr. Arkham's door was open, but Cass rapped on the wall as usual.

"Come."

The voice sounded thin and wheezy, but there was something of the old authority in it. Cass obeyed, pushing the wheelchair forward with a smile. "Ready?"

Arkham nodded, waving her off when she came forward to assist him. "You... talk now?" She asked.

He froze for a moment and gave her a penetrating stare. Then, "Have we met outside this hos... hos...?" he began to cough violently."Puffer!" he gasped between coughs. "Nightstand. Puffer!"

Cass grabbed for it and pressed the device into his hand. He raised it toward his lips and pressed down, releasing a quick burst of medication. He didn't resist when Cass gently, as she'd been shown on her first day at Saint Swithen's, eased him into the wheelchair.

Arkham exhaled slowly. "When I try to talk, I cough," he said irritably.

"Oh. Then..." Don't try, she started to say, but then thought better of it. "Practice, but... slow." She reached into the pocket that hung from the wheelchair arm and pulled out the pad and pen that she knew he kept there. "Too much," she struggled to find the words to articulate what she was thinking, "and too little... both bad." She looked away, her cheeks burning. She sounded stupid, she knew. And she hated it.

She heard his pen scratching on the paper, and then the sound of a sheet being torn from the notepad.

"Cass."

She turned and took the page from him. He had printed the words in block capitals this time. As she read them, her eyes widened. She went over the letters again, even though she was sure that she knew what words they formed:

I THINK THAT IF I TALK, IT WILL BE EASIER FOR YOU. YES?

"Oh," she said softly, handing him back the sheet. "But... no. If it... hurts you..." Dick would have told her she was being... dip-lo-ma-tic, if he were here. She had read Arkham's body language a moment ago. He hadn't been hurt. He'd been scared.

In response, Arkham held the paper up, stabbing his finger beneath each word for emphasis.

"I..."

He indicated the 'yes' again, angrily.

"Yes," she admitted. "Easier. But..."

"No buts," he rasped. "They tell me that I need to," his breath caught and he reached, reflexively for the puffer. This time, though, the coughs didn't come, and he relaxed. "I need to practice talking," he continued. "Not much, to start with. A few minutes daily. And since you obviously find my," he coughed, "find my speech easier to grasp than my handwriting, I think that on the days that you come, I should—"

"But I..." She needed to practice her reading as badly as Arkham needed to work on his speech. But he wasn't here to help her. It was the other way around. "Alright," she said softly. "What... what did you want to talk about?"

Jeremiah Arkham fixed her with a penetrating gaze. "Perhaps, young woman," he rasped, "you might be able to explain why it is that I find you so familiar. I don't meet many young people. I should be able to place you, yet I cannot." He coughed again. "So, perhaps you can enlighten me. How do we know each other?"

To be continued!!

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Note: The term 'frapping' refers to wrapping a second cord around the existing bindings, passing it between the wrists and/or ankles in order to make the bindings more secure.