The Way Back #23

Cassandra's instinctive reaction to a perilous situation was to face it head-on, with feet and fists flying. It wasn't so much that she struck first and asked questions later—more that she had been trained to assess a situation at a glance and react accordingly. In a physical altercation, she had few equals. Situations that required her to sit back and bide her time were more difficult. She hated to feel helpless—a sentiment she shared with the first woman who had worn her costume and borne her codename.

"Are they..." She hesitated. There had been no response from the Citation X aircraft in nearly five minutes.

Barbara did not glance up from her consoles. "I won't believe that until I have to," she snapped. Her fingers danced over a row of consoles, causing varicolored keys to light up like a disco floor. "This is Oracle calling any operatives in the vicinity of lat-two-seven-point-two-niner-three-six-eight-niner-South; long-one-seven-six-point-eight-one-three-niner-six-five-West. Can anyone read?"

A moment later, an unfamiliar face in an all-too-familiar costume appeared on her left vid-screen. "I copy, Oracle. Unfortunately," the central vid-screen suddenly brought up an image of an underwater fleet converging on Atlantis, "I have a crisis a bit closer to home to deal with. I'm afraid you're on your own for the moment. I'm sorry. Aquaman out." The right screen darkened on the visage of Arthur Joseph Curry. A moment later, the central one winked out as well.

"Damn," Oracle muttered. "I was counting on him." She hit more keys. "This is Oracle. Can anyone read me? I have a missing aircraft at lat-two-seven-poi..."

"I read, Oracle."

Barbara blinked. She knew that voice, even if she hadn't heard it in almost three years. "Superman?"

"I'm en route to your coordinates, now. I'll let you know when I've located your plane."

Barbara let out a long breath and turned to Cass with a weary smile. "I think our odds just got a whole lot better..."

--

"Hold still, Zinda," Selina ordered. "This is going to sting." She fought down a wave of dizziness. Her head was still throbbing from where she'd banged it on the exit hatch when they'd evacuated the plane. What she wanted to do most of all was curl up in a corner of the life-raft and sleep for a few hours. Careful. If you hit your head, and on top of it hurting, you're feeling dizzy and drowsy, you've probably got a concussion. Better get it checked out. She would. Just as soon as a doctor popped up on the high seas...

It was starting to rain harder, and the wind was picking up. They'd been trying to get out of the area well in advance of the anticipated hurricane. Instead, if no ships happened upon them within the next few hours, it looked like they were going to meet up with it head-on.

Next to Selina, Lady Blackhawk grimaced. Then she leaned back against the side of the raft, clenched her good hand around one of the oars and nodded. Selina dipped one end of a tarp into the ocean, folded the damp part several times, and pressed it against the deep gash in her companion's arm.

"Aagh! Mary, mother of—!"

Selina sighed. "I warned you. Keep applying the pressure. What you probably need," she admitted, "are stitches, but I didn't see the equipment in the first aid kit."

Zinda closed her eyes. "Actually, Kitty," she replied, "I'm glad you didn't."

Her skin looked pale, Catwoman noted with alarm. "Um... Zinda? Do you need another blanket?"

The pilot opened her eyes in confusion. "No... it's not time to sleep, yet," she said in seeming bewilderment. She looked down at her shivering hands in surprise. "Is... is it really that cold?"

Selina caught her breath. They were all cold, but Zinda had been in the choppy waters the longest before making it aboard the life-raft. And her current symptoms seemed to bear all the earmarks of moderate hypothermia. It was only going to get worse. Selina bit her lip and looked over her shoulder to her other two companions. "Any luck reaching Oracle?"

Black Canary shook her head. "I think the storm's jamming the signal. That or the equipment shorted when we fell into the drink." She shivered. "Guys, I don't want to be a killjoy, but our communications equipment didn't survive splashdown and we're nowhere near land."

"How about shipping lanes?" Huntress asked. "We're probably not alone out here."

"We're in the South Pacific," Lady Blackhawk reminded her sleepily. "We were on course f'r Tonga, 'bout forty-five minutes west of it when we ran into trouble. Based on the last readings I got from the flight instruments, I'd say that... right now? We're probably somewhere between Tonga and Norfolk Island."

"So, that's good, right?"

Dinah shook her head. "They're two small islands, nearly twelve hundred miles apart, with not much between them but open sea." She waited for that to sink in. "We've got five flares on this raft. Problem is, until the weather dies down, visibility's going to be lousy. I don't want to fire any if there's nobody out there to see 'em, but if we don't, there's a chance of a ship passing right by without spotting us."

Lady Blackhawk swore under her breath. "That does it. I'm telling the skipper our next assignment's going to be in Gibraltar. At least, if we go down, it'll be where folks can find us."

Catwoman grinned. "I'll back you on that, sister." She looked over her shoulder. "Someone hand me another tarp. We've got to keep her warm." Huntress obeyed wordlessly. "That goes for all of us, by the way," Catwoman continued. "Lady B might be in worse shape, but our suits aren't going to protect us for long, in this weather."

"Here," Huntress passed her a rain slicker and lifebelt. "I found them in one of the supply packs."

"Thanks." She glanced at Dinah. "Are the flares in working condition?" she asked.

"Looks like it."

Catwoman took a deep breath. "Then set one off. Lady B needs a hospital, and the sooner we're out of this, the better. If it doesn't work, we still have four to use later." She glanced up at the darkening clouds. "If there is a later."

Black Canary nodded. "You've got a point. Anyone object?"

Silence was the only response.

"Then cross your fingers, ladies." And she fired the flare.

For a few moments, Catwoman, Black Canary and Huntress scanned the horizon anxiously in all directions. Finally, Selina sighed. "It was worth a shot, anyway."

"Hey, gals," Zinda said weakly, "don't give up until you take a gander at who's flyin' right for us!"

Disbelieving, the other three followed her gaze, as a red-and-blue blur abruptly changed course and headed toward them. "Well, well," Selina nearly purred, "if that isn't the quintessential sight for sore eyes..."

--

"It didn't look like there were any serious injuries," Superman relayed, a few minutes later, "but I dropped them off at St. Vincent's in Greenwich Village, to get checked out. "

Oracle grinned into her webcam. The staff at St. Vincent's had a longstanding unwritten policy to treat costumed vigilantes without compromising their civilian identities. With Leslie Thomkins gone, it was, far and away, the best option. "Thanks. You know, you couldn't have picked a better time to return to action. What happened? Last anyone's heard, you've been... um..." she hesitated, "more 'just plain folks' than usual."

"As the peasant said in the Monty Python movie, 'I got better'."

Caught off-guard, she laughed. "You're quoting Monty Python, Clark? You?"

There was a cough on the other end. "I never realized how much I relied on my... um... other activities to give me stories for my day job. When I lost that edge, Perry put me on the entertainment beat for awhile. Conventions, film festivals, that kind of thing." His voice turned serious. "Speaking of people getting better, I remember a Gotham story we picked up from Reuters about five months ago. Care to comment?"

Oracle thought for a moment. "He's... he's been turning down interview requests so far. But he might take one, if it's coming from an old friend."

There was a pause. "Are we friends?" he asked. "After what happened the last time we met, I'm not sure. He told me to stay away from him. And, after what I did to him, I don't know if he was wrong."

She sighed. "Clark, that was almost three years ago. Believe me, he's had other things on his mind."

Another pause. "I did go to visit once, you know. Before the... crisis."

"I know. He was pretty out of it, then." She bit her lip. "It was hard for all of us." Then, "thanks for coming. There weren't enough who did." Her hands were shaking, but it wasn't because she was remembering what it had been like seeing Bruce near-catatonic. She was thinking about her own experiences, years earlier—when good friends had suddenly stopped calling. When conversations had ground to a halt when she'd rolled up. When 'if you need anything, just call' had really meant 'I'll be happy to stop by, if you're feeling happy, and I'm bored, but don't you dare actually talk about what you're going through'.

"Oracle?"

She took a deep breath. "Use your own judgment, Clark. Come, or don't. I won't push you. Just... please... don't ask me to send him your regards. Either send them yourself, or just let it be." She closed the channel abruptly, wheeled around, and flinched. She'd forgotten that she wasn't alone. She slumped in her chair.

Cass took a step closer, her eyes brimming, not with sympathy, but with quiet approval. She placed an understanding hand on Barbara's shoulder and jerked her head in the direction of the now-darkened vid-screen. "Good."

--

It took Harrier nearly twenty minutes to disable the burglar alarm and cautiously ease open the back door to House Depot. "I'm inside," he reported in a low tone. "Are you linked up to their security feeds?"

"Negative," came Oracle's reply. "It doesn't look like there's any kind of external setup. You're on your own."

"Roger that." He wasn't exactly surprised. There was no reason for their security systems to be relaying images to an offsite location. He looked up at an imposing camera with a blinking red light, which hung overhead from a ceiling mount. Oracle's intel said that the store didn't employ any night watch staff. He hoped she was right, or things were about to get extremely awkward. He didn't feel like duking it out with folks who were just doing their jobs, while he was in the middle of a break-and-enter. He listened intently for a few moments, but no footsteps approached. He was alone.

Not trusting the light fixtures to take his weight, he spied a six-foot aluminum stepladder, and pulled it over to the camera. He didn't see any electrical wires leading from the device. If it was running on batteries, that could be a lucky break. There had to be something in this place that he could use to drain the power quickly. He could switch the footage for blank recording, leave the dead batteries in the camera, and nobody would be the wiser. He climbed the ladder and held up his flashlight, looking for the power source. He grinned. His hunch had been right. It was running on batteries. Now, he just needed to get the film. He hoped that nobody had come around to collect the footage since yesterday.

A moment later, his jaw dropped. He could barely believe what he was seeing. It wasn't possible—except... except...

Harrier put the two double-A batteries back where he'd found them and closed the hatch. He climbed down the ladder at moved it back to where it had been-against the wall. Then, leaning against one of the shelving units, he did something he rarely did on patrol, unless he was unfortunate enough to walk into one of Joker's traps. He laughed. He laughed long and hard. He laughed as though he'd been channel surfing between a Red Dwarf marathon and a Marx Brothers double feature. Finally, he pulled himself together and contacted Oracle.

He took a deep breath. "There are no cameras, Oracle." He could feel the laughter starting again. "No cameras," he repeated. "Just some dummies to scare off shoplifters. I'm going to cover my tracks, and then I'm heading back on patrol. Harrier out."

--

Batman hesitated for the barest moment before he stood, balancing on the tree limb. He sent off his grappling hook, deliberately overshooting the girder. Then he retracted the line, letting the hook gently scrape against the steel I-beam before it gained purchase. He swung over.

"Beautiful," he smiled, as he examined the metal under the beam of his flashlight. Wind and rain had taken their toll on the metal, as had time and temperature. Exposure to the elements had led to pits, scars, and scratches. Maybe a forensics team could, after careful analysis, point to one scrape or gouge-mark as the most recent, but as far as he could see, there was nothing to directly tie Bruce to the site.

He walked along the concrete wall, completing a semi-circuit of the perimeter before he fired off the grappling hook again and soared into the night.

He changed course for GCPD when the signal flared up.

--

Montoya was waiting for him. "How's he doing?" she asked, as she switched off the signal.

Batman thought for a moment. If Bruce was serious about pretending to be too traumatised by the incident to take the witness stand, it wouldn't hurt to start laying the groundwork early. "He doesn't like getting caught off-guard," he said, finally. "I think it threw him."

The shift commander nodded. "Off the record," she said quietly, "when we read Flass his charges, he insisted that it was only one kidnapping. I... I know it's not my place, but how... accurate... is that?"

Batman shook his head. "Bruce isn't talking much. All I can tell you is, when I arrived on the scene, Flass had him tied up and was a few seconds away from stuffing him into the trunk of a Firenza. Given that Gordon is legally required to check up on Bruce every hour or so, and they were at the store together," he hesitated. "Flass could be right, but there's more than one plausible scenario."

Montoya nodded again. "If the DA's office moves to prosecute, do you need an advance wa—"

"We have our sources," Batman cut her off with a frown. "It's not that I... that we... don't appreciate your support. However, it's for that reason that I wouldn't want you risking your badge."

She knew he was right. "I just wanted to let you know that..." Her voice trailed off.

Batman smiled. "Yeah. You're on our side. You have no idea how big a help that is." Although his face remained cowled, something about the bat-persona seemed to fall away. "Seriously. Unless you've tried doing what we do, you can't know how invaluable the kind of support you're offering is. But Detective, we know where you stand. You don't have to risk your career trying to prove it again." His smile grew warmer. "Now, was this meeting just to bring me up to date, or...?"

Montoya drew herself up, all-business, once more. "I wish. There's been a spate of burglaries in the East End. Fourteen in the last eighteen days. In each case, there's been no sign of forced entry, leading us to believe that the burglars knew their targets well enough to know where they kept their keys. However, we haven't been able to find anything to connect the victims, beyond their zip code."

Batman pulled out a handheld PC. "Details?" He inquired, fingers poised to start typing.

--

Alex looked up from his notepad. "But you got Gordon out," he repeated.

Bruce nodded. "That was about the only thing that went right." He sighed. "You don't have to say it; I know. Going out in broad daylight, there's always a chance of being recognized. I was off my game. It cost me." He let the admission fall reluctantly from his lips. So far, so good. As long as he kept his thoughts focused on the side points: his annoyance at his capture, his fury at not having been in control of the situation—as long as he made sure not to mention anything that would lead Alex to infer that he and Jim had not been taken together, he should be fine. "I suppose," he continued dully, "I should have waited for the police to arrive and made my statement right then and there."

"Well, it might have made things easier," Alex agreed, "for your own peace of mind, at any rate."

Bruce glanced up. "Pardon?"

"I think you've heard the phrase, 'innocent until proven guilty'? From what you're telling me, as much as Flass might want to make it sound like you were violating the terms of your release, it doesn't really look like he has a leg to stand on, unless he has something to corroborate his story."

"Yes," Bruce agreed, "but what would have been my... situation, until it was verified that he had no proof?" At Alex's frown, he continued. "When I was arrested initially, the circumstances were a bit different. I was in shock. I had an injury that required immediate medical attention. In short, the chances of my sharing a holding cell with ten or twenty other people when I wasn't in a condition to fight them were virtually nil." He looked away and took a deep breath. "If I couldn't hold my own against Flass and his cronies, I didn't think I'd have better odds in custody, if the police opted to hold me while they verified my story."

Alex nodded. "How are you coping?"

Bruce calculated the precise split-second at which to make eye contact and carefully allow some vulnerability to show. "Can they send me back? I mean, if Flass is somehow able to persuade them that his version of events is accurate?"

"It's a pretty big 'if'," Alex remarked. "Unless there's something you aren't telling me."

"I won't go back," Bruce said quietly. "It was hard enough when I... withdrew. To..." He looked down at his hands, and realized, to his disbelief, that they were sweating. He forced his eyes to meet Alex's. "I've done nothing wrong. I refuse to return because an old foe with a grudge is willing to claim that I—"

"Take it easy," Alex said. "Have you been in touch with your lawyer?"

Bruce nodded. "I called her the next day. We've... Jim and I... we've made our statements already."

"Good. Has Flass had a bail hearing, yet?"

"Last Thursday," Bruce said, smiling faintly. "It was denied."

"I'm not surprised." He looked seriously at Bruce. "You know, it's likely to be at least a year before this comes to trial."

Bruce took another deep breath. "I can wait," he said simply. "By then, it might be possible for me to see myself testifying against him. Right now, though..." And his hands were still sweating, he noticed. It would have been a nice touch—if it were part of the act. He decided that, for the moment, it was wiser not to say anything to Alex about not wanting to take the witness stand. With a trial date so far away, bringing it up today would only appear suspicious. There would be plenty of time to build to that in the months to come.

"I understand," Alex said quietly. "Now, on another subject, how are you and your daughter getting along?"

--

"Docs finally gave us all a clean bill of health, "Selina said cheerfully, that evening. It had been four days since Superman had flown them to New York. "We should be home tomorrow. Sorry it took a little longer than expected."

Bruce shifted Helena to his other arm. "I'm just glad you're alright. Did you want to speak to Helena?"

"Sure, put her on!"

Bruce pressed the receiver against Helena's ear, but his squirming daughter was having none of it. "Helena, say 'hi' to Mommy. Helena! Hel..." Resigned, Bruce set her down and came back on the line. "Sorry. She's about had it with staying still."

Selina laughed. "Running you ragged, is she?"

"Do you remember when Bane broke everyone out of Arkham and I spent over a week chasing them down? I think that may have been easier. Where does she store all that energy?"

Selina laughed again. "I'll see you both tomorrow. Love you." The call terminated.

"I love you too, Selina," Bruce whispered to the telephone. A loud clatter told him that Helena had discovered that pots and pans were kept in the lower kitchen cabinets.

"Helena!" he yelped, sprinting forward. He'd installed child safety locks on the cleaning supply closets, but he hadn't thought the cookware needed them. Live and learn, he thought ruefully, as he scooped up the little girl. She wriggled in his arms, stretching her hands toward the saucepans. Bruce pulled open a drawer with his free hand, and extracted two wooden spoons. "Look!" he exclaimed, sitting her down on the counter and placing one spoon in each chubby fist. Before she could release them, he brought her hands together. At the sound of wood on wood, Helena stopped struggling. A pleased smile came to her face as she clacked the spoons together once more.

"Everything alright?" Jim asked, entering the room.

Bruce didn't turn around. "We're fine. Although I think Helena might be thinking of taking up drums."

Jim winced. "If you expose her to heavy metal, I quit. I'm warning you, now."

Bruce gestured toward the cast iron skillet on the kitchen floor. "Actually, I gave her the spoons to keep her away from heavy metal," he deadpanned.

Jim looked to the cookware on the floor, and then back to Helena, still gleefully clacking the spoons. "I guess that's slightly better," he grunted.

The doorbell rang. Bruce frowned. "I'm not expecting anyone. Are you?"

Jim shook his head. "If it's all the same to you," he said, walking toward the front door, "I'll check the peephole. Faster than running down to the cave to look at the vid-feed."

"Go ahead," Bruce said. "I think I may have my hands full, at the moment."

A moment later, Bruce heard the front door open. "Well," he heard Jim say, "this is a surprise... Commissioner."

Bruce swept Helena into his arms and walked quickly toward the vestibule.

"Hello, Jim," Maggie Sawyer was saying. "You're looking well. How's... ah! Mr. Wayne," she smiled. "Good to see you again. I was wondering whether I could take up a few minutes of your time."

It wasn't a question. Bruce forced himself to smile back. "Won't you come in, Commissioner Sawyer?"

--

They moved into the living room, Jim and Maggie chatting idly about mutual colleagues while Helena struggled to run around. It wasn't until she started banging the spoons again that Jim smiled apologetically and took her back to the nursery.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Maggie got to the reason for her visit. "Don't say anything before I say my piece," she said firmly. "Please, just hear me out. First, I wanted to let you know, in person, that the DA's office concluded this morning that there are no grounds to investigate Flass's allegations."

Bruce allowed a faint smile to surface. "That's g—"

"I said, hear me out," she interrupted. "Look. Off the record, I don't give a damn whether you were in violation or not. I don't know. I don't need to know. But I will say this: if, hypothetically speaking, Flass's version of the facts was accurate, and if, hypothetically speaking, you had contacted us before you went in, I could have deputized you on the spot. If you had been closer to the scene than any of our units, I would have, without hesitation." She gazed levelly into his blue eyes. "You did good work out there, not so long ago. I know that if you want to, you can again. And," she smiled ruefully, "if you decide that fieldwork is over for you, I really hope that you'll still consider the instructor position I offered you months ago. Think about it." The smile became a grin. "I just had to get that out once. Now, that I've said what I came here to say," she added, reaching down to pick her purse up from the floor, "I'll be off. Tell Jim, it was good to see him again, and please do be in touch."

So saying, she rose to her feet. "I can let myself out," she said, as Bruce started to get up from his own seat. "Thanks for listening."

Bruce took a deep breath. "Commissioner?"

She turned.

"I appreciate your coming by. And... I know I haven't given you an answer yet, as far as your first proposal, but I am still considering it."

She nodded. "Do you have any concerns you'd like to bring up, that I could try to allay?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not at the present time, but thank you, again." He smiled. "I'll see you to the door."

--

He had just moved from the vestibule back to the front hallway, when he heard a knock on the front door, behind him. Bruce smiled, gave a mental sigh, and turned around. "Did you for—?" His query died on his lips. Bruce cursed himself for ten different kinds of fool. He knew better than to pull the door open without looking to see who was outside. If nothing else, he should have learned that lesson once and for all, the night that Joker had shot Barbara. And yet, here he was, making the same stupid, amateurish mistake that she had on that night. He could have kicked himself. It would have served him right if he had found Joker on his doorstep, instead of...

"Clark? What are you doing here?"

To be continued....

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